You should be starting a recipe book. I don't give a shit if you're only 20-years-old. The modern web is rotting away bit by bit before our very eyes. You have no idea when that indie mom blog is going down or when Pinterest will remove that recipe. Copy it down in a notebook, physically or digitally. Save it somewhere only you can remove it. Trust me, looking for a recipe only to find out it's been wiped off the internet is so fucking sad. I've learned my lesson one too many times.
fake dating izuku but only you know its fake. (your managers arranged it to help both of you in the public eye. izuku's last girlfriend was a mess and they dont want to risk that again. meanwhile you're at the bottom of the polls-)
izuku cant be in on it. obviously.he would never go for something like this.
So you have to make the first move.
the two of you manage to meet in the commission HQ. he'a cuter than you remembered, with these pretty freckles and blush that goes across his nose when he laughs. it makes it easy for you to pretend.
"Are you heading out?"
Izuku is halfway through pulling on his coat, giving you this gentle smile. its a stupid question, but he doesnt treat it that way; he chats with you as you grab your own coat.
the elevator ride is awkwardly quiet. The two of you face the door, two feet apart. you can feel your opportunity slipping through your fingers-- goodbye fame, goodbye money, goodbye manager-
Izuku cleara his throat, rubbing his hand around the back of his neck. "If it's not too forward, I was wondering if I could have your number-?"
Before he can finish the last word, you've closed the gap between you two. You catch your lips against his open mouth and the sound of his voice fizzles out. His lips are soft, warm and still-- you pull away before he can react.
"Yeah," you say. "You can have my number."
The elevator door opens and you go to leave, only to be caught by the wrist. he pushes the button for the top floor and lets the door close before he speaks again.
"Do you-?" he breathes out a laugh. "Wanna do that again?"
....sukuna haaates condoms... he'll be spooned behind you, forcing one leg up and over his hip so your pussy is spread. he's pushed your panties to the side so he can bully your pussy. two fingers, walking back and forth again you clit, make embarrass, sloppy sounds. the tip of his cock throbbing against your thigh, wet dripping from his slit.
"Come on," he rumbles into your ear. "Let daddy inside."
"you're disgusting," as you wrap your legs around his ass. "stop cumming in me-- oh, my god--"
"Stop cumming on my cock!" he's ramming into you as hard as he can, slamming the headboard into the wall with every stroke. "cant pull out when you're dr-dripping down my balls and... god, fuck, when your body does that-"
his head dips down to suck your tits into his mouth and the sensation makes your body twitch and kick-
warmth pulses inside you
"I can feel it, that's so gross," you whine. "i hate you-"
hello friends and neighbors! this year's goretober is going to be something special. those who've been around a while might remember the time i wrote a japanese folklore-inspired erotic horror story in 31 parts. i'm feeling ambitious this year and would like to do something similar but different.
the drift is what happens when reality gets soft and slippery. cities wander. otherworldly cults and customs govern everyday life. nightmares made flesh prowl the foggy highways between places. as a "child of the road," you were born with a sixth sense for navigation and a sense of wanderlust. delivery work is dangerous in a place like this, but risking it all on the road is the only way to learn about the drift and yourself.
this project will be an episodic series of erotic horror stories, all set in the same world and following the same reader character. i don't know for sure how it'll turn out but i intend to lean into body horror and surreal horror this year. i'm really looking forward to this one and i hope you'll enjoy it too!
you run an errand with mihai and things go wrong in ways you never expected.
->meanvamps featuring mihai. contains feral behavior, mild gore, implied torture. also on ao3.
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“Be wary of that one, my friend.”
You sit up straighter, startled out of your lazy lean against the wall. Door Thing sounds different today. Maybe the change has been gradual and you just haven’t noticed, but its voice seems a little bit smoother and stronger. It doesn’t wheeze as much as it used to. It still gets quiet sometimes, still speaks haltingly, pausing to breathe like all the talking tires it out, and in the quiet you hear chains rattling, but your conversations are longer and easier now. You tell it about the last few nights and it has more to say than thoughtful hums and unsettling laughter.
“Lost. Oh, yes, he’s lost. And lost children don’t know how to behave,” it chitters when you complain about Orion.
“What a waste. What a shame,” it sighs when you wonder where you stand with Renaud.
But when Mihai comes up, it gets stern with you. You’re so surprised you don’t answer right away, and the silence makes it caution you again, “That one. Young but old. Be wary.”
“Mihai?” you echo. That’s who you were talking about. Last night continues to haunt you. You had no idea there were two elders living in the convenire, and one of them has been right under your nose. “Yeah, I know. But he’s afraid of me, too. Like, really scared. I didn’t know elders felt fear.”
“Hhhaaa. Haha. They don’t.”
“How do you know?” you ask.
“Oh, my friend. You think I’m lying. But I’m not. I see. I see it all. Through the bars of my cage.”
The dark plays tricks on your eyes. Sometimes, you think the shadows in the hallway are alive and squirming. The charred door with the butterfly looks the same whether you shine your flashlight at it or not, always wreathed in a smothering, smoky gloom. Sometimes you think it’s getting bigger, chafing against its hinges. You think about walking away but you’re afraid to turn your back on it.
“Elders,” it hisses. “True elders. They don’t know fear. They know, hhhhh. They know. Birth by burial. We know it, too. Don’t we?”
You push yourself to your feet and watch the door warily. It’s strange that you keep finding yourself here. You’ve tried to come up with reasons but they all seem flimsy when you’re looking right at it, gripped by fear again. You feel some sense of camaraderie and morbid curiosity, a vicious possessiveness over any secrets you can maintain, but none of that really matters. This thing is dangerous. It knows things it shouldn’t.
Like birth by burial. You trace the carvings in the wood with your eyes and wonder about it again, like you always do before you inevitably forget. “Who taught you that phrase?” you ask it.
“Those who came before us. Who taught you, my friend? ”
“Then what does it mean?” you press.
“It means. Hhhh. It means that one. Elder who isn’t. It means he knows you. And your darkness. And your cruelty. Almost as well as I do.” It pauses to inhale, and then it laughs quietly. “No one knows you the way I do, friend.”
“My cruelty?” you echo incredulously. “What’s that supposed to mean? I’m not the one who—”
There’s a noise. A sudden, rhythmic click click click! It’s shockingly loud the way any small sound is at the edge of sleep, amplified by your groggy brain. You startle, knocking your head back against the wall and wincing at the bruise you feel forming there. There’s a hand in front of your face. Fingers snapping to get your attention.
It’s Mihai. He stepped between you and the—
the…
You blink a few times. Did he use mesmerism? Your mind is full of fog. You’re in the upstairs hallway again, for some reason. He’s watching you carefully through long, unruly bangs.
“Awake?” he asks.
You blink again. “Was I asleep?” you say.
“Hm.” He frowns. You feel the passing sweep of psychic connection, and then an unpleasant scraping sensation like something’s licking the inside of your skull with a sandpaper tongue. You shudder. Mihai lets out a quiet huff of disappointment. “You were called. You didn’t respond.”
“Oh. What does Athanasius want?”
“Not Athanasius,” Mihai says tersely. He crosses his arms over his chest but he looks more uncomfortable than angry, shoulders tense and jaw clenched in a grimace. “I called you.”
“Oh,” you say again.
He doesn’t elaborate. For a solid minute, you stand in uncomfortable silence, shifting nervously as he stares you down. He’s wearing a plaid jacket and blue jeans, everything fitting noticeably better than his usual overly loose hand-me-downs from the other hatchlings. You wonder if he’s going somewhere.
And he still hasn’t said anything. “Uh. Okay. So…?” you say.
He starts pacing. Your pulse skyrockets because you’re suddenly reminded that he’s got more in common with Athanasius than he does Orion or Renaud. There’s something about the way elders move, an animalistic grace that makes it seem like their human skin is just a thin, ill-fitting layer stretched over their hunting forms. You watch him stalk down the hall, wandering all the way to the dead end with one of his hands grazing the wall. Then he comes back along the other side. He pauses beside every single door, grazing his fingertips over the wood and leaning in to…
Is he sniffing them? You can just barely hear quick, little inhales whenever he angles his head towards the hinges. You have to cover your mouth or he might see you grinning. You have no idea what he’s doing but you’re reminded of a dog again, snuffling around in the bushes looking for squirrels. He returns to you looking even more frustrated.
“We shouldn’t be here,” he says. “Follow.”
“We shouldn’t—what? Why? What’s wrong with—”
He sighs and starts to hum softly. You remember what that means just a moment too late, your thoughts slipping away and your eyes fluttering shut.
You’re in the forest again. That soft, pretty, perfect place without hot, unpleasant concrete, without blinding headlights, without skyscrapers and city haze and humans or any kin at all. Just trees. Just streams and hills. Birdsong and skittering and the creak of branches. Soil below and the canopy above and the moon peering down from a velvet throne of night. You feel at peace here among the wildflowers and spiderwebbed hollows. The breeze is cool against your cheeks and sounds like a song.
The grass rustles. Mihai makes himself known. You hold still and you sense that this intrigues him, his cautious curiosity reverberating through your emptied mind. But why would you do anything else? He asked for your stillness so you give it eagerly. Fingers ghost up your arm to your shoulder. A thumb strokes your pulse. He draws closer, wrapping his arms around you, and takes in your scent from the crook of your neck. You are fragile. Still tender. Fresh from your chrysalis. This worries him; entices him. You will only grow stronger with time. Will you also grow vengeful? Kin are not content to live in cages.
But you are content, here, for now. He strokes your neck and you lean into the touch, expectant, baring your throat. Oh, you are tempting, but he will not have you like this. He nuzzles against your pulse and relishes your pleased shudder, how easily you yield to him. Poor, delicate thing, so weak to the sweet whispers of your hunter. It is good you are here where he can watch you. Better that you are here where the ancient can keep you from harm. All will be well a while longer. All will be well, if you let it be.
“…a particularly troublesome spot. It might be best to arrange another cleansing. Ah, welcome back, sacrament.”
You blink the blurriness from your eyes, not that it does you any good. You’re in the dark. The parlor, you assume, from the vague angular shapes you can barely make out. All the light you get is from the hallway, one of innumerable lamps that glow like lighthouse beacons throughout the mansion, just enough to trace the edges of furniture and gleam in the eyes of the two nightbound leering at you. The taller one is Athanasius. You don’t have to see him clearly to recognize his quiet chuckle. The shorter one is definitely Mihai because the second you glare at him, he retreats several steps.
“You can’t just put me under mesmerism because I don’t do what you say fast enough,” you say.
He blinks. “Yes, I can,” he says.
“No, you can’t,” you insist. “I don’t like it, and—”
“Yes, you do.” The look on your face makes him shrink back further, half-hiding behind Athanasius. “You like the forest,” he says quietly.
You’re not quite sure how to respond to that. Complete violation of your autonomy aside, the forest itself isn’t unpleasant. You wonder what makes Mihai’s mesmerism so different from the others. Can they all take you somewhere else rather than just drag you into a peaceful void?
“Mihai wanted to ask you something,” Athanasius says. They look at each other. Subtle movements and titled heads tell you they’re conferring telepathically.
Mihai clears his throat. “I have business in the city. You can come with me.”
You’re awkwardly staring at each other. All this, just to ask if you want to go somewhere? He’s lucky you’re desperate to get away from the mansion every chance you get. “You can’t use mesmerism on me while we’re out there,” you say.
His eyes narrow. “Nevermind. You’ll stay here.”
“Mihai,” Athanasius says, lightly chiding. They look at each other again, the silent exchange shorter this time. Mihai sighs like the world-weariest, most put upon nightbound that has ever lived and you think of a dog again; a dramatic puppy plopping down in the middle of the floor after a tiring day full of nothing in particular.
“Barring emergencies,” Mihai says begrudgingly, “I’ll try not to.”
Your brows furrow. “What kind of emergency—”
“Forgive me, sacrament, but this is not negotiable.” Athanasius steps forward and rests a hand on your shoulder. “I cannot foresee every possible danger you might face beyond the estate, but I will not forbid Mihai from using every tool at his disposal to ensure your safety. Mesmerism is not only about control.”
Not negotiable, he says. So this is one of those inviolable limits he’ll let you poke and prod but never fully cross. Part of you wants to make more of a fuss, but this isn’t the right hill to die on. Before Edmund plucked you out of comfortable anonymity, nightbound were far from your only concern.
“Fine,” you relent. “Emergencies only.”
Athanasius rewards you with an affectionate caress to both body and mind, rubbing your shoulder and sending a sensation of warmth and gratitude through your connection. He walks you both to the door and, to your surprise, lets you walk out with a collar. Only when you’re making the long trek down the hill do you realize you have no idea what you’re in for. You’d heard some of Orion’s unflattering secrets before he hunted you in the woods and Renaud opened up a bit after you came to an understanding, but Mihai is a complete mystery.
You steal glances as the outdoor lights of the mansion dim with distance and the moon falls across his shoulders. He stays just out of arm’s reach. You can tell when his eyes glitter that he’s looking at you, too, trying to be discreet about it. The direct approach worked best with the hatchlings, but would it help here? You have no idea what he thinks of you, except that he’s even more afraid than the others. By now, Orion would’ve struck up a conversation. Renaud might’ve urged you to get all the questions out of your system so you could both move on with your night. You think Mihai is perfectly content to say nothing and stare.
“So,” you say. “Where’re we going?”
He looks you over, a quick flick of his eyes down and then back up like he’s trying to find something you’re hiding. “Council headquarters,” he says.
“Because…?”
“Because I have business there.”
You stand on opposite ends of the bus shelter. He watches you for a while before reaching into his pocket and pulling out a cell phone—
A cell phone? You can’t help but stare. You haven’t seen one in a while. You were starting to think they weren’t allowed in the convenire for anyone, not just you. Mihai clearly isn’t used to it, holding it awkwardly in one hand and prodding at the screen with his index finger. You have no idea what he’s doing because the screen brightness is turned as low as it can possibly go, but whatever’s happening seems to be annoying him.
“Do you need help?” you ask.
His eyes dart to your face. You regret asking. Is he going to be mad? Does he think you’re insulting him? To your surprise, he grunts a low, “Hm,” and nods, then waves you over. He flinches when you move closer but he stays still and doesn’t turn into a pile of leaves, so you slowly slide into the space beside him. “I want to send a message,” he says.
You have to squint at the screen until you can brighten it. Mihai reels back in dismay but stays surprisingly close, peering over your shoulder to see what you’ll do. He’s texting someone, an unsaved number without any name listed. Whoever it is texts very formally, everything properly punctuated and capitalized. The most recent message says, “Yes, I am still available. You have a bit of a commute from the convenire, correct? What time should I expect you?”
“Tell him, ‘in about twenty minutes,’” Mihai says. He watches your fingers as you type it out. “Also tell him, ‘the sacrament will be there, too.’”
“This isn’t going to be weird, is it?” you ask, scrolling up in curiosity. “I haven’t been in that building in a while, and I didn’t like it much the first time.” The messages before are vague smalltalk. Something about the other nightbound’s schedule—
Mihai snatches the phone out of your hands with a sour expression. “You’ll be fine,” he says tersely.
Just like that, the truce is over and you’re back to silence. Mihai hears the bus coming long before you see it, head cocked, staring into the night a while before headlights come around the corner. He nods sharply, urging you to get on first. You don’t say anything to each other for the whole ride.
Your stop lets you off across the street from your destination. It’s your first time seeing the Council’s administrative buildings clearly. Edmund herded you inside before you could get a proper look at these looming monuments of the nightbound’s authority. Every structure that shares this plaza is imperious and grandiose but the Council headquarters is in a league of its own. Both hulking and fortress-like yet elegant, it’s adorned with pointed arches and windows of intricate stone latticework.
The exterior is lit by lanterns nestled on railings and along buttresses, and that strikes you as particularly arrogant. They don’t need them. Those are for humans, to ensure they can properly see and admire what they’re looking at in the dark.
Winged figures are carved above the doors. These aren’t the angels that might be found upon a cathedral. They’re depicted sensuously, posed to entice the eye and evoke temptation. Smaller figures are depicted kneeling beneath them, arms raised in supplication. A chosen few are embraced with frozen expressions of bliss.
What an eyesore. Who builds something like that? you think bitterly.
You hear a choked sound beside you, something like a cough, and catch Mihai staring. He’s covering his mouth but you can tell he’s smiling underneath it, his eyes arched in amusement. Was that a chuckle? Did you make him laugh? “You don’t hide your thoughts well,” he says.
You narrow your eyes at him. “Are you eavesdropping? I thought we agreed on no mesmerism.”
“I don’t need to. What you’re thinking shows on your face.” He nods ahead, towards the doors. “Follow,” he says and starts walking. Maybe it’s your imagination, but he sounds slightly less guarded.
It looks just the way you remember inside. Your footsteps are loud on the stone floor and echo all the way up to the high, arched ceiling. There are no lights, no invitation for humans to gaze upon the majesty of the Council’s inner workings, just streetlights filtered through stained glass. You stick close to Mihai. The only people in here are nightbound and you’re getting a lot more looks than last time, gleaming eyes turning to follow as you pass by.
You’re led to a heavy wooden door that groans when Mihai pushes it open. There are no windows inside. You can’t see anything but several pairs of nightbound eyes all looking up at the same time, only barely catching the light from the hallway.
“Be calm,” Mihai murmurs.
It takes you a second to realize he’s talking to you; trying to reassure you. His hand settles on your lower back, the pressure not enough to push you forward, just enough to feel. You take a deep breath. You didn’t even realize your pulse had gotten so fast. He waits a moment longer before he moves and you move with him, his hand never leaving your back. You’re guided by his touch to what feels like a table. There’s a wooden scrape and then he taps your shoulder, urging you to sit in the chair he pulled out for you. Panic seizes you when he vanishes, but there’s another scrape, a creak, and then one of his bony knees presses against your leg.
“Good evening, sir,” says a nightbound seated across from you. “And hello again, sacrament.” You hear a smile in that voice.
Of course it’s Edmund.
“Hm. Evening,” Mihai says.
You hear a briefcase click open. Papers rustling. Clicks and clatters and something sliding across the table. “I’ve brought everything. Please do let me know if you have any questions, I’m more than happy to help however I can.” Another quiet click, and then the slow scratch of writing. Across the room, a chair creaks. Someone coughs. Pages flutter. You wonder if this is some kind of office space or a meeting room. “It’s very nice to see you again, sacrament. I hope you’ve been well,” Edmund says.
You stare into the void.
“I suppose I don’t need to ask if you’re still holding a grudge against me.” He chuckles. “That’s alright. We can’t rush these things. Did you have any questions while you’re here?”
If you did, you wouldn’t ask him. You keep up your stubborn silence and hear him let out the softest sigh, shifting in his seat. There’s a pause in the scribbling beside you.
“This part,” Mihai murmurs. “Something about turning.”
“Ah. ‘Circumstances of turning,’” Edmund reads. “I would also indicate the time period, sir. That’s just as pertinent in your case.”
“Hm.” A pause. Hesitant penstrokes. Then a chuckle. “You’re doing it again. Wearing your thoughts on your face.” His knee nudges your leg. The gesture feels almost playful.
“I’m just curious,” you admit.
“I’m probably around three hundred years old. Maybe a little less,” Mihai says absently.
Probably? Maybe? “You’re not sure?” you ask.
“It was the Century of Nightmares. The early part, but that’s just a guess. There’s no one left to—”
You’re engulfed in movement and noise. Mihai’s chair scrapes back so abruptly it topples over and the air around you shifts, something large streaking past with staggering speed and strength. There’s a heavy thud; something slamming into the wall. Dust kicked up. Stone cracking. An awful squelching wrench of flesh and blood gushing. A scream choked and silenced. Instinct makes you bolt out of your chair, needing to be on your feet and ready to run even without knowing where to go.
“Sir!” Edmund exclaims. You hear more chairs moving. People leaving, muttering. Footsteps quickly cross the room. “Mihai, sir, stop. Put him down. He’s not a threat to your sacrament. He hasn’t done anything.”
Something rumbles in the dark and you break out in a cold sweat. You’ve heard the cries of hunting forms before. Orion chitters when he’s excited. Renaud snarls and shrieks like an angry hawk. This is nothing like either of them. Not bird-like. Not the squeaks of echolocation. It’s a deep, guttural bellow. A venomous hiss and a vicious growl, a lower sound than you knew any animal could make. And it’s loud, filling the room and scraping unpleasantly against your eardrums.
“Elder, please,” Edmund begs. He sounds afraid. You turn towards the direction all the noise is coming from. You can’t tell if your vision has adjusted or if the churning shadows are just your eyes playing tricks on you, struggling to make sense of anything in the dark. You can hear more people in the room now, a crowd gathered in front of you. Hurried footsteps race down the hallway. You get the feeling something bad is about to happen, one way or another.
“Mihai?” you call.
The rumbling softens but doesn’t stop. You feel your way forward, sliding your hand across the surface of the table. The crowd parts for you, whispering nightbound backing away nervously.
“Stop, please, sacrament.” Edmund laces his voice with mesmerism but he doesn’t have a good grasp on you yet. It’s easy to push through it.
“Where is he? What’s happening?” you ask.
“A hatchling walked behind you. Please don’t move, please. I can’t restrain you. He’ll kill me if I try. Stay there. It’s alright. Someone should be here soon to subdue him.”
His mesmerism tugs at your thoughts but it’s his desperate insistence that makes you hesitate. You reach the edge of the table and stop. In the silence, you hear a frightened wheeze and flailing. The slow trickle of blood. The growl, rising again.
“A hatchling walked by? And then what?” you ask.
“He looked at you and sniffed the air to catch your scent. He must’ve been too close. Mihai thought he meant you harm.”
You struggle to imagine what might be happening. Mihai is the smallest of everyone in the convenire. Shorter than Renaud, his build lean and narrow, it’s hard to imagine him posing much of a threat. Most nightbound, especially the young ones, take on their hunting form when they’re afraid but Mihai usually makes himself smaller and harmless around you. Retreating; turning into leaves. Yet here he is, throwing himself at a stranger for walking a little too close. There’s something you’re missing.
“Mihai, were you protecting me?” you say. The growl softens again but he makes no other indication that hears or understands you. “You did it. I’m safe, I’m alright. But I think you’re in trouble, so stop doing…whatever you’re doing right now. Please?”
Nothing happens for a moment. You take a deep breath. Then something heavy drops and crumples on the floor and you hear someone—the unlucky hatchling, probably—gasping, coughing and moaning in pain. More movement. More frightened murmurs. There’s something big standing right in front of you. Its breath, reeking of blood, fans across your face.
“Sacrament, listen to me,” Edmund whispers. He sounds further away, behind you now. “Hold very still. He shouldn’t hurt you, but it wouldn’t be good to startle him right now.”
The room falls utterly silent. All you hear is your own pounding heartbeat and the beast in front of you, its rumble changing. The hiss dies down. The growl gets rougher, less smooth, a rhythmic chuff that makes the air vibrate. Purring. You raise your hand, ignoring Edmund’s frantic begging to, “stop, stop, STOP!” You move slowly. You hear Mihai’s purr rise curiously in pitch. You reach up and out, into the dark, and find a snout.
It’s long. Dog-like, like so many other things about him. And it’s massive, you realize, stroking as far as you can reach. Teeth jut from either side even with his jaw closed. He feels like a cross between a borzoi and an alligator. There’s fur in mangy patches and tough hide beneath. Rough lines of scar tissue loop all the way around his snout like—
Like rope, you think. Like somebody wrapped it around and around and tied it so tightly it dug into his skin and left a permanent mark. You graze the edge of those crisscrossed marks with your thumb and he shudders, an uneasy exhale gusting across your face, but he doesn’t pull away. He nuzzles into your hands.
Then he collapses. You make a sound of surprise and clamor back but your reflexes aren’t fast enough. The only reason you’re not crushed beneath his weight is a hand wrapping around your forearm, yanking you out of the way. You’re hurriedly dragged out of the room.
Edmund stands beside you in the colorful shadow of the moon through stained glass. He’s in uniform but missing his coat. The sleeves of a white button-up are rolled up to his elbows and his tie is slightly askew. He looks frazzled in a way you’ve never seen before, running a hand through his hair with his gaze fixed on the room you just left.
“I’m terribly sorry about that,” he says. “That was unprecedented. Mihai has exhibited that sort of extreme overprotective behavior before, but only for the hatchlings of your convenire. We should take this as a sign of progress.”
You spot a few elders coming down the hall. A couple are Councilmembers. You remember their faces. The Lord Regent isn’t with them. They slip into the room you just left, disappearing into the dark. A moment later, several younger nightbound leave. One of them is the hatchling Mihai attacked, leaning against the others for support. His sleeve is nothing but bloody shreds, his shoulder mangled. His arm hangs limp and crooked at his side.
Edmund sighs. “Well. Healing is much like a steep, difficult hike, I suppose. Some stumbling is to be expected.”
“That was a good thing, just now? Really? I think he tried to kill that guy.”
“He would have gone for the throat. It was only a warning bite, although he did seem keen on escalation.” You feel him staring. Edmund studies your face in silence for a moment. “I must admit, I’m surprised that you’ve become so close. I like and respect Mihai, but he is difficult to get to know. And his feelings about witches are, ah…understandably complicated.”
You frown in confusion. “That’s news to me. I hadn’t had a full conversation with him until last night.” You don’t like how he worriedly glances towards the room again. “And, wait, what do you mean, ‘understandably complicated?’”
Edmund looks around uncomfortably. You can tell he’s trying to decide what to say, and if he should say anything at all. “You should know,” he admits. “But I don’t know if I’m the one who should tell you. And really, I don’t have all the details. I know what his paperwork says and I’ve been present for several of his testimonies to the Council, but there are many things we simply do not know and can never know. Strategic turnings of his era went unrecorded because most conscripts were not expected to survive.”
“So he was turned to fight in a war?”
“In a way,” Edmund says hesitantly. “Most of the Century of Nightmares was not a single, unified conflict. There were many skirmishes happening on many fronts. Territorial battles, for instance. Battles between nightbound as well as battles with humans. And, of course, lemure outbreaks the likes of which we’ve thankfully not seen since—”
“And witches,” you add.
Edmund clenches his jaw. You know you’ve caught him trying to change the subject. Begrudgingly, he admits, “Yes. There was bloodshed between kin, as well, though this was before we recognized you as such. They were perhaps the most grueling conflicts of the Century.”
Mihai emerges into the hallway flanked by elders, no longer in hunting form. They’ve given him a coat but he’s naked otherwise. The scars you’ve spotted on his chest before don’t stop there. They’re everywhere. Even more extensive than Edmund’s and far more severe, they cover him from his collarbones to his toes. Small punctures and dragging scrapes, haphazard slashes and deliberate designs, nothing but his face is unmarked and you’ve never seen what’s behind his bangs. He walks right past you without looking up, plodding along like a sleepwalker.
He’s mesmerized, you realize. The elders on either side of him maintain physical contact, grasping his shoulders. You watch them lead him away.
“Athanasius has been notified. He’ll be here to retrieve you shortly,” Edmund says, sounding like you’re meant to be reassured.
“What was Mihai turned to fight?” you ask.
He looks pained. “I really don’t think I should—”
“It was witches, wasn’t it?” You feel that you already know the answer but you have to ask. It all makes sense. His fear of you, his insistence that you’re dangerous, the way he keeps constant watch but never comes too close. The only piece you can’t fit into the puzzle is what you saw here tonight. “He seems strong. He was probably good at it.”
“He was just a hatchling,” Edmund says.
“So?”
Edmund glances at you and, for the first time you can ever recall, looks upset with you. Then he shakes his head. “Ah. Yes. I suppose you wouldn’t know. Suffice it to say that witches are capable of extraordinary destruction and even cruelty, when so inclined. Even more capable than most, considering the tools at your disposal.”
Cruelty. Why does that word make you feel queasy? “So he lost that fight, is what you’re saying?”
“Are you familiar with the term ‘cloister-breaker?’” You’re not. Edmund looks dismayed that he has to explain. “A cloister is—or perhaps I should say, was—a particular type of witch community. One in which they live openly.”
A cloister. You didn’t know there was a word for it. They’re urban legends. Every witch knows a witch who heard through the grapevine about a place where nobody has to hide. They find old, empty places, you’ve heard, abandoned farmhouses and rural towns left to rot. The moss and ivy move in and so do the witches, and they make it home. They’re not like you in cloisters. They know their magic. And swarmed together like that, gathered tens or dozens strong, they become untouchable.
But he said cloister-breaker. “You used to attack those?” you say. You’re more incredulous than upset. If there’s one place that a witch doesn’t have to fear nightbound, it’s in a cloister. “That’s a stupid idea.”
“It was,” Edmund agrees. “It never ended well. At best, annihilation was mutual. The hatchlings rarely knew their true targets until it was too late.”
“That’s like shoving a bunch of kids into a wolf’s den. Why couldn’t you just leave them alone?”
Edmund smiles sadly and then he looks away. He doesn’t say anything else, and your curiosity is extinguished by a sick feeling. You’re relieved to see Athanasius coming down the hall, but the sight of Mihai glassy-eyed and swaying lightly on his feet beside him makes you swallow a lump in your throat.
“He didn’t mean it,” you insist. “He was just scared.”
You can’t quite read the expression on Athanasius’ face. He’s smiling but it’s strained. “I know, sacrament. Come, I will not feel settled until you are both safe at home.”
When you leave, he walks close behind you and Mihai, sheltering you both from stares and whispers. You’re startled to feel something touch you; a shy graze against your hand. Mihai is still under. He isn’t looking at you. But he leans in, seeking your body heat and your fingers wrapped around his, and your heart aches for him. You hold onto his hand tightly and don’t let go.
deku. business trip. phone sex. explicit photos and panty shot/upskirts of you that you don’t know about 🙂↕️🙂↕️🙂↕️
- mars
this choked me and slammed me and made me crazy so yeah :D <33. cw: some angst near the end, not a lot tho. fem reader all i can think of.
"Why are you calling me?" You pull the phone away just in time to dodge the whine that buzzes through your device—from a grown man.
"You know whyyy, angel. I miss you." Izuku's voice carries that familiar pout, and even though you'd love to sink back into your beauty sleep, you'd rather hear him a little longer.
"Hmm."
"Everywhere I look, you're there." He sounds like he's imagining you in gauzy details. . .
He's tugging on your heartstrings. You shift beneath the covers, wrapped in his shirt, your body curled into his side of the bed. Every small movement sends his scent drifting up from the fabric.
"Do you miss me?"
You don't answer right away. After a beat, you say, "What did you see? You didn't send me anything today." He usually does, but it makes sense that he might have gotten buried in work.
"Oooh, accept the video call, I'll show you."
You do, angling the camera so your face fills most of the frame. That way he can't tease you for being on his side, in his clothes—missing him.
"Hi, pretty girl."
"Hi, bubba—now show me, please."
"Lemme look at you a second." He acts like he hasn't seen you in years. You roll your eyes and purse your lips to keep from smiling. "There's that silly face you make when you don't wanna smile. C'mon, lemme see it."
"'Zu—"
"Please—or-or, New York will be hit with an attack from space and Pro Hero Deku can't fight because his beautiful girlfriend didn't smile at him and—ohhh there it is."
You roll your eyes again, not bothering to hide your grin. Sucking your teeth, you watch Izuku lift his pointer finger and wiggle it up and down, the way you'd say hi to a baby.
"Izuku—"
"Pretty, pretty girl, hiii—"
"I'll hang up—"
"No! Sorry, look—"
He shares his screen, and you're met with a photo of you snuggling a bunny on his home screen. You snort at the image, remembering how he cooed over both of you before snapping it.
"Okay, so we had a free day today, kinda, so—"
You settle in as he walks you through his little exhibition, responding when he nudges you to and asking him to go back for a few things he passed. There was a flower, a mannequin, a billboard, a store, a tree—
"And I thought of you here, too." He shows a still shot of a large fountain. You smile softly, finding it sweet, but you still need him to explain.
"Like what? Taking a picture, right?"
He says nothing. You glare into the camera.
"Taking a picture, right?"
"Ab-absolutely—moving on—" Dirty, dirty mind.
He swipes, and you gasp.
What the hell is an up-skirt shot doing here? Did he take that of some girl on the subway? Anger flushes through your veins before you stop and actually look—and realize, is that you?
He hasn't caught on yet. In the lull, you quickly take a screenshot. He notices a second later, but it's too late.
"Wait—"
"Where did you get this?" You're already swiping out of the call and opening your photos.
"Fuck—"
"Izuku—where did you get this—I—we've—" You feel your face heat up.
You don't remember him taking this picture. It must have been two or three weeks ago, the night you wore that dress and you both had to slip away from the bar. You hiked up the hem to show him your new panties, watched him stuff his tie between his teeth as he fucked you, felt him bend down afterward and lick you clean before he kissed you and led you back to your tipsy friends—who, hopefully, never caught on.
"Izuku. . ." You sniffle a little, overwhelmed, staring at a shot of your own ass you never knew existed.
He stays silent.
"Izuku." You pull in a deep breath. "We'll talk about this when you get back, okay?" You stress the words, waiting—needing an answer this time.
"Okay. . ."
"Okay." You sigh and sniffle again. He's looking at you full screen now, eyes watery and red, biting his lip. "I. . . I love you." Because you do love him—more than you can say—but this has left you feeling. . . different.
He exhales sharply, brows dipping as his eyes get wet. He's determined not to cry in front of you. "I love you."
You hang up after one last glance and set the phone aside.
How long has that been going on? Should you be worried? What do you do now?
. . .Fuck that—be real with yourself this time.
You miss him—God how you miss him.
When will you stop missing him?
You shut your eyes, leaning into his pillows, burying yourself in his scent. Your thighs rub together and you stifle a sound.
need a deeply emotional friendship with tamsy where he’s like your best friend for everything to the point where you see him as one of the “girls”- and you two get along great! but there is an ominous clock counting down to the day he’s gonna shove his tongue down your throat and turn this very messy very fast.
osamu is such a teach me guy. teach me how to make that childhood dish of yours. teach me how your name is written. teach me that term of endearment in your language. teach me all those little habits of yours. teach me how to kiss you so your mouth will know no other name than mine. teach me where to touch you to make you feel so good. teach me where your body and your heart aches. teach me, teach me, teach me.
