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serawritesthings · 4 months

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hi! Sorry for any mistakes, english is not my first language. I don't know if you're accepting requests, if you not, just ignore. But I'm wondering how you would write something related to a jealous Arthur Morgan, high honor of course (with smut or without smut sincerely you know what looks best). the way you write is addictive and passionate, i believe anything you write from this would be great.

OUR DEAR, GREEN LITTLE FRIEND

Pairing | Arthur Morgan x Fem! Reader Summary | Oh, jealousy. When the thought of you straying too close to the comfort of Charles, the green monster claws its way into Arthur's head. Tags | sexual content 18+ minors dni, tiny bit of angst, description of violence and wounds, fluffy at times, smut Word Count | 10k A/N | Hi everyone! I just HAD to write this request, hope you like it! Also, thank you dearly anon♡

While many found the biting cold of the climate north of West Grizzlies to be bitter–sharp air seeping into your very bones–you saw it oddly liberating despite the current predicament. The circumstance was dire, indeed, and you pondered many times if this would finally be the end for all of you, thinking of the incredible luck you had managed to have so far. Fate, or an astonishingly fascinating knowledge on how to escape the grappling arms of the law with a suspicious amount of people trashing through the roads in utter, sheer panic.

Glancing around you as you huddled closer to the fire, hands rubbing furiously against the wool of your gloves to gain even the slightest warmth to your biting fingers, you were met with the flushed cheeks of your comrades. The skin that now glistened from the melting snowflakes was caressed by the warm, orange glow from the flames lighting up the small hut you had taken residence in.

The road leading to here had been long, and the time spent in the wagon that did nothing to shield you from the penetrating wind that howled into the night, your thoughts had been entirely focused on the man who now lay dead a few meters away, tucked in some fabric to shield the paling flesh of a corpse. While the thought might not make you uncomfortable, it did its thing on the others who looked weary at the covered man.

You had done your best to tend to him amidst the severe trembling of your fingers and numbness spreading through you the longer you rode in the worrying storm, finding his blood still staining the cotton of your gloves–a reminder that you had done what you could to help the poor fellow. Despite not knowing him well enough to shed a tear, death was still a death, and a slight melancholy set its claw in all of you as you tried to regain some warmth.

“Stupid man.” Glancing beside you, you took notice of the dark-haired woman muttering angrily as she held a sleeping Jack close to her body.

“What’s wrong?” You inquired quietly, curious of her obvious disdain.

“John Marston is what’s wrong.” Blazing heatedly into the fire, you could almost see the depths of hell through her furious eyes. “He didn’t come back with the rest.” Shifting her eyes to yours for a quick moment that, although short, showed the worry hidden beneath her anger.

Nodding slowly as you leaned against her slightly in comfort, you realized you hadn’t taken notice of the man’s absence until now. Returning with empty hands and another mouth to feed had instead been the case, no Marston as far as the eyes could see as he probably whirred around in the blizzard somewhere.

“Do you think he…” As you spoke, you trailed off, growing unsure of your words while realizing your comments might be prodded into a sensitive subject.

“No.” Firmly, she sniveled harshly, shaking her head in protest. “No, he wouldn’t leave again.” Although her words were sure, you still felt a lingering doubt cloud your mind, remembering being told of his earlier departure from the gang that caused more scars in their relationships than good–not that it wasn’t faulty from the very start.

As you were about to let your prying win against your common sense, you were interrupted by the door being audibly slammed open, the noisy winds from outside growing louder as snowflakes whirled inside. Walking inside was the prominent figure of Charles, nodding respectfully to its residents as the door shut behind him, once more letting the warmth settle.

“Folks.” He mumbled quietly, treading through everyone huddling by the fire as he glanced curiously at the new woman before settling beside you. You glanced up at him, taking in his snow-covered self before lingering on his hand that rested motionless on his legs, bandages visible under his gloves.

“It’s not too bad; the cold seems to numb the pain.” A slight smile graced your lips at his observance, finding it unique to the man to be so tentative to everyone around him. Letting out a small laugh, you reach to remove your gloves before taking his hand in yours so you could lay it in your lap, unwrapping the bandages to examine the burns covering his skin.

You had given it a quick look-over before you had to tend to Davey, doing the best you could to ease his pain you were sure would be unavoidable. Although the sight was quite gruesome, it didn’t look as bad as you had expected.

“You’re stronger than me, that’s for sure. I would be a crying mess if I burned my hand like that.” Your voice was gentle as you started to rewrap the fabric around his hand, finding it increasingly irritating you didn’t have the tools you usually did that would indeed do a fine job at lessening his pain.

You had managed to gain a slight smile from the otherwise aloof man, probably finding your words humorous. “Let’s hope it’ll never come to that.”

Sharing a look, you heard the door open once again, the irritated voice of Uncle damning whoever was letting in the cold for the second time. Both you and Charles laughed slightly, and as you looked up, you were faced with a pair of squinting, blue eyes, the icy cold from the outside seemingly enhancing their sharpness although making a welcomed warmth spread through you as they gazed over you in a quick motion–departing to look at the hand that rested in your lap.

“A sad loss, folks,” Hosea stated as he stepped onto the wooden planks, speaking out loudly in the otherwise calm hut, groaning as he helped Arthur lift Davey’s lifeless body, limp like a ragdoll.

Glancing subtly, you observed him as Arthur’s bulky form lifted easily, unlike Hosea, admiring how he made it seem so effortless. The others called him the camps workhorse, and you didn’t fail to see why, keeping your eyes firm on the man as he carried him towards the door.

He shrouded you in uncertainty; he did, and you weren’t sure how to behave in his bold presence. You often felt like a goody two shoes, and even though you weren’t the perfect picture of a law-abiding citizen, you could honestly say you were a wimp compared to Arthur.

You should be embarrassed, you really should, but there was something in his eyes– something that made your heart race. Utterly shameless, yet desperate to lock gazes again despite contradicting yourself and avoiding them every chance you could. Before you could get caught this time, you directed your eyes, focusing on tightening the bandages so they wouldn’t come loose.

“Try to be careful, will you, Charles?” You spoke quietly while patting his hand, motioning that he was all set to go, but his hand stayed, giving you a grateful look.

“Thank you.” His soothing voice was hushed as the loud bang of the door slammed shut not long after, ridding you of the tumult after their departure.

–

Oh, it burned. It burned so deep in his loins that it felt like he would erupt into flames any second. Despite the cold surrounding him, he was sure it could be possible the more he was left with his thoughts. The hushed whispers, the soft touches, and the ever-so-gentle look in your eyes made him want to empty the little food in his stomach.

“Sneaky little rat,” Arthur grumbled to himself as he shoveled his way through the deep layers of snow. Here he was, out in the cold, tortured by the howling winds of the snowstorm, while Charles remained inside the warmth of the hut, seated next to you, all because of a slight burn.

He knew what he was up to–what any man would do if it meant getting your attention–and he wasn’t humored. Taking advantage of your good nature was downright uncalled for, bordering on immoral, which Arthur would probably realize wasn’t Charles’s character if his mind didn’t seek to find faults with the man the more his blood boiled.

He scoffed to himself, stabbing the ground maliciously, imagining your warm hands around his instead, the nimble fingers of yours tending to him as you moved in closer, your sweet smell reaching his nose as you gazed up at him, face blushed from the cold with lips begging him to warm them up with his. The thought did nothing more than cover his whole body in shivers, only to be reminded that it wasn’t him that received that attention from you.

“What are you huffing about over there, Arthur?!” Hosea’s strained voice attempted to shout over the loud winds, standing up to rest momentarily.

“Why don’t we just bury him when the storm has settled?!” Annoyance was apparent in his voice, the green jealous monster still wreaking havoc in his mind.

“I told you, the snow will be too heavy tomorrow, so we need to finish it while we still can!” He groaned, starting to shovel once more. “And I’ll be damned, we are going to give Davey a proper burial. He deserves that much!”

As Hosea blabbered on about justice and other forms of respect Arthur had no intent on listening to, he zoned out, feeling sorry for himself as he imagined you might be keeping close to Charles right this moment, warming yourself to his body in a desperate search of bodily heat. Rubbing the melted snow off his face, Arthur damned the heavens above for making him the unluckiest bastard in the West.

Despite Arthur seeming dead set on you being lovey-dovey with a man you barely knew, Charles had left you after making some small talk, mentioning that he would try and get some well-deserved rest after the tumultuous past few days. Many others did as well, attempting to ease their minds from the constant threat against their back amidst the terrible cold.

Although, as days passed and John being back rid you of Abigail’s constant muttering, the cold only seemed to take its toll on you, unlike the others who quickly got used to the environment. Furthermore, the days only seem to get longer up in the mountains, and you wondered obsessively when you would get the chance to leave–damning everyone who thought seeking out Colm O’Driscoll in your compromised state a good idea instead of moving forwards.

Despite your dismay, you put yourself to use like the others, preparing to help Pearson in the grim act of cutting through the poor deer that had been brought back. While the sight gladdened you, knowing you would finally get a meal in your stomach, the brooding aura of a chestnut-haired, blue-coated man seemed to rain over you endlessly.

What could you have done to gain his stinging glare? It was almost cutting through you entirely from the burning that resided deep in his eyes, watching you ferociously, making your hair stand on edge. When he had returned with Charles, it had been nothing short of unpleasant ever since, although thankfully–despite his glare–his harsh words were directed towards Pearson instead of you, which you were glad for.

“How’s the cold treating you?” Glancing away from the two men bickering, you laughed slightly at Charles’s innuendo, dressed worse for wear as you pulled the thick, woolen scarf tighter around your neck, hugging yourself to keep warm.

“Could be worse, I guess,” you said, clouds like smoke surrounding you as you talked.

“I suppose. Still, I don’t want you freezing your fingers off.”

“Mhh,” you nodded thoughtfully, speaking up after silence. “Who would look after your hand if that happened?”

He chuckled heartily at your unsuspected joke, and you glanced up at him bashfully, a light smile covering your face at his apparent amusement. While your embarrassment of being so easily swayed by the cold, it felt nice having someone take notice of your obvious discomfort, even though you would say you were pretty good at keeping it to yourself. You couldn’t be surprised, though, well aware you and Charles were both tentative to your surroundings, always knowing but rarely telling.

“Here.” Taking off the large gloves covering his hand, no doubt doing an excellent job keeping him warm, he grabbed your trembling hands in his, rubbing them between his pleasant temperature hand and bandage-covered skin before gliding the fabric over yours.

“No, Charl-” you protested, trying to stop him from continuing.

“They’ll do you more good than me, I promise. They’re just in the way.” Stubbornly, he planted your hands back into your lap, petting them like you had done to him some nights ago before raising with a huff.

“Thanks for the help, Arthur.” Charles nodded at the now grumpy man observing him as he rested against the wood of the wooden wall with arms crossed, seemingly ignoring Mr. Pearson’s lecture about the navy he felt so strongly about, only providing a quick tilt of his hat before heated eyes were set on you.

Your gaze faltered, the blush on your face from the cold only intensifying the spread of warmth you felt from gaining his profound stare–something you rarely took notice of. It wasn’t that he didn’t look at you; he probably looked too much at times, but he was never so ardent with it, scrutinizing you under their heavy weight–making you feel ten times smaller under his towering height.

“Well, why don’t you skin the deer, Arthur? I’ll help you cut them up in a while, miss.” Mr. Pearson’s words were hasty, and you didn’t miss the bottle glistening under the sunlight as he tried hiding it behind his coat, scurrying away. He would, in fact, not be back; you were sure of that much.

It wasn’t often you found yourself alone with Arthur, and you never strayed too close, finding his presence somewhat daunting. Not that you’ve had many chances to speak amidst all the chaos surrounding you, and being relatively new to the gang meant the trust lacked significantly from both sides. But, the intrigue was always present in every glance and movement.

You felt his gaze fixed on you a moment longer as you stared heedlessly at your hands, rubbing them together anxiously, having no clue what to do with yourself. While you weren’t one to speak the ears of others, you never had any problem socializing with those around you–but Arthur, he was something else entirely. Finally, though, he moved, approaching the hanging carcass.

“How are ya?” His sudden words surprised you, hanging awkwardly in the air.

“Oh, um. Good?” You cringed at yourself, finding the words stuck in your throat as his voice rumbling was loud and confident.

“Cold?”

“A bit,” you said softly, staring at his back as he heaved the skin away from the animal, movements rigid and harsh. “Charles gave me his gloves, so it’s a little less chilly now.” You stumbled over your words, admiring his strength unabashedly as he hauled the skinned deer over his shoulder, slamming it down the table with a loud bang. He gave you no answer, instead bringing out the knife in his belt to do the job you were assigned to.

“Oh, let me!” Standing abruptly from your seat, you stepped towards him hurriedly in shame, feeling like you were just lazying around while Arthur was doing all the hard work.

Grabbing his thick coat to let you take his position, you found him staying right where he was, looking down at you when your hand rested on his bicep. It was unusual for him to be so close, and a blush warmed your cheeks as his towering frame became more apparent when standing a short distance from one another.

“S’alright.” He spoke lowly. “I’ve got it.”

Your breath got caught in your throat as he gazed wholly at you, letting you know he had no problem with helping you. It warmed you, finding his action kind–just like the small acts of kindness he reserved for the other girls. You would sometimes glare after them, intensely jealous that Arthur seemed to have a soft spot for them, yet acting like you didn’t exist.

“Anything else I can do to help since you just did my job for me?” A shy smile found you, peering up at him as he sniveled, glancing at you while you sat on the bench again.

“Well, you’ve already done your charity work for the day, so you’re fine.”

“Charity work?” You wondered, staring at him curiously as he cut through the meat. “What do you mean?”

He only sighed heavily, like you should be able to understand his cryptic words.

“He won’t die from a small burn; it ain’t enough reason to coddle the man like a child,” he grumbled.

It took you a while to get the gears turning, but when you did, you felt yourself grow shy from his statement. “Charles? His hand isn’t looking too good…”

“Yeah? Well, you shouldn’t be so forward. You’ll give the poor man false hope.” He scoffed, stabbing the poor carcass harshly.

Staring at his back in disbelief at the sudden hatred, you had trouble understanding where it came from and why he suddenly grew so invested in whom you diverted your attention. You and Arthur rarely spoke, only changing quick words occasionally ever since you found yourself staying with the gang, and for that reason, you had failed to understand the reason for his hatred.

It seems all you ever did was look after everyone else, paying attention to their various troubles and tribulations regarding bodily harm. It wasn’t strange to you, and by no means did you give anyone false hope, merely trying to find your place with these people, an attempt to prove your usefulness.

“False hope?” You questioned, baffled. “I’m trying to help; I fail to understand how that is a problem.”

“It ain’t a problem!” He grumbled, voice roaring hotly in his chest as he resheathed his knife and began to make his way out, repositioning his hat without glancing at you. You followed him, stopping short by the table as you didn’t want to stray too close to the fuming man.

“Well, it is since you are so angry about it?!” If this was how he carried out every conversation, you were glad the exchange of words wasn’t typical between you, more so the simple fact that your company had never seemed to bring him any enjoyment. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Wha-” He stops short, suddenly turning around and stalking towards you in significant strides. Gasping at suddenly having him so close, you backed away; his sharp eyes penetrated you as the warm blue of his orbs turned ice cold, glaring daggers into your own.

“What’s wrong with me?” He spoke dangerously low as his brows raised, grabbing your upper arms as he hoisted you up the table without an ounce of struggle. “I’m not the one taking every small, insignificant chance to take advantage of your good nature.”

“Charles’s not like that. He’s very kind.” You spoke in his defense, leaning back from his prolonged stare that seemed to cut through you deeper the more he stared. You had always pitied the people who got on Arthur’s lousy side, finding his presence at those times unnerving.

Now, it seemed you were at the receiving end of it, and while it chilled you to the bones, you weren’t sure if your beating heart were because of fear or the thought of him being the closest to you he’d ever have.

You had never quite got to admire his eyes, always hidden under his furrowed brows and squinting eyes. Now that it wasn’t because of the blazing sun down west, it was from the blaring whiteness of the snow surrounding you as you found his eyes glaring at the current climate more often than not–displeased.

His eyes being dead set on you didn’t help as you could hear his breathing grow heavier, the warmth of his breath hitting your cold cheeks as his broad frame blocked the chilly winds from reaching you.

“Kind, huh?” Although momentarily distracted, you recovered as you heard him speak in a low voice, still finding his assumptions wildly out of reach while insulting you and Charles. Times were hard, and if you couldn’t look after one another, it would surely lead to your doom–Arthur, if anyone, should know that.

“Yes, kind.”

Rubbing his eyes with one hand, he backed away from you, shrugging his shoulders while walking away–like your conversation hadn’t happened in the first place.

“Sure.”

��

It wasn’t like Arthur didn’t know how to restrain himself, for he applauded himself for avoiding his apparent anger when Charles had, yet again, stolen away your attention–not that Arthur had any plans on striking up a conversation with you anyway.

It became clear to him that when you two were left alone, you almost turned into a living statue, barely responding to him. It was unlike you, for the time he had spent observing you, you had no problem talking to anyone else–and although it was usually calm, it never deterred you from gaining the likes of the others and liking them in return.

Why did you cringe away from him and not Charles, he pondered, glaring at the picture that plagued his mind. The reason he knew, deep down, but his stubbornness didn’t let him justify your actions. In all honesty, Charles was a more reliable man than himself, intentions often apparent with a slight sense of, well, goodness perhaps—something Arthur didn’t possess in the slightest.

Goodness, in all honesty, wasn’t something he was too familiar with, and he didn’t doubt one second that you found his character to be callous, seeing as the dirty work no one wanted to do fell upon him; work everyone else found to be too cruel to do themselves. He could almost feel your disapproving gaze when he picked up his slack from Mr. Strauss’s poor victims that he always tried to prolong, and while it wasn’t his most favorable way of lending a hand, sometimes he did it out of spite.

If that’s what you thought about him, then he couldn’t do much to sway your opinion, finding it much easier to continue with his ways than realize that your sudden carefulness off him wounded him more profoundly than he let on.

And, he was indeed a harsh man in your eyes, and although his company wasn’t entirely unwished for, he was still grim–ignoring your presence like you weren’t there most of the time. It made you wildly unsure of him, but the allure he had kept bringing you back, always wondering when you would see a glimpse of him again. You chastised yourself for it, more so now that you got a taste of his famously sullen mood that pestered everyone around him, but your eyes were still drawn to him when he was nearby.

Maybe it wasn’t what everyone else would describe him as, but you thought of him as mysterious. Gods, you have stayed with this group for quite some time now. Not once had he spoken to you more than the standard greeting, and you didn’t know much about him besides the sharp-shooting, brutal force of a man who had no problem letting his thoughts be voiced, even though the listeners might be less inclined to its harsh deliverance.

He had been cruel, sure, but you couldn’t help but remember how close you had been before when he spewed words that clung so viciously from his tongue. Faintly, you remembered the deep scent of gunpowder and smoke, something you were certain probably penetrated his skin by now, but also the slightly musky scent hidden underneath. Your head raced in curiosity, wondering how his hands would grab you if it wasn’t in anger. Was he even capable of that, you pondered.

It’s ridiculous you knew those thoughts were born from misconceptions and assumptions. You had heard how he behaved amongst the camp women, forever gentle and careful, and you had sharpened your ear when you’d been told timidly about his earlier flings. He could be more heartfelt than your head let you acknowledge, and the thought made your head spin even more with your endless imagination.

Despite the inner turmoil that filled you from your earlier argument, you had avoided him for some days now, and it seemed to grow easier the colder you got, huddling close to the fire with every chance. It was the only thing keeping your thoughts occupied, wondering when you would get to leave this desolated mining town that grew more covered in snow the longer you chose to stay.

“Do you need help, Hosea?” Just after you spoke, heavy blankets were handed to you, the fabric made from a thick wool that looked heavenly. “Yes, thank you. I take one step outside; I fear that it will be the end of me.” You only stared warmly at Hosea, who patted you on the back. “Don’t you worry, miss. We found more blankets we thought had been lost in that dreadful storm, so we all will sleep warmer tonight.”

“Oh, of course, I’ll help-” Despite the whistling winds that had picked up as the sun shone its last tendrils, you didn’t oppose the idea, but you were interrupted by a mischievous look handed to you by the older man.

“Make sure Arthur grabs one, too; you know how he gets.” Before you could question his meaning, he slunk away, pulling the warm fabric tighter around his shoulders without a glance at you, chuckling merrily. You chose not to ponder too hard on his strange ways, instead making your way to the door, shivering badly as you stepped outside.

Smiles were all you were greeted with as you handed them off, and it was no surprise as it was a welcome sight to everyone to gain some extra warmth to wrap around themselves. Although feeling content by being of help, you couldn’t help but wonder where Arthur could be, a single blanket now left in your hands.

Grumbling to yourself, you stepped out from the hut Dutch and Molly resided in, glancing at a smaller building some paces away, finding the orange glow of a candle lighting up the smaller barn where the horses were kept. A small smile found you, finding it very fitting for him to be where there were fewer people.

Although slightly fearing what could come to be an awkward encounter, you found yourself being too forgiving many times, and you damned yourself for it. What he said hurt you deeply, making you ponder if you had given Charles other signals than intended. It could be a possibility, yet you had never had too many romantic dealings with men to presume that that was the case, but his eyes held something tender the last few times you spoke as you recalled it.

“Arthur…” As you stepped inside after pulsing through the thick snow, you searched for the blue coat you had grown familiar with in this weather. “Are you here?” You asked quietly, wondering if he could hear you.

You cautiously stepped further into the barn, placing your feet steadily on the ground before you so you didn’t slip and embarrass yourself. It was friendly out here, you could admit, the snow muting every sound and almost making every slight sound caress your ears.

As you stepped further inside, it turned out he was here, and he took no notice of you as you rounded the corner to gaze at his seated form, seemingly writing something in his journal. It was an unusual sight. Sometimes, you observed him as he wrote in his journal back at camp, yet you didn’t make a habit of it, too shy to question him at the time.

How he didn’t freeze to death in this climate was beyond you, his fingers bare as he scribbled, fingertips red from the cold and dirty from the chalk. You made a motion to speak up once again but found yourself tongue-tied as you took him in, and as you did, the thought struck you that he wasn’t writing but drawing.

How unlike him, you thought, watching his brows furrowed from time to time, fingers moving expertly while the soft glow of the candle beside him almost softened his features. Your presumptions might be harsh, but you had never found him to be a man well-versed in the creative aspect of life, and while the brutal ways of his life spoke for him, you found it to make him slightly more approachable.

“I didn’t know you draw.” You stated fondly, his eyes fitting into yours the moment the first word left your mouth, growing visibly stressed as the journal was planted into his coat pocket. A rough cough left him as he did, eyes faltering when he saw your observant gaze linger on him unabashedly.

“I don’t.” A small laugh left you at his abrupt words, not teasingly but perhaps warmly, choosing not to bug him since he grew uncomfortable before your questioning eyes.

You were given an expectant look that reminded you of your actual business here as you stepped inside the building, closing the barn door behind you to shut out the wind that somehow managed to find its way through the cracks in the walls.

“Here, we found some more blankets. Hosea asked me to bring you one.” You met his eyes briefly as you stretched out your arms for him to take the blanket, eyes faltering to it at his piercing gaze.

“Hosea, huh?” A scoff left him, resuming his arms to cross over his chest, shaking his head slightly. “You keep it.”

“No, I-”

“Nah, you chattering your teeth keeps us up at night. Take it.”

His words should have taken you back since his voice was stinging, but a light laugh left you, knowing he was right. Wrapping yourself in the soft, warm blanket, you surprised Arthur by sitting beside him, heavily clad shoulders touching each other as you did.

“I don’t understand.” You stated, staring at the large shadows that flickered on the wooden wall before you. “How can you not be cold? I feel like if I spend one more day out here, I’ll freeze to death.”

You turned your head towards him, caught off guard when you felt his gaze already set intensely on you. Your eyes faltered to his chest, growing shy as you always did when you had his attention on you. It wasn’t unwanted, but you didn’t know what to do with yourself in moments like that, unused to the fire that always burned so deep in his eyes.

“Used to it, I guess.” His voice rumbled hotly in his chest, fingers flexing against his will as he took the chance to observe you. He had never had the opportunity to see your face this close. Your wet lashes clung together as you blinked, undoubtedly from the heavy snowfall outside, framing your eyes that Arthur always noticed were so very easy to read, yet at many moments also locked away.

“I don’t believe you.” How could anyone possibly get used to this? It was raw, pure torture.

You didn’t get an answer, and as you returned your gaze towards the wall, Arthur’s eyes found your features again. He had indeed been cold before you came, but it was his only chance to find a moment of peace; the thought of spending another night in that god-forsaken hut with his dear friend and his lover giggling the night away grew incredibly distasteful.

Here, he could finally hear his thoughts, the solitude of the snow muting every sound heavenly; the only noise was the familiar scribbling in his journal as he wrote about the past few days. Though his head was calmer than before, he still dreamt of your fingers encasing his like they had done Charles, the small, elegant touches rising his arms slowly, making him shiver wildly as the scene flashed before his eyes.

He knew he shouldn’t think of you like that, and he certainly had no right to be angry at Charles since he felt so unabashedly filthy things about you, but he couldn’t help it. Your every scent, every motion set his blood afire; small deeds of good you always found yourself doing so harshly contrasted his actions he couldn’t help the fact that you intrigued his whole being.

So good, so… soft and warm. As he stared at you, all he wanted was to reach out and pull you closer to him so he could feel your shivering body close to him, knowing many ways to warm you up. Sighing, he removed his hat, running his fingers through his hair as the thoughts took a turn he always hated himself for.

“Hey, I uh…” Arthur trailed off, finding the words he wanted to speak stuck in his throat. “I shouldn’t have spoken to you that way, like I did back then.” He stared before him, yet he felt your eyes heavy on his.

He did feel bad, and it had been the reason for his brooding temper since then, not coming to terms with his wrongdoings until now. He had probably scared you, he concluded, and could only assume he was right as you had done your utmost to avoid him as of late.

“Don’t be,” you said with a light smile, not expecting his apology, even though he didn’t say sorry directly. “It’s a lot right now, I understand. But I still don’t understand why you’re so angry at Charles.” You were briefly met with a light sigh, eyes flickering to yours before diverting the flickering candle.

“Nah, forget it. Just me being stupid is all.”

“I don’t think you’re stupid. Maybe you’re mean sometimes and grumpy,” you said, giving him a teasing glance. “But not stupid.”

A scoff left him at your words, yet you could see the corners of his mouth chirp up lightly. “You’d be surprised.”

As your snickering died down, you rested your head on the wall behind you, not wanting to leave the quiet comfort you found yourself in nor the conversation that panned on longer than you had anticipated, much to your surprise.

“Why are you out here if you are so cold, girl?” He questioned you, catching a glimpse of your almost blue lips. “Go on inside; you’ll freeze to death if you stay here.” It would be best for you to return because he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if his thoughts progressed like they did before in your presence. As he placed the hat on his head again, he glanced down quickly, doing a double take as he found you staring at him.

Was the cold finally getting to your head, or was it simply being in the presence of the man you were so unsure of but wildly intrigued by? You couldn’t tell, but the warmth spreading in your stomach as he glanced down at you spread ferociously through your stomach, almost warming you to your fingertips.

Suddenly, Arthur moved his arm slightly, and the motion made you jump, leaning away from him as you unconsciously drew closer to him. You couldn’t tell, but it almost felt like your body sometimes contradicted your mind, defying your sense of morality.

“Are you afraid of me?” He questioned, gazing at you unexplainably. Both of your breaths were audible in the quiet night, blowing like smoke out your mouths as the world around you blurred. It wasn’t like Arthur couldn’t contain himself around women, but you were something else entirely. Only in his wildest dreams did you stare at him like that, like you were expecting–waiting– for him to do something.

Yet, you looked guarded, like a cornered lam, waiting for the right moment to sprint away. You pulled away, only to lean in further, the cogs in your head turning something so awful in your mind, observing his every move yet not registering your own that reached out to him.

And gods, did he want to do the same; his internal battle proved to be more difficult as your hand gripped his coat tightly, only wanting to warm your blue lips with his own and show you how he could warm you up better than Charles’s damned gloves ever could.

“Sometimes.” You let on, voice shaking from both anticipation and uncertainty.

Leaning down towards you hesitantly, he felt hot all over when he realized you didn’t shy away from him like expected, mouth only parting further as he drew closer. As you did, you felt your breath hitch when a hand was placed on your upper back, Arthur’s weight only making you glide further down the wall until your head was resting in the crook of his elbow.

“Arthur…” He was so close now you could almost feel his heartbeat through the vast amount of clothing, breath hitting your cold, blushing cheeks as he leaned closer, the calling of his name only drawing him in. He was sure you had bewitched him, for not a single thought in his mind was about anything but the woman in front of him, entirely and utterly overtaken by what was solely you.

And through those few moments between frustration and desperation, all senses of logic disappeared as the skin of your lips conjoined, drawn together like magnets that snapped together like they never wanted to be apart again. Eyes grew shut, the only sound now the deep humming in Arthur’s chest as your hands found his cheeks, caressing the chilly skin under your palm with your thumbs.

It was ragged and scarred, a deep contrast to your own that had never tasted the metal of a gun and the blood of a foe, and the thought made a gasp rise in your throat as his weight fell heavier onto yours, pressing you into the hay-filled, snowy ground.

“Tell me to stop.” He grunted against your now wet lips, only taking a second before joining them again. He was covering your entire body as he lay above you, resting his weight on his elbows as your head rested on his arm.

“No…” You mumbled, words almost not audible against his desperate mouth, feeling just as affected by the desire as he did. You felt his face scrunch up almost painfully before he took the hand that rested on your back to glide under your coat, resting it on the side of your waist as he stroked gently, feeling the curves that hid underneath the damned fabric.

It was torture. It was an unexplainable torture that you would freeze to death if he removed the clothes that covered you, and he would surely go insane if he couldn’t feel the skin he imagined would be so very soft under his rough fingers. Just a taste, he thought sinfully to himself, slowly lifting the fabric of your shirt from under your skirt’s waistband, worming a freezing hand inside to feel the warmth that hid underneath.

You gasped at the sudden sensation but were quickly silenced as his tongue massaged your own, and the slight moan that left you only made a groan rumble loudly in his chest. The feeling of his cold hand rose your skin, stroking every bit it came across as if memorizing it to his brain, mapping out every single inch.

It was too much for you, the sheer desperation and want, not knowing what to do with yourself or how to dampen the intense feelings that nailed your firm to the ground. Every bit of you grew into static, and every touch from Arthur sent shockwaves through your body as his fingers caressed you.

“Come here.” Opening your eyes, you found his, although lidded with desire, gentle eyes gazing into yours, pulling his hand reluctantly from your waist to help you sit up. “I won’t let you lay on the ground.”

You only stared at him as he seated you on his lap, chest flush against his as his hands stroked along your arms as if to warm you up, tightening the blanket around your shoulders. You felt your heartbeat pick up at his actions, your stomach fluttering fiercely as he ensured you stayed warm.

You could tell he grew wildly unsure as you remained silent, clearing his throat as if he had been in a daze before speaking.

“If you’ll have me, that is.” You didn’t give him a chance to say more, hands finding sanction in his hair as the motion knocked off his hat, exposing the sandy locks he always kept hidden underneath it.

“Stupid question.” You mumbled softly against his mouth, pressing yourself closer to him as your fingers started fiddling with the buttons on his coat. You could already feel the heat emitting, and your fingers grew hasty as you tried to move faster, the motion of your lips faltering against his eager ones.

You would have been ashamed if it weren’t for Arthur being just as stressed about getting the buttons of your coat loose, hands wounding their way around your waist and pressing you closer to him the moment they became undone. Likewise, you wormed your arms under his shoulder, gasping as you felt the heat buried underneath the fabric, hugging him close as you placed your face into the crook of his neck.

Breathing in your scent, Arthur revealed in the way you nuzzled against him, feeling a warmth spread in his groin when the thick coat didn’t keep the pressure of your middle away from him any longer. It was heaven, he concluded, trailing his hands down to your backside as he caressed the curves, pushing you flush against his.

Oh, how he reveled in it. He was selfish; there was no denying it any longer, but he craved you so profoundly it would eat him up bit by bit if he couldn’t have you. It wasn’t about Charles any longer; it was about the fact that you had never spared him a glance, almost bordering on fearing him, deciding that everyone else company had been much safer than his own.

He knew it and had seen it in your eyes countless times. Arthur wasn’t unfamiliar with the look of utter horror plastered on people’s faces, for he faced it every day, and he wanted nothing more than to show you that you had no reason to feel that way with him, for he would never put a single finger that was unwished for on you.

And he couldn’t possibly hold it against you, for he wasn’t a good man, quite the opposite actually, and every lingering touch made him hate himself even more, wishing you would find it in you to push away from him–let him know that if he ever touched you again, you would kill him.

But, he would find that you didn’t, instead only pressing yourself even harder against him in the cold of the night, breath shaking something so terribly as he moved your lower region against his in a gentle movement. It only fueled his want for you, hands struggling their way up your skirt, caressing your stocking-clad legs as he did, reaching your undergarments with a content sigh.

His touch lighted a path up your legs, the cold nothing but a memory now even though the brisk air found its way underneath your skirt, following his hands that caressed your inner thighs in soft motions.

It was suspenseful, waiting for the skin to touch the skin, for his strong hands to wound around you as he had already wormed himself around your heart. And as he did, the coil in your stomach grew so incredibly tight you felt like it was too much like his touch alone wounded your every fiber, but instead of hurt, it was an undeniable pleasure that hit you tenfold.

The hand that had crawled its way inside your undergarments stroked alongside your tender parts, never touching you where you wanted him the most–the place that longed for his touch. He had to be teasing you; there was no other explanation as he smiled softly at your expression, gasping for air as you gripped the sides of his arms, trying to push against his fingers.

“Ah, sweetheart.” He only cooed at you, gripping your wrists with one hand as his other finally glided over the wetness of your heat, gazing directly into your eyes with his sharp gaze, admiring your pleasure-filled face that begged him to give you more, to provide you with his all. And, as he spread your folds with his fingers, the filthiest whimper of pleasure left you, laying its noise into the quiet night with no worry about anyone hearing, only fools deciding to stray outside in this bleak, frigid night.

Falling into his arms yet again, you let him enter a finger into your warm cavern, gasping desperately for air as the unfamiliar stretch widened you, dragging wonderfully against your clenching walls. It was vile, the way Arthur reveled in how tight you felt against his finger, and as he pondered on how you would feel when he pushed it you. The thought made a striking, white pleasure shoot through him, making him grunt out against your neck.

“That good?” He spoke out, adding another finger into you while placing wet, hot kisses against your blazing neck, wanting nothing more than to hear your heavenly sound of approval.

You attempted to nod, but the motion was interrupted by the increasingly more extensive stretch from both of his fingers; gasping like a madwoman as you moved against his hands, wishing to pull his fingers even deeper into you, dissatisfied when you realized it didn’t do the job.

He could only groan when he realized your intention, slipping his coated finger from your warm heat, bringing them to his mouth quickly while his other hand found the zipper of his jeans, fumbling in a stressed fashion to get rid of the constraint.

A dissatisfied moan left you as he did, wishing for nothing more than to feel the delicious stretch yet again carry alongside your walls. But, as he fumbled with his zipper, you quickly got your senses together. You helped him undo his suspenders, then slipped underneath the fabric to trail your hand alongside the apparent bulge that stretched underneath, finding his groans to fuel your actions.

For a short while, your eyes met amidst the hurry your bodies experienced, and the moment slowed down to a halt as your lips found each other once more, moving against one another like starved men. You couldn’t be closer to him, and he couldn’t possibly be closer to you, and while you earlier had pondered that this was a good idea, you couldn’t imagine anything else at this moment.

And, as your hand wrapped around him momentarily, Arthur could feel his brain’s short circuit, like he had never been able to hold a single thought in his mind his entire life. You had to have bewitched him, for he complied to your every touch, body moving against your every move like your hand was glued to his body.

“God,” he mumbled against your lips that massaged his own, thrusting against your hand as you stroked him tenderly, gasping against him quietly. It wasn’t hurried but warm and slow, basking in each other’s presence like you had never before discovered the feeling of another’s touch against your own.

“That good?” You replied teasingly, mimicking his earlier words as you smiled a toothy smile, feeling him chuckle lowly at your apparent teasing, giving you a playful slap on your behind as his breathing picked up.

Suddenly, you felt a hand encase your own. As he removed it from his throbbing member, he only grabbed you closer, wounding his arms around your back as he pulled you into a hug, the feeling of him underneath you wonderful as you glided along it–moaning wantonly as the friction shot sharp streaks of pleasure up your body.

“Come on, sweetheart. I’ll warm you up.” As he spoke, he could feel himself shudder as your wet lips encased his tip, groaning audibly as he thought you rubbing against him. You were illegal, he concluded, for nothing could ever be allowed to feel this good–it wasn’t possible.

“Please,” you gasped against his lips, moving your hips slightly as you felt his hands circle your waist. “Please, Arthur.”

He hushed you quietly, finally feeling you wrap your lips around him as he slowly entered your warm cavern, the walls fitting him snugly as a grunt left him unexpectedly, lost in the pleasure you brought him.

While it felt too good to imagine, you could only keep your mouth open at the sensation, wondering how something could ever fill you up quite as good as this. Without a single thought, you sat down entirely, feeling him stretch you wonderfully as you wrapped around all of him, wounding your hands around his neck.

You didn’t need to move much, for he thrust up into you when you had gotten used to his size, feeling yourself being hitched up to his body as the motion made your whole body rise to then fall back down on him, once more filled to the brim. His grunting in your ears filled your senses, and while the slight consciousness entered your mind, wondering what you were doing, you pushed it far back, relishing in how your body responded to his.

Despite the cold that was surely creeping into your bones the more you stayed out here, the sound of skin against skin filling the empty spaces around you made you feel more connected to each other than you had ever felt with anyone else.

You started to move with him, bringing down your hips to meet his while he thrusts into you, growing more desperate by the minute. You found the hands hugging your waist, circling their arms around it, pushing you even further against him as you rested your hands on his cheeks, having no choice but to stare into his lidded eyes as he grunted roughly underneath you.

God, how he wanted to push you down onto the ground and drive into you, damning the snow that covered the ground. Instead, he glided down further from the wall, feeling your weight press against him more as your head found sanction in his neck, feeling his thrusts grow more in power as he pistoned into you harder from the new position.

“Arthur.” You breathed out, feeling the stretch of him grow as the position made him reach even deeper inside you, one arm reaching down to grab your bottom so he could hold you firmer against him.

“I know, honey.” He murmured, head growing dizzy as you clenched around him so wonderfully, mewling sweetly into his ears as you let him take control.

Did it make him an evil man for reveling in what he knew Charles would never gain from you? Maybe it did, but those thoughts were placed far back in his mind as your lips found his, small moans now muted as you grew desperate for his affection, growing insatiable to once more feel the fondness that laid in his every touch.

He had been so angry that someone else had gained the courage to do what he couldn’t, realizing he had been too late. Yet now, as you remain unknowing above him, it only made his lips plant themself firmer against yours, determined to make you understand that nobody could make you feel this way except him.

Grabbing the blanket off your shoulders, he threw it down towards the ground as you gasped, stroking your waist tenderly before slowing his movements.

Your breath heaved something so terrible, your voice shaking as you spoke. “Don’t stop, Arthur. Please.” He felt his stomach coil at your words, throbbing inside you as he moved to a seated position.

“I ain’t stopping, sweetheart,” he let on, leaning you backwards lightly. “Lay back for me, okay?” You did as he said without a protest, the cold now gone as your legs spread from him.

He almost groaned from the sight, taking a moment to observe you as you stared at him through lidded eyes, blushed cheeks so wonderfully red against the whiteness of the snow you almost looked like an angel–your hair spread like a halo around your head where you laid on the blanket.

Crawling over you quickly, he grunted as he felt your hand encasing itself around him, stroking slowly as you guided it to your clenching hole. For a moment, he felt a relief spread through him at the feeling of your walls surrounding him before the sheer and utter desperation set in, beginning to move into you at a faster pace than before.

Your breath hitched at the sudden movement, yet you gripped his arms to keep him there, not baring the thought of him stopping again. Being over you gave him more control, and his primal instincts set in as the coil in his stomach shot burning flashes throughout his body, wanting nothing more than to feel your warm walls around him forever. Maybe it was the desire talking, but he swore that the thought of you being like this with any other man than him would make him heave.

Encasing his arms around you as your hands found his hair, he felt your legs wrap around his waist, now so close he was grounding into you relentlessly. Rough yet tender, he moved into you with care, but you could feel that he was holding back as he panted above you.

“Don’t stop!” You begged him once more amidst his thrusts, pulling on his strands as his lips found the softness of your neck. Why you were begging, you couldn’t say, oblivious to the words leaving your mouth in utter bliss.

“Hm?” He mumbled, smiling lightly from hearing your ruined voice beg him. He felt like a sick man gaining pleasure from it, but his mind was too hazy to take notice, longing to hear those words leave your sweet mouth once more. “What was that?”

“Don’t stop,” you voiced breathlessly as his hand found your breast, rolling the nub softly between his rough fingers. Despite your begging, for his own sickly twisted pleasure his hips ceased their movements, moving torturously slow as he raised his elbows to stare at your tear-filled eyes.

They shot open as he slowed his pace, displeased he didn’t listen as you already felt shameful for sounding so desperate. You couldn’t help it, for it felt too good, and now that he had stopped, you wished he never had. Was he teasing you? The thought made you blush from embarrassment and annoyance, pleading with your eyes.

“No…” You mumbled, trying to move against him, yet his hands held you firm against the ground.

“Say it.” Arthur’s voice was coarse as he spoke, grabbing your hand to place tender kisses on it as your displeased sounds reached his ears. He only got a confused look, smirking slightly at the longing and apparent dissatisfaction plastered on your face. A biting shadowed lust replaced his usually sharp eyes as he watched you, carnal written deeply in his eyes.

“My name, sweetheart. Let me hear you say it.” Suddenly, he pistoned his hips against you, driving up your wet walls as a mewl left you from the sudden force. You felt his intense eyes on you as your eyes shut momentarily, and through your blurred vision, they didn’t stay open for long.

“Arthur,” you moaned, eye-rolling into the back of your head as your back arched, a wave of pleasure shooting through you at his demands. He held the same controlled yet sensual pace, knowing he’d slip out of you if he went any harder. Still, his accuracy was wicked–hitting the right spot with every move.

“That’s it,” he praised you, placing another kiss on your palm as his thrusts increased, grunting roughly as your walls squeezed him tightly. You break into sobs as you reach out to grasp his arms, tilting his head up just enough to let you know he’s watching you, his hazy gaze roving over the devastation on your face.

The snow around you mutes the sound of skin hitting skin as he sets a brutal pace. “I didn’t tell you to stop, sweetheart.” The deep rumble in his chest as he spoke the words laced with possessiveness made your heartbeat pick up faster than it already was, the light ringing in your ears increasing as your body was hoisted up with each of his thrusts.

You call his name like a prayer amidst the pleasure, and satisfaction at hearing his name come so sinfully from your mouth made his eyes roll back, knuckles turning white from gripping the ground so harshly. Oh, you had no idea that every noise you let out from his advances made his heart soar with pride, feeling the softness of your skin under the palm of his hands.

Arthur feels the abrupt stop of movements from your hand, gripping tightly on his arms as you spasm around his cock, clenching tightly as the pads of his fingers come down to rub at your swollen nub as your orgasmed, a loud whine leaving you at the contact. It’s too much for you, the sensation too unfamiliar yet devastatingly addictive–not knowing if you wanted to drive your hips away from his brutal assault or enjoy him even more profoundly.

Even if you had decided on the prior, he didn’t let you, pushing you firm against the ground as he twitched inside you at the noises you let out, groaning lowly as he came inside your warm walls, planting himself deep inside you.

“Christ-” He grunts out, teeth clenched as you feel his cock throb inside you, cum gathering at the base of him as his hips slow to deep thrusts, grinding into you in sheer pleasure as the knot in his stomach unleashed, feeling you placing small kissed on his neck.

The slight motion made him smile amidst his pleasure-filled mind, caressing the curves of your waist as he nestled his head into your neck, still panting heavily. As you both calmed down, it didn’t take long for your hand to find his, fingers wounding themselves around the others in the blissful aftermath.

As you opened your eyes after catching your breath, you found a pair of blue ones already gazing at you. You didn’t speak for a while, both of you trying to digest the situation as tiny snowflakes could be seen falling from the sky through the cracks in the walls. It reminded you of how cold you should have been, but with Arthurs’s broad chest covering you, it felt like you were clinging to a furnace.

“Shit, you must be freezing.” He suddenly let out, shaking his head slightly as if in a daze before rising to pull you with him. As he pulled your skirt down your legs, rubbing them between his hands to warm you up, you could only stare at him in quiet wonder.

“What?” He grumbled out, sniveling lightly as he glanced at you. Had you not wanted this, he wondered, doubt starting to fill his mind. You were too quiet for his liking, only staring at him as he tried to prolong touching your soft skin, fearful of the hurtful words that were sure to come.

“Are you jealous of Charles?”

If crickets had been this far north, they would surely be the only thing audible as Arthur stopped. Bear of a man, hardy and stubborn to many, yet a faint blush could be seen rising to his cheeks as his face lowered–wishing so dearly he could find his hat that had seemingly disappeared so he could hide.

If he had been looking at you, he would have seen the toothy smile covering your face, a tender laugh leaving you as your assumptions became reality. You had to give him credit, though, for he had you completely and utterly fooled.

“No.” He stated firmly, rising on his legs to pull up his pants. He found himself unable to, though, your hand grabbing his suspenders to pull him back down. The same heat that had lessened in his stomach came back as he felt your nimble touch caress him through his pants, gaining a mischievous look from you as you widened your legs.

“Don’t worry, Arthur. I’ll give Charles his gloves back if you stay here and keep me warm.”

Oh dear, that would do it. Whatever thoughts that filled his mind flew out the window, wholly consumed by you as your hands caressed his back, staring expectantly up at him.

“Only me, right?”

“Only you, stupid.”

#arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan smut #arthur morgan imagine #arthur morgan x female reader #arthur morgan #rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #red dead redemption imagine #red dead redemption smut #red dead smut

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inhumanliquid · 6 months

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Typical "reblog for larger reach" here, I guess.

#tumblr polls

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britcision · 4 months

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Another “Danny works at a mortuary” but because he’s also the strongest source of ectoplasm in insert-city-of-your-choice he is constantly surrounded by blob ghosts that no one else can see

And occasionally they try to “help” him at work, moving tools around, trying to clean the pumps, just generally being well intentioned poltergeists who are very much not actually helping

Once in a while a group of particularly naughty blobs will hop into one of the bodies Danny’s preparing (it takes 6-8 blobs to make it move properly, since they need at least the knees, waist, shoulders, and head controlled separately)

Danny then has to chase the corpse down and very carefully suction the blobs out and try and get it back before anyone notices…

But he’s not always at work

And the blobs keep chewing through the corners of his ghost wards like naughty little goats

One of the heroes gets wind of suspicious body snatching activity at the mortuary (and possibly magic cult stuff if we’re playing with Shazam) and begins to investigate

The only rule is if we’re doing Gotham and bats Danny is accidentally sent a Talon at LEAST once and Scooby Doo shenanigans ensue while he chases the Talon around and tries to slurp the blob ghosts out, while the blob ghosts chase Danny to see what he’s doing

He’s doing his very best to just do his job and be a good mortuary assistant, and all his work colleagues/classmates from the program make so many jokes about living a horror movie

Danny WISHES he was just living a horror movie, but his permanent soundtrack is just the Benny Hill theme and there’s nothing he can do about it

(Maybe he’s shooting for mortician to help baby ghosts stabilise in a city less saturated than Amity, maybe he’s passing on messages for the dead, maybe it’s a psychopomp thing but he’s really trying not to get busted by the Justice League for body snatching that he isn’t even doing)

#dp x dc #dpxdc #dcxdp #dc x dp #mortician danny au #but the blob ghosts are having the best time #they’re just happy little friends with about the intelligence of a sponge cake #and they’re having a lovely time

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nerdpoe · 28 days

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Dick puts everything on the line. He's the last one standing. The rest of the Titans are down. He dies making sure that they, and the world, can live.

Then he wakes up, staring at a ceiling dotted with glow in the dark stars, very confused.

There's a redheaded teenager who calls herself Jazz, who seems suspicious of him. He had parents, ghost hunters who are definitely breaking many, many laws, who love him dearly.

He has a pair of very close friends, Tucker and Sam, who also do not trust him.

There was a funeral for Dick Grayson, he looked it up. There was a corpse and everything, cremated exactly as he had demanded after learning what had happened to Jason.

Just in case it's a fluke, and he's about to be thrown out of a body that isn't his, he doesn't reach out to anyone in the hero community just yet. Instead, he decides to look into who, exactly, is Daniel Fenton, and why do his friends and sister keep looking at him like he's a spy?

Or; Danny, growing more and more powerful as a halfa, was starting to have his ghostlyness leak through to his human form. He asked Clockwork if there was a future where Jack and Maddie would ever accept him being half ghost, and Clockwork informed him that no, there was not. So Danny worked with the Yetis in the Far Frozen to make a lifeless clone of himself, with the intent to fake his death and live on in the Realms. So when Jazz came into his room, fully expecting a lifeless clone, only to find the clone not only alive but fully functional, she's suspicious.

#dpxdc #dcxdp #dp x dc #dc x dp #phanfic #story prompt #one hero tried to fake their death #but a hero that actually died ended up messing that up #it's permanent btw dick's soul recognizes this body as his #the body is liminal but not a halfa #it had to hold up to an autopsy performed by the GIW #sam and tucker are freaked the fuck out #jazz is suspicious as fuck #DIck's parents as ghosts grabbed his soul and shoved it into an empty body before the soul could complete transformation #they needed a body that was liminal enough to work with a sort-of-formed ghost #and they overheard that Phantom was having one made to act as a cadaver #and well #needs must #Phantom won't mind they're sure

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lbcreations-blog · 4 months

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Yandere Alastor with daughter reader

A Stag and his Fawn

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(Not proof read cause I'm tired but I need to post)

Masterlist

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Alastor was your adoptive father. He adopted you when you were both still alive. You were only a baby at the time, being left in a dumpster.

When Alastor was dumping bodys in the dumpster he found you, he was originally going to put you in a foster home, but when he saw you open your eyes and look at him seeming at peice, he knew it was a bad idea to put you in any foster home.

Of course, he could not just take you in. He had to get you some medical treatment. So he took you to the nearest hospital to get a check-up and other things. Then he had to do even more other things like birth certificate and adoption stuff. (You know, the essentials)

Anyways, once you were old enough, he taught you his ways of voodoo and murder. (You were already learning from about 4, lmao), and you became a perfect daughter to him (even though you were already perfect to him).

If you were to get bullied in school, those kids would regret it. He would also teach those kids' parents a lesson as well.

If you end up dying before him from it being someone's fault, he would torture that person/persons and eat that person's corpse.

Once he enters hell, he would search for you while aswell becoming a terrifying overlord. And once he finds you, he would pretend you are not his daughter in public so you would not get targeted. He knows you can look after yourself so he would let you in public by yourself, but a shadow will follow you.

But if you are an overlord, he wouldn't admit being your father, but he will treat you like his daughter in public, and he will let others' theories flow. (Overlord or not, a shadow will follow you, btw)

Now, if he dies first, he will patiently wait for you. You, of course, kill the one who mistakes your father for a deer. You then live life how he wanted you to, until you finally arrive in hell.

Once you arrive in hell, he ether will take a while to find you or find you quickly. If you quickly become an overlord just like him, he would be proud, like you have no idea.

(The ways he is with you in hell is the same as I explained in the first death choice.)

Of course, introducing you to people as Alastors' daughter, you will get interesting reactions.

The overlords would be shocked, to say the least, Carmila might like Alastor slightly more cause she has her own daughters.

Now the hotel's reactions ig

Of course, the entire hotel is shocked except for niffty and husk cause yall already probably met (I would tell you that, but that's a different kind of worm)

Anyway, sir pentious would be most likely terrified of you or just won't admit it.

Angel- well, Angel-... he's probably going to start off with sex jokes, and how unfair it is that some random bitch got to fuck Alastor. Your father was not happy.

Vaggie is very suspicious of you once you met. She knew how your father was, so you were not trustworthy. (Which was fair, you showed that same creepy smile your father did)

Charlie loved meeting you. She was and is so happy that Alastor has a daughter and she is and was happy to meet you. She was hoping to help you get redeemed, but you just told her you would rather be in hell with your father.

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I was going to make Alastor more yandere but because of 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑜𝑛𝑠, he's like that, ok? OK

I did get lazy at the end, so... Yyyeeeaaaa

Hope you enjoyed it

- 𝐋.𝐁 𝐂𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬

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slytherinslut0 · 7 months

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MATTHEO RIDDLE- Beg For Me

Chapter Seven-Info: You and Mattheo have been butting heads for months, since you were assigned as his tutor, and one day during a session full of tense bickering, he has enough.

(This will essentially be a toxic book where we are Theos fucktov. No love here, very minimal fluff.)

Tags: 18+, SMUT, Sub!Reader, Dom!Mattheo, Dirty Talk, Toxic Behaviour, Degradation Kink, Jealousy, Possessive Behaviours, Manipulation, Violence, Aggression, Blood, Slapping, Slight Masochism, Sexual Aggression, WeaponizingEnzoBerkshire(im sorry?), Fingering, DARK THEMES.

***FIND THE REST OF THE CHAPTERS HERE.

"Rowena, render me resilient." You huffed, mumbling to yourself while pulling your infuriated corpse out of the creaky wooden chair in the empty potions classroom. "I'm going to fucking kill that boy."

Mattheo was thirty minutes late. Thirty. Three. Zero.

At first, you dismissed his tardiness, convincing yourself it was just another instance of his habitual delay--and in those initial ten minutes, you buried yourself in your homework, trying to maintain an air of indifference. But as the clock ticked away, another ten minutes, then another five, your patience wore thin, your nerves splintering with palpable annoyance. From that point on, each passing second seemed to echo with the ghost of his absence, amplifying your frustration.

The room seemed to close in on you as you stared at the clock, wondering why he would brush you off so callously when he damn-well knew he was the only fucking reason you were there, in that classroom, in the bloody first place.

The single-minded focus on confronting Mattheo propelled you forward, urging you to swing open the creaky wooden door with a determined force. As you stepped into the eerie, freezing corridor of the dungeons, your resolve transformed into a palpable energy, driving you forward with every purposeful stride. The anticipation of the impending confrontation overshadowed any trepidation, making you oblivious to the typical nerves that might have accompanied a situation like this.

As you approached the Slytherin common room, the distant thumping of loud music permeated the heavy door, sending vibrations through the floor beneath your feet. Despite the unfamiliar territory and the intimidating reputation of the Slytherin's domain--which was often veiled in a haze of marijuana smoke and the lingering scent of alcohol--your anger acted as a shield, eclipsing any reservations or second thoughts.

Your frustration boiled over as you banged on the door with a force that reverberated through the wood, echoing your impatience. With each pounding knock, a faint haze of smoke seeped out from the cracks around the door, a telltale sign of the revelry inside--it felt like centuries had past before the door swung open, a thick cloud of smoke billowing out from the bustling common room; and before you could react, a Slytherin student you didn't recognize--tall and imposing, grabbed your arm and yanked you inside, pulling you close to him.

He pressed you against the door as he slammed it shut behind you, his eyes narrowing as he scanned your appearance from head to toe, clearly suspicious of your presence inside his domain.

"Who the hell are you, and what do you think you're doing here?" he demanded, his voice sharp and laced with suspicion. The scent of alcohol mingled with the smoke, adding an acrid edge to the atmosphere as he scrutinized you, waiting for an explanation. "You're out of your bloody depth little Ravenclaw...some nerve-"

You stammered, hardly able to catch your words. "I-I'm Mattheo's tutor...he didn't show up to-"

"Mattheo's tutor, huh?" he sneered, his voice dripping with mockery as he cut you off. "Well, good luck trying to drag him out of this madness on a Friday night. Once he's in, he's in deep, and nobody can rescue him, especially not a helpless little Ravenclaw like you."

His grip on your arm tightened, emphasizing his point, the pressure sending a jolt of pain through your body. Your stomach twisted as you watched his lips curl into a cruel smirk, his blue eyes glinting with sadistic amusement.

"You're better off running along before you get sucked into our world. We Slytherins don't play nice, especially when it comes to parties."

With that, he shoved you away from the door, dismissing you with an irritated flick of his hand, leaving you standing there, caught between frustration and helplessness, engulfed in the suffocating haze of smoke and the pounding rhythm of the music as you attempted to gather yourself. Admittedly, the smell was getting to your head, you pulse pounding in your temples and matching the base of the music. You shot your gaze around the room, in search of any sort of sign that Mattheo was around--but you didn't get very far before you felt movement behind you.

Your heart raced as you spun around, finding yourself surrounded by practically all the boys from the infamous Slytherin Quidditch team, their cold gazes assessing you with a mix of curiosity and arrogance. Draco Malfoy, the groups undeniable leader, sneered at you, his blond hair perfectly styled despite the chaotic atmosphere of the room.

"Well, well, look what we have here, boys," Draco drawled, his tone dripping with superiority. "A lost little Ravenclaw wandering into our house. Did you take a wrong turn on your way to the library, sweetheart?"

You swallowed, your eyes shooting around at each of the men as they circled around you, Theodore Nott and Regulus Black shared a knowing glance, exchanging silent communication that made your skin crawl. Blaise Zabini, the schools best known charmer, stepped closer, his smug smile sending chills down your spine.

"Or perhaps you're here to join the party?" he suggested, his eyes lingering on you in a way that made your skin prickle with discomfort. Lorenzo Berkshire, the powerhouse of the team, folded his arms over his chest, his expression unreadable as he observed you. The room seemed to close in around you, the haze of smoke thickening as their presence suffocated the air.

With every instinct screaming at you to escape, you tried to muster courage. "I-I'm just looking for Mattheo," you stammered, your voice barely audible over the pulsating music. "I'm his tutor, and he was supposed to meet me for a study session...I came to find him."

Theodore smirked, tilting his head as he scrutinized you with a calculating gaze. "I don't recall Mattheo mentioning anything about a tutor," he said, his voice low and edged with suspicion. "Are you sure you're in the right place, Bella?"

"Or, perhaps you're here for something other than tutoring?" Lorenzo said, his voice like a low growl--your nerves multiplying as he took a deliberate step forward, his eyes never leaving yours. "You should know that little birds who dare to venture into the snake's den rarely ever make it out alive..."

Lorenzo's words stirred something inside your chest, your stomach twisting into a knot so tight you thought for sure your intestines were about to explode. The boys, their eyes gleaming with a sinister intent, moved forward with calculated steps, their chuckles weaving through the air like unsettling whispers. They encircled you, a menacing dance of predators closing in on their prey-the glint in their eyes mirroring the sharpness of fangs as they closed the gap, enveloping you in a suffocating sense of dread.

You couldn't help but to be acutely aware of the irony of the situation, you were the helpless little bird ensnared in the midst of hungry snakes--desperate for rescue that you knew would never come--internally freaking the fuck out until you steeled your shoulders, gathering every single last ounce of your courage to meet Enzo's burning gaze head on--a glint of defiance twinkling behind your eyes.

"Little bird, Berkshire?" you taunted, your voice ringing through the room as you took a bold step toward him, your head held high to meet his eyes. "Last time I checked, the Ravenclaw emblem was an Eagle…unless it’s changed without my knowledge…" you continued, your gaze unwavering, watching his jaw clench with irritation. "Do you know what eagles are capable of, Berkshire? Or is that information too elevated for your limited intelligence?"

Lorenzo's lips curled into a contemptuous smile. "Save your Ravenclaw wit for your textbooks, little bird," he said, his tone dripping with disdain. "In our den, you're just prey, no matter what emblem you wear."

The boys around you chuckled darkly, their laughter echoing through the room like the hiss of snakes, only fuelling your urge to defend yourself further. Lorenzo took another step forward and you straightened your shoulders.

"Your attempts to wield venom through words mirror your feeble Quidditch endeavors…always falling short of the impact you intend," you sneered, your confidence cutting through the tension. "Perhaps it's time to reevaluate your definition of prey, considering the ones who underestimate tend to fall the hardest."

Lorenzo's nostrils flared, his face turning crimson with rage. "You got quite the mouth on you, little fucking brat," he spat, his voice sharp as a dagger, hand reaching up to grip your jaw, pulling you tight against him--the scent of alcohol flooding your nostrils as his free hand gripped your hip, your mouth parting in complete, paralyzing shock. "You want to fucking say that again, huh?"

The boys surrounding the two of you exchanged uneasy glances, their initial amusement morphing into concern as they realized just how far he was willing to take things. A few of them took cautious steps back, their confidence waning in the face of Lorenzo's escalating rage.

Your voice wavered, a mixture of fear and defiance. "Let go of me."

"Not so tough now, are you?" He chuckled darkly, his grip tightening. "You're bloody pathe-"

Lorenzo's malicious words hung in the air, pregnant with menace, but they were abruptly silenced by a deep, furious rumble that reverberated through the room.

"Berkshire," you recognized that voice. You’d never, ever not recognize that fucking voice. "What the fuck are you doing?"

The resonance of his voice was like a rolling thunder, each syllable echoing off the stone walls and sending tangible shivers down your spine. The very atmosphere seemed to quiver in response, and you could almost feel the raw power of his anger vibrating in the air, setting the entire room on edge. Enzo's eyes widened in alarm, his confident facade crumbling like fragile parchment in the face of Mattheo's wrath.

Slowly turning, Enzo locked eyes with the approaching Riddle, whose gaze blazed with an unyielding fire, and without giving him a chance to react, Mattheo surged forward, his movements swift and deadly. His fist, wrapped in a tempest of rage, found its target in Enzo's jaw with a resounding impact.

The force of the blow sent shockwaves through the room, Enzo's head snapping violently to the side, a spray of crimson erupting from the corner of his lip, painting the air with the evidence of Mattheo's strength--and the room stood still for a moment, suspended in a heartbeat of sheer shock as Enzo stumbled backward, his once-defiant demeanor now entirely shattered.

In the wake of Mattheo's ferocity, the room remained suspended in a tense silence, like a captured breath waiting to be released, the echo of the impact still ringing in your ears. Enzo, once the epitome of arrogance and aggression, now stood stunned, his hand clutching his injured jaw as he struggled to regain his balance. The other boys, previously reveling in their sadistic taunts, stood frozen, their eyes wide with disbelief at the sudden turn of events.

Mattheo, his chest heaving with restrained fury, stepped forward, his gaze locked onto Enzo.

"Touch her again," he growled, his voice low and menacing, "and I'll make sure you regret every last moment you spend at this fucking school."

Enzo, now visibly shaken, nodded weakly, a mix of fear and humiliation clouding his eyes. Without another word, Mattheo turned his attention to you, his expression softening slightly, concern flickering in his eyes.

"Are you alright?" he asked, his voice gentler now, a stark contrast to the storm of emotions that had just erupted in the room. "Did he hurt you?"

Your mind buzzed with a whirlwind of emotions, struggling to process the chaotic events that had just unfolded. Numbly, you shook your head, your hand instinctively reaching up to rub your jaw, still tingling from the force of Enzo's grip.

"No," you said, not daring to meet his eyes. "I'm fine."

With a nod, Mattheo turned, his eyes boring into the remaining onlookers, his voice slicing through the air like a blade. "Enough gawking. Move along," he ordered, his tone laced with steel. "This isn't a show for your fucking amusement."

The intensity in his words sent the spectators scrambling like startled crows, leaving you and Mattheo in the quiet aftermath, the weight of the recent events hanging heavily in the air as he peered down at you with dark eyes.

"You came looking for me?" he whispered, his voice barely audible above the fading echoes of the room. "Thought you'd appreciate a night off from my bullshit."

Your chest seized as you eyed his face--the cut across his nose from yesterday still faintly bleeding, swatches of blood still decorating his jawline and cheekbones--you couldn't deny that this boy was a bloody mess. A cunning, arrogant, complicated fucking mess--but Gods, was he fucking attractive.

"I don't appreciate being blown off without notice, Riddle..." you huffed, chewing on the inside of your cheek. "Not that you could ever relate."

“You’re right, I can’t..I usually get some notice before being blown.” With a slight smirk, he gripped your wrist, meeting your eyes. "Come on. Let's get you out of here."

Mattheo's hold on your wrist was firm yet oddly reassuring as he guided you through the chaotic Slytherin common room. The room was a cacophony of laughter, music, and rowdy students, but his presence seemed to part the crowd effortlessly, creating a path for the two of you with ease. The air outside the common room was a welcome relief, free from the suffocating haze of smoke and the overwhelming scent of alcohol. Mattheo didn't release your wrist, his touch lingering, and you found yourself following his lead as he navigated the dimly lit corridors of Hogwarts.

Silence settled between you, broken only by the distant echoes of the party behind you. Mattheo's expression was unreadable, his eyes focused ahead, as if he was deep in thought. The tension that had gripped you inside the common room began to dissipate, replaced by a strange sense of calm in his presence. As you walked, you stole glances at his profile--his jawline sharp, his lips pressed into a thin line, his eyes a stormy mix of emotions.

There was something different about him tonight, something vulnerable beneath his usual composed facade.

As the two of you finally reached the vacant potions room, Mattheo relinquished his hold on your wrist, allowing his fingers to slide away like the fading echo of a melody. He gently pressed open the ancient door of the classroom, and you slowly ventured inside.

Your senses heightened, capturing every subtle nuance of the space. The faint creak of the floorboards beneath your weight, the distant hoot of an owl, and the rustle of leaves against the windowpane merged into a symphony of nocturnal sounds. The anticipation in the air crackled like static electricity, wrapping around you as Mattheo's presence loomed closer, his warmth seeping through the layers of your uniform.

A singular step carried you further into the room, yet your feet rebelled against moving any closer. Your body buzzed with a peculiar blend of apprehension and curiosity, a tingling sensation that crawled beneath your skin. Mattheo's proximity felt palpable, his body brushing against you as he stood just behind, a silent guardian in the obsidian night.

The click of the lock reverberated through the chamber, its sound shattering the silence like a fragile glass.

His words caressed your ear as he spoke, accompanied by the strong scent of whiskey on his breath. "You're a goddamn handful, Raven..."

At the sound of his voice, your lids fluttered involuntarily, warmth creeping down your back, you were beyond thankful that he was behind you and couldn't see your reaction.

Your voice was a breath as it left your lips. "That's funny, coming from you..."

"Touché, princess." He hummed, the vibration massaging your spine. You tensed as his hand brushed your shoulder, pulling your hair back with it. "I'm sorry about Berkshire...he's a real charmer..."

You huffed, shaking your head, dismissing the heat that pooled in your core with each passing moment of his proximity. "Seems like all you Slytherin men are...certainly know how to dish it out, but don't know how to take it, hm?"

His lips curled into a smirk, his tone laced with arrogance. "Oh, we know how to take it, Raven," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "I certainly do, anyways..."

Your breath caught in your throat. "I'm not so sure about that, Riddle...my mouth has gotten you going many times now..."

"Fucking right it has..." he growled, lips grazing the sensitive skin on your neck. "But I can handle you...the real question is, can you handle me..."

Your pulse was flying, rocketed somewhere into another galaxy. "Haven't I proved myself yet..."

A low, rumbling chuckle escaped him, reverberating through the room. His warm breath brushed against your skin, sending shivers of anticipation across your flesh. His tongue traced a torturous path up the side of your throat, leaving a trail of heat in its wake. His hands hovered over your hips, their presence magnetic, hesitating slightly before tightening their grip as if uncertain of your response.

"Not even fucking close, princess..." he purred, his words dripping with desire. "You have a long ways to go still..."

A soft, involuntary sound escaped your lips, your head falling back against his shoulder, surrendering to the intoxicating sensations that coursed through you. Resistance seemed futile; you were utterly ensnared in his grasp. He wielded an irresistible power over you, and you had no strength left to resist, even if you wanted to--all you had were words; empty, meaningless words.

"I thought you didn't want to do this anymore," you whispered, your voice barely audible above the hushed breaths between you. "I thought you just wanted me to be your tutor."

Mattheo's grip intensified. "I said a lot of things last night that I didn't mean, Raven..." he murmured against your neck. "I was drunk."

"You're drunk right now, too, Mattheo..." you muttered, unable to hide your amusement. "Bloody hell, you have issues."

"I know...I've gotta work some shit out," his teeth nipped your earlobe, you could practically feel the smirk on his lips. "I'm exercising my demons, Raven, I promise..."

His words hung in the air, laced with desperation and a yearning for understanding, as if he sought solace in your presence but didn't know how to ask for it--with a sharp inhale, your hands found his, and when he loosened his grasp on your hips, you spun around to face him, meeting his dark, penetrating eyes.

Your hands fell to your sides, fingers trembling as your gaze darted from his eyes to his lips, and back to his eyes. "What the fuck do you want from me, Mattheo Riddle..." you whispered. "Give me a solid answer...for once in your bloody-"

"I want you," he cut you off, his hand shifting to cup the side of your face. "...I want you on your knees for me..." his thumb brushed your cheek, his head tilting. "...I want you swallowing my cum..." he wet his lips, leaning closer, "...but most of all, I want you moaning my fucking name until it's the only word that pretty little mouth knows how to say."

Your lips parted, a soft exhale of contentment escaping your throat as he brushed his mouth against yours, stealing every breath from your lungs.

"But…you can't stand me, remember..." you whispered, your voice trembling like fragile glass. "You hate me..."

"Yeah," he huffed, his gaze flickering to your lips. "I hate you."

Your heart thundered against your ribs. "You hate me.”

"Yeah, I fucking hate you," he replied, his eyes simmering with intensity. "Do you hate me?"

"Yes," you responded, the words flowing from your lips like molten lava. You needed no time to think about it, not even a second. "I hate you."

"Yeah?" His eyes darkened, his features glossing over with something that made your stomach twist. "Say it again."

"I hate you, Mattheo Riddle..." you murmured, his lips brushing over yours again, sending electric sparks across your skin while his hand slithered around your lower back, pulling you closer. "I hate you so much."

He gripped your uniform between his fist, a low chuckle leaving his throat, his voice dripping with seductive arrogance. "I don't think I believe you, Raven." He purred, his warm breath caressing your lips. "Maybe you should prove it."

He pressed his lips to yours in one swift, powerful kiss, the intensity of it leaving you breathless. His mouth trailed a scorching path along your jawline, his tousled curls tickling your cheek as his warm breath fanned your skin. Speaking became a struggle amidst the sensations that engulfed you.

"How do you propose I do that?" you managed to breathe out, your voice barely audible over the thundering beat of your heart. His lips moved to your ear, pressing against it with a tantalizing heat.

"Hit me," he murmured, his voice a seductive whisper that sent shivers down your spine.

"What?" Your body erupted in an incomprehensible collection of emotions, admittedly taken back by his request. "Why-"

"Hit me," he repeated, voice harsher now. "Just like last night--fucking slap me, Raven...don't be shy, you know I deserve it..."

The intensity behind his words propelled you into action, a whirlwind of emotions swirling within you. Without a moment's hesitation, you inhaled a sharp breath and drew your hand back, the room electrified with anticipation. With swift precision, your palm met his cheek in a sharp, resounding smack--his tousled chocolate curls dancing upon impact, his head jerking to the side.

In the charged aftermath of your slap, a potent silence hung in the air, laden with fervent anticipation. When he smirked, his eyes ablaze with a searing intensity, it felt like a scorching brand against your skin. Undaunted and admittedly more fucking turned on than you'd ever been before, you wound your hand back again--this time, your slap landed with a fiercer impact, a guttural groan escaping his lips as your palm connected with his cheek for the second time.

Before you could register what was happening, his hand gripped a fistful of your hair, his strength surprising you, and he spun you around. With a forceful push, he shoved you against the wall, the impact sending a shiver down your spine. His lips crashed onto yours with a hunger that matched the storm raging within you, igniting a fire that threatened to consume you both.

"You like that, Raven?" He purred, his fingers working to untuck your blouse before slipping underneath the fabric, the sensation of touch sending shivers down your spine. "You like making me fucking hurt, huh?"

"Gods, yes," you gasped, words choked through your breath as his fingers teased your nipple under the fabric of your bra. "You deserve so much more than that."

"That's right," he groaned, arrogance flooding his tone, lips moving like a sin along your neck, igniting your senses. "I'm a piece of shit, aren't I...using you like this...taking you as my little fucking toy when I said I wouldn't..."

A shuddering breath escaped your lips, your fingers tangling in his hair, unable to deny the raw intensity of your desires for even a single fucking second longer.

"Mattheo," you gasped, your voice barely audible, your body amplifying your words as it pressed closer to his, spine arching as he teased your nipple. "Touch me...please, just fucking touch me..."

"There she fucking is...there's my dirty little slut..." Mattheo groaned, low in his throat, teeth sinking into your neck. "Begging for me without even needing to be told...fuck, you learn so quickly, don't you..."

As his hand trailed down your stomach, you let out a shaky breath, feeling the heat of his touch flood through you. The trail of embers he left in his wake had your mind reeling, making it hard to even form coherent thoughts--your heart pounding so hard you were completely fucking certain he could hear it.

"Matty..." you whimpered, his teeth marking your neck, your grip tightening in his hair.

As his fingers slipped under the hem of your skirt and found their way to the mound of your pussy, you couldn't help but arch your back, pressing your hips closer to his hand. The fabric of your thong did little to impede the sensation, and you felt your body responding involuntarily to his touch. Your bodies were pressed tightly against each other, feeling the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed in rhythm with you.

"Shh," he murmured, hand slipping from your hair and clamping over your lips. "You'll need to be quiet princess...you don't want to get caught like this, do you?"

His body shuddered against yours as you mewled, the vibration sending a wave of pleasure through your limbs. Mattheo pressed himself harder against you, his hardness pressing against your thigh--the sensation sending a jolt of excitement through you, causing you to roll your hips against him in response. You were so fucking far gone now, there was absolutely no saving you. You wanted more of him, all of him, every single inch he wanted to fucking give you.

"Oh my fuck-" Mattheo's voice was a breathless growl as he slipped his fingers under your thong and slid a finger through your soaked slit, your entire body jolting against his--a loose moan reverberating through your chest. "Oh fuck, Raven...you're so fucking wet..."

Breath hitching, engulfed in a deluge of lust, you wriggled against him, lava already flowing out from your centre and through your veins.

"Look at what I fucking do to you..." he pressed your head against the wall, his own head shifting back to meet your eyes. "Who else gets you this fucking wet, huh? Fuck...this little pussy already belongs to me..."

You choked back a moan, stifled under his rough palm as the pad of his finger drew slow circles around your clit, warmth flooding your body. Your hands clutched the fabric of his shirt now, digging in with enough intensity to slice the fabric with your nails. Mattheo growled, watching every ministration of your face under his hand, rubbing faster in response, sending shocks of pleasure through you, your hips bucking.

"That's it...fuck..." he muttered, loosing himself in your eyes, in the heat of your pussy dripping from his touch. "No turning back now, Raven...you're going to fucking cum for me...you're going to make yourself mine..."

Your lids fluttered, body trembling, oxygen fleeing you without hesitation; short, insistent groans escaping your throat, his fingers assailing your stiff nub. You were balancing on your peak, ready to tip over, never knowing pleasure so fucking intense in your entire life.

"Look at me." He hissed. "Look into my fucking eyes as you cum for me."

Every nerve in your body felt electrified, pulsating with a pleasure so intense it was almost painful--chest rolling and head spinning as you met his eyes; drowning in their chocolate intensity. His touch, his gaze, everything about him overwhelmed your senses, plunging you into a euphoria you had never experienced before. You were gone, hardly hearing his words, hardly even conscious, the sensations flowing through you were unlike anything you've ever known. And then, before you had a chance to accept it, white light flashed in front of your vision, blurring your sight, a blissful heat ripping through you and shattering your sanity as you squealed into his palm--Mattheo’s lips parting and his chest heaving as he watched you, not daring to blink, not even daring to breathe.

You became aware how tight you had been holding him, and you quickly released him, a wave of hot shame washing over you. Your hair was sticking to your face, your cheeks tingling.

"Such a good girl," he said, lifting his fingers from your pussy and bringing them to his lips, shoving them past his teeth, holding your stare as he sucked your juices off of them before slowly pulling them out with a pop. "Just getting a taste of what I have to look forward to later."

You exhaled a long, trembling breath--your conscious slowly returning.

“Gods,” you gawked, speechless, body still tingling with the aftershock of your climax. “What are you doing to me, you plague of a boy…”

He chuckled darkly, his lips curling into a malicious smile. “Told you I’d ruin you Raven…” he said. “I may be many things, but a liar isn’t one.”

———————

Here’s eight->

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bg-brainrot · 1 month

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More than Vampiric Charms (Astarion x Tav)

Featuring: Astarion x Rogue!Tav

Series: Fits into Love at First Knife, AO3 link here

Summary: After some banter between Astarion and Jaheira goes too far, you (Tav) take some time to remind Astarion that he is so much more than a pair of fangs.

Tags: POV Second Person, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Fluff, Comfort, Vampire Spawn Astarion, set in Act 3, Astarion is Bad at Feelings, Blood, Blood Drunk, blood as a coping mechanism

A/N: Thank you to everyone who voted for this banter in my last poll! This was a fun one c:

Word count: ~3.2k

Walking through the streets of Baldur's Gate is always an adventure with your group– a particularly fraught adventure on this day, as Jaheira and Astarion seem hellsbent on trading barbs.

It had started out playfully enough, with a snide remark from Astarion, "Oh that building used to be a delightful little sweets shop about a hundred years ago. Though I suppose the crone would remember that, wouldn’t she?”

Jaheira, used to remarks about her age, often being the one to start them, was ready with a quick quip back, “Was that before or after your hair turned gray? With my old age, I can never remember.”

Astarion visibility bit back a remark about this being his natural hair color when you glared back at both of them. “Could we focus a bit please? You two can reminisce after we’ve seen to this latest bloody basement.”

One trail of blood, a disgusting array of corpses, and a piece of clown later and the two of them were at it again.

“Jaheira,” Astarion had started in a light tone– a clear indicator that he had no intent to focus. “Have you considered taking on the role of Dribbles the clown yourself? The makeup might help cover all those pesky wrinkles.”

The druid had snickered, appreciating the comment, and shot back, “I think you would be better suited to the role, given you are already a fool.”

That time, Karlach had interrupted, “Don’t either of you dare! No one could replace this Baldurian hero.”

“Which is exactly why we’re helping to piece him back together,” you’d confirmed with a nod. “Besides, you’re both cranky enough to make the children weep.”

“Darling!” Astarion had gasped, an offended hand on his chest. “How could you say that about me?”

You’d ignored his question, instead choosing to deposit a quick kiss on his pursed lips. A soft, effective bandaid that left the man with crossed arms and a reluctant smile.

Moments later, you were ushering the group out of the building and into the city. Insults forgotten, everyone began trudging the familiar path back to the Elfsong to clean up.

Now, along this very path, you hear Jaheira strike up a new conversation with Astarion– one that has your ears perking up, even as you continue to lead the way ahead.

“It seems that you and our leader are closer than ever,” the woman observes, a smile in her voice.

There’s a moment of silence, and you can practically see Astarion’s suspicious expression in your mind’s eye as he assesses the situation. “Yes, you could say that,” he finally replies. “What can I say? I am, after all, quite charming.”

“I am glad it is your non-vampiric charms our friend has fallen for, Astarion.” A short, thoughtful pause follows before she asks, “It is, isn’t it?”

“Of course,” Astarion responds, his voice reaching a comically high pitch– one that almost makes you laugh. You want to hear this conversation more than most though, so not a sound escapes your lips. The vampire scoffs before he continues. "Is it so unbelievable that they would simply like me?"

There’s a clear hesitation as Astarion’s words hang in the air.

You wonder why Jaheira isn’t responding, what her expression must be– but before you can turn around to find out more, Astarion is speaking again.

“If you insist on prying,” he starts, clearing his throat a bit pointedly. “Perhaps you’d care to join us. And see how much we enjoy one another.”

The insinuation in his tone is almost enough to have you spinning around– teasing Karlach or Shadowheart is one thing, but Jaheira? Gods, you can feel the heat rising up your neck– “Why?” Jaheira snaps back. “Do you require some instruction on how the deed is done?”

“I’m sure even I could learn some new tricks from an old veteran such as yourself,” Astarion replies, mirth shining through in his tone.

Wait, is he actually inviting her?

You know you need to stop this conversation before it mortifies you any further. “Stop it, both of you!” you say, turning your head back, trying your best to keep a stern, not-at-all embarrassed expression on your face. “We don’t need the next installment of ‘Love at First Knife’ getting any more convoluted.”

There’s some grumbling from Astarion, an amused smile from Jaheira, and a chortle from Karlach, but otherwise your group makes it back to the Elfsong without tearing each other– or their clothes– apart.

That evening, Astarion slips away.

It’s not an unusual occurrence– some days his hunger is harder to ignore than others, on some you hadn’t found nearly enough evil to suck dry. Ultimately, he never wanted to take too much blood from you, so he chooses to forage as he has taken to calling it.

As a result, you think nothing of it at first, settling into bed after dinner with a book propped between your hands. After all, Cazador is dead, and Astarion is more than capable of taking down some of the most fearsome enemies in the city– he should take all the time he needs to himself.

But the hours pass, and Astarion has yet to return. The candles around you begin to dwindle, words begin to swim on a page you haven’t turned in quite some time, and sleep slowly but surely starts to drag your eyelids down.

It has almost claimed you when the door to your shared room at the Elfsong slams shut. You hear groans from around the room as those who were similarly drifting off to bed are shocked awake, everyone expecting yet another unwelcome visitor. You almost don’t have time to react before an armor-clad vampire lands atop of you.

You do react though, instinctively striking at the man with the spine of your book, a loud ‘thwack’ letting you know that your contact was true.

“Oof,” Astarion mutters, now fully splayed across your torso like a stretching cat. “Darling, must you be so violent?”

“Astarion?” you ask, putting down your book, shaking off the beginning throes of sleep as you realize what’s transpired. “Weapons down everyone, it’s Astarion.”

After a few affirmative grumbles from around the room, you turn your attention back to the vampire, “Are you alright? Did you get injured?”

“Mmm,” he murmurs, burying his face in your blanket, and rubbing at the spot where you’d hit him. “Nothing's the matter. Everything is perfectly dandy.”

His words slur though and something seems to be amiss. His movements are fluid, his body weight is completely and utterly relaxed onto you.

Almost as if…

“Are you… drunk?” you haven’t seen him like this since the bear he drank near the grove. When you’d asked him the question then, he’d shrugged it off– but it was certainly the closest to drunk you’d ever seen him.

“Not strictly speaking, no…” he drolls, tilting his head slightly to stare at you with one eye. His cheeks are flushed, a telltale sign of his recent feeding, and his eye is glazed over, its blissful sheen telling you all that you need to know.

“Have a good dinner, did you?” you ask, smiling down at him wearily. You can hardly fault him for indulging, especially after the couple of weeks you’ve had.

He chuckles, his one visible eye crinkling a bit. “Oh yes. A rather large bugbear. Hardly knew what bit him.”

You run a hand through Astarion’s hair, and respond, “Well done, my sweet, bloodthirsty vampire.”

Normally, such sweet words of unabashed flattery would elicit a smile, a laugh, maybe even a kiss– but tonight Astarion freezes under your touch, his eye going wide before he tucks his face back into the bedding.

“Astarion?” you ask, your previous worry about injury now promptly replaced by a worry of a much deeper hurt.

“It’s nothing,” he mutters, voice sounding distant.

You scratch at his scalp, a bit, trying to encourage him back toward you. “Love, you know you’re a terrible liar. What’s wrong?”

He gives a soft, annoyed huff– an endearing, drunken noise were it not for the fact that he seems determined not to look at you. And continue to crush you with the full weight of his body.

“Astarion,” you say again, with a bit more emphasis, shaking his head a little with your next scratch. “If nothing is truly wrong, I will wake up Karlach. You know she would love to see you in this state.” As if to punctuate your point, a snore sounds from a few beds over, where you know the barbarian slumbers.

“Please don’t,” he murmurs, finally turning around to look at you fully.

You’re surprised to see his eyebrows furrowed, his lips turned down in a truly melancholy frown– always an expressive man, it seems that Astarion’s intoxicated demeanor is twice as exaggerated. Cute, you think. But also concerning. “Love,” you whisper, running a hand along his face. “Talk to me.”

Astarion hesitates, his watery eyes wincing as he debates his next words. Those same red eyes show an unexpected amount of vulnerability– all that bugbear blood is keeping his expression open, his entire face a rosy hue. His mouth opens, closes, his body shifts, and he fumbles with the latches on his armor as he thinks. You simply lay there, playing with his curls until he’s ready.

When he finally speaks, his words take you by surprise.

“You don’t just like me because I’m a vampire… do you?”

“What?” you ask, eyebrows raising in disbelief. Surely, you misheard him.

“You know,” he continues, waving a hand about the air. “My vampiric charms. The fangs. The blood sucking. The mysterious allure?”

“Why in the nine hells would you think that?” You reach a hand out to grab his, tugging on it gently to try to get him to sit up.

Astarion’s eyes drift away from you, but he does sit up, legs draping over your stomach. “Just… because of something Jaheira said.”

Oh. The conversation you’d been eavesdropping on.

“Do you mean what she said earlier? On our way back to the Elfsong?” you ask, narrowing your eyes at him.

“Well, yes,” he mutters, still not looking at you. “Though I can’t help but notice you haven’t answered my question…”

“Astarion,” you start, releasing his hand, only to place it on the slightly flushed skin of his cheek. “No, I do not only like you because you’re a vampire.” Your words are firm, leaving no room for misinterpretation.

His eyes meet yours again, and still you can see so much doubt, so much unmitigated fear. “Are you certain? You truly do seem to enjoy it when I bite you.”

“Well, that’s true,” you admit with a small wince. It does feel rather… good when he bites you, it would be a lie to say otherwise and, besides, you’ve told him as much before. “But that’s not why I like you, you fool.”

Astarion’s bottom lip slips into a small pout and he moves away from your hand. “You’re not very convincing, you know? Especially when you call me a fool.”

You scooch out a bit from under him, leaving your legs under his. With all of the severity in the world, you reply, “If it makes you feel better, I’m a fool too.”

“You are?” he asks, curious despite himself– easily falling for your little trap.

“A fool for you.”

The noise that escapes him is half groan, half chuckle, and his mouth pulls into a lopsided little smile that you’re not certain you would have earned were he not a bit blooddrunk. “Gods, how the hells did I fall for you?”

“Now you’re asking the right questions,” you respond with a smirk on your face. When you place a hand on his knee, the smirk turns into a small smile. “But I’m being genuine– I don’t like you because you’re a vampire. And before you ask, I don’t love you because of your vampirism either.”

He gives a small huff. “Well, Jaheira made it sound as if there wasn’t much else to care for.” An uncharacteristic admittance from him– normally he would brush off such a statement with a proud declaration of how phenomenal he is. But it seems that Jaheira’s words cut deep– and that blood has loosened his lips.

“Jaheira, despite all of her many, many years of experience–” you enjoy the full laugh that elicits. “simply doesn’t have my refined taste. There are so many reasons to like you, love. In fact, vampirism doesn’t even make the list.”

“Oh, you’re keeping track, are you?” he asks, folding his arms and body over his legs and smiling up at you.

“Maybe,” you murmur, leaning forward toward him. “Would you like a sampling of reasons?”

The look he gives you then is hopeful, but more than a little dread slips through in his shining red eyes. When he answers, his voice is barely above a whisper. “Only if you mean them.”

This withdrawn, unsure Astarion isn’t a common sight to you, but, like every other facet of the man before you, he’s no less lovable. So you lean forward, placing a kiss on his pale forehead, and say, “I mean them with my whole heart.”

“Then… I suppose I ought to be lavished with them," he murmurs, and you spot the blush intensifying over his cheeks, now also coloring his ears.

Coupled with his fluid, inebriated state, his heart laid bare before you, you want to scream the reasons from the roof of the Elfsong, if only for him to believe you. But, as it is, the soft snores of your companions keep your voice hushed, your face close to his as you begin.

“Let’s see… should I start with the first thing that stood out to me?”

He hums in agreement, and closes his eyes, as if preparing to listen to the sweetest tune known to the entirety of Faerun.

“Well, it started with your first lie, I think,” you start.

Astarion gives a disapproving groan, but doesn’t open his eyes.

“My dear, you said you said you had a ‘brain thing’ cornered– I hope you know the smile on my face wasn’t from confidence,” you say with a new, fond smile at the memory. “I just knew from that moment on, you didn’t much care for what others thought of you, as long as your goals were met. A kindred spirit. Or so you said that day.”

At that, he reopens his eyes. “That’s not true.”

“We’re not kindred spirits?” you ask, an unexpected tinge of hurt blooming in your chest.

“That’s true,” he says, balming the hurt quickly. “It’s not true that I don’t care what others think of me. I do. Well, maybe not everyone.” His eyes dart toward Gale’s bed and you stifle a snicker. “But I certainly care what you think of me.”

You look into his crimson eyes, a bit clearer now than when you began talking– the blood seems to be working its way through his system. His words come from a place of honesty, not a lack of inhibition.

“Then, let me assure you here and now,” you murmur, leaning down to press a kiss to his lips. “I think–” Another quick peck on his lips. “you’re the funniest–” A kiss to his nose. “the most deft–” A brush of lips against his temple. “creative, endearing, brave–” Each word comes with a kiss along his jaw. “man I’ve ever met.”

Astarion’s eyes look at you, his face still for a moment as he considers your words. When he finally speaks, it’s a quiet, choked up question, “Oh, is that it?”

“Would you like me to keep going?” you ask, lips perched just above his eyebrow, ready for another round.

He shakes his head ever so slightly. “No– no need or you’ll be here all night, surely,” he says, posturing as best as he can while still looking at you with fearful eyes. Almost as if your candid praise is simply too much for him to bear.

It may be too much, and you’re not one to push it.

“Very well,” you say, pulling back. “But I didn’t even get to how good you look covered in blood…”

The man gives a light laugh at that, some of his nerves melting before praise he understands– his appearance is a source of comfort, one that brings him back to himself. “Oooh yes, I do look dashing in red, don’t I?” he purrs, a content smile forming on his face.

“That you do,” you assure, with your own warm look. You wish he would accept all praise this easily, but you suppose this is all you can do for now.

So little of what matters to you is his vampirism, his looks… but for a man like Astarion, for whom a kind word felt like a double-edged blade for two centuries? Well, you’re reminded that regardless of how many times you may tell him, whether now when he’s a bit fuzzy around the edges or when you’re in your cups, he may never truly believe you.

No matter, you suppose. I’ll simply keep finding new ways to show him how much I care for him…

“So Jaheira was kidding, right?” Astarion asks, sitting up and finally beginning to remove his leathers.

You nod, moving to help him remove his greaves. “Naturally. I thought you’d been enjoying the conversation, actually.”

“I had been,” he replies, thoughtfully. “But the more I remembered how sinfully you shiver under my fangs…”

He’s dodging before you can so much as flick his ear. “Excuse you. Is that any way to treat your most reliable source of sustenance?”

Astarion smirks as he leans away from you in the bed. “Oh darling, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. After all, you can’t help it.”

“Astarion–”

“Ehem!” You hear from somewhere behind you. It’s followed shortly by Shadowheart’s annoyed voice, “Would the two of you please keep it down? Some of us are trying to rest.”

If by ‘rest’ she means ‘reach the end of her copper novel’, then you suppose she’s right. Either way, you whisper back, “Sorry, I was defending my dignity.”

“What dignity?” she murmurs back. “And in case you’re wondering, you’re both utter fools.”

Oh great, she’d heard everything.

“Shadowheart, were you eavesdropping?” Astarion asks, crawling over you to glare at her from the edge of your bed. He’s half-dressed and still somewhat out of sorts, so you just lean back against the pillows and accept your fate.

“Is it really eavesdropping if I can hear it all clearly?” the cleric says, and you hear her book snap shut. “Besides, Astarion, if you really needed someone to reassure you, you should have asked me.”

“You?” he asks, incredulously. “And why should I ask you?”

“Because,” she starts, and you can hear her wicked smile in her tone. “I can confirm without a shadow of a doubt that there’s no such thing as ‘vampiric charm.’ I’ve never felt less charmed in my entire life.”

You can sense Astarion is just about ready to light Shadowheart’s hair on fire, so you tug him back down from the divide. “Thank you for that clarification, Shadowheart,” you call, biting back a laugh. “And I’m starting to realize none of us really have private conversations, do we?”

“No, we do not,” you hear Gale reply from a few beds away.

With that, Astarion gives an exasperated sigh and the two of you finish removing his armor in silence. When you’re both finally ready for bed and you whisper to him, “Goodnight.” Shadowheart, Gale, and Wyll all respond, “Goodnight!”

#astarion #astarion x tav #fanfic #astarion fic #astarion x reader #rogue + rogue #astarion fanfiction #astarion fanfic #astarion fluff #astarion x gn reader #astarion x gn!tav #baldurs gate astarion #bg3 astarion #astarion is bad at feelings #tadfools tomfoolery #astarion comfort #spawn astarion

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dilatorywriting · 9 months

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Monster Mayhem: Siren's Song [Part 2]

Gender Neutral Reader x Vil Schoenheit Word Count: 4.6k

Summary: Fish are friends (?). You are not food.

[PART 1] [PART 2]

The Siren wasn’t leaving.

Which a part of you had been expecting. Because surely if there had been a snowball’s chance in Hell of him making it out into the open ocean alive before you’d cut through the ropes, he would have taken it and left you stranded without a second thought. And his odds weren’t that much better now—his fins were still a mangled mess and the wounds all along his scales and dainty featherings were still raw and oozing. It only made sense that he’d take at least a few days to try and recover.

But… But still.

Did he have to make it so obvious that he was sticking around?

The glint of the light off his tail was a constant distraction—always bright and eye-catching even at the cloudiest points of the day. Always flashing just out of the corner of your eye as a perpetual reminder that there was something in the water that would very happily gobble you up if you bothered making a swim for safety.

He’d also taken to sunning himself. Like some kind of overgrown mer-cat. Stretched out languidly on a flat rock with the tips of his violet fins hanging over the edge—just enough for the gauzy edges to play along the surf and avoid drying out entirely. His pale hair splayed out in a halo around him as he snoozed softly in the heat of the afternoon.

Which! No fair! This wasn’t a vacation! This was a stranding! An SOS! A Rose Queen Procedural Rule Four-Hundred-and-Four! And him taking up the whole of the cove to, I don’t know, tan, felt like another intentional slap in the face. The sun rose over the bay, which meant this stretch of shore was facing East. Which was the direction your vessel had been coming from. Which meant that this was the place on the little islet where you needed to be. Subsection Three of Procedural Four-O’-Four. ‘In the case of Crew Overboard, we will always travel the same route as planned. In order to give the Strandee a chance to map out a reconnection point.’ Riddle always had been so smart about these kinds of things.

‘It’s just until he’s better,’ you reassured yourself for the umpteenth time that morning. ‘Then he’ll leave and I can get rescued or die here alone and in peace.’

A fin flicked up from the shallows to spray you with saltwater splatters and you spluttered indignantly when it ran down into your eyes. You glared at the Siren’s retreating back, musing bitterly about how you’d never thought it was possible for someone to make the tuck of their shoulders look smug.

‘Alone and in peace,’ you repeated hopefully. And it sounded like such far off dream.

On the second day post-rope-removal, the Siren waved you down with a sharp flick of his wrist.

You approached the waterline hesitantly, still mostly waiting for him to turn on you and make toothpicks out of your bones. But instead of murdering you and getting crafty with your corpse, he just pointed to some scribbles in the sand. You squinted at the loop-de-loops suspiciously. It almost looked like an illustration of dancing bubbles—the lot of them curling and popping along the ground in a line like a limerick.

“Uhm, very nice,” you tried, and the fins flattened pissilly all along the side of his head.

He jabbed his claw towards the mess again. Then firmly at your eyes (hopefully not as a threat that he’d be happy to take them right out of your head if you continued to be obtuse). And then back again. He made a point to move the tip of his sharp nail from one swirl to the next in a little hop-hop-hop. It reminded you a bit deliriously of Riddle trying to teach some of the more socially bereft members of the crew their letters, and—

“You want me to read that?” you gaped, staring at the elegant curls of nonsense in the sand.

The Siren crossed his arms across his lean chest with a scoff that puffed past his lips hard enough to fluff out some of the paler, purple-tipped, hair hanging by his chin. He rolled his eyes at you and muttered something thin and spicy under his breath that you just knew had to be some sort of insult.

“I can read!” you defended, because it felt like it needed defending.

He leveled you with an entirely unimpressed ‘Oh, I’m sure you can’ sneer and you dropped to your knees, incensed. You dug your fingers into the sand and started sculpting out your own very cheery message into the muck.

When you were done, you waved a hand towards your proclamation and watched his brows pull together at the center into a teeny, pinched sort of expression. He let himself roll forward with the seafoam to lay more fully on the shore, and stared down at the mess you’d made like it was some strange code. Even reaching out to poke softly at the straight edge of a ‘T’ with one of his knife-sharp talons.

After a long moment of contemplation, he looked back up at you with an arched brow that was so unintentionally poised and not full of spite that it almost took your breath away. Who knew how pretty an already stunning face could become when it wasn’t twisted up in absolute vitriol? You shook away that absolutely damning thought in horror. That’s exactly what he’d want you to think. Siren, and all. Using his hotness to lure people onto his dinner table. Not you, baby. Because you were smart. And so gross from being stranded under island sunshine for a week that surely you’d taste like some absolutely rancid jerky at this point.

“Oh no,” you droned, and immediately that subtle curiosity of his ticked right back into irritation. “Two creatures from entirely different species and ecosystems have somehow managed to develop unique alphabets. What a completely unpredictable complication.”

The Siren puffed up like an angry lionfish and turned with a snarl to dive back into the shallows—making sure to whip his tail in your face and slam into the water with a huge splash as he went. The salt spray pelted down like rain and you snickered as it sloughed off your cheeks in rivulets, content to sit merrily in the wet sand beside your hastily scribbled: ‘Mermen Are Vicious Bitches. Hit Me if You Agree :)’

The next morning, there were more fish on the shoreline. Though these ones looked a bit less like they’d been dragged up by their souls and left to writhe in the wake of Siren-Screaming-Agony and more just like the unfortunate victims of a pair of too sharp claws.

You frowned down at a brown, sad-looking flounder that had clearly found itself at the very wrong end of a certain merman still swanning about in the bay not fifty feet away. It was mostly intact, and pleasantly plump for a flat, pancake-looking blob of muck. Your stomach gurgled and the thought of a nice, coal-charred, fillet really seemed quite nice. You chanced another peek at your resident Asshole, debating if it was worth swiping his snack. Another ominous rumble from your abdomen and you reached down to steal your prize and scuttle off deeper inland like a troll returning to its layer.

It didn’t take very long to get a small fire going, and within the hour you’d been fed and were more than ready for a cozy, full-bellied nap in the soft sand.

By the time you began to make your way back to the cove, the sun was high in the sky and you were already dreading sitting beneath its weighted rays for another afternoon. So you slowed your pace to a near snail crawl, dragging your feet as you went.

The little octopus from earlier was still swaying contentedly around the tide pool you’d shoved it into. It probably needed to be carried back out to the bay at some point so that it could swim back into the depths of the ocean, but the poor thing was just so small and round. Surely it’d get devoured by the first sharp-toothed thing that caught sight of it. Especially with your merman apparently being out for the blood of whatever other scaly things were swimming about in his temporary home. So for now you slipped it some small bits of leftover fish instead. You sat, crouched at the pool’s edge, and watched raptly as it grabbed the shredded bits of pale meat with its chubby tentacles to shove towards an eager beak.

“You’re the only friend I have left in the whole world,” you told the octopus miserably, wiping the greasy remnants of your lunch off your chin with a sigh.

The traitor hurriedly moved to snatch up the treat you’d offered it and hide itself away between some rocky crevices. You sighed louder. Rejected. What a time to be alive.

The next morning, the Siren was singing again.

That familiar prickle danced its way up your arms, leaving pinpricks of goosebumps in its wake. Some pirates told tales of storms leaving their mark in such a way—that seasoned sailors could feel the tickle of thunder against their skin long before they could spot dark clouds on the horizon. You’d have to amend that little legend whenever you found your way back to The Rose Queen. Siren Sense was a lot cooler, anyways. Any idiot with arthritis could tell you when rain was due.

But either way, Mister Merman was back to idly circling the bay and calling into the distance. At least it wasn’t as miserable as it had been the other day—more of a leisurely pacing than the frantic, near-feral caterwauling that had soured your gut so terribly.

There was another fat fish on the shore. A bright, red snapper so brilliantly crimson that it was almost impossible to make out the garish wounds in its side. Almost. And even if it hadn’t been, the drooping, rust colored, rivulets dug into the sand would have been enough of a clue.

Why the Siren was bothering to leave his clawed-up kills at your feet like some overgrown cat dragging in mice, you had no idea. Maybe he was poisoning them, and subsequently you. Maybe he was bored and it was some sort of fishy enrichment. Maybe he just didn’t want to bother leaving dead things around to contaminate his favorite sunning spots, and tossing his leftovers in your vicinity was as close to a reliable dumpster as he could find on a remote island. Who’s to say.

Either way, you dutifully ignored the magical tingles racing up your shoulders and brought the newest fish back to your makeshift firepit. You grilled the snapper in silence, debating. Then you fed your octopus friend and returned to the beach, cooked fillets in tow.

You waited in awkward silence for a few moments, fish burning your palms, before raising your fingers to your lips and whistling loud enough to make your teeth ache. The mystical static faded from the air and you watched in pleasant (?) surprise as the Siren made his way back to where you’d set up camp. He rolled in with the tide, cresting on a gentle bit of surf and coming to rest neatly in the shallows—fins splayed out beneath him like a lord lying amidst his many silken robes. He propped himself up on his elbows and looked at you with an arched brow and slanted frown.

You awkwardly extended a hand—roasted snapper still resting in your open palm and burning the absolute fuck out of your fingers.

“Uhm,” you said, feeling a bit too much like the local idiot trying to feed one of the rabid, wandering, strays around town. “Food?”

He scoffed and rolled his eyes at you.

“Do you want food?” you tried.

The other brow joined the first, nearly rising all the way into his hairline. It wasn’t a pleasant sort of surprise.

“It’s better cooked?” you coaxed in the face of his outright constipated scowl. Be fed and full, you thought hopefully. Maybe then you won’t fucking look at me like I’m a boxed lunch.

He jabbed a sharpened, black talon in your direction, and then pointedly again angled up towards your mouth. Then back to the fish still roasting your poor cuticles straight off your fingers.

You blinked, a bit thrown.

“What? It’s supposed to be for me?”

He nodded, throwing in another one of those bombastically snarky eyerolls for good measure. ‘Obviously,’ that sneer said.

“Well,” you huffed, plopping down to sit cross-legged in the sand and offering up one of the fillets. “There’s plenty for both of us.” When he stared at you like you were attempting to serve him up a choice pile of literal dog shit, you wiggled your hand and entreated, “Please just take it before my skin melts off.”

The Siren huffed and reached out, plucking up the fish with the tips of his claws. He observed your meager meal as one might a particularly unappealing cockroach, and after a long moment, his nose scrunched (cute, you thought absently before immediately suffocating every wayward braincell that would dare call your murderous shore-neighbor anything of the sort) and he leaned forward to nip at a crisped, pink corner with the barest edge of one canine.

When your culinary creation didn’t immediately strike him dead on the spot, he took another, equally dainty bite. And then another. The tight pucker of his mouth eased as he chewed, and you watched as the harsh cut of his purple irises warmed with that same intrigue as they had when you’d first scribbled your foreign letters into the sand.

He readjusted his grip on the fish between his claws to get a better angle and took a proper bite, chewing thoughtfully. Before you knew it, you were watching him nip at the pads of his fingers, his gaze going a bit round and shocked when he realized that he’d devoured the entirety of it.

“See?” you hummed, tucking into your own portion with gusto. “Not all things humans come up with are terrible.” He harumphed and turned to glare back out over the bay, slouching into the surf with an expression that was most certainly not a pout. “But maybe you’d know that if you bothered to do anything other than murder and devour us on sight,” you chirped.

To which you were immediately doused with an armful of water for your troubles. The Siren glowered petulantly from where he’d just wave-bombed you, and then dove back into the deeper waters of the sandbar. He immediately started up his stupid singing all over again—pointedly keeping his chin high above the surface and splashing brine into your face anytime he looped close enough to shore.

“I don’t know why I bother,” you huffed, and ate your sopping snapper in grumpy silence.

There was a ship wrecked off the coast.

Nothing overly cool, and definitely only a small chunk of what had probably at one point been a rather impressive vessel. But it was something. The first change in pace you’d had in days and oozing with possibilities.

The only problem was that the great, rotting, hull of the thing was dug up into a jagged skerry about a hundred yards off the shore—wedged into the pointed rocks with no chance of any wave or breeze sending it adrift. You could swim perfectly well. I mean, living your life on a ship surrounded by tumultuous, depthless, ocean would have been a hugely stupid career move otherwise. The issue, naturally, was the thing currently making its home in these waters. Sharks and barracudas, blablabla. They were just animals, no matter how many teeth they had. The Siren had a grudge. And just as many teeth.

Right now, said spiky pain in your ass was lounging in the shallows like the froth was an elegant daybed made just for him—shredded fins swaying in the soft tides and his hair floating about him that same, white-gold halo that made him look far too peaceful for anyone’s good sense. He wasn’t singing today, which was great for the local wildlife population but terrible for your Siren Sense. Once you waded into the waves, you’d have no real way to keep track of him. Hope, maybe, that he didn’t think fucking with you was worth messing up whatever tan-line he had going on. But nothing concrete that you’d be willing to bet the safety of your limbs on.

You wiggled your toes in the sand and stared longingly out at the stupid, wrecked ship that was so stupidly close. If you swam your fastest you could probably make it there in under two minutes—less than that, even. But that was still more than enough time for the Siren to rake those dark claws of his across your throat and drag you down into the depths to drown.

Riddle’s angry, red face swam through your thoughts, and you could practically see him shoving that beloved law tome of his under your nose for the umpteenth time.

‘Rule 32, never make dangerous bets that you’re certain you won’t win, particularly if you are betting against a Blue Nosed Beetle.’

‘Rule 15, do not needlessly sacrifice your life in the name of curiosity, excluding—of course—if you hail from Cheshire or are a Cat.’

‘It’s only a dumb shipwreck,’ you thought miserably, if rationally. ‘It’s probably not even that cool.’

Your captain would be so proud.

The next morning you were rolling up the cuffs on your pants and wading into the cool shallows, silently lighting a candle in your heart for your beloved, steam-faced leader and promising that you would at the very least cover the costs of your own funeral so as not to inconvenience him further.

The waves lapped against your ankles and the waters themselves were shockingly clear and blue. You could practically see each grain of sand beneath your heels—make out each pointy rock and the little, red crabs that scuttled away from your tromping like civilians fleeing from the shadow of a leviathan. The Siren was back to singing today. Perhaps his poor, overworked throat simply needed a break every now and again. But either way, your Merman Magic Missive was working in full force. The hairs on your arms stood at full attention and you liked to imagine you could see them twitching in circles to follow his long, looping arcs through the bay.

You made it up to your knees and waited, eyes scanning the open water and nose twitching like maybe you could smell the fucker. There was nothing but a familiar prickle along your shoulders and that deep sense of ‘tug tug tug’ with no answer, so you took a deep breath and pushed further, the water sloshing up to your hips, your chest, and finally you were floating—paddling slow and cautious towards the wreckage.

It really was insanely close. Even moving at your most cautious, sneakiest crawl, you’d made it nearly three-quarters of the way there within perhaps five minutes. And no signs of a vengeful, hungry Siren circling the waters beneath you either. More rules that perhaps that you’d have to tell Riddle might need some amending once you finally made it back home to your crew. ‘Dangerous bets,’ who? ‘Needless sacrifice,’ what? You might as well have outsmarted the whole ocean.

As you moved closer, you could make out a strange coat of arms on the side of the hull that you didn’t recognize. Twining, silver songbirds soaring against the sparkly backdrop of an otherwise plain faced crest, which honestly looked far too delicate to be heading the broken remains of what was no doubt at one point an absolute monster of a vessel. You reached out to brush your fingers against the shining plaque and then you were underwater.

You fought the immediate impulse to gasp in surprise, because expediting the process of your inevitable drowning just seemed stupid even by your standards. There was a clawed hand wrapped around your calf yanking you down, and you squinted through a stream of panicked bubbles to see your terrible, horrible, completely thankless co-strandee snarling up at you with sharp teeth and a sharper flail of his delicate gills. Thankfully the water wasn’t all that deep, so by the time you’d been dragged to the bottom you were maybe only ten feet under. But still. It was the goddamn principle! And besides, you’d heard about enough drunks drowning in puddles to know that this was more than enough Liquid Death to put you in an early grave.

The Siren looped around you in tight circles, and you could feel the brush of his tattered fins against your skin like the ghostly fingers of a reaper trailing down your spine. You’d known he was big—giant, even. Long, and impressive, and built to rule the very depths he’d dragged you into. Large enough to wrestle with sharks and capsize lifeboats. Big enough, no doubt, to eat you whole and still be hungry enough for seconds.

The salt stung your eyes and you blinked hard to keep his vibrant, amethyst tail in focus. Would he strike from the back, where you couldn’t see? Or would he go right for your throat—a direct, full frontal, ‘fuck you, human’ if there ever was one. And honestly, what were you expecting? That a good deed and a few pieces of cooked fish would sway him from devouring you whole? Maybe the island sun had fried whatever remained of your rattled brain.

He stopped in front of you and hissed—a stream of tight, tiny, bubbles jetting past his canines. You glared in petulant confusion, absolutely refusing to give your would-be murderer whatever reaction he was hoping for. His brow pinched into a tight, angry, v and he snarled again. You snarled back, and with that, the last breath in your lungs swooped out of you in a tight squeak. You choked, and struggled, and kicked at the claws holding you down. The Siren reared back, eyes widening in something that looked insultingly like genuine surprise, and you used his moment of hesitation to propel yourself off the sandbar and back to the choppy surface.

You gasped in a hasty breath, expecting to immediately be dragged back under. But when you weren’t pulled back down to your watery grave, you took in another and another. Gasping, and hacking, and spitting up seafoam. The Siren’s head crested the surface beside you and you flailed away, nearly pushing yourself under all over again. You paddled frantically, trying to keep your nose above the tide, and then suddenly there was something under you. You squawked and kicked it on instinct. The Siren snapped his pointy teeth in your face and you realized with a start that oh. That was him, wasn’t it? The long, winding, scaled muscles of his tail curled beneath your toes in what almost seemed like an attempt to keep you upright.

He stared at you with those unnervingly bright eyes of his—blonde hair curling softly at the edges where it plastered elegantly along his finned ears, and those too-long lashes dripping with small, sparkly, drops of salt water.

“What the hell is this bullshit?” you choked, coughing up more bubbly froth. “You don’t get to look so—so put together after trying to murder me!”

The Siren huffed out something that the delusional, still half-drowned, part of you wanted to classify as a laugh. And then he organized that bemused expression back into its usual, haughty, iciness and began to carefully make his way back towards the shore—towing you along like a poor, little, lost buoy with nowhere else to go.

You let him drag you up into the sand and only flopped around a little. He flicked his tail at you and your dramatics and you turned on him with a fierce, waterlogged scowl—a bit more confident now that he didn’t have the home field advantage.

“What was that for! I just wanted to look at the ship! I wasn’t even doing anything to you!” you wailed. “I haven’t done anything to you at all! Ever! Why do you keep—" you collapsed back into the sand with a miserable whine that rattled all the teeth in your head, and ground the heels of your palms into your eyes until you saw stars.

After a long moment of nothing, you felt a gentle tap at your shoulder.

You looked back up with a start to see Mister Merman looking nearly sheepish.Or as much of an equivalent that his aloof mask of a face was capable of pulling off. The clawed finger resting at your collarbone dropped to the sand by your hip, and he carefully began to draw more of those squiggles. No, scratch that. Not the dancing, popping, ones from the other day. These actually looked sort of like the silver songbirds from that shipwreck. More jagged, certainly. But similar enough that you felt something a bit too coldly cautious to be confusion seep through your guts.

Once he was finished, he looked up and met your gaze—sharp, pointed. And then he reached back out and smeared the birds into nothing and shook his head, firm. His red lips moved slowly, exaggerated, again and again. And you could make out the vague shape of words you’d had shouted at you a hundred times over.

‘Not safe.’

That same, shivery, nervous feeling bit at your limbs.

“…okay,” you said after a moment. And then leaned forward to dig your own fingers into the sand, dutifully ignoring how your elbows knocked against his own.

‘Not safe,’ you wrote, and watched his eyes trace each letter like a treasure map.

There was another tap at your shoulder. And then he pointed to the words in the muck, then to himself.

You rolled your eyes. “Yes, yes. You’re not safe either.”

He sighed dramatically enough to ruffle the ends of your still soaked hair. And then pointed to the words again, tapping at the ‘N’ with the curved tip of a claw.

“Nnnn?” you mouthed, confused.

He moved to the ‘o’ next and it clicked.

“You want me to teach you how to read my letters?” you asked, flabbergasted. Another sigh, like you’d dropped the weight of all the world on his pale shoulders. Or perhaps that your idiocy was enough to put that hearty mass to shame. You decided that you were still feeling a bit too much like you’d only just barely escaped a brush with death, dismemberment, and dinner plans to push your luck with sassing him back too harshly, and just blinked owlishly in dazed surprise. “But why?”

His purple eyes trailed in the direction of the shipwreck and something cutting and poisonous clouded his expression. He pointed to the words again.

‘Not safe.’

“Alright,” you said, looking out over the water with a strange sort of sinking feeling in your gut. You leaned forward and began to draw the alphabet at your feet. His tail twitched by your fingers and you ignored the soft brush of his still-healing fins. “This one’s an ‘A’, like in ‘Asshole’—"

Whomp went the tail as he cracked it across your knuckles like a school matron with a ruler. And you couldn’t help the startled burst of genuine, tinkling laughter that bubbled past your lips for the first time since you’d been dragged overboard.

[TAG LIST - CLOSED]

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#twisted wonderland imagines #twisted wonderland #twst x reader #Vil Schoenheit x Reader #Vil x Reader #vil schoenheit #Mermay #Monster Mayhem #My Writing #vil shoenheit #Siren!Vil #Mermaid!Vil #Fantasy AU #Monster Mayhem Vil Part 2

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