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fiendishfables · 3 months

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Camillo Carmine x Reader

General Headcanons (SFW + NSFW)

warnings: nsfw, mentions of blood, mentions of biting, cursing

words: 1.4k+

a/n: this was a highly requested work, so enjoy and have fun with the little bonus at the end! This is not really an x reader, but it could be read as such, so oh well. Let me know your thoughts on Camillo's character, and/or if you'd like to see more of him in the near future <3

SFW

✧˚ · . Camillo is basically like a big cat

✧˚ · . Tall motherfucker, standing at approximately 8,2

✧˚ · . The guy is very calm, silent, and sneaky all at once. If anything, he would make an excellent spy and has been offered positions before in that line of work

✧˚ · . Very independent; wont work for anybody but himself and is beyond stubborn

✧˚ · . He is a hardass, but underneath his tough, strong front, is an individual who is a giant kid at heart, who is so deeply loyal and giving that it hurts, and who takes all relationships he makes very seriously, as in he would gladly put his life on the line for someone he cares about; questioning his loyalty is the worst you can do

✧˚ · . Favorite colors consist of greys and purples of any shade; it always struck him as having more of an elegant, dancer sort of vibe, and the display of the colors usually help him to relax in times of distress. His whole bedroom is centered around that color palette and it hasn't been changed since he and Camilla have inherited the mansion

✧˚ · . On the subject of Camilla, he likes to annoy her. His real personality can start to be seen the more time he spends around his sister; they behave just like any normal pair of siblings would. The two have had a love hate relationship growing up and it still is that way, even if just a bit more watered down now. The two like to joke and hang around together every now and again when they aren't off busy with their own lives

✧˚ · . What a Carmine lacks in affection, they make up for in loyalty

✧˚ · . If you wanna talk about dancers, he is one. He loves dancing in his spare time and even uses the Carmine manor as a spot to host dancing lessons amongst sinners willing/wanting to learn

✧˚ · . His silvery pointed dancing shoes are like his literal children, and he always goes into a slight panic whenever he can't find them. They provide him with that sense of security, as dancing is a huge part of his life and he could never stand to be without it; they were also a gift from his mother

✧˚ · . Never likes to ask anyone for anything, especially not help. He likes to cover up his needs with smart-ass comments and handsome smirks that most can't stay mad at for too long

✧˚ · . Has been told he has a very punchable face

✧˚ · . His fangs make for a great, sarcastic smile; his face either consists of a frown or that signature smirk. He uses his fangs for a lot of things, including biting people when they get on his nerves

✧˚ · . Can totally play the piano; claims its a very calming and dignified instrument. He doesn't play it often but when he does, its a gift to anyone around to hear

✧˚ · . On the asexuality spectrum, identifying as demisexual and biromantic. It takes him a little longer than the average sinner to develop feelings for someone, let alone sexual feelings

✧˚ · . As stated before, his relationships are one of the most important things in his life and he handles them with great seriousness

✧˚ · . The epitome of that one secretive, mysterious, tall and mysterious stranger everyone wants to be friends with, but are too afraid to approach directly to ask

NSFW

✧˚ · . It's very difficult to get anything verbal out of this man when he's in the process of being intimate with someone, even if they're his s/o

✧˚ · . The most you can expect is some pleasured grunts, maybe some low groans if you're lucky

✧˚ · . It's not that he isn't enjoying whatever is being brought upon him, he is just one to closely guard his feelings and never really express them too vividly; yes that ends up following him into his sex life

✧˚ · . 9 times out of 10 he prefers to give pleasure rather than receive it

✧˚ · . Loves to degrade and use pet names with his partner; sweetheart, doll, slut, and whore tending to be some of his personal favorites to use

✧˚ · . Big on consent. If you are ever not comfortable with anything he proposes or is in the middle of doing to you, then he will stop instantly and get you anything you need. He may seem like an asshat sometimes, but he is a decent person (if that comes as such a shock)

✧˚ · . Into some form of pet play/leashes, no negotiation

✧˚ · . He always likes to be in control and rarely ever is the submissive one during intimacy.

✧˚ · . Will speak Spanish in bed, usually doing so in order to fluster his partner; it often gets him a positive response

✧˚ · . Being blindfolded is a big kink of his. As a dancer, he is used to having to be accustomed to other senses, so when they are heightened after his sight is temporarily taken from him, he will have a ball of a time

✧˚ · . One of his top favorite things is watching his partner ride him. Just the sight of his cock being sheathed inside your body over and over again as he watches you get off on his lap all on your own

✧˚ · . Dirty dancing is something he is much too fond of. The act of getting all worked up from dancing with one another, teasing each other all the while, then getting to fuck his partner into the ground, whispering praises to them about how well they danced with/for him; he is all too eager to teach you more of what he knows about the dancing world

✧˚ · . The little shit is one of the biggest teases you will ever meet. He honestly has a sex drive that's more so on the lower side and does not need sex as often as most sinners seem to

✧˚ · . But, be prepared when he does have the energy to pleasure you, for he is astounding at it.

✧˚ · . Kissing, biting, steamy makeout sessions, eating you out, fucking you raw; he can do it all and excel in the process

✧˚ · . His fangs usually come into play a lot during sex; a huge fan of biting and leaving marks on his partner to let others know that they have already been claimed

✧˚ · . Camillo is one of those demons you'd be lucky to have sex with. It's not even an egotistical thing, he's just not very sex-coded when it comes to relationships or really anything in general. He believes in a true connection with someone first before engaging in any sorts of those activities, hence his sexuality

✧˚ · . Sex with Camillo is always very serious and passionate. He never allows himself to be as vulnerable as he would be right now, so better to cherish it whilst it lasts

✧˚ · . It's almost like he picks one mate for life, then he's done looking, like some species do

✧˚ · . Thinking of it, when he really gets into action and the rare times he wants to have sex, he fucks like a wild animal. He does have his vanilla, gentle side where he will care for you nothing short of a husband, but if he has the chance or some pent up anger to release, you better prepare to go for multiple rounds of very rough sex

✧˚ · . To top things off, he does have a praise kink. It may be hard to pick up on at first, but if you praise him, let him know how good he's making you feel, he's a mess (at least internally). Nothing really gets him going more than knowing he is fulfilling his job as a partner; making you feel good in every aspect that he can. It gives him purpose and that's really all he needs when he's with his s/o

BONUS~

✧˚ · . One of Camillo's wildest fantasies is to have his lover cockwarming him whilst he plays a song for them on his piano. He can imagine struggling to not fumble over the keys, not let his fingers slip, as he feels you clench around him, biting his lip or your shoulder hard enough to draw blood in order to stifle any noises that may find their way past his lips. That vulnerability is something he knowingly holds sacred; you could potentially be the one to coax it out of him.

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tender-rosiey · 2 years

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HE MAKES YOU SCARED - pt 2

⤷ includes: gojo, geto; nanami, sukuna

— warnings: mentions of blood, gore and death

ᴀ/ɴ: it’s angst time, buckle up <3 hurt no comfort, we cry like men also f!reader in sukuna’s, the rest are gn!reader

GOJO SATORU:

you wouldn’t call yourself needy, like really. you, like any normal lover, just wanted to spend some time with your husband. you are also quite understanding of his situation, and a proof of that is the last time you guy had an actual date was a good two month ago.

however, it was really bothering you now and you really missed him.

today, he is back home, but who knows for how long so you approach him, “‘toru?” and he hums, a little irritated you sense, but continue nonetheless, “can I ask you something?” satoru lifts his blindfold and you can see the strain in the corner of his eyes, as he raises an eyebrow in inquiry, “yeah?”

“um…are you free to go on a date like soon?”

he closes his eyes, inhaling deeply then stands up, “y/n,” and you nod, “listen, I know we don’t spend time together, but can’t you just look at things from my point of view?”

“what?” you say in disbelief while he continues running a hand through his hair, his blindfold long forgotten on the floor.

“I am a sorcerer; I have duties. I get that your job gives you more free space, but I am fucking busy and even the days I am not required for a job, I am left tired and irritated,” and he looks at you dead in the eye, “so you should at least be more considerate and stop your nagging.”

he walks to the kitchen to make himself a cup of coffee and he hears you mutter, “you asshole…”

gojo turns to you, “excuse me?”

“you asshole, you fucking asshole!” you yell and your eyes are now filled with tears, tears you’re so desperately trying to hold back, “have you gotten so in your head that you can’t see what I am doing for you?” you scream and he stares at you in disbelief.

“oh really? I am the asshole now?” he eggs you on and you reply just as aggressive.

“well, yes obviously since you seem so good at dismissing everything I have done and belittling my work, you fucking ass!”

he walks to you, cup in hand, and aura you’re so unfamiliar with that it frightens you a little, “if you’re gonna keep bitching,” and his hand is raised up high, “THEN YOU SHOULD AT LEAST DO SOMETHING RIGHT FIRST!” and the mug meets the floor in a loud crash, a dirty carpet, and glass everywhere.

the only sound after that is gojo’s heavy breaths and your choked sobs.

slowly, he comes to his senses and his eyes are far clearer, no more anger and rage behind them, “y/n, wait I—“ and he reaches out for you, only for you to slap his hand away.

“DON’T GET NEAR ME!” you yell, your chest shaking with so much fear and pain before getting out of the mansion and heading to shoko’s as she is now the only source of comfort for you.

gojo’s back is now against the wall as he curses, “god damn it!”

NANAMI KENTO:

your husband is a rather calm and collected person in general, so it was quite rare getting to see him angry.

that’s one of the reasons you were caught really off guard when it happened today.

“y/n dear, please, all I am asking is for you is to be a bit more responsible and do the chores like I do.”

you cross your arms, “well, breaking news, not everyone is like you.”

he sighs, “no need to give me any sass; I am merely asking you for some sense.”

“oh really?” you quirk an eyebrow, “now, all I do is nonsense and I am a completely irresponsible, and useless adult; oh maybe even a child! right?!”

nanami pinches the bridge of his nose, “y/n, I don’t want to argue,” his eyes meet yours for a moment making you flinch lightly, “I am not in the mood. you can drop it now.”

“you can’t just start a conversation then end it half-way, kento!”

and for the first time ever, you hear your husband raise his voice at you, “WELL A CONVERSATION WITH YOU ALWAYS LEADS TO YELLING AND PURE ANNOYANCE!” he gives his back to you, “maybe if you kept it down, then you would’ve been able to notice that,” his voice dangerously low.

his hand gets nearer to you, and you can’t help the arms that come to shield you from what would’ve come. you stay like that for a bit before untangling them and your gaze lands on your husband.

he’s shocked and wounded; he’s disappointed at himself for letting you feel this way, but did you really not trust him to the point you had to shield yourself from him? he was only going to get his cup of coffee so he can go cool down and later come to talk about the issue in a more civilized manner.

but now, all he could think about is the fear in your eyes, you finally open your mouth, a call for of his name leaves it, “kento, I didn’t mean—“

“excuse me,” he says, not adding any other word before leaving the house, leaving you alone to think and think about what happened. will this cause your gem of a relationship to crack? will he leave? is he done?

GETO SUGURU:

you are already aware of what your husband does, at least the fact that he makes non-sorcerers worship him as he steals the curses on them for himself to make an army.

even with that though, he never let you see what he actually does so you don’t get uncomfortable, and you understand.

though you didn’t expect to come back from work, a job in a nearby bakery since you quit jujustu, to heart-wrenching screams coming from one of the rooms in the house. you take off your shoes, to soften your steps, and slowly making your way to the door of said room.

it was a little open, which explained why the screams were heard, but still, how can it be so loud? just what is happening to the person?

you finally decide to peak, and are met with a sight that will possibly scar you for life.

in all your life, even when you were a sorcerer, you have never seen anything as bloody and scarring as what you are seeing: limbs separated, being feasted on by wild and barbaric beasts and curses, but you don’t know if the scenery really is the problem or the fact that your husband, who’s as gentle as a petal with you, is the the one doing that.

all of that with a smirk on his face, “damn monkeys; you’re the lowest form of life.”

your feet move without thinking, not caring anymore about making a sound or not, your instincts are telling you to run, run, run.

so you do until your legs give out when you’re right in front of the entrance of your “home”, heavy breaths escape you and you hear a tender voice, “y/n, honey, what’s wrong?”

you turn to him, slowly, and his hand makes it way to your face and once it touches, you cry, you cry your eyes out. his eyes widen in alarm and he tires to envelope you in his arms, but your arms are weakly hitting his chest, “please let me go,” a sob escapes your lips with so much force it makes you cough, “don’t hurt me,please,” and realization takes over him.

“PLEASE DON’T HURT ME! PLEASE SUGURU!” you scream, terrified; what if all what he was with you was a mere plan to lead you into the same fate?

lost in your own thoughts and fears, you don’t see the tears that cascade down your lover’s face slowly, almost unnoticeable.

his heart is aching and a lump in his throat forms, you think he will hurt you?

RYOMEN SUKUNA:

he had strictly told you not to leave the grounds of the palace, but ol’ little you wanted to explore the gardens and fields behind the fence, so what’s the best option? go off and explore, but now thinking about it, you should’ve at least taken a servant to be with you cause now you’re kind of lost.

you’re praying that sukuna doesn’t find you here and instead uses another route, but at the same you want someone to help you. however still, you’ve heard all of the tales about what happened to the women who didn’t listen to him, and they frightened you to the core.

some say that one of them was hung on a tree above a swamp so she can “rot where she belongs” and another one was thrown to a bunch of predators to feast on her while sukuna watched, almost bored.

you needed to find a way back quickly; you look around, finally noticing the footsteps you took and hurriedly following them till you’re finally back at the entrance.

you cheer quietly, happy to be back and without him finding you out, but as soon as you try to enter, you’re stopped by a guard.

“can I help you, sir?”

he eyes you up and down, “aren’t you the king’s current concubine?” and you nod.

for some reason, he grabs you by the hair harshly making you scream, “didn’t he tell you not to exit this place? you’re just a glutton for punishment like all of the others.”

you’re thrown onto the ground once again, and the guard nears your whimpering form, “disobedience is a bad sin, little girl,” and just before the spear pierces through your chest, the man is sliced to 7 pieces.

he is also stepped on by a foot, and when you look up to see its owner, it’s none other than sukuna.

you sit up to bow your head quickly, crying and sobbing, barely keeping it together as you think your end has come, “please, my lord forgive me! I only wanted to see the flowers! please, I will never disobey you again! I beg you, please don’t kill me!”

the man can only look in bewilderment, just what nonsense are you spouting? “woman, stand up.”

you never thought that your life actually flashes through your eyes.

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ystrike1 · 6 months

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Bitten by the Dog I Abandoned - By Kim da (9/10)

When a lofty Duchess cruelly abandons her lover, whip in hand, she thinks she'll never see him again. He returns a decade later, with soldiers behind him. Her dog has gone feral, and now she must protect her daughter and her fortune. Can she survive, with her reputation as a Duchess in tatters?

Evelyn Winter isn't the nicest woman in the world. She is the most beautiful. Everybody wants her in the worst way. She has lots of enemies that want her to stand around and look pretty. She has to be smart though.

Evelyn Winter is a widow. Her husband, Rowen, died after she gave birth to a daughter. So, there's no heir. After the death of her husband the region fell on hard times. Her beauty is a curse. The people look at her in disgust. She is a beacon of lust. The prince and the second prince both flirt with her, and she's seen as a heartless cow who taxes the people too much.

She also brutally beat her lover, Gillas, half to death. While he cried and begged her to tell him she was lying. He didn't want to leave her side. She whipped him until he finally let go of her leg, and then she left him in the snow.

Ok, hear me out.

Evelyn Winter was very likely in a marriage of convenience with Rowen. Upon his death (or his secret escape) she knew she would spend her life in peril, with a weakened region and no husband to rely on.

She (probably) kicked him out so he wouldn't get killed. Rumors about him being her favorite were already rampant.

Gillas IS A SERVANT. He is not secretly a king. He's not secretly magic.

Evelyn Winter is in a precarious situation, in a territory that doesn't like her much...with no husband or male heir.

Yeah...she did the deed to save her lovers life.

She is super convincing though, and very mean to her enemies.

Also, being a lover wasn't super fun for Gillas. He was the estate artist/groundskeeper. He had to hand paint her wedding portrait, which hurt him deeply. Rowen and Evelyn Winter were not enemies. They were at the very least very close friends, and she agreed to marry him to help him. Gillas probably had to watch them get along famously while she "used him for pleasure". Evelyn Winter also insists that she was deeply in love with Rowen (so people will stop proposing to her.)

So, ouch.

Evelyn Winter also has an adorable daughter named Sherry. She is Rowen's child on paper. She could be...you know...but it doesn't matter. Even Gillas believes she's a legitimate daughter. The Winter couple got along well. Gillas was just a toy, after all. He got whipped and abandoned as soon as he got too clingy.

Gillas resents Sherry, because she's living proof of the real bond the Winter couple had (or has Rowen could be in hiding)

Evelyn Winter shoots at two employees in the first chapter.

Did they deserve it?

Kinda.

Are things bad in the Winter mansion?

Oh yes.

Ten(ish maybe 7) years layer the mansion is a hell pit. All of the servants hate their gorgeous master, because the region is still poor. The two servants were literally um...role playing an r-word scene...because they hate her that much.

Evelyn Winter has to be tough as nails, or that scene won't be a play someday.

Gillas returns a war hero. He works for the second prince. He wants to ruin her life. He hates her. He hates her daughter. He wants her to cry on her knees and beg for his mercy. His. He won't be satisfied if the people burn her. It has to be him. He was willing to suffer and be her pet forever, as long as she allowed him to stay by her side...but she grew bored of him.

He went nuts.

He went to the battlefield to kill, until the prince noticed him.

He became a heroic story.

Evelyn Winter is wise to his bullshit. She knows he is an enemy absolutely, and he will never be her ally.

Also him not liking the child is a big ew.

Evelyn is absolutely right to hiss at him and prioritize protecting her daughter.

Gillas is investigating Rowen, who might not be dead....oh and Evelyn has been accused of a bunch of crimes and she may be executed.

Her toughness can't save her.

She refuses to support the second prince, because she's not a total moron. Vincent clearly chose Gillas to torment and scare her specifically. There is no way that Vincent doesn't know about his insane obsession. Gillas keeps letting her hit him, despite his new high rank. He lets her insult him too, because he knows she's getting desperate...

Vincent gave Gillas the power to torment her.

They are a formidable villain duo.

She chooses to support the first prince.

He is naive and easy to please.

He wags his tail because she's pretty...oh and he didn't hire her ex-lover to execute her.

I don't think Joshua is a reliable ally though, and that sucks.

That means her only way out is Gillas. She has to use him somehow, to save her child.

It will not be easy.

Gillas wants her to suffer and depend on him. He wants her to die without honor or pride. He's been obsessed with her for so long. He can't even see straight when she's around. He loved her so much. He looked like a different man when he was with her.

It's so toxic.

He wants to crack her open to see what's inside, even if it kills her.

#Bitten by the Dog I Abandoned #yandere #male yandere #yandere male #yandere boy #recommendations #recs #rec #recommended #webtoon #revenge

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dr3mvaalmar · 8 months

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Bound by Fate | Kinktober Day 7

Pairing: Solomon x F! Reader

Prompt: Stuck in Wall (nsfw, mdni)

Summary: The reader goes to Diavolo's garden and finds a stone fence. Unaware of the warnings, she becomes stuck under its curse. Solomon, the kind sorcerer he is, lends a helping hand in more ways than one.

Warnings/Tags: power dynamic, slight noncon, unprotected sex, standing doggy style, public (caught)

Credit: @cafekitsune (divider)

“Finally,” I sighed, opening a gap through the large double-wide doors. The cacophony of the party inside bellowed into the silent night, echoing along the wind. The noise was becoming unbearable, so I decided to take refuge outside. Hopefully, no one would notice my absence. I didn’t want anyone to follow me as I relieved the tension in my head.

Diavolo's mansion loomed over me as I walked into the gardens. The trail spiraled across the large expanse of land, a maize for those unaccustomed. I certainly was unfamiliar with the layout. Every step I took made me question my decision to leave the safe haven of the indoors. Maybe I should’ve asked Diavolo if I could rest in a spare room. However, he was quite preoccupied, from what I could tell.

I sighed, observing my surroundings. Neatly trimmed bushes led the trail to a fixed location. Maybe I’ll walk for a bit and return when I feel better. I let the various landmarks guide me. Moss lined the stone walkway, cushioning my feet with every step. Various plants were neatly tucked along the fences and monuments. I wondered how they stayed so healthy with so little sunlight. Before long, the path stretched as I lost myself in the night. I didn’t know how long I’d been walking or where.

“What’s that?” I mumbled to myself, finding a large stone wall before me. Its length traveled beyond what the eye could see. Was it a fence? It looked like some kind of mural with intricate etchings across it. An unfamiliar language was transcribed about should-height, along with strange images. It was an amalgamation of lines and shapes. Curiously, I stepped closer. I recognized some of the text. It was carved deeply into the stone and was worn with time.

I followed the writings, trying to decipher what the words meant. The wall seemed to surround the entire premises, so I wasn’t sure how far I would go. However, not long after my journey, the text abruptly ended. Next to it was a…

“A handprint?” I asked myself, lifting my hand to compare. It seemed almost too perfect for the contours of my fingers. Growing ever more curious, I pressed my fingers against the stone. It was smooth and cold, yet there was a subtle warmth. As the warmth increased, I retracted my arm. However, to my horror, I realized my hand was stuck in place. In an instant, I realized the writing was a warning, not ancient text. Spontaneous panic spread through my mind as I tried to tug and tear my body away from the wall. Without thinking, I brought my nondominant hand to push me back. Regretfully, that hand sunk into the depths of the wall along with the other. Now, I had no leverage but my legs to free me from this predicament.

“Come on! Ugh,” I exclaimed, my breathing becoming ragged from the exhaustion. I had no idea how long I struggled. However, I could hear the music in the distance, dying to a low thrum. Pitifully, I wondered if anyone noticed my leaving. They probably were having too much fun. I jerked back my shoulder in one final hurrah, but the reality dawned on me. I was stuck. I didn’t know how far away I was, but the mansion seemed much smaller than before.

I shouted every name I could think of from the top of my head. My voice was growing hoarse with every plea for help. Yet, as time elapsed, I realized I had no savior. It was just me in the depths of the dark. I stopped, a veil of exhaustion washing over me. What would I even say if someone were to find me?

Resting my knees on the ground, my hands stretched high above me. I laid my forehead on the wall. Shocked, I realized my error but felt relief when the stone left my skin. Why were only my hands affected? I let the tension go, letting my body collapse. My arm was becoming numb the longer it stayed above my head.

“Oh? What do we have here?” a voice bellowed towards me, the slow movement of footsteps in the distance. “You’ve got yourself in quite the predicament, (Y/n).”

I looked up, my eyes cloudy and narrowed. It was Solomon. Of all people, it would have to be Solomon. I wanted nothing more than to flee.

“Go away,” I said, turned away. “I don’t need your help.”

“Are you sure?” Solomon asked, a few feet away from me by now. He crossed his arms, a cocky smile plastered on his lips. “If you don’t need the help, maybe I won’t tell the others. You’ll spend the night out here alone. We don’t want that, now, do we?”

I sighed, bobbing my arm up to get circulation through my arm. As much as I didn’t trust him, he was reliable when I needed him the most. I’d be so sore if I spent the night out here.

“Fine,” I said, relenting. Solomon’s eyebrow quirked up.

“What was that?” he teased. “I’m not sure what you’re wanting, dear.”

“Solomon, set me free or so help me God,” I said, a biting acidity to my words. I already spent so long out here. My legs and back were stiff. I needed to stretch. The wall encasing my fingers felt so oppressive.

I looked expectantly at the sorcerer, but he only stood there and smiled. Solomon showed no signs of budging as he watched me struggle under his gaze. Did he… enjoy this?

“Solomon! Please, just get me out of here already,” I cried, getting up from my knees. I tried tugging on my arms again, using the strength of my legs. Solomon seemed entertained with every passing second.

“Ah, what a sight. Never could I imagine the brave (Y/n) succumbing to the mysteries of the Devildom. Literally,” Solomon said, a finger perched below his lip. I scoffed.

“Haha. Very funny. Get me out. Now.”

“Everything has a price in exchange for a service. What will you offer for my assistance?” Solomon asked, stepping towards me. I couldn’t stand up to my full height as he taunted me with half-lidded eyes. I knew he held me in the palm of his hand.

“What do you want? I don’t have anything,” I told him, rolling my eyes. “I left all my stuff back at the castle. It’s nothing good anyways.”

“Quite the contrary, I have everything I want in front of me,” Solomon affirmed, his pupils scanning me from my head and descending shamelessly. I felt my face burn under the implication.

“You want… me?”

Solomon nodded, enjoying my revelation, “I knew you’d understand.”

I contemplated his offer for a moment, weighing the pros and cons. I can’t believe it’s something I would even consider, but it’s not like I had much of a choice. Solomon was patient as I caved in.

“Don’t worry, it won’t feel like very long at all,” Solomon said in an attempt to comfort me. “I’ll make you forget everything.”

“Just do whatever you want. I don’t care,” I grumbled, averting my eyes. However, I did, in fact, care. Frustration was eating at every fiber of my being.

“You don’t need to tell me twice,” Solomon chuckled. “Once I’ve had my fill, I promise to set you free.”

I turned my head away, the guilt of my decision heavy on my mind. However, that soon disappeared as I felt cold fingers snake underneath my shirt. My breathing hitched as the digits contrasted with the warmth of my skin. The gliding of his touch brought goosebumps along my skin. His hands felt my stomach, moving up towards my ribs. I squeaked.

“Ticklish, aren’t we?” Solomon said, a laugh resonating from his throat. He never paused for a moment. His onslaught of calculated movements sent shivers across my body. Solomon hitched the fabric of my blouse up, allowing him to move more freely. The more I squirmed and struggled, the more access it granted to his wandering touch. He would hold my body firm under his large hands if I felt especially resistant. Eventually, his fingers lingered just below my bust, tracing the fabric confining them. I could feel Solomon’s body, his crotch grinding into my backside. The lining of his cock was no secret, even if I couldn’t see it. Our surroundings seemed to fade away with every movement until it was just the two of us.

“No need for this pesky thing,” Solomon mumbled, voice husky, as he flipped the fabric above my chest. My breasts, freed from their entrapment, were immediately seized in Solomon’s greedy hands. He stifled a groan as he massaged each one vigorously. His chest fit into the curvature of my back, hips moving in tandem with his groping hands. Solomon's mouth wavered over my neck before latching on. His pitiful gasps with each wave of pleasure made my mouth open wide. By now, I didn’t even notice what lewd sounds spewed from within me.

“Mmn you need me, right? You don’t mind if I put my thick cock inside you? Hm?” Solomon moaned, his voice a raspy mess. His lips trailed my earlobe, nipping playfully. I could smell his cologne seeping from his clothes from here. It was intoxicating. “Don’t answer. I already know exactly what you need.”

One of his hands left my breast, and I could feel his vice grip against my ass as he pressed into me. I could feel everything. Every curve. Every inch of his throbbing cock. His clothes did little to conceal his aching member. He seemed drunk with pleasure, rubbing against my skirt without a single ounce of shame. Before I knew it, I felt the soft skin of his dick settling on my back. I gasped.

“So responsive. I wonder…” Solomon chuckled, both of his hands now gripping my hips as his dick thrust up and down. His fingers descended underneath the hem of my skirt, prying my panties away from my smoldering skin. He didn’t hesitate to rub the growing wetness of my cunt. “Is this all for me? How enticing.”

Solomon laughed airily as he ripped my skirt from my body. It fell to the ground pitifully. I felt so exposed under his intensity.

“Solomon,” I cried, finally finding my words under a whirlwind of sensations. “Please.” “Do you want me to stop?” Solomon asked, and I could practically see his smirk through every word he uttered. I shook my head. “Use your words, or I’ll have to force them out of you.”

“Please, just fuck me, Sol,” I exclaimed, rubbing my ass rhythmically against Solomon’s engorged dick. I could feel his body shake.

“Good girl,” Solomon said, aligning his dick against my wet entrance. I had no time to prepare before he pushed inside of me. My body resisted, but Solomon was determined. He explored every inch until he hit a dead end. I could feel the warmth all throughout me. Even a twitch was enough to send spikes of pleasure up my spine. “So inviting. I didn’t know you wanted me so deeply. Don't worry.”

Solomon’s pulled back before slamming inside of me. I could feel the tip edging into my cervix.

“I’ll give you…”

He thrust again, slapping skin against skin.

“Everything…”

Again.

“I’ve got!” Solomon shouted, digging deep inside of me. His movements wouldn’t slow as he fucked me raw. His dick slid easily in the essence of my arousal. The wet sound struck against the walls, returning to me in full force. The lewd noise of our sex was too much to bear.

Solomon gripped my throat as he fucked me senseless. I could only give in as he reared my head back, fingers clasped on my jugular. Solomon pecked my lips, straining the muscles as I twisted around. All the while, each thrust brought me painfully flat against the wall. I could feel every gasp for breath as he hovered over the nap of my neck. His nose nuzzled into the crook before biting down, saliva trailing from his mouth. My eyes furrowed as I shrieked with euphoria.

“Oh fuck yes, you fill me up so good, Sol,” I commended. I so desperately wanted to run my hands into his shirt, to feel up every inch of his body. I wanted his dick between my lips, fucking my wet holes like the toy I am. Every word I spoke seemed to make Solomon quicken his pace. His hands would grab every inch of skin he could fit in his palm. His entire body was against me now. I felt almost claustrophobic against the wall, but the pleasure dulled every sense of danger.

As the knot inside me started to reach its peak, my walls tightened around him. He let out a guttural moan, letting every ounce of energy into his last remaining thrusts. Whenever he delved deeper, my vision blurred, and stars crossed my eyes. He was getting close. Too close.

“I’m going to come,” Solomon gasped, not faltering for a moment. “Take it all. Every last ounce.”

I moaned out his name as he pumped his seed, delving deeper until I couldn’t hold it all. I could feel it spurt, warmth seeping into my core. Solomon grinded into me until he was sure I was thoroughly saturated with his cum. His voice grunted as he hit his high of the orgasm.

We hesitated to pull away from each other, his warmth a cocoon over my naked body. Yet, things must end inevitably. Solomon pulled out, my hole oozing with his very DNA. I felt a sense of pride well up in me, despite being taken advantage of by a horny sorcerer.

“Now, for my end of the bargain,” Solomon said, slowly readjusting his clothes. With a snap of his finger, I could feel the stone slowly glide off my skin, almost like goo. I flexed my fingers momentarily, perplexed to see my hands finally set free. I could already feel a dull ache, not only in my hands but in the areas Solomon ravaged. “I hope our intimate moment helped you realize how much you mean to me.”

It was hard to accept the heartfelt moment when a mixture of our fluids was running down my leg. Yet, I still felt his words tug at my heart, remembering each fleeting glance and teasing remark he showed me before. I wouldn’t mind round two.

“I had fun,” I giggled, picking up my skirt and pulling down my bra.

“Well, if you need a little company, you know where to find me,” Solomon said with a wink. The corners of my lips curled up further.

“Let’s go join the others,” Solomon said, holding a hand toward me. I accepted it without hesitation.

“But what about the mess?” I asked, referring to my ruffled clothes and wet skirt.

“What mess?” Solomon teased, pulling me along. We didn’t make it a few steps before we noticed a crowd in the distance. It was the others… I sincerely hope they didn’t hear me as I cried to the heavens.

“Ah, there you two are!” Diavolo exclaimed arms spread out before him. He seemed eager to see us as the demon brothers and Barbatos trailed behind. They all looked aghast, and I noticed Asmodeus snickering something amongst them. “We heard a commotion. I assume everything is all right now?”

“A minor disturbance, Lord Diavolo. Rest assured, all has been resolved,” Solomon said, a sly smile adorning his lips. I noticed a devilish glint in his eyes, which made heat rise to my cheeks.

The sea of faces was perplexing and entertaining. Barbatos was as professional as ever. Lucifer raised an eyebrow, his face indifferent. Mammon looked like he was constipated. Beel seemed none the wiser. Satan had a knowing smirk, suppressing a chuckle. Levi seemed awkward and averted his gaze. Belphie seemed dazed. Lastly, Asmodeus was trying to resist a squeal of delight. This was not how I wanted to make a lasting impression on the brothers.

Now free to move on my own accord, I shifted my clothes, not daring to let out a single noise. If I spoke, I might break under the pressure. Solomon side-eyed me, a teasing but reassuring gesture.

Asmodeus was the first to crack. Every movement—from the tilt of his head to the flutter of his eyelashes—felt like a pang of embarrassment straight to my heart. He seemed to enjoy my reaction more than Solomon ever would.

“Oh, Solomon,” Asmodeus said. “Always one for… hands-on solutions, aren’t you? How resourceful of you both~”

Solomon’s arm snaked under me, looping around my waist protectively. Slowly, he guided me away from them as I turned my head towards the group in disbelief.

“I believe we’ve taken enough of everyone’s time. Good day,” Solomon said, not paying another thought to the tragedy of what just occurred. I had a feeling that gossip would spread like wildfire. I hung my head in shame as Solomon reveled in my misery.

#solomon x reader #obey me #kinktober 2023 #obey me smut #fanfiction #day 7 #obey me solomon #/reader

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lebenspurpur · 1 year

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what do they smell like

AN: I know I did this before, but I need to correct myself. Plus, it was like 2 years ago, so..

ℝℤ 𝕄𝕚𝕔𝕙𝕒𝕖𝕝 𝕄𝕪𝕖𝕣𝕤

Most of the time, he smells like sweat and that sweet coppery odor of blood.

That changes whenever he actually decides to take a shower and change his clothes.

Suddenly he smells like nothing. And I mean nothing.

If you inhale deeply enough, you might get a faint whiff of sanitizer, like the kind they use in hospitals, but that's it.

You can decide for yourself if that's a blessing or a curse.

𝕍𝕚𝕟𝕔𝕖𝕟𝕥 𝕊𝕚𝕟𝕔𝕝𝕒𝕚𝕣

Paraffin wax.

So he smells like plastic and, like, the worst kind.

Maybe you need to convince him to use some bee wax candles for a change. Or some wax that smells like something nice, at least.

Which makes me think of another headcannon: Vincent hates the smell of cheap scented candles. He can not stand them. You'd think his nose might be desensitized to bad smells by now, but no.

The only scented candles he allows in his basement are the expensive ones, with real dried flowers or some good essential oils.

Other than paraffin wax, he smells like his body wash, which is the same as Bo's.

(You can not convince me they do not share one. Maybe buy him some nice shampoo while we're at it.)

The smell of the wax easily overpowers anything else, though.

𝔹𝕠 𝕊𝕚𝕟𝕔𝕝𝕒𝕚𝕣

Bo prides himself on owning some really nice cologne.

So, if he applies that, he actually smells really nice.

Other than that: cigarettes.

I feel like he actually has a nice smell, though. He smells like someone who'd call you sugar, if that makes sense.

𝕃𝕖𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕣 𝕊𝕚𝕟𝕔𝕝𝕒𝕚𝕣

I know, we have the ongoing joke of Lester smelling bad, but I've changed my mind.

Of course, after working, he smells very bad. Like a dead animal that has been cooking in the sun for way too long.

But he's a clean boy! After he takes a shower, he smells like a mix of leather and something flowery, airy. Kind of like a freshly picked bouquet of wildflowers. Don't ask me where that comes from.

When he's been crafting something, he also smells like hot glue and wood, but it's not powerful enough to be unpleasant.

𝔹𝕣𝕒𝕙𝕞𝕤 ℍ𝕖𝕖𝕝𝕤𝕙𝕚𝕣𝕖

Dust.

Like, you know when something smells old because it's been standing somewhere without being touched for too long?

That's what he smells like.

He doesn't need to, though. He probably has an arsenal of really expensive perfumes and colognes standing somewhere in that mansion.

After he meets you, there's a slight chance that he'll take more care of himself. And in that case, he will finally use those fragrances.

As soon as he does that, he smells like that mansion looks. Rich, educated, charming, handsome even.

𝕋𝕙𝕠𝕞𝕒𝕤 ℍ𝕖𝕨𝕚𝕥𝕥

Hay, dry earth, Tommy smells like a hot day on a field.

When he spent some more time in the basement, the smell becomes even earthier and damp. Like a crypt.

Though, most days the 'warm' smell is stronger and it's really wholesome. When you hug him, it feels like you're hugging a cat who's been lounging in the sun for a while and got all heated up. (I just want to hug him, man.)

𝕆𝕥𝕚𝕤 𝔻𝕣𝕚𝕗𝕥𝕨𝕠𝕠𝕕

Now, that man smells bad.

Rotting corpses, vomit kind of bad. It's not good.

When he does his makeup and actually showers, it's not that bad anymore. Then, he just smells like the makeup he applies (you know, the stuff they paint children's faces with?) and (probably Baby's) body wash.

𝔹𝕒𝕓𝕪 𝔽𝕚𝕣𝕖𝕗𝕝𝕪

Baby loves sweet perfumes, especially when they have a fruity note (pun intended).

She has a few fragrances she always uses, and they make her smell really nice, and really sweet, kind of like candy.

If she doesn't apply those, she smells like lotion and body oil.

Pretty, that's what she smells like.

ℝ𝕁 𝔽𝕚𝕣𝕖𝕗𝕝𝕪

Motor oil, leather and rain.

Motor oil from working on the trucks all day long, leather from his jackets. Where does the smell of rain come from? Don't ask me.

He smells really masculine in that sense, like a ride on a motorcycle.

𝕁𝕒𝕤𝕠𝕟 𝕍𝕠𝕠𝕣𝕙𝕖𝕖𝕤

Do corpses emit smell if they're still alive?

Well, Jason does.

He smells like wet earth, rain, and the forest. A really grounding smell overall.

Hugging him feels like laying on the forest ground after it has been raining for a while. In a nice way, though.

It's really refreshing, and really pleasant.

𝔸𝕞𝕒𝕟𝕕𝕒 𝕐𝕠𝕦𝕟𝕘

Amanda uses really nice body wash. Something that smells like pine needles.

Other than that, she smells like old metal and disinfectant.

Old metal, because she spends half of her days designing traps and disinfectant because of John.

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pascaloverx · 7 months

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Hit The Road

Chapter One

next chapter

Summary: You are a hunter of supernatural beings who is forced to experience a new reality: being a vampire. The only thing stronger than your thirst for blood is your thirst for revenge.

Author's note: the characters mentioned here were created by Kevin Williamson and Julie Plec, based on the book series of the same name by author L. J. Smith. They don't belong to me. That said, this fanfic will be short. This fanfic may address scenes of violence, inappropriate language and adult content. Minors should not interact with this story.

"A hunter shouldn't act with the heart instead of the head" said the leader of the hunters' clan, which gathers in a different town every six months. On the other hand, they also say that you shouldn't let a vampire take what's yours without a fight. Here you are, lost in a new town, hoping to find the one who took everything from you without even thinking about the consequences. The cursed one with blue eyes and fangs that can pierce even your soul.

You feel the weight of the leader's words as you wander through the new town, determined to find the blue-eyed vampire who took everything from you. Each step you take is laden with the determination to seek justice and reclaim what was lost. As night falls, you prepare for the impending battle, reminding yourself that as a hunter, your courage and determination are your greatest weapons against the shadows lurking in the darkness. You must kill Damon Salvatore at all costs. But you know you're going against your clan's rules. It's like a double-edged sword. You wound and will be wounded. Your clan is against hunting alone. Well, that's not the only reason your clan doesn't want you around anymore.

"Does anyone know where the hell I can find a man with blue eyes and a pretty shitty sense of humor?" You say as you enter a place called Mystic Grill. This small town seems like the type where everyone knows everyone.

"I think you're looking for Damon Salvatore. May I ask what you want with him?" A tall human with blonde hair speaks to me. He looks strangely ordinary.

"Just some personal matters with him. Nothing major." You reply to the tall blonde human, trying to sound casual despite your true intentions running much deeper. He looks at you for a moment, seemingly assessing your answer, before finally stepping away.

"I think he's big enough to take care of himself, but if you want, I can take you to him." What a kind person this is standing in front of you.

"Would you do me this favor?" You say, trying to feign friendliness, although something inside you has changed significantly. That repugnant vampire has changed you and simply left as if it meant nothing.

"Of course, you seem to need to settle something with him. Just need to grab my coat." The stranger picks up his coat from the chair and heads towards his car. It makes sense why the vampires here get along so well. A friendly face, and humans are already willing to help you. The car ride was quick enough that you didn't have to explain much about the reason for being in Mystic Falls.

"A piece of advice, talk to Stefan if you don't get what you want with Damon. Stefan tends to be more reasonable. Maybe even Elena. Right there at that mansion, you'll find what you're looking for." The man who identified himself as Matt during our journey became increasingly helpful to you.

"I appreciate the advice, and in return, I'll tell you, you should stop being so kind. People in general don't deserve that much kindness, especially people who stopped being human a while ago." You say as you look deeply into his eyes. If he doesn't take vervain, he'll probably take this advice to heart. He looks confused, but you're already in front of a mansion. I guess you've reached your destination. You grab the backpack you brought with you and bid farewell to the human.

You knock once, and there's no answer. How irritating it is to wait for someone to grant you entry. You knock again, still no response. How frustrating. You decide to try once more, knocking on the door with a bit more force. It's when you hear footsteps behind you.

"Can I help you?" Says a man behind you. He's so close that you end up attacking him. He's definitely not human, but he's not Damon either. He falls to the ground, unfazed due to his supernatural nature. I bet he's a vampire. Perhaps he's the reasonable one Matt was talking about.

"I'm sorry, I'm not used to being caught off guard. Need a hand getting up?" You say, reaching out to the stranger who is still on the ground.

"You almost offend me by offering help, but thank you for the consideration. If you don't mind, I'll savor my humiliation a little longer." He replies.

"Is it humiliation because I brought you down, or because you're still on the ground?" You don't want to gloat over other people's misfortunes, but you end up smiling.

"Humiliation because I was brought down, of course." He retorts with a hint of sarcasm.

"Don't feel bad, it happens to the best of us. I heard the more recent the transformation, the more ruthless you become. Or maybe not. Are you sure you don't want help?" You say as you watch him slowly get up. You can bet he hasn't fed in a while.

"You couldn't have come here just to make me fall at your feet, what brought you here?" He says looking at you, it seems like he doesn't find it strange that I talk about vampirism so casually.

"Indeed, it was a man named Matt, but my goal here is to reunite with an old friend." You say as you intertwine your arms in front of your body. He seems to understand.

"What did Damon do this time?" He asks, as if he's already accustomed to seeing people looking for that idiot.

"I hope you won't be upset by what I'm about to do; it's nothing personal. I just need to get his attention and then I'll leave. Once I take from him what he took from me." You say as you take the stake from your backpack and drive it into the man in front of you. There's a bit of vervain on the tip of the stake, enough to incapacitate the vampire before you, but not to kill him. That's why you don't aim for his heart. I'll make Damon come to me no matter what it takes. Get ready, Salvatore. You've messed with the wrong hunter.

#damon salvatore x reader #the vampire diaries #tvd fanfiction #damon salvatore fanfiction #damon x reader #hunter au #alternate universe #reader insert #stefan salvatore x reader #stefan salvatore #elena gilbert #Spotify

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aurora-ze-aquarius · 3 months

Text

Unfinished Fic: "Sometimes, a bit of rain is all you need"

(Jackson Storm centered fic)

Written sometime in December 2022.

I was never able to finish this story, mainly because I couldn't come up with a proper ending.

This story takes place in an au where magic exists, also the cars are humans too. I never got to flesh it out properly. Maybe next time.

In this au, some people are born with magic, Jackson has the ability to manipulate the weather through his emotions. Basically Peppa from Encanto. I was inspired by greendreamer's fantasy cars/ttte au.

Inspired by a oneshot on ao3 where Jackson had weather magic. Unfortunately, I don't remember what it was called :(

Oh yeah, his real name is supposed to be Jackson Ian Rivera (🇺🇸🇵🇭)

⚠️TW/CW⚠️: Implied child neglect, emotional ab*se, panic attacks.

'Put your cloud away'

Is a phrase he's been told more times that he could count.

The Rivera family is not unfamiliar to weather magic. It's been said that they're a family that has practiced this sort of arcana for generations. They are said to be able to summon winds and clouds, to make it rain at will. A Stormbringer is said to be able to control an average area of about 30 meters in diameter surrounding them. The more powerful mages can control the winds up to a mile away. The more refined the user is in their magic, the stronger and more controlled it is.

They are a proud family, not to mention rich and wealthy. Proud to display their powerful and unique arcana. Majestic eyes of the storms. Something Jackson is not.

Arcana. How he despises it. The magic has brought nothing but misery and pain in his life.

Unlike most of his family members, Jackson was born with a curse. A curse in which his arcana is deeply intertwined with his emotions. Arcana in its very nature, is heavily intertwined with one's thoughts and emotions. Losing control of how one feels means losing control of one's connections with their magic. But Jackson's case is different.

Whenever he's happy, skies are clear, as the breezes are light. Whenever he's not, rain begins to pour, as the thunder claps loudly. Not to mention, how unusually powerful his arcana is compared to most of his family members.

'Put your cloud away' they'd say. They would tell the young child that whenever he would misbehave in their eyes. Whenever tears swelled up in the corners of his retinas as small raindrops began to fall, dampening his once neatened clothes and hair.

'Put your cloud away' they'd say- whenever the boy would feel frustrated, perhaps even angry, and would throw tantrums. Whenever lightning flashed, when he felt like they didn't understand him, why even felt that way in the first place.

'Put your cloud away' they'd say- when dark skies and strong winds would cover almost every square inch of their large mansion. When the boy tried… he tried so hard, yet failed and 'couldn't keep his emotions in check' according to them.

It wasn't his fault though… was it..?

There's a reason why Jackson failed to connect to other people. They were either deemed not good enough to be his friends, or they would make fun of him and his interests. His family was of no help to those issues.

Honestly? He found it hilarious how shocked that so-called family was when he decided to finally cut them out of his life once IGNTR found him.

Despite having them out of his life, he could never rid himself of their, and subsequently, his views on his arcana. It's part of him, and he hates it. No matter what he did, it was always there. Continuously taunting him, whilst being just out of reach.

Despite them being gone, he knows better than to have a cloud constantly follow him whenever he's in a bad mood.

Jackson hopped out of the car, panting as sweat beads dripped from his forehead. He turned towards the large monitor and growled, unsatisfied with his results.

" '214 mph'. You're doing good." Ray said, crossing his arms.

Jackson scoffed, wiping his sweat with an arm. "Not good enough…" Thunder crackled, as faint drips of water fell down from above him.

Ray took note of this and sighed. He patted Jackson's shoulder and said, "You did good today, Storm. Take it easy."

Jackson glared at him, but immediately tore his gaze to the small cloud that loomed above him. He gritted his teeth, wanting to curse it out but instead heaved a sigh, closing his eyes.

"Put your cloud away… Put your cloud away…" He whispered to himself, taking deep breaths. He repeated this process until the rain stopped, the thunder ceased and the cloud disappeared.

He opened his eyes. He turned away from the simulator and began to leave the room. "I can do better… I will do better…"

"Your powers are great, but far too unstable… Keep your cloud away…

You could kill someone with that lightning bolt."

Jackson stared at the large monitor that stood tall above the stadium. His breath hitched, eyes widened in shock.

"I… I…"

It wasn't his name that took first place. But instead, McQueen and his little costume girl stole the win from him. Little shit appeared out of nowhere and stole the win for herself.

His grip on the steering wheel tightened. He felt a vein almost pop.

"FUCK." He screamed. He nearly got into a tangent when the sound of thunder crackling grabbed his attention. A mass of large clouds seemed to have manifested out of nowhere and had covered the stadium, blocking out the starlight from reaching the people.

"What's this Darrel? It seems like rain clouds have appeared out of nowhere."

"It looks to me like someone's arcana is going haywire! Hopefully things will calm down before they get crazy. And it's already been a pretty crazy day!"

Jackson swallowed a gulp. 'Shit. Not now—!'

Turning his car on he quickly made his way to where his trailer was. The paparazzi wanted his attention, but thankfully security kept them out of his way, lest someone gets injured due to getting in the way of his car. He quickly drove into the trailer and shut the door, not wanting to face the public. Not wanting to face Ray, McQueen, the other racers, and especially not that costume girl.

He was panting, breaths were heavy and uneven as the reality set in. He lost. He lost to a random street racer. He lost his cool and almost killed someone, again. He lost his calm and now his storm—

He stiffens. That cloud. It shrouded the whole area. It was massive.

Jackson slowly backed into a corner, hugging himself. His back slid against the wall as he began chanting the words.

"Put your cloud away… put your cloud away… put your cloud away… put it away… just fucking put it away…"

He didn't know how long it took for the dark clouds to disappear; he fell asleep on the floor. But they did disappear just moments before he closed his eyes. Luckily before any raindrops fell and spoiled the day for the racing fans.

Jackson was pacing back and forth, still chanting about how his cloud needs to 'go away'. He just wrapped up another training session, and had stormed off to IGNTR's back gardens when he failed to break through 214 mps.

He gripped his hair, yelling out in frustration. His clothes were soaked, not only from the sweat from training. The rain cloud above him thundered, flashing a bit of lightning once in a while. Jackson tried to swat it away, despite his futile efforts.

"GO AWAY. DAMMIT."

Ray watched him from a window heaving a sigh. He was worried. Jackson's storms seemed to be getting worse each time he lost a race, whether it was against Cruz or a different racer. He knew Jackson was a perfectionist at heart, and has tried multiple times to get him to understand that it's not just about winning, but each time, his pleas would fall on deaf ears.

He knows the boy has it in him to change. But Jackson's mind is clouded in poor judgement, and it pains him to see him this way. That's not even mentioning Jackson's terrible coping mechanisms.

Ray sighed, crossing his arms. "There's no need to force your cloud away…" He mumbled. "There's nothing wrong with a bit of rain every once in a while…" He watched as Jackson seemed to have given up, and just seemed to be standing there, underneath the ever growing storm.

"I just hope you can realize that one day…"

---

Jackson didn't know how he was dragged into this situation. He was at a party. A party to celebrate the success of the latest race. He won the race (thankfully) of course, but he absolutely despised going to events like these.

Too many people here. Possibly drunkards just partying it up with A-list celebrities and fellow racers.

Ray somehow managed to convince him to go. Says he "needs to make peace with the other racers'' or that "he has to try to be nicer to them." He doesn't understand it at all. It's been this way for years. Jackson's already used to it. But nonetheless, he managed to reluctantly drag his ass here.

It took less than five minutes of just standing around in the middle of the room for Jackson to immediately say 'fuck it' and make his way onto the rooftop of the building, away from where everyone else is at.

He sighed, elbows propped up against the concrete railings. Ray would be disappointed, but he could just lie and say nobody wanted to talk to him. Well technically, it wouldn't be lying when that's exactly what happened. Nobody knew he was here, and thus nobody could talk to him.

"Hello?"

Until someone else made their way to the rooftop as well.

Jackson sharply inhaled, the winds howled, the cold breezes blowing past his face. He knew who that voice belonged to.

"Brr. Really chilly here, huh?" She joked, rubbing her arms as a means to keep warm. Jackson attempted to ignore her, staring off into the distance, a can of cranberry flavored Sprite in his hand.

"Hey um. Would you mind if I stayed here for a bit?" She asked, walking up right next to him. Well, she lingered just away from him, but just close enough where she could talk to him.

Jackson groaned, lightly crushing the half empty can in his hands. "What do you want, Ramirez?"

[Unfinished Ending]

#unfinished fanfic #pixar cars #cars fandom #pixar #cars 3 (2017)#jackson storm #humanized cars #🌌⚠️#read the trigger warnings

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brisquad-unit-4402 · 1 year

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Hello, if you write angst, may I request a any character you want x reader, where in the process of time travel, they lost reader.

If you don't write angst, may I request a any character you want x short reader, with anything you want.

lost in time with luxiem

part 2 here ↣

mmmyess YESSSS i do write angst! it’s been a while since i wrote some but i’m glad i got to practice my hurt skills :D long post incoming but i really enjoyed writing these. especially the gory scenes. man. i really am a briskadet aren’t i

tags: established relationship, hurt no comfort, gender neutral reader

⚠️ drinking + gore in luca’s entry

⚠️ drinking in mysta’s entry

⚠️ suffocation + fainting in shu’s entry

⚠️ gore + panic attack in vox’s entry

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

When you’re ripped out of your universe and sent to a completely new world, it’s only natural to react like that...

🖋 Ike Eveland

His usual solution is to throw himself into his work. The must tumultuous of times create the best stories, pressure turns carbon into diamonds, and writing down the pain make it so much easier to let go of when he scraps the draft.

Ike commits pen to paper, as is second nature. He holes himself up in his office. Sleep comes to him randomly. He can never predict when, but he sleeps deeply, and when he wakes up it’s right back to his nightmare. Food becomes a second thought to written word, then third, then fourth, until it’s forgotten completely.

It’s addicting, is what it is. He needs to write. The situation he finds himself in, peeled away from everything he knows, is so wildly impossible that maybe, maybe, impossible thinking will return him to where he once was. If he wishes so much to return to the one he loves, creates a world within his pages that mirrors his own, then maybe the stars above or the spirit of the universe or some cruel higher power will hear him and return him to where he came from.

The world he finds himself in is angular, blocky. Its features are so foreign to the intricate architecture of his homeland. Where there once was grass is now endless gray and metal and stone, pavement under his footsteps, so he stays inside now. The office, just as geometric as the outdoors, is blank and the paper serves as the color he’s neglected to spread within his room.

Because, after all, he’s not going to remain here. Of course, he can’t remain here.

There’s so much he wants to do in his original world. He’s no revolutionary author, but his works are getting recognition after years and years of publishing. He just used the money to move into a proper home of his own, and it’s no mansion but it’s more than comfortable, and the window in his bedroom is at the perfect angle to gently wake him with soft sunlight every morning.

And after all, there’s an angelic face sleeping next to him every time he rises.

He writes tales of a princess trapped in her own castle, with no way to communicate with her subjects. After that, a novel about a hermit who returns to society, and how decades of living alone impacts his daily public life. Whenever he runs out of ideas, he works on a collection of short stories from the perspective of various people locked within a strange, enclosed new environment.

The poetry is new. Novels are paintings, but poetry is sculpture, and he struggles to find the right words in the right order, but whenever he writes the last line it always tells stories of loneliness.

Each draft takes place along flowering fields and rolling skies, clouds that adorn tall trees. Houses painted in candy colors. Streets in sepia. Snow that falls gently like blankets, and sun rays that greet mountain peaks. The aurora borealis heralds the climax of each protagonist’s journey.

Ike’s pen runs out of ink on what he would estimate is the seventh night. He curses, and his throat is so out of use, the sound is barely decipherable. He reaches to his drawer of office supplies, only to grab nothing. There is no drawer. He’s forgotten exactly where he is again.

Ike clears his throat, and raises his voice. “Reader? Be a dear and get me some more ink, please?”

Ike waits.

“Reader?”

There’s no response.

“Reader, my darling.”

There is no Reader. He’s forgotten exactly where he is again.

It’s strange that he does, he notes. Why, he’s written so many stories as his own escapism, but he can’t even remember that he left his darling Reader.

His darling Reader, all alone, the only person in their shared home. They make meal servings for one, now, and wakes up later now without another in their bed. They have access to the study and the shelves upon shelves of home-bound books, the first edition before publication, but there is no novelist at the desk, no handwriting, no one to hold a mug and offer his gratitude. No one to sit behind as they read his latest work and offer their thoughts and notice his plot holes and typos and errors, no one to hold his pen back and insist, It’s late, let’s go to sleep, and carry him out of his chair and tuck him into bed themselves, and run their hands through his hair until his eyes close and his breathing softens and he wakes up to warm soft sunlight on an angelic face.

“Reader.” Ike says it again, but this time he knows there’s no one to respond to it. His voice breaks halfway through.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

🦁 Luca Kaneshiro

At the end of the day Luca Kaneshiro is a social creature. Moreover, he’s a social creature that just got cut off from his friends, family, mafia, and lover all in one fell swoop.

It’s that appreciation for others that drives Luca to walk the streets, acting like he still owns the world despite the completely different reality he finds himself in. He’s a man that’s spent his life around family, both blood and hired. New people to meet and friends to catch up with. A sweet thing he could hold and love openly, one that he would do anything for. Believe it, he means anything; that’s a promise only a mafia boss could keep and truly mean.

There’s no replacement for them in this time, but he can’t let go of it. He doesn’t actively drink in his original time but in 2022, there’s a party every night, and he wakes up every morning with a hangover. Luca admits it. He’s a nobody, a friendless loser here, but at least every night coupled with the booze and the bodies all dyed under the colorful lights he can forget. Pretend those faces are the ones he’s come to know underneath lion masks.

The first night was the hardest. He entered the club to color his mindlessly lonely days, because at least he could have a meltdown properly with drinks than the husk he is during the day. A young woman taught him to dance, and he traded dance partners with the rest of her friends until most of them went to get drinks, and the best dancer of them all cozied up to his arm.

By the time they returned with cocktails Luca was already long gone on the way back home, his coat wrapped around his body. He felt dirty. Everything about that night was supposed to make him feel like his legacy was still alive but when it wasn’t you feeling him up, he could feel his stomach turn.

Sure enough, the next morning he retched out the remains of alcohol and women, and swore he’d never go clubbing again until he returned to his timeline with you by his side… until the loneliness threatened to swallow him whole, and that very evening he was back to pretending that the people in the club were his.

People flirt with him often, and he’s surprised he hasn’t bolted from one yet. Instead he politely excuses himself and ditches the club with a hollow feeling in his chest.

Luca wakes up every afternoon- noon or later, depending on how wild the night before was- alone in a bed meant for two people. His apartment is nice, but it’s devoid of personality. Glass encompasses one side of the wall, granting him a view of the skyline, and every piece of furniture is clean white. It’s almost hilarious how much it resembles one of his penthouses in Melbourne, but without any of the charm that branded a Kaneshiro home.

He misses it so much. His active schedule has gone to the wayside, and instead he can spend hours at a time laying in bed. It’s a destructive cycle. Party at night to keep up the pretend life, then wallow during the day about how the life is gone. How unfair, he thinks bitterly. I never asked for this. I don’t even know how I got here. Why me?

The dreary thoughts never ebb while the sun’s out, and once night falls he can’t bear to spend another moment with them. Everything is a distraction now. He can’t bring himself to imagine the mafia surrounding him at the clubs anymore. It sends him into veiled turmoil.

That’s a future worry for future Luca, though.

He walks home one night in better condition than usual. The night is blank and silent, only to be interrupted by a stifled cry.

He turns to the source of the noise. Two people stand by a closed store. One of them is a older man, and the other is a young woman. Luca recognizes her as a girl from the club he just left, mostly because she barely looked old enough to enter. Her face is flush with alcohol, and the man practically drags her along closer to the door with a hand over her mouth.

Luca’s eyes meet the woman’s. They’re nearly closed, but widen when she realizes there’s a bystander, and then she’s gone. The man led her into an alleyway out of sight.

Sobriety regained, he dashes to the alley, and feels for the hidden pocket on the inside of his coat. It was one of the first things he reached for when he fell into the future, and he thanked his lucky stars he still had a pistol and rounds of ammo on him.

He takes the safety off but keeps it concealed, and turns into the alley. Two other men lurked deeper into the row, while the first shrugged the woman’s body off to the ground. She was barely conscious.

One of the creeps cocked his head. “The fuck’re you looking at?”

Another raises an arm but Luca fires before the loser aimed his weapon properly. The bullet shatters the wrist, and the gun spills out of his grasp along with blood. He clutches the mangled appendage and cries out. “Bastard shot my fucking hand!”

The second man raises his gun as well but Luca’s already aiming for his arms and fires, disabling him long enough to move closer into the alley.

The final guy brings out a knife, but Luca’s built for this. He shoves him off, then grabs his arm with one hand and forces the knife away in the other. There’s a cold look in Luca’s eye, he hasn’t said a thing. He pushes the arm the wrong direction, and feels muscle trembling to stay upright. The creep curses again, an empty threat Luca doesn’t care to hear, and the knife clatters to the floor. Luca stomps on the handle with his sole, preventing it from moving any further.

Luca keeps his grip on the arm, and feels the other guy’s joints give out. An ugly thought wants him to go further. So he indulges even after he hears the snap of broken bone, and when he’s done twisting the limb he yanks it out. The scream of dislocation is like music.

He feels monstrous, but the most alive he’s been in weeks, an animal let out of its cage with the scent of blood in the air. He notices the one with bullets in either arm struggle for one of the guns, so in one clean movement Luca pins him down, blows an elbow joint out with his own gun, and drags the disfigured arm out along the jagged pavement as his weight rises. Hopefully he’ll get it amputated.

The first one he shot, the one with one less hand than he started with, helplessly struggles for the gun he dropped with his good arm, so Luca drives the leftover knife through the flesh and into the ground. He lets the bloodthirst win as the blade curves into the muscle like a hook, twists, and snatches it out.

He covers the knife in a handkerchief, then retrieves the guns, and crouches eye-level to their drunken target. Her head is lolled to the side, but unharmed.

“I’m gonna bring you back outside the club,” Luca says. “Get some staff to watch you and call a taxi.”

He helps her up. She’s conscious enough to walk, but her body is limp, and she relies on him to guide her. The blank silent night returns as they return.

The woman slurs something out, and when Luca looks to her in confusion she repeats herself. “You’re the guy that’s always there…? At the club.”

“Yeah.” Luca keeps his face steady. “Yeah, I am.”

“You always have people around you.” She giggles. At least she seems to be a happy drunk. “Normal people don’t gun. Have guns.” She throws her free arm into the air and makes a finger gun. “Pew, pew…”

He doesn’t answer that. “What’s your name?”

She tells him. “Don’t remember it. You’re too sad for me.”

“I just saved you.”

“And thanks but you’re so… fake!” Luca should be insulted, but he’s so taken aback he doesn’t say a word. The woman is amused by it though. She continues. “Like, okay, you’re cool, I’d hang, but you’re avoiding something, aren’t you? And I’m not talking about the, the pew, guns…”

She used up so much energy talking that she doesn’t notice a crack in the sidewalk and trips. Luca catches her.

“Hero, much?” She laughs. “You’re such a hero, you’re waiting around for something. What, want me to trip again? Go find it if you care so much about it.”

The woman babbles on as they return to the club. Barely five minutes after, a taxi pulls up to the curb.

“Bye, hero!” She chirps. “Stop being so sad all the time!” Luca gives her a small wave and she’s off.

He re-embarks on his walk home, and her drunken ramblings follow him the way back. He’d save her again without question, but her words pissed him off.

She’s right, you know, he thinks. But of course she is, and of course it’s not as easy as a drunk woman makes it out to be. Longing for something is one thing. Longing for a time long gone is another.

Luca looks back at the club, so small in the distance. Already he can feel the isolation taking hold, and it’s only going to get worse the more time he spends in his apartment, but it’s not like he has the energy for anything else.

He brushes his hand against his coat. A splatter of blood stains the fur, not so much to be noticeable in the night but daylight is a whole other story. Some hero he is. He’s never been as brutal in a fight as he was today, and the way he didn’t feel a thing, how easy it was for the ugly and dark and depressed to control his weapons… it scares him.

That’s all he is. Afraid. Is this really who he is without anyone by his side? Maybe it was a good thing he was cast out of his original time. Someone like him shouldn’t be allowed anywhere near you. You’re too good for human trash that drinks until he can’t straighten out his thoughts anymore and revels in inflicting pain. Monsters don’t deserve kindness like yours, after all.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

🦊 Mysta Rias

There is logic in everything. Everything happens for a reason; every action has an equal and opposite reaction; energy is neither created nor destroyed, only transformed. This is what the detective Mysta Rias knows.

But people don’t just disappear like that. The city he finds himself in is tall and sweeping just like his home, but the lights are brighter and the people are stranger. He catches the year 2022 on a billboard advertisement and balks. This is what the detective Mysta Rias doesn’t know, and he’d admit he doesn’t know in a snap. There’s simply no reasonable way he sprung over sixty years in the future just like that.

It’s been a while since he was transported into the future with no warning. After week two, he resigned himself to living long-term in the twenty-first century. About a month in, he started a private investigation service to scrounge up money and make sure his deductive abilities stayed sharp. He met some lovely people, but at the end of the day, this isn’t his time.

What goes up must come down, and what gets magically transported out of his intended timeline must return. You can’t toss an apple on Earth and expect it to float into space. Mysta acknowledges how silly it must be to apply physics to a time portal, but it’s the only thing he can cling onto. The Doctrine of Uniformity states the present is the key to the past, and surely the present must be the key to the future as well.

During his first week in the future he already searched for his information when he was in his original time. His house was destroyed decades ago to make space for a school. The home phone went to a storefront in Glasgow. So he retraces the steps. Surely there needs to be a gap where the original homeowners sign off on a deal with new owners, and that’s where he can identify the whereabouts of him and his partner.

Hours of research and calling later, either any mention of Mysta Rias and Reader were wiped off the face of the earth, or they were never on this earth in the first place.

Mysta tries not to let it get to him. After all, even if the original hypothesis is inaccurate, it narrows down the possibilities. Just keep going.

Staking out his old haunts proved to be fruitless as well. His favorite restaurant is gone, as expected, but so is the library downtown that his city insisted on preserving for decades.

Later that evening Mysta grabs a cocktail glass of orange juice, pours vodka into the glass, and places the screwdriver on the coaster of his desk as he looks deeper into the people of this world. Clearly there’s no records of Mysta Rias nor the person he spent his life with, but he recognizes the Queen of England even in her old age, and Paddington Bear is still a thing, so surely there must be other similarities between his UK and the one he landed in.

The first thing he searches for is his mother’s name, and he’s not exactly surprised when no search results come up. His associates are nowhere to be found either. The closest he gets to finding one of his old friends is an online obituary for someone he doesn’t recognize and an archive of a newspaper comic strip.

Your family is nowhere to be seen either. A few awkward calls later, he’s confirmed the phone numbers of family and friends as well as his old detective agency are being used by completely different people. He wishes he had some kind of photo from the past. While browsing around online he learned about reverse image searching. Maybe he could see if there were any social media posts or timeless landscapes that could trace back to his origin. Being able to see your face would be a good motivation too.

Mysta pauses. Man, he misses your face. He’s been so focused on getting back to the right time that he hasn’t even acknowledged the pit of loneliness he’s been fighting off. Emotion makes reason messy, after all. The screwdriver isn’t helping either. If only Reader was here, he muses. They always watch over me when I’m drinking. Fuck, his head’s spinning. How much vodka is in this thing? He’s poured another glass, at least one more, his recollections are getting blurry.

He blinks out of his thoughts before they can begin to spiral. Even if he didn’t measure out proper shots there’s no way he’s getting drunk on a screwdriver, and during a work night no less.

The detective hones in on his legal pad and the scrawl of notes on it. He crosses out another failed method. There has to be something out there that can explain it. He chants it under his breath, because after all, he’s a detective. What is a detective without his reasoning?

Whenever he’s struggling on a case, it always helps to have fresh eyes look over his thought process. It’s always you. But he’s alone now without his partner, and he fears he’s working himself into a rut. Ugh, who is he kidding. He begrudgingly drains the rest of the screwdriver. The rut’s already here, and it always has been. The drink’s making it worse but it’s about time he acknowledges it.

He’s sick of this feeling, so isolated out from everything he knows and the future that’s left him behind, and it’s almost like he can hear your voice melting into the silence of his bleak office. But the words that you’d say evade him. You’re irreplaceable even in his imagination, and it mocks him. His focus has abandoned him, and he’s been spiraling for a while now, it’s just that his mask is starting to crumple now, and he’s already starting to regret letting it slip.

“There has to be something,” he utters, and his voice is already lifting from the alcohol. It’s high and pathetic. Mysta slaps his hands over his face and lets them drag down, as if that would fix everything, and picks up his pencil again. “There has to be a reason.”

The pencil doesn’t move. Mysta repeats himself, reason is a mantra he’s lived by, but doubt drowns him. There’s no reason in time travel, after all, but he says it again, expecting something to change. He’s running out of platitudes. But he clings to it, clings to reason, because without it he’s nothing, and stripped of his home and love, it’s all he has left. Denial of absurdity is the only thing he can do. He can’t afford to wrap his head around it, because that means he accepts this nonsensical problem, so he lives without believing it at all.

He pours himself vodka without juice and drinks.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

👟 Shu Yamino

The Yamino household was no stranger to holding the supernatural within itself. For as long as Shu can remember, there’s always been scrolls hung up on the walls in thumbtacks rather than frames for easy access, rows of herbs left out to dry for spellcraft, even the living room regularly had its furniture pushed to the side to make space for a magic circle.

That was what made morphing his own home into a witch’s hut a smoother transition than he expected from the apartment unit he shared with you. The glamour made it easier to work, and besides, looking at your favorite things and the home you created together hurt too much. Either way, you were going to come back. There wasn’t a single question about it.

Shu drags a clump of chalk along the stony floor. The outline of the circle is already complete, featuring countless shapes crafted for the exact target, and all that was left to do was to etch runes into it. The chalk digs into the floor with intention.

“It’s going to work.” He rubs a stray line of chalk away, and checks his handiwork. The angular shapes inside of the circle are in position for a standard summoning. Runes form coordinates along the outline.

He doesn’t even let himself feel proud for the summoning circle before he dashes off into your room. Moments later he returns with three items: your favorite accessory, your hairbrush, and a framed picture.

There are three winding spirals drawn equal distances apart from one another in the circle. He gently placed your accessory in the center of one, before pulling out a strand of hair from your brush and into the second spiral. One represents sentimental attachments, and the other is something physical for the forces that be to identify a target.

Shu takes great care as he removes the backing of the frame and turns the photo in his hand. He sees himself first. He’s barely holding a giant teddy bear in his arms, and the plush head poked his face, threatening to make the sunglasses on the top of his head fall. On his other side, his beloved partner held the phone in one hand and his shoulder in the other. You timed the phone to take a picture just in time as you pecked his cheek and the beginnings of his blush started to set in. When you printed out the picture, you insisted on captioning it with a thin marker. “5/11/2022: Went to an amusement park and Shu won me a bear. He got a prize too!”

The memory is warm but Shu’s face is still grim. He sets the picture down on the final spiral. Any sorcerer worth their salt knows that you reap what you sow and miracles don’t come from thin air, and if you want that miracle, you’d better be willing to sacrifice something with emotional value.

The picture captured his surprise and your affection from that day, and stares up at him as he stands. It’s been weeks since you were cast out of this reality. Even as a practitioner of the occult, Shu had no idea where the spontaneous portal came from, but it stole you away in front of his eyes. He was lucky he had the instinct to cast identification spells just as soon as you disappeared. They classified the portal as a time travel rift, and allowed him to reverse-engineer a summoning circle to locate and retrieve you. That picture, one of the most recent, was one of his favorites. It marked a shift in his relationship to you that was a long time coming, which is why it was so treasured. He would miss it, but, well, miracles aren’t cheap. He’d make new memories soon when you’re back in his arms in the timeline you’re meant to be in.

Shu lights a stick of incense, and rising smoke couples with the scent of jasmine and palo santo. He allows it to trail around the witch’s hut glamour and cleanse the room, a clean slate for his sorcery. Curses are his specialty, but he’s no stranger to ritual casting. He steps into the circle, and begins his incantation.

Shu’s flames alight after the first verse, a series of commands and words crafted carefully in accordance with the mystical. Shikigami circle around him as he gets to the second, manifestation of his ability. The room feels like it’s floating. Static prickles in the air as it warps, the smoke mixing with the buzz, and for a moment the glamour blurs. It’s the spirit of the circle shifting the world around it as it was programmed to do.

The chalk along the floor brightens, shining luminescent with his words in white to lavender to bright, burning violet. A bead of sweat dribbles down Shu’s neck. It’s getting harder to breathe. If the world intends on taking Reader away from me, he thinks, then I’ll shred the very fabric of space-time itself to bring them back.

His fury is quiet, but concealed under how the air compresses around him. It’s a strange sensation, and if the Yamino name didn’t have generations of magic practitioners before him, the way that the atmosphere around him morphs would take him by surprise and ruin his ritual.

Shu remains steadfast, though, and holds his breath through gritted teeth as the oxygen itself fights to separate itself from the circle. Even his flames flicker at the absence of fuel, and the heat transfers from the halo around his head and into his lungs as the air pressure increases tenfold, and tenfold of that.

The third verse of the incantation is a fight to speak clearly, especially as the movements require him to fight hard against the resistance of literally rending space-time apart in his living room. For a moment he thinks of Atlas, the titan sentenced to hold the world itself. Then he tells himself to get off his high horse, fight the urge to let go of his breath, and finishes the verse half-ready to choke.

As he does the circle of chalk bursts into flames that lap at his feet, now floating in midair, and he doesn’t need a mirror to know the fire spouting from his body resembles pillars more than anything. Doesn’t matter. He’s fighting to keep his eyes open, but he swears there’s a crack levitating in nothing right in front of him. The fire around him pulses away from the crack and the air gets even tighter, teasing him with the vacuity of the universe he provoked.

The sorcerer thinks of the final verse less of words and more of sounds, anything to make it seem less like all the world’s weight is suffocating him. The crack in space is real. It stares at him unblinkingly.

Even when his eyes are open he’s seeing double, even in the silence he can’t hear himself utter the incantation. His chest is screaming and burning, a red-hot sensation unfamiliar to his purple heat, like claws raking through his lungs and threatening to shred him into ribbons from the inside. The pressure is too much to bear.

The body is practically frozen in place as the vast emptiness of the crack slowly widens into a hole- a portal- and absorbs all the life from the room, and constricts him to where he stands. The claws inside start to pry and drag along his organs running dry without oxygen, and it’s a completely different sensation than incineration, it’s dead and deep, and slow. Shu’s eyes widen and strain, before blinking once, twice, and feeling the world turn upside down as everything goes black. He faints.

The sorcerer gasps alive minutes later, before entering a sharp coughing fit. The burning in his lungs has subsided, but the coughs are raspy and gritty.

Shu clutches a hand over his heart as the memories of the ritual flood back, some areas spottier than others. The last thing he remembers is the way that the portal widened and the watercolor webbing inside of it, freckled starlight between the pure pitch, and clouds of color dyeing the fabric of space-time.

He rolls over weakly. He doesn’t have the energy to stand up. Instead he drags a tired hand over the remains of the magic circle, now a smoldering drawing in the center of his living room. Looks like the witch’s hut glamor faded. Not only that, but the chalk has turned to residual ash, easily brushed away by his fingers.

He inspects the rest of his surroundings as best as he can in his faint bleariness. The incense has gone out long ago, the room is in utter disarray, and barely a speck of dust is left on the spirals where his components were spent. They’re gone.

Shu tries to call your name but before he can get a sound out he’s already choking on his words. He fights to stand upright and clear his throat. He doesn’t know why he tried calling out to you. He should’ve known it was a failure. It’s just that he’s gone so long without you, without answers, without a single successful summoning, but this was the first time he saw the crack in space.

Something’s going right. His body feels like it got caught in a land mine, but he’s on the warpath now, and he’s got his sights set on a new ritual draft, something that will certainly bring you back next time.

Shu hacks out a plume of ashy smoke and violet sparks. He’ll return to the drawing board soon, but he’s overexerted himself like nothing else.

Despite how much his body feels like a crumpled ball of paper, he writhes to a pen and paper knocked to the ground from his ritual. He’ll summon you yet. Hopefully his next ritual won’t result in drowning on land, but he’s not too optimistic. He’s not going to stop until you’re back in his arms or his body gives out entirely, but he can’t kid himself forever. He’s going to burn himself out one day if he keeps this up, either metaphorically or literally.

He writes down new observations from this ritual. It still doesn’t change a thing. He’s going to break himself if it means returning you to where you belong.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

👹 Vox Akuma

The Voice Demon snaps awake with fire in his eyes and a growl from his throat. He’s been in stasis for what feels like eons but the memory of searing flames and cold wet blood and the razing of Akuma Castle is fresh. His heart aches. A look down and he identifies why: his red shirt is even redder along the center of his chest, and darkness blooms through the fabric in an unsightly stain. He stares underneath the fabric and sure enough, his torso is covered in slashes, though they fade in supernatural speed. This is demonic reincarnation, as expected, the same mind in a new body, the old transfiguring into the new. His blood boils as he watches the lesser lacerations fade into pale skin. The clotted blood reforms, places itself into his open wound, and the skin reseals itself. A fresh patch, an untouched body, a man seemingly unharmed.

It’s nothing compared to the first man fallen in his clan. Shot dead in the temple, an arrow protruding from his brain, pink and red staining the other end of the arrowhead. The young scholar that took up a bow to defend in the castle’s time of need, only for a catapult to sling a boulder directly to their perch, and send them falling to their demise. A woman, well-known by her Kindred for being a second mother to all, and how she went up in flames when the opposing army set fire to her refuge shelter.

Vox was no stranger to combat, and no coward that would allow his clan to fall for his sake while he stood by. He took to the battlefield, sword in hand, accompanied by his most trusted advisor and most capable warrior.

“Be safe,” was all you said before you armed yourself with your treasured naginata, grabbed him for a life-or-death kiss, and launched into the fray beside your lord.

You worked in tandem with Lord Akuma. His sword slid bodies for you to stab through, confirming they would never rise again. But you were only two of 522, and Tokugawa’s troops made short work of the defenseless, the inexperienced, the unprepared.

Blood pooled along your naginata blade, but when you could catch a glimpse of the metal, it reflected the burning of Akuma Castle behind you. You dodged one blade and blocked another, then skewered the man for his sloppy mistake.

Vox fought his own battles, now, as the shogun commanded his troops to target the lord of the castle. His sword caught on the bone of a soldier before slicing another. He snapped his wrist, shaking the two off his weapon, before raising it into a defensive position in time with another attacker.

You spun the naginata in your hands and fell back to reposition. The maneuver forced your enemies to approach, just in time for you to attack first. They dwindled in number. You were no longer the priority. You held your own against another warrior, decorated in medals and a wakizashi in their hands, more seasoned than the last unit you fought against.

The duel was a mind game, littered with fake-outs and feints, neither you or the warrior landing a blow. Their movements were calculated, without an obvious weakness, so you focused on observation. Their slashes were quick and left little room for a counterattack. They stayed in your face so your naginata can’t outrange them. They were mobile, moving low and high, their body contorting unpredictably against the backdrop of your burning home and-

And Lord Vox…!

You screamed his name. One of the bodies, one you recognized, still moving. Bloodied, barely alive, but quiet, behind your lord, raising his blade.

“Behind you! VOX!” You cried out so loud your throat went hoarse, only for blood to pour out of your mouth.

In your attempt to warn your lord, the warrior noticed an opening, and drove their wakizashi through your neck.

Vox spun on his heel at your command and drove his sword clean through the ambusher, only to watch as you fell to the mud. “Reader!”

He howled as a knife drove through his arm, the first good hit against him. You didn’t move. Another katana next. The gash on his leg disabled his movement. The fire against his blade flashed. Your body laid in a pool of your own blood. Tokugawa stood before him and pulled his own weapon back, aiming for the heart. You were dead, and he was no fool, but the sword plunged forward…

Vox stands. The ground below him, concrete. Across from him is a tiled wall and railroad tracks. He turns on his heel, fury in his eyes, ready to tear apart this subway station. “Woah, dude,” the man next to him says jokingly. His beard is turning gray and he’s covered in a worn winter jacket, and stays seated on the ground.

“Piss off,” Vox snarls.

The man is as unbothered as ever, but seems concerned. “No thank you. Er, you good?”

“Good? Why, yes, I’m the very picture of ‘good’.” Vox lowers himself to the man’s eyes. He slams a fist against the wall, next to his head, as his words alight with poison and ember through gritted teeth. His voice burns demonic. “I said, get out of my sight like the vermin you are and PISS. OFF.”

The man’s face, once so calm and and sympathetic, forms into a visage of fear. He trembles like a deer in headlights before pushing Vox out of the way and bolting further into the subway.

The subway platform Vox finds himself in is dismal and lonely. It’s dark, with some broken fluorescent lighting, and debris along the ground. The signs suggest the next train isn’t arriving anytime soon.

So Vox wracks his hands over his face, contorted in rage, and screams. When he runs out of breath he inhales and cries out again, ugliness crawling out of his throat, and when he closes his eyes he imagines the ugliness as blood, the splatters that coated your lips as you fell. The wakizashi sword through your neck.

He can’t form words, but the heartbreak is primal. It echoes through the empty station, and when his voice shatters into a sob the acoustics remind him of his mourning. His broken heart tightens, tries to reform itself around the blood of his chest, and only gives him palpitations that lodge in his chest.

Panic becomes him. What else could he be? Vox’s legacy is besmirched, his subjects slain, and most brutal of all, his greatest love gave their life to warn him in futility. He heeded their advice but- but the shaking in his heart, it’s so stifling, he can’t think straight, he needs to sit down- but he was useless to do the one thing you requested, to be safe. Now here he is, another casualty right after you fell, without the grace to even stay a dead lord. In another world, with another chance at life, and the first thing he does is spiral. How pathetic of Lord Akuma. Utterly disgusting. Even after his demonic blood gave him another chance, he’s spending it bawling like a baby, crumpled on the ground of a grungy subway station, his breath so shallow he feels like he’s about to die again.

Misery. He’s too afraid to take in the world around him without the comfort of you, so his hands tangle into his hair and against his tears. Rebirth is nothing to an infernal, but today, the very picture of grief, the Voice Demon has been defeated for the first time in his immortal life.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

#ike eveland x reader #ike eveland #luca kaneshiro x reader #luca kaneshiro #mysta rias x reader #mysta rias #shu yamino x reader #shu yamino #vox akuma x reader #vox akuma #luxiem x reader #nijisanji x reader #luxiem #nijisanji en #4402 writes #necella

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terapsina · 1 year

Text

stealing all the stars in yesterday's sky - elejah fic

Happy birthday @vorpalmuchness 🎉🎉🎁😘

ao3

The feeling of vertigo was like the sensation one might feel surviving a drop from an airplane. Her head spun, her lungs on fire as the breath froze in her chest, her heart beating with the power of battle drums.

Confusion danced through Elena's head as the world around her transformed from the forest of trees and the circle of witches, into the formerly grand living room of an abandoned mansion. Familiar, like an old dream.

She shook her head, trying to dispel the strangeness when her eyes caught movement, someone halting at the top of the staircase, startled into stillness... and Elena's world stopped as her eyes were caught by his.

He looked just as he did the last time she'd seen him fifty years ago; just as he did - exactly as he did - the first time she'd seen him two hundred years back; just as he'd looked in the painfully precious century and a half between.

She hadn't thought she would ever see that immortal face ever again. Those sharply angular lines of the face; those depths of honor and humanity and cool practicality in his brown eyes; that hidden, tightly guarded well of love Elena had once thought spoken for and then found herself drinking from so freely; those strong shoulders that had softened at her touch a hundred thousand times.

She hadn't thought she would ever see him again. Not when the last time had ended as he burned into ash in front of Elena's sobbing, screaming, horrified self.

She stared at him. Her heart both breaking and mending at once.

Her dead husband stared at her with surprise. Surprise, but no emotion. Then rushed to her in the space of a heartbeat, halting in front of her as something vital, something Elena knew should be there, - had been there for longer than she'd been ready to see it - was entirely missing.

Still, as he leaned toward her, his nose nearly against the collarbone of her neck while he breathed in deeply, scenting the mortality she had shed nearly three lifetimes ago, Elena could not help the way her buckling knees made her lean toward him too.

His own scent overpowered everything else. The dust of the old house was overcome by sandalwood and old books and the smell of a fresh, clean shirt because he could never attend a meeting without an impeccably pressed suit he'd put on less than an hour back.

"Human," he mused aloud, speaking more to himself than to her, something amused sparking to life "it's impossible."

Elijah.

Her heart was screaming his name. Elena bit into her lip to hold it safely in its place. She could not ruin it now. It had worked, not the way she'd intended it maybe, - she'd tried to bring him forward instead of going back, - but the witches had warned her that playing with time was always unpredictable, always a throw of the dice.

All that mattered was that he was alive. And whole. And in front of her.

She did not care that he did not love her yet now. If there was one thing Elena did not fear, could not fear, it's that there could ever be a world where Elijah did not come to love her in the end.

All she needed was some time. And she'd already stolen herself plenty.

"Hello there," he spoke, unknowingly echoing the himself from her memory.

Elena's rushing heartbeat slowed, her mind pushing her heart aside as the place in her past asserted its facts. She was human - not something she had any intention to remain but useful just now. Klaus’s curse was yet to be broken, and the sacrifices he would choose could still be changed. Jenna was still alive.

If she played this right. If she played it just right, she could get back more than just her husband; fix more hearts than just her own.

She tightened her jaw and looked into Elijah's eyes.

"I want to make a deal," she said and felt something warm simmer in her chest as intrigue flickered over the stone of his face, his lips twitching slightly in the way that called out for her to touch with her suddenly itching fingertips.

Within the safety of her own mind, Elena smiled helplessly.

#elejah #elena gilbert #elijah mikaelson #elejah fic #tvd #tvd fic #fanfic #otp: i remember reading that in a letter once #vorpalmuchness

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obsidiancreates · 4 months

Text

One Undead To Another (Chapter 3)

(It's 1 AM and I work today so naturally I'm hyperfocused on writing. Trigger warning for blood drinking, POV of someone who's dying, and temporary death.)

Burton Guster wakes up to use the bathroom. He checks his phone as he snuggles back under his still-warm covers, a habit he developed pretty much the moment Shawn got a cellphone and the ability to send texts.

Following MY lead and proving you all wrong

Oh, no. He did not.

Halfway to the Spooky Mansion. Still a chance for you to join in.

Seriously are you ignoring me or did you forget to turn your volume up again :(

Going in, keeping your half of the check when I solve this.

Spooky mansion got way too spooky. Bury me with my Tears for Fears vinyls.

Gus immediately calls Shawn after reading that last text.

No answer. He waits for a text scolding him for calling during a snooping mission- he waits for ten minutes before he lets out a panicked scream and dials Lassie.

No answer there, fine. He calls Juliet next.

“Gus?” Her voice is groggy and scratchy. “This better be an emerge-”

“Shawn went back to that mansion.”

“He what? I- why am I even surprised?”

“His last text to me says he might be in trouble, Jules.”

“Gus, we ruled them out as suspects.”

“In those murders! In just one set of murders!”

“... That’s a fair point, actually. Okay, I will call Carlton, and we will check on Shawn. Are you going to come with us?”

“Yes, obviously I’m coming with you!”

“Okay, okay, I’ll pick you up on the way to Carlton’s. And Gus?”

“Yeah?”

“Change out of your pajamas before I get there.”

He looks down at his fireman pjs- the same he was wearing last time Shawn did this. Maybe they’re cursed. He should probably burn them and get new ones, just to be on the safe side. “Right.”

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Jebus, O’Hara, why is Guster here?” Lassiter groans as he slumps, practically unwillingly, into his Ford Fusion.

“He was extremely helpful last time!”

“Thank you, Juliet. Besides, I’m the one Shawn is texting!”

“If he got himself shot again, I’m putting you both in the holding cells for the rest of the case,” Lassiter gurmbles as he starts the car and pulls out.

“If he got shot again, I’m sicking his dad on him.” If there anyone left to- no, no, he can’t think like that. He can panic and doom-spiral after he finds Shawn totally safe, healthy, and grinning with some stupid new piece of evidence. Because that’s how they have to find him.

“Whatever. We’re either going to save his ass again, or arrest it for breaking an entering. Either way, Guster stays in the car.”

Gus scoffs. “Yeah, alright.”

The car ride is quiet. Lassiter oozes irritation over being woken up. Jules hums along to the radio, either used to or simply resigned to situations like this being apart of her life- and probably trying to help Gus calm down. It’s working, a little. Gus feels a little silly about it, but it’s hard to panic when there’s someone humming nearby.

They’re only a few minutes away when all three feel a… twist.

Lassiter tenses at the wheel as Jules lets out a soft gasp and Gus’s stomach drops.

Something is wrong. Deeply, deeply wrong, and they don’t need to say it out loud to know they all feel it.

Lassiter floors it for the last stretch. He and Jules run up to the house with guns already drawn and fingers on the triggers, Gus behind them with a mounting dread as the mansion looms.

Lassiter has barely raised his hand to knock when the screaming starts.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Shawn’s scream of pain is muffled, silenced, in the shoulder of The Boss. He feels her fangs dig, pressing deeper and deeper into his neck as she uses him like some kind of handsome juice pouch, or maybe a soup dumpling- yeah, definitely a soup dumpling. Should he be thinking about food right now? He is food- and being food hurts.

She bites deeper, and his next scream feels choked. He can feel his blood as it’s sucked out of him, a horrible unnatural feeling. It’s not like when he was shot, where his blood just oozed out of it’s own accord. It’s like his blood knows it’s being stolen, knows it’s being taken away, and it’s trying to cling to the inside of his veins with all of it’s thick, liquid-y strength.

He thinks he might be screaming again, or maybe moaning in pain? He’s making some kind of sound, but good god, she is making quick work of him. The world is going dull and fuzzy, his eyes drooping but never closing. The flickering candles cast strange shadows, making it look like more than four other people surround them- he sees a dozen, maybe more, it’s hard to tell, they’re all moving through each other. How much blood has he lost if he’s hallucinating already?

His fingers feel cold. No, actually- all of him feels cold. His fingers feel numb. He’s slumping against her now. He can’t hold his own weight anymore. Will they dump him in a field? No, that- they have something else planned for him. Don’t they? It’s starting to go away. Everything is starting to go away. There must be fifty people in the room now. There’s a sea lion in the corner. His arms have gone slack. Why can’t he close his eyes all the way?

“-ay strong.” He’s not sure who spoke. What did he name the other people again? How many were there? He was… investigating something. Right? It’s hard to think. It makes him tired. Someone is cradling him and holding him up, but it doesn’t feel nice. His neck feels the least nice.

“-wn. Shawn, stay with us, help is coming. Help is coming.”

He… he knows that voice. It’s… comforting. Who is that?

His eyes still won’t close. He feels cold. He feels his last dregs of blood clawing to stay inside of him. There’s pairs of feet, just in front of him, taking up his blurry darkening vision. A pair of white shoes, for… some kind of sport, Shawn doesn’t know, he can’t… connect. And a pair of… he doesn’t know, some kind of old lady shoes. He knows those shoes.

There’s a hand against his cheek. No, there isn’t. Yes, there is. No, there isn’t- but there’s something. It’s there and it’s not there, like- like cotton candy. That stuff is weird. A whole mouthful turns into nothing within seconds. Someone is saying something to him.

“-ay. It’ll be okay. They’re almost here.”

“So are we.” He knows that voice too. It’s not as comforting- but it’s not not comforting. It’s… someone. He can’t make the connection. He should’ve passed out by now. He’s lost enough blood to die, he knows that, if he knows one thing it’s that. Why is he still awake?

“We’ll make sure they find you.” That not-there hand is carding through his hair now as whatever is digging in his neck leaves- it’s the first sensation other than numbness he’s felt in… has it been seconds? Minutes? Hours? He’s not good at tracking time even when he does have blood. This is a nightmare. He hopes it’s a nightmare. Thinking hurts.

His head is pushed back. The shoes belong to people- that’s good to know. He can’t really see who. He isn’t sure what he’s capable of seeing right now actually counts as Seeing at all. Someone is yanking open his mouth.

“-or you. I’m here for you. You’re not alone right now.”

“I’m not sure he understands what you’re saying.”

“Shush, Mary. He needs to hear it anyway.”

Something is in his mouth. Something cold, and thick, and slugdy, and awful. He doesn’t have the strength to gag as it slides down his throat. It tastes rotten. It tastes wrong.

There’s a lot of it. He can’t swallow. He can’t gag. It lasts forever.

It reaches his stomach.

It burns.

He’s on the floor now- he didn’t feel his head hit, but it’s resting against something solid, so it must’ve. Hey, he can still make deductions. That’s cool. Everything is numb, but not numb, and everything hurts, but he can’t feel it. It hurts someone else, even though it’s him. It’s… far away. He’s far away. Someone is kneeling in front of him. Two someones. He can’t see them. His eyes are closed, finally. He doesn’t know how he knows they’re there.

“Go to sleep, Shawn.” … Oh. Oh, he knows where he knows that voice. He must really be dying, then. Or already dead.

“Gr’ma.” He can’t hear his own voice.

“Shhh. It’s okay. Go to sleep. We’ll make sure you’re okay.”

There’s a sound pounding against his ears. He tries to lift his head to hear it better. It’s a dull roar, like a terrible low-quality recording of a rock concert. … Yeah, exactly like that. It’s screaming.

“Your friends will be okay too. I promise. Trust me, sweetheart. Just… let yourself sleep.”

He actually doesn’t think he has a choice- but it’s nice that she’s talking. It’s so much clearer than the screaming. He should probably care about that. He’s too far away to be able to.

Shawn takes a deep breath and relaxes.

He sighs.

He loses consciousness.

He does not breathe again.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

As soon as the screaming starts Lassiter breaks the door down. It’s almost too easy- the wood is rotten. Who would live in a place like this? Someone not looking to stay long. Shawn had said that. Why hadn’t Gus believed him?

“SBPD!” Lassiter and Jules to in with guns raised and ready to fire- Gus feels safe enough behind them to follow.

No-one is home. If it weren’t for the ear-splitting screaming coming from somewhere, it would be eerie.

“Guster, go back to the car.” Lassiter doesn’t move. “Now.”

“Shawn is somewhere in here.” Gus can hear his fear leeching into his voice.

“We’ll find him,” Jules promises, just as rooted to the spot- something in the air feels wrong. A stillness, but a crackling, an energy but a void.

“Alright.” He can’t stand it anymore, he loves Shawn and he wants to find him but he can’t stand it anymore-

The door slams shut behind him.

“AAAAHHHHHHHHHH!” Gus’s scream is lost among the chorus. The lights are flickering- no, that’s too mild a word for it, because the lights are going in and out and sparking and buzzing and it’s like the whole house is screaming-

Someone’s at the end of the entrance hall.

“Hands in the air!” Lassiter bellows, but the figure doesn’t put their hands up. The lights go out again. They come back on. The figure is closer.

“Stay where you are!” Juliet’s gun is steady as she aims it.

“-me? Testing, testing- forgive me. The afterlife doesn’t usually have this much bleed-over.”

Gus almost faints. He knows that voice.

“That’s impossible.” Lassiter swallows. He knows it too. They all do. “You’re worse at rescuing than Shawn,” Mary Lightly says, hands in the pockets of his racquetball uniform. “At least he was moving.”

#psych #psychusa #psych usa #psych 2006 #fanfic #my attempts at fanfic

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wormsin · 8 months

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I’ve followed you since your Hannibal days and honestly, I have—had? no interest at all with superhero genre, so whenever I see you post something about it, I am like that meme asking you “are you winning son?” and cheering for you from afar.

Until you post your daily whumptober fills, and now I have a vague interest, about Batman/Bruce and Robin/Dick, yet also within a quite specific setting? A gothic-noir genre one—it just struck me out of nowhere and now I cant get it out of my mind—of which I tried to find posts about it but I ended up not finding anything that could sate this.. let’s call it unique vague interest.

Anyway, sorry for being convoluted, but what I’m trying to say or ask is that, I would like to hear your opinions about their relationship and whether they can be read through gothic-noir genre?

ahahaha 😈

(listen. I was completely blindsided by my Batman & Robin obsession last year, because I had been tired of the superhero genre since Iron Man 2 came out. I have been bored and disinterested in superheroes for over a decade, and *never* read superhero comics. it is mostly not my thing!

however, Batman the Animated Series was the first show I watched as a kid, and Batman and Robin were deeply foundational for me. so as soon as I dipped my toes back in, it was all over for me. and here I am now, writing fucked up BruDick!)

you are in very good luck, actually! Batman has been many things, but noir and gothic are both huge influences. Frank Miller's Batman Year One (1987) is super noir, was the real kickoff for dark, gritty Batman. then in the 1989, Burton brought the campy gothic in the movie Batman. this was a big inspiration for the gothic aesthetic of Batman the Animated Series. (Batman was noir earlier than that as well, but those are notable moments in Batman history.)

Batman suits the genres extremely well—Bruce is always brooding with a dramatic inner monologue; he struggles with Gotham as a city with a personality, a supernatural force; he is haunted by his parents, his legacy, and the villains he faces; he is always going for the female fatales; he lives in a fucking mansion over an underground cave filled with bats. let's not forget that he is a detective! there are a number of canon comics and other media that are in the gothic-noir (or just gothic) genre, and there are some awesome fanfics!

noir-gothic:

dead men are heavier than broken hearts by spaceisgay

gothic:

We Have Always Lived in the Manor by themadwomanwhoisunfortunatelylackingabox

Magnificently Cursed by @mysterious-aud-lou (not complete yet)

I will reblog this with some of my own thoughts about Them in this genre (gothic is maybe my favorite genre). when I am less exquisitely busy.

#batman #ask worm #bruce wayne #dick grayson #brudick #fic recs

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laurasimonsdaughter · 1 year

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What if Disney adapted Bluebeard?

If we're talking fairy tale animation, I don't think they'd ever touch it. Far too dark. It'd probably make a pretty decent dark fantasy semi-horror like Alice in Wonderland (2010) though!

Again, not really my genre, but if I were to take a stab at it:

It's a dark fairy tale-esque fantasy with both horror and romance elements, so obviously it gets set in quasy-Victorian era, with lush, but slightly historically inaccurate costumes.

The protagonist needs a name, of course, let's call her Emily. She is about 21 years old, beautiful, headstrong, and either not interested in marriage, or deeply romantic and eagerly looking for true love. Her parents are utterly unimportant, possibly one of them is dead because who even has two parents.

Her older sister Anne will probably get cut, sorry. She has a very good relationship with her brother (one of them gets cut too), but he is away from home for unclear reasons, maybe at sea or at war or whatever. Maybe he has a best friend who is secretly in love with Emily.

Bluebeard (that's his nickname, he has an actual name, something like... Dorian Morton) would be styled in Victorian Goth, very rich, very charming, probably called Lord and Sir without ever making clear whether he's gentry or nobility or whatever. Uncomfortably attractive, of course, but constantly surrounded by ominous lighting and music to warn the audience that he has a Secret. In spite of this he sweeps our heroine off her feet, she falls madly in love, they marry and he whisks her away to his terribly gothic mansion and it's all very romantic.

Once there she gets the all important "you are mistress of my heart and of my home, but never open the door that this golden key fits to, okay love you forever I am leaving for unspecified manly reasons" message and is left alone.

Now there are two routes this could go, depending on how dark or whimsical this movie wants to be. Either Emily finds a basement mausoleum with six marble coffins with the images of the previous wives carved lifesize onto the slabs (this makes Bluebeard a common murderer), or she finds six magical glass coffins where seven women are lying in a magical death sleep (this makes him something more sorcerer or warlock like).

Emily is horrofied, heartbroken, terrified. She manages to send a message to her brother, but Bluebeard comes home before she has any way of knowing if he even received it. She stalls for time, but Bluebeard finds out she looked in the room and he is very dramatic about this betrayal of his trust, making it very clear that he never wanted to harm any of his wives, but that he had to because they just didn't love him unconditionally enough and all wanted to leave him :(. He probably tells Emily that he loves her the most and that if she'll just forget what she saw they can live happily ever after. But she is a pure hearted heroine and tearfully refuses.

Lord Dorian Bluebeard Morton snaps dramatically and tries to kill her, (it's very important that this is the first time he is ever abusive towards her). She runs, he chases her to the roof of the mansion (maybe there is a tower for no reason), there's a storm, he falls to his death in good Disney fashion, possibly while looking Emily in the eyes and professing his love for her. (The small, but passionate fandom will insist this is an important moment of redemption for him.)

Emily's brother (and possible secondary romantic thread best friend) arrive just in time to see him fall and to comfort a stricken but brave Emily at the top of the stairs. (If they go for the magical angle this is where all the other wives wake up, terrified but relieved, and possibly have enough chemistry to prompt the fandom to write "what if all seven ladies just stayed in the house together" fix-its.)

There is a final scene where Lady Emily Morton, dressed in beautiful mourning blacks, walks the halls of her now bustling mansion, which looks less cursed now. Her brother is there to be affectionate, his best friend is possibly there to respectfully admire her. (The other wives can be there looking healthy and best-friend material if they survived.) Emily goes to the spot where her husband fell to his death and looks out dramatically, the music plays Bluebeard's theme. The end.

...is this a diluted Crimson Peak without the ghosts and the sister? Oh dear I think it is. Anyway, I would very much enjoy watching this with my sister, but probably not like it enough to go back for a second viewing.

#laura babbles #bluebeard #disney goggles #I hope this was a more satisfying answer than the last bluebeard question anon :P #I presume you are the same person?

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ystrike1 · 1 year

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Beast’s Flower - By Habrin (7.5/10)

Would you read a story about a cliche abused heroine and a possessive guy if it came with a little spice? Most people give smutty stories a chance when they're weird. So, this one is totally PG13 and the heroine is stinky. You heard me. Her magical powers make her stinky. She only smells good to the crown prince, because he's a panther man. None of that information is presented in a comedic way. The author is dead serious.

Lyla comes from a village where mages aren't seen as valuable inventors. They're still witches in the eyes of the uneducated and poor. Lyla was born stinky. Her magic is too strong. It's implied that the smell makes people fear her, but the "I'm stinky" curse is too damn funny please help me I can't fucking do this one...

Anyway.

Lyla is the daughter of a Baron. Nobody else has magic nearby so no tutor comes to save her. The maids abandon her and she starts living in the barn with the horses.

When she turns ten things get worse. Her father leaves her in a cabin near the mansion in the woods. He provides candles and minimal supplies. Lyla has no education. She's kinda dumb as a brick and defensive as hell, and she's stinky. The locals think she's a witch that eats children. Really, her life could not suck more.

Ariadne is Lyla's tall, normal smelling sister. Ariadne is a narcissist that thinks Lyla should die. She gradually makes Lyla's life even worse.

Lyla begs for more candles for her hovel. Ariadne says no, and Lyla's position is very realistic. Without candlelight she literally must live like an animal. Ariadne's sick games worsen her mental health, which is already questionable...at best...

One night, while Lyla is busy thinking about death, she hears a noise. It's a guest. A "lost" man has come. It's Prince Viorst, a prince that can transform into a beast at will!!!!

He doesn't tell her that. He pretends to be a passing noble who is lost and injured and in need of help.

Lyla rushes to his aid...just kidding she tries to stab him. Lyla doesn't trust him AT ALL. He even says he doesn’t have a sense of smell....which is also a lie. Lyla can't resist. No nose means she can maybe have a normal human friend. She's very uncivilized and blunt with him, but he doesn’t care.

Lyla's yucky stink smell...turns him on? Like he immediately wants to marry her, and no one else ever. Viorst is more beast than man. He is known as a sociopath who will do anything to maintain power. That's great for the country but he is deeply feared by all. He even threatens to sell off his head aide when he's kinda annoyed. Violence is part of his everyday life, and he thinks Lyla smells like a flower. A sexy one....

The flirtation is all one-sided until Lyla cracks. It's so ridiculous. Viorst acts like a normal Casanova type of man, even though his bride is in rags. It gets absurd and really creepy. Viorst doesn't feel human in the slightest. All of his sweetness is a ploy to capture Lyla, who is the only woman he has ever felt anything for.

By the way the shit with Lyla's family is actually really depressing??? Ariadne is the perfect daughter her father always wanted. She's not stinky and she's pretty. The Baron ignored her lust for blood, and now it's too late. The Baron is actually afraid of Ariadne. Ariadne thinks she's going to be Crown Princess, because Viorst is staying with them will he courts Lyla in secret.

He's staying there out of convenience.

As soon as Lyla agrees to go with him he's going to kill everybody in the manor.

Hardcore...

Ariadne doesn't know that, so she tries to seduce him the whole time...

Ariadne actually tries to fight back. Viorst admits he's after Stinky Lyla. Ariadne convinces her father to give the order for an old-fashioned Witch Hunt. By the way!!! Lyla's father did love her!!! He just kinda gave up on her because of the Witch Stuff and the stink. He used to visit her. Ariadne slowly convinced him that he didn't need an imperfect daughter. He hesitates to give the killing order until the last second, with Ariadne screaming in his face.

He still sucks, but Lyla could have had a better life. She didn’t get it because Ariadne is a violent, narcissistic wacko. This idea is pretty great. In any other story Ariadne would be a hateful villain, but her parents adored her until the end because she's not cursed/magical.

Viorst uses his beast form to scare the villagers and save(?) Lyla from the Witch Hunt. However, he does let them burn her cabin down. He practically forces her to come home with him, because there's no home left for her to cling to. He reveals that her father gave the order too. There's no chance to put Ariadne on trial for her madness. Lyla doesn't get the chance to reconcile with her father.

Viorst takes her away.

He unleashes his punishment.

He cuts off Ariadnes arm, because she dared to touch him.

He takes away the Baron's title, leaving him destitute.

Then, he sets the manor on fire while the entire family is still inside.

If they survive they all have to live as peasants.

Maybe Ariadne will live and return...but it's most likely that the family will choose to die.

They can't beat the prince.

Lyla learns that Viorst is the prince...when she's locked up safely in the castle. He pretends to be a normal noble until then. Lyla says she wouldn't have accepted his proposal if she knew and he's like...lol yeah that's why I lied to you the whole time...lol...

This is the beginning of a super healthy relationship. How wholesome.

Viorst wants to keep Lyla stupid too.

He doesn't want her to learn about her powers or anything. She just needs to stay in the palace and be loved by him.

......

Viorst is a real wackjob. Lyla is definitely a strong mage. After she learns a bit she'll be able to control the miasma/stink. Viorst doesn't care if she spends the rest of her life in isolation. At least let her get rid of the stink....come on....stinky....Why would you want to go down in history as The King with the Stankrank bride????

#yandere #male yandere #yandere male #yandere boy #recommendations #recs #rec #recommended #webtoon #monster guy #monster boy #Beast’s Flower

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cloudbattrolls · 4 months

Text

Encroached

Gliese Benral | Gliese's Hedge Maze | Present Night

If you want to know what the creatures in this drabble are, I recommend checking out @nihils-trolls's plot!

The blueblood held the shears expertly, snipping away at her hedges with sweeps of long practice. How long had she kept these? Since she was six? Five, even?

She couldn’t quite remember how long it had been, only that she’d planted them when her eyes were still gray and her horns were maybe half the length they were now.

Gliese heard a very dramatic scream coming from a few hedge walls over and her ears flicked irritably. Couldn’t a girl trim her plants in peace?

It didn’t sound like Zeller or Kit, so who cared. Maybe Haredad had caught an intruder.

When a yell followed it the little highblood sighed deeply and supposed she’d better go check it ou -

What the fuck was that doing here.

A shadowy black blob peeped out of her hedge, one awful green and golden eye showing. She dropped her shears on the ground with a thud and swung out her flamethrower to blast it, not caring about the damage or the smoke now rising to the sky as fire licked through the plants.

At least she kept them well watered; it wouldn’t spread too quickly, and she didn’t have time to worry about it right now.

She whistled high and shrill for her lusus, if he was in range, but if not she’d just have to solve it herself.

Her flamethrower away again, Gliese ran toward the voice now yelling and cursing again. Her eyes crackled with orange sparks as she called ghosts to her, skeletons as well. None of her plant constructs would be good here; better things that couldn’t burn, or wouldn’t do so easily.

Now she had to hope she wouldn’t have a fucking seizure.

At least if she did, her skeletons were instructed to preserve her at all costs.

A few burst from the ground and gave her the lift she needed to leap over the next hedge and -

-swear like the soldier she’d once been as she landed, flamethrower out again as her angry and baffled glowing eyes took in the wreckage before her.

Bigger blobs had already consumed half the plants in this area and were still eating away at them. The ground itself was riddled with puddles of black, gleaming like oil in the moonlight.

“HEEEEELLLLLP!”

Cried a terrified voice.

Right, the troll.

She spun around and saw them; their bright red coat made it easy as they ran like hell from the biggest monster yet, but it was clear it would catch them in seconds.

Gliese opened fire on that blob, not getting all of it on her first go, but enough to slow it down, let the troll - let the troll whip out an umbrella and quickly rise up into the air with a shimmering aura of red magic as they clutched its handle.

She grinned. Another mage.

Then she blasted at the big blob again, her skeletons and ghosts keeping the ones around her busy, but she could feel a seizure coming on.

Ugh, it wasn’t fucking going down.

Fuck it. She had no choice.

Gritting her teeth, Gliese pushed her psiionics further, her vision growing hazy, and the last thing she heard before she passed out was the howl of her ghosts inhabiting her skeletons, bolstering their power.

Then it all went dark.

—

She woke up in her hive.

On her couch.

Damn. How long had she been out?

She looked out the nearest window and realized not too long, the sky had barely lightened; the moons hadn’t yet set.

“Hello, I do hope this IS your hive and I didn’t just follow some skeletons that carried you into someone else’s. But I thought: big fancy mansion, blueblood, the two go together like salt and pepper. Oh, I put the fires out too, because widespread arson seemed like a bad idea.”

She sat up and looked over, noticing the troll from before.

They didn’t have their coat on anymore, and their umbrella was nowhere to be seen.

“Say, do you know what those are? I haven’t the foggiest, but they certainly are nasty, aren’t they? Glad you came along and razed them to ashes when you did. I wish I’d known about that before.”

They nodded after saying so.

“Felt like rot to me. What kind, I’m not sure, but something along those lines. Very strange, don’t you think?”

Gliese blinked her orange eyes as they spoke, slightly surprised by how the maroon looked in just a fitted black tank top and purple skirt over black leggings.

They were a little on the heavier side - unusual for a lowblood, though they were still more lightly built than several mid and highbloods she’d seen. They looked soft, but she saw calluses on their hands; they’d clearly labored before, were probably stronger than they looked.

They also had nice curves.

“Are you even listening to me?” They said with minor annoyance and bafflement after a brief pause, arms crossed.

She noticed their coat had been flung on another couch and - huh, they had a blue bracelet on one wrist, only a few hues above her own.

“Yeah, yeah, I know about these things already.” The hare troll said dismissively, waving a hand.

They sputtered, and she enjoyed their shocked expression behind their big red glasses.

“Wh - why didn’t you say so at the start?” They demanded in their goofy accent.

Seriously, they sounded like some of the characters on the shows she used to watch. It was funny, but kind of cute to listen to.

“Didn’t feel like it.” She said smugly, ears flicking.

They put a hand to their face.

“Brilliant. Brilliant! I’m dealing with someone who thinks it’s cute to waste my time! Oh, of all the luck…”

The blueblood smirked at their agitation, watching their ears flick up and down.

“It is pretty funny. Hey, look on the bright side; I can tell you what I know.”

She paused as they sighed and took their hand away, looking at her mulishly. Then she addressed them again.

“What the fuck’s your name, anyway.”

“Crista.” They said, sullen. “What’s yours.”

“Gliese.”

“Well, miss Gliese, I hope you’re not just yanking my chain and you do know something about these little abominations.” They said irately. “I almost died out there! As you might recall.”

“Vaguely.” She said in a casual tone meant to irritate the other mage, who rewarded her with a huff and by putting their hands on their hips.

“But yeah, I do. Friend of mine’s studying them right now, and I’ve learned the hard way to not put any magic close to them, or they’ll eat it and try to kill you getting the rest. They’re not alive, they’re not dead, they just…exist. Fucked up little things.”

“The real revelation here is that you have friends.” Muttered the lowblood grumpily, but with minimal bite, looking down at the floor.

Gliese felt like she was being gently teethed by a scolded puppy who wanted to try gnawing at you again, but was too nervous that they might actually be kicked this time.

She smirked again. What a dork.

“Aw, try not to be too jealous. How many friends have you got?”

They squawked in protest and she laughed, which only made them squawk again.

“Enough! More than you, probably! With your charming personality and stunning gift for being a right pain in the neck!”

She grinned wider. “Wow, really laying on the flattery.”

They looked done, their hands gripping one another. “This isn’t at all important, I don’t know why I let myself get distracted…do you know anything else?”

“They have blood inside them sometimes.” She said, just as casual. “And my friend gave it a drop of godling blood to see what would happen.”

They gaped at her. “Where did they…I don’t even want to know. No! I really don’t want to know, at all. Insane. You’re both insane.”

“Hey.” She snapped. “Call me what you want, but leave Quil out of it. She’s doing her best.”

They snorted. “Fine, fine! It’s just you that’s insane, then. Happy?”

“I’ve been happier.” She quipped, flippant.

“I am weeping most tragically for you, you simply can’t tell right now.” Said Crista, sounding infinitely weary. “So what happened? With the blood?”

“Dunno. It revitalized it a bit, I think. I’ll ask Quil.”

The maroon considered that, then spoke again.

“Fire’s good against it, of course. Anything else you know of?”

“They can be contained with anti-magic stuff.” The blueblood replied, thinking of Quilis’s walls of force. “I’d stick with fire, though.”

“I see.” Sighed the lowblood. “Well! Can’t hang around, I’d best be going.”

Gliese blinked.

“What, you don’t want to rest or anything?”

They looked at her.

“What makes you think I’m stupid enough to loiter in the hive of a blueblood I don’t know? And you’re a necromancer. I only trust one of those.”

Gliese scowled.

“If I wanted you dead, you would be.” She said scornfully, thin arms crossed. “You’re no match for me and you know it. If I was some wicked witch I’d feed you to my zombie or whatever.”

They snorted heavily, shaking their head. “Oh, she has a zombie! Wonderful. Yes, you sound more and more trustworthy by the moment. I’ll be leaving now.”

They went to put their coat back on, but before they could, the necromancer cleared her throat.

“Well, if you wanna leave without dinner…”

“You sound like you want to poison me!” Snapped the maroon, shaking their head as they (sadly for Gliese) put their coat back on and tied the waist ribbon.

“At least try to be subtle about it.” They muttered under their breath.

The hare troll looked at the ornately painted ceiling. Maybe she was really rusty. Pity too, pitch had always been the quad she was best at.

Then she looked back down at the other mage.

“Look. I don’t want to fucking poison you, you idiot. You can watch me make the food yourself if you’re that worried. I’m trying to make up for the fact you got fucked up on my property. Why the hell would I have helped you just to kill you now?”

“Don’t ask me why I think bluebloods will act like bluebloods, miss, we’d be here til the sun came up.” Crista said wearily.

Their ears flicked as they considered it, then they sighed and took their coat off again.

“Fine, since you’re so insistent. I won’t say I’m not a bit peckish. But I am going to watch you make it.”

She grinned. “Sure, sure. Hope you like vegetarian.”

They raised their thick eyebrows.

“Depends on the dish. Please tell me there will be dessert.”

She paused. “Do fruit bars count?”

Crista groaned.

“You’re killing me.”

She smirked.

“Relax, I have dark chocolate if you’re that desperate. Just don’t take a lot of it, it’s usually for my moirail.”

“Rest assured I shan’t.” They said wryly, and the blueblood laughed as she turned away to walk to her kitchen, Crista shaking their head as they followed.

#cloud writes #gliese benral #crista condyl #I'm sorry I wrote Gliese checking out Crista. but in my defense it's funny

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necromaniackat · 1 year

Text

Cruel Summer.

Chapter 2: Welcome to Heelshire, Evelyn

Image is of Felix

The drive from London was long and grueling, your butt went numb about half an hour in. Thankfully, you always keep a spare pillow in your car just in case. Not only did the pillow help ease the uncomfortable numbness but it gave you an extra few inches to see over the dashboard. You weren’t incredibly short; five, three to be exact, but it’s always nice to have a few extra inches.

The two-and-a-half-hour drive went by faster by the music you played. It was like the cosmos knew you needed to keep your mind from wandering so it spat out the greatest series of songs on your playlist. You couldn’t help but belt out the lyrics and drum your hands against the steering wheel. Anytime someone would look at you singing in your car you’d smile like an idiot. This was your morning routine usually. You’d pick an upbeat song and blast in your car on your way to work. It always made you start the day on a good note.

Although you had to turn down your music once you realized you were lost. The lawyer even gave you the address of the mansion in case you forgot where it was. You plugged the address into your phone this morning and everything. But the streets were labelled oddly, or not at all. And you didn’t remember a damn thing from your childhood.

You grumbled through gritted teeth then picked up your phone to look at Google maps. The thing about smaller towns in the countryside is that mobile phone service is spotty at best. You inhaled deeply in an attempt to not throw your phone out the window. Google maps kept reloading the page, sending your location all over the map.

“This bloody country needs better cell service,” you cursed, tossing you phone onto the passenger seat. The only thing you can do now is ask someone for directions. You pulled over when you saw a shop. It’s common knowledge that people who work in shops know where everything is.

You parked your car in front of the shop. As embarrassing as asking for directions is, it’s less embarrassing than driving around aimlessly.

There were a few people in the shop when you entered. It was as if on que all eyes were on you. You felt them burning holes into you as you awkwardly looked around. You wandered over to the counter where there was a shopkeeper; a tall, clean shaven Middle Eastern man.

“What can I do for you today?” he asked kindly, his accent was thick, but his English wasn’t broken. You felt embarrassed heat rush to your cheeks. You’ve never had this problem before. Then again, you rarely left London.

“I’m lost. Do you know where this address is?” You questioned, showing him the address the lawyer wrote down on a piece of scrap paper. The shopkeeper peered at the paper for a moment before looking at you.

“That’s Heelshire mansion,” he announced loud enough for everyone in the shop to hear. “–Why do you need to know where Heelshire is?” A light dusting of blush rested on your cheeks. You don’t know why this was. You weren’t overly embarrassed by the Heelshire side of your family. Sure, growing up you’d hear stories about them. While your dad was alive he was very frustrated with your grandparents and how they chose to grieve the loss of their precious baby boy, Brahms. Maybe it wasn’t your grandparents you were embarrassed by, maybe it was Brahms. Having to lug a doll around in place of a real child. Sure, baby dolls are good for parents to grieve and say goodbye but usually with that type of therapy the doll is integrated out of their lives. But you weren’t grieving the loss of your uncle. You never met him. You were born shortly after he died. The only reason you still have the doll is to sell it.

“You’re not the new nanny, are you?” The shopkeeper inquired in a worried tone. You recoiled slightly, unsure of what was happening. Nanny? For who? There hasn’t been a child in that house for eighteen years.

After a moment of confusion you shared a smile, probably s very uncomfortable looking smile, and shook your head.

“I’m the new owner,” you replied confidently. A false bravado in your voice. The shop went dead silent, you could hear a mouse piss from across the room. You could feel eyes boring into you from all angles.

“You’re Evelyn Heelshire?” A voice said from behind you. You turned to see an elderly woman staring at you from around the corner of the shelves. She was about your height and very ashy looking. Her frail boney fingers clutched the basket until her knuckles were snow white.

“Yeah,” you murmured. “–I am.”

“Cursed,” the woman whimpered, her voice quaking with fear and hate. Your eyebrows knitted together as you looked at that woman.

“Excuse me?” You flashed a shy smile, hoping you didn’t hear her correctly. Her knuckles cracked and popped as she uncurled one hand from the basket handle. The woman lifted her hand, pointing her ashy white honey index finger at you. A sudden wave of fear and dread filled you.

“Cursed is the child born of Heelshire blood,” she said in a stone cold raspy voice. It sent a shive screaming up and down your spine, raising every hair of your body.

“Don’t start this again Meredith,” the shopkeeper warned in a gentle but assertive way. You couldn’t take your eyes off her. For some reason, you were afraid she was right. It seems silly now that you’re eighteen, but earlier in your teenage years you believed your family was cursed. You don’t know why, or where that idea came from, but it’s stuck with you for years. Like a lemon in the back of your mind, sometimes it sours your thoughts and leads you down a rabbit hole that goes back generations.

You sucked on the sour mental lemon as you stared at this woman, who was going off on a tangent. About what? You have no clue, you were so far away in your mind you weren’t overly aware of your surroundings. You could see the woman being escorted out of the shop by the shop keeper and another kind woman, but I wasn’t registering anything around me.

You were jerked back to reality when you felt a warm hand touch your bare arm. You jumped and your gaze snapped in the direction you were being touched. You were met with, as your mum puts it, you were met with a goddamn drink of lemonade on a summer day. This man standing before you was made of marble; pale skin but defined muscles in his arms and shoulders. He was tall, maybe just over six foot. He had shaggy black hair with matching deep brown eyes that seemed to glow in the light. He clearly takes care of himself; his skin was clear and glowed with health, and his dark bushy eyebrows were well groomed. He had a handsome but friendly face. The expression he wore told you that he was mildly concerned for you.

“Don’t mind Meredith, she truly means no harm,” the mystery man told you in a kind tone. You swallowed hard, gulping down the giddiness of being touched by such a beautiful human being. You pursed your lips as the haziness in your mind cleared and you processed what had just happened, and what is happening now. You gently pulled your arm away from his warm touch and looked back to the door.

“I don’t know what universe where telling someone they’re cursed isn’t considered ill intent,” you commented, turning your attention to meet his soft gaze. He frowned momentarily, diverting his gaze away from you. But his expression and attention changed. His jaw flexed and you were the center of his dark studying eyes.

“Are you really Evelyn Heelshire?” He questioned, crossing his arms over his puffed out chest. You noted he was purposely flexing his arms as well. If your mum ever taught you anything about the male population, if they think you’re cute, they’ll flex. It doesn’t matter if it’s muscles, money or cars. If an man is proud of something that belongs to him, he’s gonna try and impress girls with it. It’s the law of nature.

A sly half smirk curled at the corners of your lips as you looked him up and down before meeting his stare. You turned your body so it was facing him and mimicked his stance; crossing your arms over your chest, boosting you breasts up ever so slightly.

“Depends on who’s asking?” You shot back in a snarky tone. The mystery man broke out in a smile and small chuckle, before it snowballed into a full chuckle.. You dropped your arms back down to your sides cracking a full smile as well.

“My name is Felix, I’m your delivery boy,” he told you with a hand on his chest. Your eyebrows fell together and you tilted your head to the side confusedly.

“My delivery boy?” You repeated. Felix nodded but then caught on that you have no idea what was happening.

“Your grandparents set up weekly grocery delivery. Usually they have Malcom do it but he and that last nanny bailed one night, never to be seen again. So I’m your delivery boy now. And I can take you to the mansion if you’d like,” Felix explained to you. Your eyebrows stayed knitted together as more confusion clouded your mind. He’s the second person to mention a nanny at the mansion. Who’s the nanny for?

You sucked your teeth for a moment, contemplating if you should trust Felix or not. He already knows where you live which isn’t bad except for the fact that he wants to show you to the mansion when you’re by yourself.

You mentally shook those paranoid thoughts out of your head.

“Promise you’re not a serial killer…. –Or like rapist?” You said in a little voice. Felix looked down at you as if waiting for a sign that this is a joke. When he didn’t see one he sighed heavily and nodded.

“I promise I’m not a serial killer or rapist,” Felix replied in a convincing tone. Either way, you stuck up your pinky finger and stared into his soul.

“Pinky promise?” Felix sighed again and begrudgingly wrapped his pinky finger around yours. You gave him a sure nod and smiled briefly. Felix told the shopkeeper that he was going to show you your way and will be back soon as he escorted you out of the shop. You got back in your car as he went to the one parked a couple meters behind you.

Once you got in your car you sighed heavily and rested your head against the headrest, closing your eyes. If only you had better service, you could’ve avoided this entire fiasco. You thought your stay at Heelshire would mean you’re left alone, yet here you were, being escorted to your new home by a handsome but complete stranger Also a random old woman just told you you’re cursed because of your bloodline.

‘What a way to begin this new life.’

#writing #horror #wattpad #writer #brahms headcanons #brahms heelsire x reader #brahms heelshire #brahms the boy #scary stories #haunted #haunted house #mystery #writers #my writing #writeblr

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