#I yearn without vocal cords

[bunnyjournal11]

Feeling like perhaps I have absolutely lost my mind…

[ilium-ilia]

Everything You Touch

simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | previously known as "soft spot" | masterlist

Chapter Eleven: until you

tw: smut, dirty talking

As your mouth falls open, Simon thinks this might be the end of him. 

Wet tongue sliding over hard flesh, you replace his hand with your own, gripping the base of his cock, keeping him still as you work your lips over the expanse of him. Your jaw stretches wide to accommodate him, but even then your teeth still threaten to kiss the veins that protrude from him. Thick, and pulsing, salty brine on your tongue, warm in your maw. Snug in your throat. 

You keep your eyes on him for as long as you can manage as the tip of your nose gets closer to greeting the soft fuzz of his stomach. He stares into you, pupils widening, darkening until you cannot tell the shadow from the honey in his iris. Swallowing him whole, he watches the tears blur in your gaze as your throat constricts at the intrusion, but you don’t stop. Not even as Simon reaches for you, thumbing over your cheek. 

A groan doesn’t escape him until you add your hands into the mix, palms rubbing along his shaft as you lap at his ruddy head. It’s thick in his throat. Vocal cords fight through hoarse use as his head nearly falls back against the couch. His chest heats up. Warm flames licking on the inside of his stomach, reddening his skin until his throat is bright and burning. 

Simon Riley is melting beneath your touch, and you refuse to stop until he’s nothing but a puddle. 

You’re grunting. Tired knees dig into the floor as your head continues to bob, pace unrelenting, voice humming with moans each time you note the twitching tension rippling through his legs. It’s wet. Lips smacking, spit dripping down his cock and into your hands. Wet skin dancing. Sliding. Tongue tracing the length of him. He’s panting now. Sharp inhales between his teeth, sucking on the air as if he’ll come undone without it. 

“Fuckin’ hell, sweetheart,” he hisses, hands gripping your shoulders and pushing you back. 

Simon falls out of your mouth with a slick pop, and you watch the way his cock throbs with need, bouncing against the softness of his stomach, aching for attention. You roll your tongue back into your mouth to look up at him with a pout, but you don’t even have time to wipe the spit off of your face before his lips are on yours. 

He gives you something else to focus on—his tongue. It slips into your mouth, exploring you, counting the ridges of his teeth as if he’s preparing his skin for the bite. For the mark.

When he decides that he can’t take it anymore, Simon yanks you forward onto the couch, urging your legs to extend until your knees are on either side of him. Hands pressing against his chest, you look down at him, sulking. 

“I thought you were gonna let me take care of you.” Your hands are traveling lower, fingers yearning to find him again, to unravel him beneath your touch. 

He’s staring up at you, hands digging into your hips, thumbs sliding along your stomach as he rocks himself upward. “Appreciate it, sweetheart, but I can hardly fuckin’ take it.” 

Just as you go to question what he means, his hand slips from your hip to between your thighs. He finds you quickly, still having every inch of you memorized. His palm presses against your clothed cunt, thumb swiping at your clit, though the sensation is muted through your jeans. Still, you can feel the wetness that’s accumulated. How it sticks to you, panties a sopping mess. 

“It was fuckin’ torture bein’ away from you that long. Could still taste you from our last night together, you know that?” he asks, growling voice seeping into your skin. Gasping, you begin to grind against his hand, desperate for any friction you can get. “Thought ‘bout you all day, all night. Christ, sweetheart, I was in New York wonderin’ what it would be like to bend you over the table at the bar, to just spread you out and take you right fuckin’ there.” 

His words send a bullet straight through your brain. Fracturing synapses, neurons fizzing out and dying—you lean your head forward, eyes fluttering shut, fingers curling into his shirt. 

“I thought about y-you, too,” you admit, voice stuttering as your hips pick up pace. “Missed you so bad. Wanted to send you pictures, b-but I didn’t know if you’d like that. I—fuck, Simon—touched myself thinking about you. I wish- I wish we fucked that night before you left.” 

“Yeah?” he goads. “That needy for me?” 

Quivering in the palm of his hand, you nod. “Simon, I- I’m still- I’m still on birth control.” 

His silence makes your gut twist. When you open your eyes, you expect disgust, but you get nothing short of concupiscence. It pools in the ink of his eyes; voids waiting to swallow you whole. 

Simon pulls his hand out from between your legs so quickly that you’re left whimpering, but you’re given no time to think before his hands are at your shirt. Lifting up, exposing your bra, fingers yanking the stiff fabric aside to earn access to your chest—his mouth is on the soft tissue before you can even make sense of it. Teeth grazing along your skin, lips suckling kisses until he’s reached a nipple, then moving to the other, hands palming at the places he can’t reach. 

When it isn’t enough, he tears your shirt off, bra falling onto the floor along with it. But the space between your legs is needy. It howls with want, nose tilting up to the sky, poking through you until you’re uncomfortably shifting on your knees. 

“Simon,” you whine. You’re grabbing his wrists, trying to push his hands down your body to where the yearning is greatest. 

Entertaining you, he follows your request, fingers hooking into your pants, he keeps his face against your chest as he mumbles his reply. “Tell me what you were thinkin’ of when you touched yourself while I was gone.” 

You swallow so hard your throat nearly collapses in on itself. “You.” 

“Gonna need more detail than that, sweetheart.” 

Simon dips a hand beneath your waistband, fingers eagerly pushing lower. He gives you a content hum when he feels how wet you are through your panties, and he toys with the wet fabric as he looks up at you expectantly. 

“C’mon,” he urges. 

“I, uh…” Your mind goes blank as you begin to grind against him again, thighs attempting to slam shut as if to trap his hand between you. “I thought of what we did before you left.” 

“Yeah? When I got you to come on my tongue?” He hums, content when you nod. “Did you think of just my mouth, or my fingers, too?” As he speaks, he pushes them into you, slowly, yet stunted by the fabric in his way. “Did you finger yourself pretendin’ it was me, sweetheart?” 

“Yes!” You grind down on his hand, body yearning for the stretch that’s just out of your reach. “I-I tried to think about what it would feel like if you were really there. The things you’d say. Like we were really fucking. I just- Please, Simon, I need you so bad.” 

Rewarding you, he moves the gusset of your panties to the side with his thumb, allowing his fingers to slip inside of you with ease. The squelch of your pussy would have you feeling scandalized if it weren’t for the buzzing in your brain slurping up each sensation and sound. You drop more weight onto him. Simon curls inside of you, middle and ring fingers petting the warmth that surrounds him. 

“Did you think about takin’ my cock?” he questions. 

You try to nod in response, but his fingers halt when you do. “Yes! I did.” 

“Yeah, you did.” Simon’s free hand reaches up to cup your cheek. The pad of his thumb presses to the apple of your cheek, poorly contained desire lurking just beneath his touch. “What position, sweetheart? Did you think ‘bout this? You on top of me, riding my cock until you were finished? Were you on your back, legs spread nice and wide for me?”

“From behind…” Your admittance has warm shame ripping through you, but it’s smothered the moment you register the way his eyes widen. They’re intense—smoldering coals ready to ignite into flame again—it’s enough to get your mouth opening once more. “I thought about you… bending me over. On the bed. I think it would feel better that way. Your hands on me and stuff just-just like- taking me and- fuck.” 

Simon’s fingers retract from your cunt, and his palms are pushing against your hips, urging you off of him. Stumbling, you follow his lead, and the speed in which he stands up and crashes his lips against yours has your head spinning. He leads you around his flat blind, feet tripping over one another until your thighs meet the back of his bed and you’re toppling over on the mattress. 

He slips your pants off with the same ease as he did your shirt, stripping you bare until you’re near helpless beneath him, exposed body singing trembling melodies into the heavy air. He can’t stop himself from licking his lips at the sight of your throat—decorated with your new necklace. Vibrant green on your skin, resting just along your thudding pulse; his. A mark of devotion. Your chest heaves with each breath you take as you watch Simon strip himself bare. 

Peachy scars litter the pallid complexion of his skin, dancing around various places on his torso in raised lines. There’s a long one on his arm, a puffy keloid on his ribs, another one by his hip—there’s even a few that blend with the ink on his forearm. His eyes don’t stray from you as he bends forward, shoving his pants past his thighs, cock springing forward again. Mouth watering, you sit up, eager to put your hands on him again. 

Instead, it’s your lips that reach him first. Soft and light, they press against his skin, along the raised tissue that perforates his ribs. Simon shivers when you kiss him there, body tensing, muscles freezing—his mind restarts. Something so gentle brushing over something so cruel. 

The dichotomy makes the bile rage in his stomach. 

Doing the only thing he can think to satiate the discomfort growing inside of him, Simon grabs your jaw, pulling you away from him, and tilts your head so that you look up. His thumb pulls at your bottom lip until your mouth opens, then he presses it against your tongue. Forefinger beneath your jaw, he has full control over you—where your eyes settle, where your mind wanders. 

“Gorgeous thing. So needy,” he muses. He pulls his thumb out of your mouth and smears your spit along your lips before gently pushing you back. You follow his whim, back colliding with his duvet just so he can spin you around, knees in the mattress, fingers curling in the sheets. “If you need me while I’m gone, I don’t want you to hesitate again, you hear me? Don’t care if I’m halfway across the damn world, I’ll make you come with my voice alone, yeah sweetheart?” 

“O-Okay,” you murmur.

Looking over your shoulder, you’re able to catch the faintest glimpse of him touching himself. Fat palm sliding over his cock, thumb pressing against the thick bead of precum smeared over his tip—your eyes flutter as you curse, hips instinctively bucking—body begging for him. Smirking, he then reaches for your hips and pulls until you’re up on your hands and knees, head still bowing low as if in prayer. 

“And you send me all those pretty pictures of you, too,” he adds. He slots his thigh between your legs and knocks against them until your knees are spread wide. Then, he places his hand over the small of your back. 

Your lips part as your response dances on the tip of your tongue, but it shrivels up the moment you feel him press against you. Him; unabashed against your cunt, lips spreading all too easy for him as he slips his cock into you, well aided by the arousal he’s been pulling from your body since you first got on your knees. You split wide and open, walls closing in on him, warmth spreading through your core as he sinks into you, thick thighs resting against your rump. 

You bury your face into the bed with a gasp as he bottoms out, then wiggle your hips as you gauge the exact feel of him. “Fucking hell.” 

“Yeah?” he encourages. “Bet your little fingers couldn’t imitate this, could they sweetheart?” 

Simon doesn’t bother to wait for your reply—he already knows the answer. It’s written in the twitching of your thighs and the curl of your fingers attempting to find purchase to keep you steady. Groaning, he drags himself out. Slow, despite the growling urge within him to go faster, to pierce where the flesh is thinnest—he’s patient. Doesn’t stop until you’re fluttering around his cockhead, then swiftly drives himself back into you. 

It’s better than anything his brain could cook up while he was away; pale imitations of love. You moan his name, sweet enough to rot his teeth, lavish pules falling from your lips as he picks up his pace, skin joining together with wet slaps each time he bottoms out. Whenever your knees begin to slip, torso sliding up along the bed, he pulls you back up, arse high in the air, spine arching and giving him the perfect grip to continue rutting into you. You curse. Babbling nonsense as your teeth gnaw on the duvet. 

Then, you feel it. 

Nettling static, dipping into your body, tingling down your legs to the very tips of your toes as they begin to curl. Your breath hitches in your throat as your eyes squeeze shut, nearly suffocating yourself in the mattress as every muscle in your core tenses. 

You groan, frustrated with yourself for getting here so quickly. All slick skin and muddled brain. Nothing but a rigid mess beneath Simon. 

“O-Oh fuck, I’m gonna- Simon, I’m gonna come,” you hiss, jaw clenched so tightly the words almost can’t leave your mouth. 

“Yeah, sweetheart?” There it is again, that snark. A man of few words yet he can’t keep himself from spilling the moment he’s making a mess of you. “Gonna come on my cock?” 

Far from compos mentis, you wail, nothing but a fit of yesses spewing from your mouth. Simon doesn’t change anything. Not his pace, or his power—he keeps it steady, firm thrusts forward, cockhead kissing every inch of the empty space inside of you until—

—you come undone. A spring releasing kinetic energy. The cracks in an earth opening up above a sinkhole. Greedy earth ready to swallow him whole, mind, body, and soul. Simon drinks up the way your arse twitches while your hips buck, overstimulation rendering you a wet mess as he slows himself down until he’s stopped, still reaching deep inside of you to feel the rippling effect of your orgasm as his torso curls over your back. 

“Atta girl,” he coos. His forehead presses against the back of your shoulder, slick sweat wicking off of his skin and onto yours as he kisses your scapula. “How’re you feeling?” 

“Good. So fucking good, you feel so good,” you prattle. 

“Good. Just got one more question for you sweetheart,” he hums, voice tender. Careful kisses wander over your shoulder to the back of your neck as he begins to rub soothing circles in your lower back. “When you thought of me fuckin’ you like this, where did I come?” 

Breasts pressing into the mattress, body flattening beneath his weight, your mind goes blank. When you first lowered yourself to your knees in front of him, you planned on eating him alive—on making a mess that dripped from your lips and onto your chest—but now you’re not so sure. You pant out a squeak as Simon rolls his hips forward, cock still achingly hard and stuffed in your cunt. 

“C’mon, sweetheart, where do you want it? On your back? Maybe you want it-”

“Inside!” The shrill shriek of your voice leaves Simon surprised, but he can’t deny the way his cock throbs at your enthusiasm. “Please, I-I want it.” 

“You sure?” he’s teasing you now—drawing this out longer because he can. 

The moment your reply leaves your mouth, he’s getting back to work, leaving your oversensitive pussy fluttering around him. His head tips back, teeth grinding against one another, jaw clenching so fiercely that the veins in his neck protrude from his skin, dancing in time with his pulse. 

Simon collapses when he comes, body weight crushing you beneath him until you’re flattened out, stomach on the bed, legs pinned wide by his thighs. You feel every inch of him inside of you shiver, cum spilling into you in thick, pent up waves that have been yearning for something like this for longer than he’d care to admit. His hearing goes out, nothing but high pitched ringing while his vision dims, your body looming out of focus as he pulls out of you and rolls onto his side with a grunt. 

A long stretch of panting fills the air while you lay next to one another. He watches the way your back rises and falls, face smushed into the mattress, a dazed smile pulling at your lips as you allow yourself to fall limp. He reaches out for you, middle finger dancing along your spine and you melt—sticky, like honey into the duvet. Simon stares at you and the hint of green peeking out around your neck, and something swells within his chest. 

Pride, perhaps. If he wasn’t so scared, he’d maybe consider it love. 

“Still with me, sweetheart?” He’s reached your face now, knuckles grazing against your cheeks as he thumbs over the scar at the corner of your mouth. 

“Barely,” you chuckle loosely. 

He doesn’t allow you to wander too far—not far enough where he can’t reach, anyway. Biceps curling around you, bodies shuffling along the bed, he nestles you to his chest as your heads fall on his pillow, blankets pulled up over your bare bodies until the heat is enough to cook you; meat well done. 

You sleep better than you have since the night he left. Mind blissfully ignorant to the outside world, always able to touch him just when you think he’s vanished again. You’re wrapped in his linens, surrounded in the redolence of him, swaddled like a child. A weight drags you down, comfortable—a heaviness finally not born of grief. Of worry. 

Come morning, it is the gentle rays of bronze sun that rouses you. Spilling over your lids, tickling the tip of your nose—Simon’s side of the bed is cold.

Your eyes fly open, torso propped up on your elbows as you glance around the room. It does not take you long to find him in the studio apartment—fully dressed in the kitchen, hands working at the stove, fresh meat and sour bread in the air. Exhaling, you dress yourself in the clothes Simon managed to gather from your previous night of fun and don them before trotting up behind him. 

If he hears you coming, he doesn’t reveal it. Chin tucked, his eyes zone in on the hot pan in his hands, spatula pushing at meat, grease sizzling and popping as the fat oozes from the long cooled flesh. 

“Making breakfast?” you question, hip leaning against the counter. 

Simon gives you a quick once over with heavy lidded eyes before the angry cracking draws his attention once more. “Bacon.” 

Closing your eyes, you hum while rolling the ache out of your shoulders. There’s a delicious ache that burrows deep within you—a swelling between your legs, a weight on your throat. Your fingers toy with your new necklace as you enjoy the bacon wafting through the air until something sour invades your nose. The scent is so offensive that you find yourself wandering through the kitchen, unable to stop until you find several black slabs of bread in the trash.

“Did you… burn toast?” you question, throat hardly able to hold back a laugh. 

Simon shrugs. “I’m a soldier, not a chef.” 

His retort pulls a titter from your lips as your eyes settle on his toaster, and you nearly gasp at what you witness. A tarnished, nearly rusting metal enclosure cases the hot components of the toaster, and half the handle looks broken. Every inch of it is warped, beaten in, as if tossed down a flight of stairs. 

“Holy shit, no wonder you burnt it,” you say, fingers running along the still-warm siding. “This thing is fucking ancient.” 

“No use in buying a new one. Hardly here anyway.” 

Using the spatula, Simon scoops the bacon piece by piece out of the pan and onto a paper towel lined plate before patting it dry. The white material quickly soaks up a pale yellow ichor where it bleeds through until his fingers are shiny with the grease. 

You swallow. “Do you wanna move in together?”

Simon nearly drops the spatula in his hand. “Huh?” 

There you go, opening your mouth before you’ve even thought about the words you’re about to spew. You give him a gauche laugh as you shrug your shoulders, arms crossing over your chest and eyes flickering to the stale floor at your feet.

“Well, I just thought that—you know—you’re hardly here anyway, right? Like you said? But if you moved in with me, I’ve got a whole other bedroom where we could store your stuff, and you wouldn’t have a shitty little toaster and we could… I dunno… spend more time together, if you want.” Your voice feels too fragile in your throat. Nothing but fresh picked cotton catching and shredding on your vocal cords. Again, you shrug. “I dunno, I guess it would be nice? And well, you’ve been taking such good care of me, and I’d like to do the same for you.” 

Simon frees his hands and turns to face you with a palm flat on the counter. You’re staring at him, shoulders hunched forward, body curling, making yourself small, some infinitesimal being. “You just thinkin’ about this, or are you really askin’ me?” 

“I’m being serious,” you assure. 

It’s impossible to tell what cogs are turning in his head as Simon pinches a strip of bacon between his forefinger and thumb. Silently, he holds it out for you, hovering just around your lips, eyes not moving away from you for a moment. Indulging him, you lean forward, teeth peeking out from behind your lips, then bite. 

“You can tell me if it’s too soon,” you say, tongue wet with brine and fat. 

Slowly, he nods his head. “My lease is up in three months.”

The grin that melts across your face makes Simon weak in the knees. If they weren’t already so stiff from years of abuse, he thinks he would’ve collapsed right then. He watches you, tired eyes igniting as you reach forward and pluck the strip of bacon from his hand, unafraid to take what you want, only to raise it to his own lips. 

“Great. Three months, then,” you conclude. 

Then, it is his turn to bite—to feed. Hungry dog too proud to beg. His teeth sink into the meat and it melts the moment it hits his tongue, but the taste is nothing compared to the divine flavor of your eyes and the way they dilate as you watch him chew and swallow his oath down his gullet. 

Simon realizes that things used to be so much easier when you weren’t around. When you weren’t here standing in front of him, staring at him like he was your world. He used to focus on his work and nothing else. Never cared what state his apartment was in, or what food he had left to come home to. There was work, and then there was the time in between. That’s all it’s supposed to be. 

Until you. 

Where brutal skulls used to haunt his past, his dreams have become littered with your face instead, devouring him in every moment—awake and asleep. Everything in him craves the touch of your skin, the feel of your lips against his, the sound of your voice, a gentle simper in the darkness. He’s faced terrorists and death—he’s died and clawed out of his own grave—but he’s not sure he can survive what you’re doing to him now; this gentle immolation. 

But god, at this point, he’d let you destroy him if that’s what you wanted.

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[terraswallows]

You know, I’ve been thinking… what if I started writing a little daily something? Like a “Dear Diary” kind of thing—except sapphic, dramatic, and laced with just enough playful self-deprecation to keep it spicy. Would that satisfy your insatiable hunger for my content? Because let’s be real, y’all eat up my ramblings like starved gremlins, and honestly? I kind of live for it.

Imagine it: Diary of an Awkward Trans Girl. A daily chronicle of my joys, my struggles, my questionable life choices—like wearing cute earrings even though I still fumble putting them on, or the absolute gender euphoria of catching my reflection and thinking damn, she’s pretty.

Some days it might be soft and tender—like the way my heart flutters when a girl calls me pretty. Other days, pure chaos—like trying to navigate the minefield of voice training when my vocal cords seem determined to betray me. And maybe, just maybe, a sprinkle of yearning—because let’s be honest, what’s a sapphic diary without a little please let me hold hands with a pretty girl before I combust energy?

So… what do you think? Should I do it? Should I let you peek into the mess that is my awkward, gay, trans little world?

[brokebonewritings]

Help Me Remember You

Marc Spector x Fem! Reader

Tags/Warnings: 18+, language, slight gore, angst, hurt/comfort

Summary: You are given a second chance at life after dying. After waking up in the hospital, you find that Marc has no recollection of you or your relationship.

Word Count: 3.5K

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A hand grasps your shoulder, as you stand on the sidewalk close to your flat in London. You couldn’t remember how you got there, but you turn your head to see who it was. A man stood tall next to you with a grim look on his face. With a shaky breath, you follow where his eyes lay. There on the ground, was you. Lifeless. Your eyes staring towards the sky. Towards the moon.

You look back up at the man. “Who are you?”

“Anubis.” He says, giving you his full attention. “I came for you, sweetheart.”

“What about Marc?” You ask, turning back to look at yourself.

“They will learn to live without. They have done it before.”

Before you can respond, he is gone, and you are in a new place. You stand in a gleaming white space, the afterlife you realized. A man stands in front of you just a few yards ahead. You can’t help but feel a sense of comfort radiating from his direction. As you begin to walk towards him, you see the small table and scales set upon it.

“Osiris.” You say softly, and bow your head.

“Yes, child.” He replies, “I am sorry we have to meet like this.”

Nodding, you kneel before the table and he does the same. Osiris reaches out and places a feather on one side of the scales while gesturing for you to place something on the other. You see a knife laying in front of you. Taking a deep breath, you take it and plunge it into your chest. Though there is no blood or pain. Reaching inside, you grab your heart and place it upon the scale.

The room falls silent as the scales tip ever so slightly, the feather barely moving. You hold your breath, waiting for Osiris to make a decision. After what feels like an eternity, he looks up at you with gentle eyes.

“Your heart is light, my child. You have lived a life of love and kindness.” Osiris's words wash over you like a soothing balm, filling you with a sense of peace.

As he stands up, you follow suit, feeling weightless and free. Osiris extends his hand towards you, a warm smile gracing his features.

“Welcome to the afterlife, where your soul will find eternal rest.”

You ever so slightly reach out your hand, before taking it back. “But this wasn’t supposed to happen.”

He chuckles softly, a sound like distant bells floating through the liminal space.

“Destiny is a fickle thing, my child. It weaves and changes, guiding us down paths we never could have foreseen.”

“Please I have to go back, I know there is something I need to finish.” You plead, not realizing tears had begun to fall down your cheeks.

Osiris's expression softens as he observes your distressed state. He places a reassuring hand on your shoulder, his touch bringing a sense of calmness over you.

“I sense a powerful yearning within you, a yearning that transcends even death itself.”

With a gentle smile, he motions towards a shimmering portal that has materialized beside you. “If your heart truly calls for it, the path back to the mortal realm awaits. But remember, the threads of destiny are tangled and mysterious. Be prepared for what lies ahead.”

You take one last look at Osiris, gratitude in your eyes before stepping through the portal. The world around you blurs and shifts, time and space bending to accommodate your return.

As you open your eyes, you find yourself in the hospital. Rightfully so, you had been strangled by a madman. You reach your hand up to feel the brace around your neck.

“Don’t move too much, darling.” You hear an unfamiliar voice before a nurse steps into view.

She has a kind smile on her face as she checks your vitals and adjusts the IV drip by your bedside. You try to speak, but she shushes you softly.

“Your vocal cords are very damaged, dear, you’ve been through quite an ordeal.” She says softly, “but you’re safe now. The police caught the man who attacked you.”

Pointing at her pen, she obliges also handing you a small notepad. You scribble a quick note asking about Marc.

The nurse pauses, a shadow crossing her features before she responds, “I’m sorry, dear. There was no one else found at the scene.”

Your heart sinks at her words, grief welling up inside you. He hadn't known you were attacked. You clutch the pen tighter, before writing his number.

“Would you like me to call him? Is he your emergency contact?”

You nod as best you could, and she nods back. “I'll be back in a moment.”

The nurse steps out of the room, leaving you alone with your thoughts. As you lie in the hospital bed, flashes of memories flood your mind - moments shared with Marc, laughter echoing in your ears, his warm embrace enveloping you on cold nights. 

The beeping of the machines fades into the background as you drift into a haze of longing. Minutes feel like hours until the nurse returns, a somber expression on her face. Your eyes never leave her face, searching for any sign of hope or despair.

“Darling, Was this the right number? The bloke who answered said he didn’t know who you were.”

As the nurse's words sank in, a wave of panic washed over you. How could Marc not know who you were? You had spent countless days and nights together, sharing your deepest thoughts and dreams.

Frantically, you motioned for the nurse to dial the number again, hoping it was just a misunderstanding. You listened intently as the phone rang on the other end, each tone echoing in the silence of the hospital room. Your heart pounded in your chest, the seconds stretching into eternity until finally, a voice answered.

"Hello?" The voice on the other end sounded gruff. It was definitely him.

“Hiya, it’s me again. Listen, dear, she is very sure that this is the correct number.” The nurse tries.

“Fucking christ, I already told you I don’t know who that is. Did this woman get hit in the head or something?”

You wince at the harshness in his voice. He definitely doesn’t remember you. You wave at the nurse, and scribble another name onto the notepad asking her to say it to him.

“She can hear you, you sorry bastard. She just wrote another name on the page, says Jake Lockley.”

There’s silence on the opposite end of the line. After clearing his throat, he asks, “Which hospital is this, I’ll be right there.”

You feel a mix of relief and confusion as Marc agrees to come to the hospital. Maybe there was a mix-up, a misunderstanding that could be cleared up once he saw you. The nurse smiled reassuringly at you before stepping out to wait for Marc's arrival.

Hours pass, each minute feeling like an eternity as you anxiously wait for Marc to arrive. Finally, the door opens and in walks a man, his eyes scanning the room until they land on you. 

“Are you y/n?”

You try to speak, but your damaged vocal cords only allow a hoarse whisper to escape. Tears well up in your eyes as you nod. His expression shift, looking much softer, but still no recognition. Though you immediately know who you’re about to talk to.

Scribbling on the notepad, he slowly walks over and sits in the chair next to your bed. He looks over to see what you wrote.

Steven. Please remember me.

He looks up at you with his doe eyes. “How did you know it was me? How do you know about us.”

Fiancé

“But I don’t know who you are. How could we be engaged if I’ve never met you?”

You hold his gaze, willing him to remember, to see beyond the fog that clouds his memory. With trembling hands, you reach out and touch his face, tracing the lines as if to etch your presence into his very being.

Tears stream down your cheeks as you try to convey years of shared memories and love in a few fleeting moments. You point to the engagement ring on your finger, a symbol of the promises made and the future planned together.

His eyes flicker with a hint of recognition, a spark of something familiar dancing within them. He takes your hand in his, gently running his thumb over the ring as if trying to unlock hidden chambers of remembrance.

“I... I don’t understand,” he stammers, his voice laced with confusion and a tinge of fear. “How can I be engaged to someone I don’t remember?”

You scribble on the notepad again.

I died, I met Anubis and Osiris.

“You met Anubis and Osiris?! How is this possible? How are you here?!”

You smile, this is the Steven you remember. They gave me another chance, but when I came back you didn’t remember me

Something in his eyes flashes, and the hard expression returns. Marc was back, his eyes searching your face for any sort of recognition. Your heart ached at the disbelief and confusion in his eyes.

His hand recoils from yours as if your touch burned him, his features contorted in a mix of fear and disbelief. You watch helplessly as the connection you once shared with him slips further away, like sand sifting through your fingers. The weight of your heartache presses down on you, squeezing the air from your lungs.

“I can’t... I can’t do this.” His voice is barely a whisper, filled with a turmoil you cannot comprehend. He stands abruptly, knocking over the chair in his haste to distance himself from you. “I need to go.”

You reach out to him, the words trapped in your throat as you watch him move towards the door. This man before you, who was once your anchor in the storm, now feels like a stranger walking out of your life.

As he reaches the threshold, he pauses for a fleeting moment, his back still turned to you. “I’m sorry... I don’t know who you are,” he says softly before stepping out. 

The door closes behind Marc, leaving you alone in the silence of the hospital room. The weight of his words hangs heavy in the air, wrapping around you like a shroud of sorrow. Tears continue to stream down your cheeks as you try to process the whirlwind of emotions coursing through you.

You clutch the notepad to your chest, feeling the indentations of the words you had written in haste. Memories of your life together with Marc flash before your eyes, each one a painful reminder of what once was. The engagement ring on your finger glints in the dim light, a symbol of a future that now seems uncertain.

As you lie there, staring at the blank walls of the hospital room, a sense of numbness settles over you. The sounds of the machines humming fade into the background as you slip into a state of disconnected solitude. The world outside continues to spin, indifferent to the ache that gnaws at your heart.

Hours turn into days as you remain in the hospital, your voice slowly coming back to you. Janice, your nurse, had quickly become a good friend. Helping you contact your landlord, and trying to get Marc to come back. Each time getting the hard no.

"Y/n, I can't imagine how difficult this must be for you," Janice said softly, placing a comforting hand on yours. "But you're not alone. We'll figure this out together."

You managed a weak smile, grateful for Janice's support during this tumultuous time. Despite the ache in your heart, a sliver of hope bloomed within you at her words.

After almost a month in the hospital, you were released. You got to go back to your life. Not entirely, but for the most part.

As you stepped out of the hospital, the sunlight felt harsh against your skin, like a stark contrast to the dim confines you had grown accustomed to. 

Everything looked different, even the familiar streets seemed alien as you navigate your way back home. The weight of Marc's absence pressed down on you, a constant ache in your chest that refused to dissipate.

Your home was almost the same as it was before the incident. A bit cleaner, since Janice stopped by to collect your post, and check on the flat. Despite Janice's unwavering support and encouragement, there were moments when the loneliness threatened to consume you. 

The silence of your apartment echoed with memories of laughter and whispered promises, now replaced by a deafening void that seemed impossible to fill.

One evening as you sat by the window watching the stars, you see a figure on the rooftop of the building across from yours.

The figure was familiar, a silhouette etched in your memory like a ghost from the past. Despite the distance and the darkness shrouding their features, you knew without a doubt who it was. Marc. He stood there, his form outlined by the faint glow of the moon, his gaze fixed on your window.

A surge of emotions welled up inside you, and you know he saw you notice him. Your heart pounded in your chest, as you got up and moved to lay in your bed.

The sight of Marc on the rooftop stirred a whirlwind of conflicting emotions within you, pulling at the threads of hope and heartache that had woven themselves into the fabric of your being. His sudden appearance after weeks of absence sent a surge of questions racing through your mind, each one vying for attention in the chaos of your thoughts.

As you lay in bed, unable to tear your gaze away from the figure on the rooftop, a sense of longing welled up inside you. Could this be a chance to bridge the chasm that had formed between you and Marc? Or was it simply a cruel twist of fate, dangling the possibility of reconciliation before you only to snatch it away once more?

The weight of unspoken words hung heavy in the air, a silent plea for understanding and forgiveness that lingered between you like an invisible thread.

The figure remained on the rooftop, unmoving yet a silent presence that seemed to bridge the gap between your past and present. You lay there, caught in a limbo of emotions that threatened to unravel the fragile threads holding you together.

Eventually, a soft knock at your door broke the stillness of the night, startling you from your reverie. With hesitant steps, you made your way to the door, heart pounding in anticipation of who may be on the other side. As you turned the doorknob, you were met with a familiar silhouette backlit by the soft glow of the hallway lights.

Marc stood before you, uncertainty etched across his features as he searched your eyes for a sign of acceptance. Before any words could be spoken, you found yourself enveloped in his embrace, the warmth of his touch seeping into your bones like a soothing balm.

Tears welled up in your eyes as weeks of pent-up emotions threatened to spill over the edge. You didn’t know what was happening, but you needed this.

As you stood in the doorway, locked in an embrace that felt both foreign and achingly familiar, a sense of hope bloomed within you. The raw vulnerability in Marc’s touch mirrored your own, a shared language of unspoken apologies and forgiveness that transcended the barriers of time and memory.

In that moment, as the world outside faded into insignificance, all that mattered was the connection between two souls reaching out for each other across the expanse of uncertainty.

The embrace with Marc felt like a lifeline, a beacon of light cutting through the darkness that had clouded your heart for so long. As you clung to him, the walls you had built around your emotions began to crumble, giving way to the flood of feelings you had buried deep within.

“I’m sorry… I’m so sorry,” Marc’s voice trembled with emotion, his words a whispered confession that hung in the air between you.

You pulled back slightly, meeting his gaze as tears streamed down your cheeks. “I don’t understand…” Your voice is still hoarse.

"I was lost, Y/n. Lost in a storm of confusion and fear that clouded my judgment," Marc's voice cracked with emotion, his hands trembling slightly as he reached out to cup your face. “But I saw him. He told me everything.”

“Saw who? Marc, please. You remember me?”

He shook his head. “I’m sorry, I don’t, but please let me.”

The sincerity in Marc's eyes tugged at your heartstrings, a flicker of hope igniting within you despite the lingering doubts. His vulnerability laid bare before you, an unspoken plea for a second chance that resonated with the deepest corners of your soul.

With a shaky breath, you reached out to touch Marc's trembling hand, a silent gesture of understanding and acceptance. “Was it Osiris?”

He nodded, “We went searching for him. Khonshu, the old bastard, actually helped me.”

Osiris? The name reverberated in your mind, sending a shiver down your spine. Memories long buried stirred within you, whispers of a past that seemed almost surreal. And yet, here was Marc, standing before you, his eyes reflecting a turmoil of emotions.

You’re brought back to reality for a moment, and realize you’re in the open where your nosey neighbor is probably spying on you. “Do you want to come in?” You ask Marc, and he nods.

Closing the door behind him, you lead him to the living room and sit next to him on the couch. “I just don’t understand why you came back. You know I was actually beginning to accept you not coming back.”

"I know I've caused you pain, Y/n. And for that, I will never forgive myself." His voice wavered with emotion as he continued, each word heavy with the weight of his confession. "But meeting Osiris...it made me realize I fucked up.”

You studied Marc's face, searching for any hint of deceit or manipulation, but all you found was raw honesty etched in his expression. A part of you wanted to push him away, to guard your heart against the possibility of hurt once more. But another part yearned for the closure and healing that only forgiveness could bring.

“I can't erase the past or the pain I've caused. But when Osiris showed me the truth... I couldn't stay away. Everything leads straight back to you.” You see a stray tear run down his cheek and he explains himself. “I know I don’t remember you. We all don’t remember you, but we want to.”

Your mouth felt dry as you listened to him speak. As you gazed into Marc's tear-filled eyes, a surge of compassion welled up inside you. You feel his hand take a hold of yours. His hand trembles in yours, but the touch grounds you in the present moment.

“I don’t know what to say,” you whisper.

“Don’t say anything, just…” He sighs before continuing. “Help me, Help us remember you.”

As you sat there on the couch, silence enveloping you both like a protective cocoon, you felt a sense of calm settle over you. Closing your eyes for a moment, you took a deep breath and when you opened them you saw him still sitting there. No trick of the mind or anything.

You nod, tears welling up in your eyes. A flicker of relief passes across Marc's features, gratitude shining in his eyes. Without another word, he reaches out and pulls you into a tight embrace, holding you close as if afraid that you might disappear if he lets go.

In that moment, as you find solace in each other's arms, a sense of unity washes over you. The past may be shrouded in shadows and uncertainty, but the present holds the promise of rediscovery and redemption.

“Let me kiss you.” he whispers softly.

You hesitate for a moment, “but you hardly know me.”

“y/n, I know I’ll remember you. Let me kiss you.”

Uncertainty begins to swirl within you like a tempest. However, his eyes ignite a flame of trust in your heart. Leaning forward, you meet his lips in a tentative kiss, a gentle exploration of emotions that have been suppressed.

In that fleeting moment of connection, you feel a glimmer of recognition as if a door to the past has been cracked open, allowing fragments of forgotten moments to seep through.

As the kiss deepens, a sense of familiarity washes over you, intertwining your souls in a dance as old as time itself. The weight of unspoken apologies and unshed tears melts away in the heat of this newfound intimacy, leaving behind a raw vulnerability that binds you together in shared longing and hope.

When you finally pull away, breathless and trembling, Marc's gaze meets yours with a mixture of yearning and uncertainty, as if seeking validation in the depths of your eyes. For a moment, the world around you fades into insignificance, leaving only the echo of his touch lingering on your lips.

“I will remember you,” he whispers, his voice barely above a breath, “I promise.”

With a silent nod, you offer him a small smile. “I know you will. I’ll help you.”

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[lillandyrshadowglade]

Little Rat

DWC May 2025

Day 1: Cruel / Beauty

TW: dubious consent (touching only) and not explicit, undead character 

A long time ago…

Anya learned that love was a boot on the neck. Love was an all consuming beast that devoured hearts and souls and held all the strings to make the puppets dance. Love was always a tragedy. 

Her mentor and teacher, Tristan Black, stood behind her, as he always did. The very air around him was cool and damp and filled with the scent of wet earth and funeral lilies. 

“Now,” he said, in his voice that was like several voices whispering discordinately, “We are going to play a little game, Anya,” he said, his voice filled with spite and a strange lilt that spoke of cruel amusement. 

She stood still and nodded. “Very well, Master,” she said. Anya had learned to never look directly at her mentor. To address him only as ‘Master’ and to always do precisely as he said. It was the only way to ensure he would continue to teach her. 

“Forgery is an art, my sweet, little rat,” he hissed in her ear, his skeletal fingertips dragging down the back of her arms, making her eyes widen and a shudder ripple through her. 

“The key to any lie is that one must believe it when it passes the lips. Or…in the case of forger, the fingers,” Tristan Black murmured. She felt the pads of his own fingers tracing over her delicate digits, what was left of his flesh dry and crinkled, like old parchment. 

It was something he had told her a hundred times before, yet she could never get it quite right. Anya had come to think it was impossible to believe a lie one knew was a lie. She didn’t think she could possibly delude herself to the degree it required. 

But she was about to learn. 

“Our game,” Tristan explained, “Is to act as two lovers, sunk deep into their passion. You will be Evthys, our lovely maiden, pining in wanton lust.” His dry, cold fingers curled possessively around her wrist. “I shall be Morgrim, the dashing soldier, barely able to contain myself…without you,” he hissed into her ear, icy breath sliding over her skin. “We must lose ourselves in overwhelming ardor, little rat.”

Because Tristan stood at her back, he could not see the aching pain etched in every line of her lovely face. The eyes so filled with the agony of love unrequited. Or what Anya thought was love, anyway. This…was a game she was already playing. 

“Must we?” She asked, her voice thin. She hated how weak and small she sounded. 

“Yessss,” he whispered in her ear. “Yes, because you can’t seem to get this lesson through that thick skull of yours. You must feel this, Anya. Feel it with me. We will be these lovers, you and I. Then?” His hand curled around her upper arm, squeezing too tight. “We will work.”

He stood her in the center of his cluttered study. Tomes, old and new, leaned in precarious stacks as piles of papers crumbled from age, yellowed by time and the smoke from his pipe. She stood with her hair down, gilded waves brushing her shoulders. Anya wore a simple shift as Tristan’s hands mapped every place of her. 

He’d commanded her to keep her eyes shut. She was never to look upon the horror that was his dead, reanimated body. Tristan touched her as she trembled and whimpered, tears sliding down her cheeks. Then? He began to speak. 

“My darling Evthys,” he whispered, as hands clad only in dried out flesh pulled taut over bones cupped her breasts. “Every night the same prayer falls from my lips,” Tristan said, his voice a hiss and rasp, a parody of what a voice from real vocal cords would sound like. “I pray that I will wake to see you in my arms, your lips on mine.” 

Tristan had no proper lips to kiss Anya with so he dragged the pads of his fingers across her mouth. 

“I yearn to lose myself in the heaven of your body, in the tight…wet…clutch of your cunt,” Tristan was behind her again, hands on her hips, skeletal fingers needling into the plush flesh there, sinking in, his grip hurting her. 

His grasp drifted as one hand slid over her stomach, up between her breasts to grip her throat and pull her more firmly against him. “Tell me you dream of me,” he whispered in her ear with such aching longing that Anya whimpered. 

“I dream of you,” she said, voice thin and reedy. 

“Mmmn. My naughty little, Evthys…do you touch yourself to thoughts of me?” Tristan Black rumbled in her ear. 

“Yes,” Anya breathlessly confessed. 

“And do you love me?” He asked, his voice like the wind sighing through the trees. 

Anya didn’t know if they were playing their game or not anymore. It didn’t matter. She knew how he expected her to answer. “Yes,” she said, her voice drenched in despair. 

“Your love is a beautiful thing, my sweet,” Tristan murmured. “As beautiful as it is foolish. Sit at the desk, Anya,” he snapped coldly. 

On shaking legs she crossed the study, eyes straight ahead, and made her way to the desk. She sat down to find parchment smoothed out and ready along with a quill and ink pot. 

Tristan, at her back, dangled a neatly folded letter. “You will copy this handwriting precisely. Study it quickly,” he said, their game apparently over. 

After she had studied the letter to HIS satisfaction, Tristan snatched it away. “Now, you will write precisely as I tell you in the handwriting in the letter. With all the pointless, foolish, pathetic love in your shriveled heart, Anya.”

Inhaling sharply, she wished it didn’t hurt so much. She had never said the words to her mentor. Anya had never told him that it was only because of him she had a place to lay her head at night. That he was the only one to see and understand her cleverness as well as her darkness. She would never have the chance to tell Tristan Black she didn’t care that he was a monster. Because she was a monster too. 

Instead, she wrote a letter to her lover. She told Morgrim that she would meet him under full moon and starry sky at a crossroads. He would find her there and they would be together at long last, that they would never spend another night apart. And Anya wrote this letter with all her unrequited, confused love. 

Tristan Black made a sound of approval and pleasure at her excellent forgery of Evthys’s handwriting. He snatched the parchment from the desk, reaching from behind Anya. 

“Do you know what will happen when Morgrim goes to meet his Evthys, Anya?” Tristan asked, his tone soft and full of cruel amusement again. 

“No,” she said, dread settling in her stomach like an icy stone. 

“He will meet an assassin instead,” Tristan said, voice sharp and cold. “Love is for softer things than you, Anya,” he said, hands falling to her shoulders. He leaned down so his mouth was by her ear, ”If you forget this again? It will not be innocent lovers that die. It will be you. I’ll end you myself.”

Mutely, she nodded, palms flat on the desk, heart thudding painfully. She’d only let herself cry when he left her alone. 

@daily-writing-challenge

[mahiiimahiiii]

the lick of bhaal

a/n: I would fuck orin!gale. That’s the premise of this one. I haven’t seen this concept done and I feel that there is much to explore! Slight dead dove on this one for those who may be sensitive.

Cw: inebriated sex, blood, breeding kink, fun use of shapeshifting abilities, my excuse to live vicariously through Orin, biting (lots of it), possessive language, not gale behavior, rough sex, dubcon, humping, frotting, tail play, anal play piv, orin has sex with a woman and is a bit confused, guilt, not really enthusiastic consent.

read below the cut, or on a03!

Orins lips buzzed with the taste of drink, sat in her lap- rather his- was a contently buzzed teifling, the poor wizards mate she presumed. Her hips wiggled occasionally when she shook with laughter. And oh ye gods! Did the pressure feel excellent. She cant remember a time previous when she was truly intimate with another fleshy being. The only passion for sanguinity she had was her affinity for a kill. His hands rested on the swell of the creatures thighs, a slight grip in pressure had her staring into her lovers eyes, something swirled in her mind.

Here? Her gaze asked.

“Here” she whispered in his voice. The Tiefling, li’ia, had a wonky smile on her face. She stroked her lower lip plush and plump. She captured hers in a chaste kiss, tasting the bubbly wine on her lips. Her heavy breaths graced Orin’s ears, a strange tightness in her chest and pants.

“Gale- fuck…I don’t know.” She pulled away “not like this…”

“Oh, but my dear- I know you’ve ached for it, yearned for it. How I’ve craved your skin. How I yearn. Let me taste you. Let me mark you, I don’t want anyone looking at you without seeing me.”

She let out a stifled groan in the short space of their lips. Unspoken egging coming from her stare. Oh how she will be ruined, oh how she will defile her.

Orin closed in, the unfamiliar feeling of clean skin pressed against her disguise beard, how she felt heat surge to her core when Li’ia gently tugged at his chin. She nipped at li’ia’s lip mindlessly, inwardly grumbling at the lack of sharpness from the humans’ blunt teeth. With his hands he anchored her into his lap, groping the warm flesh of her ass. She slid her cool hands down the others’ pants line, her skin was warm and spongy. Well taken care of she’d wager.

Lia groaned into her would-be-wizard’s mouth, throwing caution to the wind as she bumped her core against his low abdomen for some sort of friction.

“Warm my cock won’t you love?” gale hummed beneath her, “I would quite enjoy feeling your tightness.”

“I don’t think I’m necessarily ready for you like that.” She sputtered.

“Come now!” she slid the tips of her fingers against the others core, the heat and slick pooling off of them came in waves “I can feel how ready you are- your body doesn’t lie” his eyes darken with a hunger she’s never seen before. His lids lower as he removed his fingers from the entrance of her sticky cunt. Orin swiped her tongue over them, their taste fruity and sour with a tang of iron, how refreshing. How greedy she was for a taste of this infernal nymph; she licked her fingers clean a moan of ecstasy escaping gale lips. How guttural his set of vocal cords are.

He wriggled from underneath her and scooped her up, tromping back to stalemanes bedroom. With a kick she shut the door behind her, she dropped her on the bed, a flick of the wrist for a silencer and an arcane lock. The bed creaked underneath his popping knees, still dried browns, and maroons from the delicious stains of blood. He lifted the crest of her shirt, kissing down her stomach- nipping and nibbling at the sweet flesh. She sank her teeth into her warm skin, the tang of iron and a cry from her nightly lover. She knew of her sweetness, her reluctance. She was hers to take from.

A fist came to the wizard’s hair, it burned as she tugged gently at his scalp. Her whines and sobs fluttered to her ears. They sounded like sweet music. She lapped at the wound, placing small apologetic kisses to her sides, lips stained with her conquest.

“claim” the not very gale murmured, his tone taking a pinched staccato in focus, “mine.”

He hooked his thumbs into her pants, her hips squirmed slightly, but obliged in his pilgrimage arching gently for better access. Her breaths were hot and heavy, she rested gales head on the teiflings thigh, tracing circles onto her lower abdomen. She watched her chest rise and fall.

His breath felt like cooling velvet on her wet cunt, a whine clawed its way through her throat, nudging her hips up for the others attention. He smirked, not a warm one but a dangerous and hungry one. Gale grumbled again, staring slightly confused and hesitant. Li’ia tilted her head watching him cautiously. He tentatively licked her folds, pulling them apart with his tongue. His nose brushed against her clit, a low hum warming his mouth.

He angled himself so he could lazily grope at her chest, mouth kissing up her public mount to her clit. He latched onto the sensitive bud, sucking at it gently. Another hand for balance found its way to her core, stroking her labia lazily. She shivered at his blunt touch, shifting her hips up to prop a pillow under it to sit more comfortably. His digits prodded her sex, sliding in before bucking the pads of his fingers against a spongy mound. She inhaled sharply, ending in a warm moan. His fingers continued to pump and curl inside of her, the scuff of his beard brushing against her skin. Orin kissed the sides of her thighs, sucking at the skin under her mouth. Her skin was littered with imprints of her teeth and gorgeous flowering bruises. Li’ias grip became tight and steely, almost like the poor girls’ fingers took root in her skin, blunt nails scratching at her scalp. It made her dizzy.

Orin felt her knot break, the spasming of the woman’s hips beneath her the glazed over vision, to the silvery curls stuck to her forehead. Her orgasm was silent and ridged, toes cramped to a curled position heels dragging into the mattress.

“Roll over for me, my sweet.” She licked her fingers clean, helping the struggling teifling about. And finally, oh finally- she could drop the act.

She settled herself behind the static tail of the teifling, long brown hair fading and scattered with platinum blonde. She steadied her voice, clearing her throat to remain as gales.

“So pretty for me….” She hummed, his tones marking her words with affection, “look at you… “she quickly spanked her pretty ass, massaging the red into her cheeks. The sounds of smacks resonated on the hollow walls of the room. With each punctuated smack li’ia hissed and writhed under her. She felt tears dribble down her cheeks, from embarrassment, from pain? She really couldn’t Identify.

Orin ran the length of her cock against her ass, the heat from her member a soothing feeling to the bard’s aching cunt. Her tail curled around orins thigh lightly smacking the flesh of her ass, a grumble coming from her head in the pillow.

She chuckled, in tones gentler and more dulcet than she. “Easy pet, you’ll have me soon enough.” Orin angled her hips, gales skin being peachy, and pink, mottled with stretch marks, scars, and a sea of freckles. The tip of her tail prodded her entrance, she spat in her hand, rubbing the makeshift lube against her lover’s tail. It prodded and slid into her, wiggling gently inside of her. She exhaled relaxing herself at the fullness, re-settling her knees she rubbed the leftover spit in her hands against her hard member, siding her tip against her slick entrance.

With a quick flick of her hips she sheathed to the hilt, drawing a sharp gasp from the woman underneath her, followed by a delicious moan. She was warm as ever, walls fluttering quickly around her. Hand on her hip digging into her flesh, the other clutching at the headboard in front of her. Her ass made a hollow sound as she fucked against her tail, a delightful sting clenching around her. She lowered her hips biting at the tips of her ear, settling her legs into a hopping crouch position. The wizard’s knees she was using popped and screeched as she moved about.

Her hips arched up; her face planted into the cushion beneath her. Her toes curled into odd positions, whining as they locked up. The wet slaps echoed against the bloody bedroom. Her cock pulsed inside of the teifling, hitting the spongy tissue until it felt numb.

“Oh, ye gods- li’ia- “her voice came out higher than she wanted, the mimic of gale slowly faltering, “gods you are so sweet- bhaal below- “a moan rumbled through her chest. Orin folded over teeth, nestled into li’ia’s shoulder, platinum blond hair sticking to her forehead. She felt the bard squeeze down around her cock, her hand found her clit, pinching and squeezing it. A strangled moan came from her mouth, her walls clamped down around her.

“Are you cumming?”  the bhaalist hummed, her hips stuttering slightly, the other hand wrapping around to headlock her. Both of their knees slumped into the mattress, Orin’s knees pinning li’ias claves into the mattress.

Li’ias teeth sank into the pink skin of orins arm, decorated with freckles and hair to mimic the wizard. Drool and spittle ran down her lips as she tried to stifle the pathetic noises ushering themselves out of her mouth. She was quick to nod, quick to please.

“Good, good, good- “she repeated slightly breathless, “come for me my pretty dove, whisper my name like a prayer, worship me with your lips.”

Orin felt a slight loss at the whispers of gale on her lips, the dedication to her lover a man not worthy of her desire. A pathetic man at best. What did she see in him? Did she know she deserved better?

She had little to think about when the bard’s tail curled against a sweet spot. A flash of white struck her vision.  She went limp against her, li’ias hips sank into the bed. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ears and settled into the cleave of her ass, hands clamped around her thighs. She pressed her lips against her puffy folds, lapping at the mess she had made. Her lips held quick and contented sighs, tasting the mix of spent cum.

She withdrew, rubbing small circles into the melted bard’s back. She kissed her cheeks, pulling the covers over her fragile body.

Li’ia slept soundly, her breaths heavy. Her dreams filled with troubling messages.

She woke to an empty room a gift box tied with ribbons and the seal of bhaal sat at the edge of the murder scene. She inspected it, body pricking with goosebumps in the open air. The ribbons were satin, the seal a deep red and shiny wax. The box contained a note… and a ring. Shed recognize it anywhere, a matching set she had gotten for her lover, a twin set with magical effects to notify where the other partner was.

The note was simple, it read:

Dearest, Li’ia.

The steel watch foundry is a good place to start.

We shall cut the strings that work the tyrants’ puppets.

Thank you for indulging me in an evening of debauchery.

I can still taste your sweetness.

Orin the red.

Ps. Your wizard is such a sweet crier, I can see why a woman of your caliber likes him plenty. Her stomach churned, that was not gale.

[slytherinshua]

KISS YOU TO SLEEP

genre. fluff. warnings. kissing. pairing. woojin x fem!reader. wc. 1k. a/n. the woojin brainrot is extreme sdkksjds im going crazy

Woojin had a habit of singing as he walked through the front door. You thought it was probably because of his excitement to be home for the day and back next to you, and that makes you feel all warm inside. Today was no different, and his absent-minded singing woke you up from your slumber, bringing a small smile to your face. You knew he would soon come find where you were sleeping and pepper your face with kisses, as was his routine when he came back after a long day.

Woojin’s absence today had felt heavier than usual. Your decision to listen to his many posted covers on YouTube only made you yearn for his presence and to hear his voice singing into your ear. The day had been exhausting, and you opted to go to bed early instead of waiting up for Woojin. Now you lay under the covers, having no energy to get up or even open your eyes for that matter, so you stayed where you were, just barely awake enough to hear Woojin’s humming as he walked around the house.

“Y/n, I’m home!” He sang, replacing the original lyrics to Baekhyun’s ‘Amusement Park’ as he hung up his coat and took off his shoes. He continued humming until he reached your bedroom.

“Oh- Asleep? I’ll be quiet, then.” He hushed himself with a smile, continuing to hum in a much softer tone to finish the song. You heard him open the dresser drawer and then disappear into the bathroom. When he came back out, he was in much comfier outfit: sweatpants and a hoodie. He joined you on the bed, still careful enough not to disturb you on the basis that you were still sleeping.

You quickly realized that he wasn’t making moves to hug you or give you the kisses you craved to let you “sleep” more, so you rolled over and placed your head on his chest. An uncontrollable smile grew on your face as he wrapped his arms around you. It was a natural reaction that he had. When you were close, he needed to have his arms around you, holding you close to his chest, breathing in the scent of your perfume.

Then commenced the usual routine of kisses. Woojin eagerly pressed soft kisses to your face and lips, and each time you pulled apart from his lips, he would find them again and reconnect in another sweet kiss. Once he seemed satisfied, you settled your head back onto his chest with a laugh.

“Did I wake you up?” He asked, running his fingers back and forth over your back.

“Yeah. I heard you humming when you walked in the door.” You replied, flashing him a smile so he knew that you didn’t mind. You pulled on his hoodie string to pull the hood open more, giving you access to press a gentle kiss to his neck, right beside his Adam's apple.

“Are you taking good care of your throat, baby?” 

He hummed, “I got a kettle for the practice room. Started making the tea you got for me every day.” He told you happily.

“Good.” You kissed his cheek, making him smile. Now that you were in the ideal position (lying on top of Woojin), you were hit with another wave of tiredness, and a yawn escaped past your lips.

“Want me to sing you back to sleep? It’s late.” He pouted, feeling tired himself after the long day. 

You nodded, happy to agree to Woojin’s offer. He often sang to help lull you to sleep— maybe a bit too often, because it was now hard to sleep without it. You had found out the hard way; about a month ago when he had hurt his throat and couldn’t sing, resulting in insomnia for both of you. Since then, you made sure that he was taking proper care of his vocal cords by checking up on him and making him tea when he needed it.

Woojin’s voice was gentle and calming. Almost immediately after he started singing, your eyes felt heavy with drowsiness. You snuggled closer to his chest, pulling the blanket over you both and focusing on your boyfriend’s voice to forget about the long day.

Woojin smiled when he heard your breathing deepen and felt the finger that had been tracing shapes on his hoodie slowly come to a stop. He sang two more songs, even after you had fallen into slumber, enjoying the relaxing moment and every quiet exhale from your mouth. 

He treasured these soft moments with you— the times where he could truly relax from the demands of the day and focus on more pleasant things, like how cute you looked while sleeping. He pressed several kisses to the top of your head before closing his own eyes, welcoming much needed rest.

He was woken up by you kissing his face. A kiss to his cheekbone and then to his temple and forehead. By the time he was awake and giggling at the ticklish feeling, you had made it back around his face to his lips. You paused, hovering above his lips to smile instead. He smiled back and whispered a good morning to you, his voice deep and slightly hoarse from sleep.

You thought he looked the prettiest like this. His hair was messy and his face was bare. His eyes were still tired, but you felt as if they held all the stars in the world. You closed your eyes and pressed your lips to his before you got too distracted with staring at him. The kiss was slow, no urgency in it; it was gentle, the feeling of his soft lips against yours would always be one of the most soothing things you experienced. 

You hoped this didn’t stop anytime soon. Just like you had today, you wanted everyday in the future to start and end with Woojin. Starting with the drowsy love-sick kisses and ending with his sweet voice lulling you to sleep; there was nothing more perfect than that in your mind. You couldn’t ask for more— nor did you want more. Woojin already brought with him a perfectness that you could only hope you completed somehow. But with the way he kissed you so tenderly, you knew he felt the same way.

↳ misc taglist (let's be real, it's more like park jihoon taglist): @yeonjuns-redhair,, @wolfmoonmusic,, @edensgardenn,, @cyberpunksunwoo,, @cosmicwintr

[iamvegorott]

Fluff dapperstache with number 6? I’m yearning for my boys

6. “I don’t care what they think, to me, you are perfect.”

---------

JJ was more than happy with being the ‘quiet Septiceye’. He was comfortable in silence while the others always needed noise. Be it music, videos, TV, or just talking with each other or even to themselves. The Egos outside of the House assumed JJ didn’t have a voice at all since he usually signed at them or projected words inside their heads. 

The Septiceyes and Wilford were the only ones who have heard JJ’s voice. It was a soft voice; weak, gravelly, and sounding like there was something permanently stuck in his throat. His vocal cords were damaged and while it didn’t hurt to speak, he kept it mostly to himself since he feared others speaking negatively about it. 

But sometimes he’d forget where they were.

“I’m thinking we should make an apple and cherry pie,” JJ commented as he looked at the fruit in front of him. He and Wilford were out at a farmer’s market and seeing all of the fresh produce was giving JJ endless ideas. 

“We should make a blueberry one, too,” Wilford said with a grin and a wink, getting JJ to lightly giggle. 

“Did you mean that literally or are you just teasing?” JJ asked with a playful nudge of his elbow.

“Both.” Wilford bumped back with his hip. 

“Mommy, that man’s voice is funny.” A young girl stated as she tugged on a woman’s hand. 

“Sweetie, that’s not polite.” The woman spoke gently to the child. “I’m sorry.” She added to JJ. JJ just smiled and gave a thumbs up, the smile fading after the woman and child walked away. 

“I know that face, gumdrop.” Wilford took hold of JJ’s hand and squeezed it. 

“It’s fine.” JJ’s words weren’t spoken, appearing inside Wilfod’s mind instead. 

“I don’t think it is.” Wilford glanced around and started walking off to get himself and JJ somewhere more private, knowing the other man would appreciate it. He slipped them behind one of the stands, almost having them in a hidden nook between the back of a wooden wall and a wooden fence. “It’s okay to be upset.”

“I’m not. Can we just go back to shopping?” JJ still refused to use his voice, showing his fear of being heard again. 

“If you’re not upset, then why are you using your powers with me when we’re alone?” Wilford watched as that got JJ to pause. 

“Sorry,” JJ whispered, looking down at the ground. “I didn’t want to be heard again.” He confessed his earlier thoughts. 

“Blueberry.” Wilford used his other hand to gently cup JJ’s chin and guide him to tilt his head up. 

“I just want us to enjoy our shopping without comments.” JJ leaned into Wilford’s touch when his palm moved to the side of his face.

“I don’t care what they think, to me, you are perfect.” Wilford rubbed his thumb against JJ’s cheek.

“Wil,” JJ said with an adoring sigh, eyes softening. “You are too sweet sometimes.”

“I am known for having a candy addiction.” Wilford chuckled. 

“Then let’s go get you some sugar.” JJ squeezed Wilford’s hand.

“Let’s~” Wilford grinned and stepped into a kiss, feeling JJ tense up in a moment of surprise before relaxing and leaning into the kiss.

“That’s not what I meant.” 

“I know.”

----------

@bookwormscififan 

Pinterest Prompts List: Link

[lapetiteceinturesworld]

Hi, guys! Fight scene round 2 started 😎

"Is this really what you want?" As if he could not contain himself for a moment longer, Grace recoiled back at the unexpected and temperamental question. Tommy's ferocity matured her surprise into astonishment. The steeliness and implacability that flamed in his face were a devastating combination. "No matter how much I think about it, it seems impossible that you really desire for this. Or is this the life you dreamed for yourself? You dare not sleep for fear that the phone will ring and someine will inform you that something had happened to me, something bad. You have to wait for me until late at night. I couldn't have dinner with you, I couldn't hug you before bed because I knocked the teeth out of a dirty criminal in an alley. A fucker just like me. On top of everything else, I almost left you here, without any answer. You really need this?"

Grace closed her mouth, left open in dismay. When she reopened it, the words were rolling off her lips in a harmonious rhythm, though her tolerance was wearing thin.

"This is the price of being with you, so the answer is thousand times yes. So what if you're late? What if we had a fight? When I saw the blood on your head, the first thing I thought was, thank goodness that's all that happened. Thank God you're alive."

"You had your chance, and you still have it for another life. Dublin is waiting for you back."

On the table, she clenched her fists and clung to what little moderation she had left.

"I don't deny it would certainly be more comfortable. With little excitement, but all the more appreciable calm. But I no longer yearn for that other life. The only thing I long for is to wait for you at night." Why isn't that enough for you? For heaven's sake, what else did you want from me?! Who do you think you are to doubt me? Have I not proved enough? You don't know what I've gone through to be here today! With you. "It's rarely easy, but there's never a time when I wish I'd chosen that other life."

She thought that was the final word, that this absurd topic would be ended here. But Tommy had clearly still not get what he wanted to hear. And there was no denying that he was growing spectacularly frustrated by it.

"Has it never once occurred to you to wish I wasn't who I am? Wish I were someone who was simpler to be with? Someone easier to talk to? Whose hands are not covered in blood? Have you never once wished that I would change?"

"And you?" Grace had nothing left in her hands but fingernails digging into her skin, hand bone tensing painfully, damp heat of anger heating her palms. "Wouldn't you appreciate a woman who didn't see her stepfather's disgusting face in front of her eyes just because you wanted to hold her wrists down? Wouldn't you find it easier to deal with a more obedient, more trainable partner, who wouldn't even think of holding you accountable, but would be grateful that you hang jewels on her wrists and put money in her pocket?"

"No!" Tommy's outburst was as loud as a shout. Grace leaned back in the chair, but by then Tommy had already clomped to the middle of the room. His palm gripped into his hair as he ran it from his temple to the down of his head. Grace's lips narrowed into a tenuous line. She turned in the chair, her gaze following Tommy's agitated movements, pacing the floor barefoot. "Fucking hell!" He spun frantically towards her, looking at her in horrified shock. His shallow, desperate breaths made it seem as if every time the air hit his lungs, it sliced into his chest. "How…" he gasped. "How can you even ask me something like this?"

"And how could you say I wish you would become someone you're not?!" Grace yelled at him, and the force of her rising voice frightened her more than anything else they done to each other today.

"I'm sorry, all right? Fuck, I'm sorry, Grace! Until you asked me that, I had no idea what it must feel like."

Anger could make her vocal cords snap at any moment. She looked away, her eyes colliding with her arm on the table. During her deliberate, short but thorough inhalations and exhalations, she moved her fingers, pressed them against the tabletop. It would have been easy to forget the pinch and sharpness of the four little crescents that left a mark on her skin. Yet Grace clung to this discomfort, focusing on it, as she did on the tingling numbness in her hands. It was an inconceivably vile move on her part, for it solidified into certainty of what Tommy had previously only sinisterly suspected. But she could not for a minute longer endure the style in which he had atrociously interrogated her! And with what he had said… He stamped into her soul.

From behind her she heard Tommy pant rapidly. Why are we doing this?, was all she could think about. They shouldn't be hurting each other like this. This shouldn't be about that. Everything else in their lives could be taken away by pain, but they couldn't let it take this one.

Grace let out a long sigh. She looked back over her shoulder. Her gaze found Tommy immediately, as if there was a compass hidden in her heart with an arrow always pointing in his direction.

"Thomas. Tommy. Come back!"

When Tommy was sitting beside her again, Grace held out her hand. Her finger trailed apologetically and forgivinly along the expressive edge of his cheekbone. Tommy's eyelashes fluttered, as if he tempted to savour the touch with closed eyes.

Inside Grace, the voices of reckoning became enormous, as if each word came to life with an angry hiss. But when she uttered them, they descended softly and in unison from her lips. They followed one another in a gentle interweaving. The soft speech was a mercy to her scratching throat. "I would never want you to be other than yourself. I wouldn't ask you to be less wild or to hold back your ambition. I would never wish you to do anything so contrary to your nature. Be who you are! Freely and independently, because with you I can be who I am too."

[solthepoet]

Farewell Callisto

Chapter 4 done and now it's time for Chapter 5!!

Happy reading!

Tw: This whole story will contain Suicide, SH, Cursing, lots of sadness!

CHAPTER 5: 22.05.XXXX

Callisto’s voice echoed in their shared mind, strong and unwavering.

“Sol. How long will this pretending go on?”

Sol halted in his care for his feet, frowning with a shaking in his body that showed his true frustration with what was about to come.

“I don’t care what you mean to share Cal. This is no longer your decision to ma-”

“But it IS, Sol. It is OUR body. Not just yours, not just mine. It is one I had and gave to you the moment you decided on your name. I swore to myself to stand true and support us both, but this is utter bullshit. Why choose to end it all now, after a small fucking argument? Why after FINALLY finding someone that treats you to your best and helps you through your worst, you decide to do the same mistake Ainar made on us back then? DO you think he would be happy to see you up or down there? That he would be proud of you running off once more? That you decided to be a coward again, just because your dam is finally breaking? HOW FOOLISH CAN YOU EVEN BE?!”

Sol shook stronger now, he collapsed to his knees, hugging his own body in a desperate attempt to regain some control of himself but failed miserably, breathing harder by any second that passed, staring at his own reflection in purest terror. His fingers scratched hard along his arms, bruising what was long healed, aching now to be reopened. His voice shook just as strong, strained already through many nights of tears and panic attacks.

“I KNOW. I know okay? Cal, i- we both have seen all of this right? Can’t you feel my exhaustion as well. All I hear is my parents yelling and that gurgling choking noise that Ainar probably made when dying on OUR SELF MADE SCARF for HIM. DO YOU NOT REALISE I AM SUFFERING AS WELL. FOR FUCKS SAKE CALLISTO DID YOU SEE HOW I HURT AURORA? Did you not come to realise that I can't bear to have her hurt by my cursed poet's tongue ever again? I just want peace, no pain, no whispers, voices, pity and gazes of underestimating people who think they know better. I just want to rest this once. And if that makes me a horrible person, then so shall I be tainted and would still only smile at the thought of dying in at least a bit of colour.”

Callisto Stilled with clenched fists of pearly white, staring at his older self in fear, knowing the truest terrors of their shared yearn for Ainar was giving him such deep survivor’s guilt.

“Sol…Then,Please. If you truly wish to do this, don't go silent. We are a poet after all, aren't we? Please don't let Aurora find your corpse without any knowledge of how you still feel.”

Sol flinched. The bare thought of leaving a letter behind trembled with unspoken memories of his brother, his name, the blood, blood blood BLOOD-

He only realised he had gripped his pocket knife when Callisto let out a sharp breath and that all familiar adrenaline of being truly alive cursed through his veins, as his stomach and arms came to tremble in pretty red ink and he froze.

nothing moved, all was cold and dead silent as Sol’s breath slowly quickend, blood streaming arms shaking more and more as he threw the knife to a tree like it had burned his hand. And maybe it did, or maybe it was Sol himself that had cursed across his skin as tears fell down his cheeks uncaring for how often his blood smeared hands tried to clean it off. He pushed his body into the river, Head underwater as he screamed and screamed, for help, for all this to stop, for pain that was left untreated, for everything being so unfair, for his own cowardness, and for her.

and then he coughed, blood dripping from his throat as his vocal cords were damaged now, breath ragged as he rose his numb face into the air again, his red ink streaming down the long river.

It was silent as he got up, swaying a bit before clumsily walking the way back, becoming faster and faster till he was gasping and running at his full capacity, not caring for his leg, only wishing to write one more poem, one more letter, one last chance of making things right.

One last try

Just this last time, he would dare to let his poet hands speak for his truest heart.

For Aurora.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

-To my dearest North Star.-

I wish to tell you so many things, words that may fit your grace,

but with simple words like these I carry, it seems that I am losing time’s race.

I wish to tell you my tale of my past, to tell you all my soul can carry and hoe i came to love you dearly-

And to the heavens I promise, I still do.

So I digress, a simple poem must suffice my dear,for time is short and my hand is shaking, my words losing their colour by the minute.

[angelsdvsts]

his reaction was everything she ever wanted, his rough voice -- the way he seems to ease, relax as her warm mouth explored his throbbing cock. leah never experienced two people at once, it was almost difficult trying to give them both equal attention. her grip upon jelani's cock tightens at his words, mouth opening wider to allow more of cameron's cock to fit inside -- needing him to be shoved deeper to the point where her vocal cords were fried. pulling him out of her mouth, tongue drags against the length of his shaft, ensuring all of it was coated in her saliva. leah was so memorized by the way ocean blue hues captures her, watching her every move as if she was the only female on the planet.. it made her feel crazy and deep down hopes that this wasn't the last time he wanted to see her on her knees in front of him. slowly, she takes him in her mouth again, tongue swirling as throat opens wider for him to slip through, the saltiness of his pre-cum mixes along with her salvia. tugging of her hair results in soft moans to echo; rumbling against him member. if cameron wanted a good show, then she'll give him one that he'd never forget. one that would make him yearning for more than just one night. getting reluctantly pulled away from the erection wasn't exactly what she wanted, but she was in no position to argue. lips swollen and plump, string of saliva ties her together to his cock, digits immediately went to stroking him. remaining eye contact with her boss, she smiles wickedly, "you sure you won't get jealous, baby? i have a killer mouth.. think you pulled me away too soon because you knew you were so close to cumming down my throat, hm?" there goes that smart mouth of hers again. following command, her gaze turns towards his teammate that inches closer towards her. leah's hues peels away from cameron, to focus her attention upon jelani. leaning in close as warm breath brushes against the head of his cock, "ooh, you'll definitely keep me stuffed alright," without another word, her tongue darts out for a taste before welcoming jelani's engorged member in her inviting mouth. cheeks suction, making it a tighter fit; mouth sliding more of him inside until she hit the base. eyes brick on the verge of tears, yet she remains put; hues lingering over towards cameron, her grip upon his cock tightens; stroking him a bit faster.

CJ's grip tightened in Leah's hair, the strands tangled between his fingers as he watched her with a predatory gaze. That filthy mouth of hers had been running wild all night, but seeing her on her knees, lips parted and eyes filled with hunger, had his restraint hanging by a thread. His jaw clenched as she teased Jelani first, that wicked glimmer in her eyes daring him to react. But when her tongue finally wrapped around the tip of his cock, a low, guttural growl escaped his throat. "Fuck..." He muttered under his breath, hand flexing in her hair to hold her steady. Jelani's grin was downright wicked as he leaned back, hands braced casually on his hips, watching her work his thick cock with a teasing slowness. "Damn, she really was all talk, huh?" He remarked, eyes shifting upwards to meet Cameron's for a moment of shared satisfaction. But the casualness of his stance didn't hide the tension in his muscles, the way his chest rose and fell just a little quicker as her hand moved over him. The wet slide of her spit-coated grip had him throbbing, and the way she switched to Cameron without warning only made his breath hitch. Cameron's eyes stayed locked on hers, refusing to look away as her tongue swirled over him. "That's right," he groaned, his thumb tracing over her flushed cheek, pressing slightly to feel the stretch of her mouth around him. "Knew you'd look good like this." He tugged her hair just enough to make her gasp around him, lips stretching wider. The sensation nearly made his knees buckle, but he held steady, gaze sharpening. "I hope you're ready, 'cause I'm not stopping until you can't talk that fucking shit anymore." The receiver chuckled darkly at CJ's remarks, eyes darting between the two of them. "She's got a hell of a mouth, that's for sure. Might have to test that out for myself once you're done, Cam," he said, his voice slightly strained, yet dripping with anticipation. His hand settled heavily on her head, fingers brushing against Cameron's knuckles as they both held her steady. "Think she's ready to take both of us at once?" The quarterback's grip tightened suddenly, and without warning, he yanked Leah off his cock, a slick pop echoing in the room as her lips left him. "Absolutely. Gotta take turns." He didn't even give her time to recover before his hand tangled deeper in her hair, tilting her head back to force her gaze up to him. His expression was dark and predatory, "Enough teasing," he growled, voice dripping with command. His thumb brushed over her swollen lips, smearing the evidence of her efforts and his pre-cum across them. "You wanna run that mouth? Show me how good you are. Suck Jelani's cock," he ordered, nodding toward his teammate without breaking eye contact. Jelani stepped forward at that, towering over her even more with a smug grin, hand stroking himself slowly as he watched. His dark brown eyes lingered to CJ, who still held her firmly in place, like he wasn't ready to let her out of his grasp just yet. But when the other's hand loosened just enough, Jelani stepped in closer, his tip brushing against her waiting mouth. "Better make it good, sweetheart," Cameron added, thumb pressing down on her tongue before pulling away completely, letting her lean into Jelani. "I wanna watch you take all of him." Jelani chuckled, his hand coming to rest heavy on the back of her head. "Don't worry," he whispered, voice dark and laced with lust. "I'll make sure she's nice and full."

[ditttiii]

gold rush. || kth {m}

⇢ summary: kim taehyung is a walking heartbreak waiting to happen. all narrow eyes and long nose and devilish smirks, he is everyone’s dream. after months of sharing an elevator with the man who makes your heart race until you can scarcely breathe when the chance finally comes; are you willing to risk it all for his touch? 

⇢ genre: porn with feelings, soft smut, angst, is unresolved tension and feelings a genre?

⇢ pairing: kim taehyung x reader

⇢ word count: 4.4k

⇢ rating: explicit / 18+

⇢ theme: strangers to lovers, s2l!au

⇢warning/s: public/elevator sex, exhibitionism, fingering, cunnilingus/oral (female receiving), lots of kissing, hickeys, unprotected sex? reader’s on the pill, swearing, tension and so much of it, unresolved-repressed feelings, taehyung is a certified dingus & reader is hopelessly smitten. 

⇢ a/n: betaed by @yeojaa​ who owns my heart and is the most precious bean ever. 

also have all my virtual, socially distanced cuddles @btsmosphere​ @papillonsgf​ @birbdae​ & @unoriginal-username15432​. if it weren’t for their support this wouldn’t be out today. my gratitude knows no bounds ♡ also big thanks to taylor for the fic title.

banner by @chillingkoo​ & moodboard by @today-we-will-survive​​ their art breathed life into this fic ♡ a belated birthday fic for one mr.kim taehyung & the beautiful @kerikaaria​.  this fic is also my submission for @thebtswritersclub​ january monthly project. 

lastly, i had a lot of fun writing this so i hope you guys enjoy it x 2021 here v go ♡

You wonder when the shame stopped making you hide behind a curtain of messy bed hair. When the smell of a man's cologne on you and a fruity fragrance on him started to feel normal; routine.

 The elevator closes with a 'ping', and your eyes track the numbers as they descend, the warmth of another human, the soft puffs of his breath, warming your shivering, scantily dressed body.

 "What happened to ‘she’s too old for me?’ " You grunt, slipping off your six inches of agony inducing footwear and pushing them to a corner.

 "What happened to you not being jealous?" You can feel his smirk, oozing of self-assured nonchalance and smugness that would seem ugly on anyone but fits like a well-tailored suit on him. From the corner of your eye, you watch as he leans back, hands resting on the metal railing while his tall, lean body slouches lazily, almost invitingly, and you have to force your eyes away from tracing the curves of his pecs. It's a tempting sight, but you aren't about to give him any more ammo to goad you with. As it is, he already knows too much, is far too keen. 

 "Of your sugar mama? I don't think so."

 Taehyung hums but doesn't refute the statement and the silence between you two stretches on. A burning ball of jealousy in your stomach continues to eat away at your peace, and with a clenched jaw, you allow your head to rest against the cool metal of the elevator and pretend that the proximity doesn't affect you. 

 It's always the same between you two, a constant game of tug and war, where one pulls too firmly, and then the other comes tumbling close until one of you comes back to your senses and then it's back to square one. Back to bickering and recounting the previous night’s escapades of half-truths and lies told from kiss-swollen lips and hooded gazes as you try your best to rile the other one up.

 It's stupid. You are in your twenties and this isn't like you. The lying, the pretence that you are still seeing your ex-boyfriend and biting and sucking your own lip until it swells; until you look properly ravished; none of this is you.

 You should have known the day he first stumbled into the elevator with a half-buttoned shirt and bite marks painted over the pale skin of his neck, a satisfied smirk curled on his dark pink lips, that he wasn't good for you. But no, like the absolute fool that you are, you fell for him. Fell knowing full well he wasn't yours to have, that back then you weren't his to have.

 The elevator comes to a stop with a shudder. Your eyes, closed sometime during the descent, snap open and your feet pause when the sight of the closed doors grace you.

 "You stopped the elevator." It's not a question, not when his hand is still hovering over the stop button, head tilted as his eyes stay trained on you.

 "I did." He admits to a question you never asked.

 Biting back a hiss at his insistence on being difficult, you twist on your heels, lips pulled into a smile whose edges sting like shards of a broken glass and parry, "And why did you do that, pray tell?"

 He doesn't answer, just looks at you with that half-lidded gaze and his silence only infuriates you more, makes the back of your neck feel heated as an angry flush rises from your chest all the way up to your cheeks and with a few angry stomps you’re in Taehyung's space, barely a few inches left between you two.

 "God!" You start, and the anger, the jealousy, the ugly ball of insecurity and lust and something you haven't quite found a name for yet all coagulate and rise up your throat, burning your heart in their wake until you are hurting and seething. “I don’t get you, nor do I want to anymore!" The words tumble out, one after another and half thought out but your chest still burns and the ugly ball still feels scorching hot in your throat and you can't bring yourself to stop, to shut up and think. "Stop doing this. Stop flirting with me and stop looking at me with those hooded eyes of yours and for the love of god, do you really need to lick your lip that often? Why don't you carry a lip balm if your lips are that dry, huh?"

 The cross of your eyes is almost painful, but you have started and fuelled by anger and unreciprocated feelings there’s no stopping your steam. "And now this! Stopping the elevator! What the hell is this supposed to mean?" His lips part as if to answer but without waiting for his response, you plow on, "What! Do you actually have an answer? Really? Let's face it; you think I’m some sort of challenge that needs to be conquered. Another notch on your bedpost. You and your stupid smirks and half-lidded eyes and that damn mole on your nose and god, can you just not—"

 The soft pad of his finger on your lips pauses your rant, leaves them parted and your heart hammering while unsaid words clutter the hollow spaces in your throat, tighten around your vocal cords like a noose until they become their own nemesis. 

 "I broke up with her last night," Taehyung says, and from where you are standing so close to him, his breath on your neck, cheeks, lips is too enchanting, too much like something you had hoped and begged and prayed for far too long now. Breathing out harshly you blink yourself back to reality because you must be hearing him wrong. 

  "Huh?"

 His hand slowly comes up to hold your chin, thumb running over your lower lip with a feather-like touch, "I broke up with her last night, went home and came back early because I didn't want to miss you." He says, and your chest feels tight, palms numb and it's only when his hand gently settles over the nape of your neck and you inhale painfully that you realise that you had stopped breathing.

 "Why?" You rasp out. 

  Don't hope. This means nothing. Do not hope. 

 Something twists in your belly, a thread tightens around your heart, and you know, despite it all, that you are hoping. 

 "Why do you think?" He asks instead, and you stifle the sudden desire to bash his head into a wall. 

 "Don't play games with me." 

 A sigh, his breath dancing on your lips and you barely suppress the tingles that burn down your spine, "I'm not. I don't want to, not anymore." The hand resting around your neck curls, fingers caressing the soft skin behind your ear.

 "What do you want then?" Your words are quiet, hope and longing laced into every syllable that you desperately hope to hide but fail. 

 Your heart hammers into your ribs with so much force you are half afraid it will leave them cracked; splintered just like your love for the man who is touching you, holding your entire heart in the palm of his hands while you wait for it to be crushed. Because it will, it's inevitable. Kim Taehyung is a walking heartbreak waiting to happen. All narrow eyes and long nose and devilish smirks, he is too good. Too good for the woman he was with and certainly too good for you. You would be happy if you looked half as good on your wedding day as he regularly does because he is that gorgeous. And unreal, and pretty and it hurts. 

 It hurts because you can never have him and any second now he will push you away and ridicule you for getting flustered so easily and he will never understand, and god it cuts. It tears at you because despite knowing better, you long for him, his touch, his warmth.

 Maybe even his love. But that is one hope you refuse to acknowledge out loud. 

 Your breaths mingle from where you two are standing so close, and part of you aches to reach out, to pull him closer and wrap yourself around him until you can sync the beat of your heart to his, to nestle your face in the crook of his neck and breathe him in, drown in the scent of that spicy cologne that you associate with him and nobody else. Because it's tempting, oh so inviting and he is so so close.

 You could touch his chest, caress the skin peeking from in between the dip of his low neck shirt and it would be easy, he would let you, you know that too but what about after? How do you come back from holding someone your soul is in love with and then pretend that being with them for one night was enough? How does your hope keep living on in the name of that fragment of love? His arms your shelter for one night and then you are back to being strangers, sharing elevators and bumping into each other at the grocery store, pretending all the while that you do not yearn to visit that one night you spent together whenever your head hits the pillow? 

 "I..." Taehyung struggles, chews the words before his lips form them because this is his last chance and if he loses you now, it's over; he knows that too. The pair of you are done playing cat and mouse. 

 "I know my words don't hold a whole lot of value. I could promise you things, but you won't believe me and that's fair. I get it." He admits, another hand coming up until your face is cradled in his open palms, fingers slipping behind the edges of your ears and you will yourself to not drop your gaze, to look into his eyes and search for...love? Honesty? You wish you could say you know what it is that you are hunting for, but held so close all you can think about is the chestnut brown of his eyes, the black that rims them, the high arched brows and the thin, smooth lips and that mole; that mole that you can only see when you are pressed close, a hair's breadth of space between you two. 

 "But...?" You ask, pray, and yet again, against your better judgement hope.

 "But I love you." He confesses, voice forever rich and deep and you feel the hum of his baritone from where your chest is still pulled tight to his. "My love for you is unlike any I have ever known, and it scared me; it still scares me because I don't know. I don't know what I will do if I ever lose you. I care too much, I—" His grip on you tightens and instinctively your hands snake around his waist, clenching the soft cotton of his shirt, nails biting into your skin as his words thread your hopelessly lovesick heart back together; piece by piece.

 "I love you too much." Taehyung whispers and the ice around your heart thaws, his raw confession lighting a fire in your nerves until you are left buzzing from the high of his admission. "Trust me. Just this once. Please." He is vulnerable in his plea, and for the first time you wonder if you had characterised him wrong. Boxed and stored him like a gift on a shelf without bothering to look underneath the paper wrapping.

 Taehyung doesn't have to beg, he doesn't have to try and persuade anyone, and for all the gibes you threw his way, all the daggered words about him dating only for money, you didn't truly believe any of them. Sure, the woman he had been with for the last few months was older (a voice in your head whispers wiser), but that wasn't because she was, as you would often insist, his 'sugar mama', but instead because their interests aligned. Kim Taehyung is a man of taste, whether it be his fondness for a violin's trill, fascination with modern art, or his love for jazz music. He is an enigma and with no small amount of embarrassment you think back to all the times you have bought a book after he made a passing comment on it, searched the pages and the characters to find some semblance of him.

 Maybe you are pathetic, perhaps you are far too infatuated with this man for it to be healthy. Just maybe...

 "No," Taehyung commands, his voice so determined you’re snapped back to the present, head thrown out of the haze your wandering thoughts had created.

 Seeing your obscure expression and strayed eyes (look away because you can't acknowledge how much he matters), he pushes, one hand sliding down to grip your chin and urge you to look him in the eye. "Don't." 

 Maybe he sees something in your eyes, spots your hidden insecurities, reads you like an open book and dog-ears the pages that hold your weakness. 

 "Don't what?" You deflect, gaze drifting away again as you pretend to not know what he means but secretly long for him to keep pushing, to keep trying—your denial’s a facade to hide all your pleas. 

 "Don't do this to me. To us."  

 "You'll hurt me." You protest, a half-hearted attempt at trying to protect your already doomed heart even as your fingers clench tighter, pull him closer.

 "No, I won't." He speaks with certainty that you don't wholly believe but fuelled by far too much love and longing, you don't protest any further and instead toe closer, rise higher, and breathe in the shaky exhale he lets out when your lips skim the sharp curve of his jaw. 

 "I've wanted this for so long." Unadulterated desire courses through your veins at his admission. Even if Taehyung is lying, even if he leaves you stranded after today, you'll live. You'll live on the high of this moment, the memory of his skin under your touch, the crisp of the cotton draped over his lean torso. 

 It's easier to let go and surrender yourself, easier to lay yourself bare because you have already come too far and there is no protecting yourself anymore—your heart is now his to do with.

 Your hands twine around his waist, slide over the vast expanse of his back like he is yours; as though if you try hard enough, you'll leave an imprint, a sign that he belongs to you. Mark him for the rest of eternity and brand him with your name on his heart. 

 Kissing him is easy, the slight ache of staying on your tippy-toes going by unregistered as you get lost in the sensation of his lips, his sighs on your chin, the tickle of his lashes against the high curve of your cheek. 

 The cradle of his palms around your face is gentle, almost careful, as though you are a porcelain doll and he is afraid one harsh move will leave you splintered. Chest tight, you push down the last remaining traces of hesitation clinging inside your throat and twist to catch his lips instead, licking a long strip from the soft cleft of his chin over to his parted lips, dip into the hollow of his mouth and slide over the soft flesh on the inside before you catch his upper lip in between yours and suck.

 His responding groan has you clenching your thighs and you break the kiss, breathing in to replenish the oxygen that doesn't seem as important when his lips are on yours. When your gaze catches his, for once you don't look away, don't force yourself to stop from swimming in the beautiful, clear pool of his eyes.

 "I love you too." Your admission is quiet, more a careful whisper than anything else, as though any louder and you'll break this spell and things will go back to the way they were. He will come to his senses and realise he doesn't love you after all and then you'll go back to being a pining, lovesick fool, only this time with a broken heart and no hope to cling to.

 His eyes grow soft—gentle in the curve of two crescent moons, and you smile your first real smile, the edges twitching and pulling into a gentle grin before you can bite it down and the answering smile that Taehyung rewards you with has your heart squeezing almost painfully inside your chest.

 "Yeah?" He asks as though he already knows the answer but just wants to hear you say it again, profess your love for him again and you do. You say it again and again, press your lips over every inch of his face and emboss the words onto the smooth, unblemished skin.

 Taking in a shuddering breath, you answer from around the suspended ball of disbelief and love in your throat. "Yeah." 

 When the clothes start coming off it’s a gentle, slow affair, the spaces in between filled with tender touches curious to explore the skin that they had desired for so long and open-mouthed kisses pressing promises of forever and happily ever after onto the naked expanse, leaving goosebumps in their wake.  

 Legs twined around his waist like ivy, you arch off the floor. A tug of your hand and his shirt slips low, and then your mouth is pressing warm, wet, kisses, tongue slipping out and desperately tasting his skin, his sweat— him. You lean back and then he's on you, low, low, low until his lips are close enough to skim the edges of your panties and you buckle, arch and push without meaning to as you ache for relief only he can provide. 

 "You are beautiful. So so beautiful. The most beautiful woman I have ever seen." 

 His words are rough, less speech and more growl as he pushes his head closer to your soaking heat and inhales. "Fuck." 

 Breathes turning to hitches, words into gasps, you can scarcely keep your eyes open when he runs a long, slim finger through your folds and circles your wet opening before your walls are pulsing around him, sucking and pulling the finger in as deep as it will go. One and two then three, your cunt can't have enough of his fingers, his heat and him and oh— 

 His lips are velvet against your clit, your body a molten mass of gold moulding itself around his fingers, your sanity and restraint slipping and dripping down onto the carpeted floor from in between the spaces. With the last left strength, you prop yourself onto your elbows and the sight of Taehyung's mouth on your sex is almost enough to send you slipping back down again. His tongue laves across your folds with the desperation of a man parched, caressing every fold, greedily licking away your dripping arousal and moaning out obscenities too vulgar for how early the day is. 

 When you come, it's with a cry that sounds too animalistic to be yours. One that comes from your chest and leaves your back arched like the ends of a boomerang. "Good?" He asks with glistening lips, and you wanna scream, hysterical in your pitch— good? Is there anything better that exists in this world than his lips on you making you come? Again and again, until you can no longer stand the sensitivity? 

 But instead of screaming, or shaking him by his shoulders until it gets through his head, you reply with a spent nod and let your elbows slip. This is what being eaten out by Kim Taehyung feels like. The pleasure coursing through your veins is something far more potent than any you have ever felt before. The blood in your veins thrumming, almost sizzling under the thin layer of your skin. 

 He presses his forehead to yours, rests to catch his breath and with every shuddery inhale you breathe your arousal in, a swipe of your tongue across his glistening lips, and then you can taste it too. It tastes of nothing and yet everything. Coming from his lips, it tastes of what your dreams are built from, like liquified recklessness and yearning and above all —Taehyung. 

 It tastes of him and his smirks and all the kisses you couldn't have and all the kisses you now hope for. 

 His fingers are gentle when they tuck your hair, eyes bright behind the curtain of messy, ink-black strands, "There's a law somewhere that says when you love someone with all your heart, you are unavoidably loved by them as well. Amor ch'a null'amato amar perdona." 

 Your eyes search his, frantically rove all over his face, search the lines under his eyes, pause at the small mole on his nose, and then stop at the sight of the one on his lower lip, the one that your eyes would always drift to every time he'd smirk or grin in the past. Now he's smiling, lips stretched into a soft boxy curve, the mole evident against the edge and you raise a trembling hand, run your thumb across it. Cup his face with both your hands until your vision blurs and then your lips are on his. Locking and licking and your mouth is a leaking faucet of I love you's, hands working to the back of his head and getting lost in those perfectly long, wavy strands. 

 You hope this is the real thing when you wildly take off your dress, rip off his shirt unmindful of the last few buttons that clatter to the floor and undress until the both of you are as bare as you were the day you were born.

 The steel railing is startlingly cold against your rear but before you can wince Taehyung's large hands are on your waist, pulling you closer until all that's on your mind is the feel of him, hard and hot against your dripping heat. His mouth is on your breast, lips sucking marks into the flesh and tying you to him, leaving traces of his presence behind until you can no longer differentiate the ache in your heart from the burn in your belly. 

 Somehow through the haze of want and compulsive need, you collect yourself enough to tell him you're on the pill when he remembers the lack of protection in his wallet, and then he's inside you. The thrust inside is fluid, and you are moaning, keening at your wetness, at how long he is, at how unbearably, entirely full you are. 

 Your name falls from his lips like a prayer, like the last words of a man dying an untimely death, desperate and hurried and like if he takes a second too long he might never get the chance again. The scratch of your nails against his back must hurt, the grip of your heels around his sides must be painful, and still you can't bring yourself to let up; to let go. 

 The air inside becomes humid, reeks of sex and sweat and everything that shouldn't seem so right, and yet does. 

 You come first, hit your peak and crash through it like a ship in a torrential sea, hot and volatile and like something vital that you'll retain even in the afterlife. Taehyung–sweet, sweet Taehyung – helps you ride it out, makes your body sing with the honed practice of a pianist who has spent more decades playing than he can recall. His tongue is on your neck, stroking that one sensitive spot in the hollow of your clavicle while his hand brushes your clit, builds the pleasure and lets it drift, unhurried and soft until you are crying from the overwhelming rightness of it. 

 With a shudder, you finally push his hand away from your quivering heat and bring it to your lips, kiss the bony knuckles and let it rest on your thigh from where he wraps it tight around your waist and drives to chase his own high. 

��Sated you watch Taehyung, catalogue all the features that you had never seen before but up close can. Just in case—just. File them all in a part of your heart where only he resides, a piece you will always come back to, regardless of if the man in your arms chooses to stay or not. You will be selfish with these memories, hoard and treasure them in secrecy until the day you can look back upon them with nothing more than nostalgic fondness. 

 The appearance of a deep furrow on his forehead, between those long arched brows and the breaking rhythm of his thrusts, alerts you to how close he is and you clench. Clench with all the love and devotion you nurture in your heart and hope that somehow it will be enough. If not forever, then at least until you can have your fill, until you can love him for a life's worth and live off on those memories. Live on them like a late mother's half-finished perfume bottle that you take out and sniff on your sorriest days, a push strong enough to keep you going. 

 One more day, then one more and then just one more until you can finally meet him in the afterlife, old and having done all that you had been sent to do. Except for love. You doubt you can ever love like this again. 

 Kissing him after feels like the best kind of heartbreak because you know, somewhere deep in your gut where you house your intuition and insecurities, you know this won't last. 

 Yet you wouldn't take back anything. Your lips form words on Taehyung's shoulder 'i love you so much. i always will', and you tighten your arms around his waist. Anchor him to the present and pray that the defence will be strong enough to keep him with you for a little while more. 

 Just a little.

a/n: the end is up to your interpretation, you are free to imagine whatever end you’d have liked to see. If you enjoyed reading this please let me know through comments, reblogs, tags or asks. the feedback makes me insanely happy and i love hearing from you guys ♡

[kyuus4ku]

ryley bae i have no idea if reqs are open or not so feel free to 100% ignore this 🙏

how about a scenario where akutagawa is sick and has a fever and reader takes care of him? him being vulnerable and hesitant but still trusts the reader to wipe his forehead or give him medicine…aku is sensitive to physical touch but lets the reader touch him…i absolutely adore how you capture vulnerability when you write about the characters <33

AGAIN, VERY SORRY IF REQS ARENT OPEN AHAJZJ ILY TAKE CARE 💕

𝗳𝗿𝗮𝗴𝗺𝗲𝗻𝘁𝘀

akutagawa ryunosuke

genre: scenario ; fluff

warnings: none

word count: 2K

a/n: RAI MY BELOVED <3 tysm for ur support😞♥️ yk i've actually been meaning to write for aku for some time now, and your req made me so happy :") aku is a really hard character to write for, but i tried my best, and i really hope you like it😼 take care <3

The morning was bleak. It was gloomy... it was... blank.

Akutagawa didn't know how to describe it— the early hours of the day were usually saturated with tranquility and peace which made getting out of bed a little less overwhelming.

For Akutagawa, it was quite the opposite.

The way everything was so still and calm made him yearn for his soul to be vaporised into nothingness. The fleeting hours of the morning reminded him of how void of meaning the course of life truly was— life always moved forwards, it never rewinded for you to grab on and catch up.

But still, there was a paradoxical companion living across that melancholy, and that was rage.

He wanted to watch the world burn, and he didn't care if he was burned along with it. The unquenchable flame seated deep in his heart made him dream of the impossible: to bring the world to ruins because of how the world effectuated his own soul's self-destruction.

Maybe he just needed coffee.

He threw his legs over the edge of bed, but abstained from getting up because of the evident sharp twinges of pain rooted in his muscles. His throat felt sore, and his head was burdened with a dull, nagging ache.

The cold air enveloped him in discomfort, inducing him to wear a hoodie over his shirt. He sighed— he didn't like being physically impaired. With a low grumble of curses, he got up, a little too fast, and sat back down again.

He looked at the other side of the bed to find it empty. He wondered if you had gone to work without saying goodbye— he never really liked leaving you out of his sight unless he was sure you were safe.

He checked the time— it was 8:46am. Rubbing his eyes in fatigue, he buried his face in his hands and sighed. He had never overslept for work before, but for some reason, he was too tired to care.

It wasn't like him to be this careless, but still, he wished he had slept earlier last night— he was too caught up in his head, and the hours flew past as quick as the midnight thoughts infiltrated his peace of mind.

Though, he remembered the way the obscure sound of your steady breathing next to him calmed his restless mind a little, enabling him to squeeze in a few hours of sleep to sustain him.

Nevertheless, this wasn't like him at all, and a bitter sword of rue was about to crack open his skull if he weren't distracted by the sound of the bedroom door opening.

"Morning~" your quiet voice cooed from the doorway, making his vexatious mood dial down by a few degrees.

He didn't know what was embedded in your vocal cords— your voice was like honey. It was mild and sweet, and it never did anything to hurt him, even if the two of you were arguing— it never bit back in retaliation, and it never even increased in volume to inflict any form of harm on him.

He turned around and met your silhouette— he wished you'd stop stealing his shirts, but never said it, because he thought you looked pretty nice in them.

"Why aren't you at work?" he said in a hoarse voice, massaging his throat as it ached in inflammation.

"It's Sunday," you stated. At this, you walked over and knelt in front of him, lips curving into an endearing smile. You discerned the dark shadows underneath his eyes, and saw that his lips were a little dry.

"Uh oh~ somebody's sick," you teased casually, raising your hand toward his forehead.

"May I?" you asked before letting the back of your hand touch his temple. He didn't respond; instead, he reluctantly leaned forward so that his forehead made contact with your touch. This was quite different from what you were used to back when you two weren't that familiar with each other.

If you looked back at the times you tried to comfort him in the past— whether it was simply by interlacing your fingers into his, or pressing a soft kiss against the back of his hand— oftentimes, you could see that he fell apart at your touch.

His eyes would simultaneously gleam with panic and relief— it was like his heart exploded into a million fragments and then fixed itself back again all at the same time.

Love conveyed through a human's touch was simply unorthodox to the boy who was moulded by words of aspersions and acts of violence. He was more afraid of getting attached to a human being than death itself.

But to your contentment, he got over his fear. No, hold on, that wasn't the right word... perhaps it was the state of being inexperienced with something to the point of indispensable curiosity.

Deep down, he wanted to feel it— even if it ruined him.

Gradually, it became easier to get over the wall of hesitance, yet he never failed to shatter under the pressure of the thoughts which asked 'what if this was the last time I ever feel this way?'

That would ruin him for good.

Yet in your eyes, there was promise. They promised to watch over him and keep him safe, and also to show him parts of the soul he had never himself witnessed nor experienced.

Meaning to say: he trusted you because you gave him a reason to.

"You hungry? I could make some soup for you-" he crinkled up his nose and sneezed before you could finish your sentence. You couldn't help but giggle, leaning forward to take his face in your hands to kiss him on the forehead. Of course you couldn't tell if it was just the fever, but you felt his cheeks grow somewhat warmer under your touch as he refused to make eye-contact with you.

"I'm guessing it would be useless to tell you to stay in bed?" you asked sarcastically, receiving a curt nod in response.

"You can never sit still," you held the back of your neck and sighed dramatically, staring at him with eyes which implored him to compromise his principles and sleep in. He still refused.

Realising it was useless to fight a losing battle, you took his hand and led him out of the room into the kitchen, where he sat right at the dining table with his head buried in his arms.

"This was your fault," he whined in a low voice, "You took me to that fun fair yesterday. It wasn't fun— the crowd must've made me sick."

"I was just trying to get you interested in other activities," you reasoned, bracing yourself for his witty comeback.

"Life in itself is uninteresting," he uttered rigidly. Though time and time again, just like this precise moment, he couldn't help but wonder why you never got bored of him.

You could only chuckle in response as you bustled about the kitchen for ingredients, silently conjuring up a recipe in your mind for the soup you promised to make him. It wasn't long before you found yourself seated next to him with his meal ready. You poked his rib softly and found that he had fallen asleep at the table by accident.

"Five more minutes," he mumbled in a dopey tone.

"Eat first, then go back to sleep," you ordered. He grumbled incoherently and obeyed, sitting up straight to find the bowl of soup in front of him.

"Now I really regret taking you to the fun fair," you chortled as he stared at the soup in daze.

"Told you so," he muttered moodily, grabbing the spoon and stirring its contents. You noticed his hands shaking as he did, and dragged the bowl away from him, stealthily stealing the spoon, too. He stared at you in bewilderment as you carried a spoonful of soup to his mouth, at which he tilted his head back slightly to flounder out words which, if pieced together properly, sounded like 'What the hell are you doing?'

"Trying to feed you, idiot," you expressed tenderly. He squinted his eyes, and decided it was best not to argue with you. After contemplating life, death, and the like, he opened his mouth and tasted some.

"Is it good?" you asked promptly.

"Mmhm," he nodded, trying to get his head around what tasted like drops of heaven. He had just realised he was starving, and now that you had caught his full attention, he shifted his body toward you and crossed his legs on the chair.

"Have you eaten?" he broke the silence which temporarily deluged the atmosphere.

"No, I haven't. Once you get to bed, I will," you replied, rather quietly, because he had the tendency to get quite agitated with the way you failed to take care of yourself sometimes. It was too early for his lectures.

Instead of a verbal response of annoyance, he snatched the bowl of soup from your hands, and having regained his strength by a small degree, held up a serving to your mouth. You rolled your eyes and complied, yet it didn't stop there.

"Akutagawa, this is your food," you argued, but he ignored you. Then you thought of a better justification.

"You do know that I might get sick since we're sharing the same spoon, right?" you tilted your head, smirking charmingly as his face fell, a shadow of realisation tainting his already pale skin. He gave you back the bowl in defeat, and soon enough, he was done with his meal.

The two of you were in the bedroom after a while, and after bickering for about 7 solid minutes, he let you give him medicine, which made him a little too drowsy for him to throw himself into the unforgiving attitude of 'I-can't-believe-I-let-you-give-me-cough-syrup.'

You tucked him into bed and laid right next to him with your head propped up against your hand. His eyes fluttered in exhaustion, yet he tried to keep them open as long as you were there.

"Get some rest, Ryuu," you laced your fingers into his hair, planting a soft kiss against his cheekbone as he frowned in thought. He had something on his mind, and was too groggy to hold it back from escaping his tongue.

"Why do you do all this?" he asked, looking at you with eyes you had never before properly comprehended. They were usually blank— blasé to the intricate emotions of this life or rather, so deeply infused with what every other human endured to the point of resisting any temptation to actually feel in the first place.

This time, they sparkled in gratitude he never showed, but usually meant.

"Don't get sappy with me now," you whispered, grinning, "It'd be embarrassing to know that you're shameless with expressive affection when you're drunk with cough syrup."

"I don't understand a word you're saying," he murmured in reply, closing his eyes finally. A lighthearted laugh escaped your lips as you nestled up against his neck.

"You're gonna get sick, too," he put out.

"Take care of me when I am then," you replied simply, laying your hand on his chest and letting his scent engulf your being, your eyelids eventually losing its strength to stay open. You felt his hand wrap around you to bring you closer.

In a few days, you did end up getting sick just when he had fully recovered, and he took care of you as best he could.

Part of you wished more people saw what you saw when it came to him, but realised that his exclusive acts of care toward you were to be treasured, not shared, because you were the only person he trusted not to render his spirit into pieces and ultimately discard.

Though, if tearing him apart meant unveiling parts of him which he kept reserved and isolated from the rest of the world, you had done it, and he counted his lucky stars each day knowing that you stayed by his side to help him put himself back together.

[my2phetaliaheadcanons]

Can I ask the 2p allies and the 2p axis, separately to each of them, reacting to a love confession from a close country with whom they recently developed feelings but did not yet confess because they feared she would reject them as she was too good a girl for them? ❤️

“I love you.” That was all it took to change his world.

France – François stood there. He couldn’t have heard that right, did they really just confess to him?

He is confused. François is a firm believer that you often get someone at a similar level to you in relationships. An example of this is wanting to be with someone active, for the relationship to work you have to either already by at that level or work toward that level of fitness. So, to have perfection not only acknowledge him, but like him back causes a second or two of him blue screening.

After his blue screening, François will tell her how he feels. His words will be kept simple but will feel poetic. He will also not allow her to leave his side until a time and day is set for their first date.

America – Allen smiled, it wasn’t the overconfident smirk or the wide predator’s grin he usually showed. It was a genuine smile big and full of hope.

For Allen, in this moment the world felt bright and colorful. The sounds that were once so loud became quiet and the only beings to exist were the two of them. He was happy and this level of purity was not something he had felt in a long time.

Since this relationship is with someone that Allen feels like would reject him, he would feel his ego grow. Don’t get me wrong, he would be amazing and happy, but it would boost his ego. It was not only a sign your love was meant to be, but that he was also irresistible.

Allen would take her on a date that very hour. It would be something informal like dinner at a diner. They would talk for a while and enjoy each other’s presence.

Canada – Matt’s hand came to cover his face. Looking closely, one could see the blush covering his cheeks as he laughed.

Laughing may seem like a weird reaction, but it is one way Matt shows feelings of relief and joy. He had never expected to end up with this cutie and for her to confess first, that isn’t very manly of him. In his mind, he would have imagined various different scenarios where he finally let this fear go and manned up. Many of them involved him winning her heart in a fight or competition. Though, he was not upset with this.

Matt would take a note out of François’ book and plan a date with her, but he would treat her to something before the date. If they had a meeting before the date, he would bring a small gift for her to the meeting and would work extra hard to be chivalrous.

England – Oliver looked stumped for a moment, before asking if it was heartfelt. Her reply of a confirmation sent Oliver launching into her arms.

Since Oliver works in the realm of emotional manipulation, he would do his best to certain that emotions like love were actually felt by the woman he yearned for. He would accept the words after double checking and be willing to show he love for her openly. After a day or two past connections would resurface, and he would be paranoid about it. Though, if she stays true in both word and deed, Oliver would do all he could to make up for his odd behavior.

Being the nation known for chivalry, he will fall right into the boyfriend role. Opening doors, carrying things for you, and coming up with amazing dates would be his forte.

Russia – Viktor’s body relaxed when he registered the words that came from her mouth. A small smile graced his features as he gently pulled her close.

This man of tradition would feel both relief and agitation. His relief in that she felt the same, while agitation that he failed to notice her pining. Viktor would tell himself that he would have to make up for his lack of attention. This would mean taking extra care to the needs of his snowflake. After all a good man does not leave his woman wanting.

Viktor would surprise her with a date a couple days after the confession. He during the time in between he would talk with her nearest kin and ensure that they know she is in good hands and that he wants the same thing has them, her happiness.

China – Jin could feel his eyes water as he smiled. He was not this blessed often and he would not take this chance for guaranteed.

It had been so long since Jin could say that a person made him happy. The last few decades, joy had come in fleeting bursts from worldly pleasures and had left him searching. Until she walked in, but the difference between them felt like canyons that Jin could never cross. She was too good, pure, and precious. While Jin walked along the deranged and dirt of the earth.

When he realized the her words were true, Jin’s tears flowed. Despite their differences, he always hoped they would be like the love stories that are so common. Lovers from different worlds that end up creating a beauty all their own.

Jin would be determined to make this relationship work. Right from the get-go he would be ready to change habits in his life to ensure that he could stay with his light.

Italy – Luciano had felt the woman of his dreams was above his station. An impossible dream meant to be indulged in the quiet hours of the morning, and yet here it was. His fantasy becoming a reality with the bright rays of the morning light. Luciano was quick to capture her lips within his own, almost as a way for him to confirm that this was not a dream.

Luciano may be smoother than butter, but even he can catch feelings. Wanting for someone that he believes that he could never have is torture. He never meant for his heart to be caught and now that it was, he had been fantasizing about them. Their words caught him off guard, it made him wonder if he was still home, lost in the throws of the land of dreams.

The kiss would not last long, but the break wouldn’t either. With a confirmation of reality, Luciano will turn up the charm and continue the kisses.

Romano – Fabrizio didn’t register that he yelled out a yes until he heard her melodious giggles. He blushed and tried to recover from his outburst, but he failed as he joined her in a chorus of laughter.

This drama king’s scream would cause the birds to panic and the rabbits to run. As much as he loves her and has gotten to know her, he would be shocked by her confession. Her purity would make him doubt that he had any chance with her. So, before the confession, he was content to just be with her.

After confession, Fabrizio would make her his number one model and do all he can to make her even more beautiful. He would love her natural beauty, obviously, but to be given the opportunity to make his angel more lustrous than the moon would be something he could never turn down.

Germany – Without a second thought Luther kissed her. He had been wanting this for so long and why not celebrate.

Luther would have been flirting around to get his mind off his sweetheart. His heart would ache because of the dark thoughts telling him, he had no chance. It would have lead to him feeling empty and tried. He was shocked when she confessed, because he thought he didn’t deserve her. He flirted with others, but he guessed she saw through him.

In the same moment he was shocked, he reacted. He put all his longing and happiness into that kiss. Luther wanted her to know that he was hers and that she would get everything he had to offer.

Luther would not leave her that night. He would spend all the time he had with her, talking about how happy he was they were together. How sorry and stupid he was for flirting with others in front of her. They would share laughs and end the night cuddling.

Prussia – Wilhelm nodded. He wasn’t sure why, but he could not form the words to say, “me too.” Though judging by her smile, Wilhelm guessed that she understood too.

Though quiet, Wilhelm can be further shocked into silence. The phrase “I love you” was one he rarely even heard between him and his family. To hear it from this angel, it caused his vocal cords to seize. He wanted nothing more than to offer prayers of gratitude to his God. Despite his fallen state, and her purity, Wilhelm had been blessed with her love.

Wilhelm would not be able to talk for a bit after. He would be so happy and allow his lover to do all the talking. Once he could control his vocal cords, Wilhelm would ask if it would be okay to take her out for a date. With the start of their courtship assured, Wilhelm would then bask in her presence.

Japan – Kurai may not have smiled, but there was something in his eyes and his posture that showed joy.

Kurai knew that he had blood staining his hands, and he did not want to tarnish his blossom. It would bring him shame to even think about taking her light and turning it dark. Yet, Kurai could not stop his mind from wondering what her lips felt like and what she was like in her most tender moments. Their distance hurt, but he could only hope of one day gaining the confidence to over come it.

With her confession Kurai felt a weight leave his shoulders. Maybe he could find joy in this life. Maybe it came from falling in love with her. Though he doesn’t show much emotion, Kurai shows it in actions. He will hold her hand so tenderly in that moment and look upon her with eyes full of love.

[timid-warrior]

Eren kept reigning his punches down. There was not much he could do other than this. He was tempted to transform and eat Bertholdt, but that would likely not go over well with the guards and the Survey Corps at all. They needed the colossal titan. He knew that. Armin, his mom, so many others. Dead because of Bertholdt Hoover. Hatred filled his eyes as he continued to reign his fists down on Bertholdt from above. He was so angry, he could hardly see straight. Why god damn it!?! Why am I so valuable!?! Why is Bertholdt here!?! Is Reiner somewhere nearby? Eren's thoughts raced as he continued to punch Bertholdt, surprised he had busted Bertholdt open yet or made him somehow not transform. He paused and looked around at the crowd that was scattering. No other hooded people, no way Reiner would risk going to the underground to transform and risk killing Bertholdt, so the duo was completely alone. This was not something he expected, but he resumed his punching attack realizing he was in no immediate danger of another ride in Reiner's mouth while he was trying to lose and take down Bert, good. He kept throwing his fists down at him with a smirk on his face as he kept going down to town while he was continuing to destroy these guy, he would even want this guy to finally fall unconscious. "You are really just taking this huh? Are you a glutton for punishment!?!" Eren demanded to know as he started to reign down even harder with a snicker. "What's wrong? Don't have the balls to do what is needed to catch me? I know you can transform without the explosion, I have seen you do so three times before." He laughed as he kept going. This was pathetic. Bertholdt was doing nothing to achieve his goal. The mighty colossal titan, not able to fight back against him as he continued to pulverize this shifter. "Come on. You can do it, capture me." He laughed mechanically, increasing the strength of his punches as he kept punching him. This was almost too even. "This is almost too easy." He snickered as he kept going, having so much fun here.

「♠ ⸥ ⎯ Blood trickled down his sore throat; the taste of it made his stomach turn. The assault on his face cracked his cheekbones, broke his nose, and bruised the muscle tissue beneath his skin. Despite all the pain, he was unable to do anything else but stare at a distant point past Eren’s head.

The buildings and market stalls seemed so small all of a sudden—so far, far away from his position on the ground. Funny, there was a small crack on the wooden frame of a stall selling knick-knacks, something he would never have spotted if the other hadn’t swept him off his feet. Why was he thinking about something so insignificant? Eren was trying his best to force a last breath out of his lungs with his fists, and all his brain could focus on was that. A desperate laugh escaped him, which sounded more like a shrill whine due to his crushed vocal cords.

Electricity rushed along his muscles, calling for the Colossal Titan to appear; the air around them charged—yet Bertholdt throttled the urge to shift, the instinct to heal his injuries. Any sensation in his face had vanished a long time ago, the pain something he only vaguely took notice of—a well-known feeling. Eren’s knuckles felt like the rough soles of Marleyan soldiers, which reminded the devilspawn of his place in this forsaken world—beneath them, face-down in the dirt. His chubby cheeks swollen; blood, tears, and spit mixing on the ground as another kick hit his already bruised ribs. Bertholdt wanted the pain to stop, yearned to flee the beating, but his hands were bound, unable to escape this situation—for this was the place he was meant to be.

"You are really just taking this huh? Are you a glutton for punishment!?!"

Eren’s voice interrupted the memory. No, he wasn’t like Reiner. His day didn’t start with self-hatred, nor did it end with suicidal thoughts, continually on the run from his regrets. Bertholdt wasn’t allowed to repent for his sins—it would be selfish, insincere; since he had never chosen to commit those atrocities. Marley had placed the noose over his neck, had designated this burden for him. No, he wasn’t like Reiner. He had never had the freedom to choose to become a monster, and because of that, people got hurt. Too many of his loved ones had suffered because of his lack of agency. That was over now.

The tales Armin had shared about their childhood always pictured Eren as a ruffian, never shying away from a brawl and never giving up, despite how many times he had been beaten down by the older kids. A total hothead, constantly losing—the cuts and scratches would heal, and Eren would pick another fight again. Another area where their lives had been vastly different: Bertholdt had never had the luxury to lose a fight. No one gave a damn if some filthy devilchild got shot in the trenches or beaten to death for simply existing.

Green eyes met—one filled with hatred, the other overcome with deadly terror—resembling an animal backed into a corner. ‘Scratch. Bite. Defend yourself. Free yourself. Survive.’ Bertholdt heard himself yell in his head and began to lash out. It definitely wasn’t a pretty sight; Magath would be so disappointed in him, but it worked. Eren’s weight shifted a little as his fingers swiped at his eyes and mouth, clawing at anything he could reach, his legs struck the other’s body, and his muscles coiled to push the enemy off of him with all his might.

Steam started to rise from his wounds; Bertholdt wouldn’t and couldn’t surrender.

► Starter for @verratensduo

「♠ ⸥ ⎯ They didn't know. They didn't recognize him. Didn't recognize the wolf trotting among the sheep, the path of bloody paw prints he left behind. Bertholdt pulled the hood of his cloak closer, trying to keep his face hidden and look like an ordinary citizen —a redundant action, though; his height still made him stand apart in a crowd.

'Why did I volunteer for this?' he questioned his sanity, since with each passing second, he could imagine the imaginary rope around his neck tightening a little. Sweat clung to his hands, and his throat was dry; each swallow felt like tiny razors prickling his gullet. 'Next time—'

The warrior’s heart stopped as his green eyes locked with a familiar face. Suddenly, he heard a sharp snap and felt his own neck break.

This was the end for him. They had found him.

[malotov-cocktail]

I

I don’t know how to let the words out.

I find myself longing, yearning, pent up.  With something.  I’m not sure what but it builds up inside me when I go too long without something, or perhaps when I see a good clouded sky scraped by sunlight that makes me take up an paintbrush and oil paints to capture its beauty except I have no oil paints and my art never looks much like anything I want it to.  Or it builds up when I feel all these feelings and the only way to get them out of that high tight bit of my chest that feels like a vessel filling up and just, almost, about to reach the top and have nowhere to go, is to sing, or feel the reverberations of my guitar against my chest, or preferably both at once, because something about the shaking air in my lungs and feeling my vocal cords stretch and using my muscles for something both simple and beautiful takes all that feeling and lets it go, seeps it back into my clumsy hands and my shaky voice and my tired arms and i stop feeling all full up inside.

But sometimes I feel myself reach for those oil paints.  Or for a novel I am not writing.  Or delicate stitches that have no plan.  I reach for art that I do not know how to create, when I feel myself pent up I begin to imagine myself capable of art that does the feeling justice.

But I reach for it and find myself reaching into dream, my hands still empty, my chest still full of something wonderful and painful all at once and nowhere to put it all.

I am full of words that whisper to be sung loud, but I am no musician.  As lyrics they would have no melody, no rhyme.  

I am full of words that drift like mist in the shadows.  They could be a story, if I knew which one to tell.  If I could imagine this feeling in any chest except my own.  If they were something more than a thoughtless ache, without structure or resolution.

I am full of words that I cannot describe to you except like this.  

Pull. Please. Need. 

Breathe.  Expand. 

Think. 

Breathe. 

Rise. Pressure. Distance. Stars. 

Breathe.  

The ache is gone, I think.  

Thank you.