#( THE DOUBLE A THING IS ABSURD AND YOU KNOW IT. ) / * crack .

[v4rus]

v.

[gloomwitchwrites]

His teammates call you because he isn't handling the break up well.

I'm gonna be honest, Anon. I went a more humorous route with this (but some angst in there too because why not!) I'm just imagining all of them being completely pathetic and the one calling is on the phone like "come get your man please." So, with that being said, I hope you enjoy this!

Presented in four double drabbles.

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Task Force 141 x Reader

Content & Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): swearing, some angst, established relationship, breakups. brief humor

Word Count: 800

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist

John Price

“You have two minutes,” you say immediately after answering your phone.

“You need to call him,” comes Simon’s gruff voice on the other end.

You’ve only met Simon a handful of times, but he’s always been your favorite of John’s team. He has consistently treated you with kindness and respect, and he never oversteps boundaries.

“Why?” you ask, glancing at your nails, pretending you don’t care.

“He fucking misses you.”

“That’s not enough of a reason,” you reply.

It isn’t. Not really. Even if your heart aches and your stomach flips from hearing it.

“Captain isn’t taking the breakup well.”

You want to say that you aren’t either, even though you’re the one who ended things. In reality, you miss John. It’s agonizing.

“And?” you ask, trying to hide the slight crack in your voice.

“He has us running laps around the fucking track, love. Haven’t done that since I was a grunt who couldn’t properly tie his boot laces.”

You sigh. “Am I supposed to feel sorry for you?”

“Yes.” Simon’s response is immediate.

Rubbing your temple, you decide to take a leap. It wouldn’t hurt to talk. Not really. “Fine. I’ll talk to him.”

“Thank fuck,” he breathes.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

“This is absurd,” you mutter, rubbing the middle of your brow, irritation building in the back of your head.

“Just give us a few minutes,” comes Captain Price’s voice. It’s Kyle’s boss, but he’s not the only one on the phone.

“Oh, aye. Hear us out.” Soap is there, too.

For all you know, Ghost is lingering on the call, a silent entity listening in but not saying anything.

“Why? Give me a reason?”

“Kyle misses you,” says Price.

“He loves you, lass.”

This isn’t new information. You’re aware of how Kyle feels but that doesn’t change things. The two of you are not together anymore. He needs to move on.

“He’s not handling the breakup well.” This time it’s Ghost. The silent man speaks.

“What do you want me to do,” you sigh.

“Talk to him,” says Price.

“No.”

Your phone buzzes and you hold it away from your ear. It’s a text from Price. You click on it, revealing a photo.

It’s Kyle. He’s curled up in his bed in the barracks, clutching a teddy bear he won you at a carnival on your first date.

“We can come get you,” says Price.

“Fine. I’ll talk to him.”

John "Soap" MacTavish

“I’m sorry, John. But you shouldn’t have called. I don’t want to hear it.”

There is a deep sigh on the other end of the phone. You respect Captain John Price. The few times you’ve met him, he’d been pleasant, and he was always the first one to greet you whenever you visited Johnny on base.

“I understand that you broke it off with him.”

“John—”

“Listen. Please.”

He genuinely sounds concerned, and that gives you pause.

It’s not like you and Johnny ended things on bad terms. His life is busy. It’s dangerous. You just don’t fit in it, and the stress of never knowing when or if he’s going to come home is something far to difficult a thing to carry with you.

“He’s been struggling. Had to corner him in my office to get him to talk. He’s really hurting.”

You swallow. Lick your lips. “Why are you calling me, John?”

“I want you to talk to him.”

“John—”

“Soap is currently facedown in his bed in the barracks. Sulking.”

“Okay. I’ll talk to him.”

“In person,” says John. It sounds like a command. Not an ask.

“Fine, John,” you reply, grabbing your car keys.

Simon "Ghost" Riley

“You need to talk to him. Simon is a bloody mess.”

“He’s fine, Johnny. He’ll get over. There was no reason for you to call me.”

Johnny snorts on the other end. “You don’t think so? I thought he was going to crush a new recruit’s skull in this morning.”

You roll your eyes. “I’m not interested in talking with Simon right now.”

Is it really a breakup? No. Not really. More like a separation. Simon has your whole heart, but he’s stubborn and cold. His shell is difficult to crack.

“That’s too bad. Because I’m here.”

“You’re—what?”

“Aye. Walking up to your front door right now.”

You blink. Aghast. “John MacTavish you better not—”

There is a sharp series of knocks at your front door. “You gotta be fucking kidding me,” you mutter.

Growling, you storm to the front door, phone still pressed to your ear. You unlatch the deadbolt and yank the door open. Johnny is standing on the other side, his phone also held to his ear. He gives you his biggest grin.

You want to smack it right off his face.

“What are you doing?”

Johnny ends the call. “I’m taking you to Simon.”

taglist:

@km-ffluv @glitterypirateduck @tiredmetalenthusiast @miaraei @cherryofdeath

@enarien @saoirse06 @ferns-fics @unhinged-reader-36 @miss-mistinguett

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@littlemisscriesherselftosleep @greeniegreengreen @umno-yeah @blackhawkfanatic @talooolaaloolla

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@no-oneelsebutnsu @kidd3ath @certainlygay @thewulf @lovely-ateez

@whisperwispxx @gingergirl06 @eternallyvenus @smileykiddie08 @arrozyfrijoles23

[beatrixstonehill2]

"That's why I'm so excited for this stupid semester to be over! I'm trying to be a professional fashion model and the stupid guys at my university can't stop thinking with their cocks. It's kind of pathetic, really. But if in the meantime it placates these horny nerds and gives them something to play with and enjoy. On one hand..... I hate having these enormous cow-tits bouncing and jiggling every time I do literally anything. They're just so fat and swollen and sweaty..... God knows what boys see in silly stuff like this.

At any rate, like most universities these days our insurance is given out by the university and we're signed up for all kinds of programs and drug trials. You know, normal stuff. But I was oh so lucky enough to be selected for compulsory breast growth so my boobs can get big enough by the end of every semester that the surgery students can reduce my boobs back to a dignified girth. I shudder to think of all the money my family spent on tuition just for my body to be at the mercy of a bunch of horny med students.

Apparently the boys there had a crush on me, selected me and sent my info to the university insurance provider. So now for my whole time here at this school, earning my Bachelor's, my breasts will be subjected to this humiliating torment over and over. Imagine how mangled they'll be by the time I graduate? Might as well lop the things off by then...... I mean, just look at what I'm dealing with! Men play with them incessantly, whether through my clothes or they insist on pulling them out to have their fun. It is rather amusing, I'll admit. I like to stroke their faces and call them handsome as they handle my oversized breasts. I enjoy seeing them squirm, their cocks getting so big, a lot of boys cum in their pants simply from kneading and groping me. It's kind of empowering.....

And to think this is only after a couple months of these rapid-growth injections. Two months left. I could double in size. How will that even work? My poor back aches as it is. My boobs have huge stretch marks and look so swollen and red I tend to keep them covered. Boys don't seem to mind but other girls giggle and gossip. Then in another two months, when these hornball magnets are unbearably huge, I guess I'll be begging like a pathetic Hentai princess to not have to grow any bigger. For my captors to please stop forcing my body to expand! The med students will love hearing me beg. Then the whole university gets to watch my tits get dismantled, streamed live. I'll be flat chested again, given a couple weeks to recover, then I'll be given the injections yet again.

And this will be my life for over three more years! Forced to watch helplessly as my breasts grow to absurd, male-jerk-off-fantasy proportions, only to be chopped down to nothing, over and over. If these boys need so much practice why not line up all the busty girls and just chop off their breasts one by one like a regular community college? No.... instead these students see fit to get creative with me. So, I'll get the humiliating pleasure of growing massive blimp-tits every four months. I feel like my brain my start to crack..... Having to endure this for so long as I try to study and not look ridiculous in front of my peers. My growing breasts groped and pulled from my clothes, slapped around and fucked. I already feel like I'll never get the stink of cum out from between these sweaty, fat udders of mine. Even once the students chop them down to mincemeat in two months. I feel like a lab animal. Like all I am is this pair of breasts that exist solely for men to play with and torment and experiment on. Maybe instead of being a model I ought to donate my body for medical research, sign away my rights, and literally just become a pair of breasts for horny old doctors to run tests and trials on..... One thing at a time, I need to graduate first. Not for my diploma, but so I don't disappoint all these boys looking forward to four years of inflating and chopping off my boobs.... I simply can't abandon my purpose like that. ❤️"

[childrenofcain-if]

Jumping up and down, biting down on my pillow while I wrestle my neighbor that came to complain about the noise that I'm making while running on my walls. EHEM I meant patiently waiting for the release date :batting eyelashes innocently:. Though I'm curious, how would the ROs react to an MC that's overly flirtratious but in a wet girl/boy/person loser kind of way + uses too many pick up lines/finger guns as a genuine way to flirt when nervous. Loving the premise for your if till now, it's been awhile I've loved all the ROs!!!

aw bonnie, i do hope your neighbour isn’t trying to write you a noise complaint now 💀 i need you to stay out of prison for the release date 🙏🏻

C LACROIX

you stood in front of them, wearing that ridiculous grin, eyes bright with a kind of nervous mischief that C had come to recognize too well. it was the prelude to something. and sure enough, it came—finger guns, of all things, pointed directly at them.

“are you french? ‘cause eiffel for you,” you said, your voice wavering slightly, betraying the nervous energy they were trying so hard to mask with charm. you knew damn well C was indeed french, and then the worst part—those finger guns again, paired with a wink that was so exaggerated it made their chest tighten in something like exasperated fondness.

C stared, a muscle in their jaw ticking. it should’ve been infuriating. was infuriating. the way you seemed to lose all sense of dignity the moment you felt nervous, drowning in a sea of bad pick-up lines and gestures better suited for a caricature than a real person. but god, the way your lips curved up at the end of each line, the way you stumbled through your awkward attempts, as if trying to flirt was some kind of dangerous game— it was impossible to look away.

“really?” C raised an eyebrow, trying and failing to hide the faint amusement threading through their voice. “that’s what you’re going with?”

you blinked, clearly flustered, but doubled down. “you know… if you were a vegetable, you’d be a cute-cumber.”

C ran a hand down their face, trying to stifle the laugh threatening to break free. “you’re terrible at this.”

“yeah, well,” MC shrugged, attempting to play it cool but visibly unraveling under C’s gaze, “i’m not trying to impress you, or anything.”

“really?” C stepped closer, and the temperature of the room seemed to shift. their pale green eyes flickered, sharp and predatory, and your breath hitched, the sudden proximity taking away any semblance of ease. “because you’re trying very hard not to look like you’re about to pass out.”

your mouth opened, then shut again, your bravado failing you for a split second. your hand wavered in the air as if debating whether to throw out another absurd gesture, but you were frozen in place under C’s intense stare.

C tilted their head, voice dropping into something darker, more amused. “do you actually think those awful lines are working?”

you swallowed hard. “well, you haven’t walked away yet.”

there it was—the loser charm, the half-baked attempt at deflection, the way you always seemed to bumble your way through these moments, as if too much self-awareness would be your undoing. and somehow, it was disarming. endearing, even. like a puzzle C couldn’t quite solve but found themself fascinated by all the same.

C stared at you for a moment, then blinked, a slow, deliberate thing. their lips quirked up, barely—a ghost of a smile. “you’re... utterly pathetic.”

your lips twitched, trying for a smile but faltering. “and yet… you’re still here.”

C’s gaze softened in a way they couldn’t control, something worryingly close to affection flickering behind their eyes. “i don’t know whether to kiss you or strangle you.”

“hopefully the first one?” your voice cracked just slightly, your attempt at humor failing as C’s hand came up to gently brush a thumb across your cheek.

“god, you’re hopeless,” C murmured, their voice barely a breath between you now.

your eyes fluttered shut, as if waiting for C to close the distance, to turn this fumbling, awkward mess into something real. but C stayed where they were, hovering just inches away, savoring the tension.

“i’m trying, you know,” you whispered, their voice softer now, less ridiculous, more honest. “i just—when i’m around you, i don’t know what to do. it’s like… my brain stops working.”

C smiled—a rare, genuine thing that made the dimples on their cheeks prominent. it had your heart skipping a beat. “maybe stop using finger guns next time.”

you let out a shuddering laugh. “yeah, i’ll… work on that.”

C tilted their head slightly, eyes tracing the curve of your lips. “you’re lucky i like you.”

you swallowed hard. “you do?”

C finally, finally closed the distance, pressing their lips to yours in a way that was both gentle and consuming, their hand curling around the back of your neck to pull you closer. when they pulled back, just barely, their voice was a low murmur against your mouth.

“yeah,” C whispered. “i do.”

V NÆSHOLM

V stood there, their gaze flicking nervously between the floor and your face, the faintest blush painting their cheeks. they were always like this—soft-spoken, devout, painfully kind in ways that made you feel like a storm in comparison. and today was no exception. they watched with wide, uncertain eyes as you nervously lifted your hands, finger guns aimed directly at them.

“are you religious?” you asked, your voice pitched higher than usual, betraying the nerves. “because you’re the answer to all my prayers.”

it was ridiculous, really. childish and awkward, with a smile so forced that it threatened to shatter into laughter at any moment. you knew it. you could feel how stupid it all sounded. but when you got nervous, this was the only way you knew how to act—filling the air with jokes, pick-up lines that clung too hard to the air between you and V, desperate for something solid to land on.

V blinked, their brow furrowing slightly like they weren’t sure how to respond. their fingers went instinctively to the small cross around their neck, clutching it like a lifeline, as if the gesture would tell them if you were losing your marbles. “um... thank you?”

your grin wavered, and you swallowed hard. another one, then. you had to try another one.

“are you a magician, then? because when i look at you, everything else just disappears.” you accompany that with a ‘poof’ motion to add more flair.

V’s breath caught in their throat, an embarrassed flush creeping up their neck, the kind of warmth that had no business being there. they blinked, staring at you like they were trying to make sense of a particularly difficult verse, something too foreign to easily translate. it wasn’t that they were hating it—no, it was something else entirely. something in them unfurled, but they couldn’t quite catch it, couldn’t grasp why.

you were fidgeting now, sensing the silence had stretched too long. “uh… not good? i’ve got more.”

V’s mouth twitched, something between a laugh and a sigh escaping them, though they quickly pressed their lips together. they didn’t want to be rude, didn’t want to laugh at you but how did they even respond to that?

“i—” they hesitated, voice quiet and soft as always. “i’m not sure that’s…”

you shot them another look, and there it was again: the finger guns. “is your name google? because you’ve got everything i’ve been searching for.”

yep, that’ll do it. V felt the warmth turn into something dangerously close to laughter, but they caught themself, biting down on the inside of their cheek. they didn’t want to encourage it, didn’t want to make you feel worse, but you were so earnest, so terribly bad at this, and yet so... you.

“i—” V tried again, cheeks flushed deeper now, eyes darting away because they couldn’t look directly at you without the nervousness creeping up their spine. “i think you’re—” they paused, unsure of the right words. kind? ridiculous? wonderful? none of it seemed right, and all of it seemed too much.

you were looking at them, a little too intently now, waiting for some kind of sign, some approval or rejection. you were always looking for something, even in your silliness, and V could feel that weight.

“does it ever work?” V’s voice was smaller now, their eyes dropping to the ground. “you know, those… lines?”

your face lit up with a kind of hope that tugged at V’s chest. “oh, absolutely not. not even once.”

you said it so sincerely, so shamelessly, that V couldn’t help but laugh then, a quiet, breathy sound that made them immediately cover their mouth, as if they’d broken some unwritten rule.

they shook their head, a smile creeping through their repressed amusement. “i don’t know what to do with you.”

you shrugged, clearly a little embarrassed now but still holding onto that grin. “i’m trying. just, you know—” you vaguely do the motions of jazz hands, and V swore they could feel their heart jump while stifling a fit of giggles. “i get nervous, and then… this happens.”

“i think it’s sweet,” V said after a while, more sure of themself this time. “you don’t have to be perfect all the time. not with me.”

you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, and your grin softened, became something more honest. “you think i’m sweet?”

V’s eyes flickered up to meet yours, the blush still warming their cheeks, but this time they didn’t look away. “yeah, i do.”

you stared at them for a long moment, feeling that nervous energy dissolve, replaced by something far more terrifying—a deep, aching tenderness you didn’t quite know how to express. you wanted to reach out, to touch V’s hand, to offer something real instead of your usual barrage of corny jokes. but all you could manage was a quiet, “you’re not so bad yourself.”

V bursts out laughing again, and this time, you laughed with them.

W OSTENDORF

W’s eyes, usually half-lidded with perpetual exhaustion, blinked in bewilderment as you approached them with an awkward bounce in your step. their sapphire gaze traced the way your fingers wavered, the unmistakable flourish of finger guns punctuating each hesitant attempt at flirtation.

“do you believe in love at first sight, or should i walk by again?” you asked, biting back the urge to laugh at yourself.

you watched as W blinked once, then twice, a momentary pause in their steady demeanor. they tilted their head slightly, considering you as if trying to figure out if you were serious. you were, in that embarrassing, frantic way only you could be.

the pick-up line hung in the air like an ill-fitting coat, and W’s mouth twitched, unsure whether to laugh or sigh. the line was delivered with a clumsy earnestness that made W’s heart ache, a mix of tenderness and exhaustion at the forefront of their expression. they rubbed a hand over their tired eyes, as if to clear away the fog of confusion that clung to them.

“um, no,” W said softly, their voice nearly a murmur. “i don’t think that’d be necessary.”

your smile wavered, a shaky thing like a candle in a draft. you laughed, a sound that was too loud, too eager. “well, that’s okay. i guess it already worked the first time, right?”

W swallowed hard, their gaze falling to the ground. if only you knew. but no matter, they thought about playing up the ‘exhausted and sleepy’ part so you won’t mind their silence to that question.

before they could say anything, however, you piped up again. “if i could rearrange the alphabet, i’d put U and I together.”

this time, W face started going red. they opened their mouth, closed it, and then opened it again, clearly unsure whether they should laugh or feel embarrassed on your behalf at this point. they had the air of someone caught in a sudden rainstorm, unprepared for the onslaught, trying to find cover but too polite to complain about getting wet.

your heart stuttered in your chest, unsure if you were supposed to be pleased by the way W’s lips trembled in the smallest of smiles or if you should simply bury yourself in shame at the way they’re turning red like they’re holding in a laugh.

W’s gaze dropped again, their thumbs rubbing nervously over each other. they smiled through their tiredness, but it was shy, careful, like they were afraid it might be taken the wrong way. “that’d be nice. you’re nice.”

and there it was—the words that always unraveled you the most. that delicate kindness, that indulgent air in W that made all of your jokes feel so hollow in comparison. you didn’t deserve someone like them, not with your clumsy attempts at flirting, not with the way you turned every silence into some absurd joke that made all the involved parties uncomfortably awkward.

you cleared your throat, but your voice cracked as you spoke again. “do you… do you have a map? because i keep getting lost in your eyes.”

a pause. W bit their lip, their face now a full shade of ripe tomatoes, and they let out the faintest sound—a stifled laugh, maybe, or something close to it. “i don’t… have a map.”

your heart skipped a beat. it was working! or maybe it wasn’t, but W wasn’t running away. they were standing there, red-faced with the dark circles under their eyes, and you realized that for all your blundering, W wasn’t retreating. they stayed, almost frozen in place, a slightly amused flutter in their gaze but no sign of discomfort. maybe it wasn’t such a ridiculous plan after all.

“elmo?” you asked, your voice quieter now, soft in the way you knew W preferred. “you’re not… mad at me, are you? for being like this?”

W looked startled by the sudden change in tone, their demeanor turning protective. “mad? no, never. why would i be mad?”

“because i’m such a loser around you. i always have been.” your hands twitched, the shadow of finger guns hanging awkwardly in the air between you. “i thought you’d have gotten tired of me by now.”

W’s heart softened, the edges of their amusement fading in the presence of your vulnerability. “i’ve never ever thought or felt like that. if i’m being honest, i think i even prefer this side of you at times.”

you blinked, something anxious flickering in your eyes. “really? i wouldn’t have guessed you’d have a thing for corny losers like me.”

W’s gaze softened even more, and before they knew it, they had reached out, their fingers gently brushing against your wrist, a tentative connection.

“i like you,” they murmured, their voice soft and barely more than a whisper. “cheesy pick-up lines and all.”

your breath caught, and for once, you didn’t have a quick response. instead, you stared at W with wide eyes, something genuine and quiet passing between you in the absence of words.

“you don’t have to do anything,” they whispered, “except stay.”

D DIACONU

D watched you with that signature half-lidded stormy gray gaze, the one that always felt like it held a secret; as though they were privy to something no one else was. their arms are crossed loosely over their chest, a lazy smirk tugging at the corner of their mouth.

you, meanwhile, were fumbling. your usual bravery melted into something far less cool, your hands twitching in an exaggerated motion—finger guns, of all things. D almost laughed then but swallowed it down, amused at the absurdity of it. this wasn’t their first time witnessing you stumble over your own feet, and it wouldn’t be the last, but there was something undeniably endearing about it, like watching a bird try to fly while forgetting it doesn’t have wings.

“are you from tennessee?” you asked, your voice catching in the back of your throat. you shot the finger guns again, and D had to suppress an eye-roll at the cheesiness of it all. “because you’re the only ten i see.”

D didn’t react immediately. instead, they watched you with careful precision, letting the silence hang just long enough to feel like a challenge.

“i’m from texas actually,” D’s voice was a low southern drawl, honeyed with amusement. “common mistake, eh?”

you shifted nervously under their gaze, all the awkwardness evident in your stance.

“yeah, i know. i just... thought it was cute,” you answered, almost defensively, your hands still hanging in midair, unsure what to do now that the moment was spiraling out of your control.

a quiet laugh slipped from D’s lips, smooth as silk, barely more than a breath. they uncrossed their arms and stepped forward, closing the distance between you in a way that felt deliberate, dangerous.

“you think this is how you get my attention?” their voice was low, teasing, but there was a flicker of something that hinted at just how carefully D was watching your every move. “cute little lines and finger guns?”

you flushed under the intensity of that stare, scrambling to regain control of the situation. “well, i— yeah, i thought maybe... it would work?” you winced at your own words. god, could this get any worse?

D leaned in just close enough to make your pulse race. “you think i go for cute?” the words were laced with a challenge, a dare for you to keep going, to push past your limits.

you swallowed, every instinct telling you to back down, but instead, you doubled down on the only defense you knew.

“you remind me of a dictionary,” you grinned, forcing out another pick-up line, desperate to keep from crumbling under D’s pinning stare, “because you really do add meaning to my life.”

this time, D did laugh—a rich, joyful sound that seemed to unravel the tension between you in one graceful swoop. they pulled back just enough to catch your eye, shaking their head in disbelief. “you really don’t know when to quit, do you?”

your face burned with embarrassment, but there was a flicker of something softer beneath all the practiced allure and playful flirtations. they weren’t mocking you, not really. in fact, there was a hint of appreciation buried in their amusement, a quiet acknowledgment that you, as ridiculous as you were, had managed to catch their attention in a way nobody else could.

D’s fingers brushed lightly against your wrist, the touch fleeting but electric. “you’re lucky i find this... entertaining. otherwise, you’d be in way over your head.”

you blinked, thrown by the sudden shift in energy. you opened your mouth to respond, but D’s hand was already moving, their fingers ghosting up your arm in a way that left you breathless, speechless.

“i think,” D continued, their voice almost a whisper now, “i like watching you try. you’re terrible at it, no doubt about that, but... there’s something about the way you stumble through it.” their eyes locked onto yours, something unreadable flickering in the depths of their gaze. “i’ve never met someone like you. that much, i can admit.”

you felt your heart skip a beat, your words catching in your throat. all the cheesy pick-up lines, the awkward flirting—none of it seemed to matter anymore, not under the affection in D’s gaze, not when they were standing so close that it felt like the world had shrunk down to just the two of you.

“maybe i’m just a uniquely jumbled mess,” you muttered, your voice barely audible, but D’s hand slid up to cup your cheek, pulling you closer with a softness that was almost unnerving.

“you definitely are, dragă mea,” D agreed, their lips ghosting over yours, so close that it felt like a kiss, but not quite. “but it’s one of the little things i like about you.”

and with that, they kissed you, slow and deliberate, like they’d been waiting for this moment longer than they’d ever let on. you melted into them, every nerve alight, the awkwardness and self-doubt slipping away in the warmth of D’s touch. this, right here, was what you’d been gunning for all along.

M WHITLOCK-SINGH

M had never known someone quite like you. there was something so bafflingly endearing about you, as if you existed to disrupt V’s neatly ordered world with your awkward charm and unbearable nervousness. it wasn’t that you meant to do so, but the way you flirted—if you could even call it that—made M’s head spin despite their usual stoicism.

they could see it coming a mile away, the way your eyes darted from the floor to M’s face and back again, like you were gathering the courage to throw yourself off a cliff. and then it happened.

your finger guns shot up, aimed clumsily at a literal heir to the british throne. “well, here i am. what were your other two wishes?”

M blinked, incredulity washing over them. seriously? again?

there was a moment of silence that hung heavy in the air, before you, still flustered, tried again. “if you were a fruit, you’d be a fine-apple.”

M sighed, pressing the heels of their palms to their eyes. it was like being trapped in a bad dream, except it wasn’t bad, not really. it was you, standing there, losing your composure in a way that made you seem so painfully human. so vulnerable.

“you’ve got to be kidding me.” M’s voice was low, restrained, an edge of amusement barely detectable. they crossed their arms, leveling you with a look that was part disbelief, part... something else. “is this really your idea of flirting?”

you winced, but it was clear you were trying to save face. “what, do they not like compliments in england?”

“compliments?” M’s laugh was sharp, but not exactly mocking. “you’re telling me those were compliments?”

“okay, maybe not my best,” you admitted, rubbing the back of your neck, your voice dropping into something that sounded closer to sincerity. “but… i mean, you’re kind of distracting, your majesty. you can’t really blame me.”

W narrowed their eyes to hide their barely suppressed delight, studying the way you fidgeted, the way your hands couldn’t seem to stay still. it was always like this—you trying so hard to be smooth, to make M smile with these ridiculous pick-up lines that felt like they belonged in a teen rom-com from the 90s and early 2000s.

“distracting?” M repeated, taking a step closer, watching as your breath stuttered. “how so?”

you swallowed, eyes wide, trying to keep it together. “like… you know… hard to think straight.”

a beat passed, and then M did something unexpected—they laughed. a soft, surprised sound that felt different from their usually polite, regal chuckle. and yet, it somehow sounded better. you blinked, as if unsure whether to be relieved or even more nervous.

“before i met you, i never thought i’d see the day,” M murmured, stepping even closer, the laughter settling into a smile, “when someone would try to flirt with me using finger guns.”

you smiled back, sheepish but hopeful. “well, i aim to please you with my moves. call me twinkle-toes.”

M shook their head, but the smile that tugged at the corners of their mouth betrayed them. they didn’t want to admit it, but something about the whole thing—the terrible pick-up lines, the way you stumbled over your words, the sheer awkwardness of it—was getting to them. softening them, in a way nothing else had.

“you’re a bumbling idiot,” V said quietly, but there was no malice in it. just a strange sort of fondness.

you started to grin. “but i’m your bumbling idiot, right?”

“maybe,” M whispered, voice like a velvet secret. “but i’d suggest you not throw those words so loudly in public.”

your laugh was shaky, but real. “noted. i’ll—uh, keep that in mind, your highness.”

M smiled softly, warmth flickering in their chest despite themself. “just call me by my name, meri jaan. i’d prefer it more right now.”

[i984]

Sweet Words Make a Lovely Shade | Part 1

|Pairing|: Wednesday Addams x gender neutral reader.

|Warnings|: Ooc! Wednesday Addams, mentions of gore, Wednesday being uncharacteristically tame, reader likes to test boundaries, Wednesday gives bone-breaking hugs, no beta; we die like my brain cells.

|Summary|: You test your luck by putting Wednesday Addams in a compliment jail. 

|Word count|: 2.7k words

|A/n|: I ended up not changing a thing. I took some liberty with your request 💡anon, hope you still enjoy it! | Part 2 is available in my masterlist.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Love  

It does wonders for a person. 

And for you? Well, it makes you spew the utmost revolting, foolish, and absurd things out of your mouth—Wednesday's words, not yours. You think it's her way of saying she likes the compliments you practically shower her with. 

At first, you didn't even realize you were doing it. You could be sitting next to the raven-haired girl in class, having some lunch together, reading books in the library, or on your occasional walks around town, and you only have one single recurring thought that you can't seem to get out of your mind; 

Wednesday Addams—your precious sadistic little girlfriend—is so pretty.  

And not to be shallow or anything; after all, you like her for many different things. Her intelligence, wittiness, and her I-don't-give-a-fuck attitude. Her obsession with everything macabre, the monochromic-colored outfits that perfectly suit her, and the way she uses words you can't even begin to comprehend half the time. 

But then there's the way her hair has that lustrous glow, and then the rare grin she cracks when it's just the two of you, the constant little pout in her lips, and don't even start about her plump dark burgundy lips; Oh, you wanna kiss her-  

"-so bad," you mumbled out absent-mindedly, and Wednesday slowly looked up from her double cap—mouth gaping slightly at the suddenness of your words—her eyes blinking rapidly at you.  

"Oh- no no no I was just thinking and I got distracted because your lips look SO pretty!" Your voice was louder than you had intended for it to be, and you quickly covered your mouth—a pointless act as the slip-up had already been done. 

Wednesday only spared you a sharp glare before standing up from your shared sofa booth, already heading towards the Cafe entrance. Before you can even explain yourself, she had already bolted out, leaving you and her double cap behind. 

You know that Wednesday is not big on PDAs; soft kisses and gentle touches are reserved for private quarters. And even then, you can tell that her moves are calculated—afraid of doing too much that she'd find herself in a compromising position. 

But you didn't miss the darkening of her freckle-painted cheeks as she snuck a peek at your figure from outside Weathervane, and that's when you realized; 

Oh.  

Well, this is gonna be fun. 

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You walk to your dorm room with a dopey grin on your face, recounting the things that happened earlier.  

You've figured it all out. Wednesday might act like she isn't affected by other people's words and opinions about her—and in most cases, this is true—except when it comes from you.  

She caught you wearing a hoodie of hers? Now you have three more in your closet. You respond a beat late to some disputable thing she mentions? She immediately apologized for being insensitive and asked your take on the subject. You told her that she looked good in that checkered sweater? Now she wears the piece of garment all the time. Ask her to binge-watch all 10 seasons of My Little Pony with you? It would give her nightmares for weeks, yes, but absolutely.  

You quickly realize that you're one of the few people lucky enough to have Wednesday tolerate you to a certain degree. So you do the obvious—run after Wednesday after leaving some money on the table, and then shout at the top of your lungs, "I LIKE YOUR LIPS WEDNESDAY ADDAMS"  

You swear to God, you've never seen someone bolt out of your view so quickly. She didn't even spare a single disapproving glance at you—on normal occasions she would—but now, as people stop in their tracks to see who your words are pointed to, she's gone, nowhere to be seen.  

It's cute, how much she's affected by your words. And that's why, as you open your dorm room door, you walk straight to your thinking desk past a figure, planning to come up with new ways to fluster your girlfriend. 

Wait. Past a figure? 

You turn your head to see Wednesday Addams standing still, looking daggers at you, and you know things are about to go down.  

You smile coyly at her while taking a seat. The raven-haired girl's gaze trails your every movement. She looks almost predatory in this state. Like she's about to tear you apart to shreds. 

You hold your head high as you speak, "Is something wrong, Wens?" A pet name. You've heard Wednesday made it clear time and time again to Enid that she was against pet names. And you've never called her one before. But you're willing to gamble your life this time just to see how far she would tolerate you. 

So you maintain your perfect facade, and it was all worth it as you see Wednesday's eyes widen at the morbidity of your words—the good kind, you'd assume—and you saw her mouth open and close a couple of times, trying to say something deprecating and failing acutely.  

She stands awkwardly like that for a moment; her hands making little gestures as if she was trying to make a point while maintaining her look of utter disbelief at your behavior. 

You figured if you didn't egg on her a little more, she wouldn't let her guard down, so you decided to turn your back on her and pulled out a book to read. 

"What are you doing?" You can hear the stress in her words. You can picture her look right now; her jaw clenched, teeth gritted, brows furrowed in dismay. 

"I'm reading a book, as you can see with those pretty brown eyes of yours." You flipped a few pages, eyes tracing along the shape of letters and words, not really paying any mind to the actual content. 

"All right then," exasperation is evident in her voice, and you have to fight yourself from snickering at the situation. 

You've always been very careful around Wednesday, trying not to agitate her into giving you snarky comments—she still gives them nonetheless, and you find it amusing as time goes by—but curiously, she's not giving you any at the moment. And if you are to guess, it's probably because she physically can't bash you for your words. Not when she's fighting for her life with feelings she refuses to acknowledge most of the time. 

You hear her footsteps grow distant—she's heading for the door, you figured—and you don't even bother to look up as you say, "Come back soon, tesoro,"  

The sound of footsteps ceased. 

"Are you really going to keep doing this?" You can tell by Wednesday's voice that she is trying so hard not to burst at your display—you were never like this after all—from rage or the compliments, you don't know. But you figure you'll find out if you pick the right words. 

"Keep doing what, Wens?" You spin in your chair to her, your voice dripping with honey, with faux innocence. You can see her face turn colors into one of carnation, her lips thinning into a line as she tears her gaze apart from you. 

"You. Know. What." Wednesday strains every word, her tone is low as if to intimidate you, but you know the ball is in your court. 

"What? Telling you how pretty your lips are? In front of a lot of people? 

"Yes, exactly-" 

"And that I wanna kiss those lips of yours so badly? Dark plump lips like yours are my favorite, by the way," you look at her in the eyes as you speak, and you let your gaze trail down her face, and Wednesday fidgets with the hem of her top. 

"Oh wait, actually, you are my favorite." 

Wednesday glares at you—an act that usually works with Enid and everyone else when she wants to avoid certain conversations—but you are unfazed. You have her exactly where you want right now, and judging by the absence of a knife in her hand, you're going to assume that she's more than okay with what you're doing.  

"But wait. Oh. Is this about the fact that I know you blushed so hard when I complimented you? Every single time, did you notice that?" You stood up from your seat, throwing the book atop your desk.  

"I know you like it, Wens," you smirked, the nickname easily sliding out your tongue the more you said it, "I know you like me."  

"Oh, you are so full of yourself-" 

"You know what else I like? The way your pout grows bigger—as we're speaking right now, yes," and you see her face growing a scowl as you take a step closer towards her, "and now you're clenching your jaw slightly, god, you look so cute doing that."  

"I do not look cute, and if you cut my words off-" 

"Do you know that your micro facial expressions are probably the most adorable thing I ever get to witness?" 

"-again, I will cut your tongue and force-feed it to you."  

You ignore your girlfriend's words, continuing the torture you've devised for her. "No, not probably. Definitely the most adorable thing ever."  

A broad grin sprouted on your face, the one Wednesday always calls 'the idiotic grin' but you know she secretly likes it, and you can't be happier right now. You're experiencing a power trip; adrenaline rushing through you to continue your teasing despite the possibility of being mute in the future. 

"And that? Right there. Just now. The way you just announce dangerous threats? And sometimes about people's demise? Now, that is attractive."  

Wednesday decided that she's had enough of your antics. Her hand reaches for the doorknob, and you trail after her out of your dormitory. 

"Do not follow me," Wednesday hushed, and you walk beside her trying to catch up as she seems to speed up her pace.  

"I'm not following you, we just happen to be walking in the same direction- Oh, hi Bianca!" You see the girl waving back at you as you both walk through the quad; Wednesday did not acknowledge Bianca's presence as usual. 

"Oh yeah, that reminds me. Remember when you totally beat the shit out of Bianca in that oral test last week? That is also incredibly attractive."  

Wednesday seemed to pay no mind as you continued your horrible strings of compliments, except for the fact that she's practically running through the corridors right now, embarrassed of being caught blushing by any of her peers. 

You know that at this point, you're threading a thin line between her turning into putty at your words or her leading you to a grave site, ready to smash your head with a rock once you get there. 

Well, she's heading towards Ophelia Hall now, so it's safe to say you won't be visiting the realms of the dead today. 

"It would be wise for you to quit whatever skulduggery you're doing if you don't want me to slice your head off at fencing class-," 

You raise your hand in mock defeat at her words, and you can see Wednesday's knuckles turn white in a fist as she continued her words, "-which will start in a couple of hours. So, leave me-" 

"Oh yeah, that got me thinking of how good you look when fencing. I mean, there's a reason why I never ever spar with you during class."  

"Yes, and it is your remarkable ineptitude in the sport." 

You shoot her a look of false hurt at her words, "How dare you- Well. I mean yes, but also have you seen yourself?" You speak out of breath, your legs slowly catching up with Wednesday's pace.  

"Yes, of course. I've been staring at a mirror in the middle of my sparring," Wednesday rolls her eyes at you, "and that's why I've been on a losing-" at this, you can see Wednesday practically seethe in anger as she chokes the word out, "-streak against Bianca Barclay."  

"No, silly, it's because I would be in complete awe," you decided not to comment further on the sore issue, opting to clear out the tension with—yes you guessed it—more compliments.  

"I mean, the all-black outfit? Your menacing strikes and your calculated steps, not to mention your disheveled hair and the concentrated look on your face?" You clasp your hand in front of your chest, eyes looking up dreamily at the memory, while the girl beside you scoffed in irritation. 

You're now at Ophelia Hall, and Wednesday continues her brisk walk toward her shared dorm room. You don't have much time left if you want to break her composed demeanor. 

"And yes, if I sparred with you, the exact situation you mentioned earlier would've happened. My head sliced off the very first second into the spar." 

"And I'd assume you wouldn't want that. So don't make me do it." 

"Quite the contrary, I wouldn't mind. I bet dying by such skillful hands would be an amazing experience." 

You can see the door now. Wednesday knows this as well. If she gets inside and locks you out, maybe you'll shut up and spare her from the torture that makes her gut feel like it's ripping her apart from the inside. 

"What do you think of adding my head as a mount on your room's wall? I'm sure Thing would appreciate the addition of another dismembered body part in the room." 

If Wednesday wasn't agitated before, she definitely is now. As she opens the door to her dorm room and turns her body to you, you can see that not only are her cheeks of blossoming color, the tips of her nose and ears are as well! It's as if this is the first time blood has rushed to her face, and you'd argue that she looks dangerously magnificent like this; face sneering but eyes unable to maintain eye contact with you. 

She spared you only a short pointed glare, before closing the door to your face. You can hear her voice ring moments later, "Stop pestering me on my writing time or I will take you up on that offer. If you decide to omit my warning, make sure you say something adequate, as I will personally make sure it will be written on your gravestone as your last words."  

Her threats have never felt so empty, not with her obviously shaky voice—not when you know she's staring at her typing paper blankly right now, unable to type a single word as you can't hear any clacking sound of the machine's keys. 

The gears in your mind turn at an insane speed, and with the bravado only you possess, you belt your next words for the whole dormitory to hear,  

"I AM CRAZY FOR YOU, WEDNESDAY ADDAMS!" 

There was only silence. Then, you hear the rapid clickety-clack of your girlfriend's shoes, and you jump backward when Wednesday yanked the door open. 

This is it, you thought.  

You had been too cocky, thinking that you could get away with harassing the raven-haired girl—if compliments can be considered harassment, that is—and now you're going to pay the price. In the most gruesome way imaginable, if you know anything about your girlfriend. 

Wednesday storms at you, and before you can even try to escape, you feel her arms wrapped strongly around your figure in a death grip. She's about to tackle you to death, and you brace yourself for the upcoming impact- 

-that never comes? Her arms just stay there, her head buried against your chest, and you are at a loss for words. 

It's unfair, how easily she makes you feel flustered. You've been trying to get a reaction out of her all this time, and she barely cracks. But now as she hugs you, you practically melt into her embrace; your mischievous agenda is long forgotten. 

When you regain your senses, you take a breath— about to comment on the situation before she cuts you off with a; 

"Shut up. I hate you."  

You smirk at her words before sighing in contentment, eyes closing as you soak in the rare moment, "I love you too." 

"But I will never shut up about this- OW-" 

Wednesday left you rolling on the floor in pain after landing a punch in your guts. 

"Now, you will."

[instarsandcrime]

Pride Is A Fickle Thing

Well...at least it's not just Lu/ci/fer this time?

@onetrickponi had some great prompts to offer and, since she said she might be writing them, I decided to change up a certain one a little so it turned out the same but also different! Can be read as Ra//dio//App//le or just platonic fluff! Enjoy! ❤️

Prompt: Lu/ci/fer heals A/la/stor, though it takes a great deal of expended effort on his part and it turns out both of them hate looking weak in front of other people.

---

"Hp'shhzzzt!" A sharp, staticky sneeze slipped through a crack in the shadows.

Alastor wheezed as he grabbed yet another handkerchief from his collection, attempting in vain to blow away the clinging itch that stuck to him for the entire meeting. But he couldn't help it. Every single twitch of the finger, every flick of the ear, every time he even bothered to move his holy wound its poison would snake through his ribs and up to his aching head. And when it did the reaction got worse. And when the reaction got worse he couldn't help but...c-couldn't...help but…but snehhh--

"Et'chhht! TSH'ZZZZHHEW! Nnghh..." The overlord muttered out a string of curses as another wave of pain shot through him, grasping a pillar before he could double over and collapse.

“Oof, ouch! That one sounded rough." An irritatingly cheery voice chirped from nowhere in particular.

"Oh do be qui-quieehhh...Heh! Heh’eshhh't! Het'chhhzzz't!" Pressing a well-used cloth up to reddened nostrils, Alastor hurriedly straightened himself, discreetly rubbing the swarm of feathers he felt as far back as it could go.

"Bless y-- er, no, wait. That's not appropriate for someone like you, is it?" And with a golden puff of smoke he finally appeared. The six winged thorn in his side. “Fuck off? Damn you? Curse you, maybe? Mmmn no, I think you’ve already got that handled.”

"Lucifer." Alastor's ear flicked in annoyance, "What can I do for you m-my unh-huhh-holy fellow? Off t-to find some...s-some...snff! Suhh-someone to pestehhhHET'ZSCHHHH! Ghhh..."

The fallen angel winced as shrill feedback pierced the air. "Lookin' a bit sneezy there, bud. I guess even the most powerful overlords catch colds. Just goes to show that somewhere deep, deep, deeeeep down, you still have a mortal soul."

The Radio Demon chuckled, smile splitting despite the feverish beads of sweat that rolled down his neck. "On the contrary! Why, I'm the guardian angel of the Hazbin Hotel! I'm sure Charlie would agree."

Lucifer twisted the cane in his palms. “Ohoh! That definitely sounds like my little girl!”

"Agreed! She is truly a marvel. Exiling all doubts with a cheerful smile!"

"And when the hotel gets big enough, who knows? Maybe she won’t even need you anymore! She can take your place all on her own-- without the tacky bellhop suit, of course."

"Hah! Radio never truly goes out of style. Unlike...u-unlike the...the..."

"Speechless already?"

"A trifuhhh…huh! T-trifling matter, My Liege. I'm simply allergihhh...allergic to...to your bullshhHHT’SHHHhhoo...Huh'zschhh!"

"Impressive comeback. You should really--"

"'Hup’KZSSHHHT! HT'SHHH'OOooo...guhh…snff!" Worry bloomed on Lucifer’s face when his rival flashed a sliver of a wince. And as quick as it grew, Alastor rushed to crush the blossom with the wave of a hand. “Such compassion! I was wonderihh…wondering when the sin of pride would lower himself to such a weak emotion–”

“Let me see it.” 

“Pardon?”

“Do you think I’m stupid?” His patient opened his mouth, “Nope, wait, don’t answer that. Just let me see the wound.”

“Hah! How absurd! Me? Get hurt?” The Radio Demon’s voice crackled with laughter, an unseen audience following suit. “Has our poor king gone senile in his old age?”

“I–! You–!” Lucifer took a deep breath, wisps of smoke billowing from his nose. 

Inhale. Exhale. 

“Okay.”

Despite his eternal grin, Alastor’s feverish eyes blinked back confusion. “...O. Okay?”

“Okay.” The king deadpanned, hopping back a few steps. “You like making deals, right?”

“I do have other hobbies, you know.”

“Nice. I don’t care. Walk to me without sneezing once. I know you can hide the pain, but if you think holy poison will just go away, then you must either be the most stubborn man in the nine rings, or the biggest dumbass.” He paused. “Or both. If you lose, I heal you and you never have to think about Adam and his gaudy lute axe again. If you win, let’s just say that in a few more days, no one in Hell will hear another broadcast from The Radio Demon again.”

A suffocating silence fell over the two, with only the small ambience of old timey cigarette advertisements and Ella Fitzgerald to keep them company. Until finally obsidian claws drummed against the tip of a microphone.

 “...Fine.” Alastor said simply.

“Fine.” Lucifer spat back.

“A simple task, really.”

“Then stop stalling and do it, coward.” Satan flashed his pearly fangs.

A scarlet eye twitched. His opponent took a tentative step forward and the itch followed suit, fighting the urge to rub a knuckle against it.

“Having trouble there?”

“I can assure you I'm per…p-perfectly fihh-fide.” Another step. The growing tickle burned from the bridge to the tip.

“Fihhh-fidt as a fidd-fiddle.”

Almost halfway. Hold it in, hold it in.

“I'b dot as weak as y-yuhhh…you thidk…”

Through irritated tears, slit pupils studied him closely. “Uh-huh. Still don’t believe you.”

Temper beginning to flare as badly as his wound, the overlord opened his mouth to retort. But his voice was completely stolen as the itch teased the rim of his nostrils. It built and built until–

Oh, fuck it.

“Heh'SHHHHZT! Ihh-hih-Hp'SCHHH! ‘TSCHHHH'hhooo…nhhh…” The ground beneath him whirled and tilted like a merry-go-round and he was falling, falling, falling– only to be caught and dragged off the ride with unnervingly gentle hands.

“I've got you.” Lucifer muttered.

“What’s goi’g od? Why are you doi’g this?” The Radio Demon demanded as he was lifted, a body barely up to his chest not acknowledging his weight.

“Because lucky for you, I used to be a saint.” Wait…when did they get to his bathroom? When was he suddenly draped against the wall?

“You hate me." For some reason Alastor couldn’t control his shaking voice, losing the strength to fight. He sounded so disgustingly fragile. He hated it. He hated this. He hated. He. Hated.

“Oh for Heaven’s sake, shut up and let me save you already!” Lucifer swore, clicking the locks in place with the snap of his fingers. Alastor flinched when freezing hands pressed against a soaked through dress shirt and– oh.

“Oh.” 

“Yeah, no shit!” A pure light became a ripple. Then a swirl. Then a bubble. It filled every space imaginable, bathing the pair in its warm blanket. Faintly, Alastor tasted a hint of jambalaya on his tongue. And like a needle and thread to a spilled over poppet, The wound began to close.

Unfortunately, despite the subsiding agony, the holy light that caught his patient's eye did not agree with him. Wait. If angelic power hurt a demon, why was he being healed with–

“H-hhh!” Alastor’s breath hitched.

“Seriously? Now? I’m trying to work here.” Lucifer growled, almost fumbling the surgery when his concentration nearly broke. Through the haze, the overlord could glimpse familiar beads of sweat that trickled down the side of the fallen angel’s neck. 

“H-hhh…c-cad’t…h-hhhhelp it…” Between hiccuping breaths and stuttering speech, somewhere along the way a finger was pressed underneath his fluttering nostrils.

“I swear to my fucking Father.” Lucifer huffed out, blinking blearily as he continued his surgery one-handed. And before the wound closed, Alastor couldn’t help but dread at the way Lucifer’s eyelids drooped further and further, teetering between exhaustion and pain.

With two hands the healing process would have taken two minutes.

With one it took two hours. Or at least, the amount of hands was Lucifer’s excuse.

Alastor would have been more impressed if not for the fact that he was not impressed, because it was a ridiculous emotion to have for Lucifer of all beings. So instead, the next day, he chose to focus on what couldn’t heal right away.

“Het’schhzz!” Alastor pitched into his handkerchief, and Charlie quickly caught his breakfast plate before she could drop it.

“Bless you!” She breathed, clutching her chest with one hand.

Well. At least it wasn’t every five seconds.

“Thank you, my dear. Ironic as it may be.” Alastor chuckled, moving to pick up his utensils. He scanned the dining table to take in the morning rush. Angel Dust was gabbing away next to Husker, silently snatching food off his plate with his lower pair of arms. Vaggie was taking a sharpening stone to her spear between bites of food, softening when her princess veered the corner to give a quick peck on the lips. Sir Pentious was waving his spindly hands about, excitedly explaining the inner workings of his ‘flying machine’ to Niffty, who was absolutely more interested in the bug crawling on his top hat.

Overall a peaceful morning. Too peaceful. It unsettled him that there was one piece missing–

Ah. Out of the corner of his eye a small, white rat slowly crawled across the carpet. One with chubby, cherub cheeks. Fur mussed. Bags under its button eyes. A golden flush dotting his face, glowing like a firefly. And then suddenly everything clicked.

The lack of a wound or poison, but still feeling a fading tickle. The shared symptoms between them. Lucifer hadn’t just been exhausted that night. He hadn’t just healed him. Oh no, the bastard just had to take the holy poison for himself knowing that a half-holy body would survive. Though it was obvious he was equally– oh, what was that saying Rosie was kind enough to teach him– ‘going through it’. The fact that he would even risk inhaling a drop for someone he hated so much…

Hm.

Well, Alastor decided to himself, It would be remiss of him to not repay the favor. So with all the mercy of a heartless overlord, he kicked the stupid rat as far as it could go. With a startled squeak and a puff of smoke, the King of Hell tumbled across the floor. The dining room went silent for a moment, all eyes on the sudden appearance of Lucifer Morningstar lying on his back– disheveled, dazed, and stone still.

“Oh my gosh, dad!” Charlie yelped as her father pushed himself upright– moving stiffly, Alastor noted. “I didn’t see you come in…to…” As she helped him stand, her voice trailed off. “Are you okay?”

“I second that, fer the record.” Angel Dust waved a fork nonchalantly in the air, “Kingy’s always an early riser. What gives?”

“Worrywarts, aren’t they?” Lucifer jolted as Alastor popped up beside him with a screeching static, suddenly inches apart. His smirk widened as he tilted his head with a little, high pitched ‘hm!’ “I must say, I can’t help but feel the same. Your regal features look a bit. Oh, what’s the word?” He motions to his own face with a dramatic flourish. “Off-color.”

Lucifer’s glare broke when he put a hand up to his cheek. Then another, eyes growing wide as teacup saucers. It didn’t help when embarrassment overtook his feverish blush, brightening with the panic. “H-hah!” He chuckled nervously, summoning his top hat to tug the brim over his face. “W-wouldja look at that? Guess I fell asleep at the ol’ workshop again and I ran my power a little too– …t-too hot…” He sniffed sharply, rubbing at his nose.

“How uncouth.” Alastor circled the man like a ravenous beast. “Quite unlike yourself to be in such a state. Maybe you should be a little more honest. I can even give you a push.”

“Wh-whhhat are you–”

With a single poke of his cane Lucifer stumbled, grimacing in pain. And it only took one poke for that short-lived charade to fall apart.

“H-hehhh! No, ndo dabbit keeb idt togehh…together…”

“Your Majesty? Are you…?” Vaggie sat straighter, brow furrowed.

“Oof! That don’t look right.” Angel winced.

“Mhm.” Husk hummed into his mug of whisky.

“Oh my. The ultimate bad boy needs to be cleaned!” Niffty gasped.

“Poor thing.” Sir Pentious’s bottom lip wobbled.

“Dad?” Charlie set a hand on his shoulder. Then jumped back with a squeak as the single touch sparked the powder keg.

“Hit’schh!” Lucifer bent at the waist, merciless fit wracking an already exhausted body. “It’schh! It’shieww! Hit’SCHIEW! Hnt’SHIEW! HET’SCHH! ‘TSHH! TCHH! Hit’SCHH’HIEW! H-hihhh…hih! Hih– HITSCHHHH’HIEW!”

The room went silent. Angel Dust whistled lowly.

“My goodness, bless you!” Alastor gaped, every movement an exaggerated performance.

“Y-you did thahhh– thadt od purpose you sohd of ahhh– hah-HATSCHHHHIEW!” The fallen king pitched forward again. When he finally surfaced he was staggering, holding his aching head. “S’rry…’bout thadt.”

Before Charlie could run to catch him Alastor tutted, summoning his shadow to steady his rival, bending its lanky limb over his forehead. “My my, you sound awful! Simply dreadful! Overworked, perhaps? Or…oh, it couldn’t be! Is the King of Hell ill?”

“Oh shudt up Alasdtor– snff! I’b dot sigk! Idt’s jus’dt–”

“Allergies?” Husk deadpanned, expression completely unimpressed.

“Allergies!” Lucifer blurted, “Nodthin’ do worry your head over. So ihhh–...hih! hit’TSCHIU! HET’CHHHIEWW! Nghh, jus’dt ledt be–”

Charlie’s grip tightened, other hand reaching for a napkin. “Don’t run! Please?”

The King of Hell froze. He couldn’t help it. He was completely powerless when it came to his little girl. His flush started to hem the edges of silverware and dusted the windows, and he decided to look anywhere but at Charlie, distracting himself with a mucky nose blow into the makeshift tissue.

“I…I guess I’ll stick around a while longer. I feel a bit dizzy, anyway.” He chuckled, trying to pretend like every word didn’t painfully scrape at his chest. But Charlie smiled brightly, and she guided him to a chair Vaggie had already pulled out for him. Stepping back to wave her hands. Go on!

Lucifer blinked back shock when the room watched, silent with bated breath. “Oh– snff! Oh, well. Um. It’s not an emergency but. But I may be thirsty–”

Zipping back and forth, Niffty slid a cup of water by his side.

“Oh! Th-thank you.” Lucifer smiled bashfully. 

The silenced thickened, group looking on expectantly. 

“...More?!”

“More.” Charlie nodded, crossing her arms. Awestruck, the hermit crumbled as his closest residents and friends fussed and fretted. All the while Alastor sat comfortably in his chair and sipped his tea, humming to the tune of a new morning.

The perfectly chaotic puzzle was complete. Just the way he liked it.

[badchoicesworld]

Hola this is my first req

Might I request hcs for Hobie and Miles (separately) x male reader who is a fellow super hero with a mutation in his jaw that gave him a snake bite?(sharp teeth, unhinging jaw, venom)

Despite how scary reader can look he is very kind and courteous (and head over heels for his spider boy) and Hobie and Miles help him get over his insecurities about smiling around others

Fluffy and romantic pls (sorry if it too specific lol)

Thank you and keep being awesome

😎🫶 - Crax

hobie and miles with snake mutated boyfriends !

welcome back crax lmao, the request slapped dw, you nailed it !

AND IM SO SORRY for keeping you waiting, shit kept going on in my life

separate, established relationships

warnings: hobie brown ?

pairing: hobie brown x male!reader, miles morales x male!reader

requests: refer to the masterlist please !

★⋆ ⋆☆⋆ ☠︎︎ ⋆☆⋆⋆★✧

you wanna know how many fucks hobie gives about the mutation ? zero

in like the most respectful but effortlessly cool way

mutations are nothing new to him, man fights mutants on the daily

just views it as an extension of yourself, it’s apart of who you are

if you can accept that, he’s happy

would absolutely be a hype man if not though, he don’t fuck w insecurity

one thing i think he’d reference a lot ? medusa, because of that one sticker on his guitar

maybe he’s a huge greek mythology guy and thinks that your mutation is a sign for this and that- like that one comment he made about metaphors for capitalism, i think he liked to analyse things like an english student

with your unhinging jaw and venomous bite he liked to say some absurd stuff like “just goes to show how independence and self sufficiency can overcome the norms regardless of [politics]” hinting at that while you may have some unconventionally appreciated features, you’re able to rise above it and be a hero like a badass

so that being said, he thinks your smile alone is dope and can represent so much more if you want it to

if you wear a mask or something to cover it up, he’ll never insist on taking it off unless you’re comfortable, it’s not his place to dictate what you wear

he may however make a comment or two about it

“hope you’re not wearin’ tha’ to cover up them teeth of yours” ur teeth are so cool

if you’re insecure about how like exposed ur teeth are when you smile, Hobie gets into the habit of pulling his cheek back w his finger when smiling (at the appropriate times) just to show there’s nothin to be afraid of

sticks his tongue out too for funsies, ESPECIALLY if you’ve got a forked tongue

it’s a true shame getting ur tongue split is illegal in the UK, he’d love to match

at the end of the day when alls said and done, if you can’t bring yourself to feel comfortable in your own skin while you’re out and about, he’ll make it clear that he doesn’t care about your unhinging jaw or teeth or venom in private, cause that’s where it counts in his head

he thinks you look badass and really doesn’t think you should pay attention to what other people think anyway, under any circumstances

but especially when you go out there together and make a genuine difference in the world as heroes, even if you don’t call yourselves that

has once cracked a joke along the lines of “my boyfriend will bite you” and it was actually a threat, in the most loving way

miles

he might be like- a bit surprised the first time meeting you, maybe have some slightly insensitive questions but he means no offence

he just can’t keep his mouth shut sometimes

i think he’s a tiny bit afraid at first but warms up quickly, miles doesn’t seem like a snake guy and i can see him being the associating anything with everything kinda guy

definitely felt guilty for that one now ur boyfriends

massive fan of drawing you and your snake-ness, you look so funky in his style

really likes being heroes together :]

took a double take the first time he saw your jaw unhinge but now he seems jealous at times

after having a super serious conversation about it he immediately says something so off handed that it completely cuts whatever tension there might have been

makes an excellent point that you could swallow a burber whole, he thinks that’s an accomplishment fs

“you can eat a burger in one, that’s skill.” he’s so sure of himself while saying that

there’s something very terrifying but reassuring and endearing about you having such a dangerous mouth with you ur venom and such, used some strange ass logic like “he COULD kill me, but he won’t”

so when you are comfortable just being urself and not covering up your smile, he honestly feels really grateful and trusted

mans never gonna break that trust, he’s never gonna hurt you

ur polite asf too so he doesn’t even second guess introducing you to his parents, doesn’t think things along the lines of “gonna introduce my snake boyfriend” it’s more like “he’s so polite this is an easy win”

IF YOU SMILE HE SMILES, that’s all i’m sayin

therefore, you should smile more and not go out of your way to hide it

he won’t really say anything if you actively choose to in public, you might catch him lookin a bit sympathetic from the corner of your eye if he notices you purposely doing it

it’s not his place to say a thing, but he’d really appreciate it if you got out of that habit, and he’s happy to help

like he might busy your hands just so you don’t subconsciously cover your mouth, that kinda things

he could do this by holding them or whatever

please don’t be embarrassed of urself, you are so so handsome

★⋆ ⋆☆⋆ ☠︎︎ ⋆☆⋆⋆★✧

sorry it’s not insanely romantic ?? i cant really see these boys being like that so i kinda struggled a bit w that

sorry if this is just not great overall i’ve been out of it shshshs

[jonahmagnus]

I make them transgender. Okay?

Headcannons below the cut ✂️!

Isabeau (he/him): Isabeau wanted to name himself Isaboy because he thought that would be funny (it is) but his mom wouldn't let him legally change his name to that so he chose Isabeau, which is exactly two letters off from Isabel. People still call him Isaboy as a joke, though.

The first person he told was Max, both because xe (Max) is ambiguously transgender in every universe, and because xir dad cracked his egg by showing him that masculinity can be whimsy and joy and not just the hardened role hes been forced to play until now. This realization would probably come after a short but very intense femme phase after whatever happens to his grandpa happens (exorcism hopefully) where he tried to embrace traditional "girly" things and while the freedom was nice he hated it so bad and eventually realized he was just forcing himself into another box. Him and Max are the Buzzcut Brothers during highschool.

Anna (she/they): Anna wanted to name herself Miku, and then remembered that she was white. She decided to name herself after the titular Anna from Fr/ozen, which is lame but its a "fucking Mildred?" situation where her friends are begrudgingly supportive. You can't really see it well, but her hairties are the same magenta as Miku's!!

The realization would come after like... years of repression and thinking that feeling Wrong is a problem unique to her and that Nobody Else Has Ever Felt This Way. The catalyst is an argument with Max over it which xe says "just google it, stupid". She does and then stares haunted at her computer screen and the posters of pretty anime girls up on her walls. How her favorite stories all feature transformation. She probably tells Doorman first, at like midnight, and then frets over her contact list before she calls up Max. Xe comes over grumbling the whole time but still supportive has she sobs her eyes out over this realization and gets snot into xir sweater. Xe makes fun of her name but nicely. And then xe asks if she wants to hear any other diagnosises that Max thinks she has. She says "no thank you I've realized enough for tonight ♡" and she is later diagnosed with autism, ocd, bipolar personality disorder and depression.

Crash (they/them): Crash names themself both after the titiular bandicoot and in honor or Crush, the guy who stranged them the day they realized they where nonbinary. This name is awesome and literally the perfect choice for them, its the perfect amount of absurd to suit them and also a normal enough sounding word that people would do a double take when they introduce themselves.

The first person they tell is honestly? Probably Rj. After a few weeks of Knowing that their... not cis, they track down Rj when their alone and explain the situation to them. Their super supportive, obviously, and extremely excited to have cracked Crash's egg. They are delighted by the name and in honor of the choice Rj takes Crash out to egg some houses with the jang. Crash tells the rest of the jang next, with Johnny being deeply enthused by the same they chose and concinved them to try and let Ollie roll them like a bowling ball. Ollie does so and another beautiful friendship is formed. Stephen solemnly tells them "Im proud a' you Crash, gender is a scam made up by the goverment to track our bathroom usage and its pretty cool that you're sticking it to the man like that". Crash nods equally solemnly in response, appreciating how thats fully just a fucking insane thing to say. They nervously tell Isabeau (who at that point is probably still Isabel) over text the next day, who then hunts them down to squeeze them in a hug.

Max (-/-): Max, of course, looks the same in every timeline. No matter what, they have a buzzcut and their name is Max. Cis girl? Buzzcut. Trans girl? Buzzcut. Trans guy? Buzzcut. Cis guy? Buzzcut. Nonbinary? You're never gonna belive it, but, they have a buzzcut. It/its situation in every timeline too. Doesnt matter the combo. She? She/it. Makes 'shit' puns about it. He/it? He is gonna "he/it" you with his car. They/it? Theres no pun for this one but it'll find a way to make one. It/its classic? Also no pun but it gets a boost to its attack speed so it doesnt really need one.

Max doesnt really come out to anyone. Xe doesnt feel the need to. You dont know its alphabet and you will never learn. If it feels like sharing xe will. If it doesn't, it wont. If you try and make it join a pronoun circle against its will, it will pull the god danm fire alarm. It will tell you its not cis but will not tell you in which way.

"Max, why dont you come join the pronoun circl-" "Spender, if you dont stop trying to get me to share my alphabet, Ill take a "she/it" on your work computer and pull the fire alarm"

[Plain text: "Max, why dont you come join the pronoun circl-"]

[chirp-a-chirp]

Simmer

Story Preview: “You keep saying my name like you can’t remember it,” Carla jokes, her breath hitching at his movements. “I promise I know what my name is.”

“Oh, I know.” Leon’s eyes darken. “But I’m aiming to make you scream mine.”

For @xxsycamore Sexy Ikemen Summer Creation Challenge! • Challenge Prompts: Blowing air on neck; not wearing underwear • Rating: Mature 18+ (MDNI) • Fandom: Ikemen Prince • Pairing: Leon Dompteur X OC (OC named Carla, f!character) • Word Count: ~2400 • Tags: Teasing; Vaginal Fingering/Sex; Pet Names; Kissing

…

Music from a summer festival floats in the breeze, lively and vibrant. Street lanterns give way to bright lights within a boisterous tavern. Festivalgoers line every available table and bar stool, enjoying rowdy jokes, copious mugs of ale, and simmering plates of food.

The day had been spent in a blur of dancing and celebration. However, the only thing occupying Leon’s mind now is the pair of playful, simmering blue eyes following him. Leon takes Carla’s hand, fingers twining together, leading her away from the crowd.

There’s an energetic warmth the fourth prince emanates, framing a wide smile and sparkling eyes holding more love than words could ever express. The tavern lights catch in Carla’s hair, reflecting a kaleidoscope of rich copper and golden tones. Her hair cascades past her shoulders, strands flying with abandon expect for a single wisp tucked behind her ear, held in place by a yellow flower. The flower recalls warm memories from earlier in the day.

🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼

“A pretty necklace for a pretty lady!” An eager shopkeeper had made a pitch to Leon at the festival earlier in the day, showing off a series of glittering jewels from behind a table at an outside market stall. “Make her day more splendid by buying one of these.”

Carla laughed joyously, shaking her head. “The day is already beyond splendid with him here.” Carla did not care how saccharine her words sounded—they were the truth, and that showed in the vividness of her smile. Her arm curled around Leon’s waist as she leaned against him.  “Besides, I’d rather wear flowers in my hair than diamonds around my neck.” 

“That can be arranged.” Leon grinned, bending down to pluck a yellow buttercup growing in the cracks of the cobblestone road. His fingers gently wove the flower in her hair, just behind her ear. The shopkeeper left to talk to another potential customer. Leon bent his face and whispered so only Carla could discern his words.

“Wear this for me later tonight. And nothing else.” 

Carla’s cheeks turned bright pink. She murmured back teasingly. “If you’re THAT impatient, we can get things started—once the flower drops from my hair.”

The air simmers with adoration, laced with anticipation. Leon’s breath caressed her ear as he replied. “Until it drops. Not a moment longer.”   

🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼

The buttercup clings tenaciously to Carla, as if it wants to prolong the wait. The tavern Carla and Leon are in doubles as an inn, with several bedrooms and a spacious suite for the more well-heeled clients. Leon leads her upstairs, winking at the barkeep. Carla has her suspicions of what’s to come as a trail of red rose petals lines the stairs towards the double doors of the suite. Those suspicions are confirmed when Leon picks her up bridal style and carries her over the threshold.

“A year since we met.” A soft grin tugs at Carla’s lips at Leon’s words. From the moment they met, Carla had been drawn him, and he to her. Carla was delicate in form, yet strong in will; her compassion and fearlessness enveloped his senses. Leon exuded a natural magnetism that glittered and shone brightly even in the darkest corners. Carla looked forward to the next year with Leon and the next. But now, she looks forward to tonight and what it will bring.

“I love you so much, it’s absurd. So, I thought we should celebrate. Proper like.” A loving purr rings in Carla’s ear.

“Proper,” Carla snickers, wiggling out of Leon’s arms. “Your tongue is many things…proper is not the first that comes to mind.” Carla’s hands lift Leon’s black shirt, her fingers tracing his lower stomach.

“Eager already?” Leon teases, leaning towards her neck, his fingers grazing the petals of the nearby buttercup. At that precise moment, Carla’s stomach rumbles. Leon laughs. “Let’s eat. We’ll have our little fun soon enough.”   

“Little fun? You’ll pay for that!” Carla huffs at the short joke, sauntering her hips as she walks towards the small kitchen in the suite. An appreciative chuckle and subtle tweak to her backside her tells Carla that Leon riled her up intentionally…and she fell for it. Two muscular arms encircle her waist from behind. 

“Well worth the price.” Leon’s chin rests on top of her head. Carla leans back against his chest reveling in his warmth. He marvels in how effortlessly they fit. Fun-sized Leon often called her. But a presence larger than life. She turns in his arms, smirking. “It’s not like we lack for choices. So, which is it—hot and hearty, or quick and efficient to satisfy?” The tone in her voice implies other meanings.

“Ha, either as long as it involves you.” Calloused hands trace the small of her back.

Carla’s eyes dart towards Leon’s waist and back at him. Her hands resume exploring the threads of his shirt, raw desire radiating from her. From their beginning, there was no hesitancy. His warmth drew her in, making her want to bask in all that was her Leon. Hers. Carla nips affectionately at the triangle of exposed skin just below his throat. “And something of substance, I hope.”

Leon’s amber eyes flash with heat. “Hmmm, I do have something pressing for you.”

“Oh?”

“Come closer and find out.” His eyes dilate as Carla leans further in, their bodies just pressing together. Leon’s smile grows as he tries to keep a cool demeanor. “Put your arms around me,” he intones huskily.

“So that’s how it’s going to be.” Carla wraps her arms around his upper back as she stands on tip toes.

“Hold yourself just like that...if you can.” The playful challenge is impossible to ignore. Her lips ghost his neck, her breath caressing Leon’s skin.  “No mischief little lion.” Carla chuckles as she twirls fingers in his dark hair.

“Good girl,” he praises.

“For now, love.” The more Carla tries to focus, the more Leon tries to distract her. His lips graze her forehead and down her cheek. He blows a gust of air onto the buttercup, shaking it mostly but not completely away from her hair. “You can say you want me you know Carla. I won’t bite…hard.” Goosebumps prickle her skin at the thought of Leon loving her without abandon. “You’re practically begging for it.”

“Says the man who uttered the word beg first.” Her lips are tantalizingly close to his.

A wave of lust and affection overtakes him. “I could kiss you now.”

“And just like that you admit defeat.”

An amused snort escapes Leon. A part of Leon wants to continue their banter, but he wants to immerse himself far more in everything Carla brings. He leans in to kiss her, pressing Carla against the kitchen counter. The flower is freed from its confines, falling to the floor. 

“Hmmm…” A rush of fiery warmth envelop the pair. Leon’s mouth pours everything into these kisses, licking into her mouth, open and eager. Carla mewls against Leon’s lips, eliciting a low guttural moan of his own, telling her she was not the only one swept away. Carla hooks his hip with one of her legs to pull him even closer. Her skirt floats up her legs, exposing more of Carla’s glorious skin. Leon’s hand slides up her thighs under her skirt and travels further upward, grasping her ass, pressing heavily against her skin. His eyes widen at the lack of fabric underneath his fingertips.

Baritone laughter reverberates in the air. “Forget what I said about you being a good girl!” Leon teeth graze the shell of Carla’s ear.

“You aren’t the only one who can surprise their lover,” murmurs Carla. “Took you long enough to find out.”  

“Let me show you my appreciation then.” His tongue teases, slowly sweeping across her lower lip, mirroring his fingers as they circle intently around her wet, unclothed entrance. 

“Leon…please…”

Carla’s soft voice, muffled against his lips, briefly stops his movements. Her head nestles against the crook of Leon’s shoulder, her breath shaky. Is this too much? His fingers trace backwards along her inner thighs, away from her core. His kisses become lighter, scattered across her hair, still carrying the same warmth Carla craves. “Carla,” he murmurs.

“Sweetheart…” She laughs breathlessly against his skin, feeling cherished yet bursting with need. “That was a plea to continue. Just in a way I can return your affections better.” Her eyes move to the bunched-up position against the counter.

How is she so cute and sexy at once? A mini battle of Leon the gentleman versus Leon the lover plays out before Carla’s eyes. Spying a plush beige couch in the suite, Leon half runs, half drags Carla there. Intuitively sensing her lover’s thoughts, Carla pushes him in a seated position on the couch. He reaches out and pulls her in his arms and onto his lap, kissing her hungrily, hands roaming her curves.

Carla’s hands travel greedily down his shirt, quickly undoing his buttons. “Hmmm…” Her fingers skim Leon’s exposed muscles. “I do appreciate a man of substance.” Carla flashes Leon a naughty smile as lips join fingers, skating across his pecs with sweet, ravenous intent. Leon’s black shirt slides off his arms and is quickly discarded.

A gasp of surprise is heard as Carla’s blouse and bra fly off with Leon’s skilled hands. “Impatient man!” Carla lets out a delicious giggle, her hands looping around his neck. Her body begins rolling against him.

“You’re one to talk lioness.” Leon’s predatory smile belies his chiding words. His hips thrust upward towards her heat, his taut pants providing some but not nearly enough friction. “Carrrrrrrrrla,” he pants.

“You keep saying my name like you can’t remember it,” Carla jokes, her breath hitching at his movements. “I promise I know what my name is.”

“Oh, I know.” Leon’s eyes darken. “But I’m aiming to make you scream mine.”

Carla stills at that proclamation, her teasing bravado vanishing under the intensity of his gaze. Leon pulls Carla’s body so that his face presses against her chest, hands traversing under her billowing skirt to grip her hips and butt.

“Eyes on me love.” He looks up at her, his eyes the color of liquid amber, reflecting the lust boiling through him. His lips press invitingly on her soft mounds, licking stiffening peaks with hunger and precision.

Carla throws her head back and closes her eyes. “Oh GOD,” she cries, not bothering to lower her voice.

“Leon.” The mischief in Leon’s voice, though muffled underneath bouncing flesh, is readily apparent. “That’s my name. Say MY name when I give you pleasure like this.” His lips wrap around a pert nipple.

“What,” Carla mumbles, her thoughts scattering at his flickering tongue. Those thoughts reassemble at the cocky smirk she feels rising on Leon’s lips against her chest. Carla’s mouth opens and shuts without a sound before she laughs loudly. “You REALLY need a modesty lesson!”

“Just telling you what I’m going for, that’s all.” Leon shrugs his shoulders lazily. “I’ll wait. Show you what patience looks like.” Leon grins, leaning slightly back against the couch, a wet nipple popping out of his mouth.

Her half-lidded eyes widen at the threat. “Don’t. You. DARE.” Carla gasps, her breasts rubbing against Leon’s face. Her fingers grasp the back of his head, threading through his hair. “Don’t stop…please.”

“Please what?” Leon purrs.

“Please…Leon…”

Carla’s voice, soft and pleading, leaves Leon beyond pleased. His grin widens against her chest, his fingers caressing the back of her thighs.

“Well, since you asked so nicely lioness.” I NEED you. Need you to be as crazy for me as I am for you. His grip becomes lighter, palms traversing up and down the back of her upper thighs and rear, wet kisses raining down her chest. Carla sinks into his touch, melting like molten golden onto him, crowning their love. She shakes with anticipation and then pleasure as two fingers swirl within her. For several minutes, her body rocks against his fingers until it becomes too much. Her hands quiver as she unbuckles Leon pants.   

Leon knows he’ll be quicker at this activity than her. He plucks Carla off his lap, setting her on the side of the couch. Shoes are hastily removed, and his remaining clothes shucked off in one quick, effortless movement. As he picks Carla up and puts her back in his lap, he notices she’s taken her skirt off, rendering her fully bare before him.  

“Yes,” Leon growls.  

They crave. They want. They come together, their shared body heat comforting yet electrifying. Their names fly from one another’s mouths in unrepressed delight.

“Carla,” Leon rasps, his heat thrusting into hers, her encompassing warmth and pressure capturing him completely. He pants, pushing down the waves of pleasure cascading through his veins to prolong the moment. Carla shudders, overwhelmed, eyes glazed over as she bounces up and down Leon’s lap. The fire in Leon eyes tells Carla he feels the same. Their lips crash onto one another as she bucks against him, clinging to his shoulders and curling her toes tightly, her rhythm matching the heat rapidly pounding into her. They grip one another, crying out as they release, their world going dark in a scorching blaze.

Leon sinks against the couch in the aftermath, arms still tightly wound around Carla’s waist. Carla collapses against him with a groan, nestling on his chest.    

“Leon…”  The room is filled with heavy panting and intermingling breath. She presses her forehead to his, still craving a connection to him. Sounds of the festival and tavern below are faint and distant.

“God, I love you.” Carla laughs tiredly, blushing, placing a feather-like kiss on the tip of his nose. His heart leaps at her words—unvarnished, direct, vulnerable, like Carla herself.  

“And I love you.” Leon gives a soft, lop-sided grin. “You really are too much.”

“Happy anniversary Leon. The first of many I hope.” The tender note in her voice tells Leon how much she truly means it.

“The first of many, I KNOW.”

“You hungry?”

Laughter echoes in the suite. Carla tumbles on the couch, Leon’s arms enfolding her as he lays overtop her. Smoldering flames of desire reignite from the top of her head to the tips of her toes as his lips press against her neck eagerly. 

“For you, Carla? Always.”

[spirit-small]

From a young age, borrowers are encouraged to do as much for themselves as they can. They're social creatures by nature, and thrive in larger community settings, but their continued existence depends on not being detected. This means that small family groups and, often, solo individuals, are the norm. Not by nature, but by necessity. To that end, borrower children are taught the necessary skills for survival as early as they're able. It's not to get them out on their own quickly, but more because of how fragile and volatile a borrower's life can be. Orphans are remarkably common. They're taught to fend for themselves, because soon enough they may have to.

This is Phoenix Wright's first solo borrowing.

He is 9 years old.

The risk is low. Only two beans live here, and they're both rather preoccupied at the moment. All he has to do is get a couple of things. It'll be over before he knows it.

He silently makes his way across a countertop, and climbs into a cupboard. He knows where his target is. This borrowing stuff is easy, he didn't even SEE a bean.

Too bad he didn't hear one either.

The cupboard he's in is opened and light floods his eyes. He squints and finds himself face to face with the younger bean, caught red handed, quite literally, on account of the Cheeto dust. Flamin' Hot, naturally.

They stare at each other for a minute.

And another.

And another.

It almost seems like the bean is having trouble processing what he's seeing, as if he can't figure out what the appropriate response is.

"Um, hello. My name is Miles Edgeworth. What's yours?" He finally settles on.

"Uh.. Ph-Phoenix... Wright?"

The bean- the Miles- laughs. "I'm not sure, you tell me. Is it Phoenix or not?"

Phoenix is baffled. "Y-yes. That's right, Phoenix."

"Right." Miles nods.

"Yes."

"What?"

"That's right. I'm Wright."

"You're right? Then we're both right. Right?"

"I thought you were Edgeworth? Am I wrong?"

"No, you're right."

"That's right."

The two of them just look at each other for a moment, and simultaneously laugh. Laughing! With a bean! Phoenix is starting to suspect everything about his worldview might be a lie. Either that, or he found a rare One Of The Good Ones.

"So, um... May I ask what you're doing in my cupboard?" Miles asks. Phoenix has to think for a moment. What if he only gets mad when he realizes he's being borrowed from? Beans don't tend to take kindly to learning that.

But then again. What other explanation could there be?

"I... I was inspecting them. See, sometimes little bugs can get into these things, through even the tiniest of cracks in the wall. How would you feel if you started putting on the Ritz, only to find your crackers crawling with ants? I'm really doing you beans a service, here." Phoenix lies through his little teeth.

"...Ah... yes. Of... of course. That... makes sense. You know, if you're hungry, you can just help yourself. I don't mind. I'm sure you don't eat much. You can even take a little extra for later, if you want."

Phoenix bites into a Cheeto. He doesn't even hesitate.

"Mmmrf... Shank you... Mrrnff..."

Miles laughs, not necessarily at Phoenix's shameless display of his lack of table manners, but just... At the absurdity of the whole situation. Phoenix double checks the contents of his bag, and prepares to leave.

"W-wait! Are you... Leaving?" Miles looks at him like a sad, lost puppy.

"I have to. If I don't return soon, I'll never hear the end of it. I mean it, though... Thank you. For letting me take that stuff, and... For keeping me a secret."

"I don't recall promising to keep you a secret." Miles raises an eyebrow.

"Well, you did now." Phoenix winks. Miles gets a determined look on his face and nods.

"I understand..." He watches him as he disappears through a crack in the wall he'd never even put a second thought into. "Wait! Will I... Ever see you again...?"

Phoenix steps back out into the light for a moment. He looks down, thinking hard, considering all of the angles. Turning his thinking around- If beans are so dangerous, then the best way to survive a world full of them is to have one on your side, right? He looks up at Miles, and smiles.

"I think we can arrange that."

[santacarlatourism]

kiss me once 'cause you know i had a long night

listen, if you didn’t know, bret easton ellis has said that a contemporary patrick bateman would be a taylor swift fan. it is perhaps the funniest fact in the world to me, and so i have to confess that i will probably write about this again in the future. writing pat x reader is already kind of amusingly absurd in and of itself. the song prompt of choice for this entry is taylor swift’s “paper rings.” Rating: 13+ Pairing: patrick bateman x reader Warnings: Discussions of true crime, recreational drug use, I mean I don’t think anything here should be entirely unexpected given the source material Word Count: 1.6k Other entries in this series:

[Kevin Khatchadourian]

Kiss me once 'cause you know I had a long night Kiss me twice 'cause it's gonna be alright

You have to admit: You hadn’t thought you’d actually like Patrick Bateman, but the guy was growing on you.

Your friend had wanted to set you up on a blind double date with one of her boyfriend’s friends, in which the four of you would all go out together. You are fairly certain that it was just because she enjoys the idea of double dates. They are cute and Instagram worthy, and allow an opportunity for her to brag about what a wonderful couple her and her beau are. You don’t begrudge her for it, though. They do seem like a happy enough couple.

The date, however, had sounded tedious from the start. You know this friend from being roommates in your college dormitory, where you had been a scholarship student and she was a legacy. While she has always been kind to you, the way she navigates the world is so far detached from the way you live that it’s often proven hard to get her to understand certain things about your life. For example, the fact that the average person does not have a myriad of formal wear for dinner reservations in their closet, ready to go. You are grateful that she took you out to buy something for the date, but hope that she isn’t going to want to do this sort of thing every time.

You’re exhausted from the moment you walk in the door of the fancy restaurant. She mentioned the name of it a thousand times in the car, but you still can’t quite recall it– Archer? Avalon? Something European sounding that starts with an “A.” It’s all hustle and bustle and it’s too many people crowded in too tiny of a place, something that’s both become familiar during your time in the city, and that you’ve also grown to loathe .

Your friend’s boyfriend waves as you approach, and he introduces the man you’ll be sitting beside for the evening, Patrick Bateman. The two across from you swiftly excuse themselves to “get some air.” Considering you only just arrived, it’s rather obvious that the air they plan on getting is cocaine. It is silent for a moment. “Do you want to know what I do?” Patrick asks you.

You’re about to respond with a partly indifferent but affirmative answer, but before you can do so the waiter comes by and fills you and your friend’s glass with sauvignon blanc. “Do we know what we’d like to– shit!” He accidentally knocks over one of the water glasses.

Although it doesn’t get on either you or Patrick, he apologizes profusely and cleans it up before disappearing once again. Patrick has fallen quiet and seems quite tense, not focusing on you. You sigh and take a sip from the wine glass– maybe he’s just nervous about the potential for a first date to go wrong. Not that you would want to admit it, but a touch of your attitude is also the result of nerves (though plenty of it was, as your friend would say, your innate bitchiness). So you try and be a bit more open and friendly for him.“I don’t bite,” you crack a joke.

“Excuse me?” He asks, snapping back to, as if he’d been lost in some very interesting day dream.

“I don’t bite,” you repeat yourself. “Hard,” A teasing grin appears across your lips. “What’s on your mind?”

You weren’t exactly prepared for the answer that comes forth from this man. “Well, did you know that H. H. Holmes paid to have the flesh from his first victim’s corpse removed after attempting to skin her like a rabbit, and sold her skeleton to a medical school?” He says it almost with an almost desperate, defeated chuckle as he brings his wine glass to his lips and takes a sip.

For a moment you say nothing because you’re unsure if this is actually the thought that was preoccupying his mind moments ago. And you’re also unsure what kind of response he expects from this particular bit of knowledge. And, now that he’s actually made eye contact with you, you notice that he has this distinctly blank look behind his eyes. He clenches his jaw in the silence. It’s becoming awkward. You finally respond: “Oh, so you’re into those true crime books?” You ask.

He swallows thickly; it’s surprisingly audible considering there was nothing in his mouth and the sound of goings on in the restaurant around you– Arcadia, that’s the name. “Pardon me?”

“True crime books. They aren’t my cup of tea, but they’re growing quite popular. The first book in the genre to win the Pulitzer Prize was The Executioner’s Song back in ‘79, so I think people are starting to view it more as actual literature and less as an extended tabloid piece. My library’s been getting an increasing number of books in the ghe genre” You comment. “Though I suppose that depends on the author’s approach. What else do you like to read?”

He stutters for a moment, and it’s sort of cute. So you smile.

After dinner, as you’re leaving the restaurant, your friend departs with her boyfriend. She suggests that you can have Patrick take you home, or that you could go home with him. She winks at you and laughs as her boyfriend’s car is pulled up by the valet and the two get in, disappearing into the night, leaving you alone with a man you’ve only known for a couple of hours. And while you have found his oddities somewhat charming, he’s still the next best thing to a stranger. His car pulls around and when the chauffeur gets the door, you hesitate only a moment before getting in. “Where do you live?” Patrick asks.

You respond with the address and name of your apartment complex. Patrick stares at you blankly in response, but the driver seems to be aware of where that is because he pulls out and heads in that direction. “I haven’t heard of that building,” He finally says, breaking the quiet that had fallen over the backseat.

“Well, that’s all right,” You say, with a good natured smile. But you are mildly confused as to why he seems so surprised. New York City had a lot of apartment buildings, you doubted anyone knew the names of them all.

Patrick is very clearly struggling to initiate conversation, you notice. He’s already talked about his work (you still aren’t clear of what his work day consists of, though), high end fashion (you do think the way he eviscerated the suit of the other man at the table was kind of funny), his interest in true crime (though you never got it out of him what other things he reads, you can infer he probably devours GQ), music (the man is beholden to the Billboard Hot 100, and you decide if this goes any further you’ll have to expand his tastes), and other places to get food and drinks besides Arcadia (places you could not afford– you couldn’t have afforded tonight if, since he was technically your date, Patrick had paid your bill).

You frown a little, studying him for a moment, and wonder if dinner reservations and suits and work and who-wore-what-and-when-and-where is where Patrick Bateman ends. It’s a shame, because based off your dinner conversation you had thought you may have found someone you could enjoy talking about your love of literature with outside of work.

“What do you do?” Patrick says, as if he’s only just realized that the question is something he can ask, and that he has not asked it all night. “You’re on the library board, I recall, I once was with a girl who worked with the ACLU–” He’s cut off by your chuckling, laughter, and his expression tenses up. Darkens a bit. “What?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Patrick, you’re just mistaken, that’s all.” You smile at him, leaning a little closer. You put a hand in his lap. “I’m very flattered you think I serve on the library board, but I don’t.”

Patrick frowns and furrows his brows together and you resist the urge to laugh, again, at the way you can see the gears in his brain turning. “Then why are you going to the library?”

“Patrick, I work there.”

“You work there.”

You nod. “My current job title is library assistant, but I’m hoping to go back to school once I’ve saved up and get a masters in library science. Then I can actually become a librari-an,” you explain, “There’s a bit of a difference in job responsibilities, and of course pay. Right now I check books in and out, shelve them and organize them, help people look through the newspaper archives– I feel like I’ve lost you,” You say.

“No– I mean– I just didn’t expect that a library would… pay so well,” He states, looking over your outfit.

“It doesn’t. My friend got me this for the date tonight,” You say with a teasing smile, as the car pulls up in front of your building. You feel a twinge of guilt. While you hoped your date wasn’t the sort of rich asshole to toss you aside when he realized you weren’t a trust fund baby, you hadn’t intended to deceive him or anything.

“Do you want to come up?” You ask him. It’s later than you would usually have stayed out, and you’re not sure if Patrick is as tired as you are, but you still want to ask. “I know it’s been a bit of a long night, but… And you’re not going to get me to put Genesis on, but I could manage some Bowie,” You offer.

He’s white knuckling from gripping his fist in his lap so hard. For a moment you think that he’s going to have an aneurysm deciding whether or not to accept your invitation, and are about to tell him don’t worry about it, forget it, have a good night, when he answers. “Sure.”

You hesitate, but smile, and on a leap of faith give him a kiss, before sliding out and holding the car door open for him.

[anxiousgaypanicking]

Voyeurism

!a series of me uploading the kinktober fics/drabbles i made years ago because i didnt back in 2020 for some fuckin reason. if these are bad/poor quality its because theyre old, and ive improved since then :)!

Loceit (Logan x Janus) Day 8: Voyeurism Warnings: Voyeurism, getting caught masturbating

Janus didn't expect hearing such explicit noises coming from Logan's room. He had almost missed it, initially, when he was walking by. But he had managed to catch a moan. He did a double take, when he realized who's room he had just passed.

He backed up, noticing the door was open just a crack. How unprofessional; Janus would have expected Logan to at least be smart enough to close the door.

He had peaked inside, not expecting to see Logan bouncing slowly on a dildo. He still had a shirt on, but his tie was untied, just hanging loosely around his neck.

Logan's face was flushed, and his eyes were screwed shut. Despite the fact he was hardly moving, he looked to be in heaven.

Janus wasn't surprised. It only made sense that Logan got off very rarely, and was therefore more sensitive. How cute.

He stood at the door, continuing to watch as Logan bounced on the toy, enjoying the moans and whines Logan let out. He felt his own cock twitch in his pants at the sight, and he bit his lip. He could go back to his room and get off, which would be the smarter option, or he could stand here and get off to the sight of Logan.

Or...

Janus quietly pushes open the door, before quietly shutting it behind him. He then clears his throat.

"Well, isn't this a sight," he begins, watching as Logan's eyes snap open. He sinks fully down on the toy, but he keeps grinding against it, seemingly desperate for friction. Janus continues, "It seems you accidentally left the door open."

"Absurd," Logan responds, almost immediately. He's panting quietly. "I don't do things accidentally."

Janus raises an eyebrow. "You left it open on purpose, then? Were you just hoping someone would walk by and catch you?"

"I was."

"Shameless, aren't you. And rather kinky-"

"I'm not kinky."

Janus tsks, strutting up to Logan and quickly grabbing his chin. He firmly tilts Logan's face upwards, bringing their faces close together.

"Oh, Logan, you and I both know that's a lie."

Logan's the one who ends up closing the gap between then, desperate for human affection, or just human contact in general. He knew what he was doing leaving his door open - of course he did. He was hoping someone would walk in on him - he was hoping someone would catch him. Both due to the thrill of being caught doing something so unlike him, and the way he felt when that person inevitably touched him.

As Janus was doing now.

He had released Logan's chin, and his hands had begun roaming over Logan's body. It felt weird, because of Janus's gloves, but Logan was just desperate for any contact in general.

Janus's tongue slipped into Logan's mouth, Logan moaning at the unfamiliar feeling.

He got off occasionally by himself, sometimes finding himself randomly aroused, or stressed and in need of relief. But he had always craved another person. He'd never admit it, of course, because then he'd sound stupid.

Logan sat up on his knees, both trying to deepen the kiss and get off the toy, but Janus's hands are on his hips in an instant, and his roughly forced back down.

His back arches as he lets out a high moan, nails digging into the fabric covering Janus's arms.

"Janus?" Logan asks, questioningly, his face flushed. Janus raises an eyebrow in response, a smirk on his face.

"Yes?"

"I thought you were-"

"Going to fuck you?" Janus chuckled, hand coming to hover in front of his lips as he did so. He glances at Logan's pathetic looking figure, eyes shining. "No. I'd much rather sit here and watch you get off. It's such an alluring sight."

Of course, he'd love to see Logan beneath him at some point, but that was best saved for a later time. Right now, he just wanted to watch, and maybe tease Logan, as he fucked himself on that toy.

Logan's cheeks turn a bright red, causing Janus to raise an eyebrow. Embarrassment, perhaps?

Janus takes a seat on the bed across from Logan, watching him expectantly with a smirk on his face. Logan dares to glance down, and he notices that Janus was clearly hard in his pants.

Logan clears his throat, looking back at Janus. "Are you sure you don't want me to help you with-"

"I'm sure," Janus cuts him off, at Logan swallows the spit in his mouth. Is he too shy? The little nerd, the one who wanted to get caught, too embarrassed to keep going.

"Are you too flustered to continue, Logan?" Janus purrs, words more meant to tease than to accuse. Logan swallows and shakes his head, before shakily lifting himself back up, and slamming himself back down, letting out a loud moan as he does so.

He definitely seems more hesitant now that he knows he has an audience, but he was still horny and in need of relief, so he kept bouncing on the toy.

Janus watched him intensely, watching as Logan let out a moan every time he went down, how his hands toyed with himself, and the way his eyes would look at everything but Janus.

How cute.

Logan slowly began bouncing faster, a single bead of sweat dripping down his forehead. He didn't do things like this often, so he got a bit of a workout from this. He was spurred on by Janus's groans and moans as he palmed himself through his pants, eyes never moving anywhere but Logan.

Logan's face was flushed a light red as he moved a bit faster, moans continuing to spill from his mouth. His head rolls back as he lets out a whine, and his back arches as he sinks down one final time, moaning as he comes.

He sits up and pushes the toy away, before sitting back down on the bed. He looks at Janus, who's face has a light dust of pink on it.

"Enjoy watching?" Logan asks, panting slightly.

Janus is quick to nod. "Very much so. Does your offer of helping me out still stand?"

Logan nods, and shuffles closer.

[allylikethecat]

I would love to read your take on 6 and Gatty. These prompts are amazing!

Hello! I'm so sorry it took me so long to finish this prompt! BUT here it is! I hope you like it! I filled #6 Kiss... on a tear, previously as a pairing with #12 Kiss... in grief, (which can be found here) so I decided to go a little more light hearted this time! I hope it's still what you're looking for! I had a lot of fun writing this, I know humor isn't necessarily my strongest genre, but I made myself smile with this and I hope it makes you smile as well! Thank you so much for the request! I hope it was worth the wait! Let me know what you think! Thank you again!

❤️Ally

6. Kiss… on a falling tear

“Be careful with that,” said George, leaning up against the counter as he watched Matty wash the dishes in amusement. Matty hated washing dishes, it was his least favorite chore, and he would do anything and everything in his power to avoid it at all costs. He was more than content to let the task fall on George, who would do it without complaint, who found the repetition soothing. Matty was the type of person that would rather buy a new set of dishware in a pinch than wash the dishes in the sink. George had accepted that about him twenty years ago, and found it was easier for both of them, and healthier for their relationship, if he just did the dishes. 

But, after being heckled by the guys in the studio that morning for being a “bad housewife” because of his lack of domestic talents, and the clearly uneven divide of household tasks, he had put on the rubber gloves and insisted that while he might not have cooked for George that evening (George made dinner as usual) he could at least do the washing up. George had snorted in amusement and left him to it, chuckling to himself at the way the rubber gloves were clearly too big for Matty, extra space puckering at the end of the fingers, and the hard look of determination in his eyes as he mentally gave himself a pep talk before tackling the dishes. 

“I know what I’m doing, you don’t need to hover over my should-” Matty started before cutting himself off with a strangled exclamation that sounded like a distressed cat, the water from faucet hitting a spoon at just the right angle to send it splashing back into his face, soaking the collar of his tee shirt as he scrambled, clumsily diving forward to turn off the sink instead of just moving the spoon- the water still hitting him as he sputtered before the slamming the faucet off. 

George couldn’t help it, the next thing he knew he was doubled over, gasping for breath as he laughed at the sound Matty had made, at the absolute look of horror on his face as he turned to face George, dripping and covered in soap, eyes wide and mouth gaping like a confused fish. 

“What just happened?” Matty asked, clearly not understanding how physics worked, which made sense seeing as how he was constantly getting into trouble for skipping math and sciences courses in school. It only served to send George further into his spiraling laughter, he couldn’t stop, hands clutching his stomach, tears filling his eyes as he laughed.

Matty scrunched up his nose, looking like a distressed kitten who had just fallen in the bathtub, he was still dripping, having made no move to even wipe off his face. 

“Stop,” he said, his voice cracking as a grin threatened to break through. “It’s not funny,” he tried to argue, swallowing his own laughter. George's laughter was contagious and the absurdity of the situation striking him now that he was no longer being sprayed in the face.

“What even was that sound you made,” George choked, hiccuping which just set off another set of giggles, “I thought I knew all your sounds but even I have never heard that one before.” 

“Stop it!” Matty said, he was laughing now too, “The water wouldn’t stop!” 

“You just had to move the fucking spoon you didn’t have to turn the whole sink off,” George laughed, Matty shed the gloves, tossing them onto the counter as he made his way across the kitchen to where George was standing. They both knew they were being ridiculous, that it wasn’t even that funny, but it was a shock that had set off a fit of full body laughter, and once George got started, it wasn’t nearly impossible for him to stop.

“Stop laughing at me,” Matty pouted over dramatically, stepping into George’s space, reaching up to rest his hands on his shoulders as if he was trying to instill some kind of critical, sage, knowledge. “It’s not funny.” 

The seriousness of his tone just made George laugh harder, Matty chuckling himself, tears dripping down George’s cheeks. Matty stood on his tip toes, leaning forward to kiss one of the tears that leaked from George’s scrunched up eyes, before his intrusive thoughts won out and he found himself licking George’s cheek, his hot, pink tongue darting out quickly, tasting salt.

“God,” said George, still laughing as he pulled Matty closer, not even caring that Matty was getting him wet as well, pressing a kiss to the crown of Matty’s head, and burying his nose in the curls, trying and failing to stifle his laughter. “Don’t ever change.” 

“Does this mean I don’t have to finish the dishes,” Matty asked, pulling away slightly to look up at George through his lashes hopefully. 

“If you can live with the fact that Hann and Ross are never going to let it go,” George said, wiping at his still leaking eyes. 

“Do we have to tell them?” Matty asked, trying and failing to look seductive, the effect lost with the way water was still clinging to his eye lashes and water was dripping from his hair, running down his neck in soapy divots.

George snorted. “I’m telling literally everyone about this.” 

Matty groaned and pressed his face into George’s chest.

[kendrixtermina]

(disquiet)

Complete standstill.

Unending torments.

Everything feels so fucking insignificant

in a place worth a damn,

I wouldn’t have to deal with the first of this

I’d be free

I shouldn’t have to deal with any of this bullshit.

It’s so hard to explain,

please, oh please, don’t press me

Oh fuck it why,

why is all of this so absurd?

all the world is collapsing now arround me,

no way out

like some annoying old-timesy windows error message

appearing in my face -

how long’s it been since I saw one of those?

I don’t comprehend it myself.

I cannot make you -

all the world is gone now.

My dreams are all I’ll ever have.

This is the only place.

The only solace.

Im running out of places I can hide from this.

Your scent is still here in my place of recovery.

As the sayings go,

some mesh to flush out what’s lodged between it.

This is the only respite from the rampant chaos out there

oh please let me be,

just let me be,

fucking let me be!

I could be off to an island and it still wouldnt be

far enough away

from this place here,

this my altar,

ive killed a thousand people here,

somewhere in dreams.

Severed the cords,

tore the cables from the ceiling,

clogged the maintenance shafts,

threw the rocks through factory windows,

industrial strairs, flimsy frameworks against the brick

deep-buried subway tunnels,

doubling as nuclear shelters,

that could cave in at any moment.

You could die at any instant, don’t you know?

Who’s to say it can’t be now?

Even in this world of wonders and curiosity,

I fail to press mine eyes to the objective glass before age blinds them

Even with everyone believing in me,

I fail to do the thing.

Ever and anon they ask, though so respectful in restraint,

so many others would have kicked me to the curb.

Should have.

And the tongues of blood lick through,

crawln in the doors,

splat!

Out of the plastic, organs falling out,

the neat polished machines,

blood pressing through the hinges,

blood stained everything,

floor tiles, sheets, curtains.

Tumors bubbling beneath cables,

floating wads of brains behind the screens,

spines breaking out,

cracking,

the panelling as they arch outward,

in some piteous semblance of masturbatory orgasm,

left to flop nude upon the floorings.

You fled, oh didn’t you,

skinless thing of nerve strings -

So now what?

[mysteriouseggsbenedict]

NICHOLAS BENEDICT MY BELOVED + 68, 72, 86. and just to copy you if you wanna get a little spicy perhaps add 85. but only if you want to/can stuff all that in one thing. (that's Tipping Chin Up, Hiding Face in Neck/Shoulders, Tears/Crying, and if you're up for bonus, Comforting Gesture/Kissing Their Head)

"We have all the ingredients to grow a mold infestation throughout this entire compound," Number Two said, and Nicholas did a double take.

"Mold?" he asked, shaking a little. "Isn't that...wrong, number two? Or illegal?"

"I didn't sign anything."

It was such a silly, stupid thing to break over, Nicholas realized, but the absurdity— a mold infestation, really, Number Two— caused something to crack inside of his chest. He burst into tears. He stood there, looking at Number Two with a lemon and a knife in her hand, and tears flowed down his cheeks in big, overdue gushes.

"Oh— Nicholas," Number Two said. She set down the lemon. "Nicholas, it's alright. We don't have to...to grow the mold..."

She seemed flustered, now, unsure what to do. Her hands fluttered uncertainly beside her.

"I'm sorry," Nicholas sobbed. "It's not...it's not a bad idea...well..."

"No, no. It was a bad idea. Here— why don't we just—"

And then Number Two was holding him. It was a bit surprising. She was always very tense, Nicholas knew, and a bit less cuddly than the others. But she knew that Nicholas needed to be held. She wrapped her arms around him and pulled him close, right there in his brother's unsettlingly decorated condo. Nicholas continued to cry into her shoulders. He buried his head into her scarf, the same one she'd been wearing for two days, and smelled lemons and garbage on her. He'd accept it for now.

"I haven't been the most...tactful," Number Two said. "I should have been paying better attention to you. To what makes this hard for you."

Nicholas could do nothing but continue to cry. He adjusted his position to rest his head on her shoulder. She rubbed his back helpfully.

"Why don't we sit down and gather ourselves? Rhonda always suggests gathering of oneself, you know."

Nicholas nodded. Rhonda would, bless her heart. He missed her terribly. He knew that this comment was Number Two's way of showing that she did, too.

They sat on the couch and breathed. After a while, Number Two lifted his chin up, making eye contact.

"We're going to get out of here. And things are going to get better. Got it?"

Nicholas smiled.

"Got it, my dear."

---

In a studio across the compound, Dr. Curtain waited for a guest who never arrived.

[brooklynislandgirl]

@kylo-wrecked  {{xx  and oh, the heartache is so real.}} Her hand comes up to her face, thumb and pinky curled under her chin and spaced apart while the others crook over her lips, one touching her nostril, one stretched to rest on the corner of her lips. While it might appear that she's in a moment of contemplation, she's stifling an internal scream so that the frustration doesn't come roaring out of her. He's never looked at her with quite so much hate, his eyes never so frigid, so trenchant. Where she has choked down a lifetime of alternating currents of malice and apathy, she never expected to being on the receiving end from Ben, and maybe more the fool is she. She'd allowed Ben to strip away her defenses one brick at a time until the wall she'd built to protect herself lay at her feet in thin layers of emotional mortar. At the same time she feels her gorge rising so high the acid could burn the vitreous chambers at the backs of her eyes. If she were half the woman he currently thinks she must be, she might be inclined to slap the numbness out of him, make him do something more than- His voice explodes around her. She cannot hide in her own disability and pretend she didn't hear him clearly. With a single solitary flinch she fractures into stained glass pieces of herself, feels the tears rising to prickle while the rest of her suffuses with heat that comes pouring out of the cracks, lava instead of blood. Each slam of the cup is echoed by her heart beat. Each one reaches down into her, into places even she can't reach herself, and dredges the sludge at the bottom of her memory. Pulls up little feelings she can't rightfully process in the moment but that will pay for a new addition to her therapist's summer house in the Hamptons. But what's worse? Is no matter if she could move, if she could stand next to him as he lets it all come gushing out, is knowing she can't scoop it up fast enough. That she can't plug the leak because he won't let her. He's edging closer and closer toward hate, and hurt, and so many other things she always thought he was safe from when he was with her. That particularly vehement curse echoes in the actual mouse-squeak of a whimper that comes entirely of its own accord. But she doesn't look away. Watches him in grief-stricken silence because she doesn't know what else she can do. What he needs or wants are alien concepts and there's too much between them to be able to untangle the mess. Ire isn't so much forgotten as it is replaced with pity, the thing they promised each other they wouldn't do, the gall of it unbearable. Grating on exposed nerves in a way that neither can justly explain why or how they have come to hate it. She didn't do this.   Not to him. Not to anyone. Nothing really registers as real. A sublime absurdity in a single act. Emotional pennies paid into mutoscopes that she can't even begin to explain; the perceived and half-hearted theft of her salt shaker, the raw honey for tea, paper towels. All abandoned seconds later.She feels like she's on guided rails, a thing not made of flesh and bone but some reasonable facsimile. She follows in his wake, and when he collapses against her couch, she drops down in front of him. Leans her elbows onto his legs. Double fists propping her head up so she can make the Herculean climb to meet his gaze. "Ben, please," she begins and soaked through each word is that innate sorrow they've always shared. "The first time we met, you paid for my coffee and I told you I'd get you back for it. There were no machinations, I thought you were being nice. Pay it forward and all that kind of stuff. I didn't know who you were, I didn't know about your parents. Honestly, I thought you were some scholarship kid at college who just got their financial aid in. The next time? When you chased me through the subway because I left my sable brushes at the park? You didn't have to do that, but you did and it was so sweet." She's never forgotten a single moment between them. She didn't care that they often landed in certain publications as modern day Montague-and-Capulet, maybe only partially because she'd always hated Romeo and Juliet. She'd much prefer to be the Beatrix to his Benedict. "I've got two best friends in the whole world. One right now is so hurt, he thinks I'm the one who poisoned the well...and I can see it, there, in your face. But the other...is a lawyer. From an entire family of lawyers that could bend the city to its knees if they wanted to. Give me a chance, okay? Let me see if we can get a retraction printed. Maybe find out who...who put that all out there. And if that doesn't do anything, let me...let me come with you."