#anyway I think this is something about helplessness. something about having a weight and no way to release it

[unsat-and-strange]

lyfrassir edda tried to cut their hair after the bifrost incident. hair and the meaning it holds had been a common thread in the multitude of cultures that comes with 9 inhabited worlds in one star system, and one thing that had been a given in nearly every single one was you don't wear braids when you're grieving. you don't wear rings or ribbons or gems, you don't wear any ornamentation. for a long time it was taboo to even pull it back in a ponytail except for the most strenuous of tasks. and you don't cut it unless you've lost it all. which, of course, they have. so they take a pair of scissors they found in a toolbox and cut the whole tangled mess of it off their head over the sink. it's ragged and uneven and they feel exposed without it, but if this is the only way left to honor their vanished world then so be it. or that's what they thought. that night as they wake from yet another nightmare that leaves them gasping at the brink of tears they feel that familiar weight spilling down their shoulders and back. they don't try again. they do try to forget about it, push it from their mind through sheer force of will but they can't explain it away. and they can't ignore the fact that the gray streaks in their still-long hair grow thicker by the day. and it looks less and less like true gray than a multitude of colors and shades dulled to a neutral tone by sheer numbers. they are changing and it won't let them cut their hair.

[dee-writes-anime]

YAHO FINALLY FOUND YOU IDK HOW BUT I LOST YOU AND BEEN SCROLLING FOR LIKE A GOOD 5 MINUTES TO FIND YOU,

ANYWAYSYSYSYSY

Megumi x reader argument angst to fluff, *dies* your writing too good I know you'll feed me good with this one

I Couldn't Handle it if You Left Me

FEATURING Megumi Fushiguro x Reader

SUMMARY He's just so overprotective

CONTENT WARNINGS angst to fluff, Megumi being scared to lose us :(, some shouting, descriptions of arguments, mentions of loss, grief

AUTHORS NOTE I've missed you, sweet anon! I hope I cooked with this one! Short and sweet just for you <3

The room felt suffocating, the tension between you and Megumi thick and almost tangible. You stood across from him, your chest tight with the weight of words that had been building for far too long. Megumi’s face was as unreadable as ever, his expression cold and distant, but his eyes—they gave him away. They always did. Behind the calm façade, there was a storm raging, and you could feel it.

“Why do you always push me away?” The tremble in your voice betrayed how deeply this hurt, how much you needed him to answer. You tried to keep your tone steady, but the frustration and pain spilled over, raw and undeniable. “I’m not some helpless person you need to protect. I’m right here with you, Megumi. I can fight too.”

His jaw clenched tightly, and you saw his hand curl into a fist at his side, the tension radiating through him. “It’s not about what you can do,” he replied, his voice cold and measured, as if he was trying to rein in his own emotions. “It’s about what’s safer. For you.”

“Safer?” You let out a bitter, disbelieving laugh, shaking your head. “Do you even hear yourself? I’ve been fighting right alongside you for months, Megumi. I’ve trained. I’ve bled. What makes you think I can’t handle this?”

He remained silent, but his body language screamed with tension, his eyes flickering with something he wouldn’t say aloud. It was always like this. Every time you were involved in a mission, Megumi tried to shield you, to protect you from the worst of it, and while you understood his concern, it made you feel small. Useless. Like you were just another burden he had to carry.

Finally, his control cracked, and his voice, sharp with frustration, lashed out. “It’s not the same,” he snapped, the anger slipping through the cracks in his calm. “I don’t want you involved in this mess, alright? You don’t understand what could happen—what could happen to you.”

“Stop treating me like a child!” The words left your mouth before you could stop them, your own anger boiling over. “I’m not fragile! You keep telling me I don’t understand, but how can I when you never talk to me? When you keep locking me out of your life, pushing me away like I don’t matter.”

His face twisted, something dark flashing in his eyes. “I’m trying to keep you alive!” he shouted, the volume of his voice shocking in the small space, as if the weight of his fear had finally burst through. “Do you know what it’s like to see the people you care about get hurt? Do you know how many people I’ve lost? I can’t—” He cut himself off, his breath coming out in shallow, angry bursts. “I can’t lose you too.”

His words hung heavy in the air, and suddenly the pieces fell into place. The way he always hovered just a little too close when you were on a mission. The way he stepped in when he didn’t need to, putting himself in danger just to make sure you didn’t have to fight alone. It was suffocating, the way he kept trying to protect you, as if you weren’t capable of standing on your own.

“I get that you’re scared, Megumi,” you said, your voice quieter now but no less firm. “I know what you’ve been through. I know you’ve lost people. But I’m not them. I’m here. I’ve been here, and I’m not going anywhere. But if you keep trying to control everything, if you keep shutting me out, you’re going to lose me anyway.”

His breath hitched, and he turned his back to you, running a hand through his hair in frustration. You could see the tremble in his hand, the way his shoulders were tense with the weight of everything he was holding in. “You don’t understand,” he said again, his voice strained, like it was taking everything in him to keep it together. “You don’t know what it’s like, seeing someone you care about lying on the ground, hurt or worse, because you couldn’t protect them.”

You took a step closer, your heart aching for him, for the boy who carried the world on his shoulders, who had been forced to grow up too fast. “I do know,” you said, your voice soft but steady. “I’ve seen you hurt, Megumi. I’ve watched you throw yourself into danger, over and over again, without thinking about the consequences. Do you know how terrifying that is? To see you like that and not be able to do anything?”

He didn’t answer, but you could see the way his body stiffened, the way his breathing had quickened. The silence between you was thick with everything he wasn’t saying, with the fear and guilt he refused to let out. Finally, he turned back to face you, his expression hard, but his eyes—his eyes were filled with something much deeper.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know how to keep you safe without pushing you away.”

The vulnerability in his voice broke your heart, and you felt your own anger slowly dissolve into something more tender, something that ached with the need to reach him. “You don’t have to figure it out alone,” you said, stepping even closer until you were standing just inches away from him. “I’m here, Megumi. I’m not going anywhere. But you have to trust me. You have to let me help.”

His gaze dropped to the floor, his hands still clenched at his sides. “It’s not about trust,” he muttered. “It’s about what’s at stake. You don’t know how many nights I’ve stayed awake thinking about all the ways things could go wrong, all the ways I could lose you.” His voice cracked slightly, and he inhaled sharply, trying to regain control. “If something happened to you because of me...”

“Nothing’s going to happen to me,” you interrupted softly. “Not because of you. You’re not responsible for everyone’s safety all the time, Megumi. You can’t control everything. But if you keep treating me like I’m something fragile that needs to be protected from the world, you’re going to push me away. I don’t want to be a burden to you. I want to be your partner.”

For a long moment, he didn’t say anything. His breathing was shallow, his fists unclenching slowly as he processed your words. You could see the war going on inside him, the conflict between his need to protect you and his realization that he couldn’t keep you in a bubble forever. Slowly, almost hesitantly, he lifted his eyes to meet yours.

“I’m scared,” he whispered, his voice so quiet it was barely audible. “I’m scared of losing you.”

Your heart broke for him, and without thinking, you closed the remaining distance between you, gently cupping his face in your hands. His skin was warm under your touch, but his body was still tense, like he was afraid to let go. “You’re not going to lose me,” you said, your voice soft but filled with conviction. “I’m right here. And I’m not leaving.”

His eyes closed, and for the first time, you saw the walls he’d built around himself start to crumble. Slowly, tentatively, he reached up and covered your hands with his, holding onto you like you were the only thing grounding him in that moment.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he admitted again, his voice raw and vulnerable in a way you’d never heard before. “But I don’t want to keep pushing you away.”

You smiled softly, brushing a thumb across his cheek. “We’ll figure it out together,” you promised. “No more shutting me out, no more trying to protect me from everything. We face this together. Okay?”

He nodded slowly, and you could feel the tension in his body start to ease, his grip on you tightening just slightly, as if he was afraid to let go. “Okay,” he whispered, his voice shaky but sincere.

You leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead, feeling the warmth of his breath as he exhaled softly, the tension between you finally dissolving into something softer, something full of understanding.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered, resting your forehead against his. “I promise.”

And this time, when he looked at you, you knew he believed you.

[cntloup]

medieval au

periods :'(

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 | part 7

as simon had promised before, he never forced himself on you. and you know he's not that kind of man.

you’ve felt forced and used your whole life. but with him, it feels like you can finally breathe. he makes you feel safe, and free.

but now, he can sense the heavy tension between you. he knows you're not that close, at least not yet. but he thought that you'd feel more comfortable as time went by. now he feels disappointed that it's not the case at all as you drift away from him more and more each day.

yes, you've been distant the past few days. and it all started suddenly, making him think he did something wrong which in return, makes you feel horrible as you beat yourself up over it.

but you have to do this. he doesn't have to deal with your issues right now. as if a curse has been cast upon you since you were born, because you're a woman.

that's what you were taught anyway which you always considered unfair, even cruel.

you're now curled up in your bed as waves of painful cramps thrash through your body, making you curse everyone and everything, the gods and all that for making you go through this every month.

you put a hand over your mouth to muffle your sobs of pain and you scream into the pillow when it gets unbearable.

that's when he enters the room with a worried expression etched on his face, eyebrows furrowed in concern since you haven't gone out of bed all day.

he finds you curled into yourself, eyes squeezed shut and you're too lost in the excruciating pain that you don't notice his presence until he puts a gentle hand on your shoulder as the bed dips with his weight on it.

"what's wrong, love?" he asks softly, "nothing! please just go!" you burst out, voice coming out whiny due to the pain coursing through your abdomen as you clench it tighter.

you almost feel ashamed. it's a curse. a shameful curse that you must endure all your life. you're being punished. but for what sin? being a woman?!

the thoughts run around your mind until you decide to cast them away. it's all stupid nonsense you've been fed since you were a child.

you lift your head to face him and his gaze softens the moment he sets eyes on your glossy eyes and pouty lips.

"tell me, love. please. i need to know." he says, gently wiping away a stray tear on your cheek.

'he's my husband for god's sake! he should know what the hell i'm going through!' you think to yourself.

"it's just my monthly bleeding." you mutter quietly, lips wobbling slightly.

"oh..." he pauses, nearly taken aback. he's heard some vague stuff about it, but of course, he doesn't know fully well what's going on.

"is there something i can do for you?" he asks, feeling helpless and deeply worried.

"i... it really hurts." you whine and he makes his way to lay behind you and takes you into his embrace, strong burly arms wrapped around your body.

"tell me where it hurts, love." he whispers in your ear, making you shiver, the low timbre of his voice sending a wave of heat right to your core.

you take his hand and guide him to your lower belly, "here." you say, pressing on the back of his hand and he starts to tenderly massage the area as his lips find your neck, softly trailing kisses on your skin and moving to your shoulder.

the delightful feeling of his large rough hand caressing your sensitive body and his light kisses on your skin make you floaty and hazy.

"better, love?" he asks after some time, lifting his head to look at you and noticing your droopy eyes which makes him chuckle.

"hmm... much better." you hum lowly in contentment since your pain has subsided and it feels so good to be in his arms, so warm and safe.

"get some rest, love. i'll be right here when you wake up." he murmurs and places one last kiss on your neck as your eyelids slowly drape over and you drift into a slumber.

[guyfieriii]

We’re going out in style, babe (I)

God, it’s been a WHILE. I really lost all zeal for writing for a little while, until recently I watched the tv series ‘Mr. & Mrs. Smith’ (it’s so so good, you guys!! everyone go watch it) and it got the ol’ wheels turning. This was supposed to be a one and done thing but I got carried away and I lack the stamina to write a big whole thing so this’ll be a two-parter.

Anyway. This is my little version of it with Price. Angst and some stuff. The usual business. Haven’t written anything in months so please read this with the lowest possible expectations. Ya girl’s rusty.

Pairing : John Price x F!reader

Trigger warning : Explicit Sexual Scenes

It’s almost romantic.

The sight of husband and wife lay bare, broken and bloody. Look closely enough to see past the gore, past the ugliness set in a halo of ichor to see a sense of deliverance. The gift of release knowing they’ve met their end, and they’ve met it together.

Well, almost.

You choke out a wretched cough seeped in blood. One you’d feel rip into you, bullet holes and all, if you just weren’t so tired. You can taste it, though — coppery and astringent.

Punctuating.

This is it, you think, feeling the curve of your spine slacken at the relief of what’s coming.

I’m sorry, John.

The words spume against your lips, the only sound making it past them is a wet gurgle.

You’re grateful, for once, for the tears mar your eyesight. They keep you from seeing the true extent of his pain. You can feel it though, his agitation, his helplessness simply in the feather-light brush of his fingertips against your own. It can’t be easy, watching his wife slowly bleed to death beside him while he does the same. Seeing the way your lips turn ashen under a cochineal film of blood, watching the space between each breath lengthen gradually until all that’s left is the in between.

It’s slow. Painful. Each passing second permeated in struggle.

But better him than you.

Let me be first to go, you think in your typical manner of self-service.

It’ll all have been worth it, if only you’re the first to go.

“Oh,” It’s the first thing you can think to say,

“You’re English.”

It’s not the first thing you notice about him, though. No the thing that catches your attention at once is his eyes. Clear, calm and oh so blue. The sheer depth of them, though. Stare into them much longer, and you might not be able to find your way back out.

“Disappointed?” The question is dipped in jovial cadence. Thank God. He’s not offended.

“No. Not disappointed. I was only expecting—.” You pause, uncertain on what expectations you had starting out. Whatever they were, you can’t really remember now.

“What were you expecting, love?” He asks, simply and you know without a shadow of a doubt that it’s sincere. It echoes in the resting timbre of his voice, in the sharpness of his gaze which is dulled only slightly by something you might confuse for affection if you didn’t know any better.

You can only stare in response. Wait for the punchline that never comes.

Jesus Christ. He really does wants to know.

It’s unfamiliar territory for you to be in. To hold someone’s concern in your grasp the way you do his. However, as hard as it is for you to accept, it seems just as easy for him to simply give it away.

The weight of it makes your heart beat faster. Harder. Suddenly your mouth is too dry and you fight the urge to blink and break the spell. If he notices your discomfort, he says nothing about it.

An odd thing, really. That the two of you were matched.

“I’d like for our first day of marriage to not be a complete disappointment.” He prompts, still expecting your answer.

“Listen, uh—”

“John.” He supplies with a tone that makes you think you’re missing out on a joke.

Yeah, it’s a fake name. Haha. I get it.

“Jane.” You reciprocate, awkwardly.

“I’m Jane. And you’re perfect — er, John.” You declare with a sharp inhale only to be met with the scent of him. A bonfire is the first thing that your mind puts up front and centre. A bonfire doused out by a the lightest drizzle, so the smell of smoke still lingers. Along with it, the wafting aroma of cinnamon. Chocolate. All things warm and inviting.

You decide, in that moment, that you really really like the way he smells.

“Starting off with perfection, am I? At least give me till our silver year to really nail it.” He states, yet again, with such utter sincerity you almost miss the joke entirely.

“Till our—? Oh. Right.” You glance away, sheepish.

“This is yours; I believe.” Through your peripherals, you see a ring dangling at the top knuckle of his little finger. A delicate gold band. Simple and suited to your style. You glance at the finger right beside and see that he’s already worn his.

Right. Fuck.

“Uh, yeah. Thank you.” You reach out to take it, but he curls his finger back into his palm.

“Oh no, darling. Let me.” With the utmost care he grabs hold of your wrist, his thumb closing around your pulse — which much to your dismay is racing. It looks so slight, enclosed in his grip — which is paradoxically unyielding and yet so unbearably soft. A cushioned cage you might not mind being held captive in. You can’t bear to meet his eyes, so you keep your gaze downcast, intently focused on the way he slips the ring on your finger.

It’s not supposed to mean anything. Just work. Practicality more than something romantic. You’re spies and being married only makes it less likely that one of you will defect.

But for some reason it doesn’t feel that way. A moment shrouded in solemn intimacy. A promise. It feels that you’re bound to him, a stranger , just with the simple decent of a golden band down your finger. A covenant not meant to be entered into lightly — it’s an undeclared forfeiture of your life into the hands of another. So no, it’s not exactly romantic.

It’s something so much more.

“It’s official, eh? Mr. And Mrs. Smith.” Your hand still rests against the back of his and he makes no movement to release it.

You don’t much seem to mind.

You sleep in different beds, of course.

A habit formed with some difficulty, you’ll admit. There are times when you’ve parted ways in the hall like two men on the opposite ends of a duel — fingers curled around the trigger, waiting on the impulse to pull it. You’ve never given in but you’ve come close.

That fading post mission adrenaline leaves you pliable to your baser instincts, and you find yourself imagining all the ways he could make it better.

All the ways you could.

One night, in a hotel room in Verona, you found yourself skirting the precipice of giving in, with nothing but a 6 inch wall between the two of you.

You pictured it. Some other version of you, ready to take the plunge. This other you having the privilege of indifference in a make-believe realm wherein consequences don’t matter, and you tried to swallow the envy that rose up your throat like bile.

Tried and failed.

Your hands seem to move on their own accord as they slip between your thighs, your mind fabricating the illusion of his own taking their place.

A practiced dance of your imagination and dexterity that takes place often. More than you’d ever admit, even to yourself. You’d brand yourself in shame the morning after, and yet at night, all alone, you come at the thought of all the ways he’d take you.

He’s big. You know it.

You’ve caught glimpses of the outline of his cock in the bugle of his briefs like a voyeuristic pervert. He seemed big enough when flaccid, and you quivered.

You imagine the girth of him, hard and throbbing, promising all the ways he’d make it fit.

You use three fingers, push them deeper still and try to mimic the ways he’d fill you. You’re certain you fall short. He’d stretch you till your cunt had no give left, and then he’d stay there. Let you mold yourself to him, so he’d never feel the need to go elsewhere.

Knowing he’s within an earshot, you’re louder than you normally are. Much to the dismay of the men you’ve slept in the past, you were never vocal in bed. You’d reach orgasm, nearly mute and theatrics for the sake of male ego was something you couldn’t spare the patience for.

Tepid — that’s what they called you, disappointment oozing from each syllable.

You just couldn’t bare to disappoint John.

You put on what can only be considered a barefaced performance for the pure interest of his attention, expressing desires aloud you wouldn’t even dare admit in the privacy of your own self-contemplation. It spurs you on to climax, a fortissimo of vulgarity spewing from your lips.

In the aftermath you lay there breathless, caught unawares by just how far you took this little experiment of yours. Granted, it was all for John’s benefit but somewhere in the middle of it the pretence washed off you to reveal a gleam of authenticity.

Reeling from it, you’re unable to sleep a wink.

“Sleep well, then?” He asks you, the morning after.

“Uh huh. Some of the best night’s sleep I’ve had in my life, John.”

He looks at you like he’s about to call you out on it. Never does.

You resume your compartmentalized way of living soon after. Other than a shared fake name, your home, and the covert particulars of your questionable line of work, you two don’t share much.

Until a mission calls for it, you’ve managed to keep to yourselves a fair amount. You usually cross paths at mealtimes, which you never complain about since he wordlessly took it upon himself to do all the cooking, only letting you help clean.

Quaint domesticity at its finest.

“Safe to assume you chose high risk work as well.” He’d said over breakfast on your first morning there. “Why?”

You’d entered the kitchen to already find him there frying some eggs over the stove. You notice the little dining table to the side already set for two, a glass of orange juice poured for the both of you and toast points standing in their rack in the center of the table.

He gestured for you to take a seat before serving you a duo of over easy eggs and cup of coffee before taking his seat across.

Well, then.

Maybe there were some perks to this life of married domesticity after all.

“I thought I could use a challenge.” You offered him a half answer, as close to the truth as you could.

“And what was it that you did before this?” He asked

“Should you really be asking me that?” You countered.

“I think so, given that you’re my wife.”

My wife.

Enjoying the bit a little too much, aren’t ya John?

So were you, if you were being honest. But honestly never was your strongest suit.

“And why did you—?” You questioned him back in an effort to evade, “Pick high risk, I mean.”

“I’m ex-military, love. Figured I’d choose what I’m used to.” He answered you almost immediately, with not a hint of discomfort or thought of reserve. Either he was a fabulous liar—

Or he trusted you already.

And you didn’t know what to do with that.

“I like my eggs scrambled, by the way.

“Glad to know you feel comfortable your preferences for eggs with me, Jane.”

“Small steps, John.”

Six months in, and aside from a few close calls, you and John seemed to make a good team.

You’ve found that while he’s quick to improvise. Almost always, there’s a wrench thrown in the works, and while you might grapple over a changed course of action, he’s already adjusted to the new circumstances.

You’ve also found that he hates being separated from you in the field. You used to think it to be a manifestation of suspicion, to constantly have an eye on you.

Not that you’d blame him if it was. You weren’t exactly a fountain of knowledge when it came to sharing things of a personal nature. It would only be natural for a little mistrust to brew between a set of spies.

Married, or not.

You were disabused of that theory all too soon.

“Status update?”

“Made it through. I lost them.” You wheeze out, just barely.

“You good? You okay?” The fear in his voice is palpable through your earpiece as you stumble through to an alleyway and try to catch your breath. With the adrenaline waning off you finally feel the bullet that grazed your shoulder.

Flesh wound. You’ll live.

“Jane, fucking answer me.” He rasps, urgent and desperate. Like his sanity depends on your well-being.

It pisses you off, sometimes. Just how deeply he cares. Would you dare call him out on it, though? Now that you’ve been fed on it for months till your belly was ready to burst, like a stray turned house cat. Would you survive without it?

“I’m fucking winded, John. Just need to catch my breath. I’ll be better if we could get the fuck out of here and go—”

Home.

“—back.” You say, instead. “Let’s rendezvous at—”

“I’m coming to get you. Just stay put, yeah?”

“Jesus C—” You hiss through clenched teeth, pressing down the base of your palm into your shoulder to help slow the bleeding down. The pain of it shoots down your arm like veins of lightning, only adding to your irritation. “I’m not a child, for fuck’s—”

“Jane.” The tone of his voice shuts you up. There’s not an ounce of anger or annoyance in it. Only supplication.

Well, shit.

You knew from the very first day you met him — John was a man rooted in conviction. Hard to sway, even harder to deny.

“Fine. I’m waiting.”

He finds you hunched against the wall not 10 minutes later and you can see him visibly sag in relief. The moment he turned the corner and his eyes fell upon your own, his contracted brow-line receded, the rigidity in his stance eased, and the look on his face—

If the deities could speak to a man’s worship, you thought, this is what they would talk about.

“How bad is it?” He offers you a hand to help you stand, the other immediately seeking to find the wound hidden under the crimson blotted front of your shirt, tugging slightly at the neck of it to get a better look.

“I’m sure you’ve seen worse.” You suddenly feel all too shy at the thought of a little exposed skin in front of the man who is your husband. When his thumb grazes the underside of the wound, an unsuppressed flinch jostles you in his hold and his grip tightens.

“You’ll need stitches.” He murmurs, his movements now zephyr-like, fingers mindlessly wandering across the span of your collar bone. You can’t help but imagine the way he’d help you undress, fingers caught at the bottom seam of your shirt being gently lifted. His thumb hooking underneath — maybe just to unassumingly graze against the skin of your abdomen. Maybe to see what the rest of you would feel like against the warmth of his touch.

You’ve caught him staring — whenever you’re dressed bare in nothing but a tank top and loose pair of shorts, the lace hem of which dances so gently across the smooth expanse of your thigh. You’ve witnessed him stop in his tracks, his gaze trained downward for a moment too long to not be considered improper and just then you find it. The effervescent unsheathing of his jealousy, towards a garment of all things. It doesn’t stay long; you could blink and miss it.

But you don’t miss much.

So, when he helps you undress, later that night, and tends to your wound—

Would he stop there, you wonder?

Would you maybe want to find out?

The first time he does fully undress you, is on the eve of your first-year anniversary.

You’re greeted with a gift — a bottle of Laphroaig, 40 and garment bags with a little something for the both of you. Enclosed within an envelope is the note:

Congratulations on a successful first year of marriage.

“Be a shame for rest of it to go to waste.” You say, when John immediately reaches for the bottle. His thumb swipes across the label in an appreciative caress while he tips the cap in your direction as a way of asking drink this with me?

“Keen to dress up for me, love?” He unzips your bag to reveal a hint of luminescent satin — deepened cerulean, to match his eyes.

“I—”

“Because I am.”

You see it unfold before you — the extent of his imagination. Unfurling like an iris in bloom. His eye-line coasting across the length of your silhouette, pausing at slight intervals — the slope of your neck, the curve of your breasts, the pliable swathe of your abdomen. His fists clench in a trice and you feel the pulse of it hammering in your core.

A building reservoir of desire you’ve held back behind a dam of logic that strains beneath the weight furthermore.

He makes you feel at a loss — seemingly unpulsed by this conspicuous display of obscene want. Hunger for what is continuously denied.

Either he takes it on the chin like too good of a sport, or he simply hides it better than you do.

Either way—

You might as well try to even out the playing field.

With a rapid maneuver fuelled only by provocation and guile, you crook a finger along the collar of his button down, the palm of your other hand placed securely over his chest.

“I will, if you will.”

This was it — the fracture in the levee holding back a year’s worth of self-deception. With the curtain drawn on every enciphered impulse, you could finally meet him on equal, honest footing. The kindling that lay bare now set alight and you can only hope you aren’t scorched by it.

And if you are—

You pray it consumes you quick.

The rest of the evening just kind of blends together — three finger pours, a little music, some dancing, if you could even call it that.

John’s generosity with the scotch turned you sloppy, with all your past attempts at decorum now semi-liquid — like a condensed pour of honey out the jar.

“Dance with me, Jane.”

“Just want to get your hands on m’, don’t ya? Clingy fucker.”

Pot, meet kettle, you think to yourself.

Drunk or not, at least you’re self-aware.

It’s in the middle of the night when you jostle awake, with a dry mouth and a hammering in your skull that you feel in your teeth. Somehow, you made it to bed. Still dressed.

You smooth a palm across the creased satin encasing your body, bunching the fabric into your fists absentmindedly.

“Couldn’t bare to take you out of it just yet.”

You’re caught off guard to find John lounging in the chair in the corner of your room, your dulled senses inhibiting the reflex to reach for your gun.

“Never sneak up on a spy, John. Could’a shot you dead if I wasn’t this fucking hungover.”

“Thank God for small mercies. You’d make an awful widow.” His tone bleeds irony but there’s an undertone to it. It’s one you don’t recognize.

He’s since rid himself of his jacket and cufflinks, with the first few buttons undone and his sleeves rolled up and his arms crossed over his chest that rises and falls with every deliberate breath he takes. The picture of nonchalant inertia to the unknowing eye.

Not you, though.

You see the simmering thirst in a man who has been parched for too long, the certainty set in his eyes in search of an oasis—

And something else. An offshoot growing from the root of brackish resentment you can’t quite place.

And maybe, just maybe you worry you’re about to have your heart broken.

Not that you’d ever tell him.

“Fuck you.” You mutter, indignantly, massaging the bridge of your nose in an effort to ease the ache.

With lithe and measured movements, John approaches you. Through your peripherals you watch his feet get closer and closer with every step, until he’s inches away. With a firm-handed pull at your chin, he forces your gaze towards him— that indescribable tincture yet staining his features.

His head tilts imperceptibly, eyes narrowing in determination while he decides….what?

Whether to fuck you? Whether to leave you be and maintain the suffocating, acetic undercurrent you’ve maintained for an entire year in keeping your hands to yourself?

Whether to—

You stop your deliberations straight in their tracks as his hold on you tightens ever so slightly, his thumb disengaging from the rest to glide across your bottom lip.

Pulsing headache aside, you feel your entire being throb in anticipation.

“John—”

“Hush,” He takes advantage of your parted lips, probing the seam of them a little deeper. “Let a man savour a moment, for fuck’s sake.”

Seconds dissolve into minutes, as you wait with bated breath. Each lungful heavier than the last under the stifling pressure of a singular moment being pulled taut beyond belief.

“Jane, darling?” His voice is a mere whisper.

“Hmm?”

“How badly do you want to be fucked right now?”

A sizzle of defiance erupts deep in your belly. The urge to impugn stings the tip of your tongue when you see it. That look. That look that pummels down any defence you could even hope to construct. It demands sincerity, even when you can barely muster it on a good day let alone hungover and painfully aroused.

So, in the place of a rejoinder that would leave you both sexually frustrated and teetering the edge of combustion, you say the truth.

“So fucking badly, John. For months. Possibly from the moment we met.”

What hits you in that moment is disconcerting mixture of emotions: part relief at the unburdening of long-held truths, part self-consciousness at the ease in which just you’ve confessed them.

The latter dissolves almost immediately when you watch the resulting smile that etches itself across his face. A smile that screams pride. Absolution. The kind you’d find on a man who finally reached the peak of his dreams.

You were his Everest. Finally conquered.

“That’s my girl.”

His words leave you breathless. It’s not the first time he’s called you his, so it isn’t the novelty of the statement that floors you. It’s the fact that for the first time in a year, you recognize it to be true.

You’re his — been his for some time now.

The epiphany goes to your head like strong drink — and right on the heels of your previous state of inebriety, it’s all too much to take.

“Fuck, John. Just—” Whatever you might’ve said next is devoured by him in an abrubt dive to kiss you. It’s fervent and messy, all tongue and teeth leaving the viscid traces of saliva across your lips, jaw, and neck.

It’s an unremitting onslaught of his lips and hands — him touching you, tasting you at a pace you couldn’t dream of outrunning. Sometime in the midst of it, he’s managed to strip you both down without missing a beat. I’ll take care of it, my darling, he’d said when you protested to the number of layers that still lay between the two of you.

That was the thing about John. He’d not let a single demand of yours go unsatisfied. A depraved part of you wondered how far you could draw it out, test his endurance. Find the limit and shame him for it.

Needless to say, you never did.

Not out of decency, a trait of which you were always found deficient. It was only out of the fear of having had something unattainable only to eventually lose it. Fact of the matter is, there would be no limit to what you could ask of him.

Onto to simpler requests, then.

“Fuckin’ need you inside of me.”

His cock fills you up just as you’d expected— stretched to capacity, the head of his cock grazing against your cervix with a couple of inches to spare. You hiss through your teeth, your nails digging into his back to recompense for the building pressure.

“Shit, John. Fu—uck—” You pant, lungs convulsing beneath the strain of his weight pressing down on you, skin meeting skin at every possible junction.

“Should’a let me work you out first, then.” He grunts, lips latching on to the shell of your ear.

He forced an arm between the two of you, his fingers find your clit, drawing gentle circles. A direct juxtaposition to the shallow quick paced thrusts, while his other arm snakes around to border the crown of your skull. A preemptive measure for a good and thorough fucking.

Eventually the burn at the rim of your cunt subsides and you take more of him than you could’ve ever imagined. Right to the hilt. He draws back out, just halfway and looks, as if to admire his handiwork before slamming back in with a reverberant so fuckin’ tight, so fuckin’ good or some variation of the praise over and over.

A year’s worth of raked up want comes cresting over this one night— he fucks you once more with the privilege of leisure the second time around. When you’re fucked out, slack-jawed with a raw cunt dripping cum, he croons with self-satisfaction and promises you’ll take him again.

You do, naturally. Drunk on the smell of sex which weighs down the air in the room, obedience comes easy.

He’s gentler this time, softer in the way he touches you. Fingers raking over flushed, sweaty skin. His tongue gliding over every inch of you, twice over, like he means to really savour it. Catalogue what every part of you tastes like should this be the only chance he gets. He fucks you slow and deep, a litany of indebtedness perpetuating every movement.

There are things about him you commit to memory, as well. The lingering taste of his last cigar that glides across your tongue when he kisses you. The flickering pulse in his brow when he’s close. The weight of his cock sheathed within you, the sting that comes with it.

When the haze of prolonged unfed lust unfurls with a yawn of satiety, you find all that remains is a sense of premonition.

Of a tragic and bitter end.

[saintbennetts]

I feel like we, as a fandom, have never really thought about what Thanksgiving meant for Andrew. Think about it. He built his entire persona around protecting himself—he purposely pushes people away, scares them, lashes out, carries knives ffs. And we know he does this to ensure nobody can take advantage of him the way they had when he was young. so that he will never be vulnerable again. He spent years becoming this person... but then it happens again anyway. He has his knives on him when he confronts Drake, yet that still isn't enough. And then Easthaven... I can't imagine how that would have felt for him, to be rendered helpless yet again despite all of his carefully crafted defences. It would have been awful.

But then to find out Neil went to Evermore to protect him? To hear him say, "if it means losing you, then no"? For perhaps the first time in his life, he's had someone fight for him.

I don't know. there's just something so powerful narrative wise about how he was torn down so brutally, only to fall back onto Neil, who had seen him at his "weakest" but held the weight of his demons without breaking a sweat.

[super-paper]

What was the point of Chapter 419 with AFO giving Tomura decay and being involved in his life since he was born, besides generating AFO is behind everything and Kotaro gay affair memes?

I still believe Hori could have pulled this off if he hadn't veered completely off course after 419 because a LOT of Tenko's (and AFO's) arc revolves around the concepts of "identity" and fantasy vs reality (Like, just scratching the surface: AFO attempting to escape from his reality through fantasy, Tenko angrily attempting to pull away the curtain of fantasy and expose the cruel reality of their world. AFO using "reality" as his source of power by claiming its victims for himself, Tenko using "fantasy" as his power by offering those same victims a dream and the promise of an "escape" from their painful reality. "Shigaraki Tomura" as the fictional construct that both AFO and Tenko are attempting to insert themselves into, for both different and similar reasons-- Tenko because he decides to embrace the fact that he killed his family and uses it as evidence that he was "born evil" and "wanted them to die" as a way of explaining his existence. AFO because he wants to escape from the reality that he murdered his brother, while also escaping from the reality of his origin as a helpless infant who no one would look at no matter how much he cried. Blah blah blah etc etc when I say u have to read AFO and Tenko's arcs as a set instead of getting angry at AFO for "inserting himself into Tenko's story," I really do mean it lmao).

Like, MVA aside, Chapter 115 in particular set the tone for Act 2 and HEAVILY foreshadowed what Tenko's arc would end up being about:

(lmao ya'll there is so much evidence in Act 2 that points to the idea that Hori really did want to write a deconstruction of your typical hero story. like, the framing of this panel with Jin angrily turning the TV off when they start talking about "focusing on the positives"????😭I get so sad when I think about the mha we coulda had)

(Side note: Jin was just so so so good as both a character and as a device meant to introduce the reader to MHA's concepts of identity + how a "hero/villain" identities are frequently used as crutches to stop a person from breaking apart under the weight of their trauma

..... which of course makes the fact that Hori rendered his death pointless in the end all the more upsetting :/)

(Pictured: AFO and Tenko fighting over the role of Shigaraki Tomura)

(this scene where Jin talks about the importance of knowing "who u really are" immediately transitions to a scene with AFO, btw. lmao)

((As an aside: 115 is another shining example of how Hori is definitely a competent writer, bc it manages to set up pretty much the entirety of Act 2 + its themes up in just 15-17 pages-- which is all the more reason why the extremely poor quality of MHA's conclusion is so hard to swallow. I definitely don't believe in blaming the editors/publishers alone for how things turned out, but all the same, I do think there was some executive meddling from behind the scenes bc of how rushed and disjointed the epilogue ended up being. It's not the quality we're used to, not by a long shot, and you can tell as much by reading pretty much any chapter before 423.)) /tangent over

ANYWAY. To me, it ways always pretty obvious that AFO was more or less grooming Tenko to be his perfect ~Demon Lord~ OC-- the idea of treating a real person like a fictional character is something I find pretty terrifying + it's something that further emphasizes MHA's metafiction elements, with Tenko being trapped in a role that was written for someone else. I feel that there was adequate build up to AFO being "the author" behind Shigaraki Tomura, specifically-- and it all seemed to be leading up to a point where Tenko would be encouraged to break free & finally take control of his own story ("I needed to hear those words" -> "Those guys (the villains) need a hero, too" -> "You CAN be a hero" "Uh, whoopsie??" 🥲🥲🥲)

Sadly it ends up amounting to nothing because..... Tenko isn't even allowed to fully process the implications of his birth/life and how this has influenced his actions/beliefs/"dream" before exploding, a core scene between him and Nana gets offscreened, and our MC never even bothers to react to the revelation that Tenko's life was scripted. It renders a HUGE part of Tenko's character arc almost completely pointless because we get no actual resolution/pay off for everything that was set up. Like, so much of the finale + epilogue just feels like Hori was going down a check list of plot points/parallels he wanted to include before putting MHA out of its misery, rather than building up to them naturally-- and it's just sad it had to end this way, bc, well. It didn't HAVE to end this way. Hori had all the ingredients necessary to make something truly wonderful, but he didn't use them.

[avesque]

Hi can I request a Neteyam with his female mate where she goes off to explore the forest alone for ages and forgets to tell him and he can’t find her for a long time and when he does he pulls her to him in a tight hug not wanting to let go and she asks him what’s wrong, he is reluctant to tell her that he was worried about her so she comforts him by rubbing his back and cheeks and pressing her forehead against his. When they go back to their home together he doesn’t let go of her and his protective nature comes out and just wants comforting touches and soft kisses? Thanks 😊

in these arms — neteyam

INCLUDES fem!reader, omatikaya!reader. established relationship, fluff. 1.5k words.

NOTE my first request omg 🥺 i added a lil detail to emphasize neteyam’s worry for reader, i hope you don’t mind! i may have gone a lil overboard haha this was so fun to write. thank you for requesting! <3

sunlight dawns upon the tent you share with neteyam, carving shadows into corners. your eyes flutter open as light settles on your eyelids, immediately reaching over for your mate’s warmth. to your disappointment, you’re met with only his blanket.

the day has barely started yet your lover is already out and about. he probably joined the hunters for their early morning hunts. groaning, you get up and ready yourself for the day, getting giddy at the thought of greeting neteyam the moment he comes back.

you’re in the middle of weaving another bracelet for neteyam when the party arrives. you hear them first before you see them — a group of direhorses galloping, stomping across the forest floor. your beads rattle lightly in its container.

“that’s them,” neytiri says, not taking her eyes off her beadwork. a smile graces your face as you eagerly stuff your unfinished accessory in a pouch to greet neteyam.

you smother him in a hug the moment his feet hit the ground. neteyam huffs out a startled breath before wrapping an arm around your waist.

“you weren’t there when i woke up,” you complain lightly against his skin. his hold on you tightens.

neteyam pulls back slightly to look at you. soiled hands brush away stray braids on the side of your face but you let him do it anyway.

“i’m sorry, my love,” he whispers. his gaze is so soft you might melt right on the spot. “duty called.”

you let out a laugh. “i know.” then you pout, thumbing away the dirt smeared over his cheekbones. “would have liked it better if you woke me up and bid me goodbye.”

he hums. “you’d like that?”

“i’d love that.”

“okay,” he says, dropping a kiss on your forehead. “i will from now on.”

your smile is nearly blinding and neteyam thinks you have never been more beautiful. his chest floods with warmth at the light in your eyes, the bounce in your movements. he did mean to wake you up earlier but decided against it. you had looked so peaceful he did not have the heart to disrupt your much needed rest.

it has been a week of recovery for you, after all. he aches just thinking about how you’ve been bedridden the week before that due to the virus you miraculously caught. it was so severe that his father had to call his friends at the lab to help you.

neteyam had never been so helpless as he watched you moan and cry, your appetite gone and energy so depleted you cannot even sit up without support.

he opens his mouth to say something but gets interrupted by another hunter. he squeezes your waist once before letting go though still keeping you close.

“did we catch enough?” ray’ui, an omatikaya boy the same age as him, asks.

neteyam looks around. they didn’t have the usual men come for hunting this morning; some preferred to hunt in the afternoon for supper. “i think so. until for lunch, at least.”

“will you join this afternoon?”

“yes,” he nods thoughtfully. he plans to make some good dinner especially just for you to gain back the health and weight you’ve lost the past two weeks.

neteyam is called again by another na’vi before getting caught in a conversation with an elder. it’s nearing midday when kiri comes up to him with scrunched eyebrows, her hands irritatingly placed on her hips.

“have you seen y/n?”

the question makes neteyam stagger a little. he’s seen you, yes, but that was hours before. the sun is so high up in the sky now, the weather bordering on sweltering hot.

“i did… earlier, after we got back.” his eyebrows furrow. “why?”

“mother is looking for her.” kiri looks around. “you sure you haven’t seen her?”

neteyam shakes his head. an irrational fear stabs at his chest but he tries to shut it down, convincing himself you’re around here somewhere. he makes an excuse of looking for you since it’s nearing lunch. when afternoon comes and he has not seen even your shadow, he goes running to his father.

“what is it?” jake asks, eyes trained on the branch he’s buffing.

“i haven’t seen y/n since this morning.” the worry and fear bleeds into his every word, enough so that jake puts away his things. neteyam can only wonder how distressed he looks.

“i’m sure she’s—”

“neteyam!”

neteyam looks over to see ra’yui. he greets the olo’eykran before turning to him. “i’ve been looking for you. we are preparing for the hunt.”

he runs an aggravated palm over his face before sighing. “i’m sorry, i won’t be able to join you today.”

though his friend senses his frustration, he doesn’t press any further. once he’s gone, neteyam once again face his father.

“i’ve searched everywhere and i have not seen her. not even a trace. dad, please.”

he watches as his father’s resolve crumbles. he doesn’t even care how despe he looks right now as long as he can find you and make sure you’re alright.

his father has already arranged a search party for you, including the sully boys and other men. neteyam’s heartbeat seems to bleed through his eardrums the deeper they reach in the forest and still not getting a sight of you.

it’s nearing eclipse when they reach the old shack, a place his father always warned them to stay away from. his hold on his bow tightens at the realization: you aren’t here, which means you’re somewhere farther and more dangerous.

“how certain are you that she could have gone this far along?” lo’ak asks.

neteyam has no idea. his brother’s question was so stupid it made him want to lay a punch on his face.

something snaps and ruffles. the party stills. the chief raises a hand before readying his bow, aiming in the direction of the noise. the sound of leaves crunching grows closer until the bushes spit out… you.

the party simultaneously releases a big, heaving sigh of relief. neteyam almost drops down to his knees. instead, he drops his bow, surging forward and immediately cupping your face in his hands. the group slowly walks back to give you both some privacy.

“where have you been?” his question comes out much harsher than he intended. your ears fall back in your hair and it’s then he notices you’re dripping wet. your braids are drenched and rivulets of water are still caught in your skin. one slides down your temple and into his thumbs.

“what—?”

“i’m sorry, ‘teyam, i fell asleep.” your admission has him further confused.

“fell asleep?”

you nod, unable to meet his eyes. he feels you grip his arms, fingers cold against his skin.

“in the pond…”

he has so much questions but decides it can wait at home. he needs to get you warmed up fast. your company makes it back to the village just as the people are setting up the bonfire. neteyam excuses you both, heading to your shared shut.

he is quiet as he gingerly gestures for you to undress, fetching you a new top and loincloth. he helps you put them on, warm fingers leaving behind goosebumps on their wake. he then takes both of your blankets and drapes it over your shoulders.

“are you mad?” you ask meekly. it almost breaks his heart.

“i am not mad, tìyawn.” he cups your face again and your eyes flutter closed, melting into his touch. “could never be mad at you.”

“why aren’t you saying anything then?”

neteyam tries to say it, tries to articulate his thoughts. his worry, his fear. he thought of the worst things that could have happened to you. what if they weren’t able to find you? the idea alone makes his stomach curdle.

two weeks ago, you were nearly unconscious in the laboratory. and now, this?

sensing his distress, you make your way over and climb in his lap. it’s a little awkward with the blankets weighing you down but you manage to settle just right, sighing happily at the warmth emanating from neteyam’s body.

you hook your arms around his shoulders and bury your face in his neck. his body relaxes under your touch.

your palm takes its time feeling every ridge of muscle on his back. you absentmindedly rub circles on his skin while the other caresses the back of his head.

“i am sorry for making you worry.”

lately, it seems all you do is make neteyam worry. aside from his duty to the clan, he has to deal with you on the side. the guilt makes your stomach turn.

“some kids were running,” you start explaining. “i followed them to the forest. there were these helicoradian plants and i got distracted… and then i walked some more until i got to the pond.”

“where you fell asleep?”

you nod against his shoulder. neteyam sighs.

“you were gone all day.”

“i know, my love. i must have worried you to death,” you laugh lightly. when neteyam doesn’t say anything, you try to pull him closer; to etch your apology on your skin to his. your love has never been good at expressing himself but you know him like that back of your hand.

when his arms around you tightens in answer and a delicate kiss is placed on the side of your neck, you know you’re forgiven.

[amber-skai]

Some Thoughts on Homing Donquixote.

I'll always have a genuine soft spot for Homing Donquixote. So much potential and such an interesting character who has like the fraction of screen time Rosinante had, yet I think about him a lot. I'd love to know what brought about that passion and interest to "live as humans do."

I genuinely feel so sad for Homing and how naive he was, and how Doflamingo grew to hate him for his mistakes. He had such good and pure intentions but total unawaress of the real world and the sins of the celestial dragons in it.

It seems once they were exposed and on the run from reality, Homing started to feel the weight of it all, his mistakes of exposing his family to the world that hated them and the sins the Celestial Dragons carry as well as their own family and just wanted to die to pay for it, but only him not his family.

I love that there's Martyr part about him that completely contradicts the demon Doflamingo becomes. Upon my first watch I got a lot of Christianity metaphors vibes from it (or I'm looking at it way too deep) but Doflamingo screams fallen angel sybolisim so much.

I wonder if in that case, that's something that Doflamingo grew to hate that Homing just suffered and endured the punishment, he didn't fight back. (giving Homing the benefit here is that he probably just didn't know what to do, he was also scared and losing his wife also just left him lost)

But that's probably why Doflamingo hates weakness as well, one of the many reasons, but he never wants be put in that vulnerable and helpless position again. That's why when Trevol gave him power, he took it. Homing had no idea his son had wondered into the evil hands of Trebol, who knew how to use Doflamingo's anger and power but also his need to gain control back over his life because Homing failed to protect him and their family and instead put them in so much danger.

I noticed that just before Doflamingo kills Homing, he gets angrier and kills him when Homing says "I'm sorry you had a father like me." which is probably the last thing he wanted hear because in his mind it justified that Homing was weak and just putting them in danger with his naivety and gentle nature that never fought back.

It's so sad because Homing never stopped loving Doflamingo and was sorry for the hell he had put them through, exact opposite of what he wanted his boys to grow up and experience, I think it's so interesting that at some point, Homing had this moment and dreamed about taking his family somewhere out of Mary Geoise, that the grass was greener on the. Other side, it was better to live as humans do than it is to live as "gods", I'd love so much to know what was it that gave Homing that dream and pushed him to do it.

(it would be so sad if it was because of something a baby Doflamingo did or said, oof)

Anyways, this is my thoughts of Homing Donquixote. He may have had like a minor role in Doflamingo's backstory but I love his character so much and am probably 1 of 3 whole Homing Donquixote fans.

I should start working on something for Crocodile's birthday but the image in my head wants to draw Homing with a toddler Doflamingo now cause I would have loved to seen those happier moments before it all went down :')

I still get emotional over this drawing, I haven't moved on from drawing this.

I think A LOT about Homing hurting over Doflamingo's anger and hatred towards him. :'(

[belle--ofthebrawl]

Belle i am hiding behind anon right now because i'm about to play devils advocate (in a sexy way, not an anti feminism podcast way dont worry)

Ok. So the thing is...Swiss should get to make the new bug piss. As a little treat for how hard he has been slutting it up for us on that podium all tour. I know we are all thinking it i'm just saying it ok😭

Take my hand. We will do this.

(This part's a bit softer.)

"Oh no," Aeon says in a tiny voice. He's trembling something fierce now and Swiss isn't even doing anything to him anymore.

Physically, anyway.

"Got a little bit left in you, dontchya?" Swiss leers. His hands are still, finally still where they sit on the flare of Aeon's hipbones but the way his fingers push into Aeon's skin, not to tickle but to grab and own and-

"Asked you a question." Swiss says and Aeon's breath hitches. He could call it here, if he wanted. He's got his already, Swiss will probably flip him over and fuck his thighs, then throw the both of them in the shower, but. He's never...y'know. And it not like he wouldn't, isn't obscenely curious about it but he'd thought his first time trying it out would be with Rain and to be entirely honest, he'd thought Rain would be the one, uh. Letting loose.

He's never really thought about himself in such a vulnerable position.

He stares up at Swiss with wide eyes, still trembling from his orgasm and the torture that preceded it. He's weak. Helpless. If he called it, he'd have to stand on shaky legs to go to the bathroom. Maybe Swiss would give him his space and Aeon can't bear the thought of losing the comfortable weight of the multi-ghoul on top of him right now. He wants to. He's just gotta get over the mental block saying he can't.

"Swiss…" Aeon says softly, not entirely sure where his head's at right now and the façade drops. Swiss loses the look of a predator and softens around the edges.

"Hey." He says back, reaching up to pat Aeon's cheek. "Just running my mouth, yeah? Thought it might be hot but if you-"

"I want to." Aeon insists and grins at the way the other ghoul's eyebrows jump into his hairline. "Just, uh." Nervous isn't really the right word but it's not like he's got the brainpower to dig around in his mental thesaurus for the perfect one. Swiss seems to understand anyway though, thankfully. He lays himself down over Aeon like a big cat, and even though Aeon can feel his erection poking the vee of his hipbones, Swiss puts his own pleasure aside for the moment.

"You're fine." Swiss says nonchalantly. "If you decide you don't wanna, we can just roll you over and I'll thighfuck you."

Aeon smirks. Called it.

"Can we…" he begins, starting up a gentle rock, maneuvering Swiss so his cock's pressed right up to the swell of Aeon's. It might be easier if he can't see himself do it. "Like this? Rub off on me?"

"Sure." Swiss says. Props himself up to catch Aeon's mouth in a deep, languorous kiss. Aeon trills into it, clutching at Swiss when each pass of his hips catches his soft, spent cock just right. It's on this side of too much but anything less wouldn't be enough.

Swiss likes it well enough from the way he's starting to breathe heavily. He pulls Aeon back into each roll of his hips, giving him a little jolt of sensation. His hands hurry to undo his pants, gets his thick cock out and pokes the blood-dark tip of it on the sensitive underside of Aeon's, rubbing it against the cum-wet fabric.

"Wanna see you messy in all kinds of ways," Swiss breathes, letting the weight of his cock slap down a few times to watch the way it makes Aeon jump before he's bending back down and resuming their casual frottage session. Aeon feels anything but casual, the words lighting up the same weird area of his brain the tickling had. He bites his lip, spreads his legs wide and holds Swiss tight, presses their chests together so close Aeon swears he can feel the other ghoul's heartbeat as he focuses. It's calm, compared to the rapid thudding of his own and Aeon takes a deep breath.

It's like his body knows not here! Not now! from the way a few hot drops dribble out to roll down his skin, the fabric of his underwear too wet to absorb anything more before the flow is cut off by his instincts.

"Do it," Swiss demands, sounding wrecked. "Wanna feel it, get me wet, do it."

Aeon opens his mouth to speak, say something like I'm trying, but all that comes out is a weak, feminine little "ah!" as Swiss rolls himself down hard and the pressure is just what he needs, the little bit of force to-

"Yeah," Swiss groans as he feels a new heat well up between their bodies. "Good boy, good fucking boy, that's it, gonna make me cum-"

"Hnnn!" Aeon squeaks, locking his legs around Swiss' waist as he wets himself, gets the both of them soaked with it. He feels it wash away the cum, drip down the cleft of his ass where it puddles there. He's shaking even more now, one raw nerve from head to toe but Swiss' encouragement makes it easy, make him easy, willing to go along with whatever the other ghoul wants, and if he wants Aeon to piss himself, he'll do it. Satan, he's so weak for the praise. He'll do anything if Swiss just keeps saying-

"Good boy, good boy," Swiss is chanting, thrusting frantically, practically bouncing the both of them on the mattress with how desperately he's humping away at Aeon to his own end.

"Swiss," Aeon says, sounding just as desperate "Swiss, oh no, I can't, please-"

Can't what, he doesn't know. But maybe Swiss gets it, has seen others like this before and nods, covering up Aeon's mouth with his own and swallowing down his whimpers as he groans, deep in his chest and rich with pleasure as his own cock starts shooting, emptying his balls over Aeon's and adding even more to the gross, sticky mess.

"So good," Swiss exhales as Aeon shakes and sobs below him. He's vaguely aware of a hand finding his own and twining their fingers together. "So fucking good for me, Aeon."

Aeon hugs him tight as the other ghoul begins to purr, hoping Swiss won't notice the new tears of relief welling up in his eyes quite yet.

[grapementos]

wasted

aged up osamu x gn reader

“what would you do if you could go back in time?”

you began, blinking slowly at the ground.

“way, way back. before me, before us. what would you do?”

the silence you were met with wasn’t at all surprising. a low, deep growl of thunder reverberated through the sky and into the ground. it startled you, so much so that you pushed yourself up to your feet.

“would you walk right past me? look the other way? pretend you didn’t see me so you wouldn’t have had to hold that door open?” not being answered boiled your blood.

it was a helpless kind of frustration, one that made the back of your eyes and the tips of your fingers burn with impatience. ultimately, you couldn’t help but yell.

“would you follow your dream anyways? be able to run the restaurant so much easier without me here?” you demanded, fists clenched tightly at your side, so much so that small crescents were forming on your palms, “you’d be able to go all around the board, pass go, and collect that $200, huh? all without me.”

your tears didn’t get the memo your brain was desperately trying to send.

be angry. not sad.

yet, you couldn’t truthfully say your tears were ones of anger—instead those of grief.

“that’s what you said you wanted, right?” you whispered, a ball forming in your throat, “you wanted your business to thrive, and that just wasn’t possible with me there.”

“y/n—”

“no, shut up.” you bit out sharply, hands trembling at your side, “you don’t get to talk. not after you cheated.”

his entire expression faltered, mouth gaping like a dumbfounded fish. a stupid goddamn fish that had been caught and was about to be reeled in and grilled.

“it’s bad enough that i had to hear it from atsumu, but with them? we hit a rough patch and you run to them? that’s fucking,” you sucked in a breath, hating the crack in your voice, “that’s fucking pathetic. onigiri miya isn’t stagnating because of me, because you think i’m holding you back. it’s because of you.”

you clenched your jaw to keep your lip from trembling. your entire body was lit up like a christmas tree, anger and betrayal running hot down into your fingers. every force in the universe compelled you to scream, cry, hit something, but you didn’t. you attacked him with your words, your pain, your broken heart.

“it’s because you have some war waging on in your mind, perceiving everyone else as the problem, the—the issue.” you stammered out, suddenly feeling so liberated, so free of the sheer weight of the truth, “newsflash, you’re not fucking perfect.”

“y/n, please, just let me—”

“shut the fuck up! you’ve talked over me, suppressed my opinions, dismissed me—for too damn long.” you hissed, stepping forward to jut a finger into his chest, “you’ve wasted my time. three years of my life that i’m never gonna get back. do you realize the gravity of that? three whole fucking years.”

you stared up at him, watching him cry and savoring it. you’d never felt so powerful, so alive. you drank in his pain, his regret, the wounds you were creating with the sole force of your words.

“don’t ever, ever contact me again. don’t have atsumu or suna or fucking aran ask how i’m doing. stay the fuck out of my life.” you dropped your hand, shaking your head, “i hope this restaurant, the little stress relief you felt when you were with them—i hope it was worth losing one of the only people that’s stood by your side.”

a feeling of calm accompanied you out the door as you stepped into a world of freedom and opportunities.

[fandomfluffandfuck]

I don't know who else to tell 🫣🫣 Steve feeds my little pain kink so much 😔 he looks good bloody 😳😳😳😳

Anon, have you been spying on my AO3 history?

You can tell me this shit aaaall day 😘

I just worked my way through "The Least Difficult of Men" from isozyme. It's a stony fic (and I bet that one anon from the other day will be baffled by that 💀💀). Typically, stony isn't my cup of tea, no disrespect to the people who prefer the drink, BUT I am weak, weak, weak for masochistic Steve, and the tags drew me in. How could I resist? And I have not been disappointed at all! It is so fucking good, I finished it a little bit ago and there's so much visceral ✨️pain✨️

The imagery in that fic fuck.

I think a lot about Steve in general--let's be real--but I think a lot about the faces Steve makes specifically, and lately, I've had Steve's face in (consensual, of course) pain in my head.

Who wouldn't want to see that pretty face contorted in pain, enjoying it perversely. Taking something that should be so awful but feeling it so good. It's intense and hot and stinging and painful, but god, it hurts so good.

So good.

Imagine...

((stucky masochism/sadism below the cut))

Imagine Steve, struggling beautifully underneath the weight of the biting sensations he's being made to feel. Controlled and commanded. He's strung up, restrained, and totally helpless to the assault Bucky is waging on his body. Steve's arms are stretched out to his sides, straight, so he can feel the strain in his muscles every time he breathes--heaving, chest expanding, then contracting, shoulder blades shifting, muscles over his ribs rippling, his stomach clenching. The ropes coiled around his wrists tightly paint red across his fair skin. He doesn't need to move, so his ankles are also bound, not as wide--he can stand, but it's not so easy on him. That's part of why he keeps tensing and squirming. But it isn't the whole story. He's squirming and tensing, his muscled body tight, because Bucky keeps hurting him.

Oh, God.

Steve chokes, his blue eyes welling until they glisten like jewels. He's so close to overflowing, nearly sobbing, but not yet. He can hold out for longer... right? He won't start crying yet?

But-!

Bucky's fingers are delightfully, horribly cruel--scratching deep lines in his fair skin until he looks like he's been mauled by a wild animal, lines down his back and across chest and up his thighs, lines underscoring his desire; slapping bruises across his ass until his poor backside is nearly purple, throbbing with heat; biting and pinching his hips so they're dotted with fingertip bruises like obscene flower petals; twisting his nipples until they get puffy and swollen, abused hotly; thumbing the slit of his pulsing cock until Steve feels raw and achy, leaking all over himself, making a mess. All of that torture and more. So much more that Steve can't fucking keep track of it all. It's so overwhelming. He can't--

He doesn't--

He doesn't know what's happening. He just knows that it makes his nerves all burn and crackle with an inferno he can't get anyway else. Nothing else sets fire to him so completely.

Nothing feels like this.

Fuck, he doesn't know what to feel because it all feels so good. It's so overwhelming in every way. Steve doesn't know where to look. He can't look at Bucky with that evil, gorgeous smile on his face--all teeth, dangerous and divine. He can't look at nothing, focused somewhere out in front of him, because then all he has to go off of is the way his skin sings.

And he can't fucking look down at himself because then all he sees is the evidence of how far he's willing to go for pleasure. The evidence of his pure depravity written across his skin as if he's a book. If he dares to look down at himself and feel the throb of flooding arousal, his teary and blue, so blue, eyes find hazily that his skin is blushing. He's sweating so much that he's glistening. Glowing red. And, Christ, his nipples are so red and hard over his round pecs that move with his gasping chest. His chest! Steve squirms as much as he can--his chest is scored with marks. Below that, if he can keep his blurry eyes open, his stomach is tight with lust, but his eyes skim over it much easier to stare down at his weeping, twitching, throbbing cock. He couldn't be harder if he tried.

Jesus.

Pain takes him from every angle, but it sharpens and deepens until he's wailing when Bucky flicks the head of his cock. Bright. Bright. FUCK. It's so bright and awful and good. White hot, teeth-gritting pain that cuts through him. Slices into his chest and makes it so he can't breath. The sensation viciously rips up from his cock into his belly and, and, and--

Steve screams when he does it again. Flicking the overly sensitive head of his dripping cock.

He's sobbing.

There's no choice in it. Sobbing. Steve can't choke it down or bite it off. He's sobbing whether he wants to or not now. He doesn't have a choice when he's burning alive, relishing in it. Maybe he's insane but, GOD, it hurts so good that he never wants it to stop. Clenching his fists until the bones in his hands creak.

Flick. Flick. Flick.

Ah! AH! AH!

It hurts so bad that he wants it to stop right now. Never. Stop. Don't. He cries harder. He moans louder.

Steve struggles so hard under the eating, all-consuming sensation that he loses his footing, gasping, the ground disappearing beneath him with a terrifying suddenty. Heart thudding in his chest like it might speed out of control, rising into his throat.

Scrambling with muscles melted, Bucky has to help Steve back to his feet to give him what he craves. More pain. More pleasure. More torture--merciless and so goddamn perfect.

Bucky. Bucky.Bucky.Bucky that's all Steve has besides glorious pain.

Bucky.

Bucky is so good to him. Marking him up, stripping him down completely to his bare bones, killing him by how alive he makes him feel.

Bucky is so good to him.

Bucky could use an implement on Steve rather than his hands, something, anything--a crop, a flogger, a paddle, vampire gloves, clothes pins, clamps, anything. Anything. But he isn't. He's taking Steve apart with his bare hands, making him whine rustily and cry desperately and ache for a taste of mercy.

Using nothing more than his hands to leave his mouth hanging open, sobbing, squirming pathetically weakly, sweetly garbling, "h-hurts! AH! It huurts!" when he can't take it anymore, he's gonna fucking cum. It's so much. So good.

Bucky cocks his head to the side, "aww," he clicks his tongue, pouting at him as he steps in closer, intentionally rubbing his thigh against him so Steve can feel the raw head of his dick catch Bucky's pants, the friction making him want to scream all over again, muscles tensing and quivering, wrecked, "it hurts, does it, baby?"

Steve moans low in his throat, exhausted in the best way, hanging his head, barely nodding.

"Poor thing," Bucky wraps his arms around Steve's neck, playing innocent while pressing his knee to Steve's heavy, tight balls. Totally unrelenting as he flinches and sings for him, crying out in pain.

"Nnngh!" Steve whines raggedly, stretching to get onto his toes. The pain of his balls getting smashed against the thick, corded muscle of Bucky's killer thighs is, is... it's gonna, yeah, God, it's gonna kill him. He's gonna die. He's gonna cum. Now. Bucky is ruthless, making him hurt deliciously everywhere. Fuuuck.

[saucyjothoughts]

do you think any of the boys would be into chubby girls???? such a random question i know lmfao but I have got to see other people's opinion on this topic

Sweet Anonyboo, I have been waiting for this.

(nsfw under the cut)

"You can't pick me up, I'm too heavy."

It's something you never thought you could have and didn't dare let yourself want - to be thrown around by a partner, to feel fragile and feminine under a man, to feel small. But as soon as your voice it, Nace furrows his brow. Now he has a point to prove. To show you that it's not even hard, that he lifts more than this at the gym. He picks you up under your butt and lines himself up to fuck you against the wall, your legs wrapped around him. You're still a little self conscious, worried about his arms getting tired until he steps back, carrying you with him, your arms over his shoulders as he's supporting you completely, bouncing you on his cock as you're helpless in his arms.

Jure is all about your breasts. He loves to smother his face between them, kneading into the warm, soothing depths of your belly like a cat. You complain that you can never find nice lingerie in your size but Jure prefers them bare anyway, slippery with soap in the shower or sweet cream he can lick off you, or his own come after fucking your tits. And then his favourite thing: falling asleep with his head resting on them.

Kris isn't quite so open about his attractions. In fact, he gives you no indication that he's into you at all. Until you catch him watching BBW porn. After that, he's still subtle, it's a secret, he's ashamed. Can you believe it? Ashamed of being attracted to you? What a dick. It only comes out over the phone, mostly when he's drunk, telling you what he wants to do to you. You tell him to fuck off every time, to quit fetishizing you. It's kind of sad. But months pass and eventually, you throw him some pity sex. And he has you up all night, draining himself dry for you, obsessed with you, begging you to sit on his face, to suffocate him with your thighs, to drown him in your pussy. Maybe he really will die down there. Dick.

Bojan has never been quiet about how beautiful you are. The timelessly gorgeous silhouette, like something from a painting - in a museum or on a cave wall, your body type has always been desirable, the picture of femininity, of fertility. Of course he loves your body, he's only a man. He loves to wear you on his arm, in dresses you didn't think you could get away with, but he loves how your body fills your clothes. He'll make sure you eat whatever you want (and let yourself enjoy it) when you're out together, no matter who might be watching.

For Jan, it's all about variety. Human intimacy is a casual hobby and every connection is an adventure, playing with new genders and kinks and body types. There is never any room for shame with Jan. He explores you without expectation or pressure, appreciating you for exactly what you are. How your flesh bounces when you're on top, sucking kisses onto your double chin ("stop! It tickles!"), how your ass jiggles when he slaps it and how good it feels to grip into your love handles when he's doing you from behind. You're still casually seeing each other in the summer, hot tub season, and he gets to play with how your weight floats in the water, his easy company being the first time you've been comfortable enough to wear a bikini instead of something that covers you up. You go back to him again and again and he's eager to have you - your body and your humour and your music taste. All of you.

[mizukagami-takamagahara]

Annon-Guy: What are your thoughts on Rachel Alucard and Mei Amanohokosaka as characters?

I'm asking because Tsundere type characters being devisive, with Harsh Tsunderes being hated for being "abusive" girls that deserve to die for attacking physically and/or verbally.(whether they're in love or not)

It's apparent that we Western Fans (no offense to you) don't view them the way Japanese Fans do.

It is interesting how widely JP and Western tastes differ! I have a buddy who is really into studying fandom culture, and we’ve talked about the wildly different reactions to tsundere between the cultures! I wonder if I should call her in sometime to discuss why that is…

Anyways, personally I have no problem with the archetype. Sometimes they can annoy me, especially if they feel ‘forced’ into their archetype; if the character seems mean for “absolutely no reason,” to the point where it breaks my immersion, then I tend to dislike them.

I’ve never had this issue with BlazBlue, though. I really, really like BlazBlue’s character writing. I’d still say that if I ever met these girls in real life, I probably wouldn’t want to go drinking with them… but as characters in their stories, and as believable products of their environments, I adore them!!

- - - - RACHEL = ALUCARD

Rachel is SUCH a tragic fucking character. You can like or dislike how she’s coping with it, but if you engage with her character on any meaningful level, you have to acknowledge that her cruel, jaded behavior is a believable response to the situation she’s in. It’s not nice, it’s not pretty- neither is the life she’s trapped in. In what world has trauma or helplessness ever made us prettier, cleaner people?

She’s cold, distant, unempathetic- because if she lets herself remember how much she cares, the weight of it all might break her. She’s incredibly sensitive under that cold porcelain shell; she snaps into aggression very quickly when under pressure. Specifically when confronted things that she hasn’t been able to distance herself from, things she cares too much about to feign distant superiority.

- - - - MEI = AMANOHOKOSAKA

Powerlessness is something of a through-line among the tsundere characters in BB. Mei is also a character struggling with powerlessness, pain, and fear; and she responds to her situation n a lot of the same ways Rachel does.

To avoid feeling weak or trapped, she falls back on her lineage, seeking escape in her sense of pride. She’d rather tell everyone (including herself) that she’s separate and above everything around her. The alternative would require her to face the horrible truth that if she did try to seek comfort or companionship under her employment (servitude, extortion, etc.) to Unomaru, she would be denied it.

Her fear turns to aggression when backed into a corner, when her mask of aloof superiority can no longer protect her. In these cases, she can be explosively emotional; which isn’t at all surprising, considering how much she’s bottling up all the time.

Thinking about it a little, Rachel and Mei share a few more parallels, don’t they??? They both get very quiet when they let down their walls, reflecting the exhaustion they suffer from. They’re both in a uniquely knowledgeable position, with access to information about the world that most people don’t have, which further serves to alienate them- and creates this sort of “being the world’s protector” feeling I’d argue they both express.

They both lost their parents incredibly young, inheriting positions of nobility, leadership, and responsibility they were certainly not prepared for. They both keep going in the hope that a specific man in their lives will one day be able to have a future.

Their designs share several elements too. A delicate, doll-like feel to their features. Long straight hair that veils them from the world (despite Rachel tying hers up) and, in JP media, often symbolizes spiritualism and divinity. They both wear lolita fashion, with many layers that could also be argued to ‘shield’ them from the rest of the world, providing a form of mental armor and obscuring how small and fragile they are under it all.

I doubt these similarities are coincidence.

[frozenwolftemplar]

Waterloo, or Laundry Day Bonus Scene

I was responding to @mmaricarmen23 and @backofthepencil11 comments on 'Waterloo, or Laundry Day' and this popped into my head. To anyone who's interested, hope you enjoy!

"So Red, how's laundry day going?"

Carmen shrugged, leaning against the laundromat's street-facing window, watching a dog walker juggle the leashes of about half a dozen pooches. "Good. Laundromat's nice. Clean. Unlike that other one..."

"So I didn't check Yelp one time!" Player protested, Carmen chuckling at his indignance. "Besides, I thought island girls were used to big bugs."

"Big bugs that stayed outside." Carmen amended, holding up a finger as though to block the teasing accusation, never mind he couldn't see the gesture. "And anyway-" a smug note crept into her voice- "I think I handled them well." Admittedly, discovering the laundromat of the week had a roach problem hadn't been fun in the moment, but she at least had the satisfaction of saying she'd reacted with commendable cool-headedness.

"You shrieked."

In her defense, she'd only be off the Island for two weeks. Kneejerk reactions had been common.

"Anyway," Carmen said, tacitly admitting truce and changing subjects, eyes tracking a pigeon that alighted on the sidewalk once the dogs moved on. "Not really anything unusual. Except..." She paused and sketched a glance towards Shadowsan, studying the contents of the vending machine and debating if any of the brightly-packaged snacks constituted 'actual food' and continued in an undertone. "I don't think Shadowsan had ever done his own laundry before."

There was a pause.

"...Seriously?"

"I mean, he said he meant to wash his darks on the 'whites' setting but-"

She bit her lip as Player barked out a laugh. "And then what," he said, clearly holding onto composure tooth and nail. "Did he, like, forget soap or something?"

A cheshire grin wended across Carmen's face as she answered. "Yup."

Shadowsan glanced her way as Player's helpless laughter tumbled through the phone, eyes dark and more than a little abashed as he quickly deduced the subject of Carmen's conversation. She wiggled her fingers in an impish wave, unconcerned by the look he was leveling her with (not like he'd say anything to her so long as he needed someone to work the dryers).

"So, how did it end? Did he bleach his entire wardrobe?"

"I stepped in before he could do that." Idly shifting her weight so she was standing on one foot, she indulged in a chuckle as Shadowsan, with a long-suffering look, turned back to the vending machine and started slipping in quarters (huh, guess vending machines were immune to the 'fascinating' technological progress). "No harm done." Except his dignity, but he'd get over that.

"So...not like the first time you did your own laundry and messed up with the dryer and shrunk, like, everything."

The pigeon took rapid wing as Carmen choked on air and set her upraised foot down hard, catching herself clumsily against the glass. Shadowsan looked over again, and Carmen felt a flush flooding up her neck as he read her no doubt mortified expression correctly

"It was not everything!" She hissed as Shadowsan turned back to the vending machine, but not before she caught the silent laugh crinkling around his eyes.

"Fair point. Just all your shirts. And socks. You got antsy waiting around the motel until I could get some replacements shipped to you and said the room service lady kept looking at you weird because you were constantly wearing an overcoat indoors."

"Because I didn't have any shirts," Carmen muttered around the hand she'd plastered on her face. Crud, sometimes she really wished her team wasn't that good at reading her. Or remembered every embarrassing moment of her life. "Do you ever forget anything?"

"When it comes to you? Nope!" Player sounded entirely too cheerful of that fact.

"Lucky me."

[headkiss]

heyy can i request an angsty steve x reader where it's post s4 where Eddie's dead and max is in a coma and reader has survivor's guilt and end up breaking down infront of Steve and saying something like why is she still alive when so many who don't deserve to die have died? and steve is just losing his mind that she can think something like that when she is the only one keeping him sane through all of this.

i love your writing. thank you ♥️

hiii i hope this is somewhat what u asked for!! tw talks of death and survivors guilt | 1.1k angst and hurt/comfort

You couldn’t stop thinking about Max. About Eddie. About every single person who didn’t make it because you couldn’t stop it this time. You couldn’t save them.

Well, except Jason Carver. You hated him anyway.

It was the hardest thing to go through. Losing two of your friends and feeling helpless through it all. Feeling guilty for being alive when they’re not around. You know Max is technically alive, but she’s not awake. She’s not talking and making her sarcastic comments.

You haven’t been able to bring yourself to visit her and you hate yourself for it.

Even today, when Steve kissed you gently on the head before leaving and asked if you wanted to come along, you shook your head and sunk into the couch.

You think the only thing keeping you going is Steve.

Even if you haven’t told him exactly what’s been bothering you, what’s been haunting your mind, he’s there. He holds you at night and talks you down from nightmares, he kisses your forehead or cheek or nose every chance he gets. He knows that you need him, he needs you, too.

While Steve was at the hospital with Max, taking a shift so Lucas could go home and shower and change before going right back, you tried to distract yourself. You tried to watch TV but even that was crowded with the recent events. You tried to read your favorite book again but your eyes wouldn’t focus on the pages.

You ended up sitting against your headboard, knees tucked to your chest and tears streaming down your face.

It was inevitable, the breakdown. The dam finally collapsing.

The thoughts were inescapable. You made it. So many people didn’t. Why should you be alive?

Steve was worried about you. Of course he was. He worried about you all of the time but it was worse now, like you’d shut down completely. You didn’t talk as much, giving him single word answers and nods instead. He doesn’t even remember the last time you smiled.

It’s breaking his heart.

He knows this is hard, he knows. He just wishes you would let him hold your hand through it, that you’d tell him what’s wrong so he could lift some of that weight from you. It’s not like he can’t relate to you. He can never stop his voice from cracking when he talks to Max, blinking back tears.

He hadn’t known him long but he swears he can still hear Eddie’s boisterous laugh sometimes. He filled up so much space that his absence is too noticeable.

When Steve comes home, he thinks he can feel his heart crack right down the middle at the sound of your crying. The kind of sobs that make it hard to breathe. He kicks off his shoes, stumbling, and all but. sprints to your shared room.

“Honey,” his voice is a lifeline, it draws you back to reality at least a little bit. His face is split with worry and sadness and you hate that you being upset is making him upset.

“I’m- I’m sorry,” is all you can say.

Steve rushes to sit beside you, to pull you into his chest and wrap his arms around you. Your hands grip onto his shirt, your face tucked in his neck and tears wetting his collar but he doesn’t care. He just wants to be there for you, and this is the first time you’ve let him see you emotional since everything happened.

It’s a while before you calm down enough to talk to him. Minutes or hours, you aren’t sure. All you know is that Steve’s still there, one hand holding the back of your head and the other running up and down your back.

When you pull your head back to look at him, you notice a couple tears have escaped his eyes, too. You pull your sleeve over your palm and wipe them away.

“Talk to me,” he starts, voice quiet and soft, comforting. “I’m here.”

“It’s so unfair.”

“What do you mean, honey?” He understands, partially, but he wants to know every single thing running through your head. He wants to know so he can help. All he wants to do is help you.

“How come I get to be here, breathing on my own and practically in perfect health when other people are dead. Eddie’s gone and Max might not even wake up,” it’s like you can’t stop yourself from talking, now that you’ve started every thought is spilling from you. “It feels wrong to be alive.”

If Steve’s heart wasn’t broken before, it definitely is now. He can’t imagine a world without you in it and he hates that you feel guilty for living. He can’t think of anyone he wants around more than you.

“I just feel so bad. Like I should be in that hospital bed, not her. She’s so young and-”

“Hey,” he stops you, hands holding your face so that you look at him, his eyes look sad, but they’re filled with love, too. “Max is gonna be okay. And you’re alive for a reason, you hear me?”

“But-”

“No. Please listen to me, please,” his voice breaks and he has to clear his throat to keep going. “You’re here and I know it’s hard, I do, but you are and I’m not letting that go to waste. I know how lucky we are to be okay, mostly, and I thank a God I don’t even believe in every day that you’re alive.”

“Steve.” You think he’ll make you cry again if he keeps going.

“I’m not saying that the people that died deserved to, not at all. I’m saying that there's nothing we can do to change that. I’m saying we‘re lucky as fuck, you and me, and I’m gonna live every single day knowing that. I’m lucky as fuck to have you. Don’t you dare think you’re disposable because you’re not.”

You have no idea what to say to him, how to express what all of that meant to you. So, instead, you surge forward and kiss him properly.

It’s messy and salty from your tears, but it’s enough to tell him ‘thank you,’ to push everything you haven’t been able to say into his mouth.

When you pull away, only to look at him again, you think you’ll be okay. You know there will be times where you’ll cry like you did again, where the thoughts will find you. But, you’ve been reminded that Steve is gonna be there every step of the way.

That’s enough to force you to keep going, to push and push every day until that weight gets lighter.

“I love you, Steve. Don’t know why you always know what to say, but thank you.”

He hugs you again, tight. “I love you, honey.”

[lavenderovercast]

Blessed are The Peacemakers summary: Charles sets off to give Arthur a proper burial. warnings: hurt no comfort, mentions of canonical character death, mentions of terminal illness/succumbing to terminal illness, mentions of grieving, burial of a corpse/encountering a corpse, mentions of period-typical racism notes: this is cross-posted to my ao3, click here to read it there! <3 also be nice to me, this isn't beta read and it's a year old :( > this also includes mentions of an OC since this is a gift/part of an AU, but you're free to ignore them!

He had been helping the tribe when word caught up to him. When Rains Fall had approached him with a downcast expression, Charles had felt his heart tighten in his chest with fear. The man had been sitting near the fire that he had set, watching the orange flames and embracing the warmth that blasted against his frigid body. It was October, and it felt as though winter was quickly approaching — especially with the onslaught of rain that had decided to pour down from the heavens. It wasn’t ideal weather to travel in, especially with a group of Natives… But what choice did they have? Their home was taken from them, everything, their dignity included, stripped away callously by cruel men.  Charles had an obligation to help them however he could, and he knew that fact, even if he didn’t feel deserving of such a position. Even if he had felt horribly helpless, only able to watch as these people — his people — continued to have everything taken from their hands. When Rains Fall had approached after they had settled and taken a seat beside Charles, he knew that something was wrong. There was a heaviness in the man’s posture, as though more weight was set upon his shoulders. Guilt racked through Charles at the thought of Eagle Flies, his undeserved death.

“I caught word that Arthur passed.” The words leave a knot in his throat, and rocks in his belly. Charles is silent, continuing to stare down the fire to try and ignore the sensation of the hot tears threatening to escape from the corners of his eyes. He had known it was coming. Arthur was sick, very sick, and you would have to be blind not to notice such a thing. Arthur was once a big man, who stood tall with his head held high. Charles could easily tell you that Arthur’s blue eyes were filled with light, mischievousness, even — in spite of the sour look always planted on the man’s weathered face. 

Arthur was not only well built but the very definition of healthy, once upon a time. Strong, brave, and able to carry out any and every task provided to him. When Charles had last seen his companion, his… His something more, he had been reduced to a hunched-over shell, his body racked with thick, painful coughs that rattled in his chest and shook his bones. Arthur’s skin had become pale, his eyes lost their light and became something dull and sad, not unlike a rainy day, and he had become terribly skinny. Charles knew better than anyone that Arthur could still hold his own in spite of his sickness, but… 

Should he be surprised, really? Charles had known it was coming — Arthur’s death. It hurts to think about it like that, but it’s true. After all, Charles had been the one to assure the man that his illness was not a curse, not completely, anyways. There was a bright side to it, a blessing amongst the darkness being placed upon Arthur. Where the brunette saw his illness as the reckoning that he deserved, Charles viewed it for what it was: a blessing, an honor. 

Arthur had the bliss of knowing when his time would come, and not many people would ever be granted that opportunity. Death was typically quick and sudden, like a bullet to your back or a vengeful gang torturing you before taking your head and displaying you to your own people like a trophy, a mocking image. But Arthur’s sickness? It was something that would grant him the opportunity to do right and be right. Unlike the others that they had watched die, that Charles had helped bury… 

Arthur could make amends with the world and his wrongdoings before the end of it all. He could enter it as a hateful, angry man that Charles did not see within him, or leave it the good, selfless man that Charles did see within him. And he had told Arthur as much. To have used his sickness as an indication of his limits, to decide who he wanted to be during these final days. 

It became increasingly clear that Arthur’s enemy was not those around him, but rather time itself. The man was waging war against an invisible clock and an invisible force destroying him from the inside out, and eventually, he wouldn’t be able to fight either of his opponents anymore. Charles swallows the knot in his throat, and tries to ignore the terrible throb in his heart as he replies in a voice that he’s impressed remains steady in spite of his swarming emotions: 

“I… I see.” Charles manages, but barely. 

“I’m sorry for your loss.” Rains Fall is quick to reply, a gentle hand placed on the man’s shoulder as if to place emphasis on the truth of his words. Charles can only stare at the fire ahead of the pair, and for a while there’s only the sound of the wood popping and crackling. The silence between the men seems to last an eternity. 

And then Rains Fall speaks again. “The army men. They mentioned Bacchus Bridge — That’s somewhere near where they last saw Mister Van der Linde.” The name fills Charles with rage, and makes him clench his fists before drawing in a shallow breath through his nose, nodding his head to signal to his companion that he had heard the older man’s words very clearly. 

But the statement also warrants a question — if Dutch was seen near the bridge, and only Dutch… What about the others? Charles' mind wanders to his former gang members. Bill, Javier, Nathan, the goddamn snake… … John, Sadie, Abigail, Tilly, Eliza… His heart feels heavy at the thought of each of them, but it aches the most when the pregnant blonde comes to mind. He’s glad to know that if the army men had only spotted Dutch — then there’s a good chance that the others had gotten away — or worse, they could be dead. He tries hard not to think about the second possibility, even though it’s far more likely than the first. 

“No one… No one found him, properly?” Charles questions, the words lingering in the air between them. The unspoken words weigh heavy in his sentence, although they aren’t breathed to life: Has he been buried yet? Rains Fall is quiet for a moment, and then shakes his head no. “Too many men in the area. No one wanted to come near, and I thought I should tell you…” A deep sigh racks the man’s body as he leans forward. “...Since you were fairly close with him. Maybe you’d be willing to do what others wouldn’t.” 

Charles can only muster the strength to nod in reply, in acknowledgment. Because his mind is already made up — he’ll make the trek to Bacchus Bridge first thing in the morning.

The journey wasn’t necessarily difficult, but Charles couldn’t describe it as easy, either. He had departed from the Wapiti camp first thing in the morning as he had promised himself, stating that he would be back in a few day's time. He just had… Unfinished business that needed to be settled. That was an easy way of sugarcoating the truth, of trying to ignore the grief and unsteadiness lingering in his heart as he mounted Taima. The spotted grey and white horse didn’t hesitate to move forward as her rider saddled up, but gave a neigh in his direction — as though concerned. 

All Charles could do was offer a sad smile and pat the mare assuringly on the side of her neck, fingers brushing through her dark mane. And then they were wandering forward, into the forest and away from the safety of the temporary shelter and community. Such a trek isn’t unfamiliar to Charles. He’s had to travel on his lonesome dozens of times before. The man can’t really recall a time before joining the gang that he had company — proper company, aside from his horse. 

Yes, it was true that Charles had gotten himself mixed up with companions and people from these gangs that would travel with him — but their approaches were typically reluctant, or due to wanting something from the man. Never for the sole reason of companionship, of company shared between one another. There were no personable conversations, or simple chores like hunting being carried out. There was always bloodshed, a sense of danger, a sense of fear that you could die — and that you would be left behind by the person who dragged you into said danger. 

Arthur didn’t approach Charles at the beginning of their dynamic. He was tentative, almost nervous, in a sense — which in retrospect feels funny to say, because Charles had only ever seen Arthur as someone bold, maybe even a little rash. Until he dug underneath the surface and worked his way into getting to properly know the man, that is. This eventual closeness led Charles to a conclusion about his thoughts on and toward Arthur:

No, not all of Arthur was good — but there was far more goodness and kindness in the brunette than he would have liked to believe, than he would let himself believe. Charles can still clearly recall when they had found that German family — the way that Arthur had told him that they didn’t even speak their language, so why should they help them? They both knew that these words were a poor excuse for Arthur to continue playing the big bad wolf. 

Dutch’s top gun, his enforcer. The man that would do all the dirty work for Dutch, because he was more loyal than a dog. But Charles knows that this wasn’t Arthur’s true sentiments, because the man’s face wrinkled into a grimace as though he almost wanted to apologize, and he had reluctantly trailed after Charles and the split family. Arthur wouldn’t have put his life on the line for said family, not for a campsite, not for some gold that he didn’t even know about until after the fact — unless he had some goodness in his heart. 

Charles had witnessed men do far worse than Arthur would ever be capable of. Unlike them, Arthur did not lack in his moral compass. Misguided with his decisions, with following his anger? Absolutely. But it could never be said with full confidence, at least by him, that Arthur was truly, purely, awful and evil. It simply isn’t true, not in a world like this. 

Arthur wouldn’t have had people who loved him the way that they did had he no good in his heart, had he put no good into the world. Their relationship was proof that Arthur was capable of good, of loving, and being loved. His marriage to Eliza was proof of such a thing — the blonde had looked at Arthur as though he could put the stars in the sky for her, and Charles was almost inclined to agree with such a lovesick mentality. He couldn’t help it, there had always been something alluring about Arthur. 

His chest feels heavy at the thought. Even as the scenery changes around him, and the sky shifts from dawn to day, back to dusk and then night. The man is trapped with only his thoughts and his silent companion as he travels, trying to ignore the way that the cold grows worse. Maybe it’s because of the ache in his chest, but the numbness in his fingers and the rest of his body makes navigating and moving increasingly hard. But he tries because he has to do this for Arthur and he knows that much. 

Charles can’t help but worry about their other companions. He has no doubt that Arthur would do everything that he could to get John out of the situation, because in spite of the fact that the two constantly butted heads, they were brothers. The man can feel his lips twitching into a sad smile as he recalls a story that Arthur had recited to him when they were up in Colter when they were looking for Eliza. The affection and joy in the man’s voice were clear, and although he did his best to claim that he certainly did not care for the fool named John Marston, his enthusiasm about the story told a completely different tale. 

Eliza is a similar case to John, in terms of importance. He knows that Arthur would have done anything and everything in his power to ensure the blonde’s safety, although he had grown to know the blonde well enough that she wouldn’t accept such a thing. The woman was kind and had a heart of gold, but she was also just as stubborn as Arthur. Their mutual stubbornness often led to their arguments and rifts being placed between one another, rifts that Charles had grown accustomed to stitching back together. 

Not that such a task was very hard. Both cared for each other deeply and with the right amount of coaxing could be talked into speaking terms with each other again. With gentle ‘ I’m sorry’s ‘ and wrapping themselves up in the other. Sometimes it felt as though Charles was a part of the relationship, rather than just affiliated with Arthur through the occasional cuddle or holding of hands when they weren’t in camp, or in a rare case, they were in camp and Eliza wasn’t . Not that Charles would complain when the woman was in camp with Arthur, because he had found that he enjoyed both of their company. 

Especially when Arthur was in that shipwreck. He had become especially close with Eliza, because the pair had leaned against each other, sat alone with a grief that only they could mutually understand while trying to keep everything around them afloat. Charles almost wishes that they could go back to the days in Lakay because even though it was horribly humid and hot, he had enjoyed exploring the swamps with Eliza and that old dog of hers. They’d go looking for plants, because that made Eliza feel better, and it put Charles' restless mind at ease, too. 

Even if Eliza was absolutely terrified of the alligators and would scream whenever they encountered one, it was a peaceful time — it felt like the calm before a storm. And in hindsight, it was. All the man could really do now though, was hope that Eliza was okay. That she hadn’t stubbornly followed Arthur to his death, that the brunette had been able to place his foot down with the loyal woman. That doesn’t do much to ease the part of his mind that wonders if maybe it would have been better for them to go together, though — because then Eliza wouldn’t be filled with the same feelings that lingered in Charles' soul now. 

And John… John was a stubborn fool himself, from what he could tell — although not relatives by blood, John had done very well to take after his older brother. But he had grown better, wiser, with time, Charles had noted. The man had seemed to become someone determined to protect and guard his family from the cruelty of the world, although Charles worried that this change in demeanor may have come too late. He wouldn’t be surprised if the law got their hands on John, and he was back in that damned prison — or put in a similar position to his brother. Charles wasn’t certain of which scenario would make John the lucky one. 

But Charles is certain that the pit in his stomach is only worsening, growing into a blackhole when he finally reaches his destination. It feels strange to see the blown-up bridge from this distance, and even stranger to gaze out into the rocky surroundings and feel a sickening dread that if the rumors are correct, he’ll find Arthur here. Limp, cold… Charles forces himself not to dwell on the thoughts, the potential facts. He puts his focus into trying to find the man if he’s even here. 

Most of the day is spent doing just that. Searching. He rides Taima slow and easy, investigating his surroundings for any animal tracks, or even unusual animals in the area — vultures, small creatures, even canids like foxes or wolves. Anything that would want to get their jaws into a free meal. Much to the man’s dismay, he eventually finds evidence of a fight on a rocky cliffside. This is when he dismounts Taima, and Charles finds himself climbing and moving in a way that feels so familiar, but so unnatural to the same extent.

It’s been some time since he’s left the gang to help the Wapiti tribe, and it shows in his rustiness with physical endurance, with the activities he would often be forced to participate in when he was actively assisting the gang. The cold doesn’t help any, either. The wind blows harsh against his face, and he has a hard time keeping his fingers dug into the cold stone underneath him. It almost feels as though he’s being beckoned away from something. It only makes the man more determined to press onward. 

Charles needs some sort of closure, and he knows that’s part of what pushes him forward. He’s successful in climbing the cliffside, and is greeted by a patch of greenery. Wildflowers are blooming against the green in spite of the weather, but they don’t stop a terrible feeling of nausea from punching Charles in his aching guts when he catches the sight of blood. It isn’t just a little bit of blood, either — there’s enough blood splattered against the grass and stone to indicate that something had happened here, something bad. 

The man wants to chalk it up to an animal’s death, but he knows that this isn’t the case. Not when he sees the imprint of boots against the dirt when he approaches. And the smell — it’s strong and sudden, and although Charles has been among his fair share of bodies of friends and family that he’s had to bury, it doesn’t stop the instinctive urge to gag. A hand lifts to his mouth and nose, and it takes the man a moment to recompose himself as he looks in the direction of the scent. 

He knows what’s waiting for him around the corner, even if he doesn’t want to admit it. Charles stays perfectly still as he regains his composure and sense of gravity, even though his mouth feels terribly dry and he can already feel his grief threatening to re-expose itself. It takes every fiber of his being to muster the courage to continue forward, to make the turn around the giant boulder and let his gaze drift toward a heartbreaking sight.

A body is laid only a few feet away from him, and he knows exactly who it is. Charles would recognize that frame anywhere, even if the person is now far more still than he has ever been previously, than he ever should be. He would know Arthur’s form from anywhere, he spent far too much time watching and observing the man — taking notice of his every little tick and quirk. When Charles musters the willpower to come closer, his heart aches at the sight of disheveled, bloodied and dirtied clothes. He had fought to the very end. 

Arthur’s face is what truly makes Charles want to wail like a child. His skin is pale and bruised, the familiar bags still residing underneath his now completely dull, glassy eyes — no longer is Charles greeted by a familiar blue tinged with shades of greens and yellows, but he’s staring back at something foggy and unclear. The bruises that stain Arthur’s face make him nearly unrecognizable, but Charles would know the man from anywhere and everywhere, no matter how marred his appearance became. His flawed but perfect nose is once again crooked, indicating that it had been snapped before his death. Charles can even see the starting signs of decomposition, bits of flesh now gone to reveal the body underneath. The sight of Arthur is grief-inducing. 

But the worst part of it all is how goddamn peaceful Arthur looks. His eyes are half-lidded and his head is tilted toward the sky, his lips stained red with his own blood only partially opened. It reminds Charles of waking up beside the man in the morning, on the very rare occasion that Arthur wouldn’t be awake before him. But even in his sleep, he had never looked fully at rest. Charles knew that no matter what, something weighed heavy upon the man’s shoulders, an invisible burden that no one, not Charles, not Eliza, could lift off of Arthur. Only death could do such a thing now. 

He can’t help the shuddering breath that he takes in, the way that his eyebrows furrow before a quiet sob racks his body, the sound itself muffled by his large hand against his mouth. Charles can’t bring himself to move and pick up the man just yet, and instead allows himself to finally mourn his loss. The sight of Arthur is a slap to the face from reality, letting it settle in and dawn upon him officially that the brunette man is in fact gone. Charles will never see him again, not after burying him properly. The man doesn’t deserve to be laid here, discarded like crow food. 

When Charles had regained some semblance of his natural calmness, he had carried Arthur to Taima. It wasn’t easy, even with Arthur’s illness reducing him to a ghost of his former self. He was still a big man nevertheless, and the ache that placing his body on the back of Taima had caused in Charles’ chest made everything so much harder. But the man was successful in carrying him, and further successful in riding Taima somewhere suitable for burial. 

It was a pretty spot that he had found. Somewhere small and secluded, but allowed a nice overlook to the miles of countryside and landscape that resided in front of the now midday sky. While the terrain itself was still rocky and somewhat hard to navigate, it would only ensure that only the people that Arthur would want present at his grave could approach. There were even perfectly placed rocks in the exact spot that Charles had wanted to place the man, rocks that would act as a makeshift gravestone and support the sign that the man had felt determined to place. 

Digging the hole was not an easy task. While Charles had made sure to pack the correct equipment for this excursion before he had departed, spending hours bent over, shoveling dirt from the earth to eventually put back into place, over his closest companion was both emotionally and physically taxing. But Charles refused to take a break, dissatisfied with the idea of leaving Arthur unburied longer than he needed to. Even as tears threatened to sting his eyes again, and his hands burned with how hard he gripped onto the wooden handle underneath his gloved skin as he continued pulling up more and more dirt. 

Eventually, he was satisfied with his handiwork and was able to place Arthur into the grave made for him. This time, Charles couldn’t help the silent tears that began to roll down his face as he began to cover the man with the soil and dirt that he had previously dug up. He allowed himself this moment of grief but refused to stop his work. Not until he was satisfied that Arthur had received the final treatment that he had deserved. A proper burial, with a proper grave marker — not a burial where he would be left to the animals and nature. 

That does make Charles wonder, though — was Arthur alone when he died? Was he afraid, wanting someone to hold his hand, to be present for him? Or was he ready for the embrace of the Reaper? Arthur had seemed uncertain, afraid , when the two had their discussion about his illness. Even if Arthur didn’t voice these feelings, these thoughts, Charles was certain that it was how he had felt. He could only really hope that his words had brought some sort of peace to Arthur in his final moments, an assurance that he did the best that he could. 

Maybe Arthur didn’t think he deserved to rest when Charles felt that he certainly did. The man’s line of thought is paused, however, as he stares down at a pile of dirt that now completely covers Arthur. The grave has been dug and built successfully — the next step is to make the gravestone marker, with the wood that the man had brought with him. It’s almost as hard as burying the man, to etch his name into the wood and be reminded of the days that they had spent together, making tiny, intricate carvings into wood pieces that Charles had brought as he tried to pry into Arthur’s emotions. 

Whether that communication of his emotions was via carving wood or actually using his words, Charles never minded. That was because Arthur would look at ease by the end of their session, his shoulders hunched instead of tensed, his posture relaxed instead of on edge. Arthur would look in his direction and a silent thank you would be shared between the pair via one look cast to one another. 

The words come to him naturally, after he’s finished with Arthur’s name. He isn’t quite sure how they come to him, but they certainly fit the man and everything that Charles had known for him to stand for: 

Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness. 

Burying Arthur had been a task that felt hard, impossible, even. The weight of the duty leaves Charles' body aching for release and freedom from the hard work as he finishes hammering in the wooden grave marker, his eyes carefully roaming the wood and freshly placed dirt for any sign of imperfection. The least that he could offer Arthur after everything was the best, after all. But when he’s finished and determined that there are no flaws, that this is in fact the perfect resting place for Arthur, that’s when Charles finally allows himself to bend down and grieve. 

Hunched forward and squatted in a position that calls for bending his knees, he carefully places his elbows against his legs before resting his head in his hands. A hand lifts to run through his hair as the tears begin, and this time, he doesn’t stop them. He doesn’t try to blink them away, or ignore the horrible ache in his chest, the dull throb now sharpened to something that feels akin to a knife being dug into an open flesh wound. Although his grief is loud, his sobs are silent against the still dusk air. 

Charles couldn’t tell anyone how long he had been sitting there, simply sobbing over Arthur’s grave to the point that his chest hurt and his shoulders ached with the force that his sobs shook his body with. But he could tell you that the moon had made her way into the sky with the stars by the time that his sobs had been forced to a halt, his eyes red and aching — unable to release any more of his emotional turmoil. Charles could tell you that he stood up on shaky, numb legs, and had to tuck his jacket closer to his person to try and shake the bite of the cold wind. 

He could also tell any other living soul that as he was finally making his departure from Arthur’s grave, he was cut short by a large deer. A buck, to be exact. The animal stood a few feet away from him, his head lifted from the grass that he had previously been grazing upon. The pair stared at each other, both equally stunned by the presence of the other being in front of them. Eventually, the buck was the first one to move. But he didn’t move at the pace that Charles would expect a startled animal to, he simply… Turned and walked away, slow and delicate. 

But the man would keep such information to himself, doubtful as he mounted Taima that another living soul would believe in his retelling of his final encounter with Arthur.