#sobs into hands takes out tablet

[cloudcountry]

Could I request how would Cater, Jamil, Rook and Idia react to their (s/o)’s overblot? :0

SUMMARY: your significant other, who has been part of an overblot before, has to witness you going through the exact same thing.

COMMENTS: hi so im experimenting with yuu overblotting and so. you and grim are fusing because i said so.

yk after writing this i realize i was absolutely inspired by delicious in dungeon. if you get it you get it.

You’ll have to forgive Cater if he blurts out some stupid slang or a joke as he watches ink consume your body—as he watches you fuse with Grim. The result is a terrifying monster, blue flames shooting out of your very human face, ink pouring out of your eyes and mouth and nose as Grim's claws grow sharper and his legs grow longer.

He’s vaguely aware of Trey trying to get him out of there and Riddle throwing himself into a fight to attempt to disarm you and Grim—whatever you have become. Cater isn’t even sure if you’re separate anymore, but he hears your screams and the echoing growls of Grim, and the blue flames are searing his skin but he isn’t budging.

He shoves Trey off of him and goes running towards you, heart pounding in his chest. He has to save you. He has to help you. His signature spell is activating and he doesn’t even know he’s doing it—he just knows he has to get you back, one way or another.

Jamil knows what’s happening before anybody else. He can see the frustration at being treated the way you are, and he sees the way your hands shake. He tries to reach out but it’s not enough, and maybe it never would have been because he’s too late, and the air is hot with anger and longing for a home neither you nor Grim had.

You become one. He sees it and he can do nothing but watch as you sprout hairy arms and legs, claws tearing through your skin as blue flames shoot out from you. Ink spurts from your eyes and mouth, pouring onto the floor as you howl and wail. He can hear the echoing, pitched remnants of Grim in your voice as you charge, heading straight for the students. Jamil whips out his pen, pointing it in front of him and casting a barrier.

He needs to get everyone else out of here. He can’t be the one to fight you—he can’t do that to you. His ears are ringing and only now is he aware of Kalim rapid firing questions at him but he doesn’t have the time, he grabs Kalim and yells at him to leave, to get the Headmage, to get you help. You can’t die on him. You just can’t.

Rook thinks you’re beautiful. He always will, no matter what state you may find yourself in, no matter what form you may take. That’s part of the reason he stands there in awe, watching as you transform in front of his very eyes. Tears are rolling down his face as you scream out in pain, and his body reacts by running to you but someone is holding him back, his sobs mixing with you and Grim’s howls as you merge in a tornado of inky blackness.

People are screaming, someone is yelling that he needs to get out of there, he falls to his knees as your form—no, the form you’ve taken, writhes and screeches on the ground. It sounds like nails on a chalkboard, it sounds like nightmares, it sounds like pain and suffering and like nothing will ever be okay—

Two backs appear in his vision, a perfectly manicured hand shielding his vision from the sight. Rook looks up, eyes locking with Vil’s. Epel is beside him, pen at the ready. “Can you stand?” Vil asks, and anyone else wouldn’t be able to hear the tenderness in his voice. Rook takes his hand and stands, breathing shakily as he stares at your form, vision blurry but locked onto you—he’s going to save you, no matter what.

Idia’s hands are shaking as you scream. He needs to go to you, to make sure you’re okay but he’s petrified, feet tripping over nothing as he stumbles to your side. He reaches out for you but you shove him away, a sharp NO ripped from your throat. Idia swallows his tears as he whips out his tablet, sending an SOS message to STYX as a familiar black ink splatters to the ground at his feet.

You tried to protect him. It makes him feel so worthless but he gets through it, knowing this must have been how you felt when he overblotted. Why can’t he do anything right? He went through the same thing and he can’t do anything to help you. Isn’t this his family’s business? He should know what to do by now!

He doesn’t leave from that spot, even when people are screaming at him to evacuate, even when STYX arrives to take you away, even when Ortho explains the situation to them because Idia can’t talk. The only thing he manages to say, with eyes glued to the malformed shape you’ve taken, is that he demands to be taken back with you to his home so he can oversee your treatment. He needs you to be better. He doesn’t know what he’d do otherwise.

[vampiricgf]

— v. lycaon | stay soft, get eaten

·₊̣̇. ⊱ warnings: fem reader, dubcon, aphrodisiac, yandere, oral fem receiving, clit sucking, cervix fucking, knotting, creampie, extremely unrealistic depiction of sex, he calls you master n is a lil obsessed with you, not edited/proofread

wc: 2k+

the grip he has on me is insane now if only he'd be gripping up this [REDACTED] sobs

You were so lucky to have an attendant as well prepared as Lycaon. After spending the evening unable to sleep, angrily listening to birdsong as the light peeking in from the window grew less and less subdued, he had suggested you take a simple supplement and attempt a nap upon seeing you still laying in bed at his arrival. After all getting rest was the most important thing and if something would come up he could easily handle it for you without letting you rest excessively.

Just enough to be able to get through the day yet still feel appropriately tired come night, that was what he promised after handing a small tablet to you which you gratefully accepted. Lycaon had been sweet and thoughtful from the moment he started at your estate with the Victoria Housekeeping contract, and was always so adamant about remaining at your side.

When the room begins to soften at the edges you don't question it, it may be a mild effect from the pill or your own deprived brain. Focusing on the beat of your heart was easier, keeping your eyes closed as you remained tucked into bed. A heaviness spread through your limbs, delicious and reminiscent of a sleepy cat in the honeyed afternoon sun as you roll onto your back to stretch against the warm sheets.

The brush of them against your skin sends an unfamiliar sort of heat spreading beneath the surface of your body, an odd feeling of wishing it was replaced with physical touch, yearning suddenly for a certain thiren that you knew wouldn't be far from your bedroom.

You try ignoring the growing ache between your thighs, uncomfortably turning over and over from side to side as the temperature rises. Before long you have to thrash the covers off to rest barely covering your legs, nearly panting with the volatile mixture of desire and no sleep.

Thinking of calling for him you bite your bottom lip, a small whimper coming from low in your throat. As you struggle with the inappropriateness of the urge little do you know he's just opposite the bedroom door, listening intently to you with barely contained self satisfaction thrumming through his veins.

It's hardly appropriate for an attendant to be pining after their master, but say you were feeling struck by some overpowering need, what kind of attendant would he be to refuse if you begged for his help? Truly he'd done it on a whim, it just so happened that today was the perfect opportunity to act and perhaps it was simply fate.

"Master?"

His voice jolts you out of the thick fog of lust as he steps through the doorway, unable to bear the sounds of you whimpering for him any longer. With quick steps he's beside you, a hand coming to rest delicately against your forehead which nearly makes you moan from the contact. Your skin glistened with a sheen of sweat and the scent of your arousal was heady in the balmy air, if he were less composed it would've made him drool instantly.

"Are you ill?" Faux concern laces the words as his eyes trail from your face to your heaving chest, your top having bunched up just beneath your breasts was a tantalizing challenge to his self control.

"I can't sleep- feels like I'm on fire," you whine, your eyes fluttering closed and he's grateful for the chance to ogle you openly.

"Do you require my help?" The tone of the question leaves little room for interpretation, the almost breathy way he asks betraying how clear your neediness is to him.

It should make you embarrassed, you should wave him away with a demure no I'll be fine but you can't bring yourself to speak the words aloud, nearly choking on how much you ache for him to touch you again. In a distant corner of your disconnected mind you wonder if thirens can smell things like arousal and perhaps that's why he offered. It makes your thighs clench together hard, the muscles flexing beneath the skin. How lucky you were to have someone so dedicated to attending to your needs that he'd even offer.

"Wouldn't be- appropriate-" you force the words out between deep breaths, desperately trying to regain some self control as your eyes find his.

He looked so handsome knelt by your bed, his singular visible eye shining with concern. You want to smooth the worry from his face with a hundred deep, frantic kisses, so powerful is the urge it's more like being gripped by madness.

"You don't need to worry, as my master I can't let you remain in this state without intervention." The words are so syrupy sweet to your ears, his voice low and sending delightful shivers down your spine.

If he's saying it's okay then why worry about impropriety? Once again you can't help the surge of thankfulness at his presence and his loyalty to you.

Gingerly he grasps your hand in his much larger one, bringing your arm up before placing the softest kiss to your inner wrist. The sensation of his lips against your skin is enough to make you squirm, back arching slightly just from the barest contact.

"Mm, don't know what's wrong with me," you breathe harshly as his mouth maps a trail from your wrist up your arm, your shoulder, and before you register it he's above you and those clawed hands are roaming the overheated skin of your stomach and it feels like every sense you have is being overcrowded by him.

If you had the wherewithall you would have perhaps been ashamed to be so openly writhing and moaning beneath him with your hands fisting in the material of his shirt but given the way he makes you feel like you'll crack apart in the next millisecond there was simply no room for things like humiliation or shame.

"Will you let me help you, my master?"

The request is accompanied by the feeling of him sucking on the side of your neck, sharp teeth barely ghosting over the delicate flesh he could easily rip. Why does everything feel so much more sensitive than usual? If you could think straight it would be a more pertinent question, but against the feeling of his hands cupping your breasts and urging you to help him remove your shirt the concern washes away like sugar in hot water.

In a way Lycaon is glad for your habit of wearing little to nothing in bed, because it feels like this is exactly what you wanted to happen. Each evening it was like the single greatest test of his resolve to not immediately give in to the urge that screamed to rip those skimpy clothes off you and fuck you until your pretty eyes were full of tears and that tongue of yours was only good for sounding out his name.

And he hadn't lied earlier, not fully. That pill would help you with your sleeping troubles eventually but the less than mild aphrodisiac effects would kick in first. It's no concern though, because that's what he's here for, to service you as his master. And so what if it happens to be a shockingly convenient avenue for satisfying his own desires? Who could blame a devoted attendant for loving their master so greatly?

As you shift your hips impatiently he's all too eager to indulge you, hooking a hand beneath your thigh and pushing one leg up in order to slot himself better between your legs and feel the tantalizing heat radiating from the apex of your thighs.

You can feel the way his bulge throbs against you through your clothes and it's exciting, like his body is begging for just the same release as yours and his movements have taken on a more predatory tinge- caging your body with his forearms on either side of your head now, nipping and sucking at your bottom lip in between sloppy kisses and the rhythmless, frantic grinding of his hips against yours.

"Want you, please," it leaves your lips as a pathetically desperate whine as you roll your hips to meet his in a pantomime of unclothed thrusts. Feeling his erection strain against layers of clothing has only served to make you feel even more delirious, like you're on fire and he's all that could hope to put it out.

"Like this?" The question is needy, nakedly desperate and it makes your fingers claw against his soft fur, pulling him down to kiss you again in a flurry of teeth and tongues.

You give an airy mhm and his head dips down to your chest with a particularly sinful groan, teeth ghosting over the swell of your breast before his hands are on you again, nearly ripping the flimsy pajama bottoms off of you in his haste to get you undressed and knowing you're so impossibly close to finding relief for the all consuming ache in your body makes you sigh contentedly for the first time as the air brushes against your clammy skin.

His movements are quick, snaking down on his belly and brushing his nose against the skin of your inner thighs. You can hear the deep inhale he takes, feel the way your body flushes hot in response. His hands run up and down your feverish skin, riling you up and when his tongue licks a fat stripe all the way up your flesh until his face is pressed against your pussy you can't help the way you moan his name so brokenly, a sound more akin to cracking porcelain.

And it's then that his self restraint seems to snap cleanly in two, his claws nearly digging into your thighs, nose bumping against your achingly puffy clit as his tongue delved inside your soaked entrance. It was impossible, feeling him as deeply as you were and he wasn't even using his fingers. Your own twisted into the bedsheets so hard they should have torn, your mouth open as your hips bucked wildly against his face.

Soon enough he held one arm across your hips to pin you down and lessen your squirming, alternating between lapping at your clit and sucking on it, his sharp canines occasionally brushing dangerously against the sensitive bundle of nerves. With every drag of his tongue it felt like a coil winding back tighter and tighter inside your gut, hands fumbling to touch any part of him you could grasp as he retained his unrelenting pace never wavering in the attention he lavished your pussy with.

And all too soon he's pulling away from you, leaving you to keen high and pathetic at the loss of him, panicked eyes frantically locked on his figure as he drags himself back up to face you. Before you can whine too much he's shushing you with a deep, languid kiss and giving you the secondhand aftertaste of yourself on his tongue. For a brief moment you wonder if you've died and this is the afterlife: one long satisfaction of desire.

"I don't mean to tease, but I need you in another manner master." And you don't need to to ask what he means, feeling what must be his painfully hard erection rubbing against your bare, soaked cunt. Thrilled eagerness skips like electricity through your bloodstream, already rolling your hips to beg for it before your mouth even opens.

And like the wonderful attendant he is Lycaon obliges before you have to say a word. His hands deftly shed his clothes, now rumpled and twisted, before discarding them on the floor in a heap. Your bottom lip catches so hard between your teeth at the sight of him it's a miracle you don't draw blood.

Even in your most vivid fantasies there's simply no way you could capture just how gorgeous he was, and you can feel your eyes widen as they settle on the sight of his now freed cock. The tapered tip, flushed red and needy, glistening with precum, the girth of him enough to make your eyes water, and the length promising that he can easily kiss that spot inside you that turns your vision to static.

You could start drooling from how badly you need him inside you, a fresh wave of overzealous longing battering against your mind like waves against a rocky coastline. As he leans down, supporting himself on one forearm beside your head you meet his eyes again, seeing an amused look on his face that made you squirm in embarrassment at being caught so openly admiring him.

The scent of arousal and sweat is so thick in the air even you can catch it, it must be driving him insane. The thought nearly makes you giggle but the press of him against your entrance cuts off any sound you could hope to make, mouth left hanging open as he starts the slow press inside. Tears instantly push against your waterline, threatening to spill both from the painful adjustment to his size and because nobody has ever made you feel so full before.

He's barely midway inside and you're already panting, chest heaving as you mewl out his name and grab onto his shoulders like he's the only stable thing in the world. Your fingers find purchase in his soft, snowy fur and as his swollen, fat knot settles against your entrance you feel a rush of the most perfect bliss. Like you two were made for each other.

The delirious thought takes root as he kisses his way from your lips to your jaw, down your throat before giving you a few gentle nips with his teeth just to make you gasp and tighten your grip on him before he begins moving.

His pace is slow, almost loving, as you feel every vein as he pulls out only to inch back inside you with ease now thanks to your excess of arousal mingling with his saliva. You can't help the way your toes curl against nothing but the air as you move to grab onto your own thighs, desperate already to feel him deeper and once again, Lycaon follows your whims dutifully.

You can't help but cry out incoherently as he presses into you again and again, the head of his cock hitting so far inside you it nearly knocks the breath from your lungs.

But it's still not enough, and you feel that coil resume it's firm windback into position, almost ready to spring.

"Please, feels so good," you gasp out, "need more- harder -" you squeal with a particularly deep thrust against your cervix and ever the gentleman he doesn't make you ask again.

Groaning low and gravelly he cages you fully with his forearms, burying his snout into the side of your neck as the obscene sounds of skin slapping and the squelching of your greedy cunt drown out anything else. Distantly you hear his claws ripping through the sheets but you can't be bothered to care, not when he's got tears running down your cheeks and your pussy clamping down on his so hard, desperate to keep him inside.

You can feel him throbbing as you curl your fingers deeper into his fur, crying out his name as the tension inside your belly reaches a head, making your eyes screw shut and your head press back against the pillows.

His own ragged breathing doesn't register to you, so lost in the throughs of your own orgasm, but his teeth are gritted, bared in a silent snarl feeling the way you clamp down, the way your walls rhythmically try milking him for all he's worth and in an instinct driven haze his hips move in an even more brutal pace, sure to leave bruises against your tender flesh as the maddening need to cum inside you overwhelms him.

There's no way he could stop himself now and he muffles your cries with sloppy, apologetic kisses, tasting the tang of saltwater as his knot finally pushes it's way in, sitting securely against the ring of muscle at your entrance and he can't stop himself from saying your name against your lips, again and again like a mantra as thick, warm spurts of cum drown your womb.

You remain locked together, you a mess of hiccuping moans and shaking from the aftershocks of your orgasm and him grinding against you as if he could still fuck more of his cum even further inside you.

Your ankles shakily lock around his hips and one of his arms slides under your back, hand finding it's way down to grope and squeeze your ass as he whispers to you, words of thanks for indulging him and for allowing him to be of service that swirl dreamily around in your head as your fingers start gingerly stroking against his silky fur, soothing the spots you had twisted and tugged.

In a far away corner of your mind you recognize that this is the first time he's ever used your name to address you. It makes you smile, small and twinged with sleep. You know once he's no longer inside you he'll adamantly clean you up, move you to a different space and ensure you can sleep comfortably while h tidies your wrecked bed.

But another part of you wonders if you could convince him to forgo it all and just stay like this, warm and tangled together.

Maybe if you ask sweetly.

[timmydraker]

On a seemingly random Tuesday night, a few members of the Bat Family are free to spend dinner at the manner.

Jason was benched by his fellow Outlaws for a nasty hit to his chest and got tired of Biz’s worrying even if it was appreciated at first.

Dick had been taking a small break after a particularly bad case with work that involved some hurt children and wanted to be back home.

Damian had only ever made threats to move about but the newley eighteen year old was still at home.

Tim had been using his free time while Kon and Cassie visited their families to visit his own while Bart and Barry dragged Wally on a bonding trip. The poor West boy had to miss out a concert of some sort.

Stephanie, Duke and Cass were all busy with a case and had pleaded with Bruce to take some time off because he was, quote, “Broodier than Hamlet”. He eventually relented when Barbie and Kate promised to keep an eye on them.

The group had decided to watch a movie instead of playing games, mainly because not games were banned, and settled on something that Tim paid no mind to.

The problem came that it was cold out and everyone insisted on having the fire as hot as it could go, but Tim naturally ran hot. Jason and Damian tended to get the coldest and while only Jason would complain, Damian could and would set anything he wanted on fire to get warm.

So, Tim didn’t complain and just said he was going to get changed.

He spent at least half an hour on one of the arm chairs by himself with his tablet playing RuneScape, when Dick inhaled so quickly everyone heard it.

Tim assumed it was something to do with the movie and didn’t turn, tapping away at his screen, completely ignorant to Dick’s quickly forming tears.

It was when Bruce also made a noise, this time a poorly pronounced ‘oh’ that he turned around, assuming it had to be a truely grand thing for Bruce to react so openly in the movie.

Instead he finds his foster father and brothers staring at him.

More specifically, his thighs.

Tim hadn’t realised his shorts would ride up and stop covering him to just above his knee and show the hundreds of scars littered over the outside and inside of his pale skin. They were mostly faded, but with the width of some of them they were always going to be visible, especially with the sheer amount.

Pulling his pant leg down, Tim doesn’t bother to hide a sympathetic wince and says, “Sorry, didn’t meant to show them. Sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”

He looks away again, assuming that was that and trying to remind himself that it wasn’t his fault that people were upset by his scars, just like Black Canary told him.

Instead he hears a sob and turns back to find Bruce holding Dicks hand as his oldest brother sobs into his hand. He sees that Jason is seemingly fighting to not match him even with his wide eyes and Damian is staring at him with confusion.

Realisation finds Tim quickly, which makes sense considering he’s supposed to be the ‘smart Robin’.

“You didn’t know…”

Dick stands up, dropping Bruce’s hand and comes to kneel before Tim, holding onto his own hands like some kind of follower to a god, “Why? I- I don’t- why?”

The desperation in his voice makes Tim feel sick, and he looks around at the others for help because surely he had talked to at least one of them about it? He had been open with his friends, and he hadn’t exactly kept it a secret, but he did avoid showing them…

Tim moves to hold onto Dick in return, “I’m sorry, I thought you guys knew-… okay, look, I’ve got a two year clean streak and I’m in therapy, okay? I’m so sorry Dick, I just assumed you knew cause I use the shower in the cave with you guys and… I’m so sorry.”

There’s a silence for a moment as Dick drags him into his arms and squeezes him as tightly as he can, not even being careful like he usually would.

“I don’t understand.”

Damian’s voice sounds uncharacteristic in how small it is. He’s staring at Tim’s legs like he might be able to catch a glimpse of the scars in genuine confusion.

Bruce seemingly can’t speak and so Jason tries his best to explain to the youngest Wayne boy, “Look, bra-kid, some times when people aren’t doing to well they… they hurt themselves. Tim…”

Giving his brother a smile, Tim takes over as tears finally break away from Jason. Jason was always the most emotional and that’s evident in how he actually lets Bruce pull him into a side hug.

“Dami, you know how my parents kind of sucked?”

Damian makes a scoff noise, “I know they were incompetent, yes.”

Smiling, Tim continues as his eyes grow wet with the sound of his families cries, “Well, I really wanted to good for them but they had impossible standards. When I found I couldn’t reach them, I decided I needed punishment. So…” he takes a deep inhale and moves a hand to Dick’s head to comfort him as he finishes. “I started to cut myself.”

Damian doesn’t get wide eyes or anything, and Tim thinks it’s so much worse that there’s an image understanding in his little brothers eyes that show he sees that as completely logical.

But it is quickly overcome, his first thought always what he was raised with and quickly followed by the ideals he’s learnt and now values. He doesn’t cry either, but he does have a look of a pure heart break in his sweet little eyes.

Bruce finally comes over and pulls his two sons into a hug, adjusting to fit Jason in and saying nothing as Damian comes up behind Tim and leans his head against the others back.

Bruce asks other a few minutes of holding each other, “You said you haven’t for two years?”

Tim smiles once again and presses a kiss to his dad’s cheek. “Yeah. I learnt that family, real family like ours, would never want physical punishment, especially for something we can’t control. That’s not how loving people work.”

Damian moves to wrap his arms around Tim in their first ever hug and by all gods and mighty beings is Tim glad he stuck around.

Hugs from his family was well worth it.

[charliemwrites]

Part 7 is finally here! I only gave this a quick look over so if there are any glaring issues (like a random cut off sentence) please let me know! I was just so excited to get this one out.

Content: Brandon.

For all the power and influence it has amassed, SpecGru is a notoriously discreet and secretive operation. Mind, no one’s ever strolling down the street shouting their criminal affiliations for God and everyone to hear, but even by criminal standards, SpecGru is like a collective boogeyman. By the time most anyone knows they’re there, it’s already too late – and the rare (verbal) survivors only ever see masks and guns.

Granted, no small part of SpecGru’s prestige comes from whispered stories and unconfirmed rumors. Criminals are locker room gossips, the lot of them. Not that it’s completely unfounded. An execution is an execution, whether someone died with all their teeth and nails or not. (Usually not)

Few people know Price as more than a shadowy theoretical. (Someone must be in charge, that’s how the mafia works.) Even fewer know his face, never mind his name. It’s just good business that way.

In fact, SpecGru’s entire inner circle is shrouded in mystery. There’s not just the gray silhouette of the Don looming over their enemies’ heads. There are the lieutenants to contend with as well, acting on his direct authority, speaking on his behalf (with permission, of course) in his absence.

And then there’s Price’s right hand, the de facto boss should something happen. His heir, for all intents and purposes.

For those that have met Price in person, and by extension his few but devoted confidants, there’s always debate.

Is it Soap, loud and brash, but sharp as a whip? A decisive man, affable with a hidden mean streak?

Or is it Ghost, the quiet and calculating figure always at his side? A deadly and brutal enemy, shrewd and observant?

Kyle lets them stew in their assumptions and reminds himself that they’ll learn eventually – or they’ll be dead. He’s not fussed either way. It would suit SpecGru just fine if a few of those knobs keeled over sooner rather than later.

If only they knew that the hand that would one day grip their leashes was currently holding your purse so that you could pet a cute dog.

Not that Kyle minds; you have good taste. In purses, that is – though the dog isn’t half bad. A fluffy white and grey thing with a stumpy tail, practically crawling onto your pretty blue skirt as you coo and fawn. He started recording the minute you handed him your bag. (Price owes him for this.)

“His name is Mister Beans,” the uni girl enthuses to you.

You practically sob. “Mister Beans!”

He’s loath to hurry you along, but he’s supposed to meet up with Price for a Business meeting in only a half hour. Thankfully, you’re a considerate sort and don’t linger for long.

“Thank you so much, have a great day!” you cheer to the young woman. Then you turn back to Kyle, smiling huge. “Wasn’t he so cute?”

He chuckles. “It was. Wish I could have pet him, but white hair on this suit…”

You hum sympathetically. “I have a lint roller in my apartment.”

“I’ll scratch the next one,” he promises, offering your purse back.

You take it with your far hand and another mumbled “thank you,” then loop your closer arm through his. Don’t even seem to think about it, just accept the escort automatically. Kyle tries not to beam with pride. He used to have to prompt you, holding his elbow out at an awkward angle for you to get the hint. Now, you reach for the arm of whoever you’re with on instinct – as you should. (Another thing Price owes him for.)

“Do you like little dogs?” you ask, strolling with him for your apartment.

In the office, you’re a speedy little thing. Zooming from your desk to Price’s and back at velocity deserving of a ticket. Soap calls you a busy bee and it’s apt. Fluttering to and fro with stacks of papers or your tablet (“Reginald” you call it) everyone knows to make way at the click-click of your smart heels.

Outside, though, your purposeful stride slows to something less awe-inspiringly machinelike. Little Miss at work is a much different creature from Little Miss off the clock – but Kyle quite likes both.

“My mum had a little white dog while I was growing up. Crusty old thing,” he explains. “Prefer medium sized myself. Like a corgi.”

You giggle. “Like the royal family?”

“Oi, I liked ‘em before that.”

You just laugh harder at his defensive tone, patting his arm. He’s always impressed by how fearlessly you joke and tease him and the others. Have taken everything in stride from the beginning, didn’t even flinch when you first met Simon. If he didn’t know better, he’d almost think you had no idea just who you arched your eyebrows at this morning because of a “scheduling disagreement.”

“Speaking of dogs…” you mutter, mirth disappearing.

He follows your gaze through the clear glass of the building’s entry vestibule. Your ex is standing inside, already spotted you and fluffing up like the cock he is.

“Mind keeping back, doll?” Kyle murmurs.

You make a noise of protest even as you hand him your keys. “He’s not going to do anything after what Soap did.”

There’s an ugly black cast around his hand and up his wrist. Kyle smirks at him through the door.

“Rather not take any chances,” he replies.

You huff a bit, but quietly slip your arm from his, letting him take the lead into the building. (He still holds the door for you of course – he’s not a numpty.)

“Get the fuck out, mate,” Kyle says as soon as the door opens.

Brandon looks downright taken aback. “And who the fuck are you?”

“None of your business,” you interrupt, stepping up beside Kyle.

“The hell it’s not!” Brandon replies, taking an angry (stupid) step forward. Kyle mirrors him, making a point of loosening up his shoulders. In a surprising display of good sense, Brandon stops there. “Look, bunny, a high-value man needs a high-value woman.”

Your voice comes out flat and unimpressed. “And that’s you, is it? A high-value man?

Brandon rolls his eyes but sighs, as if he’s trying to be patient with you. Kyle’s fingers twitch. His piece is burning a hole against his back.

“Obviously. I have a degree, a six-figure salary, and two properties – all under forty. I’m objectively attractive, work out regularly, don’t smoke. I’m a good catch, don’t kid yourself that you can do better.”

At Kyle’s elbow, you go very still. The type of still that precedes blood and screaming. He’s seen it in Ghost before.

“Then why are you here?” you ask, tongue dripping acid. “Since you’re such a catch.”

Brandon sighs and shakes his head, trying for fond exasperation and only achieving constipated.

“I’m not willing to just throw away two years. I’ve invested a lot in this relationship, and we can still make it work.” It actually starts to make Kyle nauseous, the way he talks about you like a business decision. “I mean, you have some things to make up for but eventually, we can go back to the way we were.”

“And what,” you say through gritted teeth, consonants sharp enough to pierce skin, “do I have to make up for?”

Kyle listens, flabbers absolutely gasted, as Brandon answers.

“You ran off to play desk bunny for a man I don’t know. God only knows what ‘favor’ you did to land that job. You’ve lowered your value as a marriable woman but there are ways to make it up to me—”

“Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to?”

Kyle’s ears ring like the first time he heard his mum curse.

Brandon looks taken aback too. You don’t give either of them a chance to respond.

“I know it’s not fucking me. Because if you were talking to me, you’d be stupider than you look.”

Brandon’s face flushes with anger. He takes another step forward. Kyle takes two in return, shaking his head in warning. Unfortunately, Brandon doesn’t know how to read his face any better than yours.

“C’mon, mate, it’s common sense. A lock that opens for any key and all that.”

Kyle’s heard it before. “Women ain’t locks, mate.”

“If you don’t get out of this building right fucking now, I will ruin your life,” you snarl.

Brandon does a double take. “Is that a threat? You can’t—"

“You bet your pasty ass it is,” you reply without missing a beat. You raise your voice every time he tries to interrupt, barreling through his weak protest like a train. “Fifteen fucking minutes. That’s all it would take to destroy you, your stupid sister, your bitchy mother, your pervert father, and that fucking slag you got pregnant twice.”

Kyle’s eyebrows rise with each word until he’s fairly certain they’ve floated up to the ceiling somewhere.

Brandon, though… Brandon’s face is ashen.

“How… how did you…?”

“Get. The fuck. Out.”

Kyle doesn’t give him the option to refuse. He scruffs Brandon by the back of his bland suit and shoves him out the first door of the vestibule. It closes and locks just as he turns around, a rebuttal finally juddering to his bloodless lips. You haven’t even turned to watch him go.

Kyle approaches you feeling a bit like he does coming to Price with shit news when he’s already pissed.

He almost says, you sure know how to pick ‘em – but thinks better of it. There’s practically frost forming beneath your feet, the air around you is icy.

“Walk you up, little miss?” he asks, offering his arm.

You gently take his arm and exhale heavily. “If you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.”

You invite him in at your door. Your hands are shaking a bit. He politely accepts, shooting Price the others a text that he’ll be a bit late. He’s not about to leave you in a state.

As usual, you step out of your shoes at the door, leaving you in your shimmery stockings, then pad to the kitchen.

“Tea?” you ask as he follows.

“I haven’t the time, doll, I’m sorry. I just want to make sure you’re alright before heading out.”

You turn, expression softening. Just like that, you’re back to your usual self, sweet as honey.

“I’ll be alright, I think,” you reply, sighing. “That was a long time coming.”

He leans his shoulder in the doorway, unable to help chuckling at the memory of your ex’s gobsmacked expression. The corners of your mouth curl up in shy amusement.

“Seemed like it,” he replies. “We should weaponize those f-bombs you dropped.”

That coaxes a giggle out. “Graves would be first on my list.”

“The boss’s too.” And oh, Kyle can’t wait to tell Price about this. (As if he needed another reason to hate Brandon and adore you.)

“Christ,” you groan, “you’re going to tell him about this, aren’t you?”

He’s at least able to muster an apologetic grimace. “You know I have to, sweets.”

“Suppose I’ll get the really good tea tomorrow,” you muse.

“He liked those pistachio scones from the corner café, too.”

You light up. It just so happens that they bake your favorite muffins too. “Good idea.”

“I’m full of ‘em.”

You snort, but there’s a fond smile on your face. Regretfully, he notes the time on the stove clock behind you.

“You’re sure you’re alright here by yourself?” he asks.

“I’m sure,” you promise, crossing to give him a warm hug. “I lock the door and windows like Simon told me.”

“Atta girl,” he says, pressing a chaste kiss to your cheek. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning, yeah?”

“Seven sharp!” you chirp.

He pauses at the door, “You call if there’s any trouble.”

You poke your head around the corner. “You don’t sign my paychecks; you can’t tell me what to do.”

He points right back at you. “That’s from the bossman direct.”

“Then he can tell me himself.”

He arches his brows. You blink.

“Don’t tell him I said that.”

He chokes back a chuckle. “Sweet dreams, little miss.”

“Get home safe, Kyle!”

As far as business meetings go, one with Los Vaqueros is almost pleasant. Sure, they always try to overprice their products, but haggling them down is practically a game between Price and Vargas by now. The shipping agreement between them and SpecGru is long established by now, a major link in the international arms market.

“Negotiations” are relaxed enough that Rudy and Valeria are playing cards with Ghost and Soap at the sitting table, whiskey glasses at their elbows. The plan for the next six months is all but set when Price suddenly jerks. In an instant, his face goes dark, shoulders tense.

“Something wrong, hermano?” Vargas asks.

“I’m getting a call.”

Soap and Ghost snap to attention.

There are only a handful of people that can reach Price during a meeting. All but one is in this room.

As he brings the phone to his ear, Kyle sees your name on the screen.

“Yes, love?” he answers.

Even from a couple feet away, Kyle can hear your voice through the receiver – high and panicked. Kyle’s already reaching for his keys.

“He fucking what?” Price barks.

Soap and Ghost jump to their feet, cards and drinks forgotten.

“Barricade the door, get a knife. We’ll be right there.”

First | Previous | Next

Masterlist

[yanderemommabean]

Hey Momma!

I like butterflies, ya got any Yandere Alien Butterfly scenario for me? Or everyone? Cause I'm sure we'd like a nice Yandere Alien Butterfly~ 🦋

“P-Please! Please you have to-Ahh!” You sob, wincing and jerking as more of their invasive fingers inspect your body. It wasn’t a sob of pain either, oh anything but. You’ve been handed over for these insect aliens to inspect as a sort of treaty and well, they’re being /very/ thorough with you. 

Their wings flutter here and there as they murmur and whisper to one another, you assume to speak about notes and what they’ve learned but you can’t help but notice the clipboards and tablets have been set aside for over an hour now, and they simply haven’t bothered to test anything more than your limits on pleasure. 

Weren’t you supposed to be tested on with other items too? Wasn’t this more or less a death sentence from your oh so cowardly government? 

“They react nicely when you press right here-” The one on the left states a bit louder, something you can actually comprehend, but you’re focus is cut off as they demonstrate what they mean-curling their fingers inside you just right and making your body pulse with pleasure once again, your eyes watering as they begin to more or less abuse that spot and make your muscles tense and shake. 

You can’t even catch your breath as the one on the right nods their head, but moves to grab something off of the table beside them. “Yes but do you think their anatomy could handle someone of our size? I think this mating tool is about as large as one of us, shall we try it?” 

Oh god you can’t even bring yourself to look up. You try to catch your breath while you can, laying back on the cold table bringing you back to your senses even if just slightly. You aren’t sure you want to know just how big that toy could be, your mind would simply break. 

“Oh not to worry! They’re quite resilient creatures! But we do have to be careful, I like this one” one says, amused as they grab the item and flick the switch. “We have to be slow, humans can handle sizes better when relaxed and sedated. Our little specimen here should be able to take at least half before we run into any issues”. 

Your walls flutter and pulse once again, and you hate your body for being so eager to start after finally catching your breath. It’s as if your instincts are trying to tell you to just lay back and give in, and really, you can’t fight that urge much longer. That buzzing sound only makes your legs want to squeeze together tighter, but not out of fear this time. 

Oh you’re slowly becoming a mindless toy yourself aren’t you?  

When the head of that large toy enters you, your breath catches and it can’t be helped when you arch up and brokenly cry, that stretch seemingly both painful and blissful. That vibration was only making your fingers and toes curl as the two aliens watched with rapt attention, slowly pressing the toy in deeper and deeper, listening to your feeble noises and adorable moans almost nonchalantly. 

If it wasn’t for the heady scent in the air and the fact you could see their own members sliding out in arousal, you’d think they were genuinely bored with experimenting with you. You catch a glimpse between weak twists of your body, and those dangerous eyes hold something more primal than they did when you first entered the room. 

They were doing this for more than just research, that’s for sure. You’re at their mercy until they get bored, if they even do. 

“Go ahead. Climax. We know you have more in you, we’ve studied your vitals and liquids, you aren’t dehydrated yet” the one on the right bites out, eager and needy as he leans forward to turn the toys vibrations up. “You look so good like this, human. Stuffed and needy, begging to be bred and made into the perfect mate. You must feel so neglected if you’re this sensitive to what we use” 

You can only manage a whimper, eyes rolling back as your breath catches and that thick, pulsing toy hammers inside of you. It’s no use in fighting it, you couldn’t fight the multiple other attempts either. You cave, body lurching and head lolling back as you cry out and loudly gasp for air, feeling your hole clenching down and trying to make sure that large toy doesn’t leave, milking it for all its worth as you rock your hips to ride out the fifth intense orgasm of the day. 

The two butterflies coo and croon in your ear, you think they’re praising you even but everythings so blurry and sounds like it's underwater, you can’t make any of it out. 

“Good job human, such a good job. That’s it, deep breaths…When your breathing is back to a stable condition let’s see if we can’t fit in the rest of the device. I’m sure you won’t disappoint us”.

(-Mommabean, hiya! Sorry for any typos! Anyway I hope you enjoyed, feel free to tell me what you thought!)

[gilverrwrites]

I know they’re not an older man per se, but lately I’ve been thinking about Jason or Dick having a good cop-bad cop dynamic with Slade, where Slade is just incredibly mean to you but then Jay or Dick is there to coo sweet words at you

I know the obvious here is Bad cop Slade, good cop Dick or Jason. And I love that. Good cop Dick especially is MWAH! 💕 and I absolutely need to write actual smut for this, anon you beaut! Like Slade pistoning into your puffy, swollen, cum-filled sex, calling you ever name under the sun. Spanking your red raw ass, and calling you weak when you start to sob. But its okay baby, shh, shhhh. Dick is underneath you, kissing your tears, stroking your hair telling you how good your doing as if he's not contributing to your overstimulation, fuck!

But I implore you to stick with me here when I say, AK! Slade and Jason - bad cop, WORSE cop.

Specifically: AK!Jason/Bat!Reader/Slade

As per, Slade is loyal to the money, but this is definitely a darker portrayal of Jason.

Warnings: Dub-con, swearing, interrogation kinda, choking, restraints, humiliation. No smut, but maybe I’ll write an extension.

The first thing you notice is the smell, you're underground somewhere for sure. Then you feel the cold, a chill across your warm skin, making your hair stand on edge. From that, you register very quickly that you’ve been stripped down to your underwear.

Appalled, you shoot up, reaching to cover yourself but only manage to make it an inch before cold, hard metal cuts into your body. You're tied to a chair by a multitude of pressure points that both hurt and rouse something salacious.

Shit. Shit shit shit. You can’t believe you fucked up this bad. Bruce had told you to get out of the city but you’d refused. You had to be on your top game but you’d fucked it, caused more problems.

Accessing your surroundings your eyes dart around the room until then fall on your captor. Deathstroke is sat a few feet away, leaning back on his chair, seemingly examining something on a tablet. It's hard to tell, the one eye hole in his mask shrouded by shadow. You hadn’t expected him to be at the militia checkpoint. He’d taken you down easier than you’d like to admit, but you’d put up a fight. Tooth and nail. So seeing him so relaxed without so much as a chip in his armour is a little disheartening.

“Trackers in your suit, right?” His deep voice echoes through the room, making you jump. “I would’ve just patted you down, but the boss man didn't want to take any risks.”

His head turns, and you can feel his eye raking across your bound and exposed form. “Not that I'm complaining.”

You recoil into yourself, disgusted by his blatant perversion, and the warm flush it sends through your body.

��Tell your ‘boss’ to come face me himself.” You spit between gritted teeth. His response only adds to your unease.

“Don’t you worry, pet. He’s on his way.” It’s infuriating, the name, the way he words things so tenderly but laces it with obvious, sickly amused derision. If you could feel any smaller, that would do it. “And between you and me, I get the feeling he’s pretty excited to get his hands on you.”

As if on queue, the piercing sound of an opening door creaks behind you. Despite the squeaky warning, you nearly jump for a second time when it slams shut once more. Heavy boots forebodingly stamp against the concrete floor. As much as you want to, you refuse to crane your neck to get a better look. It’s all you can do to maintain even a little bit of power.

“Well, well, well.” The modulated voice is even more sinister in person. His hand grabs the back of your chair, pulling you back a few inches, no doubt just to prove that he could. To instil fear. He leans over you, close enough that the cold metal of his helmet brushes the side of your face, but still, you refuse to look at him. “If it isn’t Baby-Bat.”

“Don’t call me that.” Your venom surprises you. You haven’t heard that nickname in years and it brings out a visceral reaction. It’s what Jason used to call you in jest. Baby-Bird and Baby-Bat, heroes in training.

“Or what?” He challenges, shaking one of the wrist shackles, as though you’re not already well aware of your less-than-ideal predicament. “You’re in no position to be calling any shots, babe.”

“Not for long. Batman will save me, he’ll save the city.” He has too. “You won’t get away with this.”

“Ha.” Deathstroke’s sneer is dry. When you look over to him he gestures his head toward the top dog but you remain resolute in your refusal to look at him. “I’d keep that name out of your mouth, if you know what’s good for you.”

“Wh-“ The words are cut from you before you can get them out. The Arkham Knight, either pissed at your pitiful attempt at a power play, or the mention of Batman's name; lifts you and your chair completely by your throat, turning you mid-air, then placing you back down, precariously balancing you on the seats back legs before getting in your face. All the while his tight grasp on your neck never waivers.

Face hidden, tall, broad, he’s an intimidating sight. The whole display makes your heart race.

“He…” Red-hot rage drips from every word, and you feel your body temperature rising to meet it. “Can’t. Save. Shit.”

The sound of his ragged breathing is amplified by whatever tech he’s using to distort his voice. Each pant sends a shockwave through your body. And you press your legs together to suppress its effect.

“Get fucking comfy.” He barks as he releases you and stands back, watching as you heave for air and teeter wildly before willing the chair to balance on all fours. “Cause he’s not coming for you. Nobody is.”

“Case in point.” Deathstroke finally approaches. It takes his long legs less than 5 steps to reach your side. He stands about half a foot taller than the already gigantic Knight. The way in which they both tower almost impossibly tall makes you tremble, and you’ve no idea if they notice. You can’t stand the added authority they possess simply by being clothed and masked while you sit practically naked for them. Fear is one thing, you can handle being afraid, you’ve been trained for that, but their deliberate show of power, how they make you feel so fragile is awakening something you don’t know how to curb. “Take a look at your hero.”

A screen is thrust into your face, a live feed of a rooftop somewhere in Miagani Island. Batman is on his knees, fists pounding the floor. His mouth is moving but you can’t lip-read him from the angle. Clearly, he’s not okay. This isn’t like him, he must be dosed up on something. In the depths of your brain you know he’ll overcome it, he’ll save Barbara, you, everyone. But you can’t deny how dire things are beginning to look. The doubt must show on your face because The Arkham Knight's robotic voice lets out a short, cold laugh.

“Now you’re getting it.” The wicked pleasure he gets from teasing you is ten times worse than Deathstroke’s blatantly false niceties.

“W-why am I here?” You internally curse yourself for the way your voice breaks. It sparks you to muster a little more spunk as you keep questioning them. “You could have killed me, why didn't you? What do you want?”

“Bring us up to speed on what he knows.” Deathstroke poses. “His new hideout.”

“How he’s getting his gear patched up.” The Knight continues. Neither are looking at you, having turned the tablet back to themselves. “We know you know.”

When you don't respond The Knight slants his helmet upward to consider you, slowly cocking it to the side as you stare him down.

Eventually, Deathstroke follows suit. You wait until the device is tucked away, until you're certain you have their full attention to speak. “I won’t give in that easy.”

You keep your chin up as they turn to look at each other, but despite your bravado, you flinch when Deathstroke sharply drops into a crouched position. The rough fabric of his tactical gloves scratches the soft skin of your inner thigh as he wedges his fingers between your legs. You’d been pressing them closed, hiding how their interrogation had inadvertently been siring your arousal, but he pries them apart, shattering what little dignity you had left.

“Looks like he owes me another 10.” He nods at you before he turning back to the man in question. The Arkham Knight returns the look. Assholes, they’d bet on you. Now they’re having a silent conversation one in which you are the subject, but aren’t important enough to be privy to. Humiliating.

Finally, Deathstroke removes his hands, tracing them along your torso as he saunters behind you but before you can clasp your thighs back together The Knights boot comes down on your crotch, in a fast, precise motion. Pressing hard enough to make you keen and squirm. The chair rocks unsteadily beneath your withering.

“I thought you were better than this Baby-Bat.” No voice distortment can disguise his zeal. Something in the back of your brain suspects he’d been expecting, even hoping for this. And while you certainly hadn't been, you can't deny the sick intrigue you feel for whatever they have planned.

In shame you turn your head, screwing your eyes together as though blocking them out might make it all disappear. The grate of Deathstroke’s gloves on your face keeps you in the moment however, keeps your moral compass spinning.

“Gettin’ paid to break a cute thing like you.” He sounds wistful, gruff voice sinfully musing in your ear as he forces your head forward once more. “That’s a good day's work.”

“And you will break.” The determination in the Knight’s tone, the loudness of it has you peeking through your lids at his mask which is now inches from your face. Fear and excitement invoke a shiver that runs down your spine. “We’ll make you come apart, piece by piece, and we’ll enjoy every second.”

[shalotttower]

Fractalize (part 1)

Title: Fractalize

Fandom: Hunter x Hunter

Summary: Lack of hope creates a strange kind of numbness.

Word count: 3700+

Characters: Chrollo x Reader (female)

Notes: yandere Chrollo, kidnapped, depressed and miserable Reader, Reader is dissociating a lot, morbid pondering, suicidal thoughts, explicit/triggering language/words, Reader's thoughts on possible sexual assault in future. Part 2

Fractalize - making things into smaller copies of themselves over and over again.

Sometimes you stand in front of a mirror and try to picture yourself in another timeline. One where your life didn’t take this specific turn. You try to imagine a different setting, a different apartment - perhaps the one you had before Chrollo started moving you around like a luggage bag. Maybe living in a cottage by the sea or an old farmhouse. Someplace rural, peaceful. With a garden and fresh air, far away from the city noises.

It's difficult at first, your reflection keeps slipping through your mental fingers every time you think the image is set in place. But with practice it becomes easier, sort of, so you can now see yourself clearly as you brush your hair - not here.

A blue dress on, made for nights at parties with friends. Laughing until your stomach hurts and eyes become sore. Making silly faces over alcoholic beverages. Or you can wear your favourite jeans with a high waist and head out to the pub, the same one with crooked stools and a broken sign. Drink cheep bear, eat greasy peanuts from a little bowl, listen to some small band play unknown and unheard songs.

Leave intoxicated, and everything is too fast and vibrant and wonderful until you're back home.

It's your favourite pastime now: imagine, remake and slip.

Imagine. Remake. Slip.

You don't quite remember the last time you laughed, a month ago maybe. Maybe more. Lack of hope creates a strange kind of numbness, dull, cold, you would compare it to a winter plastered all over your insides, but it's almost colder than that. It freezes everything and turns it into icicles hanging off the roof.

Remake, slip.

You have new vocabulary now.

"Mm" - is for when he asks you if you like a dress or a top and it doesn't matter how you actually feel about it, because it's going to end up being worn anyway.

"Okay" - is for when Chrollo sets another fancy meal for you on a dinner table and "Eat, don't be shy".

"I'm not hungry" - doesn't work with him, even if it's the truth. You always eat what's put in front of you, that's the rule, because he's not above shoving the spoon into your mouth, so you spare yourself the tears and sobs that will probably come with that. It's so bizarre: how much effort he puts into keeping you alive when you're anything but.

"Whatever you want" - is for when he asks you something that requires a choice, between two or three options usually. He's not one for an extensive list.

"If you say so" - for everything else.

You used to delude yourself with the idea that if you managed to appear pleasant enough, pleasant-talking, pleasant-listening, smiling a bit here and there, it would gain you some privileges and perhaps a bit more freedom. It did. But never where it really mattered. Those little things were absolutely inconsequential in the grand scheme. Yes, you can have that sweater, dear. No, you can't have your own bed. Yes, you can come shopping with me, if you give me a kiss. No, you can't take walks without me holding your hand.

Yes this and no that.

Those moments were fragile and so very takeable that they didn't give you any sense of accomplishment, just a short respite and bitter aftertaste that made you feel pathetic.

Wasn't worth it.

***

"Do you like animals, dear?" Chrollo asks out of the blue one day. He's reading something on his tablet while you're curled up on the couch, watching TV.

It's a new series that's been on the major channels for a few weeks, a mystery drama about a girl who moves into a house she inherited from her grandfather. The picture provides a distraction enough to have you forgetting where you are for a brief period three times a week.

You pull the blanket higher. "I do."

He knows it.

The girl on the screen finds a mysterious box hidden in the attic. Perhaps there's something valuable inside. Or information about her grandpa; your fingers tug on a loose blanket thread without much thought.

"What kind?"

Or maybe it's just a time capsule with photos and postcards and random objects collected over the years.

Or-

You had a cat before he took you. A foster grey ragdoll with blue eyes who liked to rest on your belly and bump her head against your chin. You called her Miss Whiskerton and kissed her little nose, because she did act like a proper lady - poised, dignified and entirely too proud to eat food mixed with medicine. The worst enemy Miss Whiskerton has ever had in her cat life was the corner of your couch. When you weren't paying attention, she would dig her claws into the fabric and leave thin lines. You hope that someone took her in.

She probably thought you abandoned her.

"Cats."

Chrollo hums in acknowledgment and continues scrolling through whatever he's looking at - maybe news or auction listings, you don't know nor do you really care. You shift under the blanket, pulling your legs closer to your body.

"We can get one, if you'd like."

"No."

Your answer is immediate and short, without thinking. You know it, you know him by now - there's nothing Chrollo does out of spontaneous generosity, it always benefits him in some way. And you've studied him enough to figure that any pet would only be a tool to keep you tamed and compliant. Puppies make life better. Happier, lighter, with goofy smiling faces and wiggling tails. Cats make life better with soft purrs and paws stomping on your chest. They're too easy to love.

"Why not?" There's a sound of tablet set on a wooden surface.

The girl on the screen is trying to solve a combination lock on the box when the TV switches off and your little world of carefully shot scenes and scripted lines vanishes. You don't need to turn around to guess where's the remote.

She almost had it, but now you won't know what's inside until Thursday evening.

Your reflection stares back from the dead screen, blank-faced and with a blanket pulled up your nose. It tickles a bit. "Because I don't want one."

A chair creaks. "Why?"

You close your eyes shut for a moment before opening them again. This is tiring. Always probing, digging, pushing. Trying to find chinks in your armor, but all you're wearing is just a flimsy dress with thin straps and a blanket you wish could swallow you whole.

"Don't need it."

"You said you like animals," Chrollo sits next to you and places a hand on top of your covered legs. He squeezes your thigh and you stare ahead, wishing he would just leave you alone tonight.

"I do." Your fingers twitch under the blanket, nails scratching at the fabric.

Strange. Sometimes it feels like he understands perfectly that you want to be alone, have time for yourself and don't want his constant physical presence. At the same time Chrollo brushes this all aside like old tin foil wrappers - insignificant. He pulls the blanket down and you cling on it stubbornly for a few seconds before letting go. His thumb and index finger grasp your chin and turn your face towards him so you have no choice but to meet his eyes.

There's such still intensity within him that made your skin crawl whenever he looked at you with this much focus and attention. You don't know what he saw there most times, it used to be fear or anger or sadness - right now it's none of these things. Everything inside you feels jammed and stiff.

"We should get a fish then," he continues, brushing hair out of your forehead. "You can watch it swim around, wouldn't that be nice?"

Chrollo talks to you like this sometimes, as if you're a child who needs to be convinced to eat veggies or take medicine. Like you're simple-minded and he's reasoning with you out of good will. It's sickening. You hate it.

"I don't want a pet," you repeat the words slowly. "If you're going to give me something only to take it away, then I don't want it."

His finger leisurely stroking your chin pauses at the edge of your bottom lip. Something flickers behind his eyes, it's barely noticeable but you've become good at catching those minuscule shifts. He smiles, yet there's nothing joyful about it. "Take it away? Why would I do that, dear?"

"Because that's what you do. Because that's how you are." You don't try to pull free from his hold, he'll only tighten it; not enough to hurt, no, he is too suave and polished for that - or wants to appear so - but enough for you to feel trapped under his palm.

There's something off about you, you can tell, but are not quite able to discern what or where. It sits in the very structure of your bones and eats away with ravenous appetite. An imbalance in the gut. Fever-warm body, cold fingers. Thoughts like potholes.

"And how am I exactly, according to you?" His voice is light, playful, a stark contrast to his eyes that study you with unnerving precision. Chrollo rarely loses his temper and never gets violent with you (yet, you correct yourself), but he has other ways of expressing displeasure, and they're petty, ugly and cold.

"Cruel," the word rolls off your tongue so effortlessly that almost frightens you; it's easy to tell the truth when you're this numb.

He looks taken aback for a split second, and the smile freezes. His hand stops midway to your hair. Then everything's gone.

Chrollo releases you and leans back into the cushions, almost thoughtful, like your observation is something that requires careful consideration.

"I suppose, it depends," he says finally.

"On what?"

"On how you choose to see things. Your perspective is bound to be biased, dear."

You don't respond.

To continue this conversation would be pointless and circular, like running on a treadmill, like everything else between you and Chrollo, really. He simply has too many answers to any possible argument, and no matter how convincing you manage to make them sound, he'll poke holes into each one. You don't want a fish. Or a cat. Or a dog, a bird, anything that moves and breathes and looks at you with big, trusting eyes.

Chrollo is cruel. Not in a way that's straightforward and brutal. Not in a way of someone who'd tear your limbs apart or rip off a fly's wing to see it wiggle. You have no doubt that he is capable of such a thing, but that would be uncouth. Cruelty in his case is a quieter, more delicate affair - in a way of a sculptor who'd chisel off everything unnecessary and unneeded, no matter the size or significance, to produce something entirely his.

His hands are soft, his voice is always composed, and he wears well tailored clothes. But the rest is sharp, clean and merciless.

"I think I'll go to bed," you say and push away the blanket.

"It's early."

"Mm."

He takes your hand just as you're about to slide off the sofa. Chrollo's always faster than you, always ahead and always observing, and that little realization while bitter is not so shocking anymore, more like another fact that you file away from your interactions.

You watch him. Wait.

"You're distraught," he says. "But you should know by now that there's no need for that."

Your hand remains in his grasp, limp and heavy.

"I don't enjoy seeing you upset, dear. Even more if you make false conclusions."

You turn to see the expression on his face - and there isn't one, at least not the type that most people would make. There are no frowning eyebrows, no clenched jaw that would indicate irritation, nothing like that.

"You're giving me too little credit," his tone is quiet as he runs his fingers up and down your wrist. "My intentions are not to hurt you. They are much, much sweeter than that."

"But you would," you say quietly and lean closer, ignoring the obvious implication behind his words. There is a hollow sensation inside of your head that prompts you to speak, everything is hollow - body and mind, heart, the space in your guts, your throat. "You would hurt me, if that's what you thought was necessary. Rip me apart and leave me deformed beyond repair, to fit into whatever framework you've laid, you would do that."

You're not being deliberately cryptic or fatalistic. These are your observations, based on a period of months spent together. They take root in no one being there for you anymore, in your phone which is long gone, in your closed accounts, your missing laptop and old clothes, the entire previous life in the city that has been discarded for something new. Chrollo was very methodical, you can give him that.

He doesn't listen, he studies your responses. Every single word. He has a talent for that, for absorbing everything about you while hardly ever letting you glimpse his interior - all that you know about him are tiny slivers which you picked up through living together, observation, accidental bits.

You expect him to contradict your statement, to offer a logical explanation why you're wrong, but instead Chrollo brings your hand to his lips and presses a kiss against your knuckles. The touch is light and dry.

"You're not entirely wrong, dear," he says and moves closer until you can smell his aftershave, something fresh.

His proximity is uncomfortable, it always is and probably always will be.

"I'm right then," you say.

"No," he keeps your hand in his grasp. "But you're not entirely wrong either. That's what makes you interesting."

There's a strange kind of fondness in his voice, it's subtle, yet undeniably present. You've never felt less interesting in your life, in a dress with thin straps that's too fancy for a lazy day at home and your bare feet and tangled hair.

"If you say so," you respond and slowly tug your hand free. "I really want to sleep now."

You get up, and he lets you go without another proposition. The blanket falls off onto the sofa, and before you slip into the semi-darkness of the bedroom, he says,

"Not beyond repair. But I like to believe we can both agree it doesn't have to come to that."

***

The drive feels endless. Houses and streets blur in a mix of colors, shapes and people, which soon change to an empty highway with greenery on both sides. Trees and fields, tall grass swaying gently in the wind and rare cars passing you by. Chrollo's hand is resting on your leg; he hasn't moved it since the car started, but you choose to ignore it in favor of your regular pastime, the one that's made of imaginary worlds and places where the timeline stretches differently.

Mostly it's just you and the layout of your fake apartment.

Imagine, remake, slip. Repeat the steps until it becomes muscle memory.

You have this daydream on loop now. Wooden floor and wide windows, lots of sunlight. Books everywhere, comfy clothes and not a single skirt in your closet. A cup of tea with honey in the morning, and Miss Whiskerton curled into a soft grey ball on your lap. You feed her salmon in a shiny bowl, occasionally she catches a lizard outside and drops the tail on your doorstep as an offering, looking immensely proud of herself.

A smile slips on your face without meaning to, a wobbly thing; you promptly wipe it off.

It would be a crime to show such blatant joy. This fantasy has become so sweetly personal that every fiber of your being resists even acknowledging it in front of Chrollo. He can sense a stray happy thought from miles away, like a hound, and will never stop prodding until everything is raw and tender. You've learned to say less in his presence, especially if it's something that has you invested. Chrollo knows how to pick things apart.

You lean your cheek against the glass. This world would never happen, never in a million years, but dreaming doesn't hurt anyone, does it?

Your grandma, wearing an apron, sets a tray filled with fresh pastries on a table, because she's amazing like that. She fusses and worries and pretends to scold you. For not calling enough, for not coming sooner, for not eating well. For leaving.

"Dear."

You almost jump.

Chrollo's voice brings you back where his hand is heavy on your leg, you're wearing a dress above the knee and aren't allowed to use scissors or knives.

"Mm?"

"That frown of yours," he says, turning into a small road. The surroundings change again, it's quiet here, not a soul in sight. "It's been there for fifteen minutes now."

You sit up straight and move your hair out of your eyes. Chrollo's a perceptive one, so this is a reminder not to sink too deep around him, unless you absolutely need it.

"Was just thinking."

"You do it a lot lately," he states and looks at you from the corner of his eye.

True, but you have no intention to confirm it. First, he won't like the reason behind these thoughts. Second, he will dig and try to worm his way in. No. Most of what you've been fixating on, staring out of the window like a mindless drone, or reading and rereading pages that you barely grasped, would fail to create anything more complex in his heart than desire to pull it out.

For whatever twisted reason, Chrollo cares for your well-being, or, more precisely, your acceptance of his advances. Yet his way of caring isn't nurturing in any sense.

Chrollo's interest (you don't dare call it love) is crushing, too heavy to carry - he'll find what troubles you and "fix it" in way that will twist it into something pathetic. Something that shows how you have nothing else to cling on but him. You're not stupid enough to keep falling into this trap. Being a slow learner doesn't mean you don't learn at all.

He's done it before. He'll do it again. So you reply, "I haven't noticed."

His thumb rubs circles on your thigh; you press your shoulder against the car door as if hoping it might open. It doesn't, much to your disappointment.

"What was on your mind then?"

Something you shouldn't tell him, that's for sure. Chrollo's watching you, even if his eyes are trained on the road.

"Random stuff," you say. Half-truths, half-truths are safe. "A weird dream I had this morning."

If you bothered to look, you'd see a raised eyebrow and the faintest hint of amusement at the corners of his mouth. You don't.

"Tell me."

You hate when he does that.

"It was boring."

"I'm interested in anything that made you so pensive."

Chrollo likes conversations with you, even if they're short. You can tell that he does, or he wouldn't be trying to make you talk and getting subtly frustrated when you choose not to. It never shows outright, Chrollo is very gifted at keeping his calm exterior, but there are certain giveaways like the slight tightening of his hand, an emphasized "dear", a pause here, or a quiet exhale through the nose. You could make a list out of these.

If you ignore him, he gets quiet and handsy or petty enough to throw away the only dress you feel comfortable in. Stop bringing you new books. Take you to places you hate.

It's always the small things that kill you, not the big, dramatic ones. The devils in the details.

"There was a lizard," you begin, and he hums in response, prompting you to continue. "It was cute with brown spots and a tiny tail."

Lies weave themselves easily, intertwine with truths and turn it into something that resembles a story.

"It was sitting on my windowsill and I wanted to pet it. A cat came out of nowhere and almost ate it, then I woke up. It's a silly dream."

There. Nothing to dissect here, not that you can see. Just a nonsensical dream, filled with random happenings and strange emotions.

"And that's why you frowned for fifteen minutes?"

"Yes, I got sad."

Yes, you think. Yes, Chrollo. I frowned, because I care for the damn lizard that doesn't exist, an animal from a dream. A stupid musing, nothing special, a very mundane and simple thing, because people do have silly dreams sometimes, and it's not a crime. It's not a crime and has nothing to do with that fact that I have a whole dream world where I'm not with you in my head.

"How peculiar. You never struck me as the type to get upset over something like this."

"You never asked," you respond flatly and Chrollo's hand on your thigh moves an inch.

It brushes up, closer to where you really, really don't want it to be, so you squeeze his fingers hard and redirect them to the curve of your knee.

"True," he says after a pause, not sounding too bothered. A month ago you would've brushed his hand off completely, probably that's why. Chrollo is convinced that with enough patience and effort he'll be able to close that final barrier between you both. Time, coaxing, a dose or two of endearment, some carefully calculated touch - but you'd rather stick a knife through your ribs than have sex with him. Or his patience will simply run out and he'll rape you. You're not delusional. Not a fool. "Well, that can be fixed. I'll make sure to ask about your dreams more often, dear."

You lean back into the seat and stare ahead, this time without anything pleasant on your mind. Of course he will. Of course he'll take this as a sign to dig deeper and invade that small bit of solace, Chrollo can't simply co-exist. He wants it all.

"Mm," you say.

Your new vocabulary is such a handy thing.

[cyanityy]

Bully sketch dump 3 + crops

I'm flying out so since I can't take my tablet with me I'm releasing all my captive sketches into the wild *magic hand gesturing*

(Thanks to @/bidisaster-peanut-romano for instigating Tad & Parker besties hc with me. I sob every time)

[missviviii]

a/n: zayne my boo <3 im sobbing over the fact that the game killed off mc’s grandma and caleb 😭

.

ミ★ Love & Deep Space ミ★

pairing: zayne x fem!reader

warning(s): mentions of death, mentions of the explosion that killed mc’s grandma + childhood best friend (caleb) in game, spoilers(?)

Summary: Ever since that day, you’ve fallen in a deep, dark pit. Why did you have to be the one that they decide to destroy? Why did Caleb and Grandma have to die? Is it your fault they did? Zayne, as your primary care physician and a family friend, is concerned for your well-being.

“Sometimes, a small gesture is all it takes.”

The sound of the news on your TV, the thundering rain outside, the sound of the cars driving by your apartment—it all blurs out as you stared at the TV screen, eyes dead and unfocused on the news of the Wanderers attacking and the explosions. Some 22 casualties, two deaths. Grandma and Caleb. His necklace that you bought him as a goodbye gift when he left for the Aerospace Academy sits beside a picture of you, him, and Grandma on the coffee table, the cheerful smiles making you wished that you could revisit time.

Your apartment, once somewhat organized and clean, is now messy with things being knocked down and dirty dishes long discarded. You stare at the one last thing your Grandma left for you, some..tablet(?) with a final letter on it. You haven’t gotten the energy or the ability to open it. It pains you, seeing that you haven’t visited for so long yet when you do, this was the time her house had to explode right in front of you, flames engulfing the house and the only thing that remained was Caleb’s necklace.

“I miss you, Grandma..” You mumbled to nobody, rubbing the tears threatening to spill out your eyes as you glanced down at the item she left you with. Besides that, a small box of her old recipes of those notecards, and other small things that she had entrusted to you years before.

Around you was your laptop, papers and files on the latest Wanderer attacks around you. Yes, Captain Jenna dismissed you and said that you should take some days off to regain your energy, since you haven’t been getting the sleep or the energy you needed, but you just couldn’t.

Your door opened, yet you didn’t bother to look at who entered. “Still sitting in front of the TV?” A familiar voice spoke out, flipping the light switch on and shutting the door behind him. It was Zayne, a long time family friend and your primary care physician. “You haven’t eaten,” he bluntly says as he sets a bag of food on your table and walked into the kitchen. He bites back a sigh, knowing that you were going through a tough time, and people tended to discard everything and grieve and grieve their hearts out.

“Hello to you too, Zayne,” you replied as you shut off the news and got up off your sofa. You pile up all the papers and files you’ve scattered around and set them on the coffee table before you walk into the kitchen as Zayne is cleaning up your dirty dishes. He checks in on you whenever he’s free or when he’s off his shift. He looks back at you, only making a small hum of acknowledgment before cleaning up your dirty kitchen. You looked terrible—eyes red and puffy from crying, obvious eye bags, and the sparkles from your eyes were gone.

You yawn as you take out a bowl and some utensils for whatever food he brought in for you. You unpacked the bag as he cleaned up the dishes you couldn’t bother doing last week. Potatoes, avocado on the side, tuna salad, salmon and rice you said to yourself as you took out the food that he had carefully backed in those plastic containers for you. Then you took out the last thing. Cookie..dough? He remembered your favorite childhood snack. The kind of cookie dough you liked.

“Your grandma gave me a recipe for the cookie dough. She said that if she couldn’t make it, I should since it lightens your mood,” Zayne says as he puts your clean dishes back into the cabinet. He dries his hand off before walking over to you, watching how you stare at it like a piece of gold. Disbelief and shock were etched on your face.

Zayne puts his hand on your back, soothingly rubbing circles as you opened the container and took a bite. Your eyes almost brimmed with tears again. You could remember how your grandma used to bake in the kitchen and you’d always sneak a bite or two of the cookie dough, no care in the world if you could get salmonella.

“Thank..you, Zayne,” you finally said, turning around tightly hugging him. He was a bit hesitant at first, but he put his hand on your head, massaging your scalp as he looked down at you with a gentle look on his face.

“..You’re welcome. I miss her too.”

Zayne’s eyes looked away at the picture on the counter of your grandma. She didn’t have to go out this way.

[arafilez]

☆ ⼂ PUNCH THE WALL ﹗

ꔫㅤㅤ ❜ [ skz ot8 x any reader ] ㅤ⋆ ㅤangst, estb. relationship ㅤ warnings arguing, moderate cursing, and anxiety attack ㅤ﹢ㅤ0.2k per member wc ㅤㅤ pt 2 here ꔫㅤㅤ ❜ [ og request ] ㅤ⋆ ㅤOMG YOU TAKE REQUESTS YESSS OKAY how about skz reaction to their s/o punching the wall (and immediately regret it)in the heat of an argument - anon

◗ ៹ BANG CHAN ›

“Let’s sit down, and talk this out properly,” Chan says getting tired of the argument with each passing second. It is tiring how you are bringing up every small topic just for the sake of arguing.

His eyes widen the moment your fist lands on the wall and cringes at how you instantly wince from the pain. He remains still, watching your breath become more even.

You stare at your palm in shock not realising why you did it anyway. You are not that type of person at all.

“There are better ways of subsiding your anger,” Chan speaks up, slowly taking your hands in his and inspecting your knuckles. “Let’s get you a painkiller,” he whispers, kissing your cheek and you nod looking down.

“I don’t know why I did that,” you stutter out barely and he smiles handing you the tablet and shrugs saying, “Anger is a strong and restless emotion, it is important to learn how to control it. For example, you can tear up some paper into small pieces and make sure all pieces are small.”

“I will work on it,” you smile lightly and he nods encouragingly, “I know you will, darling.”

◗ ៹ LEE KNOW ›

You can’t do this anymore, if he retaliates one more time you might just punch the wall. Minho’s words pass by your ear and you feel a quick blood rush and punch the wall behind you.

The pain takes over immediately as you press your hands to your mouth as a whimper passes out of your throat. You can’t believe you just punched a wall. You never do that.

You hear Minho’s footstep coming towards you and he holds your hand inspecting your knuckles quietly. You keep your head down, ashamed, knowing you have crossed a line while he makes you sit on the couch. Taking out the first aid kit, he slowly dabs an ointment around your bruised knuckles. You watch him carefully and let out a quiet sigh before looking up at him.

“Don’t apologise, you gave yourself enough punishment,” he chuckles and continues, “Things like these happen. Doesn’t mean you are a toxic partner.”

“Thank you,” you reply, a sob choking your throat, “for everything.” You let out a weak smile and he smiles back lightly pecking your lips to cheer you up.

◗ ៹ SEO CHANGBIN ›

The picture frames rattle loudly as your fist lands on the wall and suddenly the room becomes quiet. The tension is thick as you open your fist and your hand rests where you have just punched while Changbin stands in a distance.

You are not this kind of a partner, you never are. Then why did you do that?

“You will beat me in punches in a gym,” Changbin’s voice enters your ear and you look at him mouthing, “Sorry.” He walks towards you and slowly takes your fists in his hand and continues, “Come on that one was funny.”

“Changbin I am so sorry,” you start crying, over sensitive from all your emotions and frustrations and the way you just expressed it. He holds you close and then hugs you till your sobs subside and turn into small whimpers against his neck.

“We all have bad days,” he whispers and continues, “But next time talk to me, don’t keep it to yourself.” You nod rapidly hugging him tighter, the regret now slowly being pushed to the back of your mind at his comfort.

◗ ៹ HWANG HYUNJIN ›

You give one last look to Hyunjin before your fist hits the wall in anger and you pant in rage. Regret takes over your feature almost immediately and you turn around to look Hyunjin frozen in his place and his eyes widening in shock and fear. Your resolve falters in a fraction of a second and you take a step towards Hyunjin.

“Hyun I swear-“ you start only for him to harshly cut you off, “Save it.” You slap your hand over your mouth to stop a sob escaping your mouth. You can’t believe what you did, this is not you.

“I can’t believe you did that,” Hyunjin exclaims and you open your mouth trying to explain yourself but he stops you telling, “Apply some meds and we will talk when you are calmer.” Saying that he leaves the room, making you rethink your decisions again and again.

◗ ៹ HAN JISUNG ›

Jisung’s breath fell short and the room felt like spinning as soon as he sees you punch the wall. He gasps loudly, holding the table near him and his vision starts to blur. He can feel the anxiety attack coming and he can do nothing about it.

You regret as soon as you did it but looking at Jisung the feeling worsens and you run to him. You hold him in your arms and whisper out, “I am so sorry baby.” You walk him slowly to the couch and he slumps down, gripping the couch handle rather strongly and you wince. Slowly unwrapping his fingers you hold them and look him in the eye.

“It’s me and I am sorry,” you whisper and hand him the water bottle as he shakily takes a sip from it. Panting slowly his vision clears and he finally sees your tear-stricken eyes and hugs you as you repeatedly say ‘sorry’ over and over again.

You love him so much, hand you wish he can forgive you which unknowingly maybe he did.

◗ ៹ LEE FELIX ›

Imagine you are minho 😭

“Oh shit,” you curse loudly at the wincing pain in your knuckles as you punch the wall and Felix’s eyes widen but he doesn’t move from his place. You hold your fist and press your lips together but the whimper doesn’t go unnoticed by Felix who grabs a painkiller and a bottle of water.

“I didn’t mean to-“ you start but your boyfriend cuts you off saying, “Sit down.”

“Okay,” you oblige and he hands you the water bottle which you gladly take sipping on it lightly. His eyes scan your feature full of remorse and he rubs his hands over your knees whispering, “Relax, it’s alright.”

“It’s not and you know it,” you choke out and look away unable to look at his kind eyes. “Let’s talk about it, yeah?” he proposes and you nod smiling lightly and his eyes light up at your acceptance.

◗ ៹ KIM SEUNGMIN ›

“Kim Seungmin,” you snarl at him, “I am warning you.” Seungmin’s indifferent sigh angers you to your last extent and you look at him straight in the eyes and punch the wall beside you. You quickly retreat your hands as soon as you do it, shock and remorse washing over your features.

You look at him and see him stare back at you, mouth parted and eyes holding annoyance as he speaks, “So you talk with your hands now.” You shake your head lightly looking away, ashamed of yourself. A scoff of disbelief leaves his mouth and Seungmin pokes the inside of his cheeks eyeing your figure.

“I am sorry,” a sob escapes your throat as you say it out loud and Seungmin’s features soften for a millisecond before he exhales and says, “We will talk when you are ready.” And not punching walls, he thinks but refrains from saying it out loud and leaves the room while you sit on the floor and a stray tear escapes your eye.

What have you done?

◗ ៹ YANG JEONGIN ›

The pent up frustration about everything in life and Jeongin’s childishness gets the best of you and you punch the wall behind you. Your knuckles make a cracking sound at the force. You immediately get back from your trance and stare at Jeongin who is rooted at his place.

“Jeongin I-“ you try, but your voice falters when you see him take a step back, his hands folded against his body protectively. Hurt crosses over your features and you open your mouth to speak and make him comfortable.

“Just fucking listen-“

“No”

“Innie-“

“I said no,” Jeongin yells at you and a pin drop silence falls around the room.

“Don’t come near me, we will talk later,” Jeongin’s voice held remorse and fear and you exhale slowly nodding at him. You watch him leave and regret takes over your features.

ꔫㅤㅤ ❜ [ ara's notes ] ㅤ⋆ ㅤtysm anon for requesting this, i hope you like it, some of them have open endings and unsolved arguments 'cause i suddenly love writing that lmao. tysm for the people who are reading and the blr notes. ꔫㅤㅤ ❜ [ taglist ] ㅤ⋆ ㅤ@haneagerr @jeonghanfr ㅤmain mlistㅤ skz listㅤ navi ㅤ add to taglist

© arafilez on tumblr. please do not copy and repost my work as your own.

[seiwas]

₊˚⊹｡ (you were good to me) | nanami kento

wc: 2.8k

summary: nanami counts his chances and bets on this last one.

contains: implied f!reader but no mention of pronouns, canon-adjacent, exes, mentions of alcohol, swears, mentions of drunk calls, pov switching, angst, c.death

a/n: another brainchild from me and @augustinewrites, with song inspos: you were good to me, tequila, bourbon, already gone, all i want, and something in the orange

part of the in's and out's new year/birthday event | request prompt: waiting for that call you know won't come

part 1 <- you are here

October 31, 2018.

Your company halloween party isn’t all that fun when you think about it. 

The optional suggestion from HR to wear a costume has always been promptly ignored for as long as you can remember, pressed suits in dark neutrals coloring the celebration instead. Nothing exciting about it at all. 

It used to be though, when you had Nanami to spend it with. 

Liquid pools by the sides of your fingertips, condensation dripping down your glass of bourbon. One of the perks of being in a financial firm’s halloween party is that the alcohol is good, expensive to match the tastes and budget the partners can afford. 

Calling it a party is overhyping it, if you’re being honest. It’s just another day at work, except without the alcohol restrictions; your coworkers still check the markets every five minutes (you do too, out of habit), and directors still ask for summary reports while attending to a phone call or two—one hand on a tablet and another on a drink, earbud slotted securely in one ear. 

You and Nanami used to hide, even just for a few minutes, by the break room at the back, inside the pantry—a place now foreign but still filled with all your memories; you haven’t stepped foot in it since he broke it off. 

It's a common notion amongst your peers that workplace romance is dead—it always has been (at least, outwardly). HR would have cut either of you out of the next payment cycle if they had caught wind of your mingling. 

Workplace romance is dead, they say, but what you had with Nanami was alive, beating with every giggle muffled by the palm of your hand. No one would ever consider him a funny guy, but you did—all his snide remarks, comments unapologetically deadpan in a way so bluntly his. 

The gray curtain separating you two from the rest of the office kitchen was thin, but it held every weighted moment you snuck with him—secret confessions a little before midnight, a hand or two you couldn’t possibly resist, sobs hushed down, bitten between your teeth with you tucked into him. 

Workplace romance is dead—it’s supposed to be, but a few desks down and a sharp left turn from yours, it haunts you, still. 

You take a sip. 

.

Nanami has a sense for these things. 

It’s always when something doesn’t feel right that the numbers start to click. 

Clusters of sorcerers have been grouped to surround the vicinity, his own trio comprising of himself, Fushiguro, and Ino. The instructions are simple: to be on standby in case anything happens. The wait time should be a good sign; it’s highly unlikely that anyone can match up to Gojo, after all. 

He checks his watch, each second ticking agonizingly slowly. It feels unsettling, like the calm before the storm—a deep unrest simmering. Unsafe is the first thought that comes to mind, then you second; it prompts him to call you, his fingers slightly trembling. 

Your contact is still marked with a star, filed under his favorites (he knows he probably should have moved it).

One ring. Two rings. Three. A ‘toot’ at the end of the line—it makes him antsy. 

Then, the veils go down. 

The action is alarming; these opponents move themselves like chess pieces, he knows this much—all part of a bigger plan, always with an underlying motive.

His thumb hovers over the call button again, thinking. The expression on his face remains impassive, sharp angles and straight lines concealing the weight of each worry. 

“Nanami-san,” Ino calls. 

Fushiguro’s already started theorizing, rationalizing some sort of ploy behind this occurrence—all highly plausible, all probably true; it’s some sick play that the moment the calculations click, there isn’t enough time to call you. 

“That’s why we’ve stopped standing by and started to act,” Nanami interjects, shrugging off his blazer, khaki cotton falling off his shoulders as he slips his phone in his pant pocket. 

.

If anything, you should probably do your best to enjoy whatever you can from this year’s Halloween party—after all, it’ll be your last in this company. You handed in your resignation papers last week, and though your boss has pulled you aside for the nth time tonight, disguising pleas as empty promises, you know better than to believe it.

It doesn’t matter to you anymore; you’ve made up your mind. 

The bartender mixes you another drink: 2 ounces of bourbon for a ball of ice, the same one you’ve been having the entire night. 

A White Russian is your usual pick—a spiked latte as you call it. Nanami’s claimed that Bourbon On The Rocks is like its older, more mature cousin, and you’re afraid he’s right. He always is.

The hints of vanilla and caramel remind you of your morning pick-me-up, part because of the drink and part because of the man you used to spend it with. 

Your phone vibrates from your inner pocket, but you don’t feel it, the alcohol dulling your senses. 

.

“Na-na-na-na-na-na-min!” 

For this reason, he thinks, it’s good that the nickname has stuck; a perfect identifier for whom and where it’s coming from. 

Echoes of Itadori’s voice lead them straight to a rooftop, Fushiguro catching the boy’s attention to ask for the run-down. Mechamaru warns that it’s pandemonium deep within the station, curses of all grades mixed with scattered transfigured humans. There’s only one thing he knows can be responsible for that. 

Nanami doesn’t do jokes, but he secretly wishes this is just a really bad one, because—

Gojo’s been sealed. 

—the punch line isn’t funny at all. 

Sorcery has prepared Nanami for anything, but this possibility lies in his 0.01%—if this has happened, it’s free game. 

It makes sense now, why this unease has slowly been surfacing. 

Keep people safe and survive—the single thought at the forefront of his mind. 

He moves quickly, devising a plan for maximum efficiency; Ino is to stay with Fushiguro and Itadori inside this veil while he meets up with Ijichi to put down the other one. Time is running short, options even more so—there are only a handful of people who can do certain requests and being a first-grade qualifies him as one of them. 

Eerie silence greets him as he steps out on the sidewalk, the streets practically swept. It’s instinct when his hand reaches in his pant pocket, fingers moving in memorized pattern as he calls you again.

You don’t pick up for the second time.

.

One of your co-workers almost trips down the steps to the taxi, your arm stretched out to catch her should she fall forward completely. Cool air nips at your cheeks; you’ve had more to drink but you handle liquor well—if managing to keep up with Nanami means anything. 

The vibrations of your phone get lost in the commotion. You haul your co-worker into the cab and tell the driver her address, asking if he can drive you to yours soon after. 

.

It’s shit.

Climbing up the steps to the overpass fills him with a sense of foreboding. A sickening dread. On the way here, he spotted four managers, dead. 

The sight before him angers him more than anything—blood pooling around Ijichi’s frame, crumpled on the ground. He steps closer, crouching low to check for a pulse; it’s faint, but it’s there, accompanying the man’s shallow breathing. 

He does quick work bringing Ijichi to the rescue team, hopefully fast enough to make it back to Shoko where she can fix him. 

The casualties are rising. 

It isn’t safe anymore. The radius of collateral damage is widening and this is just the beginning.

What will happen to you? If the events in here break containment? 

How can he keep you safe if jujutsu society falls? 

He crunches the numbers, sorting through each possibility; the phone in his pocket feels heavy, sinking with each step he takes on concrete. It’s not often that Nanami runs out of options—there’s always an answer to anything; but this, he thinks, has never made him feel more desperate.

His fingers hover over your contact again. 

There’s not enough time—this is the only way. 

He needs to get you out of here. 

. 

You’re left with a voicemail. 

The key slips from your hand, falling to the ground again, like the many times it has before. You step inside your apartment, swiping through your notifications to find two missed calls and an email. 

It’s confusing enough getting calls from the ex you drunk dial once a week; receiving a flight notice set to depart later tonight with a ticket under your name doesn’t make things any clearer. 

You tap your screen, odd anticipation and nerves coiling in your belly. 

“Hello,” the audio starts, “I’m assuming you received the email.” 

His voice sounds different when you’re a little more sober; you’re not sure if that’s a good thing—if it’s worse or better, just that it aches the more you hear him clearly. You kick off your heels, letting the audio play as you pour yourself a glass of water. 

Your ticket details stare at you from your screen. 

(Shouting isn’t a quiet man’s usual and his throat hurts from the overexhaustion. His voice echoes across the sea, calling for everyone to hurry over. There’s only so much Fushiguro can take from beside him, holding open the simple domain for everyone to slip through simultaneously.

He supposes, this isn’t the first time he’s done something out of character today—moving your flight and hoping you get on it is the most reckless thing he’s ever done.)

“I’m sorry this is so sudden, I understand if you’re confused. I know most of our conversations have been unideal lately.”

Metal clinks in the recording, a sound so familiar to you—the links of his watch band hitting. Nanami has a habit of shaking his wrist when he’s uneasy about something, and you can almost hear it from the small breaths he takes before each sentence. 

It should embarrass you, the amount of times you’ve drunk-called him, but you have reason to believe he doesn’t find it all that off-putting. 

(He wonders if he’ll get another chance to sit through one more unideal conversation with you. 

Blood drips down the side of his head, his shoulder slashed through his shirt. Adrenaline moves every muscle he barely has the energy to.)  

“Do you… do you remember that vacation we planned?” he breathes out from the other end, a hesitancy uncommonly heard from him, “To Kuantan?” 

You do, very vividly—a trip discussed some time ago with your head on his chest, scrolling through flight promos on your phone. Nanami’s dream has always been to be free by the sea; you don’t expect it from a man turned jaded, but it feels like a secret spoken truthfully. 

So you take it and run, booking a flight two years down the line—a ‘when we have the time’ flexible enough to move and transfer whenever either of you would like. 

(In a flash, he’s flushed along with the current, waves engulfing him as he’s washed out of the domain.) 

“I’ve thought about it and believe now would be a good time,” his voice continues, “with your resignation and things. ” 

The spray sunblock on your dresser is barely used, but you grab it knowingly. Nanami is pale and—

(—when he burns, he thinks of the Kuantan sun—how nice it would be to be under it, bathed in the deep orange afterglow next to you.)  

“I…” Nanami rarely stutters, but you hear a slight shake to his timbre, “I know this is a tough ask, especially when I’ve been unfair to you. But…” 

You can picture him clearly—hand running through his hair as he adjusts his lenses; he pinches the bridge of his nose before shaking his wrist, that familiar metal clinking. 

It almost sounds pained, his acknowledgment of it, as if he’s long since regretted treating you any less than you deserve. Does it make you stupid? Or sad? That you still hang on to every word he says, that the spaces between your fingers still miss the way he used to fill them. 

You drag the zipper of your bag shut, patting it down to flatten.

“...I hope you know the reason I left isn’t because of something you did.”

The Nanami you know speaks nothing but the truth, and you believe him each time. 

It’s a contradicting mix of comfort and anxiety, like he’s freed you from the guilt that used to weigh on you heavily. If it isn’t because of you though, you don’t know what else it could be. 

You sigh, pushing down on the door handle as you take one last look to make sure you didn’t leave anything. 

(It’s a lie when he tells himself he can’t feel anything; the left side of his body is burned, charred down to his sinews—it's a surprise he can still move. The damage should have been enough to numb him, but it still hurts when he thinks of you. 

Did you receive his voicemail? Are you on your way now?

Time moves slowly as he drags his feet across the station floor.) 

“I’ll… explain myself more when I see you in a few hours.” 

Your stomach starts feeling funny when you get in the taxi—the pauses in his recording are obvious. 

You wonder what’s going on in his head. 

(This is cruel, he knows, concealing the truth and feeding you false hope. He’s a liar, but there’s no other way. There’s no time to explain everything to you. 

If this is what gets you out of here—) 

Silence. 

You hear his footsteps through the recording, the sound of his feet shuffling, contemplating. 

He speaks again, hesitancy tinged with sadness you can’t decipher, “I apologize, if this is out of nowhere,” a  breath, “but I hope I was good to you in the time we had.” 

You shift in your seat, fiddling with your fingers. There’s a finality to his tone that you find oddly misplaced—the sound of a goodbye more than a second try. 

It is wholly unlike him to be this sentimental. 

Tears well up in your lash line as you think back to everything: how he used to wait for you after work despite it being past midnight, how weekends were filled with nothing but love, massaged into the soles of your feet; how he’d buy your favorite breakfast sandwich even though he’s a snob about the ingredients in it. He drove you anywhere as long as you had music control. 

Nanami is an old soul, and you indulged him by buying records for that vintage record player he has. Songs from the 50’s, 60’s, maybe a bit of jazz from the 70’s and 80’s too—for a man so stiff, he sways smoothly to its melodies, holding you closely each time. 

He has only ever touched you gently, attentive to every need you express lovingly; his kisses always form a line straight to your heart—from the top of your head to your forehead, down between your eyebrows to the slope of your nose. His lips are soft against yours, ticklish as they drag down your neck to your collarbones. 

A patient and tender lover, the most wonderful man for the greatest years of your life. 

He was more than good to you—you couldn’t have asked for any better. 

(A mess of curses greet him on the floor—transfigured humans he has no choice but to take the lives of. 

He’s exhausted. 

His blade swooshes to the right, body following the path it glides to. He allows himself a glimpse of rest, to think of how it must feel to dance by the glistening seaside with you.) 

“You were the best thing to happen to me in that shitty place.”

His honesty rings loudly in your ears, resounding even as you pull up your luggage to the check-in counter. 

Oftentimes, Nanami would say things and they’d sound a lot like ‘I love you’.

“I hope I can be good to you now, too.”

(Saying it would have been selfish—it’s good he didn’t, even though he wanted to. Those 3 words mean nothing if there’s no guarantee he’ll be alive to prove it to you.

A hand presses against his back; a crack in his soul.) 

“The details are in the email, I’ll be there when you land.” he pauses; it takes a beat before he continues again, “See you then.”

You’re half-nervous and half-excited as you board the plane. The voicemail sounds suspicious, his actions even moreso, but if what he’s saying is true—

(It flashes before him, too fast and too slow; Haibara smiling, the life he couldn’t save. Yuuji calling him from the corner, a ‘Nanamin’ one last time. 

Then there’s you. Just as he’s about to give in to it all—the beach. How pretty you’d look, beaming up at him, pointing towards the sun as it sets into the endless sea.)

“Don’t forget to turn off the lights.” he says softly, like a reminder to be cradled safely. 

You settle into your seat, the captain speaking over the announcement system. 

“Flight MH 1730 to Kuantan, Malaysia from Tokyo, Japan. Departure time is 11:16 p.m. Estimated arrival…”

—you can’t wait. 

(At least he’ll get to save your life, right?

Nanami Kento. Time of death: 11:17 p.m.)

a/n: writing this was really tough (because it absolutely gutted me), but it was a good challenge! a few info bits: partners = high ranking roles in the company; white russian = vodka, coffee liqueur, & cream + ice; the flight details are not real; the pov switching is real time, except for the voicemail, which acts as a voiceover to the events concurring between nanami and you.

thank you notes: to @augustinewrites OF COURSE. what would i do without you fr. this has plagued us for the longest time and we have been way too sad for too damn long bc of it 😭 thank you for half-mothering this, where would i be without your sad songs 🥹 + @mysugu and @soumies for running through this idea & the voicemail dialogue with me 🥺 very important opinions from very important people indeed 🥺 + @stellamancer for helping me with my grammar doubts 😭

comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡

[byllsbytch]

SHARK WEEK

Nicholas Alexander Chavez

Genre: Fluff

Summary: You experience period pains and call off Nicholas visiting. He refuses to stay away.

Warnings: N/A

It was that time of the month and I laid in bed awaiting for Nick to rock up after filming . 

It'd taken Nicholas 2 years to finally convince me to come off the pill.

I typically wasn't in so much pain when it came to my period but no longer being on the pill I had forgotten how bad my cramps and lower back pain was.

It was surely kicking my ass. 

I was paralyzed in pain I kept my eyes closed trying not to throw up. "I'm going to have to cancel Nick coming over tonight." I thought to myself groaning. I cannot see anyone like this.

I cautiously reached over to my phone not trying to make any sudden movement and put myself into a world of more hurt. I dialled up the number of the studio that the Nick was at and sat listening to the ringing for a while, after moments of waiting finally an answer.

"Hello, Ben speaking" The voice said, I screwed up my face and looked at my phone again making sure it was the right number before I placed it back to my ear.

"Its me prick, you're not that famous asshole" 

"Who is this?" Nick was puzzled.

"Y/N?" 

"Oh, you sound grouchier than Y/N" he joked

"Well, that's what happens when you tell your girlfriend to get off the pill!"

"Really?!"

"No dipshit, it's uh- whatever. Nicholas, I'm dying right now"

Nicks eyes widened as he looked over at the director who was gesturing at him. When Ryan Murphy is working he doesn't take bullshit and just wants to get filming over with. Ryan was getting agitated but Nick lowered the phone covering the mic.

"It's shark week" he mouthed to the him. 

"So don't worry about coming over tonight, i wont be much entertainment tonight."

"Dont be silly, i love to just being around you, we dont need to talk, you know this. You presence is all I need."

"Nawee" I whined tears forming in my eyes. 

"Are you crying?" 

"No" I sobbed. 

"Look I'm still coming over, we'll be done soon."

At that he hung up.

Mum came in with Panadol and a heat pack and I took two tablets rolling over and curling into a ball eventually drifting to sleep.

- 

I woke up to see Nick sitting beside me on the bed eating pasta; his eyes fixated on the TV. I smiled and scooted closer. He looked down at me and smiled placing down his bowl on the bedside table. "Good Morning Beauty, how you going?" he ran his fingers through my hair. 

"Mmm" i mumbled contently. 

"Give me a second" he said getting up, taking the heat pack with him. After several moment he came back with the warmed heat pack. raspberry bullets and a pack of pads.

"Baby I'll be honest... I still don't get what pads you use, the worker just picked these ones out for me."

I groggily raised my head to the sound of his voice and smiled dopily slowly raising myself to sit up.

"Lay down baby" he huffed running to my side. "It's all good you just rest."

But your couldn't rest; your heart was currently exploding from all the detail, love and care Nick put into being there for you. Sure he wasn't too sure on what pads to get you but he knew raspberry bullets were your favourite and that you needed a heat pack.

"I'll just place these ones in the bathroom for when your ready." He called from down the hallway, placing the pad atop the toilet shelf.

I laid with the heat pack against my stomach as I filled my mouth with the raspberry liquorice. Nick came back into the room and grabbed my hand placing sweet kisses on it.

"Can I get you anything else Princess?" He winked while rubbing his thumb in circles on my hand.

(A/N: OH. MY. DAYS. guys with nice hands that do that lil thumb rub thing have me in a CHOKEHOLDDD!!! n ik Nick would do it all the time too)

I slightly chuckled to myself. "Come park up," I smiled tapping on the free spot next to me. With no obligations - Nicholas was quick to go back to his spot on the bed and finish his pasta.

You best believe the rest of the night was filled with cuddles and kisses.

[rottenpumpkin13]

For April fools we need Sephiroth pulling pranks

Sephiroth's Prank

• April 1st is a chaotic date at Shinra HQ. Tseng has to call in multiple Turks to his office to discipline them for pranks like supergluing hair on Rude’s head, adding a dirty sock to the VP’s morning coffee, and nearly suffocating the entire board of directors to death with a stink bomb thrown in the confrence room—all three pranks were done by Reno.

• But April 1st is especially anarchic in nature on the 49th floor. 

• Director Lazard is quite literally trembling in fear as he steps off the elevator early in the morning. 

*Zack intercepts him, stepping out from behind the corner with a grin*

*Lazard screams*

Zack: Good morning, director? Care for a peanut?

*Zack extends a can of peanuts his way*

Lazard: …..Really? A can of colorful worms? I expected more from you.

*He opens the can*

Lazard: I’m pleased that you’re not taking advantage of the date to—-

*The can explodes in his hand, shooting smoke and blue powder all over Lazard’s face*

Lazard:

Zack: I am always two steps ahead. 

Lazard: 

*Zack begins to slink back into the shadows*

Zack: Two steps. Ahead. 

Lazard: 

• Meanwhile, Genesis walks into Angeal’s office where he and Sephiroth are. He sets their coffees down on the desk. 

Genesis: Here’s your coffee. 

*Angeal and Sephiroth pick them up and take sips, Angeal promptly spits his out*

Angeal: EW. DID YOU PUT SALT IN THIS?

Genesis: I’m a mastermind. Happy April fools! 

*Sephiroth continues to drink the coffee*

Angeal: Sephiroth how the fuck are you drinking that???

Sephiroth: Oh, I ordered a salted caramel macchiato. I thought they overdid it. 

*Genesis smugly takes out his copy of Loveless. He tries to flip it open but is unsuccessful. It’s superglued shut*

Genesis: What the—?

*Angeal starts laughing*

Genesis: Ha-ha. Real funny. 

*Genesis tries to put the book down on the desk but it sticks to his hand*

*Angeal laughs harder*

Sephiroth: I don’t see the appeal of April Fools'. It’s just a day where the implications of the date allow people to hurt others with childish pranks. 

Genesis: While I adore you as a friend, Sephiroth, I don’t expect you to understand April Fools'. It’s a fun holiday, for fun people to do fun things. Your boring, stick-in-the-mud personality doesn’t quite fit the requirements. 

*Sephiroth puts his coffee down*

Sephiroth: I’m offended. 

Angeal: What Genesis means is that you’re not really the pranking type, and that’s okay. Lots of people don’t have what it takes to pull pranks. 

Sephiroth: You’re insinuating that I’m incapable of pranking people?

Genesis: Darling, we’re saying it to your face.

*Angeal gets an Email from Lazard—“SUBJECT: HELP, EMAIL: GET ZACK OUT OF MY OFFICE HE HAS A FLAMETHROWER” *

Angeal: I gotta go. Gen, don’t you have materia class with the Thirds in ten minutes?

Genesis: I do. See you, Sephiroth. Don’t let the April fool hit you on your way out!

• They leave the office. Sephiroth sits there with his arms crossed, looking more sour than his coffee. And then he veers sly eyes unto Angeal’s laptop and the printer sitting on the desk. 

Sephiroth: Hmm. 

• A few hours later, Genesis finds himself on his merry way to Sephiroth’s office to grab Sephiroth’s tablet for him. On his way there he passes by Zack (dressed as an evil clown) hiding behind a corner as Lazard approaches (breathing with a paper bag).

• Genesis grabs Sephiroth’s tablet off his desk, but then his eyes fall onto a curious document laying there. He, being the nosy bitch he is, picks it up and behigs flipping through it. His eyes widen, eyebrows creeping higher and higher toward his hairline as he reads. And then he runs out, panicking. 

• He passes by Zack again, this time being disciplined by Lazard, who’s sobbing and beating Zack with his own squeaky mallet. 

*Genesis grabs Angeal and pulls him aside*

Genesis: YOU’RE NOT GOING TO BELIEVE WHAT I FOUND.

*He shoves the document in Angeal’s hands*

Angeal: What’s this?

Genesis, hyperventilating: It’s a classified report from Professor Hojo detailing the extent of Sephiroth’s condition. 

Angeal: His…condition?

Genesis: HE’S PART CAT. 

Angeal:

Genesis:

Angeal: 

Genesis: I’M SERIOUS.

Angeal: Seriously in need of medication. 

Genesis: READ IT. 

*Angeal sighs and begins to flip through the papers*

Angeal: 

Angeal:

Angeal: OH MY GOD. 

Genesis: I KNOW.

Angeal: HE’S HALF CAT? LIKE ACTUALLY HALF CAT. 

Genesis: It makes perfect sense! I don’t know how we didn’t see this sooner! His weird eyes, his fangs, the way he consumes 150 pieces of sushi in 10 minutes. HELL, THAT’S WHY HE LOVES THE BEACH. IT’S A GIANT LITTER BOX. 

Angeal: Gen, calm down. For his sake, we can’t freak out.

Genesis: Why didn’t he tell us!?

Angeal: Probably out of fear we’d have the same reaction you’re having right now. Oh, that poor thing. He must be so embarassed, so lonely with no one to tell him that he’s special as he is. *Angeal begins to tear up* Or to give him head pats. 

Genesis: What do we do now?? How are we supposed to act normally around him knowing he probably PURRS WHEN HE'S HAPPY??

Angeal: I DON’T KNOW! But We have to try! For his sake, we have to be as supportive and accommodating as possible.

Genesis: You’re right.

Angeal: And help him through this without letting him know that we know. 

Genesis: You’re right.

Angeal: And be there for him tonight on the full moon when he fully turns into a cat.

Genesis: You’re righ—WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY?

Angeal: DID YOU NOT READ THE FINE PRINT?

Genesis: NO!?

*Genesis snatches the report from him and reads through it again*

Genesis: OH GODDESS HE’S A WEREKITTY

Angeal: THIS IS SICK. HOW COULD HOJO DO THIS TO HIM??

Genesis: NO WONDER HE LIKES CATNIP TEA SO MUCH. THAT BASTARD’S BEEN GETTING HIGH OFF HIS KITTY MIND THIS WHOLE TIME.

*There’s a noise from the cabinet beside them, they turn and see Sephiroth crawling out from under it*

Sephiroth: Hello, gentlemen. 

*Angeal immediately starts sobbing* 

• Later in the day, Genesis is working in his office. Sephiroth sits on the opposite chair playing with a ball of yarn Genesis provided him with.

*Sephiroth sees the glass of water near Genesis. He slowly reaches for it*

Genesis:

*Sephiroth knocks it over*

Genesis:

*sephiroth throws the glass against the wall*

Genesis:

Sephiroth: That was enriching. 

• Even later, Angeal finds Sephiroth kneading a couch cushion in the break room. 

Angeal: 💡

*Angeal takes out a bowl of bread dough from the fridge*

Angeal: For you!

Sephiroth: Thank you, but I prefer the sensation of fabric to that of bread.

*Sephiroth starts chewing the blanket*

Angeal:

Sephiroth: Meow.

• Much later, Genesis enters the materia room and sees Sephiroth perched on a shelf, reading.

Genesis: H-How did you get up there?

*Sephiroth hisses*

Genesis: !?

• And then Angeal enters his office and finds his leather couch completely torn up. Sephiroth sits in a corner, playing with a piece of the foam.

Sephiroth: You’re not mad, are you?

Angeal, tearing up: Of course not! You poor, sweet thing! Would you like me to bring you Genesis’ leather coats for you to play with?

Sephiroth: That would be delightful. 

Angeal: I’m on it!

• Sephiroth, Genesis and Angeal walk into the SOLDIER mess hall and see Kunsel and a group of Thirds playing with a laser pointer. 

Kunsel: Hey guys! Check out my new laser pointer! 

*Kunsel aims it at the wall. Sephiroth’s pupils dilate*

Angeal: NO

Genesis: GRAB HIM

*They tackle Sephiroth to the ground*

• Finally evening comes. Angeal and Genesis lay on the couch in the lounge, both of them exhausted after a long day of dealing with Sephiroth. And then an adorable, gray cat walks in.

Cat: Meow.

Angeal: OH MY GOD! SEPHIROTH!

Genesis: HAS IT HAPPENED ALREADY? HAVE YOU TURNED INTO A CAT!?

*They rush to pick up the cat and immediately start coddling it*

Angeal, sobbing: YOU POOR THING. IS THIS WHAT YOU DEAL WITH EVERY FULL MOON?

Genesis: HE’S SO CUTE! ANGEAL! WE HAVE TO TAKE CARE OF HIM!

Angeal: DON’T WORRY BUDDY! WE’LL PROTECT YOU FROM NOW ON!

*Zack walks in, shirtless, covered in war paint, carrying a shovel*

Zack: The lizard man has banned animals from the 49th floor. 

Angeal: What? Why?

Zack: Because I filled his office with 30 angry chocobos, so now he has guards with tranquilizer guns stationed everywhere. Any animal they see, they shoot and take to the pound.

Genesis: WHAT? Oh no…not good!

Zack: Hey, cute cat! 

Angeal: IT’S SEPHIROTH. 

Zack: Is it? Cool!

Genesis: I know it will be hard to believe, but Sephiroth is half-human, half-cat, and every full moon he turns into a cat! This is him!

Zack: No, no. I believe you.

Angeal: Just like that!?

Zack: Yeah, I mean, I kinda already knew. I’m part of the Sephiroth-is-actually-a-cat conspiracy theory club.

Genesis: the WHAT?

*Zack walks over to a painting on the wall and removes it. Behind it is a white board filled with pictures of Sephiroth, cats and anecdotes*

Angeal: .......

Genesis: .......

Zack: We have an email list and everything. 

Angeal: .......

Genesis: .......

Zack: Back to Sephiroth being a cat. We have to get him out of here before Lazard or the guards see him!

Angeal: I know! Come on, if we’re quiet, we can sneak him up to my place. 

*They walk towards the door, but then Lazard appears with four guards with tranqulizer guns*

Lazard: A-HA! I KNEW IT! I KNEW I HEARD A CAT IN HERE!

Angeal: Director, wait, we can explain! This isn’t just any cat, it’s Sephiroth!

Genesis: He turns into a cat every full moon!

Angeal: He’s innocent! He just wants to knead blankets and nap and scratch up Genesis’s expensive leather coats!

Genesis: Yeah, he—WHAT? 

Angeal, sobbing: You can’t take him away! He may be a cat, but he’s still our best friend! He can’t be taken to the pound! He doesn’t deserve this! 

Genesis: If you want to take cat Sephiroth away, you’ll have to get through me! 

Angeal: And me!

Zack: And me too!

Lazard:

Lazard: What drugs did you three take?

(simultaneously)

Angeal: WE’RE NOT HIGH

Genesis: WE’RE TELLING THE TRUTH

Zack: The doctor said it would help.

*Everyone turns to look at him*

Zack:

Zack: SEPHIROTH IS A CAT. 

Angeal: WE’RE TELLING THE TRUTH!

Genesis: DON’T HURT HIM! 

Lazard: You know what? I’ve heard enough. *He turns to the guards* Take the cat.

*The guards aim at the cat in Angeal’s arms, everyone starts screaming, the guards shoot—And then Zack jumps in front of the cat, taking the tranquilizer dart for it*

Angeal: ZACK!

Genesis: ARE YOU OKAY?

*The cat jumps from Angeal’s arm and runs out the door*

Angeal: WAIT, SEPHIROTH!

Genesis: COME BACK!

• That’s when Sephiroth (the real one) appears in the doorway. He whisks the cat off the floor and starts petting it in his arms. Everyone’s jaw is on the floor—except for Zack, who’s whole body is on the floor. 

Angeal: Sephiroth….you’re not the cat?

Sephiroth: Never was, never have been.

Genesis: You mean you’re not half-cat?? YOU TRICKED US?

Sephiroth: Tell me, what does eating your own words taste like? I wouldn’t know the sensation. 

[redfoxwritesstuff]

A Misdemeanor Of The Heart, Chapter 3 (Alastor x reader)

Rated AdultChapter Trigger Warnings: Time period typical language and attitudes related to LGBTQIA+, referenced marital sexual assault and the aftermath, Laurence is an ass

Now, thanks to Nyx Productions, with Audio! Part 1, part 2, part 3

Masterlist AO3 KoFi

Clenching your eyes closed against the light, you focused on your breathing as you swam up from sleep, fighting against the current pulling you toward wakefulness. 

You didn’t want to be awake. It didn’t hurt when you were asleep. You were at peace when you were asleep. It wasn’t safe to be awake. The world nor your body cared however and all you could do was pretend. 

The bed shifted as Laurence silenced the alarm clock perched on his nightstand with a groan. There was a jerk of the mattress as he flopped back down, taking a few more moments of rest for himself without a care for how it would jostle you or if doing so would cause pain to flair in your body. Maybe he knew and just didn’t care. After a minute that felt like an eternity longer, the mattress again shifted as Laurence sat up and swung his feet to the ground. It was time for him to start his day. 

You remained still, even as the weight of him left the bed. You counted the seconds, pacing each breath you took as you tried to keep your eyes peacefully closed, not clenched. 

If you were still asleep, maybe he would leave you alone. If you were still asleep, maybe you could rest a little longer. 

“Get up,” Laurence ordered. 

When you didn’t respond, he shoved your hip harshly, rocking your whole lower body. Pain flared from what felt like everywhere at the harsh touch. A moan slipped out before you could swallow it. Still, you pretended to be asleep on the off chance that he would leave you be. 

Icey air shocked your body into alertness as he ripped the blankets from your body. Gooseflesh spread over your kegs and arms as you gasped, body curling in on itself to trap what heat it could. 

It was often cold in the mornings. Laurence wasn’t fond of a warm room at night. You accepted that, though he used to not mind it so much and would feed the furnace a bit before bed to keep the chill from turning bitter in the night. You missed that.

“Get up or the pillow is next.” Laurance threatened. His voice was low and heavy with sleep, matching his mood. 

“Please,” you whimpered, eyes struggling open against the morning light. 

“Useless.” Laurence’s hand wrapped around your bruised wrist and he yanked you up off the bed. “Get up. Tonight needs to be perfect., better to get up and get started than lounge around in bed all day. You won’t fuck this up for me.” 

You crumpled to the floor as soon as he let go of you, thin carpet peeking out from under the bed doing little to keep the icy cold of the floor from soaking into your skin. That was good enough for him. As you laid sobbing on the ground, he walked around you while he prepared for the day. 

“Pull yourself together,” he demanded as he tied his necktie and walked out of the bedroom. “Tonight will be perfect or you will pay for it.” 

Only when you heard the front door close did you pull your limbs under you. Trembling, you clutched the bed as you used it to find your feet under you. Your legs felt crusty, but you refused to look to find out if it was blood or something else that dried between your thighs. 

It wouldn’t change anything, anyway. 

Stumbling, you walked along the walls as you made your way to the bathroom. Turning on the tap to fill the tub, you grabbed scented salts and dumped a handful into the water. It would sting when you got into the water, but the pain would be a distraction from the pain you were already in. 

Pain. You were in so much pain. 

You needed to take something. The more you moved, the better your legs worked, but you still used the bathroom fixtures to support much of your weight. In the medicine cabinet was the little glass bottle that promised relief. 

You shook out a few dusty tablets and filled a glass with water. Avoiding looking in the mirror, you popped the pills into your mouth and grimaced at the bitter taste. Quickly, you washed them down, not stopping until the glass was empty. 

Closing your eyes, you tried and failed to will the memories of the night before out of your mind. As you sank into the burning water and washed away the blood, tears, and seed, you tried to purge your mind of the memories of his hands and lips against your skin. Nothing you did erased the feeling of him inside you, the way his breath sounded in your ear or the way the bed creaked with each move he made. 

Your mind was foggy as you walked down the sidewalk. The pain pills were doing their job, though you had found the tincture Laurence used when his back was paining him particularly bad to be far more powerful. You’d only taken a few drops, but it helped the Aspirin along. 

Swaying on your feet, you waited for the produce vendor to finish with the customer in front of you. It felt like he was taking forever, but it could have just been the way your brain floated on fog. The fog was better than the pain. 

The man next to you bumped you as he turned to step away. Pain shot through the fog in your mind as you reached out for the counter to steady yourself. Fingers dug into the simple wooden surface as you counted out deep breaths in your head. 

One. Two. Three. 

The man’s offered apologizes floated away from your ears, lost in the medication induced fog, but you smiled and nodded just the same. The fog was why you tried to avoid taking the tincture, that and because of the way Laurance would react if he noticed any missing. Part of you knew you should ask what it was, but there was no way doing so wouldn’t raise suspicions.

“Ma’am?” Someone was talking to you. The produce vender, you realized. 

“Huh?” You blinked the fog away as best you could. “Yes, I’m sorry?” 

“I asked what I could get for ya?” 

“Just a bundle of celery, please.” The smile felt fake as you pulled it across your face, little more than pretty wallpaper on a crumbling wall. 

After the produce was the butcher. The shop was cold, but you welcomed the chill. It helped keep the fog at bay, but your fingers trembled and shivers ran up your spine, anyway. Perhaps it was just that the tincture was wearing off, you decided, as the throbbing in your hips slowly blossomed to life. It didn’t last as long as the Asprin pills did, an unfair trade off for the quality of the pain reduction. That was just as well. It was important that you could think clearly in order to make the bread and cook the night’s dinner.

It had to be perfect. Dinner had to be perfect tonight. Laurence would make you pay if it was anything less than perfect. 

All things considered, you had gotten off easy the night before. Even after your slight protests about the short notice, the strikes hadn’t been as harsh as they could have been or as you expected them to be. 

Laurence had more affectionate intentions with you for the night. That always came with his good moods. Was it wrong that you sometimes found the thought of his affections more revolting than his anger? Would your revulsion at seeing to his carnal needs sentence you to hell for failing your wifely duties? You hoped not, but the way the preachers spoke, who could be sure?

Whistling cut through the fog still clinging to your mind. Glancing behind you, you saw a man impossibly tall with warm tanned skin. Were one of his parents perhaps not white or even mixed themselves or did he simply tan dark? You couldn’t say for sure, but you would lean toward him having something in him to make his skin that tone and his hair so thick and fluffy. 

“Miss, you’re next.” 

It took a moment for you to realize he was speaking to you. His voice was smooth and chipper, a perfectly fine voice for a perfectly fine man on a perfectly fine day. His perfect transatlantic accent flowed from his lips with practiced ease. 

It wasn’t something you yourself had perfected, though you failed to put in as much effort as some. The idea of using a false accent, tone and speaking pattern always seemed silly to you. No one really talked like that, so why pretend? 

“Miss?” He said again.

“Oh,” with a shock, you realized you had gotten lost looking at him. “Forgive me. I thought I might know you from somewhere. I guess my head got lost in the clouds trying to place where.”

Stepping up to the counter, you braced yourself on it in a way you hoped looked casual. “Can I get about two pounds of chuck roast and half a pound of salt pork fat?” 

The butcher made quick work of wrapping your order, making small talk with ease while you mentally struggled to keep up. Your mind felt like it was floating away and your knees trembled. 

Was it the cold or the medication making you weak? Was it your injuries? Were you hurt worse than you thought? You couldn’t be. It wasn’t possible. That simply wasn’t a part of your reality. 

You made it almost out the door before your knees gave out, sending you tumbling to the ground in an undignified heap. What caused it was anyone’s guess. Too much stress? A wrong step? Surely no one would guess what you’d been through the night before. 

Crumpling to the floor in front of the door, you tried to will the tears down as you focused on the cold, hard floor. The tiles were dirty from countless pairs of shoes and spills, though the shop appeared to be kept clean. You could see how the dirt was ground into the scratches. 

It hurt. You hurt. The medications were wearing off,you no longer had any doubt about that. You wanted the floor to swallow you up. You wanted to die. You wanted it to be over. All over. 

Long fingers wrapped around your shoulder, startling you from your self pity and shame. You flinched away from the touch, groaning in pain as you tried to get your bearings. Pain radiated through your core. Your hips ached from how Laurence had pulled them, shoving your legs up in ways that caused the joints to ache in pain the night prior. 

“Miss?” Who was it calling out to you? The butcher? No, the voice was coming from somewhere closer. “Miss, are you alright?”

“I’m alright,” your voice shook along with the rest of you, making your words less than believable.

“Are you?” When you flinched under his grip, he instead offered his hands for support. 

Looking up, you find yourself face to face with piercing brown eyes and sharp features. Instantly, you knew he was the same man you’d been catching glimpses of at a distance, his unique features catching your eye in passing moments and taking root in your memories. You hadn’t even been registering that you were noticing him until he was kneeling right next to you.

“Let me help you up,” the man gathered your bag up in his hand. 

Looking from his face with his kind smile to his waiting hand, you had to make a choice. The simple fact was, you didn’t think you could stand on your own. 

Glancing around, you didn’t see anyone that would be likely to talk. Laurence likely wouldn’t hear about this. He wasn’t a fan of idle gossip. It was a woman’s sin, he would often say. 

But really, anyone could talk, and he could hear. 

Your fingers trembled as you reached out for his arm. He was steady under your hands as you used him to brace against, dragging yourself up from the ground on shaking legs as he slowly stood alongside you, pulling you up with the steady pressure of his arm under your hands. 

Focused as you were on getting your feet under you, you didn’t see the way his eyes focused on the bruise peeking out from under your sleeves. That wasn’t the only thing he noticed as he helped you stand. You favored the same arm you had been favoring in the tailor shop, the injury not yet healed.

“Would you like me to walk you home?” He offered as he pulled the door open and walked you out of the butcher shop, allowing you to still use his arm for support. You were shaking like a leaf in the wind with every step, though the tremors were subsiding a little with each step. 

“I’ll be fine. I’m sure I just need to nibble on a little something. Thank you, Mister?” 

He shook his head instead of offering his name. “I can fetch you something, if you’d like?” You shook your head at his offer and pulled an empty smile across your face. “Go slow, miss, if you’re sure you can manage.” 

You wanted to thank him again. You wanted to ask his name. You wanted to ask why you hadn’t noticed him around before and yet he seemed to linger just on the outskirts of your life now. 

Instead, you walked down the sidewalk, one slow shuffled step after another as you gripped the bags in your hands. Your knees felt weak and your hands trembled with each step you took, but as long as you didn’t stop, it wasn’t so bad. When you got home, you would take more aspirin and maybe, just maybe, another drop or two of the tincture. 

The man stood, watching your back as the distance between you grew. For being what Laurence claimed to be his greatest possession, he certainly didn’t seem too mindful of the care and keeping of his wife. 

Alastor wasn’t sure why Mimzy was in his house, but she was there and already made herself at home by the time he returned. He hadn’t really been listening to her answer when he asked. She wouldn’t give a straight one, anyway. 

His home was modest, at the edge of the city, and that was how he liked it. He toweled his hair dry as Mimzy went on and on about all the reasons he should loan Laurence the money he needed. Most of her reasons were selfish, but he expected nothing less from her. 

“Say, Al?” Mimzy asked just as he had finally relaxed into the silence she let draw on. 

He hummed in acknowledgment, buttoning his shirt in front of the mirror. The firelight from the gaslights flickered behind him, adding a little extra light to the dim room as the sun sank lower in the sky. 

“When you going to get electricity?” 

He laughed as he wrapped his bowtie around his neck and tied it. “It’s an unnecessary expense. I don’t need it. And it’d be unreliable out here, anyway.” 

“An unnecessary expense?” Mimzy laughed, “Unlike that hunk of metal outside?” 

“Don’t pretend you don’t have me drive you around in that hunk of metal.” Alastor countered, running his fingers through his hair as he tried to tame it down into something respectable. 

“So what’d he offer as collateral on the loan? I’m surprised ya need a second meeting to seal the deal.”

“His wife,” Alastor locked eyes with his friend through the mirror, watching as her jaw dropped, shock splashed across her face before it pulled up in giddy glee. 

“Oh, my.” 

“Oh, my indeed.” Alastor turned, snagging his long coat up from the armchair. “Your latest pet’s offering did not impress me. Hopefully, he comes up with something better tonight.” 

“And if he doesn’t?” 

“You better think of backup suppliers because I’m not doing that again for you this soon.” 

“What sort of wife do you think he has? She looked meek.” Mimzy refilled her glass, helping herself to the liquor Alastor kept under the floorboards. 

“Seemed so,” Alastor took her glass from her hands and downed the contents. If anyone had seen how at ease they were with each other, rumors would fly and reputations would be in ruins, mostly his. 

“You know, I thought he was a real stand up fella,” Mimzy swatted at his shoulder as he handed her the empty glass. “A fella stand up fella like you. But even if he’s not, he’s got a pretty little wife to come home to. You could have that too, you know.”

“Don’t you start this.” 

“What! Your dear Ma is passed, someone’s gotta look out for you. May as well be me. Laurence doesn’t let having a meek little thing at home cramp his style.” 

“Why do I need a lady?” Alastor asked, buttoning his coat.

“You’re a good man.” Mimzy counted her reasons off on her fingers as she talked. “You could settle down some. You’d have someone to cover for you. You’d have someone to take some heat off you.” 

“That’s the same as having someone to cover for me, isn’t it?” Alastor raised an eyebrow at her as he fixed his shoes, ensuring the laces were tied just so.

“It’s not.”

“I’m fairly certain it is.” 

“You’re a good man, Al. Give me one good reason you shouldn’t?” She stood up, slipping her feet into her heels, counting on Alastor to drop her off on his way across town. 

“Isn’t my not wanting to reason enough?” Alastor straightened his coat as he stood before snagging his hat up from atop the coat tree by the front door. 

“It would if people weren’t starting to yap.” Mimzy slipped her arms into the fluffy fur coat she adored.

“People are starting to yap?”

“Ya, if it wasn’t for the occasional girl that speaks up, the whole town would think you’re a queer. You’ve busted your ass to make it where you are. It’d be a shame if something happened to your reputation. People going to be sure you’re either queer- not that I got anything against them, but ya know how people view them- or a scoundrel. I know you ain’t either of those things, but having a lady waiting at home would take the heat off you, even if you ignore her most the time.”

“Will you get in the car?” Alastor hated the fact that Mimzy had a valid point. It was time for her to go home and leave him alone. 

“Yeah, yeah.” Slipping into the passenger seat, she waited for him to start the car and throw it into gear before starting again. “I’m just saying, you could bag a meek little thing that lets you do your thing just like Laurence did.”

“If Laurence’s wife is so spectacular, why don’t I just take her?” Alastor took a deep breath, reminding himself to school of his tone or his accent would slip out. Not that Mimzy didn’t already know what he sounded like off the air, but he felt too exposed with it. 

“Now you’re being funny,” Mimzy laughed, though it sounded forced. 

Alastor met her eyes with a charming smile, intending to relax her. It was just a joke. He would never go that low. Why, if he sank any lower than that, he’d be murdering people in the dark of night! 

Tag List: @redvexillum, @charlottemorningstarsdarling, @uhhhimbored, @diffidentphantom, @alastor-simp, @alastorthirsty, @kaylopolis, @catticora, @nyx91, @rainydaysmut, @xalygatorx, @sirens-and-moonflowers, @goyablogsstuff, @honestlyshamelesskid, @lunarmango, @lilith-jae, @loveameripanshipperlove

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[abdlstories777]

part of beeing treated like a baby is going through actions and moments a baby might go through. often the punishment is clothing and time outs. most women cry as there nappies are changed and privates cleaned

in the state of nevada the goverment set up a new way to shame women and men who were caught stealing

placed in mortfying bibs the women are fed by a fanilly member or member of staff untill like babies and children do everyday they spit up all over there clothes, table and at times there mummies hands as the mothers insticts come in.

the feeling of embarssment kicks in as the women sit there disgusted and ashamed. the smell has the be the worst part as onlookers cover there noses and leave the area.

in the state on utah mormon women who are caught stealing face the same shame. but for them its out in the open

the women are force fed by a member of the church untill the women spit up like babies

the women sob as they have to sit there all day smelling like little children. often the smell causes the women to keep spitting up

often the women avoid the male gaze. the women are destroyed when a hansom man looks on and giggles and smirks

often taking a photo and showing it to there buddies later on.

how will they ever get a date now

for most women the use of a nappy is avoided. but for repeat offenders the women are nappied up and given poo poo tablets.

the smell is awfull as the women sit in poo poo, wee wee and spit up. they are sat there for three long days and then washed down very publicly

[harryistheonlyoneforme]

quality time*

warnings: smut, teasing, sex toy use, overstimulation

summary: in which harry and yn spend some quality time together on the couch

pairing: cottage core harry x reader

blog navigation | masterlist | taglist

~

yn and harry are sat on their living room couch, harry reading a new book on his tablet as yn scrolled aimlessly on her phone. she’s sat right on his lap with her head resting against his shoulder, completely having forgotten about the toy harry had inserted into her earlier after a bunch of teasing, only to put her clothes back on her and pick up his tablet to read a book.

despite his nonchalance, the little pink egg was still very prominent in his mind, but he continued to read his book. they sit there for just under an hour, and yn feels harry shift underneath her a bit but thinks nothing of it, assuming he’s getting comfortable. not long after, though, she feels the toy buzz to life inside of her and a gasp falls from her as it catches her off guard. the vibrations aren’t intense at all, but it’s enough to reignite the flame that was previously diminishing inside her.

harry just continues to read his book as if he hasn’t started his teasing back up, his free hand moving to her belly. she expects his hand to find its way into her leggings to help her along, but it just stays right there, his hand moving around to rub right where the tension is. she’s annoyed but she knows complaining won’t help her case, so she just goes back on her phone only for harry to press down right on the spot of the most tension, causing her to moan and drop her phone to the floor.

when it hits the floor he lets go, causing her to grumble before bending down to pick it up. or she attempts to, at least. he quickly moves his arm across her, pulling her back to him to cage her in. she huffs and sits there in annoyance and boredom, hoping he’ll give up this act soon. but after about 3 more minutes of sitting there, the vibrations become less pleasurable and more irritating as it’s such a slow build inside of her.

“harry,” she whines, squeezing her legs together to try and get a bit more friction. he just hums at her noncommittally and presses the button to turn his page, his eyes still scanning the words. she feels as if she should be angry at his attitude, at the way he’s leaving her high and dry, but for some reason she just finds it so hot, the amount of wetness that’s dripped into her panties acting as a form of proof.

he knows the exact reasoning behind her whining, but he wants to hear her say it. “please, ‘s not enough, need you t’turn it up,” she huffs, and normally harry would drag it out even longer because of the attitude, but he feels as if she’s been teased enough. he doesn’t even provide her with a response, just switching from his reading app to the control app and turning the toy up to the highest setting.

yn tosses her head back onto his shoulder with a loud moan, one of her hands gripping his thigh as the other holds onto the armrest of the couch. her back arches away from his chest as the vibrations move through her. the setting is so intense that she feels like it’s punched the air from her chest, but the pleasure overpowers her need to breathe.

all of the teasing and slow buildup cause her to get there pretty quickly, a choked moan leaving her lips as her legs start to shake. just a few more seconds of the vibrations and she cums with a moan so loud harry’s sure it rattles the windows in the room, her belly and vagina clenching down hard as it pleasure through her. he knows it’ll be a bit much for her if he leaves the vibrator at such a high intensity as she comes down, so he takes pity on her and moves his hand from her stomach to the toy and pulls it out, much to her relief.

what she doesn’t expect is for him to place it right against her clit at that same level, causing her body to lock up and a sob of pleasure and overstimulation to leave her lips from the shock. shutting off his tablet, he places it down and uses that hand to hold her against him. he tuts disapprovingly as she tries to squirm away from the intense feeling. “no, honey. we’re not done,” he starts. “just gonna keep this right here until i feel like you’ve had enough. and that was nowhere near enough for me.”

~