#Phantom: Simply not my tastes at all...

[arcgeminga]

Hey Phantom Pros. Give a listen to Anima Ataraxia, what are your thoughts of said song?

♕┊ "Well, it certainly isn't Vivaldi, Bach, or Beethoven," the Phantom said with slight annoyance. No doubt, the recommended symphony sounded extremely weird and unpleasant.

[yourdoorisunlocked]

Frisky Kitty - Alastor x Cat!Reader

𝐀/𝐍: Back with another one! A request from @karolinda007-blog :)

➺ 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐬 | 𝐅𝐥𝐮𝐟𝐟, 𝐜𝐚𝐭!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫, 𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐬, 𝐜𝐮𝐝𝐝𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐛𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐥, 𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐥 𝐝𝐮𝐬𝐭'𝐬 𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐟 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 ;) ➺ 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 𝟏,𝟎𝟔𝟒

A consistent stream of radio static buzzed softly against your fluffy ears as Alastor’s uncovered claws, tipped with crimson and gleaming ominously in the candlelight, tickled down your spine, occasionally reaching up to pet and ruffle your hair before sending shivers down your back once again.  

The Radio Demon was handling you, his darling, ever so gently, with hands that others would only find merciless terror and brutality. The same hands that Alastor was petting you with, now. 

Nuzzling your face into Alastor's lap, you enjoyed hearing random recorded blips of one of his broadcasts through the calm static, accompanied by the crackle of firewood and your spouse’s absentminded humming as rain pattered against the windows outside. 

“Are you enjoying yourself, my dear?” Mirth-filled crimson eyes flickered to you as you nodded and snuggled against Alastor’s lap further for emphasis, purring softly against his waist. 

The radio host’s warm chuckle bounced off the walls of the room, eyes dancing with both fondness and humor. “I can tell, how receptive you are to me, darling,” Alastor laughed and set his book down beside him, both of his hands running through your hair and rubbing against your temples.  

It was surreal to think that, once upon a time, the thought of showing weakness with another, sharing something as damning as vulnerability, simply left a bad taste in Alastor’s mouth.

The Radio Demon was many things, but he was no romantic, much less a clingy one. 

But from the moment Alastor allowed your relationship to evolve, you couldn’t keep your hands off of him, and he never found himself complaining.

Where others would’ve been brutally eviscerated into a puddle of blood and gore on the street for cannibals to feast, you were free to snuggle, nuzzle, kiss, and display your affections – in private, strictly – however you wanted, and Alastor would return the favor tenfold, almost shocked at how he craved to touch you, after a near century of being depraved of such a luxury. 

And you had always respected Alastor’s boundaries, and so nothing ever got so out of hand with your affections. Though, the heated kisses that left one another breathless, lingering touches promising phantom tingles of pleasure, all of it teased the radio host to no end whenever you reminded him of how you craved him so. 

But that could wait for another time. Right now, all Alastor wanted to focus on was the warmth of your body flush against his, and how your oversized pajama shirt shifted ever so slightly away from your neck that he could proudly view the claiming mark imprinted on your nape. 

With a soft whine, the fur on the back of your neck suddenly stood on end, and you reached up towards your lover’s collar as your pupils, pure voids and blown wide, focused entirely on Alastor’s ears, how fluffy they were, how they enticed you and called to more buried instincts. 

Alastor raised an eyebrow. “Getting a bit frisky, are we? Perhaps we should’ve gone to bed a bit earlier,” chuckling, Alastor’s left ear flicked, and your own twitched in response. 

With wide eyes, your hands grabbed for his ears, messing and playing with them as you continued your affectionate assault up his neck, burying your nose in his hair and nuzzling against his neck with urgency. 

“Now hold on, now-!” Your lover went absolutely rigid while you made a mess of his cherry-colored locks, fluffing up his hair an

Alastor’s ears immediately perked up, straight and at attention atop his head when your tongue caressed a particularly sensitive spot just beneath his jaw, and he abruptly stood up with you clutched to his chest. 

The screech of a record player wasn’t enough to deter you, and you continued to preen against him, rumbles of content softening his soured heart greatly.

“I believe that’s enough playtime for one day!” To Alastor's slight disappointment, you finally yielded to that, though you pouted softly in his arms, making grabby hands for his ears, and he chuckled huskily.

“You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into, ma chère,” he sighed softly into your ear. "You're going to rile me up, if you keep this up."

Alastor stood and began to carry you out of the small parlor and into the hallway, making a beeline for your shared room as you continued to rub your nose and neck against his, scenting him with a deep purr that spurred on his own instincts. 

It was only when the marked side of your neck rubbed up against Alastor’s, pure pheromones pouring from you, a mix of your scent and his mingling together, calling to him and begging him to give into you.

"Oh, chère," Alastor leaned into you just then, nearly falling into your bedroom as his hands wrapped around your waist in a possessive grip. He supposed that a little quality time with his darling wouldn't hurt. After all, what kind of gentleman would he be if he didn't tend to all of your needs?

And perhaps you'd cater to some of his, as well.

. . .

Once the door closed behind Alastor with a soft click, he let out a soft sigh of relief and slumped against the hardwood, his hand still gripping the knob. 

The few moments of peace the exhausted radio host spent collecting himself – and trying to calm his inner urge to return to his mate partner and satisfy her properly – were, to his chagrin, a short-lived blessing. 

“Woah-hoh! You look like shit, Al’!”  

None other than Angel Dust had sauntered into the hallway, clearly caught in the middle of retiring from Husk’s bar as he slurred out some of his words.  

“I could say the same for yourself! Don’t you have anything better to do, than stalk around the hallways like a lightweight drunkard?” He snapped back with a poorly plastered-on grin.

Angel pouted defiantly. “Heeey! You’re out here, doin’ the same thing, ya’ strawberry pimp!” 

Alastor bristled at the insult and fought to keep himself together as he squared his shoulders, brushing past Angel with his ears pointed backwards, while Angel gave Alastor’s disheveled look a once-over. 

Smug realization dawned on him, and the porn star made an obscene gesture with his hand and called back to the disgruntled, pent-up radio host. 

“So, uh- Did you an’ the lady finally, uh, ya’ know-” 

"ꞨĦɄȾ. ɄꝐ!" 

𝐄𝐧𝐝 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: Just wanted to post this last request before going on a little trip! Gonna go see Hadestown and go out for dinner, so enjoy this little fic!

Thank you for being patient with me while I'm trying to build up a better post schedule :)

. . .

➺ 𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭: @starsformydarlingmazel, @chitter-chatter, @hazzbindarlingg, @darkangel582, @matrixbearer2024, @prosciuttosblog, @frog-fans-unite, @mysterypotatoink, @burgerflipper72, @chibikochannumberone, @strawberry-gothic, @roboticsuccubus83, @lulurubberduckie, @fangirlanxiety74, @viviannagiorgini, @localmsifan, @justtnat, @karolinda007-blog, @mglawwica, @wonderlandangelsposts, @saitisfied, @repostingmyfavs, @weirdflower2024, @montis-posts, @sirens-and-moonflowers, @theperfectmangovoid, @slytherin4ever, @i-love-jafar, @itzlochnessie, @mariaclarade-la-cruz1, @susvale, @valentique, @twismare, @robin-the-enby, @v3n7s, @forbidden-sunlight, @leathesimp, @matemor, @groovybear99, @frompeach, @moonmark98, @nyxnightshade7656, @sushigogo, @crowleysthings, @zombiesnips-blog, @sirens-and-moonflowers, @impulsivethoughtsat2am

[zal-cryptid]

Toyfolk Glossary Masterpost

Collected in this masterpost is a glossary of terms concerning the worldbuilding of my series Misfits in Toyland.

Toyland - A phantom island of games and toys inhabited by the toyfolk. Also known as the Land of Toys, Island of Misfit Toys, the Doll Kingdom, and Merryland. Although autonomously ruled and governed by a monarch, it belongs to its creator, Krampus. It exists in a parallel plane of existence that dances in tandem with the mortal realm known as the Otherworld.

Toyfolk - People who’ve been transformed into living toys and sent to Toyland as punishment for their misdeeds by Krampus. This punishment is reserved only for adults. They don't possess any vital functions and thus have no need to eat, drink, or breathe.

Rule of Play - the magic that allows toyfolk to interact with toys as if they were real simply by playing pretend with them. For example, toyfolk can move their bodies simply by pretending that they can, despite not having muscles, a nervous system, or any of the necessary organs. Same goes to their ability to speak and sense the world around them. Externally, they can make any toy real for them by interacting with it as if it were real - such as pretending to eat toy food in order to mimic the sensation of eating. There are, of course, limitations to the Rule of Play. For example, it cannot be used to create life (playing with a normal doll or a toy animal won’t cause it to come to life) or cause death (playing dead won’t cause suicide). Toyfolk roleplaying with each other can even temporarily alter their perception.

Phantom Nervous System - named after Phantom Limb Pain, the Phantom Nervous System is what allows the toyfolk to move without muscles, see without eyes, hear without ears, taste without tongues, think without brains, and even feel (temperature, texture, pain, erogenous stimulation, etc.,), all without possessing any organs or nerves. Toyfolk are essentially undead - the mind and soul bound to a lifeless object and animated by magic.

Toy Fugue - Named after Dissociative Fugue (although the two should not be conflated), Toy Fugue is an altered mental state where Toyfolk lose their memories and sense of identity. Their minds are subsumed by their Toy Brain and form a new identity based around the type of toy they are. Toy Fugue is a mental escape triggered by traumatic events and emotionally distressing experiences. It’s often the end result of those who fail to find a way to cope with an existential crisis. Unlike dissociative fugue, Toy Fugue isn’t temporary, nor does it cause one to wander. While some have been able to snap out of it, others may be doomed to remain that way for the rest of their lives.

Toy Brain - also known as Play Brain, refers to the “programming” that all toyfolk have that gives them a collection of instinctive urges to play the part of whatever type of toy they are. Many struggle to find a balance between these urges and their own personalities, and it's a great source of discomfort for many of the toyfolk. Much like a Chinese Finger Trap, attempts to resist these urges will only cause them to intensify and worsen. If toyfolk fail to control their urges, their urges will ultimately end up controlling them and descend into Toy Fugue. These urges can range from specific (such as tea parties) to more broad (such as animal behaviours).

Magic - Magic works differently in the Mundane World than it does in the Otherworld. One can be forgiven in thinking magic doesnt exist in our world, but the truth is exists in its most fundamental and purest form - imagination. In its passive form, it manifests as thoughts, ideas, creativity, emotions, and problem-solving. In its most active form, it can manifest as psionics (also known as psychic powers and ESP). Long-term exposure to another plane will cause an entity to slowly acclimatize to the laws of that reality.

Wind-Up Keys - Wind-up keys have the ability to temporarily influence a wind-up toyfolk's personality and behaviour. Each key contains toy brain traits of the wind-up toy it came from. For example, a toy soldier wound up with a music box key would suddenly start to act more feminine and want to dance like a ballerina.

Voice Boxes - While most toyfolk are able to speak through the Rule of Play, those with voice boxes are bound to the rules of the voice box. Those with pull-strings, for example, cannot speak unless their pull-string is pulled. The voice box isn't just an analog for the larynx, but also functions as the speech center of the brain (particularily the Broca's Area). It contains their voice, vocabulary, speech patterns, accent, language, everything. Damage to this aparatus may cause something akin to aphasia, dysphasia, or dysarthria.

Playing Dress-Up - For dress-up dolls, costumes and outfits can influence their behaviour and personality. For example, a business suit could make them feel and act confident, a girly dress could make them feel and act girly, a maid uniform could make them feel and act like a maid, a collar could make them feel like a pet, so on and so forth. The affects are temporary, only lasting as long as they're wearing the outfit, but their original outfit they ever wore as a toyfolk gets imprinted into their toy brain, making it their default trait.

Currency - The official currency of Toyland is the Standard 52-card deck of French-suited playing cards. Playing cards were chosen over play money on account of the fact they couldn't decide on which nation's or board game's play money to use. They ended up turning to Quebecois history for inspiration. Playing-card money was a type of paper money used periodically in New France from 1685 to the British Conquest in 1763.

[yorshie]

[Sees it's the last day for blurb day] [Runs to the asks and falls on my face] [Weakly holds up these prompts]

Yorkshire... may I please humbly request...

14. “Just let me sneak one more, no one has to know” and 16. “Just a little bit longer, no one’s going to miss us.”

With bayverse!Mikey x F!reader🥺🙏❤️

Thank You for Requesting for Blurb Day! Oh no, did the Mikey Well claim another victim? Whelp, pop a squat, there's plenty of room down here lol. Mr. Sunshine is out for us all. (edit: huh. apparently I am a one trick pony today. hm....)

The light from the tv sent shadows running up and down the length of Mikey's bedroom walls, twisted limbs against the light and something that Mikey swore was suppose to be a dog, though you think he only insisted to hear you giggle over the absurdity of it.

The generators had kicked on a little while ago, spewing warm into every room, and at the sound Mikey had shared a look of glee with you before the pair of you bundled into his room to watch holiday movies and use the excuse of 'getting warm' to cuddle.

Now, with his body slowly warming from the heat of yours tucked against his side, and the 3rd movie droning on in the background, it seemed Mikey's mind had turned from simply making you giggle.

His thumb fitted underneath your jaw, tipping your head back to meet the soft press of his kisses. You closed your eyes at the little hum of happiness he gave at how easily you let it happen.

"You taste like peppermints," you whispered in between the chaste presses, and the arm tucked around your back shifted, his hand slowly sliding underneath your shirt to chase more warmth.

"You taste like sunshine." He countered, using your small noise of disbelief to lick against your lower lip, a smile threatening the curve of his mouth.

"You can't taste sunshine, Angelo." You mock scolded, scooting up in his arms only to be dragged across his plastron when he rolled to his opposite side and slotted a leg between yours.

"Did you just take my warm spot?" You asked, trying not to laugh, wrapping your arms around his neck and trying in vain to pull yourself back, chasing the phantom warmth.

"hmmm... maybe," he cheekily responded, shifting his shell back and forth in the spot you had just vacated, "How else am i suppose to get warm, though?"

"You thief!" You let him kiss you again, sighing into the firm push before nudging his head sideways to bury into his neck. "No smooches for warm spot thieves." You grinned into his neck when his hands squeezed at your waist. "I should tattle on you, tell your brothers you only ever want to steal kisses when we hang out."

"Oh, come on sunshine, no one has to know I'm your favorite, just let me sneak one more smooch." He puckered, making the smooching noise in your ear, tickling you in the process.

You mock fought for a moment to get out of his grip, kicking your legs and doing nothing beyond making his arms tighten around you. Finally, you both stopped, giggles trailing off into soft touches, until Mikey took the opportunity to steal another quick kiss.

"Pretty sure everyone knows about us." You told him, softly, running your fingers over his cheeks and melting at the way he nuzzled into the touch.

"Course they do, I called dibs." He kissed each of your fingers, encouraging you with hands sliding up your back to lean back in. "Get close again baby, let me hold you for a little bit longer."

"Someone really will come looking for us if we hide much longer, Angelo," you murmured, following the push to press back up against him, shivering at how cool his skin felt under the blankets.

"No one's gonna miss us, or come looking, I promise." He nuzzled into your neck, churring a little when you wrapped your arms around him again. "Let's just nap for a little bit, sunshine."

[ronearoundblindly]

Heat Tank

Johnny Storm x ghost!reader from the Phantom Pleasure series

One of my Valentine's Fics for 2024. Prompt: A kiss in relief. WC 782

Summary: Though you've grown closer, Johnny has spent months unable to touch you. As a spirit, you are attracted to heat, so there's a chance his energy can actually offer you a form--if only temporarily--for him to see and feel. This is Johnny's first chance to test the Heat Tank.

The science of the structure makes no sense to Johnny, but he knows he has permission to go supernova while inside. The venting and dispersion will work for a prolonged period, and as an unexpected bonus, Richards was able to channel the energy to heat the entire block.

Johnny doesn’t care about that.

Why he needs the Tank is vague, but the Four know Johnny rarely asks for technology unless absolutely necessary. If it can help prevent any direct damage to the brownstone or the neighborhood, Reed and Sue are on board.

The apparatus is simply a more powerful version of the original assessment chamber in the Baxter Building, less the flaw where his maximum temp can melt the walls.

Johnny does the song and dance, listens to the explanation of controls—door stays locked until a specific sensor reads below 110* F—and then dismisses Reed and his sister to go out to dinner or whatever it is they do. He doesn’t pay attention after the necessities. 

He contemplates inviting you in verbally, but instead lights his hand. That’s your ghost-equivalent of an attractive offer: concentrated heat. If this works at all…

As soon as the thick door shuts, its pitch black save for his hand, and Johnny stokes the fire. He gets more and more nervous, letting the smooth, gradual increase boil atmosphere like a frog in the pot, until the first shapes of you lick through the distortion.

You’re here.

You’re really here—right there within reach—and he pushes for more, more heat, more pressure, more you.

There’s not one whole part of you that becomes clear first; it’s wisps of a hip, a curve of a jaw, leg. He simply watches intently, unable to hear over the roar of flame around him—around you both.

But he can hear your voice in his head so clearly, joking, poking fun at his needless intensity, his perpetual impatience.

Johnny…

I’m always here.

I’m not going anywhere.

You aren’t though. He wants more. For once in his constantly un-alone life, he wants just one thing: to see you, to be with you physically.

Then you’re there.

Suddenly, the nuance of oranges curve over every inch of you, and Johnny’s body feels hotter than it’s ever been, in pain or pleasure, in fear or safety. He’s on fire inside and out.

He hardly imagines what your skin will be like in his palm because the burnt clay undertone of it seems hard. If Johnny’s learned anything about you, “hard” would describe none of it. You’re malleable like amber and fragile as rust.

The shared presence of blood-red is the most you and Johnny have ever had in common to date, and yet he feels a connection in the destruction, the dispersion of his life-force. If only he could truly give himself to you…

His bare foot steps forward in a cloud of plasma and smoke, sliding through the blaze.

He is the only source of oxygen now. There is nothing but Johnny to galvanize life within the Tank, and he has a goal.

Touch her.

That’s all he has to do: suffer and incite thousands of degrees for a corporeal taste.

Just one. Just one touch. Just touch her.

But Johnny Storm has never settled for the bare minimum. He steals the whole show. He shoots all the way to the stars. He can’t be held back, and there’s no one who cares to hold him back.

Before he can close the distance between you, your arm raises, a palpable hand resting on his chest which he greedily covers with his own and continues. Onward to you. Nearer. Hotter. Sooner. Until he arrives, lips kissing the beautiful, pouting plume of your lips.

To his utter delight, you feel…cool like fog rolling over his molten skin, and his lungs fill with the contradiction, veins opened wide to the shock of dopamine injected by new.

Johnny’s power makes him impose on others—on the world—because he controls the climate around him. Climate never fights back.

You do. You can affect him, and he’s instantly addicted.

He’ll fuse straight to your soul if you let him. He’s that far gone in seconds. The chain reaction simply floods through him, and he pumps more and more heat out to keep you tangible.

He’ll die without friction. He can’t imagine living without.

He presses, smelting your essence into his memory and hoping.

Stay, he thinks. Stay even when I burn out.

The hand on his heart squeezes, a cool rock to rest his sweating skin upon.

You’re a balance. You can keep him grounded even after all the hot air of this life floats away.

A/N: well, I'm really praying that read as interesting rather than confusing because I've had to come up with odd ways to describe how Johnny and a ghost can interact. Had this idea for Reader to be attracted to heat (i.e. her consciousness gathers around that energy which is the only time she can kinda really *think*) for a while, and it struck me that it would be novel to have a cold kiss be more tantalizing for the Human Torch. Anyway, I overthink everything, so yep, all is fine here!

Jake Jensen and a kiss to distract ⬅️➡️ Ransom Drysdale and a kiss as a yes

[Main Masterlist; Light Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

[arcaneacolyte]

Attention

Summary:

Phantom likes attention.

If anyone were to watch how he performs at Rituals, how he interacts with screaming fans, blowing kisses and moving his body in ways that make them scream all the louder, it’s obvious.

He loves to be watched. So much so, that he’s jealous when other Ghouls get attention. He might argue until he’s purple in the face—or at least more than his unglamored skin already is—but Swiss knows, Swiss sees.

Pairing: Swiss/Phantom (Aeon)

Words: 3,017

Contains: Praise Kink, Mean Swiss, Dom/Sub, Safewords (Stoplight system), Masturbation, Longing, Top Swiss, Bottom Phantom, Humiliation, Degradation, Autofellatio, Flexibility, Jealous Phantom, Attention Whore Phantom, Subspace, Dacryphilia, Teasing, Orgasm Control, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Size Kink, PWP, Polyghouls, Voyuerism, Mildly Dubious Consent

—————————

Hello hello! I’m back with another brain worm induced fic lol. So basically, I noticed during the Ritual I went to, that every time I tried to film Swiss, Phantom would try to walk in front of my phone or take over the shot himself, and I thought it was very funny, and apparently he was doing it at other Rituals too! Then I saw how bendy he was and how much he likes attention, and this idea spawned from there.

I will say, this does have a little bit of dubcon feelings to it, but I promise that Phantom is very much into this! I added the tag though just in case people might feel a little squicked about it!

I did not beta this, and also wrote it in a fugue state and finished it at 3 am, so please let me know if there are any glaring mistakes lol.

Read below the cut or on AO3 if you prefer that!

Phantom likes attention.

If anyone were to watch how he performs at Rituals, how he interacts with screaming fans, blowing kisses and moving his body in ways that make them scream all the louder, it’s obvious.

He loves to be watched. So much so, that he’s jealous when other Ghouls get attention. He might argue until he’s purple in the face—or at least more than his unglamored skin already is—but Swiss knows, Swiss sees.

At first he thought it was simply Phantom trying to move from one place to another on the stage in front of him, but as more Rituals went by and Swiss watched the lithe Quintessence Ghoul more and more, he started to notice a trend.

Any time a fan would aim their phone towards Swiss, Phantom would come stomping past, or even step directly to the edge of the stage, effectively blocking off any view of the Multi-Ghoul. He’d make a silent fuss as he bent his body or flipped his guitar around in a spectacle that the little Bug seemed to deem far more interesting than Swiss of all Ghouls. Swiss was stuck up on a platform in the back. Phantom was out in front, free to move around as he wished. The fans should want to film him.

It was adorable really, how the taste of the limelight gets the new Bug all jealous. But Swiss has been with the band long enough to know that everyone has favorites, and no matter what Phantom does, that won’t stop the fans from wanting to film Swiss.

So the little Bug likes attention, huh? Swiss smiles as he shakes his hips in tempo with his tambourine.

He can do that.

He just has to wait for the opportune moment.

Thankfully it comes not long after Swiss makes his plan. Phantom is a younger Ghoul by the rest of the pack’s standards, and his want—no need—for attention is so obvious now that Swiss has keyed into it.

Always talking, asking questions, commenting on anything any other Ghoul or even Papa is doing. Staring with those big round lavender eyes as he asks for cuddles or for someone to help him with something.

So easy. So predictable.

He starts giving the Bug just the lightest bits of attention. Little bits that are sure to leave Phantom wanting more.

Casually asking what book he’s reading from across their respective bunks on the tour bus, watching those lavender eyes glow as Phantom explains the contents of the book Swiss couldn’t care less about. Giving Phantom little bites of his road snacks, something that’s normally off limits to any of the other Ghouls, offered like a secret. A gentle grip to the back of the Quintessence Ghoul’s neck and a soft, “Good job out there,” after a Ritual.

Swiss is a Multi Ghoul after all. He’s good at playing anyone like an instrument.

Swiss is careful not to give too much, just enough to leave the little Bug wanting and nothing more. It’s a delicate balance, almost a fun little game for Swiss to pass the time with. Thinking and planning on what he’s going to do next to make Phantom want his attention more and more.

He knows it’s working by the smell. The desperate little scent that’s downright delicious. The way that Phantom keeps trying to get closer to Swiss, sitting or laying down next to him with as little space between them as possible; trying to twine his tail with Swiss, as if it will change Swiss’ mind when he decides to finally move.

The stupidly cute thing about Phantom is that as much as he loves attention, he doesn’t like to use his words and ask for it. He’s stubborn that way, and Swiss intends to break him.

Finally, the opportunity comes when a hotel is booked after a venue, Copia too goddamn tired to want to even think about getting on the road again until tomorrow, and he passes out hotel keycards with a tired expression, reminding his Ghouls not to stay out too late or cause any irreparable damage.

He’s roomed with Rain, and he notices that Mountain is paired with Phantom.

It all comes together too easily, really. Far easier than it should have, but that just means that his plan has worked.

Half of the pack decides to go out for a few drinks before settling down, the rush of energy from the Ritual still singing in their blood, but Phantom—who normally joins them—claims he has a headache and says he’s going to turn in for the night. Swiss doesn’t believe it for a moment.

It’s as easy as anything to get Mountain to trade key cards with him, especially as he claims he’s going to head back to the hotel early, and wants to check on Phantom.

“Going to finally give him what he’s been asking for?” Mountain asks behind the lip of his beer bottle, and Swiss has to laugh.

“Please, Mount, I don’t kiss and tell,” he teases, slipping the keycard into his pocket.

“That’s a lie,” Mountain comments back, but says nothing else, nodding his head as a goodbye before Swiss turns to leave the bar.

It’s thankfully a short cab ride back to the hotel, and Swiss gives the tired woman at the front desk a tooth full smile as he passes towards the elevator. He wonders if she’ll be the one who will be getting noise complaints later on.

Finally, without much fanfare, he’s right outside the hotel room. Even without being inside, he can just faintly smell desire sharp desire radiating through the door. He stands to enjoy it for one long moment, before slipping the card into the lock.

The click of the door opening makes him smirk, and he can’t help the anticipation. All the work is finally going to pay off.

And oh, pay off it does.

The heady scent hits Swiss the same time the visual does, and he can’t help but moan over a filthy chuckle as he looks at the little Bug, his cock already starting to perk up in his jeans.

Legs bent nearly up to his ears as he desperately tugs at his cock, tail wrapped around his own thigh and moans muffled by cute little fangs digging into his plush lips. The slick sounds of him frantically jacking himself off nearly makes Swiss laugh again, but he simply watches for a long moment, endlessly entertained by the fact that Phantom is so wrapped up in himself, that he hasn’t even heard Swiss yet.

“Headache, huh?” He finally says before closing the door and dropping his human glamour. A fleeting thought crosses his mind about leaving it open, but no, he’s not about to share what he worked so hard for to any human who might walk by.

Phantom’s eyes shoot open, and he gasps sharply before trying to scramble himself together, like he wasn’t just desperately jacking himself off. “Swiss!” He shouts, breathless, pretty doe eyes so wide and already watery.

Oh, Swiss is going to ruin him.

He approaches a few steps, tail swaying like a predator toying his prey but ends up watching the little Bug from the archway into the room proper, crossing his arms and propping himself against the wall, a knowing smirk that he couldn’t stop if he tried stretching his lips.

“Came to check on you, little Bug.....” he says softly. “Seems like you’re feeling better?”

Phantom has a blanket thrown haphazardly thrown over his crotch, and he’s blushing so hard he’s nearly glowing. It’s cute, the little display, and Swiss aches to pull the blanket away, but he refrains, stays in his place and looks.

The Quintessence Ghoul starts to babble, “I—w-well....I was.....you—the Ritual?”

“Pent up?” Swiss supplies with an arch of his brow.

Phantom’s head drops and he looks away, digging a fang into his plush lip again. Swiss wonders if he can make Phantom pierce it hard enough to make it bleed.

“Interesting.....” Swiss says, finally pushing himself off the wall, moving into the room. He stops looking directly at the lithe Ghoul, pretending to contemplate his movements as he reaches the chair in the corner. “And here I was, thinking that you were hurting....”

“I—“ Phantom hesitates, as Swiss pulls the chair to settle it in front of the bed where Phantom sits, still flabbergasted, trying to explain himself.

It’s so cute.

Swiss wants to see him cry.

“But you’re hurting in another way, aren’t you, Bug?” Swiss asks, settling himself down in the chair, feigning nonchalance, inspecting his fingernails as he settles with one knee draped over another. It’s tight against his half hard cock, but he’ll deal with it for the moment.

A whimper is what he gets in return, and another smile stretches its way across the Multi Ghoul’s lips.

So easy.

“It’s a shame you didn’t ask.....” his tone is light, then darkens as he flicks his eyes to Phantom, who’s mouth is dropped open slightly as he stares at Swiss, almost as if he can’t believe that the Multi Ghoul is here. He’s almost surprised that Phantom hasn’t tried to demand that he leave, but the tent in the blanket covering the little Ghoul’s lap tells Swiss everything. “But you don’t like to ask for attention, do you?”

Phantom’s mouth gapes and closes like a goldfish for a few moments, trying to decide what to say, maybe try to defend himself, but Swiss isn’t interested.

He goes in for the kill.

He moves, leaning his elbows onto his knees and staring at Phantom with sharp red eyes. “You like to demand attention, don’t you, little Bug?” He growls. “You like to take it when it doesn’t belong to you....”

Phantom swallows sharply before whining again, working his hands into the blankets, squirming at the intense gaze. “I—“

“Stomping in front of fans when they’re trying to take pictures of me. When they’re trying to film me.” Swiss outright growls, and he doesn’t miss the way Phantom’s covered cock twitches at the words, even as he tries to come up with a silly, stupid excuse that Swiss doesn’t care about.

“I’m sorry Swiss, I just—“

“Well you have my attention now, Bug,” Swiss interrupts, before settling against the back of the chair again, his arms draped over the armrests. “What are you going to do with it?”

Phantom gapes at him again, like he honestly can’t believe what’s happening, before he licks his already slick lips, enough that it makes Swiss groan a little under his breath. Phantom chirps at the sound, and Swiss chuffs lowly back.

“Color, Bug.” Swiss says, and that seems to knock Phantom out of his surprised headspace.

“Green,” he says softly, still kneading nervously at the sheets.

Swiss quirks a brow. “Bug....”

“Green, Sir....” Phantom replies, his lithe little chest huffing with pants.

Eyeing him, Swiss says. “You tell me if that changes.”

“Yes, Sir.” Without any hesitation.

Swiss smiles. “Good boy.”

The whimper he gets in return makes the smile widen.

“Show me, Bug......let me see how desperate I got your cock.”

Phantom whines and scrambles to follow directions, and Swiss relaxes further into the chair, unabashedly reaching to knead at his cock through his jeans. What an easy thing Phantom is.

When said Ghoul pulls the blanket back and reveals his still twitching, wet cock, Swiss licks at his lips before cooing. “Aw, look at that.....so hard aren’t you?”

“So hard, Sir....” Phantom replies, his hands still shaking at his sides. His tail has wrapped around his middle, his torso lithe enough that he can wrap around it almost twice.

Swiss bets he could wrap his hands around it and almost have his fingers touch.

Oh, but what a good boy he is for not touching himself before Swiss says he can. He tells Phantom so, and it gets him a keening little moan.

“Sw-Swiss...”

“I know, Bug,” Swiss can’t help the condescension out of his tone. The wanting, pathetic little whines he’s plucking out of the Quintessence Ghoul are oh so yummy, and he wants to hear more.

“You just can’t help but be a slave to your cock, can you? So brainless and horny aren’t you?”

“Uh-huh,” replies Phantom dumbly after another thick swallow, and Swiss doesn’t reprimand him for the lack of ‘Sir’ due to how blissed out he already looks just by Swiss’ words alone.

So damn easy. What a power trip.

“Why don’t you show me how you were touching that little dick before I caught you?” Swiss says easily, already knowing the Quintessence Ghoul will do just as he asks.

Phantom shudders, but flashes those doe eyes and pouts those plump little lips at him as he shifts back against the pillows and the headboard, throwing his knees up so easily and smoothly it makes Swiss’ cock throb even as phantom mutters, “Not little...”

“Oh?” Swiss archs a brow. “I think it is....bet I could cover the whole thing with just one of my hands....”

And that gets the little Bug to start jerking again, whining and screwing his eyes shut at the slick sounds that start up again so very quickly. Swiss chuckles, and it makes Phantom squirm and moan, his tail shifting to wrap around his own thigh.

Swiss can’t help but be cruel. “Eyes on me, Bug.....you wanted my attention and if you squander it now I’ll fucking get up and leave....”

“No!” Phantom gasps, eyes shooting open. Swiss groans, his cock kicking as the smaller Ghoul opens his legs wider, pulls them back even more so Swiss can really see how he’s stripping his cock, hurtling himself towards an orgasm that the Multi Ghoul isn’t so sure that he wants to happen just yet. He’s practically folded himself in half now, and damn does Swiss want to tease the needy little thing.

“Look at yourself.....look how needy you are and how wet you’re making yourself.....so pathetic....” He sneers. “You could have had my hand or my mouth on your cock if you would have just asked... but now we’re here. Watch as you jerk yourself stupid, Phantom.”

Little Bug follows the order beautifully, tilting his head down to watch himself jerk, taking a moment every few strokes to smear more of the pre-cum that’s blurting out of his slit and smear it down his shaft for a smoother glide, little grunts and moans coming unbidden from his throat, like he can’t even help it.

He’s so pathetic and needy. It’s cute.

Swiss watches, rapt, as Phantom tugs himself closer and closer to orgasm, and when the little Ghoul’s tongue lolls out of his mouth, Swiss finally notices something that he can’t help but voice as his own cock spills pre-cum into his underwear and sends a shiver down his spine.

“Sathanas....looks like you’re flexible enough to suck your own cock if you wanted...”

It was meant to tease, meant to send Phantom closer and closer to the edge he’s so desperately gunning for, but Swiss’ eyes widen, caught off guard for the first time tonight when Phantom shifts, nearly locking his knees behind his ears and leaning down to lick filthy and wet over his cock slit, whining sharply before fluttering his eyes shut and bending himself just that little bit more to take the leaking head of his cock into his mouth.

“Fuck~” Swiss swears sharply, unable to stop himself from kneading hard at his clothed cock as he watches Phantom give himself a firm suck, sure by now that a wet spot is forming on the denim, but he’s not going to take his eyes off of Phantom to check, not in a million years.

The little Ghoul moans at the feeling of his own mouth, and while he doesn’t seem to be able to get more than the head into it, that doesn’t stop him from sucking and licking at it like the worlds most pornographic lollipop, keening and moaning and dripping saliva and pre-cum all over himself. One of his hands still tugs freely at the rest of his cock, and Swiss feels like his head is going to explode.

Fucking hell, the surprises his little Bug has.

As wonderful and mind-numbingly erotic the sight of Phantom desperately sucking at his own cock is, the noises coming out of the Quintessence Ghoul’s mouth are telling, and Swiss still doesn’t want to let him cum just yet, so despite himself, he barks out, “That’s enough, Phantom.”

He groans when Phantom doesn’t stop, too much into himself and his singleminded quest for cumming down his own throat.

But he can’t have that. So Swiss decides to take matters into his own hands. He stands suddenly, and kneels onto the bed, reaching to quickly thread his fingers into Phantom’s soft hair, pulling him back with a sharp movement. He growls at the little Ghoul’s whine at dislodging him so close to his orgasm, but it turns into a cruel smirk as Phantom blinks up at him with oh so wet eyes, lips swollen and face flushed dark from the exertion and pleasure. “Such a dirty little pathetic slut,” he taunts, gripping Phantom’s hair tighter in his fist just to see him wince and hear him whine, the sound high and feminine and absolutely delicious. “When the Hell did I say you could orgasm....?”

It seems to take a few moments for Phantom to register what he’s said, and Swiss revels isn’t he fact that he’s gotten the little Bug so deep so quickly. “B-but....” Phantom’s lip wobbles, and Swiss groans, the tears that have gathered at the edges of Phantom’s eyes finally streaming down his cheeks.

Swiss has a wonderfully terrible idea then, and he smiles, all fang as he reaches into his pocket to pull out his phone.

“Do it again Bug,” he croons, aiming the phone at the little Ghoul. “And I’ll make sure that everyone sees.”

Phantom can’t disobey if he tried.

[roachliquid]

Before I get going into season 3 of Danny Phantom, I feel a need to take the time to enthuse about my all-time favorite antagonist of this series to date. I mean to tell you, this guy dethroned the Box Ghost, and he's still sitting at a solid #2. Though with that being said, it probably won't be too surprising when I tell you who unseated old Boxy, since this dude is so absurdly threatening that so far, he's only been deployed twice.

Yep. I'm talking about the man, the myth, the incredibly attractive legend himself, Freakshow.

Don't try to embarrass me; I've got no pride.

But uh. Moving past my taste in evil would-be clowns, I will admit that Freakshow is a classic example of Danny Phantom's derivativity. Creatively, he's blatantly heavily inspired by other cartoon villains - Jafar and the Joker being the most obvious ones - and visually, he's like if Richard O'Brien decided to work for the circus. Which I'm not remotely complaining about; it's a combination that works very well - it's just, y'know, classic DP creativity.

Anyway, the thing that I find whenever Freakshow shows up is that I am genuinely a little bit scared of him. Not in a "I am no longer aware that I'm watching a silly cartoon for kids" way, necessarily, but in an "oh shit our heroes are in real trouble" kind of way. Which sounds impressive for a guy who has no powers of his own, but... I think that's a big part of why he feels so threatening.

See, while Danny's faced a goodly number of powerful and high-stakes villains, I rarely find myself feeling like he's truly out of his depth. At the end of the day, most of them are ghosts, and he can usually defeat them by doing some kind of ghostly activity, such as shooting them with beams or taking a trip to the Ghost Zone. The few exceptions include Dan Phantom, a guy who could only really be defeated by Danny choosing not to become him, and then this motherfucker.

As I mentioned before, Freakshow is a normal human, a fact that he has a way of using to his advantage. Not because it exempts him from being blasted with beams or anything, but because he isn't constrained by the behavioral patterns or weaknesses of your average ghost. He doesn't have a consistent, unified power set that can be memorized and predicted, nor does he have a convenient Achilles heel sitting somewhere in the Ghost Zone just waiting for some hero to find it. Instead, he exhibits the far more worrying tendency of just having whatever powers he was recently able to get his hands on, and being more than prepared to get his hands on them whenever the opportunity arises.

That's the thing about Freakshow, is that he plans. And not in the grandiose, elaborate habit of Vlad Masters, who puts all his focus on a singular plan at the expense of flexibility. Freakshow's plans are simpler, but generally more effective - he looks out for potential opportunities, and does whatever legwork he can so that by the time one arises, he's ready to seize it and hit the ground running. He is, to put it in a word, adaptable.

And that's genuinely worrying. Because when someone is that flexible, you can never be too sure what they're capable of. Combine that with the absence of conventional ghost weaknesses, and you create a problem that Danny is just... not equipped to solve.

As badass as ghosts can be in Danny Phantom, I treasure those moments that show that they have their own disadvantages. Freakshow is a stellar example of that principle, a guy whose greatest strength - unfortunately unbeknownst to himself - is simply being a human being in a situation where that isn't the norm. Especially to a fourteen-year-old whose biggest non-existential threats are ordinary humans, that's a pretty big deal.

[mac-and-thefox]

Everyone seems to really be going through it this weekend. Here is an offering of fluff 💙 purely self-indulgent sappy love-struck Phantom crushing and pining over Rain because my brain is in chaos and needs some softness 🙃

Cw: fantasizing, hand jobs

Elixir of Life

The woods outside the abbey have always been a special place for Phantom.

When he was new from the Pit, before finding his place in the dynamic of the pack, he would take frequent walks in the woods. He would just wander, marveling at the light filtering through the trees and giving the forest floor an ethereal glow. They didn't have light like this in the Pit, and he'd find himself in awe of all of the simple, natural wonders of the surface world.

What amazed him the most was how there was water everywhere. There was so little water in the Infernal ring he had come from. What little there was to be found was putrid, acidic, and stank of sulfur and brimstone. Although dank and toxic, it was still a precious commodity. Ghouls fought tooth and nail with each other for a handful to drink. He would run his fingertips over the scars etched in his face, through his milky eye that no longer had sight, and shudder at the memories of his siblings growling and maiming for the right to a few drops to quench their thirst.

The water here though, it was safe and cool, it was healing. The water here brought life, and that life was something he could hear, smell and taste all around him as he stepped through the trees on this particular day.

There was no path leading to where he wanted to go. At this point he had come to this place so many times that it was imprinted in his heart.

Phantom moved silently through the trees, having left his shoes at the edge of the wood. He padded over the moss on the ground and ducked under fallen trunks and branches until he came to a clearing.

This was his safe place, a haven for him to go and clear his mind; to escape, not that he didn't love his pack fiercely, but to have a moment away from the mentally exhausting process of learning all the things and customs that came with being on the surface.

This clearing, with its aspen trees, it's small meadow of wildflowers, it's clear, pure stream-fed pool, was a place for him to breathe, and reflect, and read his books.

Here, he would also find Rain.

Phantom had been fascinated by Rain the moment he had stepped out of the summoning circle and set eyes on the water ghoul. Water ghouls were basically non-existant in his circle of Hell. The fact that Rain had elemental power over water, could just summon it and influence it at will, was something Phantom marveled at and still struggled to wrap his mind around.

Rain, with his creamy skin, long graceful limbs, dark soft curls, and eyes so strikingly blue it made Phantom's heart ache to look into them.

The young quint had longed to...just touch Rain, to twine their tails together and run his claws through Rain's hair. To run his thumbs over his soft, perfect skin. While Rain was perfectly friendly and had welcomed him with open arms into the pack, Phantom had simply been too shy and nervous to do anything about it.

So here he sat, knees drawn up to his chest in the soft moss and foliage as he hid behind his book in the shade of a golden aspen. Across the clearing, Rain lounged in the pool, floating on the surface of the water as he watched the clouds track slowly across the sky.

Every so often Phantom would peek over the pages of his novel and watch the water ghoul in his element. Occasionally Rain would raise his head to look over to the young quintessence ghoul watching him and smile to himself as Phantom would notice him looking back and hide back behind his book, pointed ears reddening and scent tinging with shyness and embarrassment.

Phantom yearned to just sit and watch Rain twist and glide through the water like the most graceful, perfect creature of the sea. He longed to run his hands along the colorful, delicate beta fins that came with Rain's unglamored form. He wondered what would happen if he could lightly caress Rain's gills with his fingertips. What Rain's perfect, full lips would look like whispering his name. He let his mind wander as he tried to get his heart rate down from getting caught looking.

In his mind, Phantom could be brave. He could put his book down and cross the clearing to the pool. He could reach down into the pool and cup Rain's beautiful face in his hands before softly pressing their lips together, sighing as he felt Rain's plush mouth give and open for him.

In his mind, he could be brave enough to slip into the pool with Rain and draw the water ghoul into him to straddle his lap while caressing the muscled planes of Rain's back and shoulders. He could run his nose along Rain's throat, leaving soft kisses and licks in his wake as he basked in the scent of water lillies and fresh morning dew. He could feel his quintessence dancing across the water ghoul's skin as he reached out with his magic to elevate what they were both feeling.

Phantom could work up the courage to gently grip Rain's hips and slowly start grinding up into the water ghoul. He could practically hear Rain's soft sighs and whimpers as they pressed close together; hands roaming, touching, caressing. He could feel Rain's hands tracing patterns on his chest before coming up to entangle themselves in Phantom's hair. Maybe Rain would start rutting against his stomach, with kisses becoming more insistent, more filthy as Rain pushed his tongue past Phantom's teeth to caress the quint ghoul's tongue with his, claiming Phantoms mouth and lips like they're Rain's to own.

Maybe Phantom could then draw Rain back in his lap just enough to free his cock from his shorts before pulling him back in to grind their cocks together. He could cup Rain's ass in his hands, kneading the firm muscle as he moved Rain's body against his to find the perfect rhythm and pressure that left them both gasping and moaning into each other's mouths.

In his mind they were sharing breath, riding a high off of each others' scents and arousal as they drove each other closer to coming undone in each others' arms. Hands moving to tweak nipples, tug on hair, rest on throats, caress gills, to take both cocks in hand and jack them off together as they rutted against each other.

Phantom could imagine what it would feel like to see Rain's eyes roll back into his head and whisper Phantom's name against his lips before crying out and cumming between them. Phantom would follow shortly with his own release, his head dropping to Rain's shoulder to bite as he moaned out his ecstasy against the water ghoul's dewey, perfect skin.

In his mind they would rest against each other in the water, exchanging soft words, gentle kisses and touches as they drank in each other's presence in this moment. A second lasting an hour as the two willed to stay suspended in this moment for eternity.

***

Phantom came back into the present and jolted to awareness as he noticed Rain standing over him, a curious and slightly concerned expression on his face. Rain crouched down and cupped Phantom's cheek in his hand.

"Hey Stardust...you back? Where did you float off to?"

Phantom blushed all the way to the tips of his ears as he moved his book to cover the now very obvious boner in his lap.

"Sorry, sorry..it's nothing. I'm fine,"

Rain sat back on his haunches and looked at Phantom for a moment before shrugging and offering his hand.

"Alright, well c'mon then. We should be getting back,"

Phantom took Rain's hand and stood, trying to discreetly adjust his shorts to make the lump in his pants a little less obvious.

They left the clearing and made their way back to the abbey. Phantom trailed slightly behind to watch Rain as he stepped through the trees with the grace and poise of the most elegant deer.

"Yeah," he thought to himself, "maybe one day I'll brave enough."

Water was a special thing indeed.

@jesusbutbetterrr @jimothybarnes @iamthecomet @jazz-bazz @littlemoon-beam @criticaloser @kamonart @sphylor

[saniaeart]

Inked on my back

#SoulmateAU Zosan fanfiction (available on AO3 here)

In a world where almost half the population had a soulmate tattoo, Sanji shouldn't have been surprised to see a mark on every one of his nakamas. The black heart on the back of Luffy's right hand was one of the most discreet tattoos he'd ever seen. He much preferred, however, the delicate blue feather on his beloved Nami's forearm. He had noticed all of this without really broaching the subject. Events with Krieg had not allowed them to dwell on such details... But when he had finally embarked with the little crew of the strawhat... He knew that the marks of their destinies would be evoked. The subject always came up when it was obvious that everyone around the table had a soulmate, somewhere in this world. When the fateful question fell, he'd answered what he'd always believed, despite the phantom sensation between his shoulder blades... "I don't have a soul mate." It was a poor lie, one he'd adopted from an early age... If his mother, such a gentle mother, had taught him with tenderness that the mark that adorned his back was a blessing... His father's words had had far more impact. "No one will ever want you. You're worthless."

"You don't deserve this." No, he probably didn't deserve to live next to his other half. Even if he had to admit bitterly that fate had decided otherwise through no fault of his own. At first, he hadn't really paid attention. He hadn't made the connection... In fact, part of him had sunk into a latent denial that prevented him from realizing what was right under his nose. But one evening, he had to face the facts... The sword had been placed delicately against a wall while its owner sipped a glass of sake. Out of the corner of his eye, Sanji had watched the blade and inhaled with a certain lack of confidence. Unwittingly, he felt his hand reach for the hilt of the sword. His fingers brushed the familiar black patterns on a white background... Heart pounding, he felt a strange wave run through him as his back suddenly itched. The white sword at the center of his shoulder blades was nauseatingly similar. He decided with a wave of his hand that it could only be a coincidence. But that hadn't counted his luck...

A few snacks on a tray after perfect service to his beloved Nami, Sanji had instinctively made his way to the idiot swordsman. Just because he was stupidly insufferable didn't mean he couldn't be fed. What he hadn't counted on, however, was a sight far too upsetting for his taste. Working out in the warm sunshine, Zoro had shamelessly removed his top and lifted his weights, leaving his half-naked body for all to see. While he'd been spared his first thoughts of the all-too-imposing bulging muscles, he couldn't help but notice that terrible spot of color... A saturated, dark blue... A coelacanth sat at the base of Zoro's loins. As rare and unique as the sea... As intriguing as it was frightening. Forgetting to breathe, Sanji seemed to pale for a moment as the marimo's attention turned to him.

"Cook."

His gaze met his rival's, who was breathing softly after an effort. He saw only curiosity mixed with the slightest hint of annoyance until he seemed to notice what Sanji was wearing. The bold man grinned, putting down his weights. He had recognized the particular shape of the onigiris waiting patiently on their tray. Coming to his senses, the chef simply set down the snacks next to the swordsman and left without a word. The doubts he'd managed to bury suddenly rose to the surface and nearly suffocated him. He was no fool... He was carrying Wado on his back... And Zoro was carrying one of the rarest creatures in the oceans...

"All Blue."

Barely whispered, he hadn't recognized his trembling voice as he locked himself in his kitchen to regain control over his train of thought. A scar on the back is a swordsman's shame. How ironic. It had taken the representation of his entire being to betray the swordsman's trust before they'd even met. This mark, this location was proof that he didn't deserve Zoro. That he didn't deserve to exist... He was a mere plague, a stain on the immaculate back of a courageous swordsman, far from a coward. He was neither his equal, nor what that idiot marimo deserved.

Of course, the subject had not failed to come up again for the umpteenth evening over a good meal he'd worked hard to make for all his nakamas.

"That's a funny fish on your back, Zoro," Luffy had said, leaning towards the swarthy swordsman's skin.

"It's true I've never seen such a specimen. It's... peculiar."

Nami's words had caused Zoro to roll his eyes as he sipped his glass of sake. Sanji squinted and smacked his skull to avoid showing disrespect to his princess. Words were exchanged, the tone rising under the general exasperation and laughter of their captain. This had helped change the subject, but Sanji was always short of luck when it came to this sort of thing... And that idiot marimo hadn't missed a beat.

"I don't give a damn about the fish. It's just a silly tattoo."

Sanji's heart had clenched in spite of himself as he inhaled a puff of his cigarette. The rest of the evening had been quiet, and it was back in his kitchen to clean up that he felt himself getting heavier. Zoro was a man of action, a man of proof and determination. He wasn't one to let the world decide for him... So it was obvious that he attached no importance to evidences that a destiny was in reserve for him. He had decided long ago that he would be the best swordsman in the world... Just as Luffy would be king of the pirates. And as surprising as it was, Sanji believed in them. He knew they would become the best... As much as he believed that one day he'd find All Blue. Whether this was naivety or stubbornness, it didn't matter. It was a certainty, that's all. A far more beautiful certainty than the universal offer of a soulmate... At least, he was trying to convince himself.

Hiding his mark wasn't all that complicated for the cook. He wore suits all the time and bathed alone at the end of the day after his kitchen was perfectly tidy. What's more, his nakama didn't seem to question what he'd told them about his lack of a soul mate. No one made the connection for lack of knowledge... Until Robin joined the crew. The woman was beautiful, intelligent. And it was this that failed him for the umpteenth day.

"What a beautiful coelacanth you have there, Zoro-san."

"A beautiful what?"

Sanji had pursed his lips when he heard the young woman's words. In the end, this was hardly surprising, Robin was a great reader and an inexhaustible source of knowledge in her own.

"A coelacanth, a rare fish."

A true living fossil that lived in very few places. Who was the very representation of All blue... That Sanji was the only one to understand... Until now. Robin's intense, unspoken gaze landed on him. A shiver of anxiety ran through his body, but he had, by some miracle, managed not to panic. He trusted the young woman... She would keep silent, no matter what she thought she knew or didn't know. He knew it... He believed it. He hoped so.

It was during yet another quiet, warm evening that Sanji's gaze fell once more on Wado. He had learned her name some time ago, but had never mentioned it or questioned the swordsman. Not for lack of trying. But he'd never had the chance... Or at least, taken it. Tonight was nothing special, but he couldn't help asking in a low, uncertain voice.

"Where did she come from...?"

If Zoro had been surprised by the question, he hadn't let on, simply resting his gaze on the cook. The swordsman remained silent for some time, until Sanji thought he hadn't said the words out loud after all. Zoro was not a talkative man. Least of all about his past... Least of all with himself. Just as he was about to turn away, his stomach twisted with disappointment, the marimo answered softly.

"It was my first soulmate's weapon."

The revelation hit Sanji in the stomach. Zoro had used a term that was far from harmless. He who had been clear up to now, proclaiming that he didn't believe in universal destiny but in his own decisions...

"First...?"

He couldn't help asking, his voice surprisingly calm even though he felt his whole body shaking discreetly.

"Yeah. I know what the tattoo on my back means and the fact that you all believe it, but... Kuina was my soul mate no matter what the world has to say."

"Where is she today ?"

"She's dead."

A new burden weighed down his gut. How could he compete with the memory of a dead woman...? How could he compete with yet another swordswoman who, to be sure, had all the esteem in the world Zoro could muster for anyone...? His face must have betrayed some thought, Zoro sighing as he rolled his eyes.

"I don't need your condolences, I mourned long ago."

But the cook couldn't manage to mourn his ironic fate... And cruel. It was too hard. Beyond the things he, a poor cook, didn't deserve, Zoro deserved so much. He deserved the love and rivalry of a young woman equal to him. He deserved the strength of an adversary as strong and courageous as him... Not a failure like himself. Not a coward who, from their first evidence of curiosity to get to know him better, had lied to his crew... To his nakamas, whom he now loved so dearly.

Thriller bark had been a pure nightmare. He would never forget that vision of horror. Zoro, standing in the middle of that pile of blood...

"Nothing happened", he had said.

Sanji hadn't believed it, but it hadn't mattered. What had terrified him wasn't the marimo's stupid sacrifice per se... No. What he hadn't been able to digest was his own cowardice, which could, after one last heartbeat, have become eternal. If Zoro had died... He would never have been able to rid himself of this latent guilt. Of the morbid silence he always kept about that white blade in his back. If this event had terrified him to the depths of his being, time had relegated it to the rank of a belated nightmare... An unforgettable memory. Everything had been bearable again. Until Kuma. The loss of every nakama had been unbearable. The sudden disappearance. The silence after the impact. Nothing could have prepared him for what fate had reserved for them. A destiny he had never questioned, despite his doubts and fears. A fate he had finally accepted after many long months. If he couldn't let go of his cowardice... He couldn't let go of this all too powerful feeling either. This love for his crew. For Zoro. For their dreams. That he considered himself weak was no longer truly important. What mattered was what the people around him on this particular island could give him. Strength. Technique. And perhaps, a little courage...

"You're not a cowardly man, Sanji. Don't let your demons convince you otherwise."

Ivankov had been a listening ear after he'd abandoned silence. Never had he imposed. Never yet had he reproached him for his actions. But his words, always straightforward, as sharp as the blades of his soul mate, struck him without fail.

"Perhaps there's a world out there where those patches of color embedded in our skin are just images for children. False promises made by a fate-maker with a sick sense of humor. But it's not ours, and you know it."

Yes, he knew. Today even more than yesterday. And tomorrow, probably even more than now. His silence had been a real burden from the start. More than he cared to admit. It had been a personal battle into which he had thrown himself body and soul. Investing his energy in lies, fear and cowardice. Luffy, his Nakamas... let alone his other half, Zoro, didn't deserve his behavior. He knew he was weak, despite Ivankov's indispensable help. Despite Zeff and his benevolence hidden beneath his leg kicks. And if he didn't deserve the love of his crew. From that idiot marimo... They deserved more than his dishonesty. They deserved his dedication, his cooking, his love... They deserved the truth.

"I have a soul mate."

From the corner of his now one and only eye, Zoro gazed at the cook with perplexity. He wasn't going to question his words, understanding the latent lie that had persisted over time. He simply accepted the confession under the starry sky of a calm night and mistakenly thought that would be all. Yet his silence seemed progressively inappropriate. He knew Sanji was romantic. Perhaps he was stupidly insufferable towards women, but he knew how to read beyond that. He wasn't stupid. He knew the cook. He'd learned with time, with virulent exchanges and kicks. He hadn't ignored the insistent glances when he didn't think he was being seen. He'd simply chalked them up to a particular eccentricity. He'd accepted the silences, the strange unspoken words he sometimes couldn't shake off. Zoro wasn't stupid, no. So he understood from Sanji's slumped shoulders and pale gaze that his silence would only hurt.

"Have you met them ?"

"Yes."

The answer came as no surprise, but the tone was far more so. Sanji sounded devastated. Confused. Resigned. It was a mixture of ridiculous feelings that might have annoyed him if he hadn't had so much patience after two years away from his nakamas.

"What's the problem ?"

"I don't think he likes me."

"He ?"

He caught the laughing sigh Sanji let out. There was nothing funny about it though. But he couldn't help it. Sanji was a lady's man. So he had every right to be surprised to discover that the second half the world had decided to give Sanji was a man. Ironic. Even a little cruel. This was why he couldn't stand the idea of destiny itself... He felt trapped and hated having his free will taken away from him. Not to mention the terrible mistake the world had made in giving him a so-called soulmate who wasn't Kuina. He had chosen and preferred to live with the death of one of his halves on his conscience. It was simpler, truer.

"And you, do you love him?"

The obvious question seemed to surprise the cook, who smiled ruefully.

"Yes."

"That's not bad."

For a moment, he thought his answer would make Sanji explode, who suddenly stared at him with annoyance and confusion.

"Not bad ?"

"Yeah. Who can say they don't know how to love, eh ? You love him, that's good. Destiny or not, you feel something and that's all that matters."

This time, the cook seemed bewildered by his words. Perhaps he had been too frank, but if he knew Sanji to be sensitive, he also knew him to be strong and mature enough to bear his answers. This was what he had always appreciated in him. Beyond the nauseating but tender words towards women, beyond the cries against his person, Sanji was a powerful man who could be counted on. In battle and at sea. As cook and rival. He was his equal, his nakama. He loved him, in his own way. All the more reason why he didn't mince his words.

Sanji didn't reply and seemed content to leave the swordsman's living space, shaken. Zoro didn't know if the conversation had ended positively, but he trusted his words. The cook deserved to love far more than he deserved to be loved. The ability to love others was not something trivial. It was something powerful and important. Zoro didn't usually let on, but he considered love a pillar in his life. He had loved Kuina and still did. It was this bond, this deep love, that guided him on his path to excellence. Love was a source of motivation above all sources of worry. Protecting his nakamas didn't require so much effort, because it was now inscribed in him. It was an obviousness that glided over him and enabled him to slice through the air with his blades.

It was what had enabled him to survive Mihawk's training. The distance. While he knew that most of his crew hadn't endured the seperation, he wasn't outdone. Silent nights gazing up at the starry sky, the last thing he shared with his nakamas, had sometimes been hard to bear. He'd been the first to come back to life when he felt Luffy's familiar arms wrap around him in loyal enthusiasm for his captain. He'd been the first to smile defiantly when he saw the cook's indescribable gaze land on him, on his newly scarred body, on his now missing eye. He had seen the pain... Relief in that azure-blue gaze. He'd been proud of it without really paying attention.

But Sanji didn't seem to share his vision of things. His gazes were vague, barely curious, full of desperate melancholy. He'd stopped counting them after a few weeks, but couldn't resign himself to ignoring them. With each passing day, the cook seemed to become an increasingly complex enigma. He found it hard to grasp some of his gestures, which were too disinterested to be real. Some of his looks, some of his words. He didn't know what had prompted Sanji to make this confession about his soulmate. He wouldn't complain, content in the knowledge that the cook had enough confidence in him to confess something that didn't really concern him... But which, somewhere, must have been important to this idiot romantic.

"I have a soul mate and i don't want to talk about it."

Everyone around the table had had a particular reaction to the sudden confession. Luffy had simply stopped eating, with a curious look on his face. Nami raised her eyebrows. Usopp, discreet as ever, found himself with his mouth wide open. Chopper had swallowed his glass of water noisily, then made himself very small. Brook hadn't had a chance to show his emotions through his skeleton, but his head turned entirely towards the cook meant enough. Franky, too, had opened his mouth in surprise, his eyes full of emotion, probably happy and confused for Sanji. Robin had been the only one who hadn't seemed surprised, and this had annoyed him to no end. Had Sanji confided in the woman before him ? Beyond that, why had he, perhaps the only one, been taken into his confidence long before the rest of the crew ? He would have thought that if anyone should have been told, it would have been their captain.

If a multitude of questions hung in the air, Luffy was the one who decided to spare his cook by begging for more food. The rest of the meal was dynamic as usual, thanks to the enthusiasm of their idiot but loyal captain. This left Zoro deep in thought. He hadn't pushed his vague curiosity, but had to admit the absurdity of the situation. Sanji, probably the most ecoeurously romantic man he knew, didn't want to talk about the second half the world had reserved for him. He knew that the cook was in love, and if he knew nothing about the poor chosen one in question, he wondered why Sanji was still lonely. Insufferable as he was, he was still a strong, capable, multi-talented man with, he had to admit, the face of an angel. Even his eyebrows had a certain charm. So, once again, he asked himself... What was the problem ?

That evening, as he gazed out over the calm sea, his hand on Wado's pommel, Zoro felt a strange wave of emotion wash over him... As his back radiated warmth.

Despite all the injuries he'd sustained over time and despite Chopper's intrusive and obligatory good care, Sanji had managed to keep his back a secret until now. No one knew, no one had any real proof beyond improbable suspicions. Obviously, since their return to their boat, since the separation, the bonds between each member of the crew had grown stronger. The slightest injury was painstakingly taken seriously, and the slightest health doubt drove their poor doctor mad. The latter had become intransigent... He exuded a childlike strength that was beyond question. So it came as no surprise that he was the first to discover the white blade embellishing the pallor of his back. The little reindeer had breathed in his surprise and only had to observe the tattoo for a brief moment before raising his emotion-filled gaze to the cook. Sanji had sighed, his gaze tender and sorry. No words had been exchanged, Chopper respecting his wish to remain silent. He had been very grateful... And thought again of his devotion as he grasped that dangerous blade out of the corner of his eye.

Chopper was in danger. He had seen the assailant slice through the air towards his nakama. The latter had no room to maneuver, no instincts to awaken, clueless of the situation. He didn't see the ennemy. He didn't see the look of panic on Sanji's face as he realized the vision of death he was about to witness. Chopper's name escaped his tense lips, his voice breaking in a terrifying echo. He was afraid of not being fast enough. He was afraid of death. Not his own, but that of one of his nakamas. Nakamas he loved. Whom he had a duty to protect. Phantom tears formed at the corners of his eyes as he lunged forward in an uncontrollable rush. He wouldn't make it.

"Sanji!"

The familiar voice rolling around his rarely uttered first name made him shudder with apprehension and satisfaction. A quick glance in the direction of the swordman told him what was about to happen. His body moved instinctively as he caught the glint of Wado reflecting the sky. His hands, immaculate, scarless, rose until he felt an electric shiver run down his fingers. Wado's handle took its place between his hands as his muscles tensed in action. Instinctively, without a thought, Sanji blocked the attacking blade and sent it waltzing back with a distorted metallic sound. A wave of what he thought was adrenalin coursed through his body as his back burned. Wado radiated between his fingers, imposing an invisible pressure that made him take a step back, taking his place... Back to back with his soulmate who had joined him.

His body trembling and his breath short, he felt all the energy of the sword in his hand. Of the heavy significance of this loan... Of the abrupt, indisputable trust that Zoro had shared with him by throwing him the last testimonial of his first soulmate. Of Kuina. Of his dreams.

"You knew..." he said in a trembling voice.

"I hoped."

He hoped..? How could he hope for such a thing? Who was he to deserve such hope? Zoro didn't deserve a failure like him. He didn't deserve to settle for a poor cook like him...! It was ridiculous.

"Show me" he'd told him in a confident voice once the fight was over.

Zoro's gaze, intense and far too calm, pierced him as his body lost all composure. He felt his outstretched arms gradually fall, Wado still in hand. In a slow, timeless gesture, he gradually turned around... Giving his back to Zoro. The swordman accepted the offer without a word, the sound of a blade slicing through the air reaching his ears. With a simple, masterful gesture, he had cut away the shirt that obstructed his view. Soon, the white reflection of his sword of life was offered to him. Wado Ichimonji, enthroned between Sanji's shoulder blades. He wouldn't have believed it if he hadn't felt the call of his best blade. If he hadn't understood the ease with which the cook had held it in his hands. Let her not consider him her only master... She hadn't been mistaken. She'd recognized his other half... His soul mate.

"You didn't say anything."

It wasn't a question, a simple remark without animosity or reproach. Yet Zoro had every reason to be angry with him. He wished he'd yelled at him, that he'd tried to cut off every last strand of his hair... But the swordman was awfully calm, his arms resting on the boat's railing. The day, tiring and too hot for his liking, was gradually cooling off as the sun set. The last rays were reaching them, reflecting nicely on Zoro's golden earrings. They had instinctively found themselves side by side, unable to say a word for many minutes. Sanji was afraid. He didn't dare say anything... Didn't dare imagine anything. After all, he deserved nothing. None of what Zoro's intense gaze forced upon him when it landed on him.

"You already had a soulmate." he murmured.

"You deserved better." he added.

"I couldn't replace her," he admitted.

"Bullshit."

His voice was sharp, his eyes crinkled with displeasure.

"Who are you to decide what I deserve ? Who are you to denigrate my second half soul hm ? Are you an idiot ?"

Sanji was about to retort, confused, but Zoro wouldn't let him.

"I don't know where you're getting all this merit bullshit from, but damn it, cook. Sanji. Of course I deserve you. Of course I hoped. I'm not an idiot and you know it! That fish there. On my back."

"On your back, Zoro. An indelible mark spoiling the immaculateness of your swordman's back. A scar in the back is a swordman sh-"

"This fish is not a scar ! This fucking fish is you !"

"And I'm ruining your back !"

"Of course not! You own it ! You protect it ! With this fish, you're always with me. You have my back, literally ! You're my shadow, you complete me, cook. And not just for this soul-mate thing ! You've been doing it since we met. You've been doing it since the beginning. Without knowing. I can count on you. Everyone can count on you, okay, but me ? Yeah right. It's like you didn't see us fight against our enemies."

Sanji didn't know what to say. Zoro seemed to accept everything with ridiculous lightness. He felt miserable... Far from deserving of this trust, these deliciously painful compliments. Pulling himself up from the railing, the swordman turned to face Sanji, planting his gaze in his own.

"You love me, I know it. You can't fight it. And you won't because if you do, i swear to gods i don't believe in...! I will slice you in half to recover what's mine. You."

Tears rolled silently down his faces as Zoro raised his hands to his cheeks, a serious look on his face.

"I love you, you stupid cook. I will take you as you will take me. Because that's what it is. Destiny or not."

Deserved or not. He will take him. Because if he didn't believe in his luck, in this suddenly radiant destiny... He believed in Zoro. It was far enough. For now.

[bewarethewolfarmy]

Music To Bring Us Together

(This one was on my mind for a while (yes a certain fic of mine has a twin of sorts to this...) sooo yeah it just took a while to write it actually up.

If anyone wants a steamy followup to this particular chapter then say so and maybe i'll gather my spoons Oh and I've decided to call this kind of series The Phantom and his Songbird so enjoy:

A Celebration for Two

Things Better Left Unshared )

If asked separately both Erik's and your answer to what your favorite time of the week was, it would be the same: it was when you had the chance to get away from everything at the opera and had time to go spend the night with the lonely ghost that lived below the operahouse. He lived for those times, unable to stand the fact that he still could not simply always be with his beloved, to hold and shower you in affection and attention constantly, but he had even in small bits learned his lesson from before and he would not dare do anything that could even possibly make him lose you. He would wait, impatiently, and watch and admire you from afar despite wanting to do so far more personally, and when the time came he'd appear and whisk you away and the smile you'd wear on your face would send his heart a flutter to think that there really was someone who enjoyed his company and didn't fear his face. Could he truly believe it? Of course not, he still expected some trick, some lie or deceit of how this was not real, could not be real, and that you truly did fear and hate him for all he was, had done and could be. The gentleness of your tone and kiss to try and reassure him calmed the voices within for a time but never enough; he needed you by his side always and how you wished you could be but you did love the Opera Populaire for what it was and could be, almost as much as you loved it's resident Phantom.

Today was one such day; a break in rehearsals and you slipped away to that small side room, knowing that any second the secret passage would open and Erik would appear. You could always go down yourself, how many times had you walked it to the being able to do so in your sleep if necessary, but you knew how much the man loved to be able to whisk you away and who were you to ruin that for him? The Phantom, still spoken of in terrified whispers and hunted by those who knew and remembered, had so few joys as far as you could tell, things that truly could bring him happiness and peace in his admittedly lonely existence; to take this one away was far too cruel to you and thus you would not. Part of you wished instead that you could do more.

You had only been waiting for a fraction of time when there came the familiar sound of the hidden doorway opening and familiar touch upon your hand. Some days he grabbed you so fast and hard you could practically taste his desperation and need for closeness but this was not one of those days. His touch was light, almost hesitant, and you knew exactly what to do: you smiled and moved your hand to entwine your fingers in his, your tone soft and happy as you spoke, “Erik.”

“Songbird,” he responded and you were pulled close into a tight hug; you were surrounded by the scent of roses and old paper, ivory and water and wood.

And yarn; you could feel a familiar scarf against your face and could not help but smile brighter. Since you'd given it to him for your shared birthday he become stuck between wanting to constantly wear it and treating it like some precious treasure bestowed upon him by a god. Which you supposed made some sense considering his feelings about you. You of course were happiest seeing him wear it, able to see him enjoying your little present and know you had done well in making it for him. It added a little color to his darkness, a light for the man sometimes lost to the shadows but a man who nevertheless you loved dearly.

“Shall we go down to the lair now?” As much as you loved being in his arms, and you truly did, the secrecy of his hideaway under the operahouse gave you both the space and ability to do more than this small room ever could.

The fact you would ask brought a shiver of delight to him and a smile to those ruined lips of his. It was like a puppy being offered a walk in the park by it's master, an apt enough comparison considering how he reacted to you. Luckily you liked that in him, the excitement he seemed to get from the acceptance you gave and the lack of fear you had for him.

He moved with the swiftness and ease of exactly what he was and the two of you were soon off, practically gliding over steps to go down, down, down deep below, into catacombs, into an abyss lit only by candlelight, past traps that were sent not to harm you but to prevent any from following, to an all too familiar lake. You settled into your seat upon the boat and watched him, unable to resist a smile at how he looked as he rowed you both across.

Once, near the beginning of this love you had found yourself in, you had offered to help only to see the strangest look of shock to cross his face. He had refused so verehemently you at first had been hurt before it had come out that rather he couldn't imagine making you do such a thing, that it was in his mind only right he do so for you and that you need only relax. The fact you had been hurt by his refusal even for a second had left him devestated in such a way that required quite a bit of cuddling and hair stroking and reassurance. It was one of those things you found both funny and adorable about Erik: he, the Phantom, terror of the Opera Populaire, murderer and genius, could be so full of confidence and self-importance yet so easily fall to the deeps of despair and terror with the simplicity of love. The complexity of his character was fascinating and endearing, making you unable to tear your eyes away at times when the layers started to show.

The trip across was like that, full of you watching him, adoring his figure as again he looked more the imposing Phantom than the lovesick puppy, though every time he caught you staring with your adoring gaze, his face turned red behind his mask and you only continued to smile knowing it. His eyes would widen, it was hard to miss as someone who so often looked at him, watched him. He brought you to shore without a word though you were sure his mind had a thousand and one things he wished to say to you, sing to you, beg of you.

Erik stepped out first and like the gentleman he really was he offered his hand to help you step out of the boat. This too was something you could do on your own, as easily remembered as every other step of this trip, and again it was something you would never try to take from your phantom. You placed your hand in his and saw him smile so brightly and happily; you stepped off the boat and into his arms once more. Any chance he had he seemed to take in hugging you, holding you, as if afraid that if he didn't keep doing it you might prove to be an illusion, a dream he conjured up from nothing to replace the dark and painful memories of his love for Christine Daae. You of course were indeed real and warm and loved him even knowing what had happened, what he had done. Because behind the rumors and stories and fears, you had found a man who was desperate for love yet never knew how quite to get it or give it healthily.

After he seemed convinced for the moment that you did care and would be going nowhere, Erik led you into the house proper and you sat in the sitting room, watching as he went back to being the adorable Erik that you knew and adored. His fluttering around, muttering about how best to please you, what he would do for you, what kind of food he should make, what kind of music he should play. Part of you was half tempted to tell him to just sit down with you so you could cuddle for a while; he always seemed to like that as did you, though if it went on for too long he would start to cry and weep about how he was not worthy of such softness, of how he was a monster and you were a sweet songbird, that he was something even his own mother could not love so how could you? You did not mind reassuring him of course, it was normal enough for you both at this point and being able to give your sweet traumatized Erik some love and reassurance was something you were happy to be able to do. But tonight, tonight you wished for something different.

You smiled as he made another pass across your path and you spoke up, making sure to be heard, “Erik, I do have a request.”

This immediately stopped him in his tracks and he turned to you, wide eyed, before falling to his knees before you. Requests from you were rather rare; you did not often ask much of him, because he always had hundreds of ideas and plans, because you knew he liked having some control in his life and this was an easy one, because you did not like to impose or possibly trouble him. But he jumped at any request you did make and fumbled to take your hands in his, staring right into your soul it seemed.

“Your Erik is listening, anything my songbird wants, I will give you; just ask and it will be done.” He didn't slip entirely into third person which was a good thing in your book; his emotions sometimes got so overwhelming he couldn't help it and you didn't mind but you didn't want to overwhelm him today.

You squeezed his hands with another smile. “I wish for you to teach me to play something”

He seemed taken aback, blinking a few times and staring at you in confusion. But of course, you were a songbird, a singer, and that was all you truly really ever asked to be; you liked to be part of the choir, to let the music fill your lungs and fill the air. You'd never before expressed an interest in learning more than that but you had listened to him play so many instruments, he loved to show off to you like a peacock shows off it's feathers to a potential mate, and you found yourself curious to try. No, you were more curious to be able to try to play alongside him one day; you may never reach the level of a natural talent like his but you wanted to at least try.

“You...you wish to learn an instrument?” He asked his words slow and measured.

You nodded and he let go of you so quick you felt you might get whiplash. Especially as he quickly ran from the room like his cloak was on fire. The speed with which he moved, grabbing case after case from another room and placing them all on the coffee table before you was honestly both a bit shocking and very amusing. You had a pile of them soon enough, of slightly different sizes and shapes, but you recognized them all as instrument cases; you tried not to giggle or laugh as he continued this until you had so many to choose from it was a bit silly. And finally he stood still, breathing hard and looking at you expectedly, practically bouncing on his heels with excitement and energy.

“Which would you like, songbird? Your Erik can you teach any instrument, Erik is very good at all of them, Erik is a master of them and Erik would love to be able to teach you, just please tell Erik which you want please please please?” Oh no now he was completely into third person.

You stood up and gently took his face in his hands, careful not to upset his mask since it would help him ground a bit better. “Breathe, my angel, please. I already know which instrument I want to play but if you're going to teach me then I need you to breathe and not panic so, alright?”

He whimpered, a good whimper, maybe too good of one; he shuffled on his feet and closed his eyes at your touch before nodding. You would take it and smiled before kissing him lightly upon the lips. It was hard to resist such a good boy.

“Which...which one does...do you want Er...me to teach you?” he asked, trying his hardest to pull himself together, you could see it; he bit his lip and looked at you with such expectation and love it made your heart flutter. How could one man be so precious and so adorable and so dangerous all at once?

You smiled again and pulled away from him, the whine he gave was not a happy one but he did not hold you back; you leaned down to the table and gently pulled from it one case in particular, opening it to reveal a beautifully crafted violin. His eyes widened at your choice and you did not need to ask to know why; you had heard all the stories, all the legends. Knew that Christine Daae's father was a known violinist, that Erik had once used that knowledge and that violin to try to entrance her in the graveyard after the disasters before. And thus there was a shadow that clung to it, so much so that while you knew he had it, you had never heard him play it; you supposed it held too much of a memory of his failures, of his darker side, that he had been too afraid.

You were not though. Gently, reverently, you removed the instrument from it's casing and took up the bow with one hand. It felt cold in your hands and heavier than you expected but you refused to back down now from your choice. You turned your gaze back to him, still smiling, still hopeful as you spoke, “I wish you to teach me this one, Erik.”

“I...” he seemed to be in some shock but at least he stayed in first person; he opened his mouth only to shut it again, emotions running across his face at incredible speeds.

He cleared his throat, tried to collect himself, and attempted to speak again, “Are you sure? There are better ones I can teach you.”

You both knew that was a lie. Few were as beautiful as a violin when played right; only the piano and organ were more precious and close to his soul as that violin. But memories were a terrible thing and there were things Erik still never did that you suspected were from that terrible, terrible experience.

You were resilent though and stubborn, shaking your head. “I really wish to learn the violin, please Erik? I couldn't imagine learning from anyone else, for who else could possibly be as good as you are at playing it. And I have heard such beautiful things when a violin and piano play together by those whose skill are no doubt less than your own and so surely with your instruction...” You were not playing fair with him. He could be fluttery and excitable and oh so absolutely adorable and lovable with you but you knew there was a pride there and a part of him that did wish so terribly to be able to teach you. And here you were, tantalizing him on both regards, drawing on those parts of him in hopes of getting what you wanted. You could see in his expression the fight between doing so, allowing his pride to win out or his fear.

“But,” he said in a voice no louder than a whisper, a fearful small thing and you were reminded how sensitive your phantom truly could be.

It hurt you and you lowered the instrument, approaching him. “Oh Erik, sweet angel, I truly wish to learn but I don't wish to cause you actual distress, I promise.”

He looked up at you and your eyes met; you smiled gently at him, lovingly, and he bit a ruined lip. You wanted this, you truly did and you wanted it to be the violin but if it really was so hard on him to teach you, if pushing it would only hurt him more, you supposed you would need to let it be. Because it wasn't worth harming the man you loved so much.

Finally a sigh left him and he shook his head. “No, my wonderful songbird, I...I will teach you. Your Erik will do anything my songbird wishes of me.”

A smile formed on his face and you felt your heart swell with how cute it made him. Any expression of happiness was always a good one to you and you nodded, kissing his cheek. “Thank you, mon ange.”

Erik's heart fluttered at the kiss and his smile grew before he cleared his throat again. “Now let's see about your stance.”

You did not expect so much touching yet one he took a deep breath to compose himself his hands moved along your body, adjusting it, moving your arm, your head, the instrument so that it was cradled just right, that your fingers were in the right positions. Your skin heated up as he placed his hands on your waist and commanded, not asked, you to play. “A few notes, just to start.”

You did as instructed and only got in a few before he clicked his tongue and stopped you, readjusting you slightly. “No no no, relax, let the music fill you like when you sing. But instead you make the violin sing for you; caress it, feel it, the bow is an extension of your body, not simply a tool. Now again.”

Again you tried and felt his hands on you. They were warm, even through your dress, and your heart pounded hearing his breathing in your ear. You knew you were far from perfect, this being your first time, but it was better than you expected, because he had made sure of it. But it was strange to you; learning was something you had asked for, wanted, and you knew he could be passionate about teaching, something you always had been able to gently dissauage in him when it came to your singing. But perhaps the closeness, the actual physical contact, made this feel all the different, and you couldn't help but think as well how warm his breath was and strong his grip and how you wished to obey that smooth, alluring, commanding voice. So different than your Erik, your sweet and often self conscious angel, your excitable and loveable man, who slipped into third person at the smallest embarrassment or flustering, who smiled so geniunely and clung and loved with such intensity but not like this. His intensity was normally of desperation and love; this was passion of a different nature and it made heat build up within your heart like a fire you were not sure you wished to have extinguished. It felt both wonderous and a bit strange.

He nodded behind you, making pleased noises that only made it worse inside you. “Good good, much better. Though you still are far too tense.”

He placed a hand over yours holding the bow and closed his eyes. “You know how it feels to become one with the music, I know you do, songbird, just translate that to this.”

You certainly tried. You tried to take a deep breath, to forget he was there, that he was touching you, that he was so close. To focus on the notes, the violin, the music; get a feel for each note, what it was like, what it felt like, which was which and how they sounded together and in sequence. But Erik was a horrible distraction and you could not focus with his hands on you.

“Erik,” you muttered and this seemed to be to no avail; perhaps he was too far into his own mind, the Angel of Music he once was creeping out and overtaking.

“Focus, my songbird.” His voice was so exact, how could you possibly disobey?

“Erik,” you repeated and felt your heart ready to pound out of your chest.

“Give into the music.” His grip tightened both over your hand and at your side and you had to work very hard not to shake and play incorrectly. Even with all this you did not want to do that.

He was not listening and you were not sure you could take much more of this. But you being the smart songbird you were, knew of one thing that your angel could never resist no matter what happened, a thing that was guaranteed to break him of anything and return him to his sweet blubbering self.

It took all of your strength to pull it off, gripped as you were by his strong callused hands, but you managed by some miracle to turn enough to press your lips to his. Erik's eyes widened behind his mask and you knew that his whole face was turning red, could feel his hands lighten their grip, his body start to stiffen as it often did when you kissed him only to relax again. And move to grab your arms and pull you ever closer; Erik was a master of music but he was a slave to your love and desperate as always for every bit of it he could get. To be kissed by you was something he seemed always to want more and normally you delighted in giving it to him, everything you could. All the love you could muster for this sweet broken man. But the fire inside you was still burning and the aching that grew from the way he had spoken, the power of the Angel of Music, and there was plenty of desperation of your own as you leaned into the kiss, into him, only to have to break away for the all too human need of air. You both panted and you could see how blown out his pupils seemed to be as he looked at you.

“Songbird,” he said in a low voice.

“No fair,” you muttered in response and bit your lip, “All too unfair.” How did this man, this phantom in the dark, have such power yet seem so delicate and sensitive so much of the time? You did not know the answer to it but you knew it was unfair, that such a beautiful soul had to feel and be trapped by the past, by insecurities, by others.

“What is unfair?” he asked and there was still an edge, a trace of the angel within the man.

“Everything,” you stated and looked back at him, into those eyes that roiled with such emotion and thought, at your Erik, “But especially that you only seem able to have confidence in yourself and your place in the world when it comes to music.”

That seemed to fluster him but you took the opportunity to kiss him again, no little light thing as the flame inside continued to burn. If not for the violin and bow in your hands you would have grabbed hold of him but you did not dare drop the precious instrument, for him and for yourself, thus you could only lean into him and want more while getting only that. You heard him whine behind the kiss but Erik did not resist it and that grip he had on you loosened only so he could wrap his arms around you. How he delighted in holding you, it burned you more because here was his soft side showing again and you felt a tear hit your face. Not your own, his; the kiss broke again and he was looking at you with that sad expression he would get when things started to overwhelm the man, filling him up and demanding to be let out.

“Songbird,” he repeated with the essence of the whine woven in.

“We will have to continue the lesson later.” When you can explain better, when you can tell him gently how much it made your heart race to feel his touch, your skin burn to feel his breath against your neck, your body yearn because of the power of the Angel's voice and the love for the man. But right now you could not, need was too strong and he nodded all too quickly, sidetracked so easily by you.

He let you go long enough for you to be able to put the violin and bow safely away and close the case but not a second longer. His arms wrapped around you again, pulling you close and picked you up, burying his face in your neck. “Your Erik wishes to be loved by you, please.”

“I wish to be loved by you as well, mon ange,” you whispered to him.

That's all you needed to say. The instruments and music were left behind as he carried you off to his room, to make music with you of a different type.

[yona049]

𝕻𝖍𝖆𝖓𝖙𝖔𝖒 𝖔𝖋 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝕺𝖕𝖊𝖗𝖆 𝖝 𝖗𝖊𝖆𝖉𝖊𝖗

Part 4

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(Phantom finally returns!)

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

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Disclaimer!

>Many time skips

>Rushed chapter! (pls let me know if you spot a mistake)

>This has evolved into its own story, if its not something you're interested in, feel free to skip this one and check out some other fics on my page! °v°

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A horrible taste sat in Y/n's mouth as she stared out the window at the setting sun while sitting on the bed. She'd been in thought all day, trying to figure out what to do. She'd loved Aloïs, but this Aloïs was new to her, new personality, new possessions, new life.

She's pulled from her thoughts when a gentle hand rubs her head.

"You haven't touched your dinner, mon chéri."

Erik's adorable nickname flew right over her head.

"Oh! Yes of course."

She takes the plate and spoon from Erik only to fall back into thought after the first bite. Tapping on the plate slowly with the spoon.

Erik chuckles a little before taking her hand holding the spoon.

"Shall I feed you?" he pushes the spoon onto her lip.

Y/n takes the bite delicately with butterflies dancing in her stomach. Finally her thoughts were concentrated on Erik again and she starts eating.

Erik walks back to his bed and sat facing her. With a small wetstone he rhythmically scraped the edges of his dagger.

"I think, I should give Aloïs a chance."

Erik glances up at Y/n with a pause before resuming his sharpening.

"Oh? You didn't look so compliant this morning."

"I know, but if there's any chance My Aloïs is still there, perhaps I should take it. The riches that come after, is simply insurance for us."

"Us?"

Erik questions. Y/n realizes her words and suddenly their situation becomes clearer.

"Of course, I could never dream of abandoning you. You've saved me so many times-.."

"Then why not stay with me!" his interruption seems almost threatening this time. Eyes drilling into Y/n's.

Y/n sets down the plate and walks to Erik. She kneels down infront of him and takes his hands in hers, watching the words in his eyes.

"Erik, If I were to marry Aloïs. We'd be upper class. You could finally have a chance to see her again."

Erik quickly looks away and shakes his head.

"Who are you enquiring about?"

She delicately squeezes his hands, then also looks away, down at his hands.

"You don't have to deny it. I've seen you sing with her. Even if she is far from here, you always look out the windows as if you could see her. The sparkling in your eyes Erik. I... Could never hope to compete."

Erik didn't look back but his heart ached knowing Y/n's words were true to some extent. He still loved Christine even just a little. How could he not? He'd taught her how to find her voice, listened to her prayers night after night.

Y/n stood up and planted a kiss on Erik's head, then pulling him into a hug. His arms curled around her upper legs with his head on her stomach.

Patting his head delicately she smiled at his genuine, loving hug.

"Tomorrow, when Aloïs returns, I'll give him a chance. After that, we will decide what lays ahead."

She walks out of his grasp without another word and pulls the curtains shut. Once she couldn't see Erik anymore, he looked back at her.

A thin curtain keeping their bodies and souls apart, but so did a man and a woman who they both once loved.

Y/n lifts the ring that Aloïs gave her off the bed side table to look at it, quite coincidentally, so too did Erik lift Christine's ring.

○○○○

No sooner did morning come and Y/n found herself face to face with Aloïs outside the tavern.

Him dressed in a new fancy coat while she stood in the same dress she wore yesterday. Erik up in their room but with a keen ear listening to each word.

Y/n lifts her index finger up to Aloïs and stands confidently, chest out and feet steadfast in the ground.

"One outing. One chance to show me you're still the Aloïs I knew and loved."

Aloïs's eyes light up and he is quick to take Y/n's hand and kiss it catching her off gaurd. Not a good start.

"Thank you, chéri! We could go anywhere! Anywhere you'd like!"

Y/n shakes her head and pulls her hand back rubbing it.

"I think it's best if you decide."

"Alright then! Tonight we make for the new Opera house!"

The new Opera house! Where Christine sings? It wouldn't be right towards Erik. In many ways she'd feel like she was betraying him.

Y/n shakes her head trying to quickly object but once again Aloïs's excitement gets the best of him.

"Aloïs! Hold on, we can't! Um... Because, I-I have nothing to wear! "

Aloïs grabs onto the carriage as it starts moving.

"Don't worry! I shall have a dress and other essentials sent here! I will arrive shortly before 6 to pick you up."

Using his feathered hat he waves goodbye to Y/n who is already chewing on her nail with a stiff body.

Erik peaks out the window and watches Y/n rush up the stairs.

○○○

"For the 100th time, Y/n. It's fine!"

Erik stated once again watching Y/n pull the biggest fancy blue dress out of the box it was delivered in.

"Still it doesn't feel right! After what we talked about last night. I should've stopped him sooner!"

With his hands on his hips he watches Y/n struggle with all the fancy things Aloïs sent to her for their date.

"Even if I did object, darling. We can't change it now."

Y/n, trying to pull the large frilly dress off the floor and into her arms, sighs heavily. She peaks through the bundle of a dress in her arms at Erik.

"I am sorry you have to be here alone tonight. Boris was nice enough to give us the night off. Will you be ok?"

She almost stumbles into the closed curtains to get dressed. Small sparkling bits of jewelry were spread out on the bed aswell as make up and fresh shoes.

"I'll be quite fine. I'm no stranger to one night alone. Besides, you should try to enjoy tonight."

Once again Erik watches Y/n's silhouette. She drops the dress she wore onto the floor before crawling her way in though the bottom of the hooped skirt and pushing herself through the arm and head holes.

"I won't be too long hopefully. Still, it will be nice to be back in an Opera house, all be it a completely different one."

She pulls a little and straightens out the dress and puts the shoes on the ground slipping them on. She takes the corset off the bed and pulls it around her torso then pulling the strings as much she could.

"Erik! I might need some help with the corset."

She steps out of the curtains looking down while trying to clip a necklace around the back of her neck.

"Of course I'll-..."

His words drift off once Y/n comes into full view. Her dress a beautiful dark blue with small decorated flakes of gold. A beautiful off shoulder medium length sleeve top with little white frills.

"... Help."

Finishing his sentence with a paced heart and eyes glued to Y/n. She looked so beautiful, it reminded him of all the gowns he'd seen rich woman wear going to see the Opera. A warming nostalgic feeling, mixed with astonished glances to Y/n's clean completion.

He takes a few steps to behind Y/n where he took the strings of the corset and pulled them tight.

Y/n gasped softly once the corset pushed her torso into shape. Erik's hand guide itself over her aside and onto her stomach.

A roaming hand on her stomach going up, Y/n felt the same longing for Erik's touch she'd felt many times before.

"How does it feel? Can you breath?"

Erik whispered to her sending shivers up the back of her neck.

Although she really couldn't breath because of how close Erik was, she nodded.

"Let me help with your hair."

Y/n didn't know how, but Erik seemed to know exactly how to put hair up neat and tidy. This once again brought Erik's past into question. What did he do in the Opera?

Even tho he'd answered the question before, Y/n doubted he helped only moving things around and doing maintenance.

Y/n's hair was freshly washed and dried. She hasn't worn her hair up in a while, she'd always danced with loose hair and gone her days without putting it up.

This means it was the first Erik had seen her like this. Open shoulders and beautiful neckline. He was very unsure why he felt this way for someone other than Christine.

He places a delicate kiss on Y/n's neck, again causing Y/n to gasp at the unexpected moment.

She looks back at Erik connecting with his gaze. A powerful moment from both of them. Y/n wanted to kiss Erik, he wanted exactly the same.

"You're beautiful, Y/n."

He whispers to her.

She smiles a little hearing his little praise and delicately she places her hand on the side of his head.

Nervous but entranced by her, not because she wore a fancy dress or makeup, but because of her smile, because of her lasting laughs and love to all things.

Now more than ever, he needed to decide. Loose one Dimond, or continue chasing another he'd lost sight of long ago.

Within an instant Erik's lips meet hers. Suddenly fireworks spark and all moments they've shared before mix into one. Erik's hand on her stomach push her closer towards him and Y/n grips the back of his hair lightly.

Y/n felt the warmth in his lips, soft hands holding her like he'd never let go. Body language threatening to keep her captured and protected. His forever. She'd felt his embrace so many times before, but this felt warmer than sunshine on her face.

A lasting kiss mixed with uncertainty when the sound of horses come down the street.

Y/n Quickly pulls away putting her hand over her mouth and Erik grits his teeth at the interrupted kiss.

"Erik, I'm sorry, I had no right." Y/n felt the need to apologize.

"Nonsense! This was my decision."

His hands were now shaking, his decision now greatly turned to one side. To Y/n. He wanted to tell her not to go. He wanted to hold her and run to where Aloïs couldn't touch her or even look at her again.

"Y/n-..."

"Stop!" Y/n demanded pulling Erik's hand off her stomach.

"Please don't make this harder than it is! I've tried to ignore it. I'm trying not to be selfish."

She takes a deep shaky breath and rubs her eyes keeping the tears from rushing out.

"I'm trying not to love you, because I know you love her."

With a crumpled bit of her dress squeezed in her fists she clears her throat.

"I'll be back soon, then we can talk!"

She looks up at Erik with glossed eyes then lifts her dress off the ground and running out of the room.

Erik stood frozen, his thoughts rushing with uncertain desire. A longing for another.

Y/n ran downstairs with heavy breathing and tears falling onto the floor but she shook her head and plastered on a smile.

She waved goodbye to Boris who called her pretty girl before she left, giving her a little more reason to smile.

Finally coming out of the tavern. Aloïs is stunned and offers his hand.

"My lady, beautiful as always." Aloïs complimented and placed a small kiss on her hand.

A bouquet of flowers is pulled out of the carriage and given to Y/n. She looked down at the brightly colored flowers and smelled them.

"Their beautiful, Aloïs. Thank you."

Aloïs smiled but stopped for a moment.

"You're not wearing the ring?"

Y/n shakes her head and looks back at the tavern to their room.

"I must have forgotten it."

"Well then! Let's be off, mon amour. The Opera awaits! And perhaps more good news! Christine is preforming tonight. One of the Opera performances you danced for, I think."

Helping Y/n into the carriage, their off into the night air and to the Opera. The Opera house was shining bright in the dimly lit Paris night and was visible even from the tavern.

Erik was still caught in the room, his fists clenched and his jaw locked.

A sudden swing into the wall breaking the wooden plank instantly. Heavy breathing and hair hanging over his eye.

"She is not your mon amour."

His body fuming with anger, feeling once again he was too late! Once again he'd lost to a pretty rich boy. The sunshine when he was the darkness.

He pulled his bloody splintered hand out of the wooden wall still not satisfied. He wanted to bash Aloïs's skull in. He wanted to take Y/n and tell her he loved her, how it took him this long to realize was his own wrong doing.

Her teary and frightened eyes popping into his head. How could someone so beautiful look so sad. Erik felt all the signs flood back from hidden memories.

Y/n's gentle voice helping him stay awake while she carried him after the fire. Her soft hand washing his wound. Her smile not fearing his face. Never once did she shutter away from his touch. All he wanted was to see her smile so happily after a long night's dance.

He made a decision. He wasn't going to let the fool take her, he would take her first.

He once again pushed out the false bottom out of the closet floor to reveal a white mask and black cape along with clothing he wore once before.

He chuckles deeply and pulls the mask onto his face.

"I'll need you once again, old friend. Beware, the Phantom of the Opera."

With a maniacal laughter he swings his cloak on and dissappears into darkness.

○○○

The Opera house burned bright with people and chatter! Golden statues of beautiful men and woman, and a miraculous staircase upon entering.

Y/n felt so out of place when walking on the red carpet. Not even a speck of dust on the polished floors.

Her eyes dazzled with excitement and she'd never felt so far from home.

"Erik! Look at the chandelier!" she pointed with a gloved hand.

Aloïs turns away from his conversation with another older looking noble couple and runs up to her.

"Darling! It's quite beautiful isn't it!"

He quickly puts his arm around her waist and pulls her to his side.

"Don't mind her silly little mind. She gets confused who she's with sometimes."

He explains to the couple. Y/n's mind quickly corrects itself remembering Erik isn't here and her cheeks flush.

Aloïs takes her hand and kisses it before pulling it to his heart.

"My darling Y/n and I are celebrating our engagement! Aren't we?"

Y/n looks at Aloïs confused for a second before the nobel woman claps her hands together happily.

"That's wonderful! I'm happy that the daughter of the famous dancer, will marry my nephew, soon."

Aloïs smiles proudly.

"Yes! Quite a spectacle! Now if you'll excuse us. We have many people to meet."

Aloïs bows his head gently and pulls Y/n towards another couple giving Y/n a chance to plant her feet in the ground and stop.

Her eyes move to Aloïs's with a stern glare.

"Aloïs. We didn't agree to this! We agreed that after I'd make my decision."

Aloïs sighs then nods with a guilty sigh.

"I know, mon amor. But I'm very confident in your answer. As I've said. This is a better life. Besides, I don't want you to rot in that tavern any longer."

His fingertips delicately brush over her cheek and he smiles.

"You're my darling, Y/n. I will keep you safe, till the end of your days until you die comfortably in a silk bed with as many fur children you'd like."

Y/n looks away for a second before thinking of Erik's face, the expression he made every night listening to Christine sing in their cramped little room. She could help him as much as she could help herself.

She looks back up at Aloïs with his glittering outfit and fine polished shoes. Her hand reaches for his bicep and she smiles.

"W-who else do we need to meet? Um.. Darling?"

Aloïs once again smiles with joy and pulls her off to another noble man where she smiles carefully and nods politely.

By the time they arrived in box 5 high above the stage, Y/n was exhausted. She sunk into her seat like a tierd dad after work. She took a breath and quickly straightens herself out to sit straight.

She looks around the box because she'd always wondered why rich nobles found these seats so desirable. She could see the entire stage, tho it was a little far to make out the details.

Aloïs still with heaps of energy flips though the thin paper pamphlet and leans over to Y/n.

"Ah! This opera is the same one that Christine debuted in. I remember her white dress, it took incredibly long to sew all those little white pearls into the dress!"

Y/n smiles and nods.

"I remember, your hands had so many bandaids on for weeks, I was worried about you."

Aloïs puts the pamphlet onto his lap and lifts Y/n's hand to place a small kiss on her knuckles.

"I remember the small cuts, but I remember how you kissed each finger and held me so gently when we fell asleep. "

His thumb traces over her fingers as he stares at them thinking.

"One day, I will create a white dress for you too, mi amor."

For a very small moment, Y/n felt her heart spark. Her Aloïs was starting to shine though again.

Aloïs pulls his hand back and the light dims.

Suddenly a spotlight on stage and the play begins. Dancers fill the stage and Y/n couldn't help her excitement. She clapped watching a dance she knew off by heart. Her feet started bouncing with her urge to dance.

Aloïs smiled and placed a small kiss on her cheek then whispered into her ear.

"Your passion burns bright and beautiful, Y/n."

Another spark made Y/n giggle genuinely before she looks back at the stage.

The orchestra starts with a sudden blast of music filling the large Opera house. Up close and personal she could hear a voice start off with a strong note.

The spotlight shifts, and there she was. The famous and beautiful, Christine Daaé. Y/n's friend and inspiration to dance.

Her toes point on instinct in the very uncomfortable shoes which reminded her not to act like a child.

She presses her lips together and dims down her excitement to a gentle foot tap.

She watches the opening Opera sequence and soon the play has begun. Actors singing out their lines and an occasional cheers from the crowd.

Y/n took full advantage of moments of cheers to yell her support, knowing all the effort that goes into each play. The preparation and weeks of rehearsals.

Nearing the end of the play Y/n is fully distracted by the singing beauty, she didn't notice the quietly approaching figure behind her. A hand slowly reaching for her shoulder and suddenly grabbing it.

Y/n jumps suddenly and turns to look. An old noblmen with wine in his hand and quite drunk.

The noblmen slurs as he asks.

"Has the play started yet, Aloïs?"

Aloïs takes the mans hand off her shoulder quickly and pulls him towards him.

"Monsieur Du Beu, you're in the wrong box I'm afraid."

Y/n shakes her head and tries to focus on the Opera. After some time, Aloïs and the noblmen were still talking about business? Or something. Y/n tried to ignore it, but the chatter was too loud.

She bit her lip before deciding to slip out and closer to the stage.

"I'm going to get some fresh air." she whispers and Aloïs nods back acknowledging.

She lifts her big dress and hurries down the corridor towards the stage. The rooms were dark and very dimly lit until she saw a bright little room, calling her towards it.

She smiles once entering seeing a dressing room with many little bits of dresses and costumes.

She spots one in particular hung over a chair in the middle of the room, from the play being performed right now and smiles to herself.

She lifts the dancing dress and presses it against her body measuring.

"Perhaps they wouldn't mind if I borrowed this? Only for this dance number. No one will see me! "

She convinced herself in her excitement to dance formally again.

She quickly dresses in the dress and pulls on some dancing shoes she found with the dress. Wierd how it fit so perfectly?

She taps her toes on the ground to nuzzle her feet into each cranny comfortably.

Sneaking back out into the corridor she looks for an open space where she could preform the next dance number coming up.

It was a dance that required a partner and usually, it was only one duo dancing on center stage. No background dancers. Only the singer in the front corner.

Finally in the darkness she sees a large open room, incredibly dark but she could dance the routine there.

She smiled taking her place in the middle of the room lifting her arms and waiting for the music to echo from the stage. Something felt too perfect about this. And it turns out, she was quite right.

Suddenly, the lights go on and the curtains whoosh open to reveal the entire audience infront of her. Somehow she'd wandered right onto stage, into some kind of trap? Now she needed to preform the dance for real.

Y/n stood frozen in place, both from shock and terror from how she'd gotten herself into this mess.

The dance partner walks behind bed and moves his hand around her waist ready to start the choreography. A dance partner she had no practice time with whatsoever.

She looked up at Aloïs who looked back. He was confused, he couldn't tell if Y/n stood on stage because it was too far. So he kept watching.

The music starts and Christine is stood in the front corner, singing her musical number. Each step Y/n takes is on fire, with fear that someone would realize she's not the right dancer.

As she and this stranger dances together, she hears a deep chuckle.

"So stiff? Wondering how you possibly wandered onto stage?"

Y/n's head turns to look at the partner she'd gotten and once again she's shot with another surprise.

A white mask she'd never seen up close. But everyone knows of after the fire. The man who kidnapped Christine and set the flames ablaze.

The Phantom of the Opera was now lifting her into the air and following each step of the dance precisely.

His mask was so well blended with the costumes actors wore. No audience member would feel the need to be alert.

White mask and black sleek back hair, a thick coat and formal wear only a nobleman would wear. Y/n couldn't be sure, but she knew to some extent, it must be the Phantom.

"Phantom.."

She questioned in a whisper.

"So you do recognize me."

He confirms her suspicious and spins her round.

She stops spinning and only takes small steps on her toes. Her shock turns to anger.

"You criminal! Monster! Murderer!"

She growls and felt the need to pull away and run! But the Phantom grabs her hands and pulls her back into his chest as the dance routine commanded.

"Now, now my dear. You wouldn't want to alert anyone that you're not where you're supposed to be."

She looks at the audience and then at Aloïs before pressing her lips together into a smile.

"Are you trying to get to Christine again! Well there she is! Go get her!"

Y/n taunts with an angry glare.

She steps back throwing her body back into a dip, trusting the Phantoms arm around her wist to catch and pull her back to her feet. Following each dance step to a T.

"I'm not here for Christine."

On beat he takes her chin and moves it to look at him.

"I'm here for you."

His words deep and mysterious, but somehow Y/n believed every part of it.

She felt her body shake in fear. Her mind spun back to the fire that burnt her lover. Almost killed her and killed so many others that she loved. Her home burnt to ashes, causing so much pain for her to start over.

She took this oppertunity to push herself out of phantoms arms and run to the front of the stage.

"Aloïs-.."

She screamed, but she's quickly pulled back into Phantom's arms. His black gloved hand covering her mouth and nose restricting her breathing. He pulled her to the back of the stage.

Aloïs finally caught on and jumped to his feet.

"It's the Phantom of the Opera!"

His voice loud enough to echo through the quiet opera house. The music brought to a sudden halt and Christine stopped singing. Everyone starts to panic and rush to the exit.

Y/n still kicking and trying to pull Phantom's hand off her mouth, felt her vision blur and her body slowly goes limp. Knowing Y/n couldn't run, Phantom pulls Y/n against him holding her securely.

He smirks suddenly wrapping Y/n in his cloak and grabbing hold of a roap that hung at the back of the stage. Precisely placed and planned.

With a zip of a mechanism, Y/n and Phantom are pulled through the air and out of sight.

"NO! Y/N!"

Aloïs yells and suddenly runs out of the box throwing off his coat.

He rushes towards the stage with some guards following closely behind. With a slide and a turn he enters the costume room where he spotted the, big puffy blue dress Y/n wore, on the ground.

Ontop of her dress was a note and a white rose with a black bow tied around the stem.

Aloïs takes the note that read 'I remembered her. Now she is here with me, I've decided.'

Aloïs growls and crumpled the note in his hand. He turns to the soldiers and yells.

"Search the Opera house basement! Search the tavern! FIND HER! Find Y/N!"

[n3ptoonz]

'All Aboard'

Pairing: Ghost team/GN!Reader

Fandom: Call of Duty Modern Warfare II (2022)

Warnings/tags: Smut!! Explicit! Gangbang, rough, fluff elements, body worship, double penetration, spitroasting, praise, aftercare, oral, gender neutral reader, not proofread

Word count: 926

For the next few posts I'm most likely gonna be reposting my old works on here just for some traction, those dialogues will be here soon i promise <3

Explicit content under the cut

To say they took turns is a complete and utter understatement. Putting well oiled machines to shame with how much they gave you. Every time you closed your eyes you saw flashes of how it all lead to that one moment. The contrast between just laughing and cracking jokes at the local bar to you being bent over the small conference table in front of six men. For six men.

You laid in your bed still aching from last night. But it was the good kind of ache. Any slight move reminded of you exactly why it felt sore in that area. If it was your hips, it's because Alejandro got a little too excited and gripped them quite hard. His hands were a hot mix of soft and rough, just like him. If it was your arms, it's because Soap took the liberty of holding one of them back while he plowed into you. Cursing up a storm in that thick Scottish accent.

He even got a little cocky when reminding you who was behind when you leaned forward to take more of Ghost in your mouth, but he pulled you back just a little to get deeper. Gaining satisfaction from your muffled cry being drowned out by his 6'4 best friend.

When Alejandro had his turn, Gaz was the one in the front. So when you feel that dried tear stain on the side of your face, you get flashes of his facial expression softening when he sees you thoroughly enjoying yourself sucking him off with tears threatening to fall again. All because of him.

When you lay your arm on your torso, you remember, hell almost feel the phantom shapes of each other them faintly poking the inside of your stomach. You dragged your fingers over the marks on inner your thighs. Nothing like ending the night with the best head of your life from Rodolfo while your own Captain praises you for how well you've done. How gorgeous you looked every time you released. How good you look taking as much as you did. He claims you looked damn tough while doing so, but in reality he was just enjoying the show. Rubbing one out to the scene of the Ghost Team Eiffel towering you over and over again.

You could still get the feeling of them unloading in you and watching it drip out in pride. Every damn time. Soap and Alejandro each wasted no time dragging their fingers along wherever it spilled and tasting a mix of you both. Humming and smiling in pure bliss. It just "simply doesn't get better than this".

You sit up and press your legs together, closing your eyes once again slowly, remembering the soft kisses Rudy placed on your back before he helped you up and stretch a little before he laid you down on your back and went to town. His hands deliciously filling with your thighs as they caged his head in place, much to his own happiness. Once he was finished you were shaking and he just couldn't stop worshiping your body. Decorating your thighs and torso with hickeys and love bites--so that's where those bites came from...

He kissed up your body as the rest of the team cheered him on for making that the perfect finale to this. As soon as he got to your face, covered in sweat and shining from the afterglow, he spoke to you sweetly in Spanish. He caressed your cheeks and told you how perfect you were.

You look down at the discarded army pants on the floor. This made you recall the aftercare they all pitched in for. Rudy helped you up and let you put your tired weight on him as Soap cleaned you up. Wiping down your legs before kissing the back of your thighs. As he left to go put that in the trash, Ghost helped you put your pants and shoes back on. He stood up and pressed himself against your back to buckle your belt to the appropriate tightness, he remembered the exact amount of holes to where your pants would be snug but you never found that out.

Alejandro sat you in his lap, massaging your jaw as Gaz brought water to you and Price brought a cold towel for your neck since it was still hot compared to the rest of your body. They all stayed around you to make sure you weren't hurt anywhere from the manhandling. Getting you to talk and be yourself like you didn't just get tossed around like a rag doll.

You still don't know who carried you back to your room since you likely fell asleep in Alejandro's strong and safe grasp. All you can recall is being engulfed in a delirious state from how you were giggling at everything for no reason and immediately knocking out once your head found a shoulder.

Do you remember how you got to this point? At all? Of course not. But you knew these guys had your back, literally, and they'd do anything for you. It was like a silent agreement that this experience was for y'all and y'all only. There wasn't one individual in that room that would casually do something of the sort with anybody. Was it heat of the moment? The alcohol? Who the hell knows? Who the hell cares?

All you know is you definitely wouldn't mind catching a ride on the Ghost Team express again. I mean shit, you've got an unlimited tickets and passes.

All Aboard!

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

a/n: on ao3 i've gotten comments asking for a part two, if i get back into cod when mw3 comes out ill consider it! i've been thinking about it for a while 🤔

[dross-the-fish]

Phantom Ramble

I think one of the reasons I'm personally so resistant to viewing Erik and Christine's relationship as a romantic one is due to the fact that for most of the book I don't fully trust Erik as a character and I can't imagine Christine does either. Erik has a pattern of creating himself, whether it's the phantom of the opera, the angel of music, or even "Erik" we never really find out who he is. He says he wants to be loved for himself but he never is himself. He keeps himself hidden out of fear of rejection. Not just on a physical level but on an emotional one as well.

The name he gives Christine "Erik" is a name he came upon "By accident" and I've seen some people mention that in earlier versions of the story, like the original newspaper in which it was serialized, Christine stated that Erik picked that name because it's Scandinavian and he was hoping to use it to get closer to her, which is definitely a thing he would do and if not for the fact that the Daroga also knew him as Erik in Persia I would agree that's the most likely explanation.

I've always felt strongly that Erik cannot be taken at his word. He strikes me as the type to say anything he has to say to get what he wants and he has grown so accustomed to wearing masks that he is unable to take them off. Even when he's physically unmasked he still can't bring himself to reveal who he really is. Perhaps because he doesn't really know anymore, he has become his masks. His deformity made it necessary to hide from the world and every angel, phantom, friend, teacher or father figure he became feels like had to be meticulously created so he could slip on the role and play the part convincingly enough to fool those around him. This includes Christine. I think he was hoping that Christine would be the one who could see past the performances and I don't think she's able to for the majority of the book. Even when she's fascinated by him or feels pity she never comes across as someone who really KNOWS him. That's not her fault he has, intentionally and unintentionally, made himself unknowable.

Even the Daroga doesn't really know Erik, he has more insight than most people but Erik is as much a mystery to him as to anyone else.

Erik's world is the theater and he is a perpetual actor in his own narrative. It's instinct for him to simply become whatever he needs to be to frighten people away or draw them closer and I don't think he knows how to stop doing that anymore. He's so distant from himself that views his real self as dead, the real him is nothing but a corpse.

I think that's also what makes the ending, the final unmasking so poignant to me because that's the moment when Erik, the living person, not the character, is seen for the first time. It's the mask coming off for real at last.

"I tore off my mask so as not to lose one of her tears… and she did not run away!…and she did not die!… She remained alive, weeping over me, weeping with me. We cried together! I have tasted all the happiness the world can offer"

What Christine offers him in this moment isn't what I interpret as romantic love it's acceptance, it's compassion, it's seeing him and understanding him. She gives him this when he least deserves it and I feel like this is what makes Erik's redemption meaningful. That his humanity is acknowledge in his darkest moment by the person he's hurt the most. That he is shown that much grace and kindness and that he lets her go without getting the romantic fulfillment he was trying to coerce from her will always be infinitely more touching to me than seeing them in a successful romantic relationship.

I think I also just get tired of seeing romantic love touted as some be-all-end-all redemptive healing force and the thing that could "fix" this character and give him a happy ending.

Again, not saying people can't or shouldn't write their fluffy comfortable or their dark twisted Eristine fics, by all means, have fun and enjoy what you do, but I feel like there's very little appreciation for the redemptive arc in the book that isn't viewed through a romantic lens.

[azsazz]

Bloody Knuckles and the Songs of Death (Part 4)

Azriel x Reader

Summary: Reader is everything that Azriel is not. Opposite feelings but equal death in the end.

AKA: Half a rewrite of chapters 43-47 of ACOWAR where reader is now there as part of the Autumn Court, excited to meet Azriel. The other half are my own ideas.

Warnings: Major themes of death, ACOWAR spoilers, blood, gore, mentions of abuse, smut.

Word Count: 1,621

(Part One) (Part Two) (Part 3)

_________________________________________

Beron shields barely fast enough to block Feyre, but the wake singes Eris’ arm–right through the thick, emerald cloth. And the pale, lovely arm of Amaretto.

The others shout, shooting to their feet, but Feyre isn’t stopping yet. Her point hasn’t been made, and her wild gray eyes are consumed by the inferno she’s wielding at the flame master himself.

She stands, instead sending a wave of water from the reflection pool to encircle Beron and his chair. A bubble without air.

Flame pounds against it, turning water to steam, but she pushes harder.

She looks like she might kill him, and although you’re slightly disappointed it’s not the shadowsinger to take his life, you’re very happy at the sight before you.

Beron’s flame barrier slams into her water one, hard enough that ripples begin to form, steam hissing amongst them.

She bares her teeth and sends a fist of white light punching into that fiery shield–the white light of Day. Spell-breaker. Ward-cleaver.

Beron’s eyes widen as his shields begin to fray. As that water pushes in.

You shift onto the edge of your seat, eager eyes unable to look away. The taste of his panic is sweet on your tongue.

Rhysand stands before her, capturing her face in his soft hands. “You’ve proved your point, my love,” he says to her. “Kill him, and horrible Eris will take his place.”

She doesn’t say anything aloud but he answers her as if she had. 

“As interesting an experiment as that might be,” Rhys croons, “It would only complicate the matters at hand.”

It’s silent for a long few heartbeats. 

And then she lets go of her magic.

Beron’s flames explode like an unfurling flower–and bounce harmlessly off of the shield Rhys had thrown around them.

Not to shield against Beron.

The other High Lords are now on their feet.

“That was how you got through my wards,” Tarquin murmurs.

Beron’s panting so hard he looks like he might spew lava. His heated gaze turns on you in a silent command to kill them all, right here and now, but you’re too busy watching what the others are saying.

Helion rubs his jaw as he sits down once more. “I wondered where it went–that little bit. So small–like a fish missing a single scale. But I still felt whenever something brushed against that empty spot.” A smirk at Rhys. “No wonder you made her High Lady.”

“I made her High Lady,” Rhys says simply, lowering his hands from Feyre’s face but not leaving her side, “Because I love her. Her power was the last thing I considered.”

Helion asks Tamlin, “You knew of her powers?”

Tamlin only watches Feyre and Rhys, his declaration hanging between them. “It was none of your business,” is all Tamlin says to Helion. To everyone.

“The power belongs to us. I think it is,” Beron seethes.

Mor levels a look at Beron that would send lesser males running.

The Lady of Autumn is clutching her arm, angry red splattered along her moon-white skin. No glimmer of pain on that face, though. Feyre says as she reclaims her seat, “I’m sorry.”

Amarettos eyes lift towards her gray ones, round as saucers.

Beron spits, “Don’t talk to her, you human filth.”

Rhys shatters through Beron’s shield, his fire, his defenses.

Shatters through them like a stone hurled into a window, and slams his dark power into Beron so hard he rocks back in his seat. Then that seat disintegrates into black, sparkling dust beneath him.

Leaving Beron to fall on his ass.

You truly do like the Night Court.

Glittering ebony dust drifts away on a phantom wind, staining Beron’s crimson jacket, clinging like clumps of ash to his brown hair.

“Don’t ever,” Rhys says, hands sliding into his pockets, “speak to my mate like that again.”

Beron shoots to his feet, not bothering to brush off the dust, and declares to no one in particular, “This meeting is over. I hope Hybern butchers you all.”

But Nesta rises from her chair. “This meeting is not over.”

Even Beron pauses at her tone. Eris sizes up the space between Nesta Archeron and his father.

She stands tall, a pillar of steel. “You are all there is,” she says to Beron, to all of us. “You are all that there is between Hybern and the end of everything that is good and decent.” She settles her stare on the High Lord of Autumn, unflinching and fierce. “You fought against Hybern in the last war. Why do you refuse to do so now?”

Beron does not deign to answer. But he does not leave. Eris subtly motions his brothers to sit.

Nesta marks his gesture–hesitating. As if realizing she indeed holds their complete attention. That every word matters. “You may hate us. I don’t care if you do. But I do care if you let innocents suffer and die. At least stand for them. Your people. For Hybern will make an example of them. Of all of us.”

“And you know this how?” Beron sneers.

“I went into the Cauldron,” Nesta says flatly. “It showed me his heart. He will bring down the wall, and butcher those on either side of it.”

Truth or lie, you can’t tell. Nesta’s face reveals nothing. And no one dares to contradict her.

She looks to Kallias and Viviane. “I am sorry for the loss of those children. The loss of one is abhorrent.” She shakes her head. “But beneath the wall, I witness children–entire families–starve to death.” She jerks her chin at her sister. “Were it not for my sister…I would be among them.”

“Too long,” she continues. “For too long have humans beneath the wall suffered and died while you in Prythian thrived. Not during that–queen’s reign.” She recoils, as if hating to even speak Amarantha’s name. “But long before. If you fight for anything–fight now, to protect those you forgot. Let them know they’re not forgotten. Just this once.”

Thesean clears his throat. “While a noble statement, the details of the Treaty did not demand we provide for our human neighbors. They were to be left alone. So we obeyed.”

Nesta remains standing. “The past is the past. What I care about is the road ahead. What I care about is making sure no children–Fae or human–are harmed. You have been entrusted with protecting this land.” She scans the faces around her. “How can you not fight for it?”

She looks to Beron and his family as she finishes. Only the Lady and Eris seem to be considering–impressed, even, by the strange, simmering woman before them.

Beron only says, “I shall consider it.” A look at his wife and sons, and they vanish, leaving you and Eris in their wake. 

Eris is the last to winnow, something conflicting dancing over his face, as if this was not the outcome he’d planned for. Expected.

The look he gives you is an order. One that has your stomach twisting with both excitement and nerves. He knows that he himself cannot stay here, not while Beron is beyond himself with anger, so he’s telling you to stay, to talk to the Night Court for him.

You nod, and he disappears.

Kallias asks Feyre quietly, “Did you master the ice?” 

She gives him a shallow nod in return. “All of it.”

Kallias scrubs at his face as Viviane sets a hand on his arm. “Does it make a difference, Kal?”

“I don’t know,” he admits.

But Tarquin says, “You saved us Under the Mountain. Losing a kernel of power seems a worthy payment.”

“It seems she took far more than that,” Helion argues, “If she could be within seconds of drowning Beron despite the wards.” 

Helion’s power, warm and clear, brushes against their shield, trawling through the air between everyone. As if testing for a tether.

Thesean declares, “What’s done is done. Short of killing her,”–Rhys’s power roils through the room at the words–“There is nothing we can do.”

Feyre stands, staring Thesean in the eye. Then Helion. Tarquin. Kallias. Even you, the representative for Autumn, exactly as Nesta had done. “I did not take your power. You gave it to me, along with the gift of my immortal life. I am grateful for both. But they are mine now. And I will do with them what I will.”

Her courtiers have risen behind her, now in rank, Nesta at her left. Rhys steps up to her right, but doesn’t touch her. He lets her stand on her own like Eris is letting you, to stare everyone down.

She says quietly, but not weakly, “I will use these powers–my powers–to smash Hybern to bits. I will burn them, drown them, and freeze them. I will use these powers to heal the injured. To shatter through Hybern’s wards. I have done so already, and I will do so again. And if you think that my possession of a kernel of your magic is your biggest problem, then your priorities are severely out of order.”

The High Lords and their retinues say nothing.

But Viviane nods, chin high, and rises. “I will fight with you.”

Cressida stands a heartbeat later. “As will I.”

Both of them look to the males in their court.

Tarquin and Kallias rise.

Then Helion, smirking at Feyre and Rhys.

And finally Thesean–Thesean and Tamlin, who did not so much a breathe in her direction, had barely moved or spoken these past few moments.

All eyes turn toward you. You cannot speak for the High Lord that you serve, but you can for yourself. For yourself and for Eris, you stand, and nod, pledging your allegiance.

“I will also fight with you.”

[chickenparm]

crylouder.png

here's some scaramouche/wanderer beating off to the thought of the reader after being too much of a pussy to act on his feelings for the 10,000th time. it's meant to be gender neutral, but i've heard my GN stuff leans toward feminine still. either way, no pronouns, no descriptions.

Next time, he promises himself. He won’t hesitate again. It doesn’t make him feel any better, considering it’s become a mantra at this point to self-soothe in such an inadequate way. 

Maybe it’ll be different. He won’t hesitate when it counts. That’s a lie, as well.

AO3 LINK

Scaramouche/Reader 1,193 Words - NSFW Male Masturbation, Pining, Finger-Sucking

Centuries of life, uncountable missteps, mistakes incomprehensible. A lifetime of follies, yet he never felt as foolish as he does right now.

His greatest mistake hangs over his shoulders like a thick smoke, settling into his bare skin and staining it with the markings of one who failed. It would have been so easy to do, had he simply just turned his head a little to the side and done what his body had been yearning to do. 

As a result of his… inhumanity, he’s always run a little cold. It never bothered him before, the temperature was a non-issue. But as he palms himself callously, then switches to a softer touch as his fingers wrap around the base of his cock, he yearns for a touch that’s a little warmer, a little softer, a little more human. 

He yearns for you. 

It’s a novel feeling. Sure, he’s wanted things before in his life. In fact, he’s been pretty selfish for the vast majority of it. And even acknowledging that fact, he doesn’t even feel bad about it. If given any chance, he’ll continue to be that way because the only person he really can count on is himself. 

And you. That’s a bit of an afterthought, but no less important. In the time he’s been at your side, you’ve proven over and over again that in a small way, his thought process was slightly flawed. Deeply, he wants to deny the feeling of stability you provide, but there’s no shaking it when you’d taken the hand he offered without hesitation, letting him first lift you with his vision, then let you climb on his back with only a little complaint. 

Then your chin landed on his shoulder, the quiet sounds of your laughter curling around the shell of his ear until goosebumps raised along his skin. In the sliver of skin between his undershirt and kimono, your cheek pressed against it as you marveled at the sight he’d seen fit to show you. 

In this moment, he can’t even remember how it looked. All he can focus on is the way you’d smelled, the feel of your arms looping beneath his in an attempt to stabilize yourself as the two of you remained aloft. The phantom feel of your palms along his chest as you’d clung to him with giddiness stemming from your excitement. 

All he’d needed to do was turn his head. Just a short distance and he could have kissed you. Perhaps you would have reciprocated in all the ways he found himself desperate for, the languid pace of his strokes stuttering at the mere thought of feeling your affection. Even the imagined taste of it on his tongue was enough to make his skin warm, his palms grow clammy, his eyes snap shut in an effort to chase it greedily. 

He’s felt your hands before. When you unnecessarily wrap a wound that’s likely to heal within hours, when you grab his wrist and pull him along in an unexpected direction. It’s soft aside from the few calluses on your fingers from your swordsmanship, but he’s certain they’d feel like heaven if you were to replace his hands on himself with your own. One on his arousal, the other flat across his chest where his heart would be racing if he’d been seen fit to own one. 

A scary little thought crosses his mind that he does have a heart now. It exists out of his body, occupying his thoughts even in his most vulnerable moments. With small smiles and words of encouragement, a patience that extends beyond the boundaries that his abrasiveness tends to push at. Even when he knows he’s crossed a line, you only sigh and graciously look the other way until he can compose himself. 

Composure is lost now, left at the wayside in favor of his grip tightening and his hand traveling up his chest, his collarbones, his neck, to his mouth where his own fingers push down on his tongue. It’s easy enough to pretend that they’re yours when he tries hard enough, his thoughts muddled by the imagery of you exploring every inch of him with unbridled fascination. 

His tongue matches the pace of his strokes, pushing and pulling along the length of his fingers with too much fervor to be anywhere near healthy. At his tongue pushing at the webbing between his middle and index finger, the tips pushing dangerously close to the back of his throat, he groans a muffled mockery of your name. 

What he wouldn’t give to see the look in your eye as he did everything you wanted. There’s nothing you could name that he’d fall short of doing for you, so long as you gave him that little smile that made every atom of his body hum with satisfaction. And while he’d be doing it for you, he’d proudly proclaim he was doing it for himself - because your satisfaction is his own, he’s come to realize with startling clarity. 

The fingers in his mouth have lost their salty taste, leaving him with just the sensation of nearly gagging on himself, gagging on you. His fingers slide away, leaving a wet trail across his chin, his chest, his thigh as he grabs there briefly. The bedsheets are next to be gripped, nearly tearing between his fingers as he searches for a handhold to keep him stable in this moment rather than lost in thoughts of how you’d look, smell, taste, feel.

Pushing onto his knees, hunching in on himself as his wrist twists just right to make his eyes roll, his eyelids flutter at the thought of you lying beneath him. Sprawled and waiting, welcoming him with coos of his name - the one you gave - until he can do nothing but sink into you helplessly in every sense of the word. He’s certain it would be like drowning, descending deeper and deeper until the light can no longer reach him. 

But behind closed eyelids, there’s an insistent glow that’s so reminiscent of his thoughts of you that he’s convinced he somehow manifested his desires into reality. But as he opens them, his rocking hips stuttering against his hand with his release, it’s painfully obvious that the glow comes from himself. Blue markings pulse like the rising and falling of the tides, in tandem with each roll of his climax that sullies the sheets before him. 

His lip throbs beneath the pressure of his own teeth. It doesn’t hurt nearly as much as the disappointment, though the only person he really blames for that is himself. When it comes to you, there are a series of choices he’s made that leave him dissatisfied on every level. They reduce him to sitting alone in a darkened room, naked and disgusted with himself at the yearning that still lingers like a fog that won’t lift. 

Next time, he promises himself. He won’t hesitate again. It doesn’t make him feel any better, considering it’s become a mantra at this point to self-soothe in such an inadequate way. 

Maybe it’ll be different. He won’t hesitate when it counts. That’s a lie, as well.

[cryptid-ghoulette]

Here in the still

Trying my hand at some raindrop angst with a happy ending. Poor Rain is exhausted and tired of feeling like a burden. definitely not a self insert. (also i probably wouldnt have posted this without @sister-nyx being rad as heck) nothing graphic, but some negative self talk, depression, chronic illness and angst (but happy ending)

WC - 1037

The good days were beginning to be outnumbered by the bad ones, and Rain's resentment towards his broken body was growing, settling into each crack and hollow inside his brittle and increasingly unstable bones. The aches became a part of him, something so familiar that he's worried he'd miss now if it ever left. He hated that thought because he knew it was probably true.

The others were always understanding, doting on him on days he could barely stand, holding him upright long enough to move from one collapsing surface to the next. Mount always had warm tea for him, Lus always let him use her softest blanket, and Phantom was always good for some healing hugs. Still, he wished they'd stop holding him like something so fragile, something that might break if held too tightly. He could feel the mix of pity and love, and the taste lingered sickly sweet in the back of his throat each time they fawned over him.

Some days, even leaving his room felt like too much, wishing desperately that his bed sheets would swallow him like an ocean and never let go. Tired of fighting with his own body, tired of being a burden to the others, especially his precious Dewdrop. It was just all too much.

Today was one of the bad days, but he didn’t know that until he got out of bed, and his knees immediately gave way underneath him, crumpling to the floor with a dull thud, leaving him sobbing into the carpet.

Dew rushed in immediately upon hearing the sound and found Rain on the floor, curled up into a ball, knees tucked as tight against his chin as he could possibly get them. The smaller ghoul quietly leaned over to touch Rain's shoulder, but the pain was too much, and he let out a venom-less hiss, part warning, part plea, unsure what he wanted or needed at this moment, unable to focus on anything other than the pain radiating through his entire body. Startled, Dew quickly pulled his hand back, before placing it down again, making a soothing hum in some small effort to calm him down.

Dew was always patient with him, more than he could ever have expected or possibly deserved. The fire ghoul constantly tried to heal the broken parts of him with equal parts heat and love, never letting Rain push him away, no matter how many times he’s yelled at him out of frustration and exhaustion to just leave him alone, let him rot in peace. He simply holds him, letting the water ghoul yell and cry and kick and scream until he aches, and there’s nothing left to cry.

He knew there had to be a breaking point though, not just for Dew, but for the others as well. A burden can only be carried for so long until it gets too heavy and you just have to put it down, and that's exactly what he was - a burden.

His stomach twisted into knots, his thoughts loudly telling him that Dew wouldn’t want to be with someone like him; he should be with someone stronger, not a weak, achy, broken water ghoul.

Rain's frustration boiled over as he snapped at Dew, his voice shaking with a mix of pain and anger.

"Why are you still here, Dew?"

His words came out sharper than expected.

"I don’t need the pity or constant hovering from you or the others. Just leave me alone!"

His outburst hung in the air, a heavy silence settling between them. Tears stung the corners of his eyes, and he felt a pang of guilt for lashing out at Dew. He knew the fire ghoul meant well, the fire ghoul loved him, but he was too exhausted to feel remorse at the moment. Raising his voice had made him dizzy, his brain too fuzzy with pain to think clearly.

He looked up to see Dew, his eyes glassy, his face showing a mix of concern and understanding. Dew's hand was still on his shoulder, still trying to soothe him. Even after he told him to leave, even after yelling at him for just trying to help.

He squeezed his eyes shut, his chest impossibly tight as he let the tears finally fall. The anger finally breaking the wall, drowning him in a flood of emotions; grief, remorse, fear, as he sank fully to the ground.

"I'm sorry,"

Rain choked out between sobs, his voice barely a whisper now.

"I didn’t mean... I just..."

Dew sank down on his knees beside him, gently rubbing the space between his horns.

“It’s okay, Lilypad. Just let it out. I'm right here."

His brain was still screaming at him, he wanted to push Dew away, yell at him, throw out words with such venom that it could never be undone, make the fire ghoul hate him, finally pushing him away for good.

But Dew remained beside him, whispering softly as his thumb smoothed the rough edges of his horns, and despite what his brain was trying to tell him, he felt safe.

Eventually, Rain's sobs quieted, and he tried to push himself up from the carpet, just enough to collapse into Dew's chest, leaning heavily into him, letting his arms wrap around him tightly.

Dew gently lifted Rain's chin up, his heart sinking when he saw just how tired the water ghoul was, eyes a dull blue, red-rimmed, and sunken. He placed a soft kiss on the water ghoul's forehead, quietly asking, “Are you okay to listen?”

Rain nodded, closing his eyes, taking a moment to savor the warmth from Dew's lips.

“I need you to understand. You're not a burden, Rain," he said firmly. "You're a part of our family, and we're here for you, no matter what.” He could see the disbelief creeping over Rain's face; he knew his mind wasn't going to let him believe it, but he kept speaking,

“You will always be wanted, and loved, by all of us,” he paused, considering his words,

“especially by me.”

Rain felt a tug at the corners of his mouth—an honest smile, fragile but real. “Thank you,” he whispered, burying his face back into Dew's chest.

“Anytime, Angelfish.”