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ohproserpine · 3 months

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vi. deer dolly

see all chapters here tags: fem! reader, reader is a performer in a speakeasy, heavy warning for violence and blood, overdose, murder, death, hunting, graphic descriptions of injuries, manipulation, allusion to death, grey morality, references to alcoholism, twisted view of love, gorey descriptions of love, murder, heated scene (making out)

˚୨୧₊♱

You never really liked cars.

The first time you had ridden in one was in the 1930s.

It was after one of your shifts, the wet streets illuminated only by the flickering glow of the rusting lampposts. There you stood, still in your glad rags and wrapped in a coat, the misty drizzle kissing your face. Alastor arrived a few minutes later with a honk of his horn, surprising you with a ride home in his latest purchase—a stunning red car with a sleek roof that gleamed in the dim light, its long, sweeping fenders and rounded body cutting a striking figure against the darkness of the night.

As you got into the car, excitement tingled in your veins, eager to experience the wonders of modern transportation. However, the thrill quickly turned to fear as the speeds increased, and your husband, the ass he was, seemed to enjoy nothing more than pushing the accelerator and hearing your horrified screams. Each time the car accelerated, you found yourself clinging onto him for dear life, the rush of wind slamming against your flushed face, your heart racing in your chest.

Since then, you swore never to get into a car again, preferring the safety of solid ground beneath your feet, the memory of that terrifying ride haunting your thoughts whenever you heard the roar of an engine.

Now, standing outside and shivering in the cold, you watched as a long royal blue limo pulled up before you. The sleek vehicle gleamed under the streetlights, its polished surface reflecting the dim glow of the surrounding city. The doors, adorned with gold accents, were automated and opened up for you, revealing a plush interior illuminated by soft, warm lighting. Small steps extended gracefully from below, inviting you to step inside.

Velvette wasted no time and went in first, her stiletto heels clicking against the polished floor as she settled into one of the luxurious seats. Already engrossed in a phone call, her voice echoed faintly through the open doorway, mingling with the low hum of the engine.

Meanwhile, Vox stood by your side, his imposing figure casting a shadow over the pavement. You knew he was making sure you wouldn't attempt to escape, although the thought barely crossed your mind.

After all, where could you possibly run to now? Any endeavor in that direction would likely prove futile and possibly even fatal. The evidence of your soul being sold was clear, evident in the now black color of your sclera.

"Well," Vox drawled, his voice carrying a subtle edge of impatience as he gestured towards the open limousine door. "Aren't you going to go in?"

You hesitated, biting your lip as you reluctantly took a step back. Vox eyed your actions warily.

"Is it safe?" you found yourself blurting out, your voice trembling with uncertainty.

"Is it safe?" Vox repeated with a scoff, a hint of annoyance flickering in his eyes. "Of course it's safe! I made it!"

He pointed to the VoxTek logo on the car—as though he were a seasoned salesman promoting a product. The metal emblem gleamed under the faint streetlights. Yet, rather than assuring you, the sight of the branding only heightened your unease.

Vox noticed the lack of change in your expression and sighed, deciding to take a different approach. With a faint glimmer of empathy, he motioned toward a nearby building which had a large billboard featuring his face and image.

"See there?" he gestured, his tone adopting a persuasive edge. "See what that billboard says? VoxTek is a symbol of power and security. You're in the safest hands possible. This limousine is equipped with state-of-the-art safety features."

His attempt to reassure you only rang hollow in your ears, and despite his words, a sense of unease continued to gnaw at you. Yet, Vox still persisted, his voice softening as he stepped closer to you. You had to crane your head up to look at him while he stared down at you, his figure casting a shadow over your form.

"I assure you," he pressed, his tone gentler now. "You have nothing to fear."

With no other choice but to comply, you reluctantly stepped forward, your movements stiff and hesitant. Vox held your hand as he guided you towards the waiting limousine. As you entered the luxurious interior, the door closed behind you with a soft click, sealing your fate as the vehicle pulled away from the curb and disappeared into the night.

Outside, the city lights blurred into streaks of color as the limousine sped through the streets. With each passing moment, the distance between you and Mimzy's torn-down lounge grew.

Lost in your thoughts, you barely noticed when the limousine finally came to a stop, the sudden silence jolting you back to reality. As the door opened with a soft hiss, you gazed out to behold the imposing V Tower looming before you.

Its grandeur was undeniable, with its towering floors and striking red windows gleaming in the night. At the very top, a massive antenna sat, reaching towards the sky like a beacon, while a studio sign was plastered along the building's front, featuring red lips nestled within the arches of the middle V, an iconic symbol of the entertainment empire housed within.

Vox and Velvette emerged from the limousine, their presence causing a few loiterers on the street to scurry away in fear.

Oh, how you wished you could do the same.

Inside the car, you hesitated, nerves coiling in your stomach as you fidgeted with your hands. Then, unexpectedly, Vox turned to you, his expression unreadable as he extended his hand.

Surprised, you paused for a moment before accepting his hand, allowing him to guide you down the steps. The chilly night air enveloped you as your feet touched the pavement, the distant sound of the limo's engine fading away as it drove off.

Seconds passed, and Vox still maintained his grip on your hand, his hold firm. Confusion flickered in your mind as you turned to him, noticing the irritation in his gaze as he eyed your wedding ring.

"Is there a problem, mister?" you asked as you followed his gaze to your ring.

Vox's expression remained inscrutable for a moment before he finally responded, his tone cool and detached.

"I suggest you ditch that," he said, his eyes narrowing slightly. "It's a liability now. Doesn't do any favors for your image, doll."

"But I'm awfully attached. It's…" you began, your voice trailing off as you struggled to find a good enough excuse.

You knew all too well the consequences of revealing your connection, especially in your current vulnerable state. The mere mention of Alastor's name could unravel everything, plunging you deeper into this mess. With two powerful overlords and a soul contract hanging over your head like a guillotine, caution was not just a choice but a necessity.

"It's a symbol of your past life," Vox interjected, his voice cutting through your hesitation.

"And we're leaving that behind now." He extended his hand, the glint of his metal claws catching the dim light, mirroring the uncertainty in your expression. "Hand it over."

With a resigned sigh, you reluctantly slipped the ring off your finger, a pang of loss gripping your heart as you handed it to the overlord. Vox accepted it with a dismissive nod before tucking it into his pocket, his attention already turning back to the looming entrance of the V Tower.

As you entered the building flanked by both Vox and Velvette, you were immediately struck by the brash, modern atmosphere that engulfed you. The walls were painted in bold hues of pink and red, illuminated by the glare of oversized LED screens that flashed with images and advertisements for upcoming events. The floor beneath your feet was polished to a sterile sheen, reflecting the harsh neon lights that bathed the space.

Velvette, with her usual air of haughty superiority, led the way to your room, her steps brisk and impatient. She barely spared you a glance as she gestured towards the metal door that stood before you, its surface cold and unwelcoming.

With a swish of her fingers, she conjured an obtrusively bright star decoration on the wall, reminiscent of celebrity door decorations found in Hollywood, with your name scrawled in cursive on its surface.

"Right, if there's anything you need, you just go down to the lobby and find someone named Shalom," Velvette barked, her tone sharp and impatient, her eyes darting around the room as if searching for an escape route.

"Say, is there a chance I could lay my mitts on a radio?" you asked, hoping to grasp onto some semblance of familiarity in this alien environment, your eyes flitting back and forth between the two of them.

But instead of a response, Vox began to buffer, his screen flashing with bright neon glitches, while Velvette's lips curled into a sneer, her expression one of thinly veiled contempt and amusement at your request.

"Guess I'll take that as a no then?" you smiled tensely, your attempt falling flat.

To your surprise, Vox shook his head, and his screen flashed back to his face, the glitches disappearing as quickly as they had come.

The TV demon reached into his pocket and pulled out a sleek smartphone. Without a word, he plopped it into your hand, and you turned it over, confusion evident on your face.

"A phone?" you said, flabbergasted, your eyebrows shooting up in disbelief. You blinked in astonishment, the absurdity of the situation not lost on you. You were more surprised by the fact that it came from his pocket. Does he keep random smartphones on him at all times?

"Yes, a phone," Vox confirmed with a smirk, a hint of pride dancing in his eyes. "Consider it a courtesy from VoxTek. No need for a radio when we have such sleek products. This is the future! You don't need old shit from the past. Those radios barely pick up anything worth listening to, just crappy, barely audible broadcasts."

"Oh," you said, the air deflating from your lungs as a pang of disappointment settled in your chest. The phone was a thoughtful gesture, but it wasn't going to fix your longing to speak to Alastor. "Well. I suppose I should thank you."

"Don't mention it," Vox replied casually, his demeanor shifting back to its usual aloofness, his tone devoid of any genuine warmth or concern.

With a resigned sigh, you turned and stepped into your new room. You looked around the décor curiously, taking in the sleek modern furniture and it's peculiar design.

Velvette followed closely behind you, her eyes, framed with smoky eyeshadow, narrowing as she regarded you with disgust. The glint of her perfectly manicured nails caught the harsh overhead lights as she folded her arms across her chest.

"Really? A hooverette dress?" Velvette sneered, each syllable dripping with disdain. "You're like a relic from the '40s. Outdated."

You felt a surge of anger at the comment. Sure, you died near the 1940s, but that didn't mean you were outdated. Before you could even muster a response, Velvette raised a hand, and with a flick of her fingers, she effortlessly transformed the fabric of your dress. It rippled and shifted, morphing before your eyes into a pink silk pajama robe, trimmed with a cream-colored fur. She stepped back, a self-satisfied smirk curling her lips as she admired her handiwork.

"Much better," she declared with a clap. "Listen, you're representing VoxTek now. Even when sleeping, we can't have you looking like a washed-up has-been, can we?"

Swallowing your pride, you forced a tight-lipped nod, suppressing the urge to lash out in defiance.

"Yes, ma'am," you managed to grit out, your voice strained. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet," she retorted, her tone sharp and dismissive. "I've got a lot of work to do, and you've got a long way to go before I can get you stage ready."

With that, Velvette stormed out of the room, her heels clicking sharply against the polished floor with each brisk step. As she disappeared from view, Vox leaned in, his shadow casting a long silhouette against the wall. He reached for the doorknob, his fingers gliding over the cool metal.

"Goodnight," he murmured softly, his voice barely audible above the hum of the air conditioning. With a gentle pull, he closed the door with a thud, sealing you in with your thoughts and fears. The latch clicked shut, and you were left alone, enveloped in the eerie silence of the unfamiliar space.

With a heavy sigh, you turned to survey your room even closer.

Your eyes swept over the tall walls adorned with abstract artwork, bursts of vibrant colors contrasting sharply with the subdued hues of the furniture. The wide windows offered a breathtaking view of the city skyline, with skyscrapers twinkling in the distance like distant constellations.

Approaching the plush king-sized bed, you sank into its cloud-like mattress, feeling its comforting embrace envelop you. It was definitely an improvement from Mimzy's lounge. And yet, despite the luxurious trappings, a sense of confinement lingered. After all, a gilded cage remains a cage.

As you assessed your situation, it became clear that you were going to be the star attraction in Velvette's upcoming fashion extravaganza. Her shows were always a hit, and this year's circus-themed spectacle had her buzzing with excitement. The lead model was a singer-actress you'd heard of; you'd seen her the day Mimzy dragged her into the lounge. Pity the poor girl died.

Given the circus motif, it was apparent why Velvette had chosen you. Your background as a singer, coupled with your doll-like appearance, made you the perfect fit for the role.

The best course of action now was to play it safe. Going along with her plan was sure to draw attention, from the lowest imps to Lucifer Morningstar himself. Your face was bound to be plastered on every screen in the infernal realm, broadcasted to demons and damned souls alike. Even with his hatred for the picture shows, Alastor would have to be both blind and deaf to miss this.

He would come for you, you knew it deep in your bones, and yet a pessimistic voice in the back of your head whispered doubts.

Did you even deserve to be taken back after all of this?

With these thoughts weighing heavily on your mind like an anchor dragging you into the depths, you closed your eyes, seeking solace in the darkness behind your lids. But sleep remained elusive, evading your grasp.

As the night wore on, exhaustion crept over you like a heavy fog, its tendrils enveloping you in a suffocating embrace. Despite the turmoil raging within, your body succumbed to weariness, and gradually, you slipped into your dreams.

˚୨୧₊♱

Both you and Alastor embarked on a slow journey through the darkened streets of Louisiana, the car's headlights cutting through the enveloping gloom like beacons. Carefully navigating the labyrinthine city, you avoided the occasional patrol car with its blinding flashlights, skirting through shadowed alleys and side streets to evade detection.

Finally reaching the outskirts of town, where the forest awaited, Alastor brought the car to a halt, the engine's low hum fading into silence. Turning to you, he noticed the fear etched on your face, your wide eyes reflecting the dim glow of the dashboard lights.

With a tender touch, Alastor took your face in his hands, calling for you. "Cher?"

You turned to him, your lips parting slightly as tears welled in your eyes. Alastor's touch was feather-light as his fingertips traced a delicate path along the curve of your cheek. With a gentle brush of his thumb, he coaxed your eyelids closed. Tears streamed down your cheeks, leaving a trail in their wake. As you blinked your eyes open again, you were met with the tender press of his lips against yours.

"We did what we had to do," Alastor murmured against your lips, his voice a low rasp that sent goosebumps dancing across your skin.

With his eyes closed, he leaned in closer, his kiss growing more urgent, almost desperate. You responded in kind, the roughness of the kiss igniting a fire within you.

Feeling his fingers threading through the back of your hair, you whimpered and melted into his embrace, your hands clutching onto his broad shoulders, nails digging into the fabric of his button-up shirt. Alastor groaned in response as he lifted you effortlessly from the passenger seat and settled you onto his lap. Your chest pressed flat against his, the rhythm of your heartbeat syncing with his own.

As the sky grew darker, the moon mingling with the fading hues of sunset, the wind whispered through the open windows of the car, carrying with it the promise of a new beginning.

Alastor eventually pulled away, his gaze lingering on your tousled hair and puffy lips as he leaned back in his seat, taking in every detail of your appearance. Seeing you in such a ruined state stirred something within him.

"Are you ready?" he asked. You nodded meekly in response, your heart racing.

Truth be told, you didn't think you could ever truly be ready for what you were about to do.

Your husband hummed in acknowledgment, allowing you to slip off his lap as he straightened his brown coat, the fabric rustling softly with each movement.

Guiding you out of the car, he then reached into the backseat, retrieving his hunting gun. The metallic click of the firearm being loaded echoed in the quiet night. And you damn near fainted when he handed it to you, the weight of it feeling heavier than you could bear. The metal surface was icy against your palm, and you fought the urge to recoil, but Alastor pressed it firmly into your hand, his touch reassuring yet commanding.

"You'll need this," Alastor spoke lowly, bending down to your height, his glasses slipping further down the bridge of his nose. "Use it for safety. There might be wild animals out."

You hesitated, the weight of the weapon heavy in your hand, but the urgency in his tone spurred you to nod in agreement.

"Do you remember when I taught you how to hunt?" he questioned, slipping on a pair of dark leather gloves he had pulled out of his pocket. His voice was low and smooth, laced with a hint of nostalgia. "You remember how to shoot, no?"

You nodded, eyes still glued to the gun, unable to tear your gaze away.

"Words, cher. Use your words."

"Yes, love," you whispered, finding your voice. Alastor smiled, the rough texture of his glove grazing gently against your cheek as he pressed his hand to your face one last time before stepping away.

Your husband made his way to the trunk of the car, the soft glow of the taillights casting long shadows across the forest floor. With strong pull, he opened it, revealing its contents. Your breath caught in your throat as he retrieved a shovel and a black body bag, the sight sending a sickening feeling through your stomach.

Alastor slung the bag over his shoulder and began walking, his steps confident, as if he knew exactly where he was going. The weight of the bag seemed inconsequential to him, swinging lightly with each stride. There was an odd, almost unsettling look in his eyes as he whistled a tune, the sound echoing eerily through the silent woods. A glint of something primal and untamed flickered within their depths.

Nonetheless, you followed him, drawn to his presence like a moth to a flame.

Trudging deeper, the shadows seemed to grow darker, more menacing. The silence pressed in on you from all sides, broken only by Alastor's whistling and the sound of your footsteps crunching on the forest floor. Each step felt like a descent into madness, the unknown lurking just beyond the reach of your flashlight's beam.

Suddenly, Alastor halted in a secluded corner, where the trees were decaying, their long branches resembling gnarled fingers reaching out for you in the darkness. He turned to you, the dim light of your flashlight reflecting off his glasses, giving his brown eyes an otherworldly glint.

In that moment, illuminated by the pale beam, he looked almost demonic, his features twisted by the play of light and shadow.

"I'll be back shortly, cher," he hummed with a smile, adjusting the bag over his shoulder. You couldn't help but notice a darkened spot on his brown coat, the collar of his white button-up now stained with crimson. "Stay here."

With that, he disappeared into the darkness, his figure swallowed by the shadows of the forest, leaving you alone amidst the looming trees.

Time stretched on endlessly, each minute feeling like an eternity as you stood alone. Faintly, you could hear the distant sound of Alastor's shovel breaking through the earth's surface, its metallic scrape and the muffled thud as it struck the soil sending another wave of nausea curling in your gut, each noise a grim reminder of the task at hand.

All you wanted was to escape, to return to the safety of your quaint house in the city.

More than anything, you longed to open a bottle of whiskey, to drown your fears and sorrows in its comforting embrace. Maybe have a second, or a third, and just forget.

Forget about all of this. Forget it all ever happened. But deep down, you knew that no amount of alcohol could erase the memories of tonight, each image now etched into your mind like scars on your soul.

All of a sudden, a rustling sound behind you sent a jolt of adrenaline through your veins, followed by the distant but unmistakable bark of dogs. The sound seemed to come from all directions, surrounding you in a menacing chorus.

With a sharp gasp, you spun round and round in a whirl, your vision tunneling with fear as you scanned the darkness, eyes wide and frantic. Every rustle of the leaves, every snap of a twig, seemed to magnify the sense of dread that gripped you. Your breaths came in ragged gasps, the cool night air burning in your lungs as you struggled to keep your composure.

And then, without warning, something lunged from the darkness, a blur of movement that sent your heart racing even faster. Instinct took over, and without thinking, you raised the gun and fired, the deafening sound reverberating through the silent forest.

You gasped for air, the rush of adrenaline coursing through your veins as you found yourself sitting on the damp, muddy ground. The recoil of the gun had sent you sprawling backward, leaving you disoriented and breathless.

With trembling hands, you clutched the gun closer to your chest, the cold metal providing a shaky sense of security in the darkness. Despite the fear coursing through your veins, a surge of determination propelled you forward, your muscles tensed and ready for whatever danger lay ahead. Scrambling to your feet, you pushed yourself onward.

Each step was punctuated by the crunch of underbrush beneath your boots, the sound amplifying in the stillness of the forest. Amidst the shadows and foliage, you caught a blur of brown, relief flooding through you like a wave crashing against the shore.

Oh, heavens, it was just a deer.

As you trudged towards the poor animal, your foot caught on a branch, and you stumbled, the unforgiving forest floor meeting your body with a painful thud. In the fall, your gun slipped from your grasp, skidding off into the shadows.

Wincing, you pushed yourself up to your knees, the earthy scent of decay mingling with the metallic tang of blood. You looked toward the fallen creature, its form now visible in the dim moonlight filtering through the trees. But as you crawled over, dread crept into your heart.

There, lying face down on the dirt, was Alastor, his once-immaculate brown coat now dirtied, blending seamlessly with mud. His glasses lay shattered and discarded in front of him, glinting faintly in the dim moonlight that danced across the forest floor. A pool of crimson blood seeped from his head, staining the earth beneath him.

Your eyes widened with renewed horror as the truth dawned upon you, and you fell onto your back, scrambling away from the corpse of your husband, the damp earth sticking to your palms as you clawed at the ground in your panic.

The bark of the dogs were louder now, closer. Ignoring the dizzy vertigo in your head, you pushed yourself to your feet, your senses on high alert.

You choked out a broken apology but found that you could not hear it, that you could not make any sound at all.

You breathed, it was all you could do, all you could manage at the moment, and with the terrible weight on your chest, even that was made difficult.

What have you done?

˚୨୧₊♱

"Salutations! It's Tom back on the airwaves! Hold onto your hats because we've got some news that'll knock your socks off! Alastor Caron, the big shot radio host and husband of underground singer Dolly, also known as Y/N Caron, has been found pushing up daisies out in the sticks of Louisiana!

That's right, folks, he's dead!

Word on the street is, ol' Alastor met our maker with a bullet to the head in what can only be described as a real tragic whodunit. Sources close to the case are whispering in the wind, suggesting that Dolly herself might be mixed up in this spicy little affair. The coppers found her fingerprints on the gun! Can you believe it?! Stay tuned as we peel back the curtain and spill the tea on this sto—"

You shut the radio off with a frustrated slam of your fist, the sound echoing through the desolate living room.

Eviction papers and newspapers, crumpled and worn from countless readings, are strewn haphazardly across the table.

"Gone Girl," "Husband-killer," "Missing Marionette," "A Doll's Vanishing Act," "Manhunt underway for Suspected Murderer," "Louisiana Radio Host dead; Wife blamed."

The headlines scream, each word a painful reminder of the nightmare engulfing your life.

Empty bottles litter around you, their contents spilled and forgotten, the sharp scent of alcohol mingling with the drowning feeling of grief that permeates the room. Sirens wail in the distance while red and blue lights dance along the walls, cast by the dim light filtering through tightly shut curtains.

As you reach for another bottle, the drinks blur into one another, their labels indistinguishable in the dark room. The burning sensation as the liquid courses down your throat offers temporary relief from the turmoil raging inside your mind, numbing the pain and grief threatening to consume you. Each sip takes you further into a haze.

The room spins around you, items warping and dancing in a twisted mockery of your predicament. There are whispers now, soft and insidious, slithering into your ears like serpents. You try to push away the accusing voices echoing in your mind, drowning them out with your bottle's numbing embrace. But with each passing moment, the weight of the accusations grows heavier, dragging you deeper into despair.

Nausea churns in the pit of your stomach, and you finally stop moving, the dizziness overwhelming you. A deathly coldness settles over you, seeping into your bones like icy tendrils, causing you to shiver involuntarily. Your fingers lose their grip on the bottle, and it crashes to the ground with a shattering sound that echoes in the stillness of the room, shards of glass scattering across the floor like stars falling from the sky. You follow suit, collapsing onto the floor, limbs heavy and muscles twitching.

You stare vacantly ahead, unable to move, your eyes glazed over with a hollow emptiness as a sense of dread washes over you, suffusing the air with an oppressive weight. Each breath feels like a battle, your chest tightening with every inhalation, as if your lungs were filled with water.

Your breaths grow more labored, each one shallower than the last, until they eventually cease altogether, leaving you gasping for air that refuses to come.

The world around you fades into darkness, the edges of your vision blurring as consciousness slips away, leaving you engulfed in a silence broken only by the faint echo of your last heartbeat.

˚୨୧₊♱

There was screaming.

Footsteps thudded along a path nearby, accompanied by the fluttering of wings as creatures soared overhead.

You awaken with a startle, disoriented and groggy.

Slowly sitting up, you find yourself surrounded by a crimson landscape, a pentagram shimmering ominously in the air above you. As you move, your hand sinks into something cold and wet, a sickening squelch accompanying the sensation.

Horror grips you as you realize your hand is touching a corpse, its monstrous form adorned with twisted horns, jagged tails, and rows of sharp teeth. The pair of lifeless eyes shift and stare into you, devoid of any trace of humanity.

Frozen with terror and panic, you scramble away from the grotesque sight, the ground slick with crimson ichor, each step leaving bloody handprints and footprints in your wake.

The evening light of this place reveals a grim environment surrounding you – a lumpy, uneven field of corpses and bones, a mass grave unlike any you've ever seen. But these corpses are not human; they are demonic, twisted and contorted in death.

Before you can even make sense of this grotesque scene, a spear slices through the air, its sharp tip gleaming in the dim light. With a thud, it embeds itself into the ground beside you. A sharp, stinging sensation follows as your cheeks burn, crimson liquid trailing down your skin.

Gasping for breath, you look up and catch sight of a figure soaring overhead, its massive wings spread wide against the crimson sky. Each beat sends a gust of wind rushing past you, whipping your hair around your face. The figure's single eye fixates on you, its gaze piercing through the darkness, the other obscured by a large 'X' mark.

Adrenaline surges through your veins as you run away, the cold sweat of fear prickling your skin.

Your surroundings blur into a chaotic whirlwind as you race through the labyrinthine alleys of Hell. With every stride, your heart pounds in your chest like a drum. Each footfall echoes in the narrow passageways, the walls closing in around you like a vice, but the chase of the angel behind you drives you forward, your muscles burning with exertion as you push yourself to your limits.

Suddenly, you're yanked to a stop, your body colliding with a stone floor as you're pulled into a hidden doorway. Pain shoots through your arm, and you wince, clutching it tightly against your chest. It throbs with a dull ache, bruised from the fall.

As you cautiously lift your gaze, you find yourself in a familiar setting—a speakeasy, though more rugged and rundown than you were used to. The air is thick with the scent of cigarette smoke and stale alcohol. Mismatched furniture and a barely held-together bar give the place a sense of makeshift charm.

"Well, look who it is."

The voice freezes you in place, and your eyes nervously move upward to see a familiar blonde woman before you, her sharp teeth glinting in the dim light, her eyes dark and intense.

"Mimzy?" you whisper, disbelief coloring your voice.

"It's me!" she cheers, swinging her legs and jazzing her arms up in the air. With a jump, she plops onto the ground, circling your hunched-over form with a mischievous grin. "How you doin', Dolly?"

"How?" your mind scrambles. "You-You…"

"I know! You thought I was dead?" she snickers before knocking you upside the head playfully. "Welcome to the afterlife, you ditz!"

"What?" you rasp, eyes frantically darting from her to your surroundings. "What are you talking about? Why do you look like that?!"

"Look what? Adorable~?" Mimzy hums and waltzes over to a gramophone, inserting a disk and starting a scratching melody that fills the speakeasy.

Hello, Dolly! Well, hello, Dolly! It's so nice to have you back where you belong~

"Come on, Dolly," Mimzy says, her voice low and melodic as she sways to the music. The bedazzled fringes of her dress sparkle in the dim light as she twirls, her heels dragging along the floorboards. "You haven't been living under a rock, have you? Or did'ja just arrive?"

You're lookin' swell, Dolly I can tell, Dolly You're still glowin', you're still crowin' You're still goin' strong

"I don't understand," you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper as you struggle to comprehend what's happening. Everything feels like a dream—a nightmare, more accurately. "Where am I? What's going on?"

"We're both dead," Mimzy chuckles, tapping her heels along to the beat.

We feel the room swayin' While the band's playin' One of your old favourite songs from way back when

"What do you mean?" you manage to croak out, the words barely audible over the music.

Mimzy pauses mid-twirl. "Oh, Dolly," she sighs, shaking her head. "Hell, darling. We're in Hell."

Your blood runs cold at her words, the reality of your situation sinking in like a heavy weight on your chest. The memories of that fateful night flood your mind, filling you with a sense of guilt and despair.

Before you can voice your thoughts, Mimzy grabs your hand and pulls you into a dance, the gramophone's melody swirling around you like a sinister lullaby.

"So, take her wrap, fellas," Mimzy sings along, her laughter echoing off the walls. Her eyes gleam with a mischievous light as she leads you through the steps of the choreography you once knew so well. She twirls you around and drops you into a dip. "Find her an empty lap, fellas!"

"Dolly'll never go away again~"

You feel a surge of frustration building within you, the absurdity of overwhelming your senses. With a shout of anger, you push Mimzy away, a scowl etched deep on your face. She stumbles back, nearly losing her balance in her heels, her smile fading into a look of annoyance.

"Will you cut it out!" you snap, your voice echoing in the empty speakeasy. "Tell me what's going on!"

"Killjoy." Mimzy rolls her eyes and lets out a scoff, a smirk playing at the corner of her lips. She moves over to the gramophone and turns it off, the melody abruptly silenced.

"I just told you what was going on, you doof!" Mimzy retorts, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. The speakeasy falls into an uneasy silence, the air thick with tension, broken only by the faint sound of distant screams echoing outside the building. You gesture toward the source of the noise with a look of shock.

"Alright, I know well enough why I'm here, but what is that?" you inquire, your voice tinged with apprehension.

"An extermination. Angels come here to rid of sinners and such," Mimzy shrugs, her expression nonchalant despite the gravity of her words.

"Well, what about Alastor?" you press, the worry evident in your voice.

Mimzy's expression darkens, a flicker of anger crossing her features before she quickly masks it with a smirk. "Oh, you mean your darling husband? He's probably causing chaos somewhere, as usual. He'll be fine."

"I don't think he even knows you're here," she adds on with a yawn. "He probably thinks you're up in the shiny gates of heaven with his momma or something."

"Al knows I'm already dead?" you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

"Yup!" Mimzy chirps, her grin widening. "Your death came out in the news months ago. But only Lord knows why it took 'em so long to get you through purgatory."

The barrage of new information leaves you dizzy, your head spinning with the implications. "Wait—my death? The news?"

Mimzy moves over to the bar, kneeling down the worn floorboards as she digs through the bottom drawers.

"Didja know there's this little killin' business in Hell? I.M.P.—the Immediate Murder Professionals. And there's this cute little fella named Blitzo who does deliveries for me. I was his first costumer and poor guy needs the extra money so—"

"Mimzy, why are you telling me this?" you interject, confusion evident in your tone.

Mimzy's grin widens as she peeks at you from over the counter, her eyes gleaming with mischief.

"Well, sweetcheeks," she purrs, continuing to leaf through piles of paper, "if you paid attention to their name, they do murder. Murder in the human world, to be exact. And I hired them to go snuff you out!"

"But lo and behold, to my surprise," Mimzy continues, her tone laced with amusement, "you did their job for 'em! And this is what they brought back as proof."

With a flourish, Mimzy procures a newspaper from the depths of the cabident, her hands waving it around in excitement. She throws it to you, and you catch it, fumbling to see the headline. Your stomach churns as you take in the bold letters.

'LAST SWING: Speakeasy Star Suspected of Husband's Murder Dies in Alcohol Overdose.'

"Hi-larious!" Mimzy snorts as she presses a finger against the title, her expression gleeful. You hold the paper up, your hands trembling as you read through the article detailing your own death.

With a cackle, Mimzy jumps onto a nearby table, her movements lithe and energetic as she snatches the paper away from you.

"So, did'ja do it?" she taunts, leaning in close to your face with a devilish grin. "Didn't take you as the type. What was it? Poison? Housewife classic, I tell ya. Maybe a knife? Good ole push him down the stairs? Or was it a gun?"

You tense up at her last words, a cold sweat breaking out on your forehead. Mimzy smirks, her snicker ringing out like a sinister melody. Curls bounce around her face as she leans in closer, her lips practically ghosting against your cut.

"You shot him?"

"I—" you stutter, your breath catching in your throat as you run a hand through your frazzled hair, the disheveled strands tangling under your trembling fingers. "I didn't mean to! Heavens. I thought he was a deer!"

At that, Mimzy bursts out in loud laughter, tears streaming down her face as she clutches her stomach, doubling over with mirth. The sound echoes off the grimy walls of the speakeasy.

"Is that right?" she wheezes between fits of laughter, slapping her knee while still shaking with amusement. "No wonder he looks like a deer! Oh! The irony!"

"Deer?" you whisper out in confusion, your mind struggling to grasp the implications of her words amidst the chaos of her laughter. She laughs even harder at your response, kicking her feet in the air with unrestrained glee.

After a few minutes, she finally calms down. With a skip in her step and a glint in her eyes, she saunters over to you. Humming a tune, Mimzy twirls around you again, her movements fluid and graceful despite her earlier outburst.

"I know something you don't know~" she sings.

"What do you mean?" you frown, your voice trembling as you gaze at her, searching for any hint of what she's hiding.

"All in good time. I've told you a lot already, didn't I?" Mimzy replies cryptically, her tone snappy. "Let's see—I graciously saved you from that angel that was ready to spill your guts out, I've given you a wonderful welcome, helped you learn about your death, and, well, you were involved in my murder. I'd say the scales aren't balanced! You owe me. A lot."

Guilt churns in your gut as you nervously wring your hands. "Mimzy, no words can express how much guilt I feel about your—"

"Oh, cut the weeping dame bullshit. I don't care about that," Mimzy interrupts with a roll of her eyes and a wave of her hand. Her eyes gleam with a predatory intensity as she leans in closer.

"I'm feeling generous today," she purrs, her voice dripping with honeyed venom. "So, I'll make you a deal."

You eye her warily, the guilt in your gut twisting into a knot of apprehension. Despite your unease, you nod, silently urging her to continue, bracing yourself for whatever devil's bargain she has in store.

"In exchange for absolving your involvement in my murder and providing information on your husband," she whispers, her voice dripping with malice, "you'll owe me a favor. A big one. I want you to work for me again."

You tense, your mind racing as you process her proposition, a knot forming in the pit of your stomach. "What?"

Mimzy's smirk widens at your reaction, her eyes gleaming with amusement as she relishes in your discomfort. "That's right, sugar. I want you back on the job, working for me just like old times."

"Well I… I don't have much of a choice, do I?" you reply, clenching your fists in frustration.

Mimzy's laughter reverberates through the speakeasy, each chuckle sending shivers down your spine.

"Of course not! Would you prefer to go running to Alastor instead? Oh, dear hubby, please shield me from the consequences of my sins! My apologies for putting a bullet in your skull!" she mocks your voice, drawling the syllables out as she clasps her hands together and bats her eyes at you.

A surge of humiliation and guilt washes over you, weighing heavy on your shoulders as you struggle to come to terms with the choices before you.

You take a deep breath, trying to steady your racing thoughts. Despite the overwhelming guilt and shame swirling within you, you know that you're cornered. Mimzy has you right where she wants you, and the only way out is to play her game.

"Fine," you say through gritted teeth, your voice tinged with resignation. "I'll work for you again."

Mimzy's grin widens, her sharp teeth flashed at you. "Excellent choice, darling. You won't regret it."

With a snap of her fingers, a contract materializes in her hand. She hands it over to you, and you read through it. Funnily enough, it looks almost identical to your previous employment contract in the living with her, but one detail catches your eye.

"To settle the debt incurred due to the aforementioned act, Y/N Caron, acknowledging the gravity of her transgressions, agrees to become a singer for Mimzy's Lounge for a duration of ten decades," you read the line in shock. Turning to Mimzy, you clutch the contract tightly, your nails threatening to break the paper. "Ten decades?!"

"What?" Mimzy scoffs, her voice dripping with derision. "You stuck here for all of eternity anyways, and so is your husband. Might as well do something."

With a theatrical flourish, Mimzy reaches into her chest and pulls out a pen, waggling it teasingly in your face. "So? What will it be? Are ya gonna sign the contract? Or am I gonna have to throw you out where those angels can tear you to pieces?"

You read through the contract again, your eyes frantically scanning the paper for any loophole or escape route, but you come up empty-handed. With a sinking feeling in your chest, you realize that you're in this for the long haul.

"But what about Alastor?" you pressed, urgency creeping into your voice.

Mimzy's laughter filled the speakeasy, bouncing off the walls like mocking echoes. "Oh, sweetheart," she cooed with faux sympathy, "haven't you read the fine print? Your dear Alastor is strictly off-limits. Can't have him interfering with our little arrangement, now can we?"

"But… I need to see him," you pleaded, desperation lacing your words.

Mimzy's smirk widened into a wicked grin as she leaned in closer, mischief gleaming in her eyes. "And I need to make sure my end of the deal is fulfilled," she countered firmly.

Glancing down at the contract, you saw her pointing to a specific section. "Y/N Caron's husband, Alastor Caron, is strictly forbidden from being physically present around her in any way, shape, or form for the safety and integrity of this agreement."

"But… can't we find some middle ground?" you asked, a sliver of hope lingering in your voice.

"Ah, I've got an idea," Mimzy grinned , reaching into her drawer and pulling out an old radio. She extended it towards you. "You can talk with him as much as you like. This little radio will be your hotline to him. But there's a catch: he stays far, far away from you and this joint. How's that sound?"

Twisting the radio in your trembling hands, you felt the weight of the decision settle heavily on your shoulders. The device seemed ancient, its surface worn and its knobs slightly rusted, yet it held the power to bridge the seemingly insurmountable gap between you and Alastor. With a heavy sigh, you reluctantly brought the pen to the paper, the ink blotting the sheet as you signed your name away, sealing your fate.

"It's a deal."

#sephiewrites #hazbin hotel x reader #alastor x reader #hazbin hotel imagine #alastor imagine #hazbin imagine #hazbin hotel x you #alastor x you #hazbin x you #hazbin x reader #hazbin hotel #alastor #hazbin vox #hazbin hotel velvette

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wroteclassicaly · 7 months

Text

For The Record

(Steve Harrington x Female Reader)

Summary: You have a surprise for your best-friend Steve.

Word count: 1,647

Warnings: Language, NSFW, creampie, vaginal sex, slight choking, slight breeding kink if you squint, and fluff.

Pairings: Steve Harrington x Female Reader

A/N: Just a filthy little thing that I’ve been nurturing for a few days. No point to it, just showing Stevie some love! Haven’t written anything this lengthy in a while, but I hope y’all enjoy? ;P 💕❤️🥰♥️

Steve. Steve-fucking-Harrington. The heart of your group with a head of hair (that you’d washed, brushed, picked monster guts out of, and pulled, one too many times), a comforting smile that reminded you of Summer’s fading sunsets that give way to fall colors. All copper, rust, orange, mossy caramels swirling together, deep browns that look like cinnamon (smells like the gum he chews, or the breath spray he carries in his back pocket), sometimes even red in how his cheeks tinge on cold days, the way he makes your body warm. To his protective - fighter mode, like a crafted out of the finest marble guardian-angelic-god.

You’d worship at his temple. All day. Every single day.

His mouth has been in as many places as his hands. He knows every scar, just as much as he’s aware of spots, in which kissing you will cause goosebumps to electrify, sparking themselves known across your skin, or where his fingers will cause that high pitched whine to come from between your lips. You can’t really fathom that it’s been happening, especially for how long. There’s been no talk of labels, what anything means, it’s just been two friends crossing a line and fucking one another on it. You don’t know what you would’ve done, had it not been for Steve-the-hair-Harrington, King Steve, your extra heartbeat, your best-friend, your everything.

And that’s what led you to your current predicament, your planned leap of faith. Wrapped in a maroon colored mini gift bag, you had placed the packet. Steve arrived not long after, movies and pizza balanced in his massive hands, keys dangling from the middle finger of his left hand, a cheesy grin pressing into that beautiful mouth. “Hey, honey,” he had said. “Really missed you today, you know that?”

You’d taken in his appearance of dark Levi’s and a black belt, his signature Nike’s, and a low dipped white v-neck that he’d thrown a plain blue button over, leaving it open, his gold chain visible, nestled in that patch of chest hair. Salivating more at him than the food, it took you a second to help him inside.

You ate in avid chatter, watched one of the lamest, but most comforting horror films Steve could find on the shelves (that no one rented but he knew you’d appreciate), whilst being tucked beneath his bicep, warmed at his side. That’s when you’d retrieved the gift off your coffee table, his palm rubbing circles across your spine, kneading tension until you returned to your position. You handed him the bag and his bushy brows had pinched together, an adorable confusion clear. “For me? What did I do?”

“Just open it, Harrington. Before my nerves make me take it back.”

He cradled the parcel protectively, a pout forming as his watch strapped wrist dips inside. “No way, no how. Nope, not now.”

“Steve…” you laughed lightly, suddenly swallowing as he pulled the packet out, trying to make sense of the name.

“Contraceptive? I don’t… Isn’t this birth control?” He shook the packet before planting it in his massive palm.

You could feel your heartbeat in your throat, choking you like a vice, preventing you from answering in a full sentence.

“Yeah.”

“So, it’s yours? Why did you wrap it up and give it to me?”

“There’s a few missing already, Steve. I just wanted to get used to them before… Before I told you.”

“Told me, what?” He still looked puzzled, seeking out where you’d opened the package and taken a few tablets.

“That I just wanna use these from now on. Nothing else. If you, if that’s okay with you...?” You had felt the sharp claws of the butterflies, threatening to demolish your remaining courage. But this was Steve, you needed to remember that.

It took him a few moments, but then his pupils expanded within the enriching mossy flecks of his irises, at a rapid pace. His tongue licked at the five o’clock shadow above his upper lip. His voice, you’ll never forget how it sounded. Honey-hot and hoarse, raspy with bitten want, raw fucking desire. You’d clenched your thighs together, tongue eager to lick him… every-fucking-where — the burn of it felt on the muscle’s tip.

“Isn’t that something you do with a boyfriend, though? Not casual sex with a good friend, one of your best-friends?”

And you nod, vision swimming with shapes. Had you messed up? Fuck it. “It is.” Is what you’d responded with, taking the packet from him and tossing it with the bag back onto the table. The movie was rolling credits in the background and you were watching Steve’s dotted jugular as he swallowed, showcasing those tendons, all the way up to that stubble bitten jawline, dotted with freckles and moles.

“And who is your boyfriend, honey?” He had to hear you say it. If it’s what he thought it was, or you’d simply break his heart and move on to this guy. Could he really believe in a good thing again?

You leapt off that faithful precipice, years and feelings following, eyes locking, gaze unrelenting. “I was hoping it would be you.”

He was obviously choked up, orbs alight with mirth and excitement, among other things. “Funny that you mention that, because I’ve been hoping for the exact same thing.”And he’d fallen into your arms, seizing you with a kiss, noses nudging, tongues eager and messy. Clothes couldn’t come off fast enough.

The king sized condom lays unopened on your plush blush rug. Having fallen out of Steve’s wallet, that had also tumbled from his jean pocket in haste. Everything was out of control in the best possible way. You could’ve sworn you died a few minutes prior and came back as immortal — able to see through particles that floated on the air, hear cars, horns, music from houses all across town, smell the leaves that clung to the trees, damp with rain water and Autumn air. Your eyes roll back, perspiration damp behind the backs of your knees, where he’s got his current pinching grip, the fat of your thighs pressed into your tits, squishing them.

You realize in the moment, that you truly loathe condoms. Because this? Feeling that wet pre-cum smear down his shaft and around your opening as he pushed himself into you without a barrier for the first time, it was an indescribable experience. Each ridge, every vein, so hot, soft, and fucking, soaking wet. You aren’t sure where he ends and you begin. It hurts like hell, aches in the deepest parts of you, a place you know that he could easily put a child if you slipped up on your only remaining protection.

That thought makes you tighten around him, cream spilling out and further slicking back the curls gathered at his base. He drops your thighs, sweat-slick pelvis smashing into yours, stimulating your swollen clit. His chest hair scrapes against your pebbled nipples, making you arch your back and your toes curl, legs locking around his lower waist. He whines, palm coming up to grasp at your breast, calloused thumb strumming around your areola. “God, honey, your fucking nipples were made for my mouth to suck on.”

And he’s descending, his lips closing over one, tongue flicking and stimulating. You cry out, hand fisting into his honey streaked, chestnut locks. His shoulders work and bend, the dips and freckles and moles visible, glittering with the salt of sweat, his gold chain swaying out from his hairy chest and back again when he stops, nose bumping yours, hot breath on your mouth. “This pussy was made for my cock.”

And holy hell, his vocalizing focus doesn’t cease. “Who took your virginity, honey?” You both know it wasn’t him. But you are well aware what he’s getting at, and as he gives a harsh snap, those full and fat balls smacking your slick ass, you lose further coherency. “That’s right,” he’s speaking again. “They don’t matter, but I do.”

You weren’t aware that you could make the noises that you are. Only able to speak once Steve’s tugging himself and pulling out, stringing from your cunt to his shaft, a squelch echoing. You both groan, emptiness already jumpstarted. You plead for him. “Please, Stevie, need you! Put it back in —“

“Say it, say you’re just a hole for me to fill. That you’re only mine, baby.”

“I… Fuck! Stevie, all my holes are only yours, I’m only yours!”

He sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, before his jaw drops open and he whimpers. His hand leaves your breast and slides across your sternum, your collarbone, and settles at your neck. You nod to encourage, and those defined digits wrap around your throat.

“Tell me you love these big hands, sweetheart. Because they’re for you. They belong to you!”

“Want them all over me, Steve. All the time. Can’t get enough of you.”

He’s holding firm to his cock, stroking and teasing. You lick your lips as you stare at it, drooling. Reaching down, you tap his wrist (his arm, all muscles and tendons, thick and available to trace with your tongue), as he presses the thick red head into your clit, smearing the combination of you two all around. You mewl in appreciation, legs stretching so far apart that your muscles protest. He’s speaking next, panting out, “Like that? Hey, look at me. He grabs your chin, thumb tugging down your bottom lip. “Like. That?”

Your lip releases with a plop.

“Yes, yes! Don’t stop, Steve, never wanna not feel you again, baby boy!”

“That’s a good girl, that’s my girl.” He circles your sore opening and slips back inside with a loud, wet ease. You bite back the burning pain, welcoming the damp tears of pleasure along your lashes.

Your manicured nails cling to his back, his chest gliding along yours, heartbeat to hammering heartbeat. It’s frantic whispers and begging cries. And when he’s close to coming, you find his cheek with one hand, holding. “For the record, you’ve never been casual to me, Steve Harrington.”

// Eat me paragraph //

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yestrday · 3 months

Text

"This hurts."

Zhongli sips on his tea, looking unbothered by your incessant whining, even smiling to himself when you beg him to let you off practice today. Xiao, who's been standing guard this whole time, has been pointedly avoiding your pleading looks. Clearly, Zhongli has given him a warning not to indulge you.

"Zhongli, please," you whine again, voice higher in pitch as you hope to annoy him to the point of sending you away. "My entire body hurts. Can't we just reschedule this tomorrow?"

"Procrastination rusts determination, my dear," Zhongli hums, finally putting the teacup down. The large dragon tail protruding from his lower spine is slinking back and forth on the ground, and if Aether's observation that that is an equivalent of a dog's happy wag, then that means the bastard is enjoying your suffering. "Your father told me to fix you up before your first apperance at a gala and I have a contract to fulfill. Besides—" He fixes you with a firm golden gaze. "— You decided for yourself to finally go back into the public."

You wince at the reminder, regret building up the more you attend these lessons. Despite the good life you've had spending your days as a recluse with your family of hybrids, you had decided one day that this wasn't how you should live your life. So when your deadbeat dad reached out to you about a charity gala, you agreed quicker than you thought about it. And here you were, suffering the consequences with sore feet and numb arms and trembling fingers. Did going out into public really warrant posture and balance exercises and etiquette lessons?

You wanted out. Out! Ayato's already been a drain on your energy with his morning lecture about conversation starters and conversation, scaring your whines away whenever he thumps his spiny tail on the floor or opens his mouth just for the rows of sharp teeth inside to glint at you. Although Zhongli's an old, soft soul who'd never harm you, you were still tired!

"Once more." Zhongli instructed. "Balance those books and walk a straight line from here to there. Begin."

With a small grumble to yourself, you balance the small stack of books on your head and begin. But these things just keep slipping off, and you're half-tempted to say that this isn't your fault anymore and it's their stupid shiny covers. They slip from your head again and you glare at the scattered books with the hatred of a thousand damned souls.

"Zhongli..." you whimper as pitifully as you can. The dragon only shakes his head and motions to the books for you to pick up again. Your downcast expression has clearly struck a nerve in Xiao's heart, with the way he keeps hesitantly stealing glances at you, but he's cowed by a knowing gaze from Zhongli.

"While I approve of practicing, I believe that all hard work entails some sort of break, no?" A stoic yet gentle voice interrupts from the doorway and your face lightens up at Neuvillette. "Apologies for my intrusion, but I've caught wind from a certain cat that our master is in need of a break."

"Neuvi!" You gleefully shout, rushing over to him and eyeing the dessert platter he's balancing on his hand. "Did Aether tell you? Are those for me?!" When he nods, his eyes crinkle in fondness when you squeal in delight, and his tail slinks left and right on the ground. "Neuvi...! You're the best! I've been held captive here for hours!"

"Well," the water dragon huffs out a laugh as you gorge yourself on macarons. "That is to be expected of such kinds of dragons."

"It's for their own good," Zhongli tightly says, meeting the other dragon's challenging gaze. "It's best to fix them up before they attend the gala rather than indulging them to garner favor."

There is an impatient thumping on the floor, coming both from Neuvi and Zhongli. Both of them maintain their stoic composure, but the tips of Zhongli's fingers begin to tint gold and black, while cold blue scales creep up Neuvi's neck. Their reptilian eyes never break away from each other, slowly morphing into pinprick ones as they begin to devour each other whole with—

"Mmm, that's good," you hum, picking up a macaron and running off to Xiao. "Hey~ Want one?"

Xiao smiles faintly, taking the pastel dessert from your hand and gently patting your hair. He thanks you, and slowly eating it so he can show you how grateful he is. (His golden eyes are darting frantically between his master and Neuvillette and tries not to look too eager when he's munching.) "It's very good." He gives a slight bow towards Neuvillette too. "Thank you too, sir Neuvillette," he says, like the polite man he is.

Neuvillette regards him with less hostility than he does towards his fellow dragon. But he frowns a bit when he sees the small arrogant smile on Zhongli's face when he sees his subordinate getting along wth you. He scoffs.

"If your teacher here is still giving you a hard time, you can always come to me for help," Neuvillette murmurs, just loud enough to provoke Zhongli. He wraps his scaly tail around your leg and brings you closer. "I'll promise to instill the grace you need before the gala minus all the nonsense."

You giggle when his gentle touch tickles your cheek before he tucks a hair behind your ear. Kissing you gently on the forehead, he pulls away with a slight smile. "Good luck, dear." He glances behind you, and wearing a satisfied expression, he closes the door shut.

You're suddenly aware of the tension in the air and you turn around to see Zhongli with closed eyes. His black-brown hands, looking like they've been dipped in gold, clench the arms of the chairs tightly. He lets out a slow exhale and opens his eyes just in time for you to see those cold slits revert to the warm brown human ones.

"Zhongli...?" You ask cautiously, taking a careful step forward. You knew dragons were territorial, but you didn't think that Zhongli would react this way. He was normally so... father-like to all the other hybrids.

"Nothing, my dear." He stands up and holds you a bit tightly by the hand. He takes out a handkerchief from his pocket, all embroidered and silken and as elegant as he is, and rubs away something on the spot Neuvi kissed you. "Just some dirt, thats all."

Gently, he puts his hand on the small of your back and leads you to the chair in front of him. Xiao wordlessly pulls it back and sits you down.

"Come now, have a rest and let's finish these snacks before you start again, hm?"

#yandere genshin impact #yandere x reader #genshin impact #yandere zhongli #yandere neuvillette #genshin impact x reader #yandere genshin impact x reader #yandere genshin #yester.writes #yester.au — hybrids 🐾

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ghouljams · 6 days

Note

You know, i try to forget the fact that ghost is from *manchester*

But also i live in manchester, and there is 6 foot something ex military engineer with a shitty mullet and tatoos from his wrists up to his neck, bulky as hell, who repairs the machines at my work place once a month and has basically the same accent and it drives me insane. Not love or lust or anything along those lines, just fangirl brains in overload 😤😔💀

Also really love android!ghost i can imagine the workspace as being in one of those enormous caverns under the tram lines cutting through manchester, near cornbrook, where the old rail bridge rots, for atmosphere? And yea android ghost would totally have the sorrows of a manchester working man and he watches you as the rail rumbles overhead in typical dreary weather because it rains everyday. Maybe it rusts the gears where his heart should be. Your writing is sooo damnn good it makes me feel things ;^;b

Currently the reader and Ghost are on a military base, so the workshop is more of a hole in the wall filled to the brim with bits and baubles of tech. I always imagine it as somewhere between cassette futurism(the gold standard of greebling) and hard cyberpunk. Big blocky screen tvs precariously placed with lines of code and old sonic games looping over them. Cables hanging from the ceiling and stringing between various computer towers. dimly lit save the few dental lights that the reader can wheel about(sort of) to whatever they're working on. A wooden workbench, a soldering iron, an iron stool. A box of drawers holding screws and tools strewn about. Organized chaos.

but back in Manchester? It was rotten, dreary. Huddled close to Simon to siphon some of the heat off of him as you handed over half your sandwich. Complaining about the rain to the closest thing you have to a friend. Scraping rust off of every bot that clamors through the doors of the shop you're apprenticing at. Simon offers you some of his mum's cookies, you pass him the thermos of tea you made this morning, dab some anti-bacterial on the cut under his eye. You feel old. You're so young.

You both talk about leaving, finding somewhere better, anywhere really. Just to get away and see the world. Two kids trying to make things a little easier for each other.

Anyway! I think it's fun to have a man to ogle at work. Very important for morale. I need more tattooed muscular men to look at with sinful eyes. Love me some eye candy.

#ghoul speaks #x reader #cod x reader #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost mw2 #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley #simon riley x you #mw2 ghost #ghost cod #cyberpunk au #android!ghost

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undiscovered-horizon · 6 months

Text

[Old love never rusts. Shanks has to face that truth when he meets again the husband of the girl he almost had.]

Shanks's version | Enjoying my work? You can leave me a tip on Ko-Fi | Have a request?

Shanks knows he has no right to ask this question. Not when he's the one that up and left in the middle of the night, without even a word of warning that could soothe your aching heart. Nevertheless, he can't help but indulge his yearning:

"How is she?"

Mihawk raises his eyebrows barely noticeably. He seems surprised that after Shanks's disappearing act and a decade of dead silence, he's still interested in you, even if motivated by pure courtesy. But before Mihawk answers the question, he notices something strange in the red-haired captain's eyes, a sensation he's rarely seen in them before - sadness.

Interesting, how some things never quite change.

"Well," Mihawk answers laconically. Instead of indulging Shanks's lovesick longing, he wishes the man would finally accept his utter failure and move on. You're married to Dracule and this isn't going to change anytime soon. If ever.

"Wells tend to be cold and musty," Shanks jokes but his tone is far from lighthearted. In fact, his voice sounds strained like he's holding back tears. "I hope she fared better with you."

The Red-Hair pirates laugh at their captain's joke but quickly turn quiet again. Something about the tense confrontation makes their good humour virtually nonexistent. Especially when Mihawk gives them a curt, cold glare. He doesn't find his past rivalry with Shank to be funny in any way.

"She has everything she could ask for," he says with a sense of finality to his words. Mihawk feels himself growing irritated.

"Good, good..." Shanks nods, lost in thought for a moment. He clenches his hand, giving away the unpleasant tension inside his chest. The captain has promised himself to let go of you. Alas, here we are. "Is she happy?" he suddenly asks.

Mihawk furrows his thick eyebrows in an angry frown. It's almost insulting for Shanks to have any doubts regarding your well-being under the Warlord's care. "What sort of question is this?"

"A 'yes or no' sort."

"Then yes," he drones his words.

Shanks forces a wide, playful smile. There's agony hiding in his eyes and as though Mihawk is a blind man, he's trying to play it cool and appear unaffected. The truth is, the red-haired man is holding on by a thread.

"I bet she talks about me all the time," Shanks says in faux amusement. His voice almost doesn't shake. "We both know I've always been her favourite."

"And you'd lose." Mihawk begins to feel an insidious satisfaction from the distress of the other man. "In fact, I doubt she thinks about you at all."

"You keep telling yourself that, hawk-eyes."

"This misguided flattery is much unwarranted," Mihawk warns him. "No one bets on losing dogs."

But she would, Shanks thinks to himself. She always did.

Short fingernails leave bruising marks on the inside of Shanks's palm as he's clenching his fist. Once again he's reminded that when it mattered, he was a coward and fled from the overwhelming, crippling love he feels for you. Only know there's no hope, there's no ifs - you belong to another man.

Afternoon sunlight reflects off of Mihawk's gold ring. Shanks glares at it for a moment too long to pass off his intense stare as circumstantial. He can almost hear the mocking laughter of the universe as the consequence of the amalgamation of his bad choices is merely two meters away from him. There is nothing he wouldn't give up to turn back the time and make sure that things go differently, that he never became afraid of being too deep in love.

But time, like the seas, has no master.

_____

I was so torn about this one, I couldn't decide until the very end, so if you want to read a version where the scenario is flipped and Shanks is the 'lucky guy', just hit me up.

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loveissupernatural · 2 years

Text

**read chapter 1 here** - **read chapter 2 here** - **read chapter 3 here** - **read chapter 4 here**

Morpheus/Dream x fem!reader

In Your Dreams

Chapter 5

“Life is a sleep and love is its dream; and you have lived if you have loved.”

-Alfred de Musset

The following day felt longer than you would have liked. You were anxious for the sun to set, and with it, the answers that would quench the fire of burning curiosity in your mind. Why was the heart of The Dreaming rotting away? Why were you able to escape the borders of your dream and travel there, and why was Lucienne so obviously disturbed by it? Where was Dream? But, most importantly, why did you feel the need to be there in the first place? Why couldn’t you come to terms with this entire experience for the incredible magical adventure that it was and just let it go?

Even though you were filled with more questions than ever before, you could feel in the deepest recesses of your soul that the solutions to all of them lay in The Dreaming.

Your enthusiasm to return to the palace caused you to have trouble falling asleep for the first hour that night. The castle was your new Burgess house – mysteries hid there that tickled at your insides, that whispered to you in the darkness of the night to uncover them.

Finally, after tossing and turning, your eyes fluttered closed and stayed that way. Shifting shapes whirled behind your eyelids, flitting from corner to corner, until they gently settled into the outline of a horizon. A warm sun began to rise and filtered light onto the dark line, illuminating the scene for you. You instantly recognized the scent of poppies on the breeze.

That fragrant wind whipped through your hair lovingly, like the soft fingers of a curious child, swirling around your form. You spun with it, arms outstretched, grinning from ear to ear. How you wished with everything within your heart that this place was real, that this is where you could spend the waking hours of your life.

You opened your shining eyes to see the parting gate of horn and ivory before you. You hadn’t even needed to start the journey within the confines of your own dream this time – you were already here. Your path of glinting black and gold marble was still below your feet, humming with welcoming warmth.

You couldn’t contain your happiness when the dividing gates revealed a view to you that had shifted from the night before. The stretches of murky water were trickling into a singular crystal river, sparkling blue and immense. Where unforgiving rock and dark sand had suffocated the landscape, beautiful blades of grass and stretches of green ferns were beginning to emerge. You recognized your favorite flower, blooming white poppies, dancing in the breeze on the riverside. An enormous bridge was sliding into place over the river, cradled by gargantuan stone hands that surfaced from the crystal water.

Creatures were returning, beautiful and terrifying alike, flying through the milky blue sky and snaking through the growing grass around your feet. The air was no longer choked with an eerie silence; insects buzzed, water rushed, citizens of The Dreaming were laughing.

Life.

You followed the massive bridge of stone to the center, where the once-crumbling palace was being rebuilt in the gleam of glorious sunlight. Fallen walls and castle turrets were reassembling themselves brick by brick with meticulous accuracy, as if someone had hit rewind. Rusting spires were shedding their coat of orange muck and shining gold. Magnificent archways were mending their own cracks and rising tall, transforming from ashy grey to glimmering white.

The heart of The Dreaming was returning to its former glory. Pure joy blossomed in your chest like the rosebuds of a vine that was bending around the pillars of the bridge.

You walked into the castle entryway, still grinning like a fool, as you looked up and watched every shard of broken glass and every crushed stone float into the air and return to their homes. A beautiful stained-glass window was mending directly above your head. The colorful fragments gradually slid together to form the image of a Pegasus, and as the last piece fell into place, it sprang to life, neighing triumphantly and beating its wings.

“Not too shabby, huh?” came a proud voice from behind you.

You spun to see a tall scarecrow-like figure with the head of a pumpkin approaching you. His face was the cut of a jack-o-lantern, crooked mouth pulling up at the corner in a tilted smile. He stopped by your side and put his branch-like hands on his thin hips, gazing up appreciatively at the work of glass art. You tried not to stare too rudely at him.

You turned your head back toward the magnificent window, now casting rays of colored sunlight onto you and your Halloween-like companion.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” you replied truthfully.

He grunted in agreement, then looked down at you. His triangular eyes narrowed.

“Hey, ya know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you around these parts before,” he said. “You new?”

Your lips upturned at his gutteral New York accent. “Yeah, you could say that.”

“Lotsa new folks all around this joint today,” he said, shaking his large head in amusement. “Guess that’s what happens when ya hammer a few nails and splash on a fresh coat a’ paint—everyone comes back to tha neighborhood.”

“It does look pretty inviting,” you agreed, turning to face him. You stuck out your hand. “I’m Y/N.”

The pumpkin-headed man stuck out his wooden hand and shook yours firmly. “I’m Mervyn, but everybody calls me Merv.”

“Hi, Merv.”

He chuckled and crossed his arms. “Well, considerin’ you bein’ new and all, why don’t I give ya a bit of a tour? It wouldn’t be my first one today.”

“I would love that,” you beamed, resisting the urge to clasp your hands together like a schoolgirl. Merv nodded and turned, motioning with his stick-like hand.

“Well, then, c'mon.”

He walked like a puppet would without strings, you thought, as you followed behind him. You struggled to keep up with his long strides. Mervyn led you through a hallway that had one wall built while the opposite was still floating together. One piece of stone almost hit him in the head on its way back to its appointed position, and he cursed at it.

Once through the hallway, you turned into a winding staircase that glinted with intricate gold. As you followed Merv’s spindly legs up the flight, you appreciated the view to your left of an assembling tower. After a few more steps, you reached the top.

“First things first, here’s our pride and joy,” Mervyn announced grandiosely, spreading out his arms for dramatic emphasis. Your jaw dropped. “This is the library.”

The room was warm wood, cozy sunlight, and beckoning shelves that stretched on for as far as the eye could see. Books were everywhere, of every size, color, and age. You ran your finger along a nearby shelf, tickling their spines. Some looked thousands of years old, others as if they’d come off the press minutes before.

“How many books are in here?” you asked in wonder, turning in a full circle to better take in the view.

“A helluva lot,” Mervyn answered slyly. “To tell you the truth, I’m not the one you should ask. Lucienne’s the librarian in charge.”

At the sound of her name, the woman that you had met the night before emerged from behind a nearby cascade of bookshelves. Her eyes smiled at Mervyn, but then they settled onto you.

Lucienne’s face paled.

“You’ve returned,” she breathed, striding toward the two of you with a haste in her step, “and so soon.”

“Oh, you’ve met before?” Mervyn asked, eyes shifting between the librarian and yourself.

“We have,” you told him, trying to make sure your grin didn’t turn into a grimace.

“Just last night, in fact,” Lucienne added. Her perceptive gaze wandered over your nervous form.

“Last night?” Merv repeated incredulously. He motioned over his shoulder. “But the boss hadn’t even started rebuilding yet! How’d she—?”

“A question we all would like to know,” Lucienne answered, fixing you with a penetrating stare over the top of her round glasses. She clasped her hands behind her back expectantly.

“Hey, I’d like to know too,” you said defensively. You crossed your arms, but then dropped them to your sides, not wanting to come off as defiant. “I’ve already told you everything that I know.”

“Lucienne, who is this?” Mervyn asked curiously, pointing a thumb at you.

The librarian sighed heavily but her eyes softened. Her tone was gentle, appreciative. “This, Mervyn, is the young lady that released Lord Morpheus from his prison.”

“No kiddin’?! That was you?!” he questioned unabashedly, shock evident in his wide eye sockets.

You shrugged, not a fan of the intense attention. “Well, yeah… but it’s really not that big of a deal…”

“Not that big of a deal?” Mervyn repeated, voice dripping in astonishment. “Are you kiddin’ me? This place would still be fallin’ apart if it wasn’t for you!”

“That’s why everything looked the way that it did the last time I came?” you asked Lucienne. “Because Dream wasn’t here?”

She nodded somberly. “He was captured for nearly a century and was unable to return. Everything was dissipating, disappearing… it cannot exist without him. He is The Dreaming.”

“But it’s been over a week since I helped him escape,” you said, confused. “Where has he been all of that time?”

“Lord Morpheus was traveling the realms on a quest to reobtain his tools.”

Something hopeful fluttered in your chest. Those nights where you’d been calling out to him and he hadn’t shown himself… it wasn’t because he was ignoring you, it was because he wasn’t even there in the first place.

“Look, uh… I hate to interrupt this conversation,” Merv cut in, scratching the back of his pumpkin head uncomfortably, “but… shouldn’t we tell the boss that she’s here?”

Joy sparked in your chest at his words.

Lucienne hesitated. “There’s still so many questions that remain unanswered. We don’t know how or why she is able to leave her dreams, let alone create a path from their border and through the waters to the palace.”

Mervyn didn’t have eyebrows, but if he did, you were sure he would be raising them in surprise.

“I didn’t have to use the path this time,” you told her, biting your lip. “I just kind of started at the gate.”

“You materialized here, in the heart of The Dreaming?” she clarified, voice filled with bewilderment and cut with that undertone of concern again.

“That ain't normal,” Mervyn shook his head.

“It appears that each time you fall asleep, you are somehow able bypass steps that you’ve previously taken,” she said thoughtfully, almost to herself. “You’re no longer appearing within the boundaries of your own dreams.”

An excited smile pulled at your lips. “Cool.”

“No, no, not ‘cool’,” Lucienne admonished, turning from you and Mervyn to start rifling through a stack of books resting on a nearby table. “This behavior is quite abnormal, even for a lucid dreamer such as yourself.”

“Lucid dreamer, ‘ay?” Merv inquired, crossing his reedy arms over his chest and leaning back against the shelf behind him. “Not too many a’ you guys left no more.”

“Really?”

“They’ve become exceedingly rare,” Lucienne confirmed, finally picking out a book from the pile. “Consistently lucid dreamers existed more commonly thousands of years ago. Now, well…” her eyes roamed over your confused face “…you’re the first I’ve seen in, at least, a millennium.”

“You always been able to do that?” Mervyn asked you. “Change stuff around?”

“Since I can remember,” you shrugged, pulling out a chair at the ornate table in front of you and sitting. “I’d sleep the day away just to keep dreaming.”

“But roaming through the dreamscape, you said last night that you had only just started?” the librarian asked, peering over the edge of the thick book in her hands. She joined you at the table.

Something caught your eye. The book that Lucienne had plucked from the bunch was bound in black with two golden words emblazoned on the cover: your first and last name.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, what’s that?” you questioned enthusiastically, scooting your chair closer to her. “My name’s on there!”

A proud smile creeped onto the head librarian’s face. “This library contains every story ever written and unwritten, finished or unfinished, everything that has been and will never be.” She tapped the hard cover of your book with a manicured nail. “And this is yours.”

“Wow,” you sighed, resting your chin on your palm. Lucienne’s smile grew at your awestruck expression. “So, what all is in there about me?”

“Everything,” she answered simply.

You gulped. “Like, everything everything?”

She laughed. It was a harmonious sound.

“Relax, even your most embarrassing of moments pale in comparison to many of the things I read every day,” she assured you, eyes twinkling with amusement. She became serious again. “I thought it advantageous to find your book after your unexpected visit last night. I had to be sure that you weren’t a threat to The Dreaming.”

Your smile fell. “I’m – I’m not. I don’t want to be a threat to anybody.”

Lucienne sighed, expression trickling with pity.

“I know those aren’t your intentions. But the fact remains that your recent abilities are those that no mortal should possess.”

“Don’t worry, kid,” Merv said, standing from his perch against the bookcase to lean against your table instead. He grinned crookedly at you. “We’ll get this figured out. If anyone can sniff out what’s goin’ on here, it’s Lucienne.”

You let out a shaky breath, nodding. The thought of being some kind of danger to this beautiful place rattled you. All you had wanted was to find Morpheus, to make sure everything turned out okay after you released him. After all, being imprisoned against your will for a hundred years had to be traumatic for anyone, right? Even the King of Dreams?

You had more selfish reasons, too, but those would stay private.

Suddenly, a voice called out.

It echoed into the large room, gentle but authoritative, soft but commanding respect. With a wave of warmth washing over your skin, you knew that you would recognize that beautiful sound anywhere.

“Lucienne,” his voice called, “I believe it is time we review the findings from the census.”

All three of you froze in place.

The King of Dreams emerged from the nearest aisle, graceful stride filled with purpose. He donned all black, a sweeping floor length coat flowing behind him as he walked, regal. His alabaster skin almost seemed to glow against his dark attire. His hair was as black as his clothing, still so gloriously messy and wild.

He was in his element, thriving and flourishing in a way that radiated from his very being. This was his domain.

Morpheus’s icy blue eyes moved from Lucienne to Mervyn. Then, they locked onto you.

Your breath hitched as you stood, chair screeching back noisily. That feeling, that delicious humming in your bones, it was different here, more alive. It was starlight sparking in your spine. He stood at least ten feet away, impossibly still, but you could feel his presence as strongly as you would if he were inches from you. Time stood still.

A myriad of emotions flickered through his fathomless eyes at the sight of you, none of which you could place, but whatever they were made the air in the library thick. Your eyes drank in his face and his roamed yours, penetrating but swirling with something soft.

Mervyn cleared his throat uncomfortably. It just then occurred to you that you had no idea how long the two of you had been standing like that, staring at each other.

The sound seemed to bring Dream back to himself.

“Lucienne. Mervyn. Leave us,” he commanded quietly, but he didn’t look at them. His intense gaze never once broke from yours.

Their replies came quickly and in hushed tones, almost as if embarrassed.

“Of course, sir.”

“Sure thing, boss.”

They scurried away with heads down. As they reached the exit to the library, you could hear Mervyn mutter, “Well, talk about some tension...”

Morpheus blinked at the comment, but you didn’t miss the almost-imperceptible smirk that tugged at one corner of his lips. He was still staring at you.

With a smile that revealed every whisper of your heart, you broke the silence.

“Hi.”

Dream took a slow step toward you, measured. Then another. The curtain of dark lashes framing his endless eyes fluttered as he took you in, gaze roaming to your feet and back up again.

“Hello.” His voice was velvet.

You swallowed, begging the blush that you could feel creeping up your neck to go away. Couldn’t you have at least one interaction with him without your body betraying you? You felt like a fucking teenager.

“You, um, never answered my question,” you said, taking a step toward him as well. One of his dark brows rose. “You put me to sleep first. Rude, by the way.”

His smirk wasn’t nearly as well-hidden now.

“My deepest apologies. And what question would that be?”

You took another step closer, still not breaking eye contact. You clasped the back of a chair with one hand to ground yourself.

“You’re… you are alright, then?” you asked quietly. For the smallest of moments, his eyes betrayed everything. He was touched by your concern.

“You have journeyed through The Dreaming, to the heart of my realm, simply to ask after my well-being?”

His voice held an undercurrent of emotion, but he attempted to hide it with the slightest lilt of tease.

A playful glint sparkled in your eye. “Well, I did play spy for over a month just to get into that basement. What’s a desert and an ocean or two?”

The mischievous gleam in his eyes was shuttered by the weight of your words. It seemed that once Morpheus got past the initial surprise of seeing you there, the same realization dawned on him that concerned Lucienne.

“You traveled through the outer lands of The Dreaming,” he stated, brows furrowed in unease. “You left the confines of your dream and found yourself here?”

The general trepidation from everyone surrounding your ability to leave your dream world disturbed you. You saw it as a gift, but it seemed to be one that you were not meant to have. You let out a sigh.

“I created a path,” you told him. “It took me through the desert and through an ocean… and then I ended up on that dock out there.” You tilted your chin toward the windows. “The path ended at the gates, and when I touched them, they opened. Then I came here.”

Morpheus was close now, taking in every word you that escaped your lips with rapt attention. His powerful stare was not angry, but perplexed. His eyes were swimming with anxious confusion.

“How is this possible?” he whispered to himself. His pale hand rose, ever so slowly, to ghost the line of your jaw. The touch was barely there, so very brief, but it left tingling chills in its wake. He examined your every feature, searching for the answer. “For you are not a vortex.”

For a moment, you’d forgotten how to speak, mind still reeling from the fact that he had just touched you, and that it felt so indescribable. His fingers had barely brushed an inch of skin, but that starlight sparkling in your spine had overtaken every nerve ending.

“Vortex?” you asked when you found your voice. Your eyebrows came together. “What’s a vortex?”

To your dismay, Dream stepped away from you. He turned toward the table where you were previously sitting with Lucienne and Mervyn, delicate fingers flipping through the many volumes that were stacked over its surface. His hands settled on a red hardback, lifting it so that you could read the gold lettering on the cover.

“Rose Walker,” he replied, face impassive.

At your obvious confusion, Dream stepped back and motioned with a graceful hand toward the archway where Lucienne and Mervyn had disappeared moments before.

“Where are we going?” you asked, walking in the direction he indicated.

Morpheus was tall at your side, right hand ghosting the small of your back, featherlight. The stars in your backbone twinkled at the touch.

His voice was euphonious when he bent to your ear.

“Follow me.”

**read chapter 6 here

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inoreuct · 6 months

Text

a study of bruises, care, and potatoes.

Zoro’s boots scrape dully as he skids across the deck, bending his knees to drop his centre of gravity, shoulders sinking as he presses a slow breath through his teeth.

“Is that all you’ve got?”

He scoffs as Sanji’s stupid fancy shoes come into view, the steel-capped toes he got the cook for his birthday dripping with the same red that’s flowing from his split brow and blurring one half of his vision to shit. Squinting upwards into the light, he finds the midday sun crowning Sanji like a halo, lighting his hair up gold. Beautiful. “Fuck you.”

“Maybe, if you win,” Sanji laughs, easy as anything as he backs away.

Shusui and Kitetsu sing in his hands as he grounds his stance and spins them around, and he hasn’t unsheathed Wado. Yet. But with the way Sanji’s pushing him back— Zoro grits his teeth and allows a heel to crack across his jaw, letting the momentum turn his body sideways as he ducks low and rams his shoulder into Sanji’s ribs. The cook gasps, managing to drive a knee between them before Zoro shoves it out of the way, spitting out a curse as the swordsman hooks the flat of one sword behind his calf and yanks his leg out from under him, and they hit the ground hard.

Zoro’s laugh rides on his exhale, heartbeat pounding fiercely in his ears, one fist slamming into the ground above Sanji’s head when the cook wraps unfairly long legs around his middle and throws him upwards. It unbalances him just enough for him to go nose-to-plank, just enough for Sanji to flip them and yank Zoro’s wrists down to trap them under his thighs, and just like that—

“Caught you,” Sanji breathes, chest rising and falling rapidly, sweat-damp bangs sticking to his flushed cheek, and Zoro doesn’t fight the grin that bares his teeth.

“Looks like it,” he says evenly, feeling hardwood press against his skull as he stops resisting. “Come here.”

A blue eye narrows sharply. “Why?”

“Just come here.” His heart lurches when Sanji leans down, suspicious, hair falling over them both like a flaxen curtain. It’s getting long, Zoro notes. Long enough that he could braid it if Sanji wanted. He makes a mental note to bring it up to the cook, waits until a barely-trembling mouth grazes his—

And cranes his neck back to slam his forehead into Sanji’s nose.

The cook lurches away with an enraged cry, hands flying to his face as Zoro uses his wrists to lift Sanji by the knees and flip them over again. “You fucking bastard! That’s foul play, you piece of shit—”

Zoro just grins wider, heart pumping hard and body buzzing like a livewire. Sanji looks hot like this with iron dripping off his chin, pooling in his cupid’s bow, staining his mouth rose-rust-ruby even as he smears the heel of his palm over his lower lip, and Zoro isn’t afraid to admit it.

He watches. Watches Sanji’s eyes drag languidly from the blood on his hand to Zoro’s face, watches him tilt his head, lazy and unhurried, and suck the red off his teeth with that piercing gaze pinning him in place. He tightens his grip on Shusui’s hilt and digs his knuckles into Sanji’s shin as something tightens in his gut. “Never said we had to play fair.”

He watches Sanji’s smile sharpen into something downright predatory seconds before a foot is stomping sole-first into his chest, vicious and just off-centre, kicking the air right out of his damn lungs as he flies back. Fuck, that’s gonna bruise. The pain switches something in him into high gear and Wado’s out of her sheath, a familiar weight in his jaw even as he scrambles to get his bearings, and barely half a breath later Sanji’s on him like a fucking hurricane.

Another signature roundhouse kick lands on his temple and re-opens the split in his brow, and he would have eaten shit if not for the palm he slams to the deck, pivoting to pop up behind Sanji and swing two swords parallel into his middle. The cook dodges and slips away, driving his heel into Zoro’s hip, and Zoro backs up to give himself space to breathe.

The sun is blinding even when he isn’t looking up. His breath echoes in his ears, tight as he tries to slow it down, shirt stretching with the heave of his shoulders, pulse a war drum in his veins and his arms nearly trembling with adrenaline and there is blood on his face, in his mouth, sweet and metallic; he spits it in a red splatter onto the ground and sweat nearly steams off his skin.

Up ahead, Sanji leans back against the taffrail almost leisurely, looking far more composed than he probably feels. He rolls his head back, elbows over the railing as he bares his throat almost arrogantly, and the smug look he tilts to Zoro as he tosses his hair out of his face is a challenge in and of itself.

Zoro crosses the space between them in three great strides and swings.

He twists and drops low as Sanji slides beneath his sword, and the cook snarls as Wado grazes over his side just deep enough for it to sting. Sanji’s leg comes down over his head and he throws up a forearm, digs his heels in as he braces for the impact, shoving forward as soon as it connects. A knee jams into the same side as before and Zoro wheezes, core spasming, backing Sanji into the railing with a wide arc of his blade before the cook gets that glint in his eye—

And Zoro gets an inkling feeling that he’s just lost himself this fight.

Sanji spins to spring off the railing in a tight flip that brings his heel down directly between Zoro’s shoulder blades, and Zoro sacrifices his balance and Kitetsu in one last bid for victory. He reaches one hand over his head and grapples for a handful of fabric, yanking as hard as he can, biting down into Wado’s hilt as his knees slam into the planks.

Muffling his pained hiss into leather, Zoro manages to flip Shusui in his grip before his wrist is pinned beneath Sanji’s hip. Fuck. His free arm is grabbed and wrenched back, a sole pressed to his throat and forcing him into a kneeling backbend. Sanji slowly pulls harder and forces his upper body back as he thrashes, a subtle threat; it’s a futile effort, anyway. The cook’s out of Wado’s reach with the severity of the lean he’s in, neck tense, chin pushed up as cold, blunt steel digs into his jugular. Zoro’s arm strains in its socket, and as much as he is prideful— He knows when to admit he’s been bested.

“Yield,” he grits, chest heaving as Sanji puts more pressure on his trachea and his lower back strains with the weight of holding himself up. “I yield.”

“…For today.” Sanji slowly lets go, and Zoro groans as he slumps to the deck. “You’ll beat me tomorrow.”

He spits his sword to the side and unfolds his aching legs from under him, starfishes out, tries to catch his breath. The sky is a brilliant, cloudless, familiar shade of blue. Zoro finds himself smiling and throws an arm over his face to hide it. “Hope that doesn’t mean you’ll go easy on me.”

“When do I ever?” Sanji scoffs, tapping the back of his heel against the swordsman’s thigh for good measure as he gets up. “Come on, marimo. Before the sun turns you into a dried cactus.”

He’d been right about the bruising. Purple and yellow blooms vivid across the right side of his ribcage, a deceptively pretty splotch that still makes him bite down a groan when he presses into it with cloth-wrapped ice.

“Let me.” Sanji gently takes the bundle from him, nudging him back until Zoro gets the hint and hauls himself up to sit on the table with a grunt. He lets the cook prod at the edges of the bruise with a frown pulling at his swirly brows, carefully rolling the ice pack back over the area, and he grunts as his ribs shift. Wouldn’t be surprised if he’d strained a couple of intercostal muscles.

The urge to scrub a fist over the blood crusting in his eye is tempting but he resists, knowing that Sanji would probably scream at him if he did— However. His lashes really are starting to stick together.

Sanji notices, because of course he does. “Hold,” he mutters, pulling one of Zoro’s hands over the ice and stretching to wet a clean cloth by the sink. It’s blessedly cool as he sets it to Zoro’s skin, letting it soak for a few seconds before he starts scrubbing away at dried gore and clicks his tongue disapprovingly. “You’re all messed up.”

“And whose fault is that?” Zoro asks dryly. “You kick like a fucking donkey. And twice in one spot? Really?” He ducks his head with a laugh when Sanji moves to yank his earrings.

“You’re infuriating,” the cook scowls, at odds with the slow, meticulous way he rubs the cloth over Zoro’s lashline. “And you were distracted today. What’s going on?”

Zoro closes his other eyes and recalls a fierce grin, blood-slick, golden hair and steel toes and a flawless kick slamming into his jaw. “Dunno. Maybe I just love you.”

Sanji stills, and Zoro clocks his soft, quick inhale before he hears the cook shift and opens his eye. “…I’m still not used to that,” Sanji murmurs, more to the floor than anything else, and Zoro tilts his chin up with two fingers tucked beneath.

“I know.” He feels his own shoulders slouching, sinking as he curves toward Sanji like a planet in orbit. He’s tentative when he cups the cook’s jaw steady and lets go of the ice pack to bring his thumb to Sanji’s bloodied nose, but he twitches back when Sanji hisses. “Shit, sorry, curls. Is it broken?”

“Nah,” Sanji chuckles airily, relaxing into Zoro’s touch and letting his eyes slide shut with a sigh as the swordsman prods at his bridge. “Just tender.”

Zoro hums, unsatisfied. “Pass me another cloth.” He wraps the offered fabric around his index finger and wipes away the blood congealed on Sanji’s lip, turning the cook’s face this way and that to make sure he gets everything as lithe hands press the ice back to his torso.

His own face’s mostly clean now, but his brow still feels a little stiff when he raises it just to make Sanji laugh. No big deal, though; he expects he’ll scrub down before dinner and drag Sanji with him, because otherwise the cook would stay in the galley all night. Zoro loses his train of thought when blue, blue eyes flick up to his, and his breath catches in his chest.

“What?” Sanji murmurs, his jaw nestled in Zoro’s palm, gaze travelling over his face, and suddenly Zoro doesn’t know what to do with himself.

He’s not a man of words. He never has been, really, but he thinks he could try, for Sanji. The man standing between his knees is a prince, for fuck’s sake, in everything else if not in name. Sanji, with skin the colour of white sand under the sunset, eyes like pools of sapphire crystal, slender fingers and gold-spun hair and kindness in spades, given to everyone with a generous hand, even when life had tried to beat it out of him with a stick. He’s regal. Something out of one of those fairytales that Zoro had never believed in.

He’s regal, and sometimes Zoro worries that he’s too rough around the edges for them to fit.

And then Sanji cusses him out with a sharp tongue and kicks his head back on straight, and he remembers exactly who he’s dealing with. Who he’d fallen in love with.

Sanji makes a questioning noise but doesn’t shift back when Zoro pulls him closer, gently carding his hair out of the way to press a kiss to the space between his brows. The strands are soft between his fingers, sweet with the lingering scent of Sanji’s conditioner, and Zoro lets himself bury his nose in Sanji’s crown and just… breathe, for a second.

Arms slide around his waist, and Sanji’s weight leans into his chest. “Are you alright, chéri?”

“I— Yeah.” He shifts a palm to Sanji’s nape and squeezes, mainly to ground himself. “I’m good, cook.” Up this close, it would be difficult to miss the cook’s slight inhale as he draws back, and he frowns. “Your side.”

“S’fine,” Sanji dismisses, shaking his head with a soft smile.

“Lemme see.”

“Honestly, it’s just a scratch!”

“Let me see.” The cook huffs and rolls his eyes, stepping back to pull his shirt up over his side and Zoro hunches down, finding a clean corner of the cloth as he scrutinises the thin slice on Sanji’s skin. “Doesn’t look too bad,” he says, cleaning it up even as Sanji mutters an “I told you so” under his breath. It didn’t matter how bad it was. He wouldn’t take it any less seriously.

Sanji drops his hem back down and slips in close again to rest his cheek on Zoro’s shoulder, hands locking at the small of Zoro’s back, and Zoro smooths his palm over the soft cotton of Sanji’s dress shirt. It’s a texture he knows against his skin. He knows all of it; silky hair and a sharp jaw and a smart mouth, white teeth and strong hands and cotton shirts and wayward kicks to the shin and familiar weight against him as they fall asleep. “What’s for dinner?”

Sanji hums, nuzzling into the crook of Zoro’s neck before he pulls away, reluctant. “Potatoes au Gratin and spinach pesto linguine.” He moves over to the sink, pulling a huge bowl of washed spuds from somewhere, sliding it across the table as he tosses Zoro a paring knife and a pointed look. “Chop chop.”

The swordsman scoffs, leaning back on his hands. “Chop chop, he says. No please, no thank you, no nothing—”

“Oh, come on.”

“No appreciation!” he continues, grabbing a potato and sighing at it sadly. “Or financial compensation, mind you, this is unpaid labour—”

“Marimo,” Sanji begins, pinching his nose bridge but failing to hide his smile. “Darling. My heart. L’amour de ma vie. Will you please peel the damn potatoes, thank you.”

Zoro sniffs, but picks up the knife.

“You know, one day I’m gonna tell the whole crew what a drama queen you are,” Sanji says lightly, pulling a cabinet open to grab a box of pasta and grabbing a pot from the shelves below.

“They’ll never believe you.” Zoro shrugs, a what can you do sort of thing, and points the potato at the cook. “And this is still unpaid labour.”

“You’ll survive. It’s a labour of love.”

“Don’t recall ever saying I love peeling root vegetables.”

Sanji throws a teaspoon, and it bounces off Zoro’s forehead. “Not the potatoes, moron, me.”

Zoro can’t find a retort to that, so he shuts up and peels. It’s… good. He doesn’t recall ever smiling this much before everything. Before bloody scrapping and the gentle hands after and peeling vegetables in the easy quiet of the galley while Sanji watches the pasta boil. The cook pushes him, stretches his limits and helps him break down barriers that he would’ve been loathe to tackle alone. Helps him to dress wounds he can’t reach. Sanji holds him with a care that Zoro has never bothered with for himself, and it’s good.

He's listened to Sanji enough to know that these are baby potatoes, finicky to peel because of their thinner skin, and still terribly tender. Sweet. The one he's working on fits nicely in his palm as he guides the knife, angling the edge the way Sanji taught him. The skin spirals over his thumb as he works his way around and he crosses his ankles when he breathes out.

“Marimo.”

“Hm?”

Sanji’s facing away from him, but the cook turns his head just enough for Zoro to see the shrewd look in his eye. “Depending on your performance in helping with the rest of dinner prep, I may be amenable to discussion about… other kinds of compensation.”

Zoro pauses, blinks, and shakes his head with a chuckle. “You always speak real fancy when you want something, curls.”

“I didn’t say anything!” Sanji sing-songs, wiggling his shoulders as he stirs the pot. “No guarantees, mosshead. Peel!”

A laugh slips from Zoro’s throat, rich and real. Sanji’s steel-tipped shoes tap on the ground as he moves around the galley, comfortable in his element, and Zoro watches him with a fondness that warms his chest. Their cuts will heal. His bruises will fade from green to yellow before they disappear like they were never there, before Sanji paints new ones under his skin, and he’ll peel potatoes while Sanji boils pasta and they’ll curl into bed together knowing that they’ll wake up and do it all over again.

Zoro slips his knife beneath the last strip of peel and places his potato back into the bowl, pale and sweet and tender.

It’s good.

#look. i just need them to scrap nasty and get blood everywhere #and then clean each other up all disgustingly tender #i think i somehow managed to use potatoes as symbolism. i'm honestly not sure #zosan #zoro x sanji #zosan fanfic #roronoa zoro #black leg sanji #one piece #ino writes #one piece zosan #featuring the inherent homoeroticism of sparring with your boyfriend

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forever-1895 · 7 months

Text

Mr. Sherlock Holmes

Pay attention! To how cute and soft and bubbly Holmes is when he first met Watson in a Study in Scarlet. Just like a BABY. (long post btw)

While on the way to meet Sherlock Holmes, Stamford tries to warn Watson about how machine-like this guy can be. But he's wrong!

Here's PROOF:

At the sound of our steps he [Sherlock Holmes] glanced round and sprang to is feet with a cry of pleasure. "I've found it! I've found it," he shouted to my companion [Stamford], running towards us with a test tube in his hand. "I have found a reagent which is precipitated by haemoglobin and nothing else." Had he discovered a gold mine, greater delight could not have shone upon his features.

I found it! I found it! (p≧w≦q)

"Dr. Watson, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," said Stamford, introducing us. "How are you?" he said cordially, gripping my hand with a strength for which I should hardly have given him credit. "You have been in Afghanistan, I perceive." "How on earth did you know that?" I asked in astonishment. "Never mind," said he, chuckling to himself. "The question now is about haemoglobin..."

how are u? (✿◡‿◡)

"Why, man, it is the most practical medico-legal discovery for years. Don't you see that it gives us an infallible test for blood stains? Come over here now!" he seized me by the coat sleeve in his eagerness...

THE MOST AMAZING FABULOUS PRACTICAL NOBEL-PRIZE MEDICO-LEGAL DISCOVERY EVERRR!!!!! \(≧∇≦)ﾉ

"Ha ha!" he said clapping his hands, and looking as delighted as a child with a new toy. "What do you think of that?"

🎩

༼ つ ◕∇◕ ༽つ ⚗️🧪 = ༼ つ ◕∇◕ ༽つ 🧸🚗

"Criminal cases are continually hinging upon that one point. A man is suspected of a crime months perhaps after it has been committed. His linen or clothes are examined and brownish stains discovered upon them. Are they bloodstains, or mud stains, or rust stains, or fruit stains, or what are they? That is a question that has puzzled many an expert and why? Because there was no reliable test. Now we have the Sherlock Holmes' test, and there will no longer be any difficulty. " His eyes fairly glittered as he spoke, and he put his hand to his heart snd bowed as if to some applauding crowd conjured up by his imagination.

EVERYONE, Behold...

The Sherlock Holmes' test

And my man's got glittering eyes!

Sherlock Holmes seemed delighted at the idea of sharing his rooms with me. "I have an eye on a suite in Baker Street," he said, "which would suit us down to the ground. You don't mind the smell of strong tobacco I hope?" "I always smoke 'ship's' myself,' I answered. "That's good enough. I generally have chemicals about, and occasionally do experiments. Would that annoy you?"

Of course Holmes is delighted! Stamford just got him a beau!

"Let me see - what are my other shortcomings? I get in the dumps at times, and don't open my mouth for days on end. You must not think I am sulky when I do that. Just let me alone, and I'll soon be right. What have you to confess now? It's just as well for two fellows to know the worst of one another before they begin to date live together." I laughed at this cross-examination. "I keep a bull pup," I said, "and I object to rows because my nerves are shaken, and I get up at all sorts of ungodly hours, and I am extremely lazy. I have another set of vices when I'm well, but those are the principal ones at present."

sulky little holmes o(TヘTo)

"Do you include violin playing in your category of rows?" he asked, anxiously. "It depends on the player," I answered. "A well-played violin is a treat for the gods - a badly-played one - " "Oh, that's all right," he cried, with a merry laugh. "I think we may consider the thing as settled - that is if the rooms are agreeable to you."

do you include violin-playing in your category of rows? (•᷄- •᷅ ;)

"Call for me here at noon tomorrow, and we'll go together and settle everything," he answered. "All right - noon exactly," - said I, shaking his hand. We left him working among his chemicals, and we walked together towards my hotel.

#sherlock holmes #johnlock #holmes x watson #acd johnlock #a study in scarlet #the sherlock holmes test!#holmes is so cute and bubbly

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vanessamooney · 18 days

Text

The Age of Us Pt. 2 - Draco x Reader

Prompt: Glimpses into your lives through the years

Pairing: Draco x Slytherin!Reader

Part 1. Part 3 coming soon!

In Second Year you're starting to stand on your feet properly. You've come to Diagon Alley with Draco and his father just before the semester has started to collect the year's new spell books and props. The list sent out by Hogwarts was longer than last years and you'd become increasingly worried about being able to keep up between 'Gadding with Ghouls' and 'Holidays with Hags', all written by Gilderoy Lockhart no less.

The alley streets were bustling with witches and wizards of all sorts, pointed hats bouncing around comically and brooms alike. You had already run into fellow classmates from Hogwarts and stopped a plethora of times for polite conversation and familial introductions. Lucius has now excused himself from the two of you, trusting Draco with a satchel filled to the brim with gold galleons, instructing you two to meet him in front of Flourish and Botts with the books ready in exactly thirty minutes.

'I trust you'll be on time, Draco,' he sneered at his son, tapping his back with the serpentine cane he never parted ways with. When he turned to give you a polite nod and pat on the head with a heavy hand, he did so with a strange upturn of the corners of his lips. He had always liked you.

You weren't sure what Lucius had gone off to do or where he was doing whatever exactly, but you relished in the freedom because you'd been eyeing Magical Menagerie the second you all floo-powdered into the shopping district and had been scheming to convince Lucius and Draco to take you there.

Glancing at Draco with softened eyes, he's looking a little bit low-spirited and the weight of the galleons makes one of his arms hang lower than the other, so you pull him along by his shorter hand and shoot him a smile that lights up your entire face and makes his heart oddly skip a beat.

'Come on, Draco,' You egg him on, scratching the inside of his palm with your nails because you know he is ticklish there, and you know it will cheer him up, even if only momentarily.

He lets out a giggle only you can hear but you don't pay much attention because when you arrive outside Magical Menagerie you're bewitched by the sight before you: a grey kitten small enough to fit into your hands locked in a cage at the storefront. You coo at it, immediately forgetting about the blonde boy awkwardly trailing behind you.

'Wolfcat,' you read aloud the silver tag on the front of the rusted iron bars, 'female, 10 galleons,'

You whip around to your best friend and grab his free hand, squeezing it in excitement for all that you've got.

'Draco, how incredibly adorable she is!' you squeal, watching his stormy eyes soften at the sight before him.

He walks up to the front of the cage, poking a wiggling finger in through the bars to antagonise the creature and he is pleasantly surprised to find it rub its head against him, her yellow eyes big and glaring.

'I suppose she is,' He shrugs his shoulders, pulling a sulking Y/N along to Flourish and Botts in spite of your silent protests in the form of your pouts and glances off into the distance.

You had spent the entire time shopping for school books talking Draco's ears off about the kitten from earlier, so much so he was having to double check you were picking up the right copies of the books as you had placed the wrong ones in the basket too many times.

'Oh Draco, she was the sweetest thing' you went on, lazily dropping a copy of 'Intermediate Transfiguration' into the basket you tasked Draco with carrying.

When the two of you waited patiently out of the front of Flourish and Botts just as you'd agreed prior, you continued chatting as Draco seemingly zoned out, a heavy head in his hand. He thought about a peculiar bit of conversation he had overheard in your family's manor just a mere few weeks before first year began: 'The family owl is enough trouble,' your father would groan, his fingers squeezing the top of his nose bridge.

Draco himself didn't bring one of the three permitted animals to Hogwarts because he himself thought it was all too much effort for a companion and he already had his hands full with Crabbe, Goyle and you, not that he minded having his hands full with the latter.

With a sudden thought, he handed you the pile of textbooks that mere moments ago sat in his lap, practically shoving them into your hands.

'Ow, Draco, that's heavy, what are you…' you trailed off, watching his retreating form as he ran in the opposite direction of the meeting point.

'I'll be back soon!' he yelled back, but you were left all alone, confused and surrounded by hoards of strange witches and wizards.

Lucius finds you sitting on the stairs outside Flourish and Botts with a puffy pout on your lips, the stack of new books placed carelessly to your side. You've got your chin resting comfortably in your palms just as Draco did and you look to be in deep and confusing thought. He's got with him his own leather-bound book now clutched hard in his hands and he scans the rest of the crowd, but his son is no where to be seen. Pah. Of course.

'Y/N, where is Draco?' He askes, lending you a firm hand to help you up off the steps and you carefully slip your hand in his and jolt up, dusting off your robes with a sheepish smile.

"I'm not sure, he left some minutes ago and went that w…' you trail off when you glance in the direction Draco ran, gasping as you see the devil himself running towards you, eyes wide as dinner plates when they land on his father whom by now has turned to see his son making a fool of himself. He is clutching in his arms something that appears to be squirming and you squint to try and make out what it is.

A grey wolfkitten lands into your arms and Draco is so out of breath from running when he looks at your dazed expression but he still manages a smirk as you press a well-earnt kiss to his rosy cheeks.

Lucius taps his son on his back softly with his walking cane, raising an eyebrow and managing his own twinge of a smile tantalising the corners of his lips. He watches his son proudly as he is watching you.

The blurs of the everyday witches and wizards spinning around you don't catch your eye because you're mesmerised by the creature in your arms; mesmerised by your best friend, too. You catch a glimpse of the blue sky and see within it the night.

'I think I'll name her Cassiopeia,' your eyes twinkle like the constellation that falls from your lips and Draco watches the stars swirl within you.

╺╺╺╺╺╺╺

You're running through the hallways, Draco's hand in yours as you lead him to the Clocktower Courtyard. You are giggling and glancing back to him to make sure he's still keeping up with you and the opulent perfume in your hair blinds his senses. You shiver into him from the bitter winter breeze that stalks you through the castle and he grips your hand harder when he feels your vibrations.

You come to a stop when you're surrounded by greenery taking over archways, absorbing the glory of the courtyard with your eyes closed, taking in its sweet earthy aroma. An old water fountain lays in the middle of it all, guarded by four magnificent stone gargoyles on each corner. Moss and water has stained them a muddy grey, but your eyes are still enchanted from the view; you always liked coming here.

'Why are we here at this dingy old fountain, Y/N?' Draco groans, stretching a gloved hand to lean on a gargoyle. You gasp as his disrespect and you click your tongue, making him flail his arms as he tries to regain his balance.

'A dingy fountain?' You're scolding him like his mother usually does, repeating back his absurd view of the world around him. 'This isn't just any fountain,' you say, slithering around it, dancing your fingers from stone to stone, your gaze never leaving Draco's. 'Legend has it if you flick a knut into it while making a wish, it'll come true,'

The plush rabbit earmuffs on your head rises slightly as you speak, and with a gentle sigh Draco tenderly adjusts your earmuffs back down while anxiously avoiding your eyes as he tenderly touches you.

'Is that so?' he mumbles.

You nod eagerly at him, presenting two knuts in your gloved palm that you'd been saving in your pockets. He reluctantly takes one, giving you a strange look but you beam in elation anyway, enchanted by the glistening promises of the fountain. Draco holds the knut in his hand, his expression a mix of scepticism and curiosity. He takes a deep breath, feeling the weight of his wish on his heart.

With a mischievous grin, you look into Draco's stormy eyes and say, 'Alright, on the count of three. One… two… three!'

Simultaneously you both flick your knuts into the fountain, watching as they disappear beneath the surface with a small splash. You pat your flushed face with an awkward flutter of fingers, seeing if you feel any different, inspecting the grass below your feet just a little closer. The moment stretches, filled with anticipation and hope from the both of you.

'What did you wish for?' your voice is barely above a croaky whisper but you're unable to contain your excitement and ask anyway.

Draco hesitates for a moment, his gaze flickering between you and the fountain. He doesn't dare to admit he wished for you and the weight of his silence crushes you.

╺╺╺╺╺╺╺

Gilderoy Lockhart's charm filled the air like a sweet perfume, ensnaring the hearts of the young Gryffindor girls who hung on his every word. With a flick of his cape, he shed the garment, letting it fall carelessly into the eager crowd below, who scrambled to catch a piece of the famed hero.

You, however, had never been taken by Lockhart's facade. Even in the best of times, you found his antics grating, feigning ignorance whenever your dorm-mates gushed over his supposed heroic feats. One night, out of curiosity, you had reluctantly flipped through his autographed autobiography, but each boastful comment and exaggerated deed only served to deepen your disdain. Despite your love for reading, you couldn't bring yourself to admire a story painted in lies and arrogance.

But as Draco Malfoy was summoned to the stage by Snape to duel Harry, you found yourself eagerly pushing through the crowd of Slytherins to get a better view. You cheered when Draco sent Harry flying across the stage and winced when the tables turned, but it was when Draco summoned the snake that your heart skipped a beat. Watching in horror as Potter seemingly controlled the creature with a strange tongue, you were pulled away from the midst of the chaos by Draco's urgent grip, and he whisked you into the safety of the Slytherin common room.

"That Potter is downright evil, I'm telling you!" Draco seethed, his frustration palpable as he slammed his fists onto the desk. He was a hurricane when he wanted to be, pacing around with a heavy energy, turning from a constellation into a supernova. Potter did this often to him, and although the others insisted he was masterfully exaggerating, you never seemed to think so - something wasn't right with Harry, and now this.

Motioning for him to join you on the worn leather couch, Draco sank down beside you, his head falling heavily into your lap as he let out a weary sigh. You gazed down at him with wide eyes, offering silent comfort as you gently traced circles on the back of his hand. You were always there to trace circles on the back of his hand.

╺╺╺╺╺╺╺

When Draco tells you he has made the Slytherin Quidditch Team you're sat on the banks of the black lake. The sun is dancing upon the surface of the water, casting reflections within it that didn't quite seem to match with the gentle surroundings you're enveloped in but you pay it no attention because as Draco's words sink in, the world around you fades into insignificance.

The muggle book he despised that was grasped within your fingertips moments before hits the ground with a soft thump and the paper warps, staining with the green and brown of the ground. There is no room for a pregnant pause because before you can think of a congratulations worthy of Draco's achievements, you've already tackled him in a hug and twigs and dandelions have already intertwined in your hair and clothes; you're already grinning with glee, your faces already inches away and Draco has already licked his lips in anticipation but you press an adoring kiss to the side of his cheek and whisper to him how proud you are of him, in a way intended only for him to hear.

You don't notice the flash of disappointment in his eyes when your lips miss his, or how awkward his movements become. Nothing else matters, because your best friend is Slytherin's brand new Seeker and you can't possibly think of anything else.

╺╺╺╺╺╺╺

Christmas morning brings with it a myriad of thoughtfully wrapped packages from your family and friends, appearing under an evergreen pine decorated with baubles and ribbons in the Slytherin common room. You yawn audibly, rushing to flatten the wrinkles out of your Christmas pyjamas before you run down the stairs from your dorm. Draco is already waiting for you in the common room, leaning patiently against the oak table, his hair slicked back and his own pyjamas ironed completely straight. When he spots you paused at the top of the stairs, his eyes soften and he stretches his arms out in anticipation of feeling you nuzzled into his chest.

The decision to spend Christmas at Hogwarts this year didn't come easy, and you recall with a smile how you and Draco were making fun of students who did just a mere few weeks ago - after all, what else shows your parents love you other than stuffing you away in school over the holidays? But between the entertainment from the Chamber of Secrets being opened and the winter travels your parents embarked on without you, you and Draco both agreed to spend winter this year together at Hogwarts - despite Narcissa and Lucius' best wishes.

Crabbe and Goyle had also decided to stay the festive winter season to keep Draco and you company - despite your best wishes - and they now watched with narrow eyes from the couch as your petite figure floated down the girl's staircase and straight into Draco's arms. When he twirled you around the room they audibly wretched in disgust, but you felt like a princess anyway and they became TV static in the background of your mind.

To find a gift for Draco did not come easy. The lead up to Winter break was spent with hours of frustration and punctilious reading in the castle library as you diligently worked to fabricate from the thin Yule air a charmed snow globe containing a singular, shared memory:

Perched atop the dew-kissed grass surrounding the grandeur Malfoy Manor, air heavy with the scent of blooming night-flowers, the myriad of stars scattered across the heavens blinked like diamonds strewn upon midnight velvet. You saw within the stars a constellation that bore his name, the boy laying so arrantly next to you: Draco. And with a quiet reverence, you pointed upwards in awe, seeing within the stars him, and within him the very stars he had been named after.

With a soft smile tugging on your lips, you direct Draco to the pine, breaking your gaze buoyantly when you lean down to cradle the parchment wrapped globe that sat so patiently beneath the tree, a swirl of memories replaying in it persistently under its cover.

'For you,' you hand the package to him, biting your lip in anticipation, and you feel within you a twinge of constraint but your eyes gleam anyway, 'Merry Christmas, Draco.'

Draco couldn't break his gaze from your glowing face. As he tore the parchment away he did so neatly, mesmerised by the mere existence of you. The background of Christmas morning occupied by the calamities swirling in the black lake just outside the common room windows and the intrusive nature of his friends meant nothing to him because in that moment when his eyes found the memory you so tenderly illustrated within the snow globe, he could think of nothing else - and he didn’t want to.

╺╺╺╺╺╺╺

You're standing in the castle's greenhouse, its windows fogged up with humidity cut through by the slow paths of common snails as they journey into the unknown. The air outside is cool, Winter has started to take its course and the frost of its greedy air snaps; but inside the safe haven of the greenhouse the air is warm and pungent with earthly aromas.

The vastness of the greenhouse is filled with magical plants and fungi alike stretched out before you but you're humming as you tend to a healthy collective of starthistle, mushing its millets between your fingers to release the powder contained within them. You carefully collected the fine dust in tiny cork bottles and placed them neatly in organised lines on the gardener's desk, just as tentatively asked by Madam Sprout.

With a flick of your quill, you've checked off another task on the consciously written list and you whip around to work on the next task: watering the asphodel and pruning their tender leaves as needed. You'd been under the instructions of Madam Sprout for the last few weeks, working diligently in the greenhouse and taking care of the housekeeping for the hoards of students taking herbology.

You couldn't quite put into words why the greenery drew you in, perhaps

it was the sense of tranquility that enveloped you as you worked among the plants, or maybe it was the reward of nurturing life and watching it thrive under your care. Whatever the reason, the greenhouse had become your sanctuary, a place where you felt truly at peace and you'd often visited to escape the chaos of the castle.

As you carefully watered the asphodel and delicately pruned their leaves, you couldn't help but marvel at the beauty of nature. Each plant seemed to have its own unique personality, its own story to tell. Some were robust and hearty, while others were delicate and fragile, requiring extra care and attention.

Lost in a swirl of thoughts, you didn't notice the approach of another or the creak of the greenhouse doors until a familiar voice broke through the silence of the mist.

'Slaving away to pass herbology?' Draco coaxed, his tone teasing yet warm as he stepped into view from behind swarms of the alihotsy tree foliage.

You glanced up, offering him a smile as your hands continued to prune. Draco had taken to visiting you in the greenhouse whenever he could steal a moment away from his studies or Quidditch practice. Though he often teased you about your love for plants, you could've sworn to see genuine fondness nestled in-between the specks of blue in his eyes.

'Someone has to keep these plants in line,' you replied playfully, gesturing to the lush greenery around you.

Draco chuckled, stepping closer to inspect the asphodel with interest. 'I must admit, I would much rather attend Sprouts lessons than McGonagall's,'

'They're all the same anyway,' Draco grumbles, reaching to absentmindedly mush a leaf between the pads of his fingers.

'Are they?' You beckon, giving him a knowing stare as you pat the soil around the asphodel a little harder than before.

'Potter,' he sneers, gaze lowering. Something must've happened.

But instead of delving deeper into the matter, you decide to shift the conversation to something lighter, knowing it is best to not scratch at fresh wounds.

"Well, since you're here, how about lending me a hand with the watering?" you suggest, flashing Draco a mischievous grin, your eyes sparkling as they always do.

Draco raises an eyebrow, but a playful smirk dances across his lips. "I suppose I could manage that," he concedes, rolling up his sleeves as he joins you at the watering cans.

╺╺╺╺╺╺╺

Draco entered the Slytherin common room cursing the puffing lady in the painting, his steps quiet against the plush carpeting. Crabbe and Goyle had snuck out in the middle of the night to threaten house elves for leftovers again, despite Draco's orders. In spite of his best efforts, Snape had already caught his cronies, muttering scolding admonitions, and sending the trio back to the dorms; but not before confiscating a pile of blueberry muffins nestled into Crabbe and Goyle's arms.

The dim light of the flickering fire cast a warm glow over the room, and the henchmen were ordered upstairs, their heavy footsteps shaking the dungeons. But as Draco made his way upstairs after them, he couldn't help but notice a figure slumped over one of the tables, surrounded by a scattering of books and parchment.

Curiosity piqued, Draco approached, recognizing you, nestled amidst your study materials. Your head rested on your arms, your breathing steady and deep as sleep claimed you in the midst of your studies. Draco couldn't help but smile softly at the sight, finding a certain charm in your dedication to your studies, even if it meant falling asleep in the common room and spending less time with him.

With gentle hands, Draco carefully gathered your belongings, setting aside your books and parchment before lifting you into his arms. 'A Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi' he scoffed gently and to this you stirred slightly, murmuring soft nothings in your sleep, but didn't wake as Draco cradled you against his chest, your head nestling against his shoulder.

With practiced ease, Draco made his way through the common room towards the staircase leading to the girls dormitories, your soft purrs of sleep tickling his chest in a way that shortened his breathing and sent a flutter through his heart.

As he reached your dormitory door, Draco hesitated for a moment, admiring the peaceful expression on your sleeping face. Gently, he pushed open the door and stepped inside, carefully laying you down on your emerald bed and tucking the blankets around you.

For a moment, Draco lingered, watching you sleep with a soft smile before quietly slipping out of the room, leaving you to rest peacefully in the warmth of your bed.

Unbeknownst to him, Pansy lay awake in her own bed, observing the scene with narrowed eyes, her mind already scheming with endless possibilities.

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idiasmentalhealth · 5 months

Text

GOD DAMNIT

MY HOZIER OBSESSION IS GOING TOO FAR‼️‼️‼️

I AM NOW LINKING MULTIPLE HOZIER SONGS NOT ONLY TO KURAS AND LEANDER BUT TO GRIM

SO I'M GONNA TELL YOU EXACTLY WHAT SONGS ARE REMINDING ME OF HIM BECAUSE THE BRAINROT FROM FINISHING MY FIRST PLAYTHROUGH IS VERY REAL

there's so many...

cut just so the post doesn't look too long

OBVIOUSLY THIS ONE HAS TO BE FIRST SUNSHINE.

"But whose heart would not take flight?

Betray the moon as acolyte

On first and fierce affirming sight

Of sunlight, sunlight, sunlight"

"Once I had wondered what was holdin' up the ground

But I can see that all along, love, it was you all the way down

Leave it now, I am sky-bound

If you need to, darling, lean your weight to me

We'll float away, but if we fall

I only pray, don't fall away from me"

THE WAY I HAD TO STOP MID PLAYTHROUGH TO PLAY THIS SONG ON REPEAT AND THEN CONTINUE

"My life was a storm, since I was born

How could I fear any hurricane?

If someone asked me at the end

I'll tell them put me back in it

Darling, I would do it again, ah, ah

If I could hold you for a minute

Darling, I'd go through it again, ah, ah"

AGAIN WITH THE LIGHT

"Could this be how every day begins?

The sky set to burst

The gold and the rust

The colour erupts

You filling my cup

The sun coming up

Like I lived my whole life

Before the first light"

psychopomp... get it cuz he's... the grim reaper...

"The feeling came late

I'm still glad I met you

The memory hurts

But does me no harm

Your hand in my pocket

To keep us both warm

The poor thing in the road

Its eye still glistening

The cold wet of your nose

The Earth from a distance

See how it shines"

"Some part of me must have died

The first time that you called me baby

And some part of me came alive

The first time that you called me baby

These days I think I owe my life

To flowers that were left here by my mother

Ain't that like them, gifting life to you again

This life lived mostly underground

Unknowing either sight nor sound

'Til reaching up for sunlight

Just to be ripped out by the stem"

"When you move

I'm put to mind of all that I wanna be

When you move

I could never define all that you are to me

So move me, baby

Shake like the bough of a willow tree

You do it naturally

Move me, baby"

and last, but certainly not least,

"I didn't care much how long I lived

But I swear I thought I dreamed her

She never asked me once about the wrong I did

When my time comes around

Lay me gently in the cold, dark earth

No grave can hold my body down

I'll crawl home to her"

#two and a half studios #a date with death #grim reaper #hozier #hozier songs #hozier lyrics #Spotify

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hypersonic04 · 8 months

Text

Gold Rush

hello everyone! I thought that as a last hurrah to the summertime, I'd write something inspired by it. this was kindly suggested by @mybrokenveins3000, and i am so obsessed with the whole concept. i hope you all enjoy, let me know what you think! love u!

word count: 1,429

Your skin begs to soak up every last ray of late-August sunshine. The flashing lights and movie stars feel far away now, a life that belongs to someone else, someone who cares about things that, in this life, have no value. He’s golden, flickering, light pouring from him as you sit beside him in the convertible. The wind tickles at your skin, your eyes glued to him sat beside you. Linen shirt, sunglasses, hair sea-salt-ruffled. His skin has been kissed by the sun since you arrived here all but two weeks ago. You tip your head back, try to commit every last cobblestone and blade of grass to memory. The Italian summer has owned your heart for a while, but the silver R laid flat to your chest is forever, sacred, for eternity.

His fingertips are hot on your sticky skin, the breeze welcome as he carefully turns the wheel. Physically, his eyes are fixed forward, but they’re glassy, dreamy, starry. He looks like something you’d have drawn when you were 15, a figment of your imagination. You wonder how many other people would’ve drawn the same thing - what must it be like to grow up that beautiful? The jealousy that dares to make itself know disappears in an instant, his chocolate gaze melting into yours.

“Are you happy?" He asks you. You nod, wordlessly, because words could never be enough.

"Are you?"

"Very." His gaze returns to the road, swallowing heavily, the sweetest of smiles on his face.

The car takes a left, rumbling up the hill that leads us to our treasure trove, our castle. White stone walls, shutter blinds, a peach tree curving over the balcony. It's silent as the engine shuts off, except for the distant sound of a bird call. Your skirt is soft on your legs as you jog up the stone steps, Ross following closely behind, as ever. His hands on your waist, lips on the shell of your ear, light breaths sending you dizzy,

"Ross," you mumble through giggles, unable to put the keys in the lock for his touches. His presence in a room could do that to you, though, red often flushing to your face at the sight of him.

"What, can I not kiss my fiance?" He smiles against your cheek, emphasis on the latter.

Your engagement remains a secret from the world, from prying eyes, from anyone, really. He'd popped the question three days ago, the silver band on your finger new and novel, the sight of it startling, almost.

You turn around in his hold, back pressed to the wood of the door, head tilted upwards to meet his affirmed smirk, a smugness to it as he gazes down at you.

"Fiance." You breathe out, chest sinking as you sigh. He nods, inching closer and closer to your pink lips until they're pressed together. Your hands hold his face, stubble gravelly under your hot touch, your breath stolen by his kiss. He nods at you with drowsy eyes as he pulls away, smiling. The air is balmy, the dusky sky almost a shade of rust now.

He slips the key out of your fingertips, unlocking the door as you rest against it. Walking you backwards into the house, his hands are on your hips and he's laughing at something you've said, something cocky, the kind of thing that fascinated him in the bar that one night. A loud laugh, the kind that gets stuck in the air, tangled around your ear, lingering in the pits of your stomach on the nights you lay awake in the dark. You want it to sit there forever.

He lets you leave him to get changed, begrudgingly. You can hear him opening and closing cupboard doors as you tie your hair up, slipping out of the linen skirt you'd been wearing. Your skin is tan as you look at yourself in the mirror, bra and shorts the only suitable attire for the sweltering evening heat. The bedroom windows are wide open, and you find yourself gazing out of them for a second. You can see the ripple of lights on water, hear distant conversation from a restaurant you'd sat in a few days ago, the greenery hanging over the window close enough for you to touch. It's still, a stark contrast to your everyday life. You wonder what would happen if you didn't go back.

The sound of the balcony doors opening steals you from your daydream. Padding across the wooden floor, back into the living room, you spot the bottle of red wine he's placed on the table outside, ashtray and deck of cards next to the glasses. A smile spreads across your face, spotting him through the arch of the kitchen, shirt off as he places slices of watermelon on a plate.

He glances at you, then glances at you again as you walk out onto the balcony. You lean against it with a glass of wine in hand, surprised when his fingers ghost up your spine. They're soft, warm, home.

"Thank you for pouring me a glass." You smile, maintaining his eye contact over the rim of the glass.

"You're very welcome, my love." He kisses your temple before taking a seat at the table, leaning back and lighting a cigarette. He takes a drag of it, and you watch as his cheeks hollow. It's inviting, bewitching almost, watching his eyes graze across the view from your balcony, hair falling perfectly, lungs inhaling.

You take your seat across from him, shuffling the cards. He watches as you do it, flicking some ash into the ashtray between you both. You deal them out as he tells you about how George had asked how the holiday was going, how long you were staying, nodding along as he talks.

The wine flows too easily, your cheeks red and glowing as you stare at him dreamily. There's a purity to it, an innocence, your eyes glazed over like a teenager with a crush.

"You're staring." He chuckles, eyebrows raised.

"What, can I not stare at my fiance?" You giggle as you mirror his earlier words, watching his face contort as he laughs. The air is bursting with love, the seams of your bubble threatening to burst as your laughter bounces around, your belly warm and mind fuzzy. "Let me have a drag." You cock your head to his cigarette and hold our your hand.

"You're not smoking a cigarette, y/n." he shakes his head with a laugh. "When have you ever smoked?"

"When I've had four glasses of Bordeaux." you giggle. The sound that escapes your lips sends him dizzy, tilting his head a little so he can see every inch of your face, warmed up by the glow of the living room light falling through the doorway. He wants to bottle this noise, this moment, this feeling.

He puts it out before you can attempt to steal it, standing up to look over the balcony. His back is broad, muscles evident as he rests his forearms on the railings, dark eyes contemplating the scenery around him. It's dark now, little caverns of light hidden in the landscape, evidence of life. Your arms snaking around his waist don't take him by surprise, a kiss pressed to the centre of his back as you rest your head against it. His skin is hot, smooth under your touch, still glazed with sunscreen and aloe moisturiser. Memories of you in fits of laughter the day before, him wincing as you lathered the cold gel onto his back, running around the house like children - you're grateful they exist, you hope they stay as vibrant as they are right now.

You can hear the strum of a guitar from a bar lower down the cliff, faint and gentle in your ears, but enough to know it's something familiar. Humming along to it, he turns around and takes your hands in his, swaying ever-so-gently. He's twinkling, sparkling under your touch, cheeks tinted pink and eyes sleepy. You're drunk on red wine, dancing with your fiance on a balcony in Italy - if only you could freeze time.

His hands move to your waist, smooth and soft under his calloused fingertips, lips pressed to yours, tongues intertwining like ivy, like the way you think your souls might be. He walks you backwards, back through the balcony doors, hitting the wall of the hallway before you can catch your breath. He pulls away, eyes so close to yours, and if you could jump into them, you would.

#ross macdonald #the 1975 #1975 band #fanfic #matty healy #adam hann #george daniel #matty the 1975 #asks #ross macdonald x reader #ross macdonald fic #ross macdonald fanfiction #ross macdonald imagine #ross macdonald fanfic

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tiredlilguy · 8 months

Note

Hello Oda~ Hope you're doing well! This is like the first time I've requested something, so I hope I get it right. Can I request something Beast!Dazai x reader related?

Basically, a last dance with his S/O (his way of vaguely saying goodbye without letting the reader know too much about his plans). Make it as angsty as you'd like!

a/n: hihi! i hope you're doing well too >:D this is hella edgy, but im not going to lie, it gave me a lot of ideas for what to write. i had to put the draft aside for a little bit because i did just post angst a second ago. enjoy though! >:D i had fun with this prompt hehe

pairing: BEAST!Dazai Osamu X GN!Reader cw: [BSD BEAST SPOILERS!], sad :(, not proofread desc: dazai chose to dance with you. to you, just another dance. to him, his last.

Dazai Osamu didn’t do good things.

You understood that much…

Even if you didn’t work in the Mafia, you still felt as though there was a good in him. He was simply a man lost in his own eyes, yet at the same time that void shined when it faced you. It was if if his eye that was filled with darkness and nothing shown light the moment that they looked at you.

You first meeting him was a blur, it started with you just working at an old bar that was close to rusting. He seemed to appear out of nowhere, taking a seat with a smile and already asking for a glass of whiskey with a grin. It was odd… you were talking to a stranger and yet in the moment that you saw him, it almost felt as if you knew everything about him. Dazai was ready to be open to that too, offering to buy you a drink in exchange for a little bit of conversation.

Now you were no longer working at that bar. Ever since then, everything seemed to change: five star hotels, fancy restaurants, pretty silk outfits and clothes from luxury brands, fancy jewelry with twenty-four karat gold, and a penthouse that you weren’t expecting to find yourself sitting on the balcony of. Life seemed to be a red carpet walk for you, and all you had to do in return was give your heart to Dazai. Of course, you did with no hesitation. It seemed as though that first time yo’ve met, you’ve known each other for years.

He not only gave you gifts in forms of affection, but he too was also affectionate himself. Dazai often loved to spend time with you even if you two weren’t talking. Your presence was something that he enjoyed, even if you two didn’t have to say a single word or let out a sound. He kissed you gently, always making sure to pull you close by the hand before with a small smile. Dazai would whisper soft things into your ear as he held you tight, perhaps telling you something just to make you laugh… You felt as though you were on top of the world with him.

And yet…

You knew Dazai never did anything good.

After all, now he was the Port Mafia’s boss, the man who ruled authority with an iron fist and a cold face. Unfortunately with that… there were a lot of things he never told you. Dazai never took off his bandaged in front of you, never told you how work was really going, never explained why he was out so late or that he had arrived home in different clothes. You were left in the dark, and while that made you afraid and confused, you understood that it was for your safety. If you knew about what Dazai was doing, you’d be an easy target for ransom despite you being quite good at defending yourself. All he wanted to do was to protect you.

Yet…

…

You were called to meet your lover in an uncertain location. While the letter was reassuring for you not to worry, you car being late was already enough to make you anxious. Giving up on waiting after ten minutes, you ran off, searching for the location on your own. In some way you felt as though your legs would be faster than a flimsy car. The more steps you took, you felt your heart race more with anxiety.

Why did he call you here?

What does he need?

Are you going to be ok?

Eventually, your exhausted soles met the ground you were to meet him upon. An abandoned parking lot, not too far from just leaving the city. Yet at the same time, you were out of breathe, sweaty and an anxious mess. You ran up the multiple stairs, running to arrive at the floor that he’d requested. Once you were there, your feet started to slow down as you tried to catch your breathe. You didn’t understand how tired you really were until you arrived, the feeling underneath your feet only aching more and more as the cluster of feelings in your chest grew bigger.

There Dazai was, standing with his hands behind his back as he stared into the sunset. He turned around to you with a light smile, offering his hands.

“ There you are, little flower,” he sung softly, but loud enough for you to hear. You gently walked over to him, taking his hand. Before you knew it, he pulled your arm back, wrapping a hand around your waist with a smile as he made you come closer. Dazai closed his eyes as he started to step to the side, humming to himself gently. Once again, you were close enough to hear.

You looked up at him, accepting his implicit invitation to dance around, placing a hand on his shoulder and following his footsteps.

Despite the scene being rather calm, you felt a strange wave of anxiety in your chest, yet at the same time you wondered if it was just all the running. You watched and following in silence as Dazai seemed to be in his own world. This time… with his eyes closed. It was strange, if he had his eyes closed you could never understand what was on his mind… at least from a distance. He’d look at you with a soft gaze if his eyes were open, a small glimmer showing from them… He was hiding.

“ Osamu…,” you said in a hushed voice.

He seemed to still be in his own universe as he answered with a hum,” Yes, my love? Sorry that the car you were supposed to take didn’t get here on time. There was some… complications… on the way.”

“ Osamu could you just look at me for a secon- ah…!,” Dazai swiftly pulled you to switch sides, the trum in his voice getting a little bit louder.

“ Hm… I quite love the scenery that I’ve chosen. Don’t you…? You always enjoyed sunsets like this, no?,” Dazai stopped, looking over to the side, but he made sure that you weren’t able to see his eyes, his bandaged side hiding his true expression. He turned around once again and continued swaying you about as you couldn’t really think of any words to say back. You chose to stay silent, letting him enjoy his dance…

To you, a simple dance, one like many that he’d enjoyed with you.

To him, his last dance.

Dazai eventually stopped himself, separating from you before dipping you down. He’d finally opened his eyes… and this time all you could see was an empty void. One that didn’t seem to look back at you the way it used to.

“ Goodnight, my love,” he said gently,” I enjoyed this dance with you, but now it’s time for you to go.”

You raised a brow,” Good… night? I’ll see you tonight, ‘Samu. You’re acting really weird.”

“ Whatever do you mean,” You didn’t answer back, only shrugging your shoulders. Perhaps your thoughts were just betraying you, and so you let go of his hands with a smile.

“ I love you, Osamu,” you said, placing a soft kiss on his lips despite how strangely cold they felt.

“ Hm…,” he let out one warm smile,” I love you too.”

…

Dazai knew that this world could not move on without his disappearance. It was all too painful, this universe, yet at the same time, it was one where his dear friend, Oda was alive… One where Oda could write his novel in a peaceful life.

However he also knew… that he couldn’t give you everything. Leaving you confused in the dark was already enough… and so, by his plan, he left this world.

A bittersweet relief.

…

It was midnight. Dazai hadn’t returned to your door yet, but the person that did was a tall man with rust red hair. He was in a bow and held a bouquet of flowers in his hand and a blueish-green pendant.

“ I’m sorry for your loss.”

“ I… huh?”

“ He’s gone… Dazai that is…”

“ O-oh god…”

“ Take this… This is the least I can do.”

“ …”

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crookedkryptonitebeliever · 3 months

Text

It Was Only Supposed to be a One Night Stand (part 8)

Tw: Yandere, Montgomery came from a dysfunctional family, fat shaming, like bullying from parents

LOOK AT MY NEW SERIES THAT COMBINES YVES AND MONTGOMERY TOGETHER

Part 9

After four long days and three steamy nights, you finally reached the homestead that Montgomery was raving about.

It is massive. Lively too.

Even during winter, the animals were kicking up a fuss inside their respective barns. The main, open fields didn't seem to be growing anything, but you can see a couple of greenhouses side by side. The silos tower all the nearby buildings. Everything seems all over the place yet organized at the same time, perhaps you're not well versed in the art of farming, you wouldn't get it.

He drove further down to a large, two storey farmhouse. The wooden planks worn with age and memories, plants creeping from under the sheet of powdery white. Montgomery parked right next to five other trucks that clearly saw better days. You turned your head to see that there is another living quarter, this time with two cars, but four vacant parking spots.

Typical of him, he gets out of the car first to open your door.

You held onto his hand as your boots flatten the snow below you. He has a protective arm around your waist, making you sure that you won't fall.

"We made it home." He pulled his scarf down to give you a kiss on the forehead. "Praise lord, we made it safe and sound." Montgomery rubbed your back up and down.

Praise lord? That's new. You never pegged him to be religious, seeing how he is behind bedroom and motel doors.

He struck his knuckles against the sturdy door that's protected by a metal gate. You eyed the rust coating them, wondering how old their properties are.

With this much resources, they should have been filthy rich. Why is everyone cramped into these two houses?

The door swung open to reveal an older male, with greying hair and a baseball cap. He is a lot shorter than Montgomery himself.

"Monty, my boy!" He exclaimed and excitedly opened the gate. Both men flung themselves onto each other and had a hug fest.

"I missed ya, pa." The older gentleman lets out a hearty laugh.

"Missed ya too, Ugly."

Ugly? That's... an odd thing to call your son. You can see that Montgomery's smile faltered a bit.

"So? Gonna introduce me to this beauty here?" His father smiled at you.

"This is (name), my partner." Montgomery clasped his hands on your shoulders and pulled you closer to him. "Born n' raised in the city." He shot his father a look, as if hinting to not make you too uncomfortable with the countryside lifestyle.

"Huh. Now how did ya' get to meet my son? I know y'all city dwellers have sky-high expectations for lovers, especially in the looks department ." He guffawed and slapped Montgomery on the back. "I guess his heart of gold won ya' over."

Your boyfriend looks uncomfortable.

You changed the subject, asking if you could come in due to the freezing weather.

"Come on in! A friend of Monty is a friend of mine, I ain't have much from his side. So, I'm excited to get to know ya!" He steps aside to let the both of you in.

It definitely has a rustic aesthetic. Cushions and rugs worn and tattered. There are three German Shepherds sleeping on the couches. A fluffy grey cat sits atop one of them, eyes serenely closed.

The hearth is crackling loudly and its heat is warming the house up. You looked around to see numerous framed pictures of his family on all sides of the walls.

There are a dizzying number of different faces that you can identify. You wonder if he had a thousand siblings or these are including his cousins and niblings.

"Do I hear that Monty the Ugly is home?!" A high pitched voice rang from another room.

"Ya' sure did, Sugar! Our boy is home!"

A woman of similar age to his father, came rushing in. In her arms held a large wooden bowl filled with what looks like batter of some sort.

She set the bowl down on a table somewhere and hurled herself to Montgomery. She gave him a bone-crushing hug, it was so tight that your boyfriend had the air knocked out of his lungs. That's where he gets his habit from.

She whipped her head towards you, her eyes lit up even more and you could almost feel her gyrating on the spot.

"Oh! Who's this little sweet thing right here?" She let her son go before skittering towards you. His mother reminded you a lot of a hyperactive mouse.

"That's Monty's lover, can you believe it?!" His father replied with great enthusiasm.

She let out a squeal and squeezed your cheeks. "No! I can't. Praise Jesus, he finally found someone who loves him past his outside!"

"That's enough now, ma." He forcefully pried her away from you. She stumbled backward a little, her husband came to her aid but before he could defend her, she had something to say.

"What? I'm just showin' our guest how we welcome folks like them!" Whined his mother. Montgomery ignored them, preferring to inspect your face instead, he caressed your cheeks as he whispered, "I'm sorry about them."

"And I raised ya' better than to put your hands on your mother like that!" His father had a sudden change of tone, his face contorted into something a lot less friendly.

"I know that's right, Monty! The city corrupted your values, ya' should have stayed back and helped with the family business." His mother spat with malice.

"Really!? Right now? In front of my sweetheart?" Montgomery retorted with equal offense. He stood in front of you protectively.

They snapped their head towards you and took a moment of silence. Their animosity dropped as fast as it arrived, they returned to their smiles and giggles.

"Silly ol' us, where are our manners? You ain't even know what to call us!" The father hooked his arm around your neck and gave you a noogie. You wince at the sudden touch and pain.

"You can call me 'ma', and him 'pa'. Forget about the Mr and Mrs crap, we're all family here!" His mother clapped her hands excitedly.

"Hands off!" Montgomery's digits curled around his father's wrist, yanking it away from your head. He shoved him away from you and pressed you close into him. "Don't fucking touch them!" He shouted.

"What the hell has gotten into ya'? We're your parents, for god's sake! You don't get to talk to us like that!" Retaliated his father.

"Precisely, Monty! The city's no good for you. If only you listened to us and pastor--"

You interrupted their potentially disastrous argument, asking to meet the rest of the family. Like before, they immediately forget about their anger and go straight to being lovingly sweet again.

"Yes! I'll call those lazy bones down right now." The mother took a deep breath and began screeching their names, she moved towards the staircase and continued yelling. You had to plug your ears with your fingers, it was as loud as the train. Maybe even louder.

"While my wife's callin' them down, c'mon, I'll teach you their names." His father wanted to put a hand on your shoulder, but Montgomery growled at him. He rolled his eyes and let his hand drop to the side.

You stood in front of the second biggest framed picture in the living room. You let out a sigh of relief, at least you only need to remember the faces and names of 10 people, as opposed to 70 in the largest family picture.

All of them wore the same flannel shirt and type of jeans.

"That's Noel, our youngest. He's turnin' 25 this Christmas. Be careful with him, he's the softest among all of us. He just can't take a joke!" He pointed at the boy who had his hair bleached, his roots were showing. You took note of his rainbow shoelaces.

"That's Baby-Ruth. She's sweeter than chocolate, she's the only one showin' willingness to help out around the farm. Unlike a certain someone who decided to abandon us." He narrowed his eyes at Montgomery, and his father received a mean glare back. Baby-Ruth is the only glowing one in this picture who genuinely looks happy to be in it.

"Ah! Rufus the dog! He's a lean, mean machine, lemme tell ya that. He does all the heavy liftin', he could carry a full-grown cow across the field and not break a sweat! Just hopin' he would lay off the moonshine." Rufus looks horrendous in this picture, eyebags, tousled hair, and sunken cheeks.

"And that's your loverboy, Monty the Ugly!" He pointed at a younger-looking Montgomery.

You said that he looks handsome in this picture, you didn't understand why he's being assigned the title. But truth be told, he just looks average.

Upon hearing that, Montgomery felt his heart swell and he became bashful. But the moment was ruined when his father decided to laugh in your face.

"I guess big places like the city have some big variety of tastes. Not here, though."

You tried defending your boyfriend, feeling upset that he's unfairly treated in this family. Or maybe you felt offended when he implied that your standards are low. You said that he was well sought after in the city, people liked how strong and rugged he was. There is no way he's considered unattractive here.

What you said is not necessarily true in Montgomery's experiences, but it made him melt nonetheless.

You fully expected a shouting match with his father like earlier. But he only brushed it off and took it as a joke.

"Stop yankin' my chains, ain't no way the majority prefer... this-" He gestured towards your boyfriend. "-Over, this!" He pointed to the next family member.

You wouldn't admit it out loud. But whoever his father is pointing at is definitely a hunk. He has a million-dollar smile and striking hazel eyes. The man has his hair slicked back into a neat fashion, you can see his muscles peeking out of his flannel. He knows how to flaunt his good side.

"Our poster boy, Beau! All the ladies in town and out of town is chasin' after him. That's why, he's the face of our products. Shame that he married a woman that didn't quite match his level."

You asked him if he's calling his wife hideous.

He shrugged nonchalantly. "Somethin' like that. You're a much better fit for him, but I guess to each their own."

You shot Montgomery a look, your mouth agape. Is his family always like this? He looked away shamefully, starting to regret visiting home.

"Next! Betty the fatty! She could never seem to shed that weight." He chuckled. "I guess Mama's fried chicken's too good for her to resist! Breaking a chair or five never stopped her from getting seconds or thirds or fifteenths during Thanksgiving!"

You brought your hands to your head. You told him that they must be insane, Betty may be chubbier than the rest of them, but she looks normal. Perhaps even thinner than you are, given her height. Either way, She doesn't deserve to be talked about like that.

"Ah, don't you worry. I was just kiddin'. She only broke four chairs with her fatass. Plus, she can take a joke. Unlike a certain wannabe blondie." Before you could even argue about anything else, Montgomery squeezed your shoulder gently. You turned your head to see him shaking his head, pleading with you to drop it. So you did.

"We got the other end of the spectrum, Emerson the Skeleton!" Horrified, your eyes trailed to the end of his fingertips. He's pointing to an emaciated woman who has a scarf tied to her head, it looks like she's trying to cover up part of her hair. She didn't appear to be smiling and her eyes looked vacant.

"She's lazy. Barely helping out with the farm and always sleepin' in. Always spendin' her hard-earned check at the hospital, I wonder what's so interestin' over there."

You cannot tell if he was joking or if he truly did not understand she was suffering from some sort of illness.

"We worry for her, she's nearly 40 and unmarried. I reckon it's cause she ain't have no meat on her bones. Men like to go for something with a little more substance, ya' get what I'm saying?" He nudges you in the rib using his elbow.

Montgomery was about to jump in, but you raised a palm to him. Telling him that it's fine.

"And finally, our oldest. Mary-Grace. Can't believe she's turnin' 50. Time has gone by so fast." He has a wistful look on his face. The oldest looked... tortured. She seems so angry yet so trapped. Her deep wrinkles show you unseen expressions.

Interestingly enough, he has nothing much to say about her.

"Then, there's us! Me, Robert Yeller and my lovely wife, Anna-Mae Yeller. We've been married for 50 long years. She's just a couple months older than I am, but she acts just like my mother!" They both look the happiest. Everyone except Baby-Ruth looked like they were attending a funeral in comparison.

You asked how old are they now.

"We turned 66 this year." The gears started turning in your head. You rather not think about it in the end.

"-meet the new addition to our family!" Your ears perked up at the voice of Anna-Mae. You turned around to see Noel, Emerson and Mary-Grace Yeller. Your eyes rolled down to see a gaggle of children, excitedly chattering among each other.

The children squealed when they saw you and Montgomery. They were like high-speed bullets the way they came running. They latched onto you, their weight making you lose your balance and fall to the ground.

You groaned as they laughed and hugged you close.

"I know y'all are excited to meet your new pibling. But guys, git off them, you're going to scare my Sweetheart away!" He shooed them off you, they shrieked playfully as Montgomery exaggerated his stomps, chasing them around the room until they slipped off to somewhere else to play.

Montgomery seems to get along with the children well. You wondered if he wanted children later in life, that may be a problem given the economy is on a downward trend.

Your boyfriend helped you up, checking you for any injuries sustained.

You turned your face to look at his siblings. They're... nothing like their parents personality-wise. They stared at you cautiously, a conflicted look rested on their faces as soon as their eyes landed on Montgomery.

There was tension in the air, Mary-Grace furrowed her eyebrows, looking at Montgomery. Then he turned to you, and an unreadable expression emerged.

"Welcome. Make yerself' at home." She was curt. She turned around and walked away.

"Hello." Emerson rasps. She gave you a small wave and a polite smile. She too, left the room promptly.

Noel looked you up and down, seemingly judging you.

"How was life like in the city?" He ignored you, asking Montgomery.

"Show my partner some respect, if you know what's good for you." Seethed Montgomery through his gritted teeth.

"Sup." He gave you an upward nod. You mirrored his behavior.

"Were you happy?" Asked Noel, treating you like you're invisible. "Were they any less 'sensitive' than me?"

"Noel." He snarled. "Not now."

To your surprise, Noel didn't inherit any of their Southern accents. He almost sounds... Californian.

Noel snorted. "Welcome to the Yeller household. I can tell you're going to love it here." The sarcasm dripping from his tone definitely didn't go undetected. He went back upstairs, you heard a loud slam shortly after.

"Heh, guess someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed, amirite?" The couple laughed in unison.

Montgomery rubbed your arm up and down. "Let's go." He whispered.

He excused himself needing to set the luggage down in the bedroom. You followed him to the car, not wanting to be in the same room as the unstable elderly couple.

What have you gotten yourself into?

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere oc #yandere male #yandere concept #tw yandere #yandere oc x reader #yandere x you #male yandere oc x reader #oc montgomery #tw fatphobia #tw fat shaming #tw dysfunctional family

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queerofthedagger · 1 year

Text

red like rust

[Steddie | T+ | no warnings]

It doesn’t happen in the hospital. Hell, it doesn’t happen before then, because before then, Steve has Eddie’s blood all over his hands, crimson-hot and sticky, has his fingers half inside of him to keep him together, has to—

Point is, before the hospital, there isn’t any time to have a breakdown. Steve has never been much of a crier, really, dislikes the entire act of it, but that moment when he had to forcibly drag Dustin away from Eddie’s body so that Steve could save him, damn his stupid, stubborn, hero-complex-ridden nerd-self, he’d thought this time, surely, this entire nightmare of a week, well. He thought it would warrant an A-class breakdown, honestly.

He feels like one, too, like he is nothing but breakdown-to-happen. Feels like his skin is scrubbed raw and his sanity is dangling by a thread worn so thin, it’s only held together by Dustin’s red-rimmed eyes, by Lucas’ silence when they bring in Max, by Robin’s white-knuckled hand in his. In those hours that are nothing but a long, agonizing wait in the fluorescent hospital, both Max and Eddie in surgery while Hawkins’ injured and dead won’t stop coming in around them, Steve feels like crumbling marble, like he’s becoming a ruin with no one bearing witness.

At the end of the night, the kids have been picked up by their parents no matter their protests, Nancy has found a bathroom to have her breakdown in private while Robin is having hers right against Steve’s shoulder, and Steve—

Steve swears he can feel it rip the inside of his chest to shreds, but the tears won’t come, his hands won’t shake, and he wonders how long you can go on like this before it mutilates something irreparable inside of you. --- It doesn’t happen after that either. Not when they stitch his sides back together, and not when the doctors tell them that both Eddie and Max will live, the relief of it almost bringing him to his knees.

It doesn’t happen when he sees Eddie for the first time, skin pallid and stitches angry-red on his face and throat. When Eddie’s hands shake, fingers unsteady against Steve’s wrist as he says, “I didn’t think I’d make it.”

Not when Steve hisses, more venom in his voice than in years, “You promised. You promised you wouldn’t play the fucking hero.”

His teeth rattle with the fury of it, and he’s shaking, too, everything in him itching to shatter into a hundred pieces, but he doesn’t. He can’t.

Eddie merely keeps looking at him, wide brown eyes and matted hair, and he doesn’t apologize, but then, Steve doesn’t think that he could take it. That it wouldn’t be what will make him get into his car and drive until he forgets about Hawkins and dying kids and boys with lie-soaked tongues and hearts of gold. ---

If he hoped it would get better once the shock wears off, this would be a let-down, but really, Steve’s been at this a little too long to still be disappointed in his various shortcomings; this might as well just join the parade.

Emotionally constipated, as Nancy would say. Your bastard of a father to blame, Robin would mutter, fire in her eyes whenever the topic comes up—more so, recently, since his parents came back in the wake of the supposed earthquake.

Which is an entire thing Steve doesn’t touch. Generally speaking, he’s not unhappy to see his mom, but currently, it’s one of the last things he needs.

He still cannot get the tears past his throat, cannot let go of the fear and the anger and the grief—so much godforsaken, blood-soaked grief—that draws tighter around his chest with each passing day.

He wakes from nightmares more often than not, of course, heaving and sweat-soaked and shaking. He jumps at the noises from other people sharing the house with him, flinches away from his window because they always turn on the lights of the pool, and almost bites through his tongue when, for the hundredth time, they try to convince him to move to LA with them.

He meets his father’s judgmental eyes blankly and brushes his mother’s concerns off, and he feels closer to splintering apart with each passing day, and still.

And still, nothing ever fucking gives. --- He tries not to think about it, and the vise only draws tighter. The more he thinks about it, the farther away he feels from being capable of anything but tearing something outside of him apart.

It is lucky, perhaps, that his friends are too stubborn to let him get away with his shit. Robin gives back tenfold whenever he snaps at her, and the kids have stopped taking him seriously years ago. Nancy has to do little more than raise a brow for him to get a grip.

Eddie’s the wild card, and the circularity of that makes Steve clench his hands until his nails draw blood.

The pain’s still not enough. Maybe that’s the goddamn issue, he thinks some nights, staring up at his ceiling with his heart a war drum inside his chest. Perhaps he’s so fucked up, emotionally constipated, whatever the fuck everyone’s theory is, that even Eddie jumping off Death’s scythe just so, that even Max, weeks later, still lying in the hospital, isn’t enough to get to him. --- If he’s honest, he knows it’s not that. He doesn’t know what it is, sure, but he knows that he loves them all so much that it makes his bones shake with the ruby-coloured terror of it.

It’s okay, though, it’s all worth it, even as the days march on and he feels stretched thin and raw and like it’ll take little to make him crumble for good.

It’s okay, through movie nights and drives to the arcade, through DnD sessions he only watches and volunteering with Robin. Through late nights with Eddie on the roof of the Beemer, and through calls that last until the sun climbs into the sky, dawn red-pink and mocking.

It’s all okay, good even, all the old-familiar and the new. The way he sometimes looks at Eddie and aches with want, these days, the pain and the rage almost buried beneath it. Almost, almost, almost. --- It happens, as these things are wont to do, when Steve least expects it.

It’s a tepid June day and they’re down at the quarry, just the two of them—Steve and Eddie, Eddie and Steve, the way their names are constantly mashed together these days a running joke amongst everyone.

They’re not even doing anything, just smoking and wandering around, when the sky opens up above them, the downpour so sudden and harsh that they’re soaked within seconds.

After prolonged moments of simply staring at each other in disbelief, Steve starts laughing—helpless, really, there is no way that he can’t. Eddie looks like a drowned poodle, the joint in his hand sagging, wet, and sad, and after everything, it just feels absurd.

Eddie shoves him and Steve shoves back, and then they’re running, both laughing and stumbling every other step.

“Fuck,” Steve gets out, empathetic and out of breath as he collapses against the side of the van. The rain’s already letting up again, and he looks at Eddie, smiling wide and bright-eyed, just a few steps away from him. “Fuck, I’m so glad you’re still alive.”

It’s such a stupid thing to say. But it tastes like a confession, like something sacrosanct. It tastes a lot like forgiveness, is the thing, and Eddie stills as if he understands it, too.

Around them, the rain slows down to a drizzle, and everything smells like early summer and second chances.

“Jesus, I hope you’ll still think that in a second,” Eddie mutters, and it doesn’t make sense, not an ounce, until he crosses the three feet between them, cups Steve’s face between his hands, and presses their mouths together.

It’s hot, slick with rain and a little clumsy, their noses bumping and Eddie’s rings catching in his hair. It’s also everything Steve has wanted for weeks now, and he pulls Eddie closer, fingers clenching into skin and bone where the bats had almost taken him.

Perhaps it’s that. Perhaps it’s the little noise Eddie makes, as if, despite being the one to finally take the plunge, he is still surprised that this is happening. Or, perhaps, Eddie just has that effect on Steve.

When Steve finally breaks, it is with Eddie Munson kissing him for the first time.

The tears mix hot with the remaining drizzle, and it’s so unexpected that the shock briefly outshines the grief. He staggers, a sob clawing its way out of his throat, and he wants to shove it back down, wants to keep kissing Eddie, clichéd and perfect in the summer rain.

“You’re such a bastard,” he chokes instead, and when Eddie pulls back, eyes wide, Steve sees just enough through the tears to make out the shock on his face, the fear working its way in. “Not about that, you—Jesus.”

He doesn’t get any more words out after that, throat constricting and everything shaking, shaking, shaking. He gets his point across by digging his fingers into Eddie’s hips, refusing to let go when he’s still half the reason this is even happening in the first place. By pressing his forehead to Eddie’s collarbone, and he hates crying, always has, but sheltered between Eddie’s van and Eddie’s body, it’s maybe as alright as it can get.

Eventually, Eddie seems to get the message or at least some part of it. He hums softly, and tugs and pushes at Steve until his face is in the crook of Eddie’s neck, Eddie’s arms around him, and it all just comes out in one inevitable, disastrous wave of pent-up grief.

Steve cries and cries and cries, for the kids and for himself, for Robin and Nancy and Eddie, and for the absolute abundance of shit they all had to go through. For all the futures they won’t have, and how when he closes his eyes, all he ever sees these days is red.

“Because you’re weird and I’m weird, I’m going to assume that you are weeping in awe of my kissing skills,” Eddie says, minutes or hours later when Steve can somewhat breathe again. “As such, I’m taking this as a declaration that you’re just as stupidly in love with me as I am with you.”

Steve laughs, and then he’s crying again, and Eddie presses his smile against his temple as if it is the easiest thing in the world.

So, thirteen weeks after they killed Vecna for the final time, Steve finally breaks.

That’s okay, though, because apparently, Eddie’s ready to pick up the pieces, too. Because somehow, Steve’s ready to let him.

#st #stranger things #steddie #steve x eddie #steddie fic #mona's writing #honestly this is 1k longer than 'just something quick to finally break the goddamn writer's block' was supposed to be #but at this point i'd have taken anything so really I'm not complaining

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