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[luvjunie]

— trust who?

pairing: e-42!miles x 1610!fem!reader

contains: angst, mentions of death, yandere?miles

summary: you were taken from him a year ago, and now it seems the universe has given him a chance to do things differently— and this time, he’s not letting you go. no matter what. wc: 1,648

a/n: i got a lil carried away w this one won’t lie, lol. i love this song, and i put a little twist on it to match the plot. song lyrics are in small, bold italics

🎧: Not You Too - drake (ft. chris brown)

“trust- trust who? trust me and i can set you free. left your man came straight to me you the real mvp, my love.“

dimmed hues of red lights spotted your vision as you came to, eyelids heavy as they peeled apart to reveal the room you assumed would be the setting of your demise. your head snapped up when you finally regained consciousness completely, fright-riddled eyes darting around to scout out an escape plan. but just as you went to move, you heard chains clink from above as your body swayed, and realized you couldn’t. you looked down to find your legs bound by rope, as well as your hands, as well as the rest of your body to a firm, stuffed sack.

feet dangling from the ground, you let your head fall back against the punching bag, defeated, and settled for your only remaining option. “help!” you yelled, voice rasped and weak. “help!” you tried again.

“don’t bother, can’t hear a thing down here.”

an artificial, robotic voice sounded from above, warranting your eyes to meet a masked man who resided on a high beam, crouched in place, watching you. how long had he been there?

he jumped down, catching himself and effortlessly hanging from one arm before his sneakers met the steel floor. they were untied, you noticed.

fear permeated your entire being as he strolled over to you, a semblance of uneasiness coursing through your veins, pumping into your blood and rendering your spine straight as the ominous figure stopped just in front of you.

“ple—please, i don’t know why i’m here,” the words tumbled out in a broken heap of suffocated, stifled sobs as tears welled in your eyes.

“shh, it’s okay,” he shushed you, a hand reaching out to gently pinch your chin, lifting your head back up after it’d fallen. his touch was delicate, like he was scared he’d break you.

“i’m not gonna hurt you, mi vida. i’d never hurt you… you know that.” the voice distorter cut out, your breath catching in your throat and your eyes fluttering over every inch of this strange mask. it reminded you of a ventilation mask you’d seen in miles’ room once, a mask used to protect your lungs from the fumes of spray paint.

as if your mind were working against you, you found yourself… calmer than you were just a few seconds ago, and even more confused. why did the voice sound so familiar?

something wasn’t right.

“who— who are you?” you gulped.

“you don’t remember me?” the shield over his face pulled back, the quiet sound of mechanical whirring as it revealed his face drowned out by the heavy thrumming of your heart in your ear drums.

here stood your boyfriend in front of you, the same features, but… different. his entire demeanor had shifted since you had last seen him just prior to whatever time it was now, to something sinister. his hair was longer, pulled back and braided. an accent, almost resemblant of his mother’s lingered on the tip of his tongue, dripping within the words he spoke. his face was harder, etched and carved like the weight of the world had chipped at it piece by piece, only to settle on his shoulders, leaving him with no time for himself.

this couldn’t be right.

“miles?” you choked out, mouth gaping to find your voice. “w-why… what am I—you’re, you… but different? what is this? where am i?”

a puff of air shot through his nostrils, his best effort at a laugh as a small, smile lifted the corner of his lips, braids gliding over his shoulders when his head tilted to the side.

“you came back to me, mi amor. and god…you’re even more beautiful than i remembered.” he breathed, eyes flickering with sorrow for just a moment as they studied your face, a moment that was almost too brief for you to catch.

when he’d encountered you and his counterpart on the roof with his uncle, he swore his prayers had been answered. somehow, someway you’d been brought back to him— the pain of witnessing the bullet that pierced through your chest that fateful night just a year ago drifted from his mind, and replaced itself with the all consuming, peaceful, sleeping image of you the minute he’d picked you up and cradled you in his arms. it pained him to inject you with the needle to sedate you, but he had no other choice, he could never truly hurt you. no, he would never do that.

“i missed you so much.”

“first time in a long time hurtin' deeply inside”

the hand sporting his mechanical gauntlet lifted towards you, fingers bending so the claws wouldn’t scrape your skin as he let the cold metal brush against the swell of your cheek. the sound of the steel joints ticking made you flinch, chest stuttering for breaths you couldn’t keep within your overworked lungs as you turned away from him.

you looked at him with so much fear in your eyes, when all he’s ever wanted to do was keep you safe, to protect you, to make you feel comforted and secure. and he failed at that before, he knows that, but he’s ready this time. he’d been given a second chance, and he’d be damned if he let you slip through his fingers again.

“it’s me, hermosa… it’s okay, you know me. just trust me, and i can set you free, and then we can be together. just like old times.” his brows furrowed, his tone one of sincerity as he assured you, but it did nothing for your racing heart.

“trust—“ you sputtered, voice wavering when you spoke. “trust who? you? how can i when you have me tied up like this?!” you balked, your bewilderment such a stark contrast from his bleak, seemingly unmoving disposition.

“yeah… i’m real sorry ‘bout that. uncle aaron made me, so i tried not to make ‘em too tight. you know something like this would never, ever be my idea.”

you shook your head, was this some kind of sick joke? why wasn’t he understanding a single word that was coming from your mouth?

you grew frustrated, time was not on your side, and honestly you were getting tired of this game.

“i don’t know anything about you, i don’t even know who you are. you might have his face, and—and his body,” you looked him up and down. “but you… you are not my miles.”

he felt a pang in his chest, the words you uttered, the way you said ‘my miles’, as if he wasn’t right here, as if he wasn’t right in front of you. the version of himself he’d buried in the ground with you just last year wanted to jump out and yell at you, plead with you, anything to make you see he could be just like your miles, because he was your miles.

“oh,” he pulled the skin of his cheek between his teeth as he turned away with an agitated nod, extending his arm out to point towards your miles, who was still unconscious, chin dropped to his chest as he hung from another punching bag.

“him?” his voice raised in volume and broke apart with desperation, a humorless chuckle unintentionally escaping his trembling lips. “what’s the difference? huh? tell me.” he demanded, nostrils flaring as he tried to maintain his composure, staring deep into the eyes of the girl who would’ve burned the whole world down with him if he asked. the girl who was in his grasp, right in this moment, yet still so far from his reach— reserved for the one who had everything that belonged to him.

your head whipped to where he pointed, and the moment your eyes landed on your boyfriend your blood ran cold, a pained gasp rippling your chest. “miles! oh god, please!” you called out for him as you struggled against your restraints, his counterpart interrupting you by blocking your line of your view with his body.

“cálmate,” he hummed, “he’s fine, just unconscious. i’m not cruel. is that how you remember me, mamí?” he questioned, voice bleeding with hurt.

your gaze drifted over to your miles again, hope swelling within you when you heard him groan.

“no, no, princesa. don’t look at him, look at me.” he urged.

he didn’t understand. you always used to say you would love him in every universe, that you’d find him in every lifetime, what happened to that?

“please, we need to get home, if we don’t… he won’t be able to save his father, he—he’ll die. you have to understand.” you pleaded, the tears finally bubbling over your waterline, streamlining down your cheeks.

“you are home! it’s me, mi amor, i’m right here. what about everything we went through?” he asked tenderly, voice full of hurt and eyes still soaking in the slight difference in your features. he was too distracted by the fact that the girl he thought he’d never see again, was right here in front of him to even try and comprehend what you were trying to say. “please, don’t cry. you know i hate seeing you cry.”

nothing else seemed to be working, so you settled for empathizing with him. he was still miles, after all, different universe or not, he was still the same person deep down. and from the way he was looking at you, love flowing from the eyes that held so much anguish within them, you knew some version of you had loved him, too. in the same way you loved your own.

“look, i’m sure i-“ you stopped to correct yourself, “she, loved you, but i’m not her. i’m not from here, and i’m sorry she’s gone, and i’m sorry you have to live with this pain, but, please… you have to let me go.” your tone was forbearing, words teetering off into a hushed plea, your lingering apprehension threatening to tear through the seam of your heartfelt spiel.

“let you go?”

you nodded tentatively.

he moved closer to you, to unbound you from this elevated prison, you assumed. because maybe, just maybe you’d managed to get through to him.

but this wasn’t your universe, and this… this was not your miles.

for the first time in your entirety of knowing miles morales, you felt your heart stop— and not in the way that brought a flurry of warmed, passioned butterflies to flutter within you— but in a way that invited his words to settle like ice in your bones, allowed panic and dread to inhabit your senses, clutching you in a selfish grasp of resentment that had no intentions of letting you go— you realized, as this time, his gloveless hand swiped away yet another tear you hadn’t even noticed you’d shed.

“why would i do that?”

“I've given you enough time. hurtin' deeply inside.“

- please do not plagiarize, copy, or repost my works to other platforms!

likes, comments, and reblogs are very appreciated 💗

©luvjunie 2023

[chronicowboy]

His breakup with Marisol is about as unremarkable as the rest of their relationship. There's no catastrophic muffin mess in his kitchen or divorce papers. Just a quiet I don't think this is working out, I'm sorry. Marisol hadn't even cried. She'd just nodded like she'd been waiting for it and left, didn't even need to grab anything from the house before she went and really that just reassured Eddie that this was the right choice.

So, his breakup with Marisol is unremarkable, except that it's not. It's pretty fucking remarkable when he thinks about it because it's not just that they weren't working out, not just that he really didn't care about spending time with her, not just the clench in his gut every time she touched him. No. It's pretty fucking remarkable because he realises he's in love with his best friend.

That's what pushes him over the edge, gives him the last kick he needs to actually break things off with her. Because Eddie may have sworn himself to secrecy about it the moment he realised, but he could never string someone along just because he couldn't have the real someone he wanted.

It's a fucking revelation once he has it. Not a ton of bricks, but the sun peeking out from behind the clouds on the greyest of days, bright and blinding. And the way Eddie has always thought of Buck in terms of sunshine maybe should have tipped him off sooner, but with the way Buck has been beaming over the past few weeks. Well. Eddie doesn't really think he can be blamed for only just taking his sunglasses off and daring to look directly at the light.

And, okay, so Eddie maybe makes it a full week before he decides his self-sworn secrecy absolutely is not a viable option when Buck walks through life now like a drop of sunshine in human form. It's after Buck leaves the Diaz house, walking out from a day of giggles and joy at the go-kart track they'd finally managed to convince Chris to be seen with them at, leaving behind a cosy heat like sun-warmed skin, that Eddie realises he cannot go another day without telling Buck that he's desperately, deeply in love with him.

And so, that's how Eddie finds himself at Buck's door on a random Sunday morning, knocking for the first time since Natalia waltzed out of the picture. Buck opens it a few moments later looking perfectly sleep-rumpled and soft and downright golden where he's backlit by the early morning sunlight pooling in the loft.

"Eddie," Buck breathes out, eyes darting up the stairs before refocusing on Eddie and what must be the most hopelessly lovesick expression painted across his face. "H-hey, what are you doing here?"

"I, um." Eddie takes a deep breath, suddenly nervous, and wipes his clammy palms on his jeans. "I wanted to talk to you about something. Now a good time?" And Buck must hear the slightly shaky steel in his voice because the surprise on his face morphs into a concern so quintessentially Buck that Eddie just wants to kiss it away.

"Y-yeah, of course, come on in." Buck holds the door open for him, and Eddie migrates to the fridge as Buck closes the door with the gentlest touch. "So, um, what's up?"

"I..." Eddie swallows against the heart in his throat, loses himself in the shining blue of Buck's eyes like an ocean he'd be more than happy to drown in. "I broke up with Marisol last week."

"Oh, Eddie." Buck slumps, and Eddie tries not to think that it looks a little like relief. "I'm so sorry, man. That sucks."

"No, no." Eddie waves him off with a laugh. "It's good. Was a long time coming actually." He shakes his head at himself. "I think I was dating her just to tick a box, you know? Realised you probably shouldn't be more excited about a phone call from your new buddy than one from your kinda long-term girlfriend. You definitely shouldn't be relieved when you see your best friend in the restaurant you're taking her to and disappointed when you realise he's just leaving."

And then, Buck blushes, ducks his head, does that little smile that could light up every house on South Bedford Street just like Eddie had been hoping for.

"Yeah." Buck looks up at him from under his lashes. "Probably not."

It bolsters Eddie. Buck's sunshine giving him that one last push he needs.

"There was something else I wanted to say," Eddie starts. And there isn't really any fear in him, knows they'll make it through this no matter what, just an overwhelming sense of peace to come. "I..." A deep breath, gathering all his love and devotion in his lungs so it's ready to pour out on his next inhale and—

A groan from upstairs has the words dying in his throat. A masculine groan. And then:

"Evan?"

"D-down here," Buck calls back.

Eddie can't take his eyes off the loft, stuck there like a car crash he can't look away from as a very shirtless Tommy Kinard appears at the top of the stairs and quickly blanches.

"Shit. Um..." He looks down at Buck in a panic.

Eddie finally manages to drag his eyes away from the very chiselled curveball that just hit him at a hundred miles per hour and finds Buck's face. Small, scared, shaken. He knows the feeling. And because he loves Buck, because of just how deeply he loves Buck, it's the easiest thing in the world to lock that love away and let his face crack into the most genuine of grins. Because if Tommy's been the thing making Buck shine like every fucking star in the sky, well Eddie will absolutely not be getting between them.

"You've been so happy," Eddie chokes out, still smiling.

"I have," Buck whispers.

"And I'm so happy for you." Eddie covers the distance between them in three long strides and pulls Buck into a hug so tight and clinging he's sure it's a confession in and of itself, but Buck only buries in deeper, taking shaky little breaths in the crook of Eddie's neck.

"Thank you," Buck murmurs into his skin. Eddie squeezes his eyes shut against the sudden rush of tears.

"Sorry you didn't get to tell me on your own terms," he murmurs back, letting Buck pull away, but lingering with a hand on his hip, on his shoulder. He should maybe be worried about what this could look like to Tommy who had basically never heard anything apart from rambles about Buck, except when he glances up the stairs, Tommy is nowhere to be seen.

"I was going to tell you," Buck rushes out. "I-I just wasn't sure how."

"That's okay," Eddie says. It's okay. It's okay. "Well, I'll stop gate-crashing for the... Second time?" He raises an eyebrow, and Buck flushes a pink Eddie will never ever get to taste. "Yeah, okay. That makes sense." He remembers the pure fear on Buck's face, the indecision on Tommy's and the sudden tightening of his own chest despite his smile. "I'll leave you guys to it." He clears his throat. "Kinard, if you hurt him, they'll never find your body," he shouts up the stairs.

"Copy that, Diaz," Tommy shouts back.

"I'm really proud of you, Buck." Eddie wraps him in another hug then, a quick thing, just one last touch before Eddie seals every desire away for good.

"Thanks, Eddie." Buck walks him to the door, eyes glistening with unshed tears, and Eddie wants to hug him again. Wants so badly it hurts. But if he hugs Buck again, he doesn't think he'll ever let go. "See you at work tomorrow."

"See you at work." Eddie prays Buck is too distracted to hear the wobble in his voice.

"Wait, sorry, what did you want to talk about?"

Eddie freezes on the threshold, the stutter of his heart painful like he's back in a suit store, and he catches himself on the doorframe with a shaking hand.

"It can wait."

[kissenturine]

𝐂𝐎𝐂𝐊𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐆𝐀𝐌𝐄 tartaglia x m!reader — 3.8k words, not proofread, minors do not interact

TO NOTE: amab reader, reader is a dom at first then switches halfway through, reader is mentioned to be wearing lingerie, light feminization (childe says pussy once), use of good boy amongst other pet names, light degradation, praise (for both reader and childe), childe sucks reader's dick, childe also eats reader's ass, cockwarming (childe can't take it LMAO), no aftercare written but it is given, childe licks ur fingers to clean them, mating press, dirty talk. lmk if i missed any!

KAI SAYS: almost 4k words of pure smut haha but like omg i wrote this so late at night with my tip so pls spare me AND!!! this is my return post so...

Tartaglia knows you’re doing it on purpose now, because how can you not be? He whimpers, his cheeks flushing a rosy pink as he feels you clench around him. “Baby, please.” He whines out, nuzzling his face into your neck. “I-I can’t—baby, it’s been thirty minutes.” Thirty minutes he’d been buried to the hilt in you; his dick hard and twitching as it stuffes you full.

Tartaglia whines. He could faintly hear the sound of you taking a deep breath, but that’s not what he was focusing on. No, he was focusing more on the way you squeeze him as you inhale. It was on purpose, he knew you couldn’t just be faking this.

With a deep breath, doing his best to steel his nerves, Tartaglia pressed his thumbs into the joysticks of his console again. “I…” He murmurs softly into the skin of your neck. “I don’ think I can beat this level.”

“No.” You coo in that sickeningly sweet voice of yours. “You can.”

Tartaglia nods his head, your encouragement helping lift his mood somewhat. But, true to his word, he dies yet again. Tartaglia lets out a pathetic whine when he’s greeted with the ‘You Died!’ Screen for the nth time tonight. This bet was made specifically with his torture in mind. You knew he would never beat this level, so to “motivate” him, as you put it, you would sit nice and still on his sensitive cock until he beat it.

“Can’t you move just a little, please.” Tartaglia begs, his dignity long gone. You’re evil for this, he thinks, but all of that is lost when you shift your hips slightly, his mind going blank at just the smallest friction.

He feels his tip bump your prostate, and Tartaglia knows he’s hit it when you moan out, your mouth right by his ear as his fingers press harshly against the buttons of his game console. “P-please!” He whines again. “I-I need you t’move, just a little, just a little, please.”

“Maybe, if you last another thirty minutes, I’ll consider it.” You hum, and Archons Tartaglia thinks he's losing his mind with the way your breath trickles over his ear. “But, if you make it through the level…” Your voice trails off, but Tartaglia knows what you meant.

If he makes it through the level, Tartaglia could finally fuck you. Push you against the bed, wipe that stupid smirk off your face, maybe make you sit on his face until you cry. The options, at least to him, are endless.

You trail your hand over the neck of his shirt, and Tartaglia’s eyes dart from the screen to you. You, all dressed up in your white lace panties and thigh highs, with your chest arched against his chest and here he was, still fully clothed.

Well, only thanks to you.

You, like the cruel man you are, wouldn’t let Tartaglia strip. You’d forced him to watch as you changed, stripping off your pyjamas and slipping on the lace lingerie while he sat there, half sure he was drooling. And then you’d gone and pressed him to the edge of the bed, forcing him to sit as you pulled out his leaking dick, not even bothering to pull his sweats all the way down. Then you sat your pretty hole on his dick, and Tartaglia couldn’t pull his eyes away from the way your ass practically swallowed him whole.

And then, began this whole ordeal of pure torture.

You’re sat on his lap, facing Tartaglia as his arms wrap around your waist and his chin resting on your shoulder as he looks over your body and behind you to the console gripped tightly in his hands.

Tartaglia’s eyes dart to you, and they widen as he watches you shift on his dick, your tip forcing its way over the hem of your panties, now drooling pre all over his shirt. Tartaglia squeezes his eyes shut. You press a kiss right under his ear and Tartaglia twitches inside you. You let out a lewd moan and he doesn’t think he can take it anymore.

Not another thirty minutes, or another five.

Tartaglia’s hands shake, and he’s forced to watch his in-game character die again. “Fuck…” He whispers, trying not to roll his hips into your heat. “I… You’re torturing me. Can’t take this.” He whines.

You shake your head. “C’mon, baby.” You coo, using the nickname Tartaglia always uses for you. It sounds almost mocking the way it slips from your pretty lips, but he doesn’t dwell on it. “You might wanna hurry up, or I’ll have to pull out my old dildo to help me…”

No! Tartaglia thinks, and he voices such thoughts with the aggressive shake of his head against you. I can do better than a stupid dildo!

“P-Please don’t.” he says weakly. “I’m trying, I’m trying.” Tartaglia starts to concentrate on his console once again, doing his best to ignore the squeeze of your ass and the warmth of your walls.

Your tip drools pre across his shirt, twitching gently against the fabric. Tartaglia’s mouth waters. He wants to taste you, wants to bury his face between your thighs and lick every drop up. It’s an indulgence he wants to become reality more than anything.

“Can I at least touch you, please?" he asks desperately, gaze not leaving your tip. Tartaglia wants to be closer to you, to have a hand on your soft skin, to play with your dick that was so close to the cumming. He’s ready to do anything in order to make you cum, to feel you pulse around his dick. He’s losing his mind, and the game was the least of his worries. Tartaglia wants you.

"Touch me before you finish the level, and there'll be consequences." You hum. "And trust me, if you think this is bad, just wait until you see what I have in mind." you press your lips gently against Tartaglia’s neck, trailing from his adam's apple to that sweet spot right under his ear. "I'm sure you'd deprive some sick form of enjoyment from that, though."

Tartaglia whimpers at the threat. He doesn’t know what would be worse: the current situation or the punishment you offer. Sick form of enjoyment… His mind echoes. He would most likely enjoy anything you gave him right now.

And like an answer to his prayers, you shift on his dick again. Tartaglia watches as your tip pokes above the fabric of your lace panties, even higher than before. The used-to-be white was now a dark grey with the way your pre had stained and wet through the fabric. Your panties were completely soaked through, the bulge from your dick covered in pre from your leaking tip, poking just above the hem.

Slowly, you tug your dick out of the panties, making sure to slather your fingers in your precum before pressing them against Tartaglia’s lips. "Clean them up." You whisper, and the sound of your voice almost makes him melt.

The instant your fingers press against his lips, Tartaglia is eagerly licking them into his mouth, his tongue swirling your digits around and coating them in his spit. He didn’t hesitate to continue sucking on your fingers, despite knowing they were already clean enough.

“Such an eager boy,” You murmur as you yank your fingers from Tartaglia's lips. There’s a string of drool that connects your hand to his pouty lips as he gives you another pleading look.

“Will you let me touch you now?” He begs, “Please, I’ve been so good for you!” Tartaglia licks his lips, savouring the faint taste of you. He wants more, he wants to grab you by the waist and bury his face between your thighs and suck you off until you’re nothing but a mess inside his mouth.

You bring your fingers back down to your dick, swiping them over your tip and harshly pressing them against Tartaglia’s mouth. “Suck.” You command in a harsh voice, completely ignoring his previous question.

Tartaglia’s lips go back around your fingers again. He doesn’t need to be told twice when you’re the one telling him. He easterly laps at your fingers, ignoring the drool that threatens to spill from the corner of his lips. You press your fingers down against his tongue and he chokes lightly, lifting his blue eyes to meet yours,

When you finally pull your fingers out of his mouth, Tartaglia buries his head into your neck about to ask to touch you again—only for you to beat him to it. “You get two minutes to touch me, but you can only use your hands.” You start. “And, we have to stay in this position. No pulling out or thrusting." You press a kiss against Tartaglia’s lips. "Think of it as... encouragement to finish the level faster."

Tartaglia nods happily at your words, pulling off your neck to get a better view of you. “Thank you—thank you, baby, needed this.” He slurs as his eyes rake down your exposed body before honing in on your sensitive cock. He wishes you’d let him lick that instead of your fingers, but you were clear on your rules for the two minutes.

Tartaglia has two minutes, a whole two minutes to make you feel good. There’s no way he’s let them go to waste.

He wastes no time when the game is finally paused. Tartaglia cups your balls gently, feeling the weight of them in his palm. He massages them slowly, his thumb rubbing up and down the underside of your dick, feeling the warmth and the leaking pre that slipps down your shaft. Tartaglia knows nothing can make you cum in this position, but he can make you squirm, he can tease you.

His other hand wanders up, his fingers ghosting over your skin, drawing circles around your nipples before pinching them gently. He wants to hear you moan, to see you writhe. Tartaglia needs to know he was pleasing you. He gazes at your face, waiting to see a reaction, anything to show that he’s making you feel good.

Your eyes roll back and your dick twitches hard against Tartaglia’s hand. “T-Tartaglia…!” You moan out, your back arching into his chest. Tartaglia’s fingers pull gently at you nipples, tweaking and twisting the nubs between his thumb and pointer finger. Your eyes roll back and Tartaglia whines at the sight, sliding his thumb faster up and down your dick, rolling it over your tip before sliding it against your slit.

He feels your hole clench around his dick, and Tartaglia has to squeeze his eyes shut in concentration to stop himself from bucking into you. He’s about to roll his hand again when it’s suddenly pushed away from your leaking dick. You yank his hands off your nipples too, panting as you do. “Two minutes have passed.” You mumble.

Tartaglia knows you were close from the way you sounded to the way you jerked your hips into his hand. “I’m sorry.” He whines, sounding like he’s carrying the weight of the world in his heart.

With a deep breath, Tartaglia focuses back on the game again, he hopes that this time he’ll finally beat the level. He’s determined, he wants to make you cum, to please you. He needs to win.

You slump against his shoulder, clearly needy. Tartaglia sucks in a breath. You were so close. He thinks. His focus turns back to the game, moving the joystick and pressing the rounded buttons as skillfully as he can manage with you taking his cock to the hilt,

Tartaglia feels you lean forward, your hands dipping under the hem of his shirt. “I wanna see you…” You whine and his face flushes. Tartaglia doesn’t have time to respond before the game console is slipping from his hands and you’re tugging his shirt off his figure.

Another eternity passes as Tartaglia picks up the console once again, doing his best to beat the level. He closes his eyes—just about to give up when the victory music blasts throughout the bedroom. “Finally—fuck, fuck, baby.” Tartaglia groans, tossing the console and pouncing on you.

His lips press against yours, his tongue sliding over your bottom lip before pushing into your mouth. Tartaglia is kissing you harshly, his lips flush against yours as your tongue gently swirls with his.

He pulls away after a minute, both of your faces flushed and panting. “I-I’m sorry it took me so long.” Tartaglia apologizes. He wants to please you, make you cum, see you lose control just because of him. He was desperate to feel you squirm against him, he wants to see the way your face would twist in pleasure when he fucks you just right.

Tartaglia slowly pulls out, hissing as he leaves your comforting warmth and is met with the harsh, cold outside air.

“Let me take you, please…” He begs, his eyes filled with desire and the need to have you. Tartaglia wanted you—no, needed you. His hand wanders back to your dick, wrapping his palm around your shaft and quickly jerking you up and down at a messy pace.

Tartaglia would do anything to have you come undone on his dick.

“Uh-huh.” You whine, and Tartaglia thinks it’s cute how all your confidence diminishes the instant you're offered some dick.

He watches you twist your body to lay flat against the bed on your back. Slowly, your legs splay into the air before you pull them back and bend them at your knees. Your ass, all empty and clenching around nothing, is now fully exposed to Tartaglia. Your hole is stretched already, from the much too long of a time you spent just sitting on his dick. Your own cock lays across your tummy, twitching and drooling uselessly,

Tartaglia sucks in a breath at the sight of your hole. His dick is throbbing at the sight, pressing angrily against his tummy, so hard and needy. He wants to do nothing more than bury himself inside you, to feel your warm muscle clench around him once more.

Slowly, he lowers himself into a kneeling position right in front of you. Tartaglia dips his head to your ass, pressing light kisses across the curve of your thighs. He trails his mouth down to your dick, taking the tip into his mouth. His eyes roll back at the feeling of finally having you in his mouth. Tartaglia sucks harshly, bobbing his head up and down your length. He runs his tongue over the underside of your shaft.

Tartaglia swirls his tongue around your overly sensitive tip, watching and depriving pure enjoyment of the way your hips buck into his mouth messily. You throw an arm over your face, trying to muffle your breathless moans and flushed face. Tartaglia gives you a harsh suck for warning, letting you know that if you don’t remove your hand now, things would get worse.

You, of course, comply, pushing your hand to the sheets and clenching them in your fist.

Tartaglia hums happily, the vibrations travelling across your shaft. He feels you twitch in his mouth and your legs thrash beside his head, squeezing and pulsing by his ears as he goes faster, making sure to let the drool spill from his lips as he moves his head.

Tartaglia pushes his lips down to your base bringing a hand to fondle your balls gently and you whine, your back arching off the bed. Your hand goes to tangle itself into Tartaglia’s hair, pushing your dick deeper down his throat. “I—holy shit—I’m c-close!” You whine, and that was enough of a signal to pull off your dick.

Tartaglia smears kisses across your ass, ignoring your desperate whines and cries, before eventually leading to your puffy hole, all nice and stretched for him. He’s quick to bury his mouth against you, already feeling his brain go mushy at the feeling. His tongue slips into you easily, and you whine at the feeling.

Tartaglia fucks his tongue into you with great fervour, not even caring for his hard dick. All he can think about is the taste of you on his tongue, the way your hole clenches down so nicely against his mouth and those sweet, sweet moans of: “M-More, please, need you so bad!” That slip from your lips and get his hips rocking his dick into the side of the mattress.

Tartaglia’s tongue pushes and prods into you, again and again until he hears you moan loudly. His eyes dart up, barely able to catch the way your back arches. Your legs shake around him yet again, your thighs squeezing around his ears, which only drives him to thrust his tongue into you further. Drool slips down his chin, but he doesn’t care, all he wants is to taste you again, and again, because, fuck, if he died right here, between your thighs, he would die a happy man.

“Right there!” You cry, Your legs threatening to squeeze tightly on Tartaglia’s head. He pushes his tongue in again, thrusting it in and out of your hole with a scary precision, making sure he hits your prostate every time.

“O-Oh, my—fuck, can’t take it!” You whine and he smirks against your tightening hole. “I need you, please, please, please, pleasepleaseplease!” You’re a complete mess, babbling nonsense as he eats you out, eyes rolling back and legs shaking in ecstasy,

All it took was him shoving a finger in, curling it in time with his tongue, for you to cum. Tartaglia eagerly pulls off your ass, watching as your dick twitches against your tummy and ropes of cum shoot from your member. He waits until you're finished before pressing his face against the mess you just made and licking it clean.

Tartaglia looks up at you from his position against your belly. “I….” He whines. “I’m still hard.” He gives an apologetic smile before going back to his first position in front of the bed, this time standing up. He lifts your collapsed legs, throwing them over his shoulders as he slaps his cock beside your limp one.

As quickly as he can, Tartaglia grabs the bottle of lube from the nightstand and smears it all over his shaft. “Help me out, pretty boy.” He whines and you whimper at the nickname. Slowly, you push yourself onto your elbows just enough to push your hand to his dick and help him spread the lube.

Tartaglia doesn’t even bother to continue once you start, only throwing his head back with a loud groan. “That’s it, o-oh, archons you’re good at this.” His eyes squeeze shut and Tartaglia has to stop himself from cumming on the spot for the nth time tonight. He doesn’t even bother to lube your hole, only murmuring a sweet, “This pussies wet enough for me, right?” before he’s pressing a messy kiss to your neck.

“Not a pussy.” You slur, but he doesn't take any mind.

“D-Don’t worry, baby.” Tartaglia coos as he presses his thick tip against your weak hole. “Promise it’ll feel so good…” He wants to be inside you, to make you come again and again.

And suddenly, he’s halfway in, the thick of Tartaglia’s shaft being swallowed almost whole by your pretty ass was almost enough to make him cum right then and there. You whine lowly, back instinctively arching into him, forcing yourself deeper onto his dick.

“Fuck, baby, look what you do t’me.” He groans, pulling out so it’s just his tip stuck in your pretty, clenching hole. Tartaglia fucks his tip into you, watching it messily slide out then in, then out then in, over and over again until he can’t take it anymore and can’t help but want more.

Tartaglia—like the pathetic man he knows he is—can’t take it anymore. He pushes in fully, but just before he does, spits a large glob of drool from his lips to the tip of your spent cock watching it twitch under the feeling. He laughs, watching your dick twitch back to life. “And to think you get off to me spitting on you.” He murmurs, before finally thrusting in fully, in one, harsh movement.

The moan you let out is so pretty and high, and Tartaglia can feel his balls grow heavy at the sound. Your voice isn’t nearly as loud as the lewd squelch of his dick pressing in, in, in and against your prostate, his tip knocking easily at it.

Tartaglia pistons his hips into you, basking in the moans and pleas for “more, more, more!” that slipped from your pretty lips. He’s pounding into you, and Tartaglia watches your head fall back against the pillow. Your hands shake as you desperately reach out to grab onto the sheets for leverage as he pushes your legs up, leaning down onto your body as he forces you into a mating press.

And, oh, Tartaglia feels like he just slipped so much deeper into you, and with the way your walls squeeze and clench and you moan his name like a mantra—Tartaglia is sure he’s just died and reached heaven.

His thrusts start to lose their rhythm, but they still manage to fill you up so much that, before Tartaglia can process what’s happening, you're crying out, your ass clenching so tightly against him he thinks he sees stars.

“I—I’m close, ‘m so close!” You cry and Tartaglia can’t help but bury his face into your neck as he thrust into your ass.

“Me too, baby.” He whimpers out. Tartaglia reaches for your hand, intertwining your fingers with his much larger ones, before letting out a loud moan. “Together, please, baby, cum together.”

And you’re eagerly nodding your head, a mix of “yes” and “please” leaving your lips. Tartaglia isn’t even pulling out anymore, just knocking his hips against yours—no rhythm or pattern, just instinct as he squeezes his eyes shut.

“Cummin’ o-oh—fuck!” You whine and Tartaglia instantly does too, feeling the way your dick spurts thick ropes of white onto your chest and his only drives him to the edge. He buries himself as deep as he can before collapsing onto you, pressing his full weight onto his hips. Tartaglia shoots a thick load of his seed into your awaiting hole, whining in content as he feels you milk his cock, squeezing down on him.

You’re panting, laying on the bed with Tartaglia pressed on top of you. His arms snake around your waist, tugging and twisting your connected bodies so that he’s spooning you, his chin resting on top of you’re head.

After a minute of rest, Tartaglia’s arms squeeze around your waist. “Love you, so much.” He murmurs tiredly.

“Promise?” You giggle back, despite the feeling of your exhaustion weighing heavy on your eyelids.

“Always an’ forever.” Tartaglia whispers sweetly. His arms encircle your waist, pulling you closer as the two of you bask in the afterglow in each other’s arms. “I’ll love you, always and forever.”

© KISSENTURINE. do not translate, plagiarize, edit, or repost

[tommykinardkink]

This is a first that Buck has been waiting for with a strange mixture of excitement and trepidation. Because that's what happens when you date someone, right? At some point, if things go well, you'll see them naked.

And it's not like Buck's never seen another cock before, okay? He watches porn, he's been in the locker room at the station or whatever.

But this is different. This isn't just some random dick slip at the gym. It’s Tommy.

And Tommy's really big.

They’re lying pressed together on the too-small couch, Buck half on top of Tommy to accommodate the both of them. The movie they’d been watching is playing softly in the background, both of them having forgotten about it when one heated kiss had turned into two, three, his hands slipping up beneath Tommy’s Henley while Tommy’s fingers toyed with the drawstring of his sweats. And then, in a moment of reckless want, Buck had pulled back enough to free Tommy from the confines of his jeans.

It had seemed like a good idea at the time. Only now, Buck finds that he can't move, throat dry as he stares down at the length of Tommy's cock.

"Evan." He jumps a little when he feels Tommy's fingers thread through his hair, using the gentle grip to force him to meet Tommy's gaze. Tommy's brows are pulled together, lips turned down in a worried frown.

"You know you don't have to do this, right? There’s no rush."

"Yeah, I-I know. I want to." It belatedly occurs to him that maybe Tommy isn't ready for this—he thinks about teeth and suddenly isn't sure he'd want someone with no blowjob experience near his junk either—and he hurriedly begins to back pedal. "Unless you don't want—"

He doesn't get much further than that, Tommy pulling him up further to press a hungry kiss to his parted lips. It's a welcome distraction, and Buck feels his own cock throb in response, his hips thrusting infinitesimally against Tommy's thigh.

But it doesn't get much further than that before Tommy breaks the kiss, resting his forehead against Buck's and breathing heavily.

"There is nothing I want more than to have your hands on me," he says, voice rough.

"Then let me do this for you. Please?"

"Fuck." He watches the way Tommy's throat works before he answers in a shaky voice, "Y-yeah. Okay."

Seeing Tommy look so wrecked when they haven't even started yet bolsters Buck's confidence some as he turns his attention back to Tommy's cock. It's long and so thick. Now probably isn't the best time, but Buck allows himself a moment to study it. The vein running up the length of the shaft, the way the foreskin has pulled back from the sensitive head, his balls hanging full and heavy between his legs...

Buck's mouth waters.

Steeling himself—C'mon, Buck, you rappelled onto a capsized cruise ship from a helicopter in the middle of a hurricane, get it together—he reaches out to take Tommy in hand.

He isn’t sure what he'd been expecting. It's a dick. He's got one of those and he's jerked off plenty. Brow furrowed in concentration, he gave an experimental stroke.

Above him, Tommy hisses. Okay, yeah, that is not encouraging. Buck peeks up at him, only to find Tommy staring at him intensely, his chest already heaving.

Huh.

"You like that?" Buck asks, a teasing grin curving his mouth as he pumps Tommy again, slow and easy.

"Christ, Evan." A muscle in Tommy's jaw jumps and he draws in a deep breath through his nose. "Do that again."

The bite of command in Tommy's voice makes him shiver. He does as he's told despite the awkward angle, his eyes darting between Tommy's expression and the tip of his cock is beaded with precum. Feeling daring, Buck rubs his thumb over the droplet, spreading it out over the sensitive head.

Tommy's hips buck into his hand.

Yeah, this is gonna be fun.

Buck laughs, twisting around to settle himself between Tommy's legs, the shaft only inches away from Buck's mouth. He bites his lip, hesitating, before deciding to just go for it. Holding Tommy's gaze, he leans in to brush a featherlight kiss on the underside of Tommy's cock.

His reaction doesn't disappoint. He curses loudly, hands winding back into Buck's hair and tightening almost to the point of pain. They've only just begun, and already Tommy's control is threatening to fracture.

He's beautiful.

Buck's not feeling brave enough to take Tommy into his mouth, not yet, but it's almost better like this. This way, he gets to watch Tommy's head thrashing against the arm of the couch, see the way his body strains towards the pleasure. Buck jerks Tommy off, rubbing his thumb over the tip of his cock and through the precum accumulating there. With every second, his movements slowly gain confidence as Tommy gets closer to the edge. He categorises the other man's every reaction, filing it all away for the next time they do this.

Jesus, he's already desperate for next time.

"Evan, please, I—"

"What do you need, babe? C'mon, tell me."

But Tommy does something even better. He releases his hold on Buck's hair and reaches down to wrap one hand around Buck's, guiding his movements. Buck's breath catches as Tommy's fingers squeeze his, jerking Tommy's cock harder and rougher and—

"Fuck."

Tommy's body tenses for an endless moment before he breaks. Ropes of cum shoot up Tommy's belly and chest, and a few errant drops land on Buck's face. The sounds he makes as he comes undone, the helpless grunts and shudders that wrack his body are so fucking hot, that Buck has no choice but to get up onto his knees to give himself room to reach for his own cock. Tommy's come slicks the way for Buck's hand as he works the shaft

Tommy stares at him with hazy eyes, lips parted as he tries to catch his breath. Christ, he's so gorgeous like this, utterly debauched with his flushed cheeks and come splattered skin.

And Buck's just going to add to it. It's that thought that tips him over the edge. His orgasm rolls through him, taking his breath away as his own come paints Tommy's abdomen. And all the while, Tommy watches him, dark eyes warm and gentle and hungry for something Buck can't quite put a name to.

His knees give out under him, and he falls forward in a boneless heap, narrowly avoiding elbowing Tommy in the ribs. Tommy lets out a little ooof as he bears Buck's weight.

"Wow," Buck says after a brief, breathless silence.

“Yeah.” Tommy runs a shaky hand up and down his back, and Buck arches into the touch like a cat. He feels his eyes drifting shut, a bone deep satisfaction beginning to lull him to sleep.

“… go shower,” Tommy’s saying from somewhere above him. Buck frowns and burrows closer into his body. It’s gonna take a friggin’ crane to get him to move now.

“Evan.” A quiet sigh. “I know you can hear me.”

“Hng.”

The sound of his laugh makes Buck smile against Tommy’s skin. The hand that had been rubbing his back moves back up into his hair. Buck can’t hold back a shiver at the sensation of Tommy’s nails scratching at his scalp.

“C’mon,” he coaxes. “If you get up now, I’ll even wash your hair for you.”

That gets Buck’s attention. He lifts his head to squint at Tommy.

“Promise?”

Tommy’s smile makes his nose scrunch up and his eyes crinkle at the corners. It’s an expression that never fails to give Buck butterflies.

“Yeah, sweetheart, I promise.”

[ghouljams]

not to be a voracious whore but like what if Witch tried to cast smt on Price n he clocks it ofc and it was v stupid of her to try. he teases her a little and he'd be such a menace all "darling if you wanted to know you could've asked." and "Such a bad little witch, casting spells like that." "Such a stupid witch." he really activates my daddy issues

(Also price is a little surprised bc she put effort in it and it was very very sneaky and almost made it into him but his magic caught it like the last moment. he's proud of his witch <3 )

(its obvs v early on but like probs after they've been talking for a bit, like witch knows being caught wont be instant death from price)

I am a voracious whore for Witch and Price so you're in good company. I'm thinking this is maybe after Witch makes Price his command spell cigars, and she realizes that he could use them on her. So obviously she tries to put some protections in place, and that means sticking a spell to Price. Easier said than done.

Price is at the bar when he feels the gentle stroke of magic wrap around him. Delicate as a rose petal, and scented with lilac. Sweet and bitingly intoxicating, it tries to settle invitingly over his skin, eager to fly under the radar. Someone else might have missed it, but to Price it's all too familiar. Nastier people have tried worse spells on him. This one is too entreating, too cunning, not to know who it's from. You think you're so clever trying to wind your magic into his, as if he wouldn't notice.

He snaps the soft spell with his fingers, feels the lingering smoke of it --that was smart of you, to burn something, to meet his element-- roll across his palm. It drips like dew onto the lacquered table, inert. You should know better.

Price pushes back from the table, his chair scraping the ground loud enough to silence the conversation in the bar. His boys look at him with confusion and concern. The dew on the table fizzes and steams, boiling itself off.

"Just a little business to take care of," He tells the table before walking out.

You count through the contents of your bag, making mental notes on what you still have to restock. Mustard seeds, poke berries, snake ribs, raccoon baculum, a few shed skins, cat whiskers, you always feel a little bad about the animal curios. You try not to use them too often, but some spells call for it. You stop dead, look up at the empty street in front of you. You close your eyes to steel yourself against the presence you can feel behind you, try to keep a pleasant smile when you open your eyes and turn to face him.

"Price, what a pleasant surprise," You smile up at him, he doesn't look pleased to see you.

"Is it?" He asks, his voice painfully even. He takes a step forward as you take one back.

"Always," You respond easily.

"Interesting," He tips his head, looks down his nose at you with hard eyes, "do you know what I find surprising?"

You feel the spikes of his magic, the thorns that ripped your spell to shreds. Lying isn't an option, he's not asking because he doesn't know. He's asking so you'll admit your guilt and face the music. You don't think he'd kill you, but fae are unpredictable. Your best bet is distance, get some space and keep it before you try any more magic on him. You dart from him and Price's arm snags you around your middle, stopping you dead as he pulls you back. You drop your bag as you grab his arm.

"Oh sweetheart, you have been naughty, haven't you?" Your stomach drops at the suchor in his voice, the gravel that rumbles so promisingly.

"It wouldn't have hurt you," You try a different approach. His hands are so distractingly present against you, his touch spreading warmth through you even over your clothes. You're not used to being touched like this. You're painfully aware of the dull throb between your legs as his body slots behind yours.

"If you want something darling, you have to ask for it," He purrs, his voice low against your ear, "No spells, no tricks, just your pretty pleas." You swallow, resist the urge to lean back into him. He's so solid against your back, broad chest and thick arms keeping you held tight. Had you even thought about escape since he'd caught you?

You don't think he's working any sort of magic over you. It can't just be him keeping your thoughts vacant. It feels like your brain's poured out through your ears, you can't think of how to respond to that. How do you respond to that?

Price's hand catches your jaw, fingers digging ever so slightly into your cheeks, and jerks your head up from where you'd been staring at the cobblestone. "Say something pet, tell me why you needed to work your little magic on me," He all but commands.

"I gave you a powerful spell and needed a safe guard against it," You remember quickly. You won't apologize for taking precautions. Surely he understands that. You don't regret it, only getting caught. You'll be more careful next time you need to work any magic on this man.

"All this over a few cigars?" Price hums, drags his lips against the shell of your ear. You shiver and try to move your head away from the feeling. His grip on your face keeps you where he wants you. He chuckles against you, the sound dripping molten down your spine to settle between your legs. "I don't need to use magic on you, little witch, I have you exactly where I want you just like this."

You squirm, feel his arm tighten around you as you threaten escape. Your attempt feels pathetic even to you. You may be on par with Price in terms of magic, but in raw physical ability he has you beat. Isn't that intoxicating? Some small shivery part of you asks. That he can hold you like this, keep you in place with just his strength? He'd let you go so easily before, he didn't have the same compunction now.

"You don't cast spells on me," He tells you, speaks it into existence, a law between the both of you, "Got it?"

"Yes, fine, got it," You press, push your hands against his hold firmly. He lets you go and you stumble to keep on your feet as you scramble away from him, not for the first time.

"Good girl," His praise is buried under condescension as you pick up your dropped goods. You don't expect him to be there when you look up, and he isn't. At least the street seems to be coming back to life, unstuck from wherever he'd pulled it. He's gotten touchy recently. You wonder what that's about.

[takami-takami]

Keigo and daddy kink please 🛐🛐🛐

I might go feral omg

Keigo thinks he's in love with the way the word daddy sounds when you whine it.

The titles sir and master have always settled a bit too formal for his tastes. When he calls you his baby, he drips it thick from his tongue like syrup, laced with every ounce of tender affection he has; so it stands to reason that you would respond warm and sticky in turn, a whimper of daddy dripping from yours.

Keigo takes good care of his sweetheart. His home is nestled between your thighs with a "s'okay love, lemme spoil you."

Huffing once, the puff of air against your clit has you squirming; oh, he has no choice but to pin those thighs in place, nice and secure. If you were to ask him, he'd say his hands simply serve as a preventative straightjacket for needy messes that can't control themselves.

"Who am I to you?"

Keigo drawls the question, lowering himself toward your core and grazing against it with his stubble. His lidded eyes give way to the truth: this is just a formality. You both know the answer.

"Daddy," you whimper without hesitation.

Satisfied with your answer, Keigo's delicate lips latch onto your clit, humming with a deep moan. He can hardly keep them from smirking as your fingertips dart to ruffle into his fluffy locks, legs kicking along the expanse of his back.

Overwhelmed already by a single kiss? Keigo rolls his eyes. He can make it worse.

He cranes his neck back from the kiss with a wet smack— panting in arousal, himself.

"You're dripping, sweetheart," he murmurs, head hanging back in his slouch. Thick digits prod your hole in circles to gather your slick before dipping the middle finger inside. "All that from a kiss? Must really like me, huh?"

You whimper. His teeth flash.

"Sweetest cunt in the world," he barks, diving back in like a man starved.

The tip of his tongue flicks in circles once, twice, before laving the flat of it in thick laps against your swollen clit. He repeats the cycle, peppering in kisses and sucks as needed.

"Kei—" A sharp slap against your thigh corrects you. The steel of his rings stings, aching like the bruise of his grip as he kneads your flesh. "Daddy, 'ts too much."

"No," he sighs, mumbling into your heat. "No, no it's not. Y'can gimme more."

When you huff in response, Keigo pulls back, brows raised in faux confusion.

"And how would you know anyway, princess," he mocks sweetly, flicking your leg before walking his fingers up toward your core. You must be confused, must be naive. Mirroring your pout of disagreement, Keigo decides it's his job to correct you.

"What happened to— ahem. 'Daddy knows best, daddy please! Oh, daddy, fuck me'," he whines with his head thrown back, pitching his voice high to your trembling humiliation. Your skin scorches, steam practically hissing out your ears.

"I don't sound like that!" Your squeak matches his tone perfectly.

He snorts. You call him a bastard.

He loves you. You love him.

He dives back on your clit, popping it into his mouth with a suck. His fingers curl up and pump deep. Your fingers entangle in his hair, mussed up in knots of adoration once more.

Predictable, predictable.

"Did'ya forget already? Don't worry, baby, I'll remind you. Daddy's gotcha. Don't gotta think, just lay back nice and pretty for me."

The strings wind tighter and tighter, twisting in your core and squeezing around your neck. It drags you down into the pool of depravity— he drags you down, firm arms wrapping around your center and pulling you down with him like a siren does to its catch of prey.

And like the crash of a wave, your back arches, mound secured air-tight against his mouth. Past the ringing in your ears, you can almost catch a "good girl" mumbled against your clit as he closes his eyes and feasts himself through your finish. Messy and unbearably loud, he laves and gulps down your essence like the sweetest, syrupy treat.

The moment your spent hips fall limp against the mattress, his tongue swipes across his bottom lip. Toothy grin wide, he wipes the mess away with a single thumb and dives back in; again, and again, and again.

It's a good thing you have daddy to take care of you. Who knows where you'd be without him to clean up the mess.

[thesightstoshowyou]

Trip Wire

Jesse Cromeans/Chromeskull x AFAB Reader (NSFW)

Warnings: Noncon, violence, blood, arm trauma, heavy gore, sadism, torture, needle mention, blood as lube, cum in wounds, traumatic amputation. DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT

~~

Crickets chirp and nightingales call, but you don’t hear them, not over the way your frenzied breaths spill from your mouth and your heart pumps adrenaline through your ears. You sprint through the open field, tall grass whipping against your thighs as you fly past. A tiny sliver of moon barely lights your path, giving you just enough light to navigate through the brush.

You chance a look over your shoulder, racing heart leaping in your throat when the chrome skull mask glints in the moonlight and casts a threatening sheen on the serrated blades clutched in his gloved hands.

Up ahead, a grouping of trees. Maybe you can hide, catch your breath—

You hit the ground so hard you bounce, roll, tumble head over heels until you skid to a stop in a twisted, dusty heap. Pain follows, blinding agony in your left arm, throbbing in your hip, sharp pinpoints scattered across your skin.

Wild eyes rake over your body and take stock of your hurt limb, bent at an unnatural angle, bloody bone tip protruding from the flesh of your forearm. Broken.

Fuck, fuck….

What had tripped you up?

Squinting, you see it: A stretch of barbed wire is twisted around your legs, your hips, your arm, your shoulder. Blood, black in the moonlight, drips and spills onto the flattened grass as the barbs dig into your flesh. It must have caught your shoe as you’d sprinted past and wrapped itself around your body as you rolled.

What are the fucking odds…?

You do your best to quiet your agonized cry when your arm throbs, pulses in anguish. Instead, the sound leaves your mouth as a pathetic whine you must silence immediately as—

Crunch, crunch, crunch….

Unhurried footsteps stalk toward your immobilized form, shining skull mask coming into view over the top of the grass. The hulking man pauses near your feet, squats, tips his head to the side. You watch with teary eyes as his shoulders bob in silent laughter.

He shakes his masked head, lays his blades in the grass, and produces a cell phone from his pocket. Pushing a button on the camera mounted on his shoulder, a little red light blinks to life as the man types out a message on the phone in his hands.

‘I couldn’t have done better if I’d tried, piggy.’

You wince when the phone shrieks at you, screaming women’s voices taunting you with their message. Quickly, you shake your head, try to crawl away only for the barbs to catch in your skin and tug. Rancid pain tears a shriek from your throat, a sound that tapers into a whimper. You’re mocked with more silent laughter.

“S-Stop this, stop…” you plead, tears spilling over your lashes. The man’s gloved hand darts out, grips you face, angles your head so you’re looking right into the camera. He squishes your cheeks until your lips purse, tauntingly wiggling your head back and forth.

With his free hand, he retrieves one of the knives at his feet. A squeak and a cry sneak from your squashed mouth, more tears carving wet trails down your face and dripping onto his glove.

Slow and measured, like he wants you to see his every move, he shifts, lifts a heavy boot, presses the toe down on the wrist of your broken arm to pin it to the grass. Night birds take flight, startled from their trees by your piercing screams. Agony—sharp, feverish, nauseating—wracks your injured limb.

Steel glints as the knife is raised, lowered, the point set against the mangled skin near protruding bone. The man pushes, knife tip sinking into the wound. Your howling reaches a fever pitch, legs thrashing, heedless of your injury. You must get away, get him away, stop this torment at any cost—

Your face is released so the man can dig his fingers into the wound, peel back oozing sinew, expose more bone. Crimson splatters the front of his mask and your eyes roll back into your head, unconsciousness giving you a brief respite.

Pat, pat, pat.

Your eyelids flutter, a hoarse groan burning your sore throat. Your teeth clench when pain explodes along your arm again, like someone turning the volume from 0 to 100 all at once. You flinch as the man repeatedly smacks your cheek until you crack your eyes open.

Glowing light momentarily blinds you when his cell phone is shoved in your face. Squinting, you read, ‘Ask nice and I’ll make it feel all better, piglet.”

Choking on a sob, you don’t hesitate. “P-Please, PLEASE make it stop, please—

More silent chuckling as the man reaches into his suit jacket and produces a needle and syringe filled halfway with clear liquid. Jesus, what could that be?

Anything is better than what he’s currently doing to you.

Probably….

You wheeze, hiss when he lifts his boot off your wrist. You barely feel the needle as it’s inserted into a vein in your hand. Numbness spreads through your limb, medication following the path of your blood stream until all you feel is a dull pulsing.

You can hardly believe it. “Thank…thank you,” you stammer, wondering why the hell you’re expressing appreciation to the man who did this to you in the first place. He gives you another condescending pat, pat to you cheek, tosses his blade back into the grass, and grips your waist with two large hands.

The rest of your injured body protests and you shriek as he lifts you, flips you onto your front, hoists your hips in the air. Your torn pants are ripped down to your knees and a new wave of terror surges through you.

“N-NO, nonono please, no—

The man in the mask shoves your face into the dirt, effortlessly holding you in place. There’s no fighting him, no strength in any part of you that could match even the force of his arm. This is happening, it’s coming, there’s nothing you can do….

Rustling of clothing behind you heralds the noisy slap of a hot, hard cock against your ass. Trembling, uselessly begging, you tense when the thick head prods your entrance. He pushes, feels resistance, pulls back.

There’s a muffled, irritable huff and two gloved digits dip into your still-seeping arm wound, wetting themselves in scarlet. Slick clicking reaches your ears—he’s stroking himself, oh god, he’s using your blood—and the slippery cock head returns to your hole.

This time when he pushes, he sinks into tight muscles. Your jaw falls open, a pained grunt sounding in your throat as your speared open and stuffed full. The man releases a haggard exhale behind his mask before snapping his hips forward.

You cry out, the sound tight and constricted as your lungs fight for air, but you think you’ve forgotten how to breathe. The cock deep in your guts prevents you from taking a full breath. Worse, every harsh thrust grinds your cheek into the grass and pulls taut the wire wrapped around your frame. Rusty barbs stab into sensitive flesh over and over until you’re shredding your throat with screams once again.

The pace of his hips doesn’t falter as he reaches for his cell. The tap, tap, tap of the keys sounds behind you and you hear the shouted message, ‘Every time you scream your pussy gets tighter.’ Sobbing, you claw fruitlessly at the grass with your good arm.

Tap, tap, tap,

‘You’re right, crying is better.’

He leans down over you then, cold chrome coming to rest against your tear stained cheek, the warmth of his body enveloping your back. He’s listening to your blubbering, you realize. You can hear his own labored breathing this close, feel him so, so deep in your cunt when he bucks his hips and ruts into you.

You hate how weirdly intimate it is, how this man who has tortured you can so easily force himself on you so tenderly. You hate it even more when your body responds, a sweet little mewl falling from your quivering lips.

With a grunt, your assailant pulls away, rips his cock from your slit, furiously pumps his length, his glove still slick with your blood. Hastily, he moves to your left, hovers over your broken limb. You can only watch in horror as he cums with a wheeze, thick ropes of white painting your mangled wound. He…he just….

Sighing contentedly, shoulders shrugging, he stands and tucks himself away. He straightens his jacket, fixes a ruffled sleeve, and peers down at you. You can only stare up at him, eyes glazed, heart fluttering against your ribs like a panicking bird. Around you, the wind rustles the tall grasses, tree branches creaking in the chilly breeze.

You feel it when he brings his heavy boot down on your fracture. Every creature around for miles must hear your anguish. He stomps, stomps again, bones crunching under his heel. Two gloved hands take hold of your wrist. He leans back, jerks, pulls, twists. Sickening ripping, tearing of flesh, snapping of tendons, squelching of blood and the man stands, your forearm clutched in his palms.

He slings your severed limb over a shoulder, like one would a shovel after a long day of digging in the dirt. At his feet, you wail, voice gone hoarse from all your racket. No medication could dull this agony.

Retrieving his phone once more, he types up another message. You can barely see it through tears, drooping eyelids, growing darkness at the edges of your vision.

‘Get up, little piggy. I’ve got a coffin waiting with your name on it.

‘.…need a hand? lol’

[dearsnow]

HEAR ME ROAR!

- faced with the pressure of an attacker and what comes after, you find yourself truly able to roar. ⚠️ violence but ends with tooth-rotting fluff (jon snow x fem!lannister!reader), part of the standstill collection

word count: 1,150

STANDSTILL: The arrival of the Lannisters and Baratheons in Winterfell has caused the world to quiet for just a moment- a moment long enough to last lifetimes.

a/n - ahhhh it’s here it’s here!!!!! this is definitely my favorite fic of the collection so far and it’s the development of real feelings between you and jon. future fics will definitely explore the lovey-dovey aspect of your relationship more, but this is a good start and an even better exposition device.

The crunch of your heeled boot against the late autumn leaves creates a merry tune as you walk through the courtyard. Everything is perfect; the dewy morning air fills your lungs with every breath and the sun shines its glorious rays over the arms of your coat. The man walking beside you seems just as caught up in it as you are.

That’s his mistake. Two figures approach from the back, masked in dim shadow on an otherwise sunny day. You feel a tug from behind as you’re pulled into a cold chest, something even colder pressing against the side of your neck.

“Jon!” You shout, but he doesn’t turn around quickly enough. There’s a flash of cold steel, a knife buried in his side, and a sword pulled out far too late.

You scramble for the knife hidden within your furs, trying your best to not tip off your assailant. You grab it, and as the tip of their blade presses deeper into your throat, you stab them in the thigh.

It’s a sickening feeling. The way it pierces their flesh and hits the hard stock of their bone reminds you of cutting meat with your mother, but in a terrible, gut-wrenching way. You expect them to flinch, or to scream, but they are utterly silent. That might be even more terrible than the wails of a person stabbed. They don’t seem to want to kill you- if they did, you would be long dead, though the thought is cold comfort.

You pull the knife out, cringing at the sticky blood running down the canyons of your hand, and stab them once again. This time, it’s in the side. Then in the arm. Then, finally, when they falter, in the throat. They fall to the ground, blood bubbling thickly from their many stab wounds.

Jon appears by your side, his own attacker laying awkwardly in the background.

“Are you alright, my lady? I should have been more on guard. I’m sorry.”

“I’m quite alright. I’m more concerned about you.” Your voice is shaky. If he didn’t know the extent of your situation before being assigned to guard you, he does now.

He looks down at the blood seeping through his coat. “The furs stopped the brunt of it. It’s nothing.” For a moment, you almost believe him.

You’re severely unsettled. You clutch your knife to your side as you walk Jon to the maester, eyes darting from shadow to shadow. The sinister heat of a watchful gaze trails down the back of your neck. Everything, it seems, is out to get you. You almost pull your knife out at a crackling leaf, a sound you so cherished just moments ago.

“You’re brave.” Jon says as the maester wraps his wound. You try not to stare too much.

“I would hardly call it brave. More like a lady who has never known violence acting on impulse.” You don’t consider yourself particularly courageous. You don’t have any flashy achievements like your uncle the kingslayer. Though your “place” is not at the sword, you don’t believe you can match the divine beauty of your aunt lioness or the ruling power of the king stag. You’re just simply and utterly you.

You, who was born from a dwarf and a common whore, inside of wedlock yet still outcasted like the bastard in front of you. You, who are called “the ugliest lion”, not due to any lack of beauty, but in spite of your father who tries so harshly to protect you from and teach you about the horrors of the world. Sometimes you are a bumbling cub, a gangly teenager, and full-grown with a sleek coat and powerful tail all at once. One thing, however, remains. You are you and you always have been.

Your roar comes with the tossing and turning of the tide. The tossings are more memorable, though no more special. You roared when you were but a child, beating your aunt with your tiny, emotion-filled fists as she snidely made another comment about the size of your father. You certainly roared in that moment you thought your life would be taken. You were fueled by nothing but fear and adrenaline.

The turning is the soft moments, quiet mewls in the darkness. When you read a book aloud to an old blind woman on the streets of King’s Landing. How you now help Jon to his feet, though he tries to wave you off.

“You stabbed a grown man until he stopped breathing. That’s bravery if I’ve ever seen it.”

Maester Lewin washes his rags in the background, and you can almost feel his gentle smile.

“Well, then I certainly hope I never have to be brave again.” He chuckles lightly. You’ve spent a while with him, and though he is reluctant to talk, you’ve forced out bits and pieces of his story.

He liked to pretend he was a Targaryen prince riding on the back of a dragon when he was a child. He’s been planning to go to the Wall for far longer than a few months before you met him. His eyes hold the love of the world, his mouth the joy, and his heart the fire. Suddenly, you find yourself not wanting to part with him.

Maybe it’s the fear that haunts your every step. How you still cannot face the darkness alone, the formerly peaceful and patient entities now writhing with roiling hatred. More simply, though, it may be a desire to not be alone.

“Can you sleep in my bed tonight?” A hint of shame laces your tone. Though you know full well the implications, you don’t think you can face the attacks your mind can come up with while you’re fast asleep.

The question takes him off guard. His first instinct is to decline, but something more hopeful takes over. He sees you. He sees how you flinch at small sounds and dance over shadows like they’re made of dragon fire. He sees how strong and kind you are, and there’s a small twang in his heart when he considers leaving you behind.

“Okay.” He says simply. That’s all you need.

When the sun dips below the horizon, blanketing Winterfell in a composition of deep blues and purples, you don’t feel afraid.

The gentle rise and fall of Jon’s chest next to yours assures you that everything will be alright come the morning. You shuffle closer to him, then closer still, and close enough that your head is touching the valley of his chest and his arm is securely wrapped around you. You’re both awake, and while he stiffens the slightest bit, he doesn’t pull away.

As you lay, heartbeats synching like a two-man orchestra in the dead of night, you think you know all the secrets and in-betweens the world has to offer.

That in itself is your biggest roar yet.

Reblogs are greatly appreciated!!

Taglist (comment to join): @peaked-in-third-grade

[ferinehuntress]

◈　 ⇢  @shimmerbeasts　 ⋯　 Unprompted Ask ♡ 　　⸻　"You know I never got the point of this exercise."

The 'Dark Justicar' flicked their fingers against the tip of their spear. Twirling it around in a needlessly flourishing gesture, they lowered the tip beside their feet as they began to circle the chained-up and dewinged aasimar at the centre in the Gauntlet of Shar. Their robe swang softly in the chilly air of a starless night.

"I mean, don't get me wrong... Aylin, was it?", the knight said as they looked the pale, grime-covered woman in her shabby robes up and down, "I see why having a living target, which cannot die, might be a good idea. At least for the first few rounds or so." The Dark Justiciar chuckled as they inspected their spear. "Most only come up with one or two ideas of how to kill something. Maybe five if you are really, really lucky. But even then it is just an alteration of the same few ideas, you already had."

The knight smirked and their eyes shimmered in warning. Suddenly, they took to a sprint and came darting forward. Swinging the spear, its bright stainless steel tip burrowed itself into Aylin's throat. It did not yet spill any blood, however, for once this was not the point here. The fingers on the free hand of the Dark Justiciar twisted and curled as if their sinews were pulling themselves together more than they ought to.

They smiled and remarked: "Plus, what is the whole point in learning how to kill something if that something cannot even be bothered to stay dead? It is an insult towards the participant's skills, or rather lack thereof, and it is an even bigger insult to my Father's intentions."

Aylin's head hung down, growling through gritted teeth. Her fangs flashed, wolfish as icy blue eyes looked up at this so-called Dark Justiciar. No, she knew she wasn't one, there hadn't been a sharran in this shadowfell for almost a century. Something had happened to them, she heard Shar's curses and rage and was no longer able to use the gauntlet for her benefit. A part of her had been amused by the anger, and she had become the sole source of Shar's torment. Her mind was constantly taunted by her aunt's words. And then, the whispers of the sharran who would kill her, she saw her face, she knew who she was. Shadowheart.

This was not Shadowheart; whoever it was had managed to get through the gauntlet, to find the Shadowfell. Silver blood trickled down her back, dotting the ground underneath the mykrulite magic that contained her. Phantom spasms against her spine where wings should have flapped, but none did. This... charlatan had stripped her of her wings, but they would grow back once more. It was her nature to continue to heal, never dying and an immortal source of power and life. It's why Ketheric had her bound, stealing her life, her strength, and her vitality. "How coy of you, to take the face of that which you do not comprehend. What's it like, shapechanger, to grasp the edges of a face like a mask? Masquerading around as if you even understand the depths of that armor you pretend to wear," 

Aylin's head lifted, pulling on her arms that were pulled taunt, hanging in the center of the circle. The whisp of magic, like smoke, twisting around her ankles, siphoning her power and magic through the eerie shadowed green element through the shimmering circle below. There was no escape, she had been trapped, for days. months. decades. Aylin knew it had been a long time, and Shar reminded her of it.

"I have had my fill of mutilation and torture; you, little one, are but a speck of dirt in the life I have lived. You all frolick upon the battle of torture and death as if it is a gift to bear such actions upon another. It'll be your undoing," She leaned forward, as best she could, glaring down at the so-called knight, an imposter in Sharran's armor. The sudden movement caused a blade to meet the center of her throat, pressing firmly against her skin and threatening to cut. And yet, Aylin gazed at the smirking knight completely unphased. 

Aylin smirked her lips, at the tone of her lips. "So yet another follower of the dead three. Though I have never heard of one of them siring a child with the mortal flesh. You must truly wish to be viewed as a goddess even though there is not a single drop of godly blood in your veins. Once again, a pretender vying for the fame of their god. Your father can't have me. I am immortal as the world itself. You may have my blood, but that is it. Ketheric, Balthazar, you. All the same," Aylin snipped her words, a sharp tone on her lips as she glared. Despite being bound by chains and magic, her voice sounded with determination, and refused to let her words be restrained. She may be the nightsong by the Sharrans but she refuses to sing on purpose. 

"Remove that mask of yours, pretender, and tell me who you are?"

[cal-writes]

some more royal au heishin drama

“Shinichi!” Heiji jumped from his seat, books and papers forgotten at his desk. “How are you? Feels like I’ve barely seen you.” He said with excitement, coming to a stop in front of Shinichi. Heiji reached out unconsciously before he caught himself, hand hovering just shy of actually touching him. His fingers curled into his palms and he let his hands fall, trying to mask the action.

Shinichi smiled but had to swallow as he thought of his next words. “I had to… catch up on my duties.” Shinichi said carefully. He was dreading this conversation.

“No rest for the wicked, huh?” Heiji sighed exasperatedly, disapproval in his expression. “You’re recovering well then?” He asked with an intense glance that demanded the truth.

Shinichi’s eyes drifted past Heiji. How best to say it? “Shiho is satisfied with my progress.” Shinichi settled on and Heiji huffed in relief.

“High praise from her. Come on.” He clapped Shinichi on the good shoulder and passed him, heading for the door.

Shinichi looked after him, turning slowly. “Where are you going?” He asked bemusedly.

“The scouts brought back the equipment of the guys that attacked us.” Heiji told him and Shinichi hurried after him before he even finished.

“Was there much left?” He asked as they matched their pace down the halls.

“Not of those that burned. Whatever they used was potent. Barely bone scraps.” Heiji explained.

Shinichi hummed and held his chin. He had meant to ask Agasa if he had heard of anything that was capable of burning so hot and so quickly. It had slipped his mind in the aftermath.

“They captured one but he killed himself on the way.” Heiji said and before Shinichi could ask he added: “Only minor burns on our side.”

“Good.” Shinichi said. It seemed whoever they were they had been no match for them. Even the carriage driver had only been knocked unconscious by the dart. “Equipment then?”

Heiji nodded and turned down the corridor of the guard quarters. “Loads. I haven’t had much time to look at yet but I wanted you to check it out anyway.” He explained as he lead them past the armory into one of the storage rooms. They gave a passing greeting to the guard stationed outside rooms before entering. It was a simple room, mostly used for meeting or temporary storage. A table was in the middle to stand at and one it was the equipment of their attackers spread out.

Two swords, a bow, three arrows - one broken and copper brown with dried blood, likely the one they had pulled out of his calf, a few pieces of dark clothing. “Have the blades been cleansed?” He asked as he took one of the swords examining it.

Heiji nodded. “The Professor himself saw to it. He wanted more samples to perfect an antidote.”

“If they are smart and have the resources they won’t be using it again.” Shinichi said, swinging the sword and paying attention to the weight and feel of it. He glanced over at the other weapons. “I’d imagine they have resources.” He said. Familiar resources, he didn’t say. In the morning light coming in from a window in the ceiling the steel had a unique and familiar finish to it, only achieved by certain forging techniques. Shinichi’s own sword was of a similar make.

“Remind you of anything?” Heiji asked but from his smirk, Shinichi knew he already knew the answer. Shinichi hummed noncommittally and put the sword down. He didn’t know how much he was allowed to say, the king had forbidden him. But Heiji was smart. He would reach most conclusions himself anyway.

He reached out for the bow and tested the draw weight as much as sling allowed him. It was built for a quick draw and Shinichi would wager enough power to penetrate most armor. It was older but was well taken care of, nothing quite as striking as the metal of the swords but the craftsmanship spoke for itself. The arrows were simple, broad tips that would be hard to remove from flesh. It was lucky that the one that had hit Shinichi had split through his calf. Removing the tip from his body would have been difficult.

The clothes Heiji was examining were the most unremarkable of the lot. Cotton clothing dyed dark to blend into the night. No tailors’ signature flair or anything of the likes.

“No armor?” Shinichi noted.

“Probably because it wouldn’t burn.” Heiji said.

“Where is the blow gun? Was it destroyed too?” Shinichi asked and Heiji looked at him.

“The one they got our driver with?” He asked, brows furrowed. “This is all they brought back.” He said then huffed. “Well, all they let me see.” Heiji added with a bitter tone in his voice. Shinichi filed that away for later. It was possible that the scouts or Otaki-san were keeping more damning evidence under tighter lock. Given the kings insistence to keep Heiji out of the investigation it was likely.

“They didn’t bring your sword back either. I’ll have a new one made. By the time you’re recovered it will be ready.” Heiji said and Shinichi’s eyes fell to the table in front of them. He took a deep breath. There was no avoiding it any longer.

“Good. Sera will be needing one soon for her ceremony.” He said, fingers gliding along the blades that had caused this conversation.

He felt Heiji‘s eyes like a brand on his skin. “What’s that supposed to mean?” He asked, fighting with restraint. Shinichi couldn’t match his intensity.

“I have been asked to appoint my successor.” He said simply and Heiji scoffed pushing away from the desk.

“This is bullshit.” He said pacing around the small room. “I can’t believe this after everything you did for us? No. This won’t stand.”

Shinichi found himself smiling sadly, feeling something warm and precious bloom in his chest. He cradled it, buried it deep just for himself to keep. “It was my decision.” He lied easily. Heiji wouldn’t accept anything else and only cause himself misery fighting the tide. There was already enough on his plate.

Heiji had come to a stop behind him. “What?” He asked soft and fragile and Shinichi lifted his head, arm behind his back, standing in attention. “You said-“

“The recovery is going well but the damage is irreparable.” Shinichi said, steeling himself before he turned to see Heiji aghast face staring at him. “My days as your knight are over.” It came out more like a whisper than he wanted. “Sera will be an excellent Black Knight to you.”

Heiji let out a short breath, mouth hanging open and eyes full of grief. His eyes roamed the room frantically, throat working. “Just like that?” He asked, huffing and shaking his head. Heiji’s eyes eventually found their way back to him and Shinichi couldn’t bear the weight of them.

“I’ve been assigned another position in the palace.” Shinichi said, almost placating. It wasn’t like he was leaving but they both knew that the time they spent together would dwindle to nothing by the time Heiji assumed his position as king.

“You didn’t even-“ Heiji stopped himself, hand dragging over his lips as if to catch the words before they escaped. Shinichi saw the moment he shuttered his heart, rage burning in his eyes. “You didn’t even talk to me before deciding this?” Heiji asked, gesturing angrily.

“What would you have done? Kept me on as charity?” Shinichi asked, knowing the words would cut. “There’s no use on a knight that cannot fight.”

“Maybe told you to wait until you’re fully recovered?” Heiji spit out. “It’s not even been two weeks and you’ve already given up? One might think you were eager to be rid of the burden.” Heiji said and Shinichi felt every sentence like a knife. It was easy to forget that Heiji knew his weak spots too.

“It was never a burden to me.” Shinichi had to say even when his mind told him to be silent. Heiji crossed his arms tight around his chest and turned away. “But I have to accept the truth.” Shinichi said. “You deserve the best and even if I return to old form some day, we don’t have the luxury of time. Especially not now.” Shinichi told Heiji as well as himself. It was the truth the king had seen easily, unclouded by personal feelings, the truth Shinichi had dreaded in the infirmary.

“Fuck.” Heiji said, breath shuddering as he covered his eyes with one hand.

It was better this way, Shinichi reminded himself. Years of complacency at Heiji’s side had let him indulge in daydreams too often. Heiji would be married in a few months and ascend the throne shortly after. Shinichi would have never been able to be his knight forever. It was lucky he had lived to see semi-retirement.

And former knights made for terrible brides.

“Thank you.” Shinichi said and Heiji turned to look at him, eyes wide. Shinichi bowed as deep as the pain allowed him. “It was an honor to serve you.” He swallowed the tremble that attempted to sneak into his voice.

“This is it then?” Heiji asked, guarded and Shinichi didn’t dare to lift his gaze to see his expression.

“I suppose it is.” Shinichi said, squeezing his eyes shut before straightening back up. By the time he looked at Heiji he felt numb.

Heiji’s eyes lingered on him for an eternity before he left the room without a word, leaving Shinichi with the slam of the door.

[sophie-i-guess13]

She knows, Tim thinks. Knows exactly what she’s doing to him. Sylvia giggles and Tim figures she knows exactly what he’s thinking too.

The strap of her nightgown slips further on her shoulder, and the creamy white silk falls a little further. Tim’s eyes dart to follow the movement before flitting back to Sylvia’s face. She bats her eyes slowly and Tim has never wanted to fall back into bed so badly. To hell with Buck’s deliveries, Tim wants to go back to kissing his wife.

Sylvia giggles and shifts in the sheets, those warm brown eyes of hers trained on Tim. He gulps and does his best to steel himself as he pulls his shirt over his head and turns away from the bed.

“What’s wrong, lover?” she calls as he steps towards the door. Tim can practically hear the smile in her words. Against his better judgment, he turns around.

Sylvia flutters her eyelashes and sits up, crawling to the foot of the bed at a painstakingly slow pace. Tim’s eyes fall a little lower than decent on her chest before traveling back to watch the curve of her hips beneath the silk.

“Are you really gonna leave me?” she purrs. Sylvia pushes up to her knees, crossing her arms over her chest. Tim takes an involuntary step toward her. His feet keep moving and suddenly he’s standing in front of her, hands holding the sides of her face.

Sylvia grins into his kiss, pushing into him and letting him tip her head back to kiss her more deeply. His fingers travel and knit into her hair, tugging at the blond strands. They’re kissing and Tim is so lost in her lips and her hands as they travel across his shoulders and tug at his shirt, he barely even hears the knock on the door.

“What?” he calls, voice rough as Sylvia continues to trail open-mouth kisses over his jawline, the good side as she gently cradles his scar. Tim’s hoping it’s not one of his siblings outside. He knows they’ll know exactly what he and Sylvia have been up to.

“Daddy?”

Lori. Tim sighs and pulls away from Sylvia regretfully. She catches him before he gets too far however, keeping him close with a soft smile and a hand on his waist.

“Yeah, Lor, what’s wrong?”

“Uncle Buck’s here.” Her voice is a little muffled by the door but Tim doesn’t move to open it. He sighs again and looks down to meet Sylvia’s eyes.

“Okay, do me a favor ‘n’ tell him I’ll be right there.”

“Okay, Daddy!”

Sylvia’s fingers curl over his waist as Lori’s footsteps fade away. “I’ll see when you get back,” she murmurs, stretching to give him one last gentle kiss.

“You better,” Tim murmurs. He kisses her again. “I’m gonna come back and we’re gonna finish this.”

Sylvia smirks. “Promise?

“Promise.”

This makes my stomach churn in a very /pos way

[minefield-of-a-ninja]

Prologue to Combat Baby

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | EPILOGUE

Characters: Dean Winchester x Jo Harvelle

Tags/warnings: 18+ ONLY

Words: 1,500

Author’s notes: for @stusbunker 

page divider by @talesmaniac89​

It’s another long night at the Roadhouse filled with leering eyes and dirty jokes - and not even funny dirty jokes, just dirty; as if the mere dirtiness makes it funny. It doesn’t.

Jo’s cleaning up, Ellen’s in the back counting the drawer and sorting tips. Jo appreciates this time of night the best - no bottles clinking, no glass breaking, no puking. 

Just as she’s wiping down the last table and looking to set on the bar itself, Dean walks in.

Jo feels exhilarated, embarrassed, aroused, and annoyed in rapid succession before standing straight and glaring him in the eye.

“We’re closed,” she says, flipping her hair and turning her back on the handsome hunter. 

She’s still mad at him - she’s always kind of mad at him since that’s how unrequited crushes work - but she won’t give him the satisfaction of knowing she feels anything.

He’s quiet but doesn’t leave, just moves into the space, fills it, his whole self just there like he owns the place. 

Ugh.

Jo looks up at him from behind the bar as she busies herself with side work. Dean’s looking at her with that one stupid brow arched like she doesn’t even know what or why.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she says, reaching for the iPad and cranking the volume on the music. She knows her mission is a success when she sees Dean’s best fish impression, opening and closing his mouth, trying to form words and squirming. 

“I said, we’re closed,” she shouts over John and Jimmy as they spin one of their timeless melodies.

Dean reaches over the bar and grabs the iPad before she can even see what he’s doing. She feels like a hunter failure. She knows her reflexes are better than that.

He turns the music down and looks at her pointedly. “I brought you something,” he says.

“What?” she asks, wiping her hands on her bar rag, dragging her eyes down and up his body.

Then he reaches into the back of his pants and pulls out a knife. But it’s not just any knife, it’s a beautiful knife. Mother of pearl handle, engraved steel hilt, 8″ blade - it looks brand new, but she knows he didn’t buy it for her.

“Where’d you get it?” she asks, openly admiring the thing.

“Off a vamp in Reno,” he answers with an eye roll. “What does it matter where I got it, it’s yours. I thought of you right away.”

She softens as he hands it to her, hefts its weight and grips it firmly. Her eyes dart to his.

“For your freak knife collection.” He smirks and she laughs, dips her head and sheaths the knife in her own pants.

“Thanks, Dean,” she says. “Can I get you something?”

“Nah, you’re closed, remember?” he says as he backs away from the counter then spins on his heel to leave. “Raincheck.” He throws that last reply over his shoulder as he lets the door close behind him.

“Who was that?” Ellen asks, tired and irritated, shoving a wad of cash in her pocket before zipping and locking the bank bag.

“Oh, someone left their car keys,” Jo says, and Ellen mutters something about drunk drivers and lawsuits as Jo looks through the window just in time to see Dean pull onto the highway.

“OK, keep it wrapped, tough guy,” Ellen says, finishing with Dean’s bandage.

“Always do,” Dean says with a wink.

Ellen rolls her eyes.

“Well, good to know you’re bein’ safe out there.” She packs up the first aid kit then turns to Jo. “I’m headed to bed.” 

Jo furrows her brow and motions to the research book she’s leafing through.

Ellen shifts uncertainly. “Dean, you can have the back bunk.” Her eyes dart to meet Jo’s again. 

Jo shakes her head and she throws her hands up in frustration. “What?!”

Ellen eyes Dean again as if his condom joke is directly related to her not-so-innocent daughter before doing as she says she had planned. “Finish up and get to bed, Joanna,” she mutters as she makes her way up the stairs to the apartment she shares with Jo.

Jo rolls her eyes before looking back to Dean. “Good thing you were close,” she says, swinging the knife he gave her the last time she saw him.

Dean looks up at her, and she lets herself look at him. He holds her gaze.

“Yeah,” he says, his eyes dragging down and across her sharp collarbones or maybe her tits, and… it makes her shiver.

“Cold?” he asks, his gaze lazy but warm, slides back up to meet hers.

They’ve fought side-by-side, saved the world together; they’ve had… moments; but Dean will never see her as anything but a little sister. She’s not getting her hopes up. At all.

“No,” she answers, dropping her gaze to the tome in front of her and flipping to the next page. 

He’s high on pain killers, right? And whiskey. He’s just… he’s not looking at her like that. 

“What’d my mom give you for the pain, anyway?”

Dean raises his glass of whiskey. “Advil and Jack,” he says.

“Sure she didn’t give you a roofie?” Jo scoffs.

“What?” he asks. “Why?”

“You’re just…” she shrugs. “Acting weird.”

She won’t look at him. She won’t.

“Weird how?” he asks with that tone in his voice like he’s flirting, and she hates it.

“Stop it,” she tries to demand, but it comes out as a whisper.

“Stop what?” he asks, sliding from his barstool and rounding the bar.

Dean swaggers behind the bar. With every step closer, she feels her skin prickle and her breath hitch higher. 

He pauses behind her and peeks over her shoulder. The air is charged with too close, not close enough.

“What’re you doing?” she breathes.

“Hmm, tryin’ to figure out what the fuck this thing is that attacked me?” he replies, chuckling.

“Do you have to do it so close?” she asks, squirming away and only managing to brush her ass across his hips.

Dean crowds in and rest his hands against the edge of the bar on either side of her. “Since when am I too close?” he asks quietly.

She feels her hackles rise. 

She is so fucking tired of him fucking with her, playing with her, teasing her, making her think-

“Fuck you, Dean,” she says, slamming the book closed and shoving back to make him move.

She storms toward the stairs to make her way to her own bedroom.

“That’n invitation?” he asks, and she stops dead in her tracks.

For three whole breaths, she stands stock still, letting his words ring in her ears. He’s never crossed this line, never gone this far.

“Don’t play with me,” she whispers as he edges closer. 

His warm hands wrap her shoulders and gently run down the length of her arms, over her wrists then twine their fingers together.

“I’m not,” he says, his voice is quiet, the guile and teasing are gone, replaced with heat and craving. “Not anymore.”

She draws a deep breath and turns on her heels, grabs his face in her hands and takes the plunge. 

She pulls him in for a kiss.

His hands are on her waist, gripping and exploring, sliding up under her top. He backs her toward the door to the outside. 

“Your mom’s gonna fuckin’ kill me,” he mutters around her lips.

Jo twists the knob to let them outside, and he kicks the door shut behind them, never taking his hands off her, as they move toward the bunkroom.

He backs her against the door and presses against her full and hot, knee between her thighs, heavy hands on her hips.

His mouth is so warm and slick and demanding, yet sweet.

He lifts her, secures her legs around his hips, and opens the door. When he kicks that one shut, too, he’s kissing her dizzy. Then he sets her on my feet and pulls his mouth from hers long enough to look down at her and ask, “You sure about this?”

She huffs a laugh and shakes her head. “That’s the dumbest thing you’ve ever asked me.” She whips her top over her head before pushing at his clothes, all of them; she wants all of him.

His eyes bore into hers as he yanks her jeans open and pushes his hand inside her underwear and slips his thick middle finger along her wet slit.

“Feel that?” she asks, and his eyes droop, he licks his lips and moves closer. “That’s all for you. Always has been.”

He ducks in to kiss her again, walking her toward the bed. He makes her sit before dropping to his knees and pulling her pants and underwear the rest of the way off. 

As he lowers his face to her cunt, she lets herself fall back onto the featherbed mattress.

“I’m gonna make you feel so good.”

She knows he will. He’s always been good for his word.

Part One

[jewishbarbies]

TWO MIRACLES;

Salem Mitchell’s relatively normal life is turned on its head when her estranged father returns unceremoniously in a bar, the same night she drunkenly kisses her best friend. Now she’s forced to comes to terms with being confronted by the man who abandoned her and make sense of the feelings she has for the one that stuck around. And, thanks to the Navy, she just might lose them both at once.

salem tag: @caelipartem

tag list: @starcrossedjedis @heirsoflilith @phoenixsupremacy  @eddiemunscns @darknightfrombeyond @sgtbuckyybarnes @raith-way @hiddenqveendom @foxesandmagic @chlobenet @edwardsshinyvolvo @eddie-munscns @chrissymunson @katiekinswrites (want to be added? hmu ♡)

— Sneak peak below the cut —

She gathered herself as she walked to the bar. Dipping around a couple of patrons, she tip-toed quickly to the bar top. “Hey, Pen,” she shouted a little to be heard, the woman’s back to her. As Penny turned around at the sound of Salem’s voice, another patron was revealed, materializing in the stool in front of her like an inkblot on the backdrop. And Salem’s stomach twisted. 

Something in Penny’s eyes told her that she knew. That she could sense the turmoil, the sudden onset of nausea. There he was. The man who all but abandoned her at five years old stared back at her with a similarly bewildered and dumbfounded expression. His lips parted, but no words formed. What would he even say? How would someone start this kind of conversation? He wanted to say more, to explain himself—and, most of all, apologize—but he bit his tongue. “Hi,” was all he could say.

Salem’s eyes flickered toward Penny. “I need another. Make it a double.”

Penny gave a single nod and moved to pour her a drink. In the silence, Pete simply stared. There she was, his little girl, standing across the bar as a fully grown woman, and all he could do was stare. But who could blame him? Her hair was dark like his, but she had her mother’s brown eyes to match and her petite jawline. There was so little of him in the image—though, he wouldn’t change anything. He sat in awe on the bar stool. Salem, however, was beginning to steam.

She could feel her skin start to itch, crawling beneath his unwanted gaze, and her eyes steeled as they met his once more. “What?” she snapped, the word darting past her lips without a second thought. It was like everything in the bar had suddenly stopped moving. Time slowed down as the venom was flung across the bar, landing right in the center of his chest, and he almost felt himself cave from the inside. He understood her anger—but he’d hoped for something else. Anything else. Almost as if she could read the disappointment on his mind, she continued to bite, “A little late for excitement, don’t you think?”

It was then that Penny set a full glass on the bar in front of her. “There you go, hon,” she told Salem, before her mouth settled into an apologetic smile, lips pulled tight into her cheeks. 

Salem’s features were blank, her eyes still gently rounded from the shock but hardened in disdain, offense at the notion that he would dare come here of all places—her spot. He could certainly find his own bar, couldn’t he? He didn’t need this one. Or, she would find another herself. Either way, she had no plan to stick around any later than she had to tonight. She took the glass off the bar and glanced at Penny only for a second to give a nod of thanks, and then she was turning on her heels to leave.

Her feet barely touched the floor as she marched quickly back to her seat by the pool table. The movement drew Phoenix’s eyes away from the next target on the table. It was intended to be a quick glance, a fleeting look, but she found herself standing upright, brow furrowing as she scrutinized Salem’s features. “You good?” she asked her.

The question brought the attention of the others at the pool table right to her face, and Salem sighed into her glass as she brought it to her lips for a long drink. “Do we need to call it a night, Mitchell?” Hangman’s voice was patronizing, teasing as he grinned at her from the other side of the pool table. 

Phoenix turned her head to glare up at him, but he was unyielding. “I’m just getting started, Assman,” Salem deadpanned, and Bob snorted to her right. Hangman’s features remained stilled in their positions, but something in his eyes had shifted.

“It’s Hangman.”

“I said what I said.”

Snickers were stifled beneath the music among the others nearby, and the dent in his resolve was almost visible. But he simply doubled down, pushing off the wall to walk toward her, rounding the end of the pool table. “You’re lucky you can’t fly for shit,” he remarked, staring her down with a pompous smirk as he passed, and Salem leaned back on the stool. “You’d be eating those words.”

Salem’s eyes rolled back into her head, and she resisted the urge to send her boot into the back of his neatly pressed slacks. “Whatever gets your dick hard,” she mumbled, before swallowing down another gulp of poison from her glass.

“It’s disgusting to think that that used to be you,” Phoenix wrinkled her nose at Salem.

“Wait a second,” Bob’s eyes rounded in shock as they flitted quickly between Phoenix, Salem, and sporadically Hangman. “Did you guys date?”

“A mistake I won’t be making twice,” Salem dryly quipped. It was then she felt a faint buzz against her backside. Her phone, she knew. She set her glass down on the partition wall behind her before digging a hand into the depths of her back pocket for the device. When she unearthed it, the screen lit up with an incoming text message. Her eyes landed on the contact name and the air left her lungs.

[the-hoarse-bard]

The northern passage was, well, north of my home. There was a small grave outside the entrance to the tunnel. The marker didn't give a name, but I tipped my hat to whoever was buried there as I went into the mouth of the tunnel.

A small group of six were in the cave, four guards checking over their gear, a cheery-looking man in overalls whose voice I recognized from the advert on the radio, and a very shifty looking guy in a vault suit with a pip-boy on his wrist leaning against one of the tunnel supports. Jed would probably be the best place to start.

Jed's voice had a lot more timbre not being heard through the tinny pip-boy speaker. He greeted me warmly, and took my hand, "Howdy, friend. Heard my broadcast, did you?" He glanced down at my pip-boy, "Yeah, you look the type," He released my hand, and I tipped my hat to him, "Yep. I'm a courier by trade, but business has been slow lately, so I figured I'd sign on for this expedition." Jed stuck his hands in his pockets, "Well, I'd hate to disappoint you, but as long as Ricky over there is around," he pointed to the high-strung young man in the vault suit, "I don't think we'll need you. Tell ya what though, if you can get Ricky to chicken out, we'll have you on board. I'll be honest, I like the look of him a lot less than you."

Jed went back to walking over his checklist with the guards, and I turned my attention to Ricky. He was tapping his foot on the stone tunnel floor, and drumming a tense tune on his arm, looking almost like he was ready to snap right in half at the drop of a pin. I walked up to him calmly, "So, I hear your name's Ricky?" He looked up at me, his bloodshot eyes darting toward me from behind the cop shades on his face, "Hm? Yeah, yeah that's me. You looking for trouble, bud? Cuz I got plenty to spare." He gave me a smile, I could see he was missing a canine on the left side of his mouth.

I shrugged, "Well, this trip only needs one pip-boy, so it looks like we're competing for the spot," Ricky's smile fell from his face, "Yeah? Well, I'm one of a kind, see? I've been places and done things, lot's of 'em!" I stayed quiet, I could tell he was readying some bullshit story as we spoke, "Anything makes the mistake of pissing off Ricky, I'll deadeye him, her or it. In fact, that's my nickname, yeah! 'Deadeye' Ricky." I crossed my arms, "Uhuh, yeah, sure," He continued, "Why, uh, once, I got jumped by three.... Deathjaws! Except, actually, it was four of them! Imagine that!" I raised an eyebrow, "'Deathjaws' huh? You sure you don't mean deathclaws?" His eye twitched a little, but he doubled down, "Nope, you heard me right, deathjaws! They're like deathclaws, but with bigger teeth!"

Ricky didn't even pause for a breath, "Or, there was the time one of them Steel Brotherhood assholes made the mistake of messing with me! Last mistake he ever made!" I shoved my hands into my pockets, "'Steel Brotherhood'.... Do you mean Brotherhood of Steel?" His eyes avoided mine as he thought of a retort, "Uh, well... What's it sound like I'm saying? If I was saying what you said I was saying, then yeah, I said it!" He was cracking, "I was walking right along, and up pops one of them Brotherhoods. He yells, 'hand over that laser rifle, asshole!' and I do, just to make him think I'm scared. But I'm not, because I never am. I draw my 11mm machinegun and BAM! BAM! Right through his eyeslit! D.O.A," I leaned forward, "Too bad there's no such thing as an 11mm machinegun." Ricky gulped and stammered, "Uh, there is so! Or was it 9 or a 10, I don't know! I don't care! Said I was good at killin' shit, not good with numbers!"

I stood back up straight to get away from Ricky's breath. I could see that he had a bad case of cottonmouth, too, "So where ya from, Ricky?" He relaxed a little at me backing off, "Well, I grew up near Dayglow out west, so yeah, I grew a third nut that glows in the dark!" I looked him up and down, "Then where'd you get the pip-boy and the vault suit? There's no vault in Dayglow," The sweat returned to his face, "N-Nice job, eagle eye! Yeah, I got a pit-boy," I corrected him, "Pip-boy," He swallowed, "Yeah, that, pip-boy! And a vault suit, too! What of it?"

I looked Ricky dead in the eye, "So where'd you get them?" He scoffed, "Vault two-two, where you think? It's where I grew up!" I raised an eyebrow again, "So where's that?" He shifted his eyes left and right, "I-I can't tell you that, I am sworn to secrecy, or something like that... To the people I left behind!" He smiled, sure he was safe. I called his bluff, "You're lying. You have no idea where it is." He stopped smiling and he tried to say something before sighing and giving up, "Y-yeah, you caught me. I may have been exaggerating a little. Truth is, I got this here pit-boy and vault suit off a dead prospector who came out of Zion. Guy was dead when I found him, okay? Had a ton of shit on him, that's how I know there's good loot in Zion!"

I looked down at Ricky's pip-boy, and noticed something, "Hey Ricky... You know how that thing works right?" I pointed to the pip-boy, and he said, "Y-yeah, it makes me more badass! Jed says it has maps and shit, that's why I'm here!" I looked him in the eye, "Well, then you should know it's not working. The screen's locked up and the reboot button is missing," He got angry at that and yelled, "Bullshit! Ain't nothing wrong with my pit-boy, I mean pip-boy!" Jed looked over at us concerned, Ricky pulled me into a huddle, looking nervous, "Look, this gig is sweet for me! Don't go blowing it for me. What do you want anyway?" I smirked, "What I want is for you to scram, Ricky. This expedition doesn't need you." He stood up, and yelled again, "Fine! You win, asshole! Have fun leading the expedition into an ambush! I hope you all die!" Ricky scampered out of the cave, everyone staring at him.

Jed walked over to me, laughing, "Haha, good work son, the job's all yours now! It was fun getting to watch Ricky squirm, too. So, the pay is 25 caps per day, half up front, half on return. It's gonna be dangerous, Utah's full of regional warlords and gangs like the 80's. Not a lot of safe places to stop and rest, and we're imposing a weight limit. We'll be going through some box canyons, and we don't want anyone getting stuck." I nodded, "Don't worry about me, Jed. I've hauled myself across the whole Mojave. I can handle it." He smiled, "Well, your gear all looks in order, let's get going then. I'll fill you in on the situation in New Canaan along the way." The guards finished up their equipment checks, and we all headed out the east end of the tunnel. Toward Zion.

[kettouryuujin]

Sentinel of the Fieldlands - Lian

[Inspired by @monsoon-of-art​‘s Pokerus AU]

Akari was just barely able to stop her attack run and go into a dodge (That, or process what he’d said and realize she had to get out of the way). “That’s who we’re supposed to be rescuing?! Arceus, how long has he been here?”

“A-at least a couple weeks...” Rei gulped, then ducked to the side as the enraged Sliggoo sent another Water Gun his way.

“Well…ugh. I don’t think I’ve ever heard of a ‘mon going this nuts this fast before… but I think our best bet isn’t something you’re gonna like.” Akari rose back up into a battle stance as her words sunk in.

“...are you actually…”

A sad sigh and nod. “Yep. We’ve gotta Faint him.” And with that, she rushed in, shells flying as she dodged and weaved around the large mollusc-dragon. Rei sighed, slowly standing as he watched the Dewott dart and bob through the “arena”. Well…if that was the only way they could get him out of here, then he might as well try and help.

Eyes were scrunched as he concentrated on his cheeks, feeling the electrical power pulse and surge in them. C’mon… c’mon… oh this felt weird… but com-

“GAH!” Aaand he must’ve said something out loud because he just got smacked by another Water Gun. To make matters worse, that charge he’d been trying to store was gone. Oh come on, couldn’t anything go right tod-

Wait, Lian had stopped…

Slowly opening his eyes, Rei took in the scene of A Sliggoo Jerking Wildly Outside of its Shell. Far from a masterpiece, especially given the context, but those jumping sparks said what he needed to hear.

“A-Akari! I think I managed to Paralyze it!”

“You- wow, great job! Alright, let’s see…got it!”

Rei wasn’t sure he liked that smile. He wasn’t sure he disliked it either. “Rei, grab into one side of the head-hole. I’ll grab over here. I think it’s time to put this fella in the spin cycle…”

Rei could feel a small “pi?” Leave his mouth at that suggestion - how EMBARASSING, it sounded cute. But worry about that later, for now just get into position… “R-right, what now?”

Akari blinked then sighed. “Now, start running in 3…2…1NOW!” With that rushed cry the Dewott started running, and it only took Rei a second to join her.

It also took him only a second to realize the Paralysis was wearing off rather fast.

Sadly for Lian, it took him more than a second to realize what was about to happen. His addled mind tried in vain to counterbalance, but the lingering Paralysis fooled him into moving the wrong way (“Hey, is it just me or is it easier to move him now?” “Iiiits not just you…”). ‘Round and ‘round he went, and where he stopped only Sinnoh knew…

The two mammals were eventually unable to keep the spin going and let go, the force flinging them out to the side. The Electric groaned, slowly sitting up as he saw Akari off to the side, groaning and still laying down. 

Before he could go to check on her, though, Liam’s woozy cries caught his attention. His glance was reeled over to the Warden, who was wobbling… tipping,.. *thunk*

And he was upside-down. Somehow. “…I think we won…”

There was no return comment from Akari as she stood, shuffling towards the steel shell. “Tha…thaz good…” She smiled, taking her bandana - no, wait, the badge on her bandana and slowly touching it to the downed Lian. Before Rei could ask why she was doing this, there was a sudden flash of light and - the Warden was gone? What the… “B-badge ain’t just membership. It…it getsthe client outta the Dungeon…He’ll…be at the entrance…” *THUNK*

“AKARI!!!” Rei darted over to the downed ‘mon, panicked and - holy crap, she was scuffed up HARD! He hadn’t noticed it before in the rush of the dungeon - or his excitement to find Lian - but  the Dewott was marked with several small nicks, gashes, and burns. And some of them had a familiar scent, only made stronger by his new form - Poison.

Well…worry later. For now, pick up the hat (which was conveniently near Akari already) and hold it to his chest, before taking Akari’s paw and touching it to the badge. It glowed brightly, his world becoming light-

And they were…outside? Outside the Fieldlands? And a bit taller than when they entered? Oh, wait. Lian was under them…explains why his paws felt a bit cold.

Well, for now, just slide off (being careful not to bang around the Water-type too much) and look around, sighing. It was going to be a long, long way home. ...Maybe he should wait for Lian to wake up. And hopefully get Akari to eat a Berry or two. Maybe.