#artificial life UGH

[bookhobbit]

Trying for a second time to accept unflavored electrolyte powder unfortunately it still tastes like seawater smells

[doomed-era]

this is because i've been playing barnacle goose experiment but even though i don't typically like the idea that monsters are solely the creation of ganon/ganondorf/whatever zelda baddie we're dealing with in any given game, I do think the idea of ganondorf creating guys out of magic and whatever weird thing he found on the floor is really fun

[anotherpapercut]

I'm seriously having to resist so hard the urge to block everyone on this website over that math color post. if you think math is red I'm sorry but you're wrong and you're going to math hell also. forever.

[thesewordsareallihavetogive]

Life imitates art - Dr. Jack Abbot x Reader

Summary: 2.6k words. Jack is sent into a tailspin when the woman he’s been eyeing for months at his amputee support group arrives at the Pitt in a gurney. Based on this request by @seasiren212!

Warnings: canon-typical depiction of wounds and medical situations, cancer in remission, some medical jargon, reader’s history of BKA, Jack’s history of BKA & accident, age gap, angst, etc. The most unrealistic part of this fic is a doctor spending this much time with one patient (live laugh love the U.S. healthcare system).

a/n: ugh I cried a little bit while writing this. I’m so passionate about oncology care mwah. Abbot is working day shift in this fic. Surrender yourself to the plot and pretend he’s covering for Robby if you must. Divider credit!

At 23 years old, your leg was amputated just below the knee. You’d been fighting bone marrow cancer for a while now, and you were running out of treatment options. To mitigate the risk of significant metastasis, your oncologist recommended an amputation.

So it was off with your leg.

Before the amputation, you’d spent months in and out of the hospital. Somehow, despite the fatigue, aches, and genuine existential crisis over whether this reality was a fate better than death, you graduated with your Master's degree in art history after completing most of the program virtually from your hospital bed. You got special permission from the dean of your university’s college of the arts to defend your thesis from the hospital. Your nurses arranged for you to use a conference room on the floor and made sure everything was thoroughly cleaned to prevent the risk of secondary infection.

Your IV was hooked up to some medications you couldn’t pronounce, but by now, you’d learned how to wave your arms around wildly without letting the tubing hinder you. The thesis committee didn’t go easy on you during your defense just because you were sick. Good. You didn’t want them to. You’d researched and studied your ass off, and earned the right to defend your thesis. The one you’d spent countless sleepless nights and nauseating days working on. So what if you were presenting at UPMC’s Cancer Center?

The oncology unit staff were the first to celebrate you as soon as you made it out of the conference room with happy tears in your eyes. In the time you’d been presenting, the halls had been decorated with streamers. Balloons surrounded your hospital room, and you were given an elaborate bouquet of artificial flowers. You did it.

The RN who’d been caring for you the longest was the one to push your wheelchair across the stage during your hooding ceremony. The oncology unit staff lined the front row of the audience and cheered louder than you’d ever heard.

“MA” looked pretty damn good after your name in your email signature. The Master of Arts degree hung proudly on the wall of your apartment, a forever reminder of your resilience through it all.

It took grueling months to find the right prosthetic and get it fitted properly, and even more years of physical therapy to allow you to be here today, giving narrated walking tours through the Carnegie Museum of Art.

Jack met you at his amputee support group.

At first, he assumed you were there as a student. You were quiet. Observant. Some of the local clinical psychology degree programs assigned students to attend open support group meetings. The large, structured tote bag that followed you to every meeting supported his theory. He imagined you had a laptop, a textbook or two, and a can of Red Bull in the bag, if he had to guess.

You didn’t take notes like other students Jack saw in the past, but you didn’t seem like the type that needed to take notes in the moment, anyway. You were a breathtaking wallflower at the meetings, it was hard not to notice you. The floor-length dresses that complemented your body and draped across you in all the right places were delicate and dainty. Jack was dying to know if your personality matched your exterior.

If Abbot had to guess, he’d say the mystery girl at the amputee support group was in her mid-to-late twenties, though she didn’t necessarily dress like it. Your wardrobe was all maxi skirts and long flowy dresses, cardigans and cable knit sweaters, statement earrings and small chain necklaces. Jack overheard one of the younger group members complimenting your clothing style one day, describing it as “serving cottage core meets coastal grandma chic.” Whatever the hell that meant.

At one of the meetings, you barely showed up on time. You were flustered and a bit disheveled, blowing a stray strand of hair out of your face, but still beautiful as ever. An intricately decorated lanyard and your employee badge hung out of the purse’s wide mouth.

Your name, MA. Art Historian, Curator, and Guest Guide. Carnegie Museum of Art.

Hmm. Jack wasn’t really one for the arts. He was most creative when figuring out how to perform complex medical procedures in unconventional situations. He was methodical and analytical in his life. He approached situations and his work with scientific precision, but he could be tempted to give the museum a visit if it meant he might run into you.

The Pitt’s ambulance bay was never empty for long. Gurneys rolled in and out of the ER all day and night. After all his years in emergency medicine, few things surprised Doctor Abbot anymore.

Until you rolled in.

Dana was the first to reach the EMTs, taking report as she guided them to an available room. Doctor Abbot watched from the provider desk, his mouth slightly parted as his eyes tracked you the whole way across the Pitt.

The charge nurse barely made it out of the room and assigned the patient to Abbot before he jumped out of his seat and bee-lined to room five. “On it,” he said, to no one in particular. Dana stood back and observed his uncharacteristic movements for half a second with her hands on her hips before returning to her millions of other tasks.

Doctor Abbot pulled back the exam room curtain to reveal you sitting on the gurney, fidgeting with your museum badge and shaking your exposed shoe back and forth.

“Hi, kid,” he greeted, donning gloves. He took note of the prosthetic leg covered in floral designs resting next to your hip. Not a student. An amputee. Abbot hummed inwardly.

“Oh. Hi, Jack,” you responded, surprise gracing your face. You knew he was a doctor; he mentioned working at the hospital a couple of times during support group meetings, you just didn’t know he was a doctor here. You took him in. Frustratingly, he was handsome as ever in his black scrubs with toned, muscled arms that threatened to burst out of his short sleeves, with a badge that read Dr. Abbot. Attending Emergency Medicine Physician. Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center.

Despite the situation, you couldn’t help but notice that his gray curls were a little more mussed than usual, like he’d run his hands through them at least half a dozen times. You yearned to follow suit.

Mateo followed Doctor Abbot into the exam room not long after and glanced between you and the physician a couple of times, trying to decipher the dynamic. It was obvious the two of you knew each other, but he kept quiet and set up the WOW for orders in case Doctor Abbot needed it.

Jack sat down smoothly on a rolling stool and scooted close to your bedside. Maybe closer than was necessary, but no one in the room objected to it.

“What brings you in?” He swept his eyes over you analytically. You looked fine on the surface, sans the removed prosthetic accompanying you against the bed rails.

“Bum leg,” you sighed. This was embarrassing. Even when you leaned back against the gurney, unsuccessfully attempting to relax, you never broke eye contact with Jack.

“Figures. Mind if I take a look?” Abbot replied without missing a beat. He rubbed his chin, eyes darting between your face and the raised slope of your leg underneath your dress.

You hesitantly pulled up your skirt to reveal the angry red skin surrounding what was left of your knee joint. For some reason, exposing your thigh felt intimate, even in the hospital. It didn’t look good, and it admittedly had Jack concerned, but he wouldn’t let you know that. At least not yet. It didn’t look like cellulitis, at least not on the surface. There was no wound weeping or skin dimpling. He’d still run cultures just to be safe.

“Are you resting your leg often? Do you remove the prosthetic?” He ran through a slew of questions. Sure, he knew more about amputations and prosthetics than the average physician, but he wanted to know more about your story.

“Well, I’ve given roughly 8 hours of walking tours through the museum every day for the past week, plus 2 hours today,” you rattled off your schedule. It was strenuous, but this was the life you worked and studied and fought to build for yourself. You had no regrets.

Jack gave you a stern look, and you shrank under his gaze. You almost reminded him that he was being hypocritical, with his 12-hour shifts at the Pitt, but decided against it.

“What else?” He pressed. You sighed.

“I can put my socks and sleeves on, but they’re tighter than normal. The prosthetic will fit on, but it hurts.” The a lot was silent, but you both knew it was there. “I was limping this morning, and I eventually fell while giving a tour,” you continued. Doctor Abbot immediately scanned you for signs of any other fall-related injury. No bruises or bumps as far as he could see. “But a guest caught me. And the museum director insisted that I get checked out. Even though I’m fine,” you finished, exasperated.

“You and I must have different definitions of ‘fine,’ my friend,” Jack exhaled and leaned back, just far enough to not topple off the stool.

A comfortable silence fell between you two while Jack weighed treatment options. This was more of an outpatient specialist matter, but he was glad you came in. He’d learned more about you in the past 15 minutes than he had in the past 3 months of staring longingly at you during the amputee support group meetings.

Mateo felt like he was intruding on a private moment. He cleared his throat and started preemptively entering orders in your chart.

“Cultures? For cellulitis rule-out, Dr. Abbot?” The physician nodded thankfully to the nurse. Jack didn’t miss the flash of fear that crossed your face. Doctor Abbot ordered an ultrasound as well, just to make sure there wasn’t an underlying abscess forming, potentially evidenced by the edema at the end of your limb.

You cleared your throat. “Could you also run a CBC?” you asked, wringing your hands together. Abbot nodded again and stood, dusting his hands on his pants to keep them busy.

“Why?” It wasn’t accusatory. He’d do it anyway if you asked for it; he just wanted to know why.

“I’m in remission. Bone marrow cancer. Doesn’t hurt to check for signs of recurrence when funky things happen,” you shrugged, though you were obviously tense as you gestured to what was left of your left while pulling your dress skirt back down.

The room went silent.

That definitely would’ve been added to your chart’s medical history if you hadn’t come in by ambulance and instead had the pleasure of meeting Lupe at registration.

Up until now, why you attended the support group meetings wasn’t Jack’s business. Now, you were his patient. Your health and history were absolutely his business now.

Doctor Abbot offered a small smile and agreed to the additional test. You didn’t want his sympathy, he knew that better than anyone. He knocked on the door frame on his way out with a promise to be back shortly.

For a minute, Jack pondered what it would’ve been like to know he’d be losing his leg before it happened. When he had his accident, the decision was made for him. The blood loss had been near fatal. He’d long since passed out when the military medics realized they were forced to decide between his life or his limb, the lesser of two evils. He wondered if he had the time to plan a new reality beforehand, if things would be any different. Any better. He didn’t think they would.

He thought you must’ve been young when you were diagnosed with cancer. You were young now, notably younger than him. He wondered when you had the amputation, how old you were—how young you were. The ‘stump’, as you called it, was healed. The multiple incisions left silvery scars on your marred skin. You had lived without the leg for quite a while now.

Mateo drew your blood panel and cultures. He carefully added the bottles and tubes into a stat biohazard lab bag with the promise that an ultrasound tech would be by soon.

“Good news and bad news,” Doctor Abbot strolled back into your exam room with results as soon as he could, true to his word.

“Good news: Blood cultures were negative and the CBC was all within normal limits. And the bad news,” he continued, scrolling through your chart on an iPad before looking up at you. You nodded with a sharp inhale and gripped the gurney’s side rail, prepping for whatever diagnosis he might deliver. His eyes softened.

“Bad news,” he said quieter, “is you’ll need to stay off that leg for a while. At least until some of the inflammation goes down. I’ll leave the specific guidance up to your prosthetist. But for now, doctor’s orders are to cut back on the 8-hour walking tours. You got a wheelchair?” He asked with his arms crossed over his distractingly broad chest. He was solution-oriented, but not convinced you would heed the medical advice. You were strong-willed, that much was evident.

You groaned and threw an arm over your face to cover your eyes. You thought of the wheelchair you’d shoved to the back of your closet years ago. After a few beats of silence, you nod. You’re not happy about the plan of care, but you agree to it nonetheless.

“Do you have someone to take you home?” Jack asked, shuffling your discharge paperwork to keep his hands busy. Otherwise, he might give in to the urge to reach out to you. 

Everyone you knew was either working or busy. Internally, you felt like a burden. The people in your life didn’t feel that way, but it didn’t make the guilt go away. You chuckled inwardly. What doesn’t kill you gives you a dark sense of humor.

“I’ll figure it out,” you replied nonchalantly, already opening the rideshare app on your phone. Jack frowned. If he weren’t in the thick of his shift, he’d offer to let you hang around in the lounge and take you home himself, but that wouldn’t be for another 5 hours. At least.

“I’ll come check on you after my shift,” he resigned. It wasn’t a question or an offer.

“You don’t have to do that,” you looked up at him from beneath your lashes, shocked that he would even suggest such a thing.

“I insist. It’ll make me feel better knowing you’re okay,” Jack replied without missing a beat. So he cares about you. Hmm. His hands found his hips, only adding to his inherent sass factor.

“You don’t know where I live,” you retorted. The banter was fun. God forbid a girl take advantage of her amputation to flirt with a silver fox trauma doc.

“I’m literally two taps away from finding your address in your chart,” Abbot smirked. He wasn’t lying. A couple of gestures on the iPad later, he was parroting your address back at you.

“Fine. But you better bring food with you.” It was your turn to leave no room for argument. You eyed him up and down, watching the way he squared his shoulders with confidence.

“It’s a date,” Jack replied easily, without thinking. You couldn’t tell whose cheeks were more flushed, yours or his. He didn’t dare take it back, though. Either way, you agreed.

“It’s a date.”

a/n: At the risk of sounding desperate, I'm begging y'all to leave comments and interact with my work. The likes are so super duper appreciated but I kind of feel like I'm posting into a void when 99% of the engagement is likes with no comments. anyway!! COMMENTS ARE REALLY APPRECIATED!! They keep me motivated to write more <3

Find more of my writing on my master list.

Turn on post notifications @thesewordsxupdates to get notified when I release new fics.

[lass-us-slay]

So I read a prompt about how Wonder Woman found Danny in a trash can (don’t remember which one) and I was bored.

So I took that lil info and made it into an AU.

So basically, Danny get yeeted into this unknown universe and has no where to live. And no where to live means no money. No money means no food. No food means Danny can’t keep his human half sustained.

So what does he do?

Decides to not change into a human and live in a trash can.

Yes you heard that right, live in a trash can.

Because he’s a ghost, he doesn’t have to worry about the germs and stuff. But that doesn’t mean he lives in just any trash can! He lives in a clean one ☝️

AND he also decorated it with his name so other people know it’s his!

And so Danny has been here for a while now and realizes

Holy shit there’s hero’s here- you know what, why doesn’t he have hero’s back home?!

And being minorly annoyed jealous (but he’s never admitting that)he thought:

Well since there’s hero’s here already, guess I’m not needed.

.

.

.

Good. I’m tired af

And so Danny caries on his life, being content with his trash can and scaring whoever comes into his alley. It’s fun. Sure he sometimes needs to ugh overshadow people to feed his human side, but other than that.

It’s going great.

But Danny doesn’t realize that with Amity gone (or smth, you choose) which was his haunt, he slowly makes the trash can into his new haunt.

And slowly but surely, Danny’s beloved haunt trash can starts to become other worldly kinda.

Yk because of the ectoplasm.

So now Danny’s lovely trash can haunt has more space inside and- Hey Danny can actually sleep in it better!! And he got some company too!

In the form of blob ghosts.

Two actually.

They keep his trash can clean and help purifying some corrupted ectoplasm that he finds. Because for some reason this universe’s ectoplasm seems half way artificial and tastes a bit weird. Which is where the blob ghosts help out in.

Everything was great.

Danny was loving the trash can life style.

He has two blob ghosts friends. Which he named Sam and Tucker, and yea they couldn’t talk but that was fine.

He wasn’t lonely, he wasn’t. He had two very much talking friends like Sam and Tucker.

However one day two weirdly dressed people- oh they were hero’s.

Well anyway they found him, one woman stripper and one furry guy.

But it was on accident! He was just peaking out of his beloved haunt trash can, and they spotted him.

He stared, they stared back.

Then the woman stripper asked him questions, even when he said:

“Don’t mind me, have a nice day!”

But they just kept bother him and giving him weird looks and glances.

Which- rude.

Didn’t they see his mark on his haunt trash can? Obviously it means it’s his home, so they shouldn’t be bothering him still. He’s safe as can be.

Plus.

It’s not like he’s looking at them in suspicion and weirdness, I mean look at them! What kinda cheep knock off vampire fury mix and American stripper style clothing are those!

They should mind their own business!

———

Just a silly lil drawing of this lmao, don’t mind me.

[girlsworldillusion]

Scream for me little lamb

Ghostface!Aemond x Fem!Reader

Summary: You don't know him, you haven't even seen him before. Yet this cruel killer is in your mind, entangled like a parasite. For just one night you want to get rid of this feeling - to get rid of him. What's the worst that could happen?

Rated: Explicit (+18)

Dividers: @cafekitsune

Word count: 5k

Author's Note: This story contains themes that may be disturbing or triggering for some, such as: DETAILED DESCRIPTIONS OF PANIC ATTACKS, BLOOD, MURDER, OBSESSIVE BEHAVIOR, THREATS, AND SEX. Your health (mental and physical) should always be your priority, if any of these themes are too heavy for you to handle I beg that you ignore this post. To those who choose stay, I wish you a good read!

The reader suffers from some emotional issues. But who doesn't, right?

English is not my first language, I apologize for any mistakes you may find.

Come on, it’ll be fun, she said.

You urgently need to relax, she said.

It’s just a quiet night, what’s the worst that could happen? She said.

Quiet night my ass, you think.

“Come on, pumpkin, you’re not even trying!” Your roommate scolds you, shouting too close to your ear, causing you to flinch with a uncomfortable grimace. “There’s life outside the dorms, you know? Is it really that much of a challenge to just enjoy the party?” Her pout is exaggerated enough for anyone in the room to see, even with the shitty stereoscopic lighting in the place.

“Hey, just try, okay? Smile, drink more, find someone cool to flirt with a little. I don’t know, do something other than just studying nonstop! Please try to have fun!” The liquid in the red cup clutched between your fingers nearly spills onto your clothes with the not-so-subtle push she gives you, her shrill, excited voice echoing louder and louder in your ear, managing to accomplish the impressive feat of overcoming the already criminally loud volume of the music playing on the speakers.

"Your idea of ​​fun is very different from my idea of ​​fun." You say, a good few decibels below her tone, grudgingly sipping another sip of your sickly sweet drink. "Ugh, this is horrible!" You wince at the syrupy, artificial taste of alcohol on your tongue, the bridge of your nose wrinkling in disgust - the exact same reaction as the last four times you've had a drink. Mako notices it too, if the wry laugh that leaves her lips is anything to go by. But what in the world is this anyway? And why in the hell do you keep drinking?

"Here I am, just trying to be a good friend by getting you out of that depressing cave you call a dorm to bring some action and joy into your life to, you know, expand your horizons, and you pay me back with complaints and boredom? That hurts, pumpkin, really hurts!" She's a total drama queen and your completely unimpressed expression makes it clear.

"Seriously, gaslighting now?" You roll your eyes so hard you think you can feel them in the back of your head.

"Don't blame a girl for trying!" She holds up her hand in a peace sign, another unrepentant smile on her lips.

You shake your head in denial.

"Anyway, I still find it really weird that they're throwing a party so soon after those students were killed." Your voice drops lower, looking out at the noisy crowd with a frown of disgust.

She snorts, knowing full well that something like this was coming.

"Look, I'm sad about what happened too. But it's okay to relax once in a while, okay? Shit, you're young, single, and hot as hell. You should be enjoying your life. We can't let some weirdo with a death god complex stop us from having the best time of our lives!" Your friend gestures wildly with the hand that isn't holding her glass, the alcohol in her system making her even more giggly and reckless than usual.

She exchanges 'Rated: M' glances with a buff guy across the room - a popular member of the football team and one of the hosts of the party, you recognize - winking provocatively as she shrugs her shoulders to show off her breasts, being completely and embarrassingly open about her naughty intentions toward him tonight.

"Come on, you can't honestly tell me you don't think any of these frat guys are good enough to eat in one bite."

There’s a hint of reprimand dancing on the tip of your tongue, an almost natural instinct to tell Mako exactly how selfish she’s being right now, insensitive even, with everything that’s happened recently. You weren’t close or even knew those students directly, it’s true. But they were still students at your college, faces you saw every day among the masses. They were people who had been around for a short time, walking and breathing. And then they weren’t anymore. Their young lives were taken away before they could know exactly what they wanted to do with their futures, who they were going to be in the grand, merciless scheme of things.

You don’t feel comfortable celebrating when there are parents at home crying over their children whose bodies have barely cooled underground.

But Mako was right about one thing.

The idea of ​​living in daily fear of a man you had never seen in your life was draining every bit of spare energy from you. This mysterious killer had managed to disturb you, making you constantly paranoid, scared, and fearful. You spent your days looking around, suspicious of everything and everyone, with the electrifying feeling that at any moment he could jump in front of you and make you his newest victim. He even controlled your schedule. Because of him, you barely left the dorms anymore, always declining your friends' invitations with lame excuses. Not that you were a social butterfly before this, but this was a completely different level of seclusion - high even by your standards.

The thought that this man, who probably didn't even know you existed, was dictating the way you lived your own life was disturbing, to say the least.

You looked around, uncomfortable at how everyone was shouting, dancing, smoking, laughing, singing loudly - acting as if nothing had happened. As if three college friends hadn’t been brutally murdered a few days ago. It’s wrong, and your whole body screams it. It’s not respectful, it’s not safe. And yet, for some reason beyond explanation, you seem to be the only one terrified; the only one who’s actually having your life changed to avoid becoming a statistic.

And in that moment, with that realization in mind, Mako’s words make some sense. You don’t want to give this psychopath that kind of power.

“God, is sex all you think about?” That’s what you choose to say after a long pause, sighing in boredom at the nothing less than shameless winks your friend is giving the guy through her eyelashes. The guy, surrounded by his usual horde of friends who are just as scoundrels as he is, is returning Mako’s advances with double the intensity and lack of decorum; splaying a large hand over his jeans, right where the bulge of an admittedly sizable erection is, grinning at her like a mediocre porn star. Any more obvious than that and they’d be fucking right here on the floor, in front of all these people.

That, coupled with the creeping onset of a growing headache with each deafening beat of the speaker and the unstoppable chatter of the students around you, is making you more anxious than usual. The mass of bodies squeezing against each other to the rhythm of the music is so thick that you can barely tell one person from another; the smell of alcohol, shared sweat, sex, and cheap weed makes you wrinkle your nose every few minutes.

For socially stunted people like you, there were few things as overwhelming as a frat party roaring at the top of its lungs.

“Hey! Don’t blame me for this, blame those thirsty youthful hormones.” She shrugs as she speaks, tilting her head to slyly wrap the straw between her lips and suck on some more of her drink, her catlike gaze dancing indecisively between you and the guy from the football team.

You roll your eyes, but can’t help but feel a bit tinge of envy at her easy, playful attitude, the way she could just tune out her problems and enjoy the ride. She’s at home here, you notice; a natural in her habitat. This is normal for her — just another night amidst the noise and blatant flirting, playing with lewd looks that by itself carry more sexual activity than you’ve experienced in months.

Mako has always been your antithesis; bold and vibrant, seeing a bright and fun side to every situation — no matter how fucked up it was. Always trying to color the monochromatic palette of the world with the eccentric catastrophe that is her personality.

You, on the other hand…

Suffice it to say, your way of seeing the world is far less optimistic.

You pinch the bridge of your nose in exasperation for a second, already knowing that you’re going to regret your next decision.

But you were already here, right? And she said it would be fun. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad to try and enjoy it.

You sigh deeply before changing your expression, looking up at an expectant and anxious Mako, practically bouncing on her feet as she awaits your decision.

"So...you think I'm hot, um? Tell me more about it." Your lips stretch into a forced smile as you awkwardly shake your hips in that stupid Sailor Moon costume she forced you to wear, trying to have even a fraction of the blissful ignorance that naturally flows from your friend. You want to enjoy the ride. Even if the base boost of the music is threatening to tear down not only the walls of the frat house, but also the ones in your skull.

Mako's loud laugh assures you that you've managed to make her happy.

It's like she said...

What's the worst that could happen?

▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎

"No, no, no, not now..." You get your answer about two hours later, with your hands resting on the bathroom counter of a random suite upstairs, staring at your helpless reflection in the mirror.

There is some kind of purple LED in place of the conventional bulbs, flooding the entire bathroom with low lighting typical of a gaming room or something, a fact that only serves to make you even more distressed. The nuances in light and dark shades of violet almost mockingly highlight your blatant desperation in the mirror's reflection.

It is true that the intense blush on your cheeks and the bridge of your nose and the skin damp with sweat could easily be justified by those drinks and every attempt at electrifying dance and involuntary contact with countless heat bodies in the cramped party room, as well as your unstable breathing and disheveled hair.

But the way your hands are shaking violently where they’re flat on the granite, or the way your heart trapped in your ribcage seems to swell until it threatens to burst, and how your throat is tightening to the point where you’re choking on tiny, fragile wheezes…

These symptoms speak of something else…

You’re about to have a panic attack on irrefutable evidence.

God, how long has it been since you’ve had one of these? A year? Maybe longer?

It doesn’t matter. Fuck, it doesn’t matter now!

You sigh a thin, impatient sound between your teeth, the strands of hair on the side of your face trembling along with your entire body, your hand letting go of the edge of the sink to palm in anguish the space between your breasts beneath the garish purple lace of your costume — where your heart feels like it’s being crushed in a tight fist.

Could it have been the deafening beat of the music? Has your seclusion for so long left you so unprepared to deal with something like this? Or could it have been the incessant chatter of the students? Maybe the sheer number of people crammed into this godforsaken frat house that was clearly not designed to hold so many at once? Could it just be a consequence of your obsessive neurosis about him?

"97..."

You're falling. Or maybe flying?

"89..."

Floating in time and space. Deaf to anything but the terrors of your own mind. Reciting decreasing prime numbers like your therapist had taught you, a conscious effort to control and distract your collapsing nerves and the painful pounding of your heart.

"Fuck...fuck...83 -, ugh!"

Your eyes squeeze tightly together, unwilling to face your ravaged reflection in the mirror any longer, your head spinning in denial. The walls are too close, the floor too far beneath your feet, your own skin too tight around your flesh.

"79," you force the number from your lips, force your breath out in shallow puffs, cold sweat trickling down the back of your neck.

The thumping music downstairs is a bit muffled now, though the party is as lively as ever - but up here you feel your world shudder and crumble beneath your feet. 

But you'll survive. You always survive.

Keep breathing...just keep breathing -

▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎

"7..."

You've been counting prime numbers for longer than you can keep track of right now, but somewhere along the grueling hell that is imploding in your own mind, your voice has regained a bit of strength. Your fingers are also shaking less, you notice distantly.

With a pained sniff, you look up at the mirror as you feel you've regained a fraction of control of yourself, taking in the humiliating image before you.

Your gaze is dull and tired. Your nose and cheeks are redder than before, your skin sticky with sweat that's now almost dried. Your whole body still trembles slightly in the aftermath of the panic attack, and the hair around your face is messier than before from all the times you pulled it in the middle of the crisis. You're a mess, undeniably. But you feel less like shit now than you did a few minutes ago, and that should count as some kind of bittersweet victory in your book of failures.

With a tug, you pull the long white gloves off your hands to turn on the faucet, letting the water run down your cupped palms to spray a little on your face. The cold water on your overheated skin makes you sigh.

This is the kind of person you had become, isn't it? Someone incapable of going to a simple frat party without having a damn panic attack. How pathetic.

"That's it, no more parties for you, young lady." You mumble as you dry your hands and cheeks on the fluffy towel hanging next to the sink, silently praying that your shaky legs will cooperate on the walk to your dorm on the other side of campus.

Mako wouldn't much like knowing that you were already leaving, but you'd like it even less for her or any of your friends to know about your little meltdown in the upstairs bathroom. It was bad enough that you had no control over it, you didn't need to see the pity reflected in her eyes when she found out, only adding to your humiliation.

Poor little broken thing, she would think.

Maybe you could just slip away without being seen and text her when you got dorms to say you were okay, leaving her questions to deal with later. You had already handled more than you could handle tonight, she would understand eventually. Not that she would notice your absence for a while, busy as she was swapping saliva and other bodily fluids with that guy.

Your phone vibrates abruptly on the counter and you jump at the unexpected noise, blinking rapidly at the letters on the screen.

Unknown Number.

With a eye roll and a still-racing heartbeat, you decide to just ignore the call, as you usually do every time an 'unknown number' pops up. Honestly, who still makes calls these days when you have a messaging app that works just fine, thank you very much? But whoever is behind that call doesn't feel the same way, and soon your iPhone's screen flashes again, bright as a beacon in the purple bathroom lighting, the device moving a few inches across the counter with the vibrations. You sigh and ignore it once more until you're done, but it vibrates again on a third try. And a fourth, when the last one doesn't work.

On the fifth try, you pick up your phone and answer with an exasperated huff, summing up your mood perfectly.

"Hello?"

The person on the other end of the line has the audacity to let out a sigh of relief - dramatic even, you might say, upon hearing your voice.

"There she is. For a moment there I thought you weren't going to answer, princess." The voice that greets you is soft, laughing, a satisfied and calm masculine purr.

"I tried. What do you want?" You answer sullenly, not in the mood to deal with this probable pervert who has nothing better to do with his life than to disturb random people late at night. You were never the brightest star when it came to social chess, and you certainly wouldn't start being so soon after your first panic attack after so long without any episodes. You were out of practice. Your head throbs, your nerves are frayed, your voice is fragile, the muscles in your body ache from the time you spent tense and trembling during the crisis. You just want to go bed.

"Easy now, little girl. I just want to know if you're okay." He hums, oblivious to your irritation.

You know he clearly hears the disdainful snort that leaves your lips. Before you can respond, however, he continues with the sentence that would change your life forever.

"That was really bad...are you sure you're better now?"

You blink at the mirror, your brows furrowed in irritation and headache. You know you should just end the call, not entertain any malicious intentions from this stranger. Yet, you find yourself answering before you even realize it.

"What are you talking about?"

"Your panic attack, love. That was a big one, hm? I thought it would never end." He hums nonchalantly, as if discussing his favorite ice cream flavor, and you part your lips at your reflection, a warning shiver settling at the base of your neck and slowly making its way down your spine.

"Um," you swallow uncomfortably, subtly glancing up at the walls and tight corners of the bathroom, looking for possible openings or hidden cameras. You had the bad luck to walk into some weird, perverted frat nerd's room, is that it? "So you're at the party too. Having fun time?" You shrug in the mirror, trying to sound blasé about what he said, but your voice is noticeably shakier than you’d like.

There’s no reason to be nervous, you try to reason with yourself when your visual scan doesn’t point to any apparent cameras. This guy probably just saw you hurrying up the stairs and is curious about your delay in returning to the party, that’s all. Although it’s still weird, since you made sure to hide in the privacy of the bathroom before your meltdown was actually noticeable to any prying eyes.

And how the hell did he have your number anyway?

"Oh yeah. Having a great time." The man answers, the lightheartedness in his voice fading to a deeper, darker tone at the end, though the smile in his voice is clear - mocking, even through the call line.

"By the way, I loved your costume. Which Sailor are you?" He prompts, returning to his airy tone, and you entertain once again the urge to just hang up on him, your already severely damaged nerves not quite able to handle the load of honest, and pointless, curiosity in the stranger's husky voice. The abrupt change in intonation makes your headache throb more by the second.

"Uh, Sailor...Mars...I guess?" You shrug, unsure why exactly you bother answering, the tip of your index and middle finger on your other hand coming up to massage your temple in slow circles, eyelashes resting on the top of your cheeks as you squint tiredly. Honestly, you're not sure if your answer is right. Having barely time (or interest, to be honest) to assess the costume before tonight - when it was shoved rudely in your face by a Mako determined to bring you to this party. You don't trust your knowledge of Sailor Moon, or any anime for that matter, to confidently answer the man's question. But...yeah...you think you might be right.

"It looks so cute on you, sweetie." He purrs on the other side; sickeningly sweet, sweet as molasses. And that's what makes you straighten up in front of the mirror - his voice suddenly sweet. Your eyes become fixed, a small hitch in your breath; suspended, alert, waiting for his next words. "I've thought so since you arrived at the party. So cute and so fucking pretty. Tiny and pretty in that silly costume."

"W-what? Who's...?" You swallow uncomfortably, but he interrupts you.

"So pretty, and so lonely too. Always lonely, aren't you sweet girl?" The way he says it, confident and calm, as if he’s absolutely certain of what he’s saying, as if he knows you. You squirm, agitated and raw, but you clench your fist at your side.

“And how would you know that?” You want to sound sharp, but you know your voice betrays how much he’s upsetting you.

“Oh, I can see that, princess.” He breathes, followed by a low hum, stretching out an enigmatic pause until your fingers are trembling around the phone. “I see how you’re always alone; misfit and scared, like a little deer hiding from the glare of headlights to avoid being caught. Isn’t that what you do, love? Trying everything to get away from that airheaded friend of yours and others equally idiotic, burying your nose in some book in the quietest part of the library so you don’t have to talk to anyone. Your hiding place, isn’t it?” He laughs with clear disdain and you feel your vision blurring, the discomfort in your stomach worsening with each word he utters.

But he doesn't stop there.

"I see how those beautiful eyes are always brimming with emotions, emotions that you deliberately refuse to share with anyone, no matter how much they insist that you open up. It's interesting how you have social options, but you choose solitude every single time. Not that that's a complaint, of course. Solitude suits you well, sweet thing."

Your breathing is faster now, loud enough for the stranger on the other side to hear, but you don't care about that. All you can think about is the information the man spewed into your ear.

He knows where you retreat to escape the incessant noise of the world around you, he knows the walls you've built around yourself, the emotional blockage in opening up to anyone - your complete unwillingness to do so. He’s not just talking about the color of clothes that you usually wear around campus — a quirk that anyone could notice and use to scare you at a time like this. No, it’s not that simple. He’s talking about intimate things, about feelings; things that only someone who lives with you could say.

The thing is, you’re not an idiot. A self-imposed hermit with anxiety issues? Of course yes. But not an idiot. You understand enough about human psychology to know that every word that comes out of this stranger’s mouth is a threat cloaked in a teasing, sugar-coated tone. And the fact that he’s telling you personal things isn’t coming from some bizarre attempt to initiate a social interaction with you, but a demonstration that he knows exactly who you are. The game is blatantly in his favor, because he knows you, but you have no idea who he is. He holds the power here, and he’s making that clear to you.

"Are you okay there, princess? You've gone so quiet on me sudden." His voice snaps you out of your trance once more, eyes flickering rapidly to your horrified reflection in the mirror.

"W-who are you, a fucking stalker? How the hell do you know this things about me?" He laughs at the false bravado in your voice, your discomfort obvious and clear to him, no matter how much you don't want it to be.

"Nah, more like a secret admirer, I'd say." He answers you matter of factly, the acidic smile on his lips bleeding through the line. "Secret not for long, of course." There's a hint of suspense in it, something ominous that lingers in the silence that follows, as if he's purposefully fermenting you in his dark insinuation.

That's it, you need to hang up.

"Don't call me again or I swear I'll report you to the police, idiot." You threaten with a venomous sigh. A bluff, of course. There was no way you could make a minimally consistent complaint when you not only had no information about who this crazy man could be, but there wasn't even a real number registered for that call that could serve as evidence in a future police report. Unknown Number, that was all you had to work with. He knew that too, judging by the amused laughter buzzing on the other side of the line. You still hear it clearly when you pull the phone away from your ear to click the red icon on the screen, ending the call.

You're shaking when you look up at your reflection in the mirror, the woman in front of you staring at you with wide eyes and a scared face, the rush of raw adrenaline in your veins making your body vibrate like a power cable.

She said it would be fun.

Mako said it would be fun.

You shouldn't be here tonight if it weren't for that damned promise.

The prospect of change wasn't appealing to you; safety was appealing. Habits and routine were appealing. Habits and routine kept you healthy, safe. Nothing outlandish ever happened in your life, and you almost preferred it that way — if there were no surprises, there would be no disappointments, no risks, no panic attacks.

You weren’t supposed to be here tonight, and there was no other explanation than the folish notion that some cosmic misalignment had occurred and you were stuck right in the middle of an anomaly.

You try to take a deep breath, the discomfort in your chest indicating a possible second wave of panic approaching. No, no, not again. You just want to leave, you want to get out of this damn house and back to the safe confines of your dorm room before any more horribly improbable things happen to you tonight.

Rationally, you know that leaving the bathroom doesn’t seem like the most sensible option, especially when the stranger on the phone has offered you clues that he’s lurking outside. But all your scared, adrenaline-fueled mind can process at the moment is the urgent desire to get away from this place as quickly as possible. And that’s why you take one last deep breath, offering one more look at the forlorn woman in the mirror before quickly grabbing your gloves from the counter and turning to open the bathroom door, walking out without looking up as you unlock your phone with trembling fingers to text Mako.

"Ouch!" You gasp as you hit your forehead on something solid as soon as you step out, your phone dancing between your hands with the impact until it falls to the floor with a loud thud, along with your white gloves. Your instinctive reaction is to bend down to pick it up, already fearing possible damage to the screen, a damage that you certainly couldn't pay at the moment, but the tip of a black boot immediately appears in your line of vision, kicking your phone into the bathroom with a rough blow.

"Hey, what's your problem?!" You growl, looking up, your neck craning to glare at the rude idiot in front of you.

However, the indignation dies on your tongue and your heart sinks in your chest when the empty eyes of a masked figure stare back at you.

It's a costume party, of course, and the guy is in costume. There's nothing really suspicious about it. Nothing you should think twice about.

But when your eyes slide to what he holds between his fingers; the blade of an intimidatingly large kitchen knife, dripping thick liquid in fat crimson drops onto the floor, the smell is ferrous and acrid and so unmistakable; so strong that not even the smell of cheap weed and wet sex that seems to be embedded in every square inch of this frat house is enough to cover up that odor. Blood. Human blood. Dripping and heated.

And you just know.

You know it's him.

God knows how many days (fucking weeks) your hyperfocus has been on this man. The search bar of your browser and social media was full of questions about him, hunting like a detective in the safe solitude of your dorm room, eagerly searching for any clues to his identity. Nothing but "tall masked man" was what you came up with, no matter how hard you tried. His victims didn't live to tell the tale and the few, rare glimpses of him were too vague to confirm anything.

It’s insane the idea that you could tell it was him when there was barely any information about who he might be or what he looked like, but you know — you just know.

He stands there, relaxed and unfazed as you study him with growing horror, as if it were the natural thing to do — as if he’d been waiting all along for you to open the door so he could enter. And then the masked figure takes a casual step into the bathroom, the easy confidence in this simple act foreshadowing his ease in overpowering his victims.

You swallow hard, backing away slowly as you lock eyes with the killer’s empty mask holes. The notion that there’s no way out of the room becoming painfully obvious to you. The man takes up the entire space of the exit; the width of his shoulders spanning almost from one side of the doorframe to the other, his long legs slightly apart to fill any gaps.

The only way out of here would be if you stepped over him; and that wasn’t going to happen.

So much for a fun night.

(Part II in progress, if you are interested.)

[smutallyouwant]

Twice One-Shot World chp. 3

Premium Sex Doll

Word Count: aprroximately 3k words

Momo x M Reader

You're a struggling young adult, you got a job that doesn't even suffice for your needs. One day a business man came to your house and offered you a deal that you can't say no to.

Includes: Rape role play

" Fuck my life, my work at the convenient store only pays me enough for my food and rent. I don't even have some extra money to have some fun, bro " you said on the phone.

" Man, maybe if you followed your mom to the States maybe your life would be better "

" Fuck her too, since my dad died she got a new partner and left me. Yes I decided not to go to the States with her because I don't like her having another man " you answered.

" Some luck will surely come for you, don't give up " your friend answered.

*knock knock knock

" Thanks bro, someone is at the door. So bye now "

You walked out of your bed and opened the door of your apartment. A man in a suit suddenly asked if he may come in. You're skeptical at first but what can he get from you if he robbed your house? Nothing, so you let him in and closed the door.

" Please sit down sir, I can only offer you water sorry " you said.

" Don't bother this talk will be short and you can't say no to this "

-The next day came-

*beep beep

A truck pulled over in front of your apartment and brought a big wooden box inside your apartment.

" here's your package sir, we just need you to sign up here "

You signed the paperwork and they left. You opened the box and you lifted a doll wearing white top and white shorts. The man yesterday offered you half a million dollars to try out their sex dolls. They are made with artificial materials similar to silicone but the texture is much more improved and it simulates human skin and flesh. Only 10 of these are contributed around the world. They examined their test runners carefully so that they will not be caught by the law, as their production is illegal. They prefer not so prominent people. But in exchange you have to give up your current job. You accepted and they gave you half the money straight to your bank before leaving.

" Hell, this doll is crazy beautiful. Do I really get to have sex with this? "

You opened the instructions, it said that it needed to be charged but it was delivered full of battery. It said that it has voice control you just need to say " Momo " before the command. The instructions said " Say, Momo, open to activate"

" Momo, Open " you said.

" Good morning master "

" Wwwwoooo " you shouted.

You were shocked that it said a word and also moved like a person towards you. The doll puts its arms on your shoulders.

" You can command me anything , master"

" Call me, Momo " she added.

" Momo, stand still "

Momo stood there and her arms returned to neutral. You're still shocked at this point, you pressed her shoulder and grabbed one of her boobs and it feels just like a real human. On this point you're aroused, you begin sniffing its shoulders and her scent is as sweet as a flower. It's been so long since you did this to a woman and it made you more excited.

You started kissing her neck while groping her ass and boobs. But something is missing.

" Momo, you can move now and moan for me " you commanded.

Momo hugged your neck and her other arm is caressing your face. She also closed the gap between her waist and yours to grind your bulge into her shorts.

" Ugh, master that feels so good "

" Call me Y/N " you said

"yess Y/N, does Momo taste good? "

" Yes Momo, you're so fucking good " you answered.

Her lips are so plump and cute that you decided to take a taste. You slammed your mouth into hers and sloppily kissed Momo. Momo does have some automated actions when taking part in sex activity. It is stated in the manual. She started caressing your bulge and she also kissed your neck. As she does so you removed your pants and underwear.

" Momo, suck my cock. Suck it good "

You lead her to the bedroom and you sit on the bed. She spits on your throbbing cock and licks it wildly before taking it all in her mouth.

" UGHH " you moaned as she does a fellatio on your hard long cock.

" Yes take it like a good girl "

" mmhgh, mmh, mmh " moans are escaping through her mouth.

She is looking at you all this time, and you started pounding her throat but she takes it like nothing.

*golk golk golk golk

You started to forget that she's a doll and thinks of her as a woman that you can fuck all you want.

" Fuck! What a slut taking it all like nothing "

Momo smiled as you dumped all your cum inside her throat. Momo stood up and sat on you as she kissed you deep.

" Ughh, can you go again Y/N? Momo need a rough fucking "

" Of course, but now call me baby "

" Yes baby " she answered.

You pushed her into the bed as you planted your tongue into her mouth. You made out and you began removing her top off, revealing a good set of tits with pink nipples. You sucked the hell out of the good pair and Momo hugged your neck.

" Yes baby suck my tits good, ugh "

You moved down and removed her shorts and underwear revealing a pinkish red slit.

" Fuck what a good food "

You fucking ate her pussy good, she wrapped her legs to your neck and held your head with her palm.

" Ughhh, babyyy you eat pussy so good "

" Suck my clitoris right there "

You sucked and played with it with your mouth and she began shaking violently. She squirted on your face as she shakes.

" UGHHHHH " she shouted.

" Sorry baby I ended up squirting on your face because you're so good at eating pussy"

You did not answer and you just inserted your dick inside her pussy. Momo can adjust her insides depending on the dick of the user, ensuring the best pleasure. You fucked her like a wild animal as you're too horny from her squirting on your face.

" Ughh baby, you'll make me cum again " she whined.

" Here's your reward for squirting at my face slut "

" Yes baby I'm your only slut, fuck this pussy harder ughh "

Her face is so seductive and it shows how good she feels. You felt more pleasure as her pussy adjusted on your dick. She started licking your nipples adding pleasure while you ram her.

" Baby fill me up with your cum, make a baby with me "

You forgot that she can also detect if the user is cumming so her pussy started to grip your dick harder.

" Fuckk here's my cum you slut " you pulled out your dick and you came into her face.

" Here's my revenge " you added.

She took the cum with her finger and licked it while looking at you.

" Ugh baby, I said you should fill me up but it's alright your cum tastes good "

" Oh I'm not done " you said.

You positioned her near the edge of the bed while in a supine position exposing her chest and toned abs.

" Momo, open your mouth and show me your tongue"

As she does so, you aligned your dick to her mouth and fucked her throat like there's no tomorrow. You grabbed both her tits as your leverage, you spit on her nipples and played with it with your finger. Momo reached down her pussy and started fingering.

"You're a naughty little slut, are you Momo? "

She responded with wild moans as you grope and played with her boobs while destroying her throat. She uses her 2 fingers to fuck her pussy with the other arm played with her clitoris. The scene made you wanna cum so bad.

" Here's my cum, take it Momo "

You grabbed her waist and planted your dick deep into her throat. Momo came again and this time she squirted into your bed. You grabbed her by the neck and pushed her head towards the wet part of the bed. Her ass is now exposed as her waist is bent down.

" Lick your piss you slut, taste it "

Momo started licking the bed sheets. As she makes out with the bed sheet passionately you inserted your dick again and started pumping inside her pussy.

" mmmmhhh ,mmhhh, " she moaned pleasurably as you pushed her more to the bed that muffled her cries.

You suddenly grabbed her hair and pulled it causing her to squeal. Your other hand grabbed her by the neck and choked her as hard as you could. Her moans are replaced by cries for aid to breath. Momo can't feel pain but she'll stimulate the effects of such inflicted pain on her. She tears and her tongue is exposed now. As you're finishing you let go of her neck causing her to lay her head flat on the we sheets and breath for air as you shoot your cum inside her. You looked at her as she is like a poor girl licking the bed sheets.

You finished by unloading the cum inside her tank and cleaning her. You cleaned your room and an idea came to your mind.

Her wardrobe included in her box has many types of dress and styles to pick. And it also has many hair styles included. You charged her for the rest of the day and woke her up at night.

" What, where am I and who are you? " Momo asked.

Before this happened you told her to dress up like a nerdy school girl that knows nothing about how he ended up inside your house. You always thought that your rape kink is weird but now you get to try it. You told her to fight back in the start and slowly be submissive as the time went by.

" Oh you suddenly went inside here and you're not going to get out " you said.

" Oh sorry, I'm heading out now " she answered.

You pulled her arm. Her scaredness is very evident as she is shaking and her voice.

" Sorry sorry, please let me out "

You threw her bag to the side and grabbed both her wrist, pushed her to the wall and started kissing her neck aggressively.

She started crying and struggled from your body weight as you push your body towards her.

" Please stopp, I need to go home now " her voice trembles.

You ignored her pleas and started groping her chest. Her arm attempted to push you back but you're just too overwhelming.

" Your chest is so big for a high schooler like you, don't you think? "

You palmed her mouth forcing her into a kiss. She hits you with her hands while your tongue slides inside her mouth and you start sucking her tongue out. Her hands stopped hitting your chest and it rests on your shoulders now. She unconsciously fought back with your mouth and tongue movements. Your fingers wiped off some of her tears as you're making out. The student's crying eyes shut down as her body gave in to your seduction. Her hands caress your body as you grope her breasts more . You gently move towards the bed pulling her and pushing her down to kneel at the floor. You dropped your shorts down and you placed her hand on your dick. Her cries became gazes of lust as she stroked your shaft. You held her face and moved it closer to your dick causing her to suck on it like a lollipop. Her blowjob is sloppy as she simulates a student who doesn't do such things. She is a modest student who just sucked a dick right now.

" Yes just suck it like that "

" mmhhh mhhh mh " her moans escapes out of her mouth.

You removed her glasses.

" Look at me " you asserted.

She looked at you with lustful eyes.

" Do you want me to fuck you? "

She shook her head signalling a " no " .

You slapped her hard into the face that caused her to shout and cry on the floor. You pulled her hair hard and she is begging you to stop.

" please stop, I gave you a blowjob already "

You pushed her into the bed face down and you removed her underwear. You don't want to remove her uniform as the visual contributes to your pleasure. You started fucking her from behind. Her back is arced and her arms pinched the bed so hard as you ram her back.

" Ughh please , I'm hurting " she pleaded .

" You don't have to pretend to be a little girl, you like this don't you? "

" Argghh, no ! " She answered.

" Then why did your ass follow my rhythm and start pumping as well? Look at your exposed tongue as you enjoys being raped "

" No I don't like it " she said while smiling seductively.

You switched position and you removed half of her buttons, revealing her bra and her shoulders. You fucked her missionary as moans came out both of your mouths. Momo plays her tits as you pound her and she accepted your follow wet kisses as you fuck each other.

" Is my cock that delicious ? "

" Yesss ugh, I mean no "

" You don't have to hide it anymore baby girl "

" No it's just that your cock is so huge that it makes me crazy " she said while holding your face with both her arms.

She pulled you into a deep kiss.

" Yesss I'm cumming, keep fucking my pussy like that please "

" I'm cumming inside you "

" YESS please fill my young pussy with your cum "

You came hard into her pussy and both of you moaned in unison. After a short break, you ordered her to suck your dick as you play video games. Before going to bed you charged her and ordered her to wake you up with kisses on your cheeks and a good ol' handjob.

This sex doll is now yours provided that you submit transparent and honest reports to the company each week. She's only programmed for sex activities if not so, you could have asked her to cook for you haha. She's indeed programmed well.

If you're the one that the company picked to be one of the product testers, what burglar things will you do to Momo?

[moonsaver]

Almost a kiss, Always a breath

How close life is unto death. Almost a kiss, but always a breath.

With only about a month left to live – your previous guardian angel, Robin, has been replaced, as The Family decide to assign you one that's more "suitable" to your need. Guardian Angel!Sunday x gn!reader CW/TW: reader is chronically ill, and there's descriptions of how painful it is (a little gruesome) but the actual illness is left vague for self insert purposes. Mentions + implications of childhood abuse, death (reader), lesbians because i just wanted it A/n: As much as I'd have loved to make it Seraphin x reader, Sunday is just a guardian angel who has a more biblically accurate appearance. also it's about just a bit over 11k words. sorry for the delays! ______

"You can stay out here."

You turn halfway to face Sunday, the pair of wings over his eyes firmly shut, the other two pairs slightly bristling at your words.

“I have been assigned to you for a reason.”

You glance at the bright entryway of the boutique in front of you. People would definitely notice something was off. No one can ignore someone like him. At least, they’d sense something would be off.

You turn back to face him. Your hesitant silence seems to spur him to continue,

“I shan't interfere.”

He smiles. You don't think it's genuine. You look up at the various eyes embedded across his halo and wings like jewels. They stare back.

Have they ever blinked?

You shake your head,

“No. Stay out here. You'll scare people.”

You stand your ground firmly, your body facing him entirely now. He hums, his smile vanishing from his face.

“Is that so?”

“It is so.”

You reply, and it's followed by silence.

The corners of his mouth perk up slightly, before it's met with lesser and lesser resistance, eventually letting out a wholehearted chuckle.

“I can promise, truly, I won't interfere, nor draw attention. Nothing like the scene at the hospital.”

You sigh.

—

“Sweet mother of..”

You keep Xipe's name out of your mouth, sitting up on your hospital bed as fast as you can, ignoring the jolt of pain in your body from the sudden movement, as your eyes train on the figure in front of you.

The man is clad in white – a suit, to be specific – and seems to have started his day much earlier than you.

“I thought Robin was..”

“The Family has decided otherwise.”

You stare at his covered eyes, only to glance over at the plethora of his.. other eyes blink at you; wide and all-seeing, surrounded by clusters of feathers. A pair of them bristle as you continue to stare, and he clears his throat, drawing your attention back to his (wing-covered) eyes. His halo is golden - just like Robin’s, except.. Bigger. And sharper.

“I'm– I think my intentions were very specific, so why on Earth do I have a Seraphim looking after me?”

“The Family decided the timely course of your fate required an assistance of much.. higher capability.”

You scoff, the covers crumpled under your hands as they clench.

“Robin was adequate– no, more than adequate.”

“I would be aware. I expect nothing less of my sister.”

“Your–?!”

This day couldn't get any more confusing in the mere 15 minutes of it's starting, really. A Seraphim. Sent to be your guardian angel. And he has a sister by some biological miracle.

As if he senses the question you are about to ask, he says,

“Let's focus on a more dire topic.”

He neatly sets down his cup of finished tea on a surface – you don't care enough to check; too busy glaring daggers at the man – a few of his other eyes peeking over at the cup in your stead.

“ugh, great.”

 You groan and plop onto the bed on your back with an ‘umpf', then cringe as the pain shoots up from a plethora of nerve endings on your back.

Sunday continues, regardless of your pained expression, an artificial smile plastered on his too human-like features,

“Roughly 2 weeks. That is all.”

He gets up, and walks with measured steps to the side of your hospital bed, his eyes (in multitudes) staring down at your not-so intimidating glare.

You click your tongue, your eyes zoning out for a moment before they settle back on the teacup he'd just placed down.

“Since when did Seraphims like..?”

“Coffee. It helps, I've found.”

“Found?”

He opens his hand towards you. You awkwardly look at his gloved palm before he speaks to clear your hesitance again,

“Let us continue to whichever place you wish to visit.”

You look at his hand again, now with a dull glaze over your eyes, a plethora of thoughts glooming over your mind before another one of his (unsettling, you may add) eyes catch your attention, breaking you out of your saddened trance.

You breathe out, taking his hand,

“Fine.”

—–

And so, that led you here.

You pick out a dress, then shuffle through the stacked hangers to find your size, as Sunday patiently stands beside you, his obnoxiously white suit out of your vision by your request as to “not blind you.” But you can't necessarily explain about that to someone who covers their eyes for.. 90% of the time, you assume. Regardless, he obliges.

You turn to hand him a few of your clothes to hold, but watch as he stares at a distant baby. Their face is red and swollen, presumably from having cried for a while. The tears in their eyes confirm the suspicion. You look back at him, curious as to what he could possibly find fascinating about a red-faced baby.

..what the fuck?

You observed his eyes – the conglomerate of them making a weird sensation bubble under your skin as you watch all of them blink in succession.

You sigh, for the umpteenth time, making him turn to you. You look at Sunday with a strangely confused expression, as Sunday’s cautious hands pry the clothes from yours. You shift your eyes to see the baby look at you two once again with a face as confused and perturbed as yours.

“You’re lucky not many can see you.”

“Yes, it is fortunate.”

You continue browsing through the selection of clothes, politely waving off any staff member that seem to force themselves to help you regardless of the strange aura they felt around you.

“I’m trying these on. You stay right..”

You reposition him, hands on the sides of his arms as he complies.

“Here.”

He stands, in all his glory, in front of a kids’ indoor playground.

“The changing room is too far from here.” Inquisitively, that seems to be the only trouble Sunday faces, and not the curious glances from a few children making weird faces at his eyes on his back.

“It isn’t. It’s just a few picks, I’ll be back soon.”

He seems to stay silent, although his (unsettling) smile is no longer on his face, which reads him as more intimidating instead.

You shake your head, and then turn to walk over to the changing room.

——

A scream.

It rips through the chill, calm atmosphere of the store, warranting concern from a few employees situated around the changing room,

“I-Is everything okay-?”

“Yes-! Sorry, sorry, Im just–”

You hurry, and shuffle the floating eye into your bag, your hands fumbling with the buckles and buttons.

Why was there an eye in your bag in the first place?

Turns out Sunday sent one to stand right dab in front of your stall to ensure your safety in, probably only his opinion – a minimal way. You screamed the moment you opened your door and found a floating eyeball in front of your stall, before realising only that Seraphim was capable of doing such a thing.

You internally let out a beautiful, colourful string of curses, presumably to beat some sense into him, as you wrestle with the bag that's flailing in your bag like an animal caught in a potato sack.

“Stop, stop, Xipe damn it-!”

You bring the bag up to your face, glaring down as the singular eye looks up at you with an unreadable glint from the soft fabrics of your bag,

“If we get caught I swear I will–”

“Uh.. is everything okay?”

You jolt watching the door slightly move ajar as one of the employees gently signal their presence,

Shit, you forgot to lock it!

It wasn't your fault - you were about to step out when you were delightfully greeted by an eyeball, and in your hurry you must have forgotten to lock it.

You throw a sheepish smile towards the door, hiding your bag behind you. You're aware it looks like you've stolen something, so you take a deep breath and pat your bag, careful around the bulge of the eye inside.

“I'm okay, I- I just uh.. saw a cockroach.”

“A cockroach-?!”

The employee gasps, immediate words of apology on the tip of their tongue, but you stop them before they can continue. You swing open the door, having only grabbed a single item as you rush past the employee sputtering on their words, politely dismissing yourself as you beeline to Sunday.

––

You did, thankfully, find Sunday where you left him.

You stood a bit of distance away as he came into your vision, making sure to count the number of his eyes, blinking a few times and recounting to really make sure – who knew staring at his eyes for so long would make you dizzy?

By then, the eye in your bag only nudged a few times, but nothing more than that. On the way you realised there might have been no need for the commotion, considering people can barely see Sunday as is, let alone (one of) his eyes. You sigh tiredly at the thought, but brush it off.

You walked over to the small barricade surrounding the children's indoor playground and observed.

Sunday is crouched down, watching intently as two young girls clack their (very distressed) barbies together, making up drama on a whim. Sunday seems deep in thought, occasionally piping up to add his own additions.

Ookay. You need to stop this.

You sigh, running your hand over your face before calling out,

“Sunday!”

His head turns to look at you, then gets up, unassumingly as though he'd not been getting in on local gossip from girls.

—–

You sigh, pushing off the shoes from your feet as you sit back down on your familiar hospital bed, the door of your room clicking as Sunday ensures your privacy.

“Do you plan on going somewhere?”

“Tomorrow, actually. Since we have enough time, I'll take it easy.”

He hums, merely in acceptance, as he sets down the small bag your recent purchase was in.

“Oh, also, c'mere.”

You motion him to come closer.

“Closer.”

He steps closer, your knee almost grazing against his thigh,

“Closer.”

“Any closer and I-”

You grab his tie and yank him down eye level,

“Do you know what happened in the dressing room-?!”

You sputter out, the embarrassment returning to you as you recall the flustered employee's voice,

“I.. cannot say I do.”

You grab your bag, and out comes bursting an eye.

Ah. He felt something was amiss.

“I was fine on my own! Seriously, if you wanted to check in you could have just walked over! Which guardian angel just casually sends an eyeball of theirs-?!”

“Ah, but I did not want to overbear—”

“I would have preferred that, instead of your eye hanging in front of my stall like a Christmas tree decor!”

…

“Noted.”

You sigh, watching the eye float and join the conglomerate of his, wink at you, making you blink, unimpressed.

——

“I wanna be buried…”

You hum, looking over the green, slightly bumpy landscape, and point to under a tree.

“There. That's perfect.”

Mei seems to take your words in stride, despite the depravity of your humor. She chuckles softly, and turns to you,

“I'm sure it's possible.”

“D'you think I can get one of those colored, glass tombstones?”

“Hm, slightly difficult..”

“Oh please.”

You nudge her shoulder, making her softly chuckle again. Both of you gaze over to the distance, the plot of land sparsely filled with tombstones of other strangers you've yet to know about from Mei.

If the purple haired woman knew anything about you – it was that you adored stories. She never considered herself the best storyteller, but you'd convinced her enough to tell you anyway. Occasionally her companion would join in, greatly elevating the storytelling atmosphere, but for the most part, it was just you two.

Mei, who would tell you of each person she'd buried. Carol, 98, a lovely grandmother. She'd always smell of pie and something herbal – always sure to drop off tea wherever she went, the dull packets that rattled whenever she'd placed them down with her shaky fingers. Only her daughter's side of the family visited. 

Nico, 17. His father comes every weekend to clean his tombstone. He had a green thumb. His gravestone had the most beautiful flowers around him.

Razalina, a mysterious woman who you'd been waiting to hear about from Mei, before Robin was shortly replaced. Your health got worse and Mei urged you to take a break. You miss the flavour of the tea Mei would serve for you two. You wonder how it would feel to drink it for the rest of your life until you'd grow to be 98.

There was a morbid comfort in having a friend as Mei. Acheron – the term suited her. A gentle, sorrowful, but greatly respectful and polite woman who took care of the dead. A mortician you'd gotten familiar with on a whim when you'd bumped into her somewhere. She was going to bury you, and you'd let her with delight. You imagine there was a sort of trust and intimacy in that. She would clean your organs, and lay you to sleep on the naked Earth. There was certainly intimacy in that.

“A wardrobe change, hm?”

She quirks an eyebrow, her words still slightly hushed in caution to not even possibly offend you.

“Thought I'd try something new.”

You kicked a stray rock, looking down at your newly bought clothes, then back up at Mei.

“Went shopping with someone yesterday.”

“Finally let you out of your enclosure?”

“Ugh, for once, thankfully.”

She hums, walking alongside you with a leisurely pace, her gaze drifting over the cloudy sky,

“I'd expected Robin to come with you. I don't think I was able to continue onto the next story with her.”

“Yeah, I did too..”

You look back at Sunday – still following you two a few ways behind, waving as you and Mei observe him for a second.

“quite a character.”

You nod, simply, continuing to look at him as Mei's steady eyes train on you for a moment.

“Scared?”

“No. Never have been.”

…

“Good.”

Mei's assurance was quiet, almost relieved. She turned ahead and continued, and you followed her.

——

The cloudy weather only seemed to thicken with humidity and the threat of rain as the sky dimmed with time, and Mei was kind enough to end the story on a reasonable cliffhanger, making you giggle in your seat.

“There's never enough time, really..”

You say, between your soft chuckling. It always felt like time passed by unfairly fast when you sat with Mei as you used to.

She hums, smiling, her finger circling the rim of her cup,

“Tomorrow will come, so have faith.”

Have faith in a tomorrow. It would have left you breathless had you not heard it from Robin before. You glance back at the Seraphim behind you as if to confirm Robin really wasn't looking after you anymore.

You bit your lip for a moment at the agitation as the thought bubbled in you, before looking back up at Mei and returning her gentle smile.

“Alright. I'll get going. Take care, Mei.”

She nods, getting up with you, as you gather your items and walk up ahead a bit.

Mei turns to Sunday, and mutters something out of earshot.

——

You're tired of this.

You get up once again, in pain. It shoots through you, and pulses in your body. It continues to ebb and intensify with passing moments.

You stifle a groan, biting down on your chapped lips and swallow thickly, a bead of sweat forming over your eyebrow as you clutch yourself in pain. 

No one else is awake.

You zone out in pain, the only sound in your ears of the heart rate monitor beside you picking up slightly. The pain renders you almost still. 

This pain. This all too familiar ache. You despise it, and yet you don't. How many events have you had to skip or leave because of it? How many times have you turned down hanging out with your friends over it? It angers you. It's as though inhabiting a scrawny animal who claws at your insides for nothing. How many hobbies, pastimes, hell even careers, have you missed out on because of this? The all to familiar sight of your friends’ slightly pitiful gazes burns your mind, almost making the pain in your body worse as you squeeze your eyes shut–

A hand.

Your eyes open, suddenly aware of the cold sweat forming on your back as you turn your head to look at the hand on your shoulder.

Sunday. He doesn't seem to be donning any gloves this time.

His hands are pretty. The thought floats through the top of your mind like oil on water, the pain pulsing in you barely letting you cling to the present.

“Are you in pain?”

You lick your lips, shallow breathing carrying the response you wish to say. He hums, the noise almost soothing.

His hand moves and rests on your back, the warmth of his palm more comforting than the sweat making your skin shiver. He doesn't seem to mind the fluid sticking to his own skin.

For a moment, you feel the warmth increase, before it dims. Everything dims. The pain ebbs away, making you breathe out shakily, your tense muscles eventually relaxing. His hand slides to your wrist as you lay back down, fatigued from the midnight bout of pain.

“Better?”

You blink a few times, a futile attempt to appear more alert and less affected from the episode. There's a bit of water in your eyes – you didn't notice, but it's nothing you're concerned about.

You turn your head slightly to him, your eyes looking up at him as you ask with a hoarse voice

“How did you do that?”

Sunday hums, his fingers moving from your wrist to your palm, drawing soothing circles in the middle of it as a comforting gesture.

“We are equipped to absolve a bit of your pain. This is our duty. This is how we become pure.”

“Pure?”

His head isn't turned to you, instead a bit low, as he leans back in his seat. He breathes out.

“Purification happens through only a few means. Absolving you of your pain is a major way to do it.”

“But it hurts.”

“It hurts.”

His hand gently squeezes your hand.

“But you are feeling better.”

“It's not fair.”

His head turns slightly to see you. Your watery eyes only become more teary. Frustration, hurt, sadness, anger. There's a scripture in your face as he scans the furrow of your brows, the tears in your eyes and the chapped, dry blood on your lips.

And the silence settles between you two. A tender sort of hurt in the night air as he folds his fingers around your hand. Your eyes trail to his plethora of wings. Pairs of 3. They're beautiful. You watch the conglomerate of his eyes closing and gently blinking, almost lulled to sleep. His golden halo hangs a little lower than usual – sharp, yet elegantly prudent. The ones on his wings covering his actual eyes stare back at you.

You're beautiful. The words stay choked on your tongue like a regretful prayer. Your eyebrows relax, and your jaw unclenches.

Sunday smiles, watching your tear filled eyes close with sleep.

–—

Your shoes click as you circle around the fountain, watching the carved figure in the middle pour out water from various sources. 

Your padded shoes come to a slow halt, followed by Sunday's polished shoes right behind.

“Do you believe in wishes?’

“Hm..”

You shuffle through your bag, picking out something silvery. A coin.

“Yeah. Like.. a wishbone. A shooting star. An eyelash.”

You hold up the delicate coin, but Sunday's attention is trained on your face.

“We find wishes and stories everywhere. If you could.. what would you wish for?”

You gently grab one of his hands, and press a coin in the middle of his palm. He seems to have forgone his gloves once again.

“I am incapable of–”

“It's hypothetical. Come on.”

He hums, glancing at the coin, and then at the fountain.

“I'd like more coffee. One that is flavorful, deep and complex.”

You chuckle and shake your head,

“Be a little more creative. Just coffee?”

You pick out your own coin.

You suppose you were a bit unfair to him. What would you explain about walking to a whale in it's depths? About flying to a mammal accustomed to it's faithful footing? About crawling to feathery or scaled wings?

You throw your coin.

I wish for freedom.

Sunday hums again, pondering deeply.

“Ah, but if I say it out loud, it won't come true.”

“Aww..”

He chuckles, pocketing the coin.

“Let us proceed.”

He holds out his hand to you, and you eagerly accept, intertwining your fingers around his as you walk alongside and make small talk

“They've been struggling to walk and do basic tasks. Look after them.”

Mei's voice rung out in his head for a while, like a record playing over and over in an empty ballroom.

“You can see me.” He says matter-of-factly, instead of a question, after a moment of contemplative silence.

“I'm intimately familiar with death.”

He stares at her distant look for a moment.

“..I have my duties.”

“Sure. Take care of them. Please.”

–—

“Sunday, it's okay–”

A small gasp escapes you as he yanks you a bit closer,

“Watch out for the pothole.”

“The cover?” You look up at him almost in disbelief. 

What on Earth has gotten into him?

“Careful.”

He pulls you aside again, ‘assisting’ you to dodge a very obvious, very blaringly red fire hydrant.

“Ugh, okay, wait.”

You halt, Sunday stopping in his tracks ahead of you as your limp hand refuses to move with his in grasp.

“you don't have to babysit me. I'm not going to keel over if I step on a rock or something.”

“Nonsense, I'm simply fulfilling my duty.”

He turns to you completely, your hand still firmly grasped in his, as he looks down at your troubled face.

“You weren't this.. protective.”

“Hm, something must have messed with your memories. Here, let me–”

You gently swat away his hand that reaches out to you,

“Sunday, relax.”

You both stay silent for a moment. You breathe out,

“Okay, here,”

You step closer, and shake your hand out of his firm grasp, but loop your arm around his, and gently pat his bicep with your other hand.

“Better?”

He stays silent for a moment,possibly surprised for a moment.

“Better.”

He smiles at you, and you return it, both of you continuing forward.

——

“I want a garden. As big as possible.”

“Is that so?”

You kick around a small pebble, stepping on a slightly raised stone platform before looking up to gawk once again at the priceless view – the field of tulips making you stop for a moment.

“Mhm. I want to grow as big of a garden as I can. I've always wanted to.”

He chuckles softly, following your gaze out into the vast tulip field, before returning back to you.

You almost belonged here.

The entire gorgeous tapestry of you. Blending into the delicate backdrop like a painting. He's seen a few portraits in museums that could at least come close to the vision.

“I want to paint.”

You turn and look at him, Inquisitively, as he says so, almost surprising you.

“Really?”

He fully turns to you, and holds out a flower for you to see.

A carnation.

“What do you want to paint?”

You glance back up at his covered face. He steps a bit closer, and places the flower in your hair, moving a few stray strands from your face as he does so.

“A garden.”

You giggle, and the sound blooms in his heart.

“What kind?”

“A big one. With as many flowers as there can be.”

“Sounds pretty.”

He hums. You are, He thinks.

——

Sunday hates the rain.

There are many things he hates.

Overrun schedules, late appointments, rushed deaths, overbearing contracts, unruly protectees, a bad cup of coffee, bright lights.

And the rain.

Both of you pant and huff – you especially – running to hunt for any cover, the pattering of your feet almost matching the rain's rhythm.

Sunday's hand is tightly grasped around yours as he leads you to a small cover; a small awning, the grip so firm you notice the middle of your palm is still dry when he lets go to check you over.

“Are you alright?”

Sunday scans you over, stepping to the side to examine you more, a supportive hand on your back as you continue to catch your breath. You can predict the next bout of pain is gonna be worse. But you shove that thought aside as you nod, turning to face him, wiping away some of the rainwater dripping from his chin.

“You're soaked.”

He hums, disregarding the obvious nature of your remark, his fingers wrapping around your wrist as he counters,

“You'll get sick.”

He raises his head slightly to glance over you, gauging something.

“We're closeby, let's just run–”

“No.”

Sunday shuts you down firmly. His tone doesn't allow more room for argument.

He sighs, running a hand through his own wet hair as he contemplates on what to do. You try to scrunch up a bit of your clothing to squeeze out the water, and do the same with your hair as you wait for him to continue.

“I'll be fine–”

You try to softly negotiate, but Sunday takes off his blazer, swiftly putting it over your shivering shoulders, before wrapping his arms around you and–

“Ah- Sunday-?”

You breathed out, almost a gasp, as he pulls you in. His shirt is thinner from the water still soaking it, but the warmth of his body (of which you become too aware about) relaxes you almost immediately. You hesitate for a moment, until Sunday quietly sighs into your shoulder. Your arms hesitantly wrap around his waist, tucking your face into his neck as well. Your bodies exchange warmth, and the water seems to help hold the heat better than before.

“I despise the rain.”

Sunday's muffled voice resounds into your clothes and skin, and you giggle at the ticklish sensation of his lips.

“Really?”

He nods

“Why?”

“Alters too many things in the schedule.”

“Ah. I see..”

He sighs again; a puff of breath warming– almost burning your shoulder.

You stay that way for a few moments longer, before you speak again;

“Sunday?”

“Yes?”

“I want to do something.”

He stays silent, as though waiting for your initiative. You loosen your grip, and he pulls away at the indication. You take a moment as you scan his appearance – nothing resembling the once pristine, well kept man you'd seen the first day in your hospital room. Bits of his blue hair stuck to his skin like waves latching onto the shore, the feathers of his wings adorned with raindrops, the blurred effect of his halo under the rain. Your eyes travel a bit lower; his tie is slightly crooked, and his shirt is see through and..

You clear your throat, blinking and turning your gaze away to the pattering rain.

“I've wanted to.. um..”

Sunday's fingers brush against the side of your face, turning your attention back to him.

He brushes away a few strands sticking to your wet skin. His fingers are cold.

Your hands gently grasp his, encasing it, your thumb rubbing over his knuckles.

You slowly turn, and walk backwards, his hand still encased in yours as you step into the rain, watching his hesitant steps follow you.

You both stand under the rain, the water cradling your skin and washing away your previous efforts to dry off. Your hand intertwines with his, and your other hand rests on his shoulder. He places his other hand on your waist.

You smile, but he still seems hesitant. For a moment, you both stand, simply looking at each other. 

As if to reassure himself, Sunday leans down, and gently presses his forehead to yours.

Your smile falters for a moment, your expression replaced by that of surprise, but when Sunday grins, your confusion floats away. His hand squeezes yours as both of you sway and dance in the rain.

–––

“Is everything okay?”

Or at least – that's what the curious look on your face might say.

Sunday retracts his hand from the water of the fountain, gently flicks it, before wiping it with a handkerchief, drying it off. He sits half turned to you on the fountain's edge.

You stand with an umbrella and a (familiar) floating eye in tow, changed into warmer clothes and dried hair, washed of the rain's scent. 

Sunday had temporarily stepped away while you were showering to visit a smaller fountain closer to where you stayed. He was acutely aware the coin you'd tossed wouldn't be here. 

Always standing. Never approaching. That was how he'd describe Gopher Wood.

Right where you are.

Dressed in black like a curse that followed him – ravens in corners of buildings and lurking from above muddied puddles. Always in the distance, fog following him like a haunting widow, the backdrop of the mist etching him further into Sunday's mind. A hollow that spasms like a missing organ.

“These are necessary measures” he'd say. “Are you afraid?” He took delight.

He took delight in it.

“Sunday?”

Your voice, soft and grounding, snapped him out of the small trance he was in.

“My apologies.”

He says, picking up his folded blazer as he stands and walks to you,

“I have to check your temperature and–”

“Stop, stop, stop. Hold on.”

You hand over the umbrella to him, and shuffled through your bag to pull out a warm and fuzzy towel.

Sunday simply observes you for a moment as you hold the towel in your hand. He tries to reach out to take it with his other, but you pull away. He looks at you hesitant and confused, as you motion for him to lean down.

Carefully, your hands bring the towel to his head, and cautious of his wings, you gently dry his damp, blue hair. He hums, his wings shifting and bristling from the contact at first, before relaxing. 

“You could have told me.”

“You wouldn't let me.”

“I wouldn't?”

You huff,

“You talk too much.”

“You're the one who cuts me off quite often.”

“Touchè.”

Your hands stop for a moment, looking over at his ruffled hair half dried by the towel. One of your hands brushes away some of the hair that sticks up onto his face.

You wish he'd let you see his eyes.

“What colour are your eyes?”

His throat tightened a bit. He'd hate to deny you if you asked to see them.

“..gold.”

“Sounds beautiful.”

You stayed quiet, simply looking at the soft feathers of his wings, your hand moving from his face to hover around the pairs behind his ear, you look at him, and he nods, giving you silent permission.

Your hand gently cards through one of the wings’ feathers, careful to not poke any of the eyes, wiping away any wet edges of his feathers.

“..You're pretty.”

“Sorry?”

“Nothing.”

You back away, your hand retracting and pulling away the towel but Sunday is a bit faster, his hand grabbing your wrist and immediately stilling you. You both stand for a moment, breathless, and silent.

…

“I.. I'll wash the towel.”

“Ah, it's okay..”

He insists, silently, although his originally urgent grip on your wrist loosens a bit.

You end up obliging, letting him take the towel.

He could feel your pulse. Do humans have normally quick heartbeats?

–—

“Brother!”

Robin grins, ear to ear, proud of her handiwork as she holds up her fingers, sticky from the dampness of the water and the sweat of her small, clammy hands. The water dips into the chubby curve of her elbow, threatening to go up further but dripping down into the water instead, rejoining the gentle flow. 

“Robin, that could be dangerous! We don't know what those plants are..”

Sunday cautions his sister, voice untethered but soft with naivety and youth. His feet remain hesitantly restless on the muddy edge of the small river bank.

She only offers him a closed eye grin, before trudging her short, stubby legs in the water, walking back to the soil where she descended from, her tongue poking out the side of her mouth in concentration as she was cautious not to slip.

“It's for you!”

“M-Me?”

Robin's wet hand reaches out to Sunday's, gently prying his soft palm open and placing a soaked flower, making the water drip from his rounded knuckles. Some of the water seeps into the edges of his sleeves, but not more than a few centimetres.

“It's the flower! From the book!”

“But it's not real..”

“It is! That's why it's white!”

Sunday looks down at the flower again. It looked dreadful, in a way. Like a drowned rat – if he knew he could describe it that way. But from the rambunctious effort of Robin's chubby little fingers having wrestled it out of the water, it looked..

perfect.

It was beautiful in a sense. The white petals were (almost) unmarred, the stamens gently swayed with the soft draft that carried with cloudy weather, and the stem was still slightly rigid.

Robin's handiwork was pretty.

“You mustn't run off like that.”

Robin flinches, and clings to Sunday's back, as he turns to the source of the voice.

His eyes first see shoes. Black, polished, unmarred. Never touched by filth. Then crisply ironed pant legs. Then up, up, and up, until his little neck strained.

Father.

Or what was left of him.

Gold rimmed glasses. A rosemary always adorning his neck.

Sunday's original thoughts, back then, had been none of these incriminating feelings. They'd been quiet. So silent and afraid, as though his father would hear if he thought too loudly.

“What do we have here?”

The man leans down, but it does less to make him non-imposing. He might prefer it, that way. Sunday notices the gentle tinker of his rosemary as it moves forward with his father.

Robin's clammy hands now clenched the soft fabrics draped over Sunday's small back, cowering behind him. His loud, messy sister. His determined, bright sister. Dimmed by the clouds and fear his father brought.

If only he reached out to choke his father with his rosemary right then and there.

—–

“I wish u could have made it ://”

You stare at an old text – probably even forgotten by the sender. The tears make the digital screen a bit hard to read momentarily as it fills up your vision, but it gets easier after they settle on your waterline. 

It's these quiet nights you realise how much company you're missing. Like an artist painting the negative spaces in blotches to carve out the image – texts and hidden whispers like these carved out the loneliness you'd fester in yourself.

Something stirred you awake. Maybe it was the constant lingering pain that threatened to push it's usual threshold. Maybe the constant beeping of the heartbeat monitor.

Or that Sunday wasn't here.

Not even his eye. As unsettling as it was – you missed it a little. You sigh, pushing yourself up and sitting on the edge of your familiar hospital bed, careful to not agitate the pain more by accident. You push off the bed, and walk a bit hunched, pulling a shawl over yourself and deciding to go out and search for him for whatever reason.

At least, it's a better way to pass your restlessness than going through old texts. Walking at night didn't seem as bad of an idea – at least within hospital grounds.

––

Sunday remembers the world.

Or what he wishes to remember it as.

Cold, stony alleyways. Unforgiving nights. Merciless fog. A sun that never shines.

Not upon those like him anyway.

His Father – always standing. Never approaching. The fog surrounding him was the same. Always at a standstill.

Until something broke that.

There it was. Blood, seeping through cracks in the broken pavement of the ground. Almost inky from the murkiness and filt that seeped into it.

That was the first time he saw his Father's shoes marred.

“This is necessary, child.”

The Raven perched on his shoulder would bristle a bit, but not more.

No, it wasn't.

“This is our duty.”

It isn't.

“You will have to do what it takes.”

Sunday felt impossibly small that day. Like a fawn's leg caught in a bear trap. As if his surroundings grew a size too big and left him behind like a borrowed sweater. He was always more frailer than the other kids.

He wonders if that's why his father broke him so easily.

His little, golden eyes peered down, lost in thought and terror. He learnt how to ground himself at a tender age.

There was grime under his shoes.

Grime in the cracks of the pavement.

Grime in his father's affections.

He was never pure.

——

You couldn't find Sunday.

Forget that – you couldn't even walk.

Pain shot through you the moment you stood up, making you gasp and breathlessly sit back down onto your bed. Your throat constricted – you couldn't tell if it was from the pain or the frustration.

The frustration that had been ebbing and chipping away at you; second by second, hour by hour.

“I can't make it”, “I'm not feeling well”, “The doctor said..”, “I probably won't.”,..

“It hurts.”

Your lungs tremble, before sucking in a breath. Tears prick the corner of your eyes as you hunch forward, glaring through the blur of your festering emotions at the sterile tiles of your hospital room.

The tapered off conversations, friendships fizzled out, disappointed looks.

You weren't blessed. By some being, or some cruel fate, or so on and so forth; it felt like if anything, you were created to be tortured. Like flimsy, rotting meat on a metal rod. Pain was more familiar to you than the crevices of your hand, weak with the trembling in your bones from all the feelings you couldn't even name.

“I wish you could have made it.”

That pulls a sob out of you like a hooked wire piercing and pulling through a fish's throat, making you double over as more continue to bubble past.

You were meant to be tortured; you choke on your spit, and sob past the coughing.

Why? God, just why? Fall to your side and curl up,

Why couldn't you be blessed? What did everyone else have that you didn't? Why weren't you blessed? Why couldn't you be free? What godforsaken sin had your soul committed? What did your fate have in store? What did you do?

Why you?

Burying your screams into the pillow, the ugliness of your reality was softened by it like an interrupted fall from a height.

You cry until your vessel is empty.

Until you feel you've carved a hole out of yourself from the middle.

What it would take to be blessed, you wonder. Your hands clench to your chest, and your heart throbs to live despite.

–

Sunday returns late.

And he returns quietly.

You look up, puffy and tired eyes meeting the wings where his are supposed to be.

He stands idly at the opened door. Blood stains his visage. 

You breathe out, your face warm from your previous bout of sobbing, and don't utter a word. Sunday walks– limps to your side, almost paddling his way, before slumping down into the chair beside you. Some of the eyes besotted on his halo look tiredly at you.

You sniffle. He stays still. You presume he's looking down at the tiled floor.

Your hand comes up to rub away at your sticky face, and soon Sunday's own hand comes up to cup your face when yours retracts.

You lean into his gloved hand, disregarding the grime and the strong, metallic scent. He leans forward, and presses his forehead against yours.

His hair are soft against your forehead. You peer into the deft feathers of the wings that firmly shut over his eyes. Your own hands gently cup his face, closing your eyes. After a moment, he shifts, his face moving to bury itself into your neck, his arms moving to wrap around you, a bit too tightly. He stays tense for a minute, then relaxes into your hold.

You both stay like that for a while.

—–

You woke up feeling under the weather the next day. Which was ironic, because the Dawn has never looked as beautiful as it did that morning.

In fact, you don’t even remember how you managed to sleep. 

You look down emptily at your hand – as though you awoke from a coma induced dream, reminiscent of the warmth that was under it just a night ago.

Just then, your door creaks open. Sunday enters with a small box, and stills for a moment before his face breaks into a gentle smile.

“Ah, you're already awake.”

He says, softly, careful to not disturb the peaceful atmosphere the morning sunlight had casted in your room with you two. He walks over and sets the box on your bedside table.

“What is that..?”

“Paint.”

“Oh. Wait, what?”

He leaves, and a few moments later, you hear a soft grunt in the distance, followed by some wood creaking. Finally, Sunday seems to be able to maneuver whatever he'd been handling and it comes into view as he brings it in;

An easel, and a canvas already set on it.

You smile, at his struggled and awkward movements as he carefully handles the easel inside.

“You wanted to paint.” You recall, propping up your pillows and lazily leaning back onto them.

“I did.” He says, his smile returning to his face after the slightly troubling task. He pulls a chair and sits in front of the canvas, adjusting and pondering over the position of it until he was satisfied.

“What are you going to paint?”

“You.”

“Something more original please.”

“With lots of care.”

“Hm? What?”

You chuckle a bit, Sunday puffing a smile at your seemingly lightened mood.

“You should rest for today. We have a few necessary tasks to look into, aswell.”

You yawn, turning your head to look at the morning sunlight brightening up your room.

“Sure. What are they?”

You hear a clack – the lid of the box having been pried open with a bit of difficulty, as Sunday rustles with the paintbrushes and paints.

“A few things regarding your previous experiences with The Family, reviews, feedback and complaints..”

Ugh. They wanted you to drop a review?

You sigh, stifling a groan as a hand runs down your face. Sunday chuckles, softly,

“I'll take care of the writing part, just answer the questions.”

——

“Hm, how curious.”

The lavender-haired woman stirs her tea with dainty, carefree rhythm, the spoon clicking against the ceramic of the cup as she peers down at the cards on the table.

Mei sighs, her hands folded on her lap as she stares at the golden liquid, occasional vibrations making it ebb the slightest bit.

“He doesn't seem.. angelic, does he?”

Black Swan ponders out loud, her hand picking up and flicking a few tarot cards,

“There's something about him. It feels off.”

“Relative to his sister, even I'd think so.”

The woman smiles lazily, her dawn colored eyes looking up at the purple haired woman in front of her.

“You're quite worried.”

“..I suppose, it's obvious.”

Mei's eyes flit up as she hears movement, followed by a lazy sigh from the woman across her.

Thin, manicured nails faintly brush against her skin as Black Swan holds her hand, her lithe fingers feeling the ridges of her engagement ring,

“And here I’d have thought you’d been more excited to see me back.”

Mei puffs out a prudent chuckle, her hands manoeuvring to hold her lover’s.

“Alright. Care to give me a reading?”

The dawn-eyed woman flicks up a card.

The Hanged Man.

Acheron’s eyes follow the swift movement.

“Let’s see what’s in store.”

——

Sunday thinks he's cursed.

Dirtied, marred. Absolution is in store for the sinners, and exorcism for the cursed like him.

Who dirties the divine? Who damns the dirtied? Whose hands marr purity?

Gopher Wood was not a man of purity. Grime-stricken hands that crawled up from the depths of hell to pull fragile minds into an abyss.

He inlaid a curse upon Sunday – that must have been it.

Why else would he not be able to look at him?

Head down, child.

Sunday's little feet would shuffle together, sweat would stick to the small flicks of his short hair on the back of his neck, eyes fixated on the grimy, cobblestone path under his polished shoes.

Follow my lead. Do not go astray.

His hand would tightly grasp onto a few fingers, barely gripping onto the firmness of the man's hand with his little, clammy ones.

Do not look.

Sunday stops. His heart beats a bit too fast for his tiny body.

Do not ask.

A bead of sweat tickles his skin as it rushes down the side of his temple.

Do not speak.

Tears would bubble at the corners of his eyes, hands red and swollen from being hit for every verse he got wrong. For every word he could not muster out from his throat that was raw from childish blubbering through cries.

He would not speak of him.

“Sunday?”

He holds his breath.

You scrutinize at the pamphlet in your hands, before aiming it towards him and pointing at a word on it.

His hand remains stiffly held in the air, the tip of the brush barely grazing against the painted canvas.

“What does this mean?”

His chair creaks as he leans aside the canvas to take a look at the word you pointed at.

“Ah. Exorbitant. Something unreasonably pricey.”

You make a small ‘o’ shape with your mouth, looking over the sentence again in better understanding.

“How's the painting coming along?”

“It's..”

Sunday takes a moment to glance over the painting.

The sky is barely painted in – it’s embarrassing how much detail he's put into your figure standing among the flowery field, however. The looser ends of your outfit billow among the sunlit garden, a wide smile etched upon your face, flowers adorning your arms in bunches as you try to hold the huge bundle.

“It'll take some more time.”

“Can I see?”

He hesitates. You smile.

“You.. can, however.. I'd like to keep it a surprise.”

You nod, softly,

“Okay. I'll see it when it's done.”

Sunday returns your smile. You continue reading the pamphlet. Sunday takes the time to admire the curve of your lips against the backdrop of sunlight through the window.

–——

You suppose you should have seen this fever coming.

You curl up further on your side, tapping away at a laptop on your hospital bed, putting on a show and huddling further into your additional blankets provided by the hospital. It helps provide background noise in case you want to zone out.

“Hm.. fever of.. 38°C.”

Sunday plucks out the thermometer from your mouth, before placing it on your bedside. His methodical hands mess with various sachets of medicine before neatly presenting a few of them on his open palm.

“You'll need these.”

He hands them over to you, along with a bottle of water. You eat your pills and settle back into your bed with a forlorn, disappointed sigh. Sunday only fixes your covers and tucks you more into bed.

Your eyes trail over to the canvas behind him, covered by a cloth, as Sunday dabs your sweaty forehead with his handkerchief.

“When can I see it?”

He hums, a bit in thought, as his hands continue to gently dab away the sweat on your skin.

“In a bit. I have to add a few details.”

“Okay.”

You close your eyes, your weakened body pulling you into sleep as you feel the sensation of Sunday's lips press on the corner of your brow.

And that was the last you'd seen from Sunday.

Not that you're upset – of course not. He's a Seraphim. He surely has much better things to be doing, really. You can't imagine it must have been easy gaining such a status in the first place. And then having to look after a sickly human in the last days of their life? Work must be drab to him.

That being said, you do wish he'd at least tell you where he is.

Your eyes drift over to the overcast weather outside your window.

You hope he took an umbrella with him.

——

“Sunday.”

“Mr. Wood.”

Sunday's voice is sharp – he doesn't bother coveting the offensive edge.

“You've been astray for too long.”

…

Silence.

His gloves creak in protest as his fingers dig into his palm, curled fists at his side.

His smile remains stiffly on his face as one of his gloved hands pushes up his glasses.

“Surely, do you think such blasphemy is tolerable within the Family?”

“I–”

“Im asking, child.”

Sunday breathes out, strained.

“I didn't mean to–”

“Such excuses do not work–”

“Stop cutting me off.”

Sunday's voice wavers at the end. He feels his heart pushing into his throat. The raven on the man's shoulder only bristles, the smile on his face unwavering under the shadow of his black umbrella.

“..You haven't changed, little sparrow.”

Sunday's jaw clenches more. But before he can speak, thunder cracks in the background. His head snaps to look at the distant skies covered by heavy clouds.

It smells like rain.

––

“Take responsibility. Take responsibility for all you have done!”

Sunday's voice cracks through the strain on it. 

To respond is to acknowledge. He knows that filth won't respond. But he tries anyway.

He and his sister – they weren't sinful. They were children. They weren't filthy, they were confused. They weren't sinners, they were hurt.

They were children.

Through countless tortures and rotting, had Sunday realised his training was nothing but an escapist projection of his Father's own fears.

The fears his Father could not absolve in himself – he would, through the raw, blistered hands of a child that did not know better.

Or perhaps it was enjoyment. Or to fulfill his ego. To bolster his position as the shoe that grinded on dirt like him.

Perhaps all of those reasons.

Children with clammy hands, who plucked flowers and grabbed too tightly onto the swing, with scraped knees and a face that basked in the innocence of an eternal Sun.

Children, who were perfect to hurt, for monsters like him. Monsters like him who revelled in the pain of the innocent in lieu of unproven salvation. 

By the time Sunday yells his throat raw, thunder bellows in the background in equal magnitude, the rushing rain doing little to calm his heated face and drowning out the pattering of your feet as you rush to find him in front of the fountain where you both had made a wish.

“Sunday!”

Your voice calls out in the distance, his head snapping to you.

You shouldn't be out here.

He turns to embrace your approaching figure in the distance, his feet thrumming and moving to meet you in the middle, but before he takes a step–

“Do not move.”

The words still his bones. He breathes out, watching your slowing figure, swaying from the fever. Water sloshes lazily along his polished shoes that leaks out from the overfilled fountain. You'd wished for freedom here.

“Do not defy.”

He bites his lip, his teeth gnawing the flesh and drawing blood. He kept his wish in his pocket.

“I have commanded you, child.”

He will always be a sinner.

A sinner who is undeserving of a salvation as beautiful as yours.

“Your thrall is fizzling out.”

He smiles, and Sunday wishes he could rip his teeth out.

You sway, stopping to catch your breath, feeling yourself almost lose balance before steady arms wrap around your body.

“You're soaked!”

You whisper, feeling the dampness of his suit as he pulls you into a hug.

“We need to leave.”

Sunday leads you back, ignoring the weakening tether of his divinity.

Sunday looks back for the final time – a lonely, black umbrella in front of the fountain, it's owner seemingly vanished.

——

You heave, as Sunday helps you back onto the bed. Somewhere along the way, your body only grew weaker. You feared something worse when you could barely feel your pulse, but the way your legs seemed to almost stop working by the time you reached your room, it was already true.

Your figures shuffle as Sunday paces around the room, trying to find extra blankets and covers provided by the hospital, cursing under his breath as he knocks over a few items, some getting caught in his leg. You try not to pay attention to your failing body, but its hard to ignore how much deja vu you're getting right about now. Only this time – the pain is worse. The chill running up your spine at your spike in fever is nothing compared to the cold that's slowly chipping away at your fingers, and the pain in your body is reaching an all time high, making your breaths come out in labored gasps. It feels like a scrawny animal trying to rip out of your body.

He hurries over to you, swaddling you in blankets and sheets in layers, furiously rubbing your arms as he tries to warm up your body from the biting cold of the rain. Thunder strikes through outside your window, and in your fever haze, you catch a glimpse of the painting Sunday had meticulously made. He must have accidentally pulled the cover while pacing around.

Sunday calls out to you, snapping you momentarily out of your haze, but not completely. You were losing consciousness, and fast. His voice is shaking, despite how much he tries to appear calm. 

He knows.

But you can't bring yourself to pay attention. Things float over your mind like an ephemeral dream, your eyes only focused on the golden sunlight of the painting.

There's Sunday. And you. The garden is beautiful, and the sun illuminates your hands, reaching out to each other.

The gold is beautiful.

“Hey..”

You call out, making his panicked actions stop abruptly. His hand cups the side of your face, so gently, as if you're porcelain under his hand.

“What is it?”

“Sunday..”

Your hands tremble, moving up to hold his face, your fingers brushing away stray droplets from the edges of the wings over his face. The pain ebbs in you, and you recognize the familiar action as you sense it dimming, coupled with the sweat forming above Sunday's scrunched up eyebrows. He's trying to salvage this pain.

“Can I see your eyes?”

Sunday breathes out, leaning more into your hands. His hands move from supporting your back to your shoulders, gently pushing you back onto the bed, but his forehead presses against yours. 

You can feel his trembling, cool breath fan the lower half of your face, his own hands clasping over yours. The pain starts decreasing terrifyingly fast, making you afraid of just how much Sunday is trying to take it from you and into himself.

“Sun..”

Your voice whispers out,

“You don't have to–”

“I love you.”

The words hang between you two. You hear the faint sound of him swallow. There's dried blood on his lips.

“I love you too. The painting is beautiful.”

Sunday sucks in a breath, his wings bristling at your words. You feel your hands slowly lose strength.

His wings move. You see his eyes.

And they hold the most beautiful, striking golden Sun.

You're caught breathless for a moment.

Sunday's hands are still clasped over yours as they loosen and threaten to fall away from his face. You sense the trembling in them as he fosters your pain.

“I'm scared.”

His eyes close, eyebrows scrunched in worry and uncertainty.

“I'm here. I always have been.”

“I don't want to die.”

Sunday shifts, and presses a soft kiss to your forehead,

“Wherever you go, I'll follow you. There is nowhere you will go that I won't reach you.”

You close your eyes, tears roll down the sides, and Sunday kisses them away, continuing to whisper against your skin,

“I promise. I'll find you. In every universe you are painted into.”

You smile, laughing bitterly through your tears, your voice cracking a bit,

“You didn't make a wish, you know..”

Sunday presses his forehead to yours, his hand fishing out the coin he'd kept from his pocket in a hasty manner. He holds your hand, and gently places the coin in the centre of your palm.

“Because this will be a promise. I will follow you unto the borders of fate. Wherever you will lead I shall look to.”

You smile, through your tears,

“It's not fair. It's not your wish.”

“It's mine. And I am yours.”

He kisses you. His lips are soft against yours. You can taste his blood.

“I will always be yours. In death, if not in life.”

His hands encase yours. You feel the ridges of the coin press against the inside of your closed hands. 

You die in love.

He is a curse; a man rotten by the grime of his humanity, and thus he turns to you for the salvation of his divinity. But how insignificant such a thing is to him  – He cannot bless you, so he curses you. You who were never blessed now face the miracle of an angel like him. A miracle crafted by the defiling hands of a sinner that cursed you for love.

And he shall follow you unto death like one.

——

Acheron thrums her fingers against the cool counter of her desk, her eyes trained on the register in front of her.

She doesn't know how to tell a story.

Not yours, anyway.

Black Swan hums in the background, fixing the frame over the wall,

“You doubt yourself too much.”

Mei stays silent for a moment, then sighs. Her office chair creaks as she leans back in it. A few moments of silence, followed by a soft peck on the bridge of her nose. She opens her eyes to see her wife's, the woman slightly leaned over her.

“I'll be home late. I promise I'll spend more time with you soon. I just..”

Black Swan hushes her, her fingers lazily tangling themselves in the woman's violet hair. 

“I know. You have a long day ahead, isn't it?”

Acheron sighs again, closing her eyes, remembering your body in the morgue. Just about a few hours ago, when the rain was hitting it's hardest, she and her wife had taken a relaxed break. Black Swan had drawn some predictions for her, and the sounds of thunder had soothed her troubled mind back to a still pond. 

She opens her eyes again, and watches the precipitation on the window, the gentle sunlight peeking through the breaking clouds, the sound of rain coming to a slow halt. She watched a raindrop sliding off of the leaf of a plant right outside her window. Black Swan has already returned to her own devices behind her.

In just a few hours, you'd been alive. By the time the clouds broke apart and the rain stopped, so had your heart.

And here you were – back with a story of your own, instead. Acheron wishes she was better at storytelling. She hopes her wife can do it justice.

She turns halfway in her seat, looking back at her wife.

“..do you mind.. lending me a hand?”

The lavender haired woman only hums in response, the clicking of her heels as she approaches her again. She places three cards on Mei's desk.

“Which one calls to you?”

Mei takes a minute, analysing the duplicate designs of each card's back. She taps on the one on the left. Black swan picks it up.

“that's good.” She hums, closing her eyes for a moment, before opening them and looking back at Mei,

“But I mean, you. Which one really calls to you?”

Acheron hesitates once again, before tapping the middle one.

“Perfect.”

——

“You were right.”

Mei says, before gently blowing on the hot liquid in her teacup,

Black swan hums, lighter at the end, questioning what Mei was mentioning.

“That painting looks better in the centre.”

At this, the lavender-haired woman's mouth makes an ‘o’ shape, before curling into a smile. She flicks a few cards before gathering and tapping the bundle on the table to even them out.

“It does. Aren't you pleased I'm looking after your office decor?”

Mei only hums in response, looking over to the said painting hanging above her office chair, her face hidden by the sunlight of early morning.

“Someone ought to have helped with such a..”

Black Swan trails off, perturbed by the sterile, clean look of Acheron's office where she has yet to make changes.

Mei only laughs under her breath at her words.

“You're right.”

Black Swan's gaze joins her lover's, as she looks to the painting aswell.

The golden sunlight peers through the tender reach of your hands with a certain, blue-haired angel. The same angel who was buried beside you.

“Ah, look.”

Mei looks down at the table, following her wife's fingers, as they tapped on the table.

“What do these cards mean?”

“Take a guess. Tell me what you feel from these.”

Her hand lands on Mei's – slightly coarse from her line of work. Her lithe fingers trace the band of her engagement ring.

“Something.. new. A fresh start.”

She smiles. Her dawn-colored eyes trail to the sidewalk just outside, watching a pair of lovers walk hand in hand under the newly uncovered Sun after the night's rain.

——

“Morning.”

You whisper, leaning down and gently kissing the corner of your husband's brow. He sighs, and shifts, burying his face further into the pillows. It's soon followed by arms that move under the covers to wrap around your waist, forcing you to stay seated beside him. You simply chuckle.

“Goodmorning.”

He replies, his voice soft with sleep. You ruffle the soft tufts of his blue hair.

“Sleep well?”

“Mm. I..”

He opens his eyes, half lidded and blurry with sleep, looking up at you. You both stay silent for a moment.

“I had a long dream.”

“Wanna tell me about it?”

He sighs, before slowly sitting up, and burying his face into your neck, and then leaning his body weight onto yours, making you lay down on the bed.

Hm. So this is how it's going to be.

You know your husband too well to know this is going to turn into a drawn out cuddling session. Your hand raises and brushes through the soft, blue locks. You're giving in anyway, because who are you to deny your lover?

He only holds you impossibly closer at that.

“I made coffee. It'll get cold.”

He hums at that.

“It's 10 in the morning, you dork.”

“Ah, didn't notice.”

You roll your eyes playfully, leaning down to press a chaste kiss on the top of his head. He presses a kiss to your neck in return.

“You haven't shown me your painting yet.”

He stays silent. But then, he shifts, his arms hesitantly letting go of you.

That seems to have gotten him going.

He gets up, and shuffles out of the room. A few moments later, he returns with a small canvas wrapped in a cloth. He hands it to you, then returns to sit beside you, burying his face into your neck once again.

“Wrapped too, hm?”

“It's your birthday.”

You smile. He leans over and presses a gentle kiss to the corner of your brow.

“Thank you. I really appreciate it.”

“You haven't even seen it yet.”

You unwrap the cloth from the canvas. Your smile only widens at the painting.

There you two are. Your house is behind you two, and there's your garden that you've painstakingly taken care of.

You chuckle, pointing to a few, scattered reds across the greenery,

“You included my carnations.”

His hand comes up to wrap around yours, before bringing it up to his lips, and pressing a kiss to your knuckles.

“Of course I did.”

You set the painting aside, before getting up and stretching, popping a few joints.

“Come on, I'll make you some fresh coffee.”

You reach your hand out, and he takes it, getting up on his feet as he lets you lead to the kitchen.

———

There's a strange shop that you've recently discovered.

It pops up just about whenever, wherever. A strangely elusive personality culminated by the repeated disappearance and the mysterious purpose of the shop tends to pull you in.

You had visited the shop before – but the memory is fuzzy. You don't remember having anything you'd like to buy. Photo Albums, mirrors, tarot cards, polaroid cameras, antique equipment and trinkets, and strange candles. It was when you were on your way home from work that you decided to take such a detour. Perhaps.. that must've been what it was. Regardless, you decided you'd want to visit the shop again with your husband.

The opportunity was pretty perfect; your schedules aligned, the weather was considerably not so miserable, and you managed to find the shop in time.

It's a bit of a chance opportunity, considering how your husband has taken a liking to a bird that recently ended up in your backyard – the poor thing was scuffled. It's wings were broken and it barely survived through the night you two found him.

Ever since, he'd been collecting photos and capturing the little thing's recovery, bit by bit. 

You smiled to yourself, humming in contentment as your arm was looped around his snugly, basking in the warm glow of the early Sun, walking in a leisurely pace as your husband continued to flick through photos on his phone.

The weather was especially nice today – the rains had stopped a while ago and the time window was perfectly in between cold breezes and a warm atmosphere. You eyed the gentle swaying of newly sprouted weeds and grasses, a thicket of flowers and so on, at the edge of the sidewalk connecting to the wall of a barrier.

The wall would end a few ways ahead, replaced by (slightly worn) fences, as the rest of the land came into view the more you two walked ahead. Your husband would occasionally fill in the silence with little facts he would remember of, while you scanned the vast scenery of the green land behind the fence.

It was a cemetery. The tombstones were warmed by the Sun – or you at least think so, the way a cat seems to be lazily draped over one. There's a hugely amassed tree a few ways up the tombstones, and there lay two solitary ones, just enough distance from the tree for the light to reach under and illuminate them. 

You wonder if they're warm. You wonder if the grass is soft, and the dirt is coldly comforting. You wonder who they were – lovers, spouses, friends. Perhaps they were holding hands through their graves. Another cat sprung from behind one of the tombstones, gracefully approaching the one asleep sunbathing, stomping around the little flowers growing beside the specific tombstone.

You see them greet each other. You see the cat lovingly bathe the sun-kissed one. It's tail lazily draped over the tombstone flicks, drawing your attention to the name. Nico. Below it, reads, Have faith in a tomorrow.

The fence cut the sight a little short as you two walked ahead. 

You think for a moment, almost disregarding the smallness of the thought amongst other things in your head.

“Ah, I don't think I've shown you this one.”

Your husband speaks, leaning over to show you a spontaneous photo of you on one of your dates. You both had taken a detour and rested near the fountain. That must have been when, as you smiled, looking at the photo.

But the thought still lingered quietly in your head.

To be woven so delicately and strongly into someone else's tapestry, until the strings frayed long after your deaths.

What it would take, you wonder.

———

Akin to your habits of detours, and keenly aware of your likings, your husband politely guides you to a cafe you two had visited once (he, thankfully, does not mention the audible growling of your stomach. Coffee is not a good, neither a fulling breakfast.)

You two spend a handful of hours there, simply relishing the downtime you two have together. Hushed, soft conversations, hands held over the wooden table that stayed linked as you two finally made your ways to the strange shop.

It was small, but the arrangement of the trinkets (and perhaps the placement of the lighting) made it look more spacious inside. You two talked at the front where, you presume, the owner of the shop was. A lavender haired woman who spoke in a hushed, sweet tone. Nothing else was off about her except her hypnotizing gaze and the knowing look in her eyes. You two would take your time sorting through the shop, and eventually your husband would pick a photo album.

The woman offered to print a few select photos, and you hesitantly agreed. Although technically this was a strange shop in itself, something about it prickled your skin the wrong way.

So, you waited outside for him as he discussed the details, choosing to admire the carefree and relaxed atmosphere of the day outside.

After a moment, your phone buzzed, and that was your signal. You headed inside, and found your husband listening carefully to the lavender-haired woman instructing on how to take care of the album. As soon as you catch her eye, she smiles at you, and waves. You wave back.

“Good to go?” You ask, looking at your lover in blue.

“Sure is. Feel free to drop by anytime you need some more help.” The woman chimes in, smiling lazily at you, her chin cradled on her hands, her elbows propped up on the counter as your husband fiddles around with the album a bit more.

“Alright.” He says, after a moment, satisfied with his inspection. “We can leave.”

You smile at the woman again as a thanks, she simply waves you two off as you leave. The chiming of the little bell over the door resounds for only a moment as she watches you two with a fixed gaze leave and walk away.

“Hm..”

She hums, her fingers grazing over the plethora of cards sprawled in the pop up desk below. Her finger lands on a card.

The Hanged Man.

“Mei was right.” She smiles.

———

[koiiiji]

it tastes like over sweet shit

author's note ; you guys aren't funny with your “gun would quit smoking when he is with u” BRO. be f for real, this bitch is too nicotine addicted. and stressed. and honestly i understand this bitch.

tw ; cigarettes and smoke. remember my dears!! it's not healthy and cool to smoke, we highly not recommend whatever will be written next

special thanks to @aline1701 for understanding!! ifykyk🫡🫡

✮₊⊹₊⋆ ☠︎︎ ⋆₊ ⊹✮

street was nearly empty that night, the neon signs flickering in the distance, casting their artificial glow on the wet pavement. you had been wandering, lost in thought, when you realized — you were out of cigarettes.

with an annoyed sigh, you patted your pockets again just to be sure. nothing. just your lighter.

that's when you spotted him. your target!

a tall man, dressed in a crisp suit despite the late hour, leaning against a brick wall with a cigarette between his lips. the glow of the ember briefly illuminated his sharp features as he exhaled, completely unbothered by the world around him.

he looked... intimidating. dangerous, even. but the day was too hard and exhausting to avoid the only smoker in the sight right now.

that's what nicotine addiction gets you to!! to intimidating hot strangers on the street!!

“excuse me,” you said, stopping just a few steps away. “do you have a cigarette?”

he didn't reply right away. his dark eyes flicked toward you, assessing, before he reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack. with a flick of his wrist, he held it out.

marlboro. red. most classical ones. most shitty ones.

you hesitated.

his brow lifted slightly, catching your pause.

“never mind,” you said, forcing a polite smile. “thanks, but i'll pass”

he exhaled another slow drag, the rich, smoky scent invading your space. “you asked for a cigarette.”

“i did.” you shrugged. “just not that one.”

for the first time today, his lips curved — not quite a smirk, not quite amusement. just mild interest.

“mm.” he put the pack away, saying nothing more.

you left shortly after, still with hopes that you will find your favorite cigarettes in pockets, not realizing who you had just met.

✮₊⊹₊⋆ ☠︎︎ ⋆₊ ⊹✮

Jonggun lit his cigarette with a flick of his lighter, the ember flaring to life as he took a slow drag. the scent of marlboro — deep, tarry, unmistakable - filled the air, mixing with the crisp night breeze.

and from beside him — a disgusted scoff.

“ugh,” you groaned, wrinkling your nose as you pulled out your own pack. “do you have to smoke that crap every time?”

he barely glanced at you, as calm as always. “what's wrong with it?”

you shot him a glare before pulling out one of your own cigarettes — long, slim, and infused with a faint berry scent. the contrast between the two was almost comical. Jonggun's marlboros were strong, classic, the kind of thing a man like him would smoke without a second thought. neanwhile, yours smelled a little sweet, the filter faintly tinted with a hint of purple.

Jonggun eyed it with mild amusement as you placed it between your lips. “berry-flavored?”

“better than that garbage you smoke,” you shot back, lighting it. faint, barely perceptible sound of smoldering tobacco filled the silence as you took a drag, the berry aftertaste lingering on your tongue pleasantly.

Jonggun exhaled another puff of his own, letting the heavy scent of marlboro creep into your personal space like an uninvited guest. you grimaced.

Jonggun smirked. “problem?”

“yes, actually,” you said, fanning the air dramatically. “it’s too strong. makes me feel like i’m inhaling frustration, regret and pain.”

he chuckled, low and amused.

you rolled your eyes, holding up your own cigarette. “see, this is refined. smooth. a little fruity. something pleasant to smoke.”

Jonggun scoffed, clearly unimpressed. “tobacco isn’t supposed to be pleasant.”

“says who?” you took another leisurely drag, blowing the smoke toward him in defiance. the faint scent of berries drifted between you, mixing briefly with the harsher marlboro before it disappeared into the night air.

Jonggun studied you for a moment, his gaze unreadable. then, with a tilt of his head, he said, “give me one.”

you blinked. “what?”

“your cigarette,” he said, as if it were obvious. “i want to try.”

you narrowed your eyes. “you’re just going to make fun of it.”

“probably,” he admitted, smirking.

with a sigh, you plucked one from your pack and handed it over. Jonggun took it between his fingers, examining the slim shape like it was some foreign artifact. then, with practiced ease, he lit it and took a slow, deep drag.

a pause.

you watched, half-expecting him to nod in approval — until a strange expression flickered over his face.

and then, he let out the smallest laugh.

it wasn’t much — just a quiet huff of amusement — but it was enough. the sudden break in composure caught him off guard, and before he could recover, the smoke caught in his throat.

coughing and letting his small chuckle go, he croaked “how you smoke this muck? it tastes like over-sweet shit,” voice slightly hoarse from the cough and smoke in his lungs.

you blinked.

Park Jonggun just choked on smoke.

but he quickly coughed up the last of the smoke from his throat, coming back to his usual calm demeanor.

you kept staring. then, you grinned.

“no way,” you gasped, delighted. “did you just choke?”

his silence and murderous look only made you laugh harder. “oh my god, that’s the first time i’ve seen you struggle with anything.”

Jonggun exhaled sharply again, as if clearing his lungs of whatever betrayal had still occurred. “shut up… it’s too light. feels like i’m inhaling perfume.”

“you’re just mad because it made you cough,” you teased, nudging him with your elbow.

he just rolled his eyes and handed the cigarette back. “take your candy stick.”

you took it back, smug, and took a slow, dramatic drag right in front of him. “mmm. delicious.”

Jonggun lit another marlboro, you already could imagine that tarry scent. but this time, when he exhaled, he lifted his head slightly, letting the smoke drift away from you instead of in your face.

you noticed.

but said nothing.

with a satisfied smirk, you kept smoking your berry-flavored cigarette, the two of you falling into a comfortable silence, letting the night pass in a slow haze of smoke.

✮₊⊹₊⋆ ☠︎︎ ⋆₊ ⊹✮

[purin-gambler]

‘what are we?’ - miya osamu

wc: 1k

cw: timeskip spoilers

⚄ notes: timeskip osamu, fem reader, fluff, established friendship, playful flirting, fake dating, (affectionately) teasing atsumu

☁︎ a/n: first short work on here, and it's for samu! i always go through some sort of inarizaki character brainrot, and at this moment its for osamu, so im giving him some love!

“how’s the meal, sweetheart? enjoyin’ it?”

“you always know my taste, dear.”

“oh yeah? ‘s the best ya ever had?”

“mhm~. always is, samu.”

you could practically feel the piercing daggers being pointed towards your direction and to where the other stood in front, behind the counter. an irritated groan emitting from beside where you were seated.

in your peripheral vision, you noticed the incredibly obvious eye roll done by the artificially blonde man on the stool beside you. an action done purposely to showcase the annoyance plastered onto his face. “ugh, can ya two get a room-?! can’t eat my meal in peace without ya both giving each other those googly eyes… ‘s gross.”

in a childish manner, he pretended to gag, emphasizing and displaying his disgust further to you both. you tried to stifle an arising bubble of laughter, but the smile on your face was all too present to be missed. the other man across the counter, whose features resembled the other beside you, noticed this. though rather than the similar expression of disgust painted on his twin's face, he presented an amused expression in return.

osamu turned his full attention to atsumu, whose mouth was stuffed with an onigiri created by his twin. a stupid smirk of pride now upturning the corners of his lips, atsumu starring deadpanned. “what? jealous yer single?” osamu challenged, watching the way atsumu’s mouth dropped, now agape despite the halfly chewed meal still sitting in his mouth.

“likh i’d be jwewous owh ya-!” atsumu wasted no second to raise his defense, words too muffled by his meal to be properly decipherable. osamu raised an eyebrow at atsumu’s remark, his eyes glazing over to yours and giving you an all knowing look as a signal practically saying ‘he’s totally jealous.’

osamu only shrugged in response to atsumu’s outburst before muttering, “whatever ya say.” which added some sort of salt to atsumu’s wound considering the way he emphasized another facial display of an incredibly obvious eye roll.

this routine was common between you and osamu. a silly banter that turned into somewhat of an inside joke pinned to his twin’s face. playful flirting that insinuated a close connection between you and the restaurant owner, despite no real relationship besides friendship being the label plastered between you both.

you had known the twins were close and would always pry into each other’s lives whether intentional or not. so on a fateful day when the three of you were at onigiri miya just as you were now, osamu had given you a special custom order including all of your favorite ingredients. it was an order you hadn’t even asked him for, just something he had simply made for you when he heard you would drop by in the afternoon.

you lit up at this, osamu not missing your reaction, a light smile present on his lips as you took the plated meal from his hands with gratitude. a happy “thank you, samu!” being exclaimed from you, and an all too gentle “no problem.” being softly spoken by the restaurant owner.

this was a gesture osamu had only provided for the closer ones in his life, and now, of course you. but it was nonetheless a gesture and interaction that just so happened to have atsumu questioning your relationship together.

“is there somethin’ ya both aren’t telling me? ya both datin’ or what?”

the two of you gawked at first to atsumu’s question, a storm of laughter erupting into the atmosphere of the restaurant due to how ridiculous his question had sounded. at the time it was as if it were the funniest question in the world, you and osamu simply being nothing more than good friends.

so you couldn’t exactly understand what had prompted his interrogation to begin with. atsumu’s expression falling flat as he watched the way you both wheezed hysterically at his question.

with tears of laughter piling up in the corner of your eyes, you had choked back another cackle, “us-? dating…? seriously?” another roar of your laughter ripped through the air, osamu just as entertained as you were.

“where did’ya get that idea from?” with a look of interest, osamu had questioned him whilst studying the look on atsumu’s face.

atsumu only groaned, “oh come on.” he leaned his body forward against the counter. “it ain’t that weird to ask! both of ya are just givin’ me that vibe!” his finger now pointed at the two of you, eyes darting towards the special little onigiri customized just for you by the restaurant owner.

it was easy to say, that situation had definitely left a lasting impression on you two. all very much to the point where you and osamu began to exaggerate your interactions together whenever atsumu were around you both.

it started with the little side comments whenever osamu served you both your meals.

“this one’s for smelly tsumu, and this one’s for my ‘girlfriend’.”

“take some food to go, can’t have my ‘girlfriend’ go hungry.”

only over time, osamu grew bolder, switching to more intimate remarks at you to gauge a reaction.

“wanna try my new menu item, baby?”

“how ‘bout i feed you?”

even to more physical advances too.

holding hands across the counter, all so casually but far too evident.

long hugs, with his large hands that would affectionately squish the softness of your body.

gentle kisses, placed on your full cheeks.

it wasn’t until you began flirting back, atsumu became truly confused of you two. curious of the truth, until his curiosity eventually became an annoyance with the two of you. part of him knowing you both just enjoyed messing with him and teasing him for a simple question he had asked before, regretting that he even bothered butting into your love lives out of interest. he was still surprised you both are still holding it above his head. at this rate he could assume maybe you both do have something going on and he was the only one noticing it.

“i don’t care if ya both really are datin’ or not, just let me eat in peace.” he took a large bite from his onigiri, shaking his head in disapproval.

you brought your hand up, patting the setter’s back. “its okay, tsumu! you’ll find someone soon.” you cooed, osamu snickering on the side watching his twin’s face fall flat once more.

[lov3-ly]

Ahhh imagine sleeping with Jing Yuan and Snowmoon, such a domestic image the three of you create..

If it wasn’t for the war you were fighting in.

who know a man who was dead asleep would hog the blankets so much, leaving you cold when the artificial weather was getting chilly for winter, damn you spaceship!! You felt like you were gonna freeze to death!

And the lion, if you weren’t careful you were sure you’d get suffocated slowly in your sleep with all its fur! Ugh! You had to shove it to Jing Yuan’s side for him to deal with it instead because you’re already getting tired of Jing Yuan’s antics on top of trying to save your life. A little payback wouldn’t hurt of course.

with the two of them trying to kill you it was rare for a decent night of rest but you can’t get mad when you get to see the general finally at rest and a free weighted blanket snowmoon provided

bed time wasn’t fun of course but you loved them too much to complain.

(Not proof read, sorry for the errors I’m half asleep 😭)

[anantaru]

DAY 12 — COCKWARMING

kinktober 2023. — masterlist | ao3

𖧡 — including — heizou, alhaitham, baizhu

𖧡 — warnings — fem! reader, cockwarming, tit play, teasing you to the brim like staaaaaahp, a sprinkle of brat taming because why not, mean genshin boys

𖧡 — HEIZOU

"ah- i could get used to this."

and needless to say, it feels good, largely to heizou though— especially when he shadows his skilled fingers over your bare chest because he knows it'll drive you insane, his hand slowly settling down on top of your breasts, squeezing and massaging the mounds before groping your tits, together with his cock slipping past the solidness of your slit— throbbing, pressing and stretching inside.

you cling to him for your dear life, the fulfillment of his erection jammed within the bounds of you swelling pussy, candidly battering your cunt when you attempt to press down on his hips, or perhaps move for that matter, instead whimpering sweetly as heizou stills your hips with a solid arm whilst the other pinches your aroused nipple and tugs on it ever so slightly.

you pout out deliberately, yearning for him so terribly you cannot help yourself but moan into his neck, "heizou.." you say, stumbling over your words, "don't tease me now.. please." and it's not necessarily something your boyfriend would consider teasing— especially since in his opinion, you should be utterly aware on how his real taunting looked like.

in the span of no time, it had gotten to the point where it became a game between you both, one which he would most likely end up winning the moment he shushes your cute sniffles with a kiss, idly shuffling in his seat before unintentionally (it was very much intentional) moving his cock and thrusting up hard against one cloying, pressing, spot.

"fuck— well, you faced worse before, haven't you?" his words, although dripping of artificial consideration, vibrate all the way from your pouty lips, to your sensitive nipples being played with, to your wet messy core slicking up his buried shaft, shortly gushing around it so much that a white, thick ring of whites took shape around the base of his cock— he’s still entirely buried in you, with that single thrust hitting you like a sudden hot fever dashing on top of your shoulders.

heizou continues to keep you pressed against his cock, one hand long since branding the flesh of your juddering hips— and it's almost bruising to you, long fingers plunging into the skin hard enough to make you wince out and beg again, only to be met with a cocked up brow, a wet smirk and an even deeper throb of his erection.

your quivering body was exceedingly past recovering by now and you helplessly swallow down a bubbling sob from your throat when he grinds inside you again, yet with barely any strength aiding the move— the stiffened veins of his erection melting with your walls that the combination of those very sensations heizou brought forth focused on intermittently inching you into madness.

𖧡 — ALHAITHAM

your thighs clamp against each side of alhaitham's hips while one arm freely closes around your waist, the last thing he'd want is for you to move and disturb his peace— whilst the other, well, was occupied in holding a book he was currently reading, adventurous eyes deciphering each and every little letter printed on top, eagerly memorizing and pondering about a much deeper, more crucial interpretation behind the portrayed story.

yet you're taking him just like he needed you to, raw and hard, while he barely gifts you any attention. ugh, some sort of punishment coming from the scribe? might be, but you knew alhaitham very well and that his mind simply wasn't wired that way, instead he probably thought that it would cost him far less effort to put two into one, pleasure and knowledge, as he referred to it, stitched together with both sides unable to slip past his grip.

it's mostly exhausting around your legs, specifically the insides of your thighs that began to stiffen and ache, forcing you to taste subtle early signs of lightheadedness from your desperate attempts to not move nor clench down on him so strongly.

another breathy gasp, and you let him know that you're obviously struggling with his cock being way too big and heavy to remain in that way without moving at the very least— a warm puddle of your arousal exuding from your hole and divulging at the foundation of his shaft, sending droplets of the mixture on the office floor.

"please, oh, please." you whine, suddenly flustered when you realize you just blurted those frenzied pleas out loud, establishing them right against the shell of his ears, his headphones since long disposed of and placed on the table next to you— whilst beyond questioning, besides the fact that alhaitham was wholly absorbed into the fantasy novel in his hand, he'd never pass up on an opportunity to listen to your short-lived whines, the cute weeps or the loud thuds of your heart beat reverberating against his chest.

"already?" he speaks softly before you meet his eyes, surprisingly enough his pupils were blown wide and you cannot even fathom this level of discipline when it probably hurt him too to not move at least an inch up and down your fluttering hole. "i barely started this chapter."

"then read faster!" you interrupt him, no, practically snap at him, nervously licking your lips as your hands run over his cheeks to make him kiss you, his raw erection throbbing at the bold move as he for once redirects his entire attention from that pestering, bothersome, annoying book in his hand that you would love to just dispose of entirely.

"okay, okay," the man shuffles around, "you better make it worth my time then." and he teases you, always, then drinks up a trembling moan that spumes up on your mouth as his quick tongue darts out to run around your lips and wet them with his saliva, your throat aching in excitement for what's about to come. 

alhaitham bites back a groan when you swiftly mould your walls over his cock, needful and slobbering your arousal once more— you're so soft there, ah, it never fails to amaze him. but to get himself on top of things again, most importantly to not lose himself in you, he traces your back up and down with his palm before teasingly rutting into your wet sex, it's barely perceivable to you and maybe that's what would ultimately tip you over the edge if alhaitham does not stop those cruel tactics.

although, pondering over his honesty, it's quite cute when you're frustrated and bitter because of a situation he put you in, or how much harder it was to stay disciplined in focusing on his book when a coat of a heavenly expression litters across your bristling cheeks— it just feels so dreamy to be inside you.

alhaitham might just look past the little shifts of your body that you sneaked between pauses, despite them offering you the tiniest teases and moments of friction on your overflowing hole, and yes, your leg muscles were screaming for some sort of pleasure, regardless keeping yourself still and happy to take his perfectly shaped length.

𖧡 — BAIZHU

you brace yourself, without further questioning settling on baizhu's lap before lining your slit up with his leaking cock— his pre like a translucent film sheer on top of the rosy tip.

and for the most part, this scenario appeared to be quite familiar to you— at the end of the day, your boyfriend could never be entirely satisfied when you ride him for hours, he needs it without pause. it warms his heart when you’re on top— as if you were somehow claiming him, his groans exuberant with lust, a velvet tune on your ears so exciting as you watch how he succumbs to the touch of being engulfed by a warm, soft cunt.

this time, although, something didn't align with previous scenarios— because the second you had pushed him in, touched up his shaft with your wetness, baizhu instantly places both hands on your moving hips, breathily laughing in both bliss and an ulterior emotion as he squeezes the flesh of your ass, your pretty noises almost making him decide against doing this right now.

of course, you try to lift your hips so you could bounce up and down, his cockhead snugly enclosed and piercing your swelling flesh as he spread you apart by his girth, your body desperately clinging against his chest and it's only then, when you realize what's going on, your hot, breathless moans garnering his gentle attention.

"uh?" you tilt your head to the side, then wince when his cock reaches impossibly deep and nudges over your sensitivity, the infused tingles of that singular drag holding you captive, intimately trapped within his arms, "ah— is something wrong?"

"no, nothing." baizhu coos, mouthing a wet spot over your jawline before slotting his lips over your own. you fall into a kind of daze when he keeps you strong against his thudding cock, your hands on his shoulders when you press your nails into the clothed skin, breathing deep, slow, at least trying but your attempts immediately fall flat when he offers your body some teases of friction.

"is something supposed to be wrong?" you're sweating at his words, your leg muscles screaming when you gaze at him through confused, widened eyes, "i- i'm not sure," you babble, the shivers in your lower area doing everything in their limited power to keep the pleasure going for as long as possible, anything to make you feel at least something but baizhu wouldn't let you.

"think harder, darling." he grins, letting the exposed warmth of your cunt wrap around his cock as he lifts you up, "is this better?" no, of course not, you panic, this was even worse and you whine at the lost fullness, leaning against him to wrap your arms around his neck, his cock head still nudging at your slit.

"it's not, it's not, it's not.." you can hardly move, and baizhu swallows down your mewls with a lick into your mouth, nibbling at your bottom lip before smirking when he feels how you're rolling your hips, or at least, try— despite that, you're being met with strong resistance again, wondering how someone such as baizhu, who was perceived as a frail man, suddenly claimed such sturdy force in his arms.

"easy now.." he whispers cruelly, and you can practically taste his amusement on your tongue.

"maybe then "i'll move."

©2023 anantaru's kinktober do not repost, copy, translate, modify

[strwbrychffoncke]

"guess thats my own fault for makin you my world, now all i feel is blue,, 1.7k words ⸺ event masterlist synopsis: what would the matrimony between the god of the sea and his beloved look like? contains: lads rafayel x f!mc reader ,angst no comfort ,set before raf + mc reunite (in this timeline) ,depictions of Lemuria ,GoT!raf but hes kinda softer here lol ,possible inaccurate wedding ceremony depictions (never been to one bare w me) ,raf just wants his mermaid bride ugh ,yearning!raf ,thats all i can think of ,basically fluff until its not note: (unedited!) based off the unofficial leak/banner predictions w talk of a wedding card but make it angsty... i just hope i was able to execute it ok..? forgive me rafayel kissers i will make it up to u somehow....

-

the light in the depths of the ocean shone upon the interior of the main palace, highlighting the pearlescence of the pillars stretching towards the top, framing the windowpanes of glass that served as view upon view of the sparkling blue as fish of various sizes came and went. flora of various colors bloomed at the foot of each pillar, each small step, adding a touch of life to the endless royal white, reaching up towards the artificial light of the deep. silk curtains flitted and swayed against the various windowsills, and he was stood by one of them.

he blinked.

he found himself back in that underwater palace, in the middle of a long corridor that he knew all too well.

his arms were folded across his bare chest as he looked around, subconsciously seeking out something, or someone.

he took a few steps forward, away from the window, the various embellishments hanging from his clothes gently jostling with tinkling sounds as he made his way down the crisp walkway. his footsteps echoed down the empty halls, the only sounds accompanying them being the movement of the ocean around him.

a puzzled look crossed his otherworldly features.

the emptiness of the centre was not foreign but uncommon, only occurring should there be some grand event or ceremony taking place at the altar or elsewhere.

he gazed out through the clear windows, watching a school of fish swim by, eyes drifting up towards the waters' surface.

not that he could see it, not from down here at least.

he must've been lost in thought of the surface, because he missed the pitter-patter of steps echoing down the hallway towards him until the person's voice reached him.

"what are you doing here? we're going to be late!"

the informal way in which he's spoken to goes right over his head as he hears that voice, slowly turning his head towards the soruce.

he feels his breath leave his lungs.

its you.

though, instead of your usual attire, you're dressed in something completely different.

from head to toe, you're wrapped up in the traditional Lemurian wedding attire. its still a two piece but mostly white with light blues and pastels- a sign of the uncoming matrimony. the top fit to your exact measurements hugging your chest perfectly, pretty pearls embellishing the neckline with sheer fabric falling over your midriff. the bottoms are a similar white shade, the same pearls decorating the edges, light purple and pink pieces flowing beautifully from them. your shoes match too, creamy white and shiny, clicking beneath you with each step you take.

but what catches his attention the most is the headpiece.

there's pearls and little chains dangling from it and there's the same sheer fabric falling over your face-

your veil.

he's frozen, staring at you, and this only seems to agitate you further.

"helloooo? earth-to-fishy?" you step forward, waving your hand in front of him to break his trance.

he blinks.

when you see this, you quickly reach out for his hand, and pull him forward.

"come on, you don't want the elder to chastise you, do you, your grace?"

the last two words leave your lips in a teasing tone, throwing him a small smirk.

he scoffs, but the edge of a grin peeks from his lips.

"is that any way to speak to your God?"

"it is when you're late for your own wedding!"

he allows himself to be dragged away by you, trailing behind you with hurried steps (keeping up with your jogging as you drag the sea god) watching the way the fabric of your outfit flows behind you, the sounds of the colored beads and chains a pleasing jingle in the silence.

its only then that he realises his own outfit is much more formal than his usual wear (albeit still light, considering he's still shirtless), his outfit matching colors with yours.

a mix of feelings swell up in his chest, grasping your hand a little tighter. if you notice, you don't comment on it.

. . .

it isn't long before you arrive at the altar.

the beginning is a bit of a blur. sure, there's been ceremonies before that he's both attended and been a part of, but this was something else entirely.

all of Lemuria was here to witness the gathering of their sea god and his beloved.

he took his place at the front of the alter first, everyone's eyes following him to his spot, and looked toward the aisle that he only just realized was decorated with various shells, pearls, and small flowers.

something shifts, like a drop of water rippling over the ocean's surface, and there you are.

he had just seen you, but in this lighting, its as if you are the one everyone is here to worship, to watch become entangled with an outsider.

you were absolutely radiant.

you walk slowly, (a little bashful, he notes) giving everyone the time to admire the details of your outfit, the grace in which you carried yourself, your willingness to stand next to their god—

it filled him with a mix of pride and possessiveness.

while everyone was allowed to lay their eyes on you now, they were about to be witness to you being claimed by him completely (and he, you).

all of Lemuria would watch you two come together, as the sea god's betrothed.

two worlds combining in the name of love.

as soon as you're close enough, he takes your hands and tugs you towards him, throwing you off balance and almost making you fall into him, but you're quick to catch yourself.

you shoot him a look, and he only grins at you.

the ceremony begins, and you both stare into each other's eyes as the elder clears his throat and begins with the opening words.

its a bit of a bore, pleasantries and formalities about the dear god of the sea and his beloved joining together in this ceremony of love. rafayel stares at you as the elder speaks, noticing that a lot of what's being said might be going a little over your head, but he doesn't mind.

after all, Lemurian wedding ceremonies greatly differed from mere human ones, considering the dedication it means when they've found their one true mate for life.

Lemurians live for love, after all.

only after plenty of formalities does the ceremony officially come to you both, repeating vows to one another. rafayel wears something between a pleased and amused half-grin when you're meant to repeat words and phrases in Lemurian, trying your best to mimic him yet struggling to do so with how the unfamiliar language feels on your tongue.

after each phrase, you look towards him, tilting your head in a silent question.

'did i do well?'

and each time, he squeezes your hands in response, offering a short nod.

once you finish, he offers a pleased grin, easing the furrow of your brow and watching you breathe a deep sigh of relief.

you pout lightly then— an unspoken qualm.

'so difficult... you didn't prepare me for this!'

he tilts his head slightly, offering nothing but a lazy grin in response.

'i'll teach you more.'

. . .

shortly thereafter, the ceremony has reached its most anticipated point.

"by the power vested in me by the sea, i now pronounce you husband and wife. the lord may now kiss his bride."

his bride.

those words were like music to his ears.

he looked down at you, deep sunrise meeting your bright gaze, staring back at him with anticipation and something akin to nervousness.

he offers a smile, releasing your hands in favor of reaching for your face, parting your veil and cupping your cheeks in his palms.

he leans down, eyes half-lidded, heart pounding in his chest.

all of Lemuria would see...

"my beloved bride..." he murmurs.

the sea god and his beloved were meant to be.

his eyes flutter closed as he leans in.

his lips brush against yours, grazing against the soft warmth of your lips when you suddenly speak something against his.

"wake up."

his entire body goes rigid, and instead of cheers, nothing but white noise seems to surround him.

he feels your hand around the back of his neck, your head reaching up, lips leaning close to his ear now.

"you have to wake up."

he feels as if he can't breathe, like he's a helpless creature that's been cast to the deepest pits of the ocean, nothing but the sound of his heart beating loud in his ears—

he wakes with a start, gasping for air, his hand over his chest.

when he realises where he is, rafayel blinks his bleary eyes open, squinting at the sun peeking through the glass roof.

when had he fallen asleep?

"a dream....?"

he reaches his hands forward to shield the light from his eyes, but his gaze can't help but to land on his empty ring finger.

he drapes the back of that hand over his face, his other falling back to his side.

"my beloved bride......"

how cruel the world was, to conjure up his very fantasy and make it feel so real that he was able to hear your voice, see you in your entirety, feel your warmth....

his thumb absentmindedly traces over his lips.

what he would give to kiss yours again.

he supposes its partially his fault, turning over on his side to gaze at his half-finished painting depicting Lemuria in its glory days, something he'd continue longing to return to so long as it remained forgotten in the darkness— a grave of his creation.

but there was something, someone, who he longed for just a little bit more.

and if he could only choose one, then he figured....

he pulled himself to sit up, roughly rubbing his face against his hands, stretching his sore limbs before deciding to soak himself in a morning bath.

he had long since decided that he would wait on you, his beloved, to come back to him, to reach out to him, so that he could grab you, pull you against him, and never let you go again.

even if that was a wishful dream, he didn't forsake the idea of making you his bride altogether. even if it wouldn't be possible to have it done in his tradition, even if he wouldn't get his familiars to bare witness, that was okay.

so long as the ceremony was done by the shore, the sea's witness to it would be enough for the ocean to acknowledge the matrimony of the sea god.

for now, the sea that surrounded him would keep the secret of the stray pearls that fell from the former sea god's sunrise-colored eyes as he counted another day without you.

-

a/n: maybe i wouldn't have to make him suffer if the GoT had just come home to me sigh..........

-

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

the girl next door 29

Warnings: this fic will include elements, some dark, such as age gap, manipulation, chronic illness, noncon/dubcon, coercion, and other untagged triggers. Please take this into account before proceeding. It is up to curate your online consumption safely.

Summary: A new neighbour moves in and upends your already disarrayed life.

Author’s Note: Please feel free to leave some feedback, reblog, and jump into my asks. I’m always happy to discuss with you and riff on idea. As always, you are cherished and adored! Stay safe, be kind, and treat yourself.

This lewk but silverfox

You peel off the suit and wring it out. You leave it in the bathroom to dry, but more so you don't need to look at it. You've never been so humiliated in all your life. 

Worse than your mother's bitter grumbles, or the way your grandmother used to nitpick at every part of you was that look in Steve's eyes. It was like nothing you've ever seen before. Not angry, not judging, but something mysterious that unsettled you. 

Ugh. You sneer at the wall as you pull on the baggiest tee shirt you have. You hate yourself. No, you hate your body. No matter what you do, it's clumsy and somehow you get in the way of yourself. 

You shimmy into a pair of pajama shorts and flop onto your bed. You could read but your head won't let you focus. Drawing isn't an option either, you're still shaking from the exposure. 

Sleep. Well, that won't come. Every time you close your eyes, you just see Steve and the water, and your nakedness. You can't imagine what your mother would've said if she'd saw. 

She hadn't, had she? 

You roll over and hide your head under your arm. You just lay there, desperate to escape somehow. The hours wear on, the day shifting around your unmoving form, the stagnant house dampening your skin with sweat.  

When you finally get the strength to flip onto your back, you realise you've been crying. You sniffle and mop your cheeks. You don't know why you're crying. Humiliation, sure, but don't be such a baby. 

You sit up cradle your head until it's a little less fragile. You get to your feet and shuffle out to use the bathroom. You pointedly ignore the pink checkered fabric. 

When you're done, you go to the kitchen. You look in the fridge. Not much there. You take out an old cup of pudding and fish out a spoon. You sit at the table and stir it but don't eat.  

You remember when you were a kid, your grandma would give you tapioca. Your mother only ever got banana. You hate banana pudding. It tastes so artificial. 

You're not a kid anymore. You're realising that now. It's time to be an adult. You don't have a place here anymore. Your mom has Steve and you have... nothing. 

The front door whines on its ungreased hinges. You wince and look up, shove a spoonful into your mouth. 

Steve appears. He has a tee on but still wears his swim shorts. You look at him dully and swallow, scooping up more of the pudding. 

"You hungry? You could have come over for lunch." 

You shrug and keep eating. Your stomach sickens at the overly sweet treat. You want to spit it out. 

"You're still mad?" He asks. 

You shrug again. 

He sighs. He crosses the room and pulls out the chair across from you, "look, sweetie," he twines his fingers through each other as he rests his arms on the table, "I'm real sorry. I was trying to have some fun. I made a mistake. We all do, right?" 

You stare at the table and nod. 

"Right, so can we move past it? Forget it ever happened?" 

"Forget?" You echo in a croak. "Erm." 

"Wiped clean," he unweaves his fingers and makes a smooth motion over the table top. "How about it? Can you forgive me?" 

You let the spoon go and slide the cup aside. You can't look up. It's more than the embarrassment of what happened. It's the constant shame that follows you around. You're just a hanger-on. He doesn't have to keep pretending because of your mom. She deserves to have a life after all the years she wasted on you. A life without you. 

"I'm sorry. I'm... I'm going to find a job and I'll do my best and..." you ramble as you trace your fingers on the table and tilt your head back and forth, "and you won't have to worry about me." 

"Sweetie?" He reaches over to still your hand, "what are you talking about?" 

"I shouldn't be... I shouldn't be living with you. Or mom. You two... I'm in the way--" 

"In the way? Sweetie," he squeezes your hand, "I promise you that's not true." 

"It has to be." 

"Why? Why does that have to be true?" 

"Because no one wants me," you turn your face down but he won't let go of your hand so you can hide. 

"I know that's not true," he insists.  

"It is. You see it. My mom..." you shudder and hold back a sob, "hates me." 

He's quiet. He clings to you even as you try to pull free. "I don't hate you." 

"You barely know me." 

"Sweetie, I know enough. Just enough to know you're a sweet girl. A good girl. All this time you've been taking care of your mom. Not anyone does that, you know? Most people would just leave her behind," he brings his other hand up to pet your knuckles, "and you're considerate and kind and gentle." 

"Please," you wisp and tug on your hand again, "you don't have to--" 

"I want you," he interjects as he tightens his grip, "sweetie, look at me." 

Your eyes flick up, startled by his hold and his tone. 

"You said no one wants you? I do. I shouldn't. I know it. I... I saw the way you take care of Holly, I saw how hard you try, I saw it all and I--" 

He finally lets you go. You recoil, shocked. Your hand tingles and your heart races. He doesn't mean it like that. He can't. You blink and lean back, making yourself as small as you can. 

"I'm sorry," he drops his head into his hands, "I'm sorry, sweetie. I'm trying not to feel like this. I've been fighting myself but..." he looks up, fingers stretched up his cheeks as his eyes glimmer, "I... don't love your mom. I only married her so... so..." he closes his eyes and trembles, "I shouldn't say it." His lashes flick open and he sits up straight, "so I could take care of you. That's why. But I couldn't... be honest. Because I didn't want to scare you or lose you. Just having you close is enough so I lied." He sniffs and a tear rolls out, "worse, I couldn't even be honest with myself. Not until now. Until it's too late." 

You gape at him. He just watches you. His expression is pained and sheepish.  

"Please, sweetie, say something." 

"You can't mean it," you breathe, "please take it back." 

"I can't," he utters. 

You sit in silence. You don't know what to say. You can't think. It's all too much. Why can't today just be over? 

He inhales and lets it out as he fixes his posture. He gulps thickly and you look up. He stares at you. The same look as before. The one you don't understand. 

"Sweetie," his voice is firmer and his tears are evaporated, "I have one question." You lower your brow, confused, "do you want your mom to be taken care of?" 

"What?" You squeak. 

"Your mom? You want her to be comfortable? Supported? Get the proper treatment?" He's staunch as he speaks, "you can't do it yourself. We both know you were struggling. Do you got the money for her next hospital stay? For the nurse?" 

You whimper and shake your head, "what do you mean?" 

"Sweetie, your mom needs me. You need me. Don't play dumb," he intones, "I will do anything. I will make sure mom is nice and cozy. She has her meds and everything she needs. There's only one thing I want in return." He clicks his tongue and inclines his head, "it's too bad it's the only thing you got." 

You stare at him. Through him. The whole world narrows in on you as your chest caves in. You close your eyes, wishing against everything, that it can make him go away. 

[bibibbon]

Chap 429 made me realize I can't stand Class 1A anymore, I like individual students like Tokoyami but as a whole I can't stand them. Their bond is so artificial especially when none of them gave any concern about Izuku's well-being throughout the first year and took Bakuhoe's word immediately. Plus, they are mostly flakes riding off of Izuku's heroism and hard work during the Villain Hunt arc. None of them doing were jackshit about the criminals including "Symbol of Victory" Bakuturd until they remember that Izuku exists. The fact that Hori never lets the students addresses or think about Izuku's quirkless nature after the OFA reveal is something I will never forgive Hori for.

Hori tries so hard to glaze them as this unbreakable team of heroes, but he cheats using plot armor and plot contrivances to make his point seem valid but most of these kids would be dead if the villains were allowed to kill them instead of Hori holding them back with puppet strings. I hate to sound deranged but if some of the students had actually died during the first battle then I could see 1-A actually building a bond and realizing how precious life is and the dangers of being a hero then their concern for Izuku's well-being would seem more valid after all of the other crap they were ignoring about.

Lastly, I hate that damn poem that Hori claims was the inspiration for Deku because it feels like an excuse to justify his narrative abuse of Izuku and deny him any moment of confidence or pride in his achievements. This was supposed to be the story of the Greatest Hero not Class 1-A nobodies. Meanwhile he is too busy celebrating Bakuhoe's moments for during the bare minimum and fans on reddit and elsewhere eat up like its pure cinema or something.

Fair enough it's not that I actually hate class 1A but for some reason I can't simply believe that their dynamic is one of a little happy found family. I just can't and its probably because there's too many characters and we don't get the screentime needed for them to develop such a dynamic.

That is to say I don't hate class 1A like I love the individual characters like tokoyami, iida, jiro and I even love the little groups they have or at least the potential that was in those groups and dynamics.

It doesn't help that it's class 1A that gets the whole we are all heroes thing and the whole we will be there for you Izuku in the vigilante arc. I don't know it falls flat and becomes underwhelming simply because their dynamic isn't well built neither is it well developed. Also them saying they care for izuku seems like it's quite difficult to believe considering that we haven't seen them voice concerns over Izuku's injuries or even visit him during the first war arc when he was in a coma but maybe that's me saying too much because they were in a war and everyone was busy with stuff and trauma.

When it comes to the whole thing with bakugo I personally think that he was supposed to be a minor character for izuku to surpass but him being Izuku's symbol of victory and all of that shows us exactly that izuku hasn't DEVELOPED AT ALL IN THE SERIES!! izuku has continually been an incredibly static character and the ending shows that. Izuku still thought of OFA as a gift from all might instead of his own quirk, he literally never understood the wrongs of the hero system and he never stops viewing all might as this big hero who does so much. Like ugh this could of been things that izuku develops from and becomes a better person but I guess not.

Realistically many 1A members should either be

1) expelled (how is mineta and bakugo still there)

2) dropped out (Iam sorry you're telling me all of these kids parents let them contribute in this bs like are your parents that bad)

3) dead (you're telling me in a field of naive and not properly trained first years none of them have died really?!?!)

These factors would definitely make 1A closer to eachother and would show that they would care a lot more because of what they experienced and what they might blame themselves for what happend previously and it would be realistic/make sense within the series.

Also less 1A members would show just how competitive and tiring the hero course can be (proving aizawas words right) and it would also make the characters big moments that hori gave them have more actual suspense and impact within the narrative and plot.

I have mixed feelings about the poem and the post "the uselessness of izuku midoriya" while I do think it's a good post that shines a different perspective onto things Iam also just not a fan of the concept. I suppose it's because I don't think MHA was built in a way where it's story is a tragedy, like I don't believe tragedy suits the plot of MHA especially when it's not being treated as one.

However, I do think that it could be used as something that izuku starts with at the beginning and then develops into something much more. I think that having izuku choose the name deku and then developing into the name deriku would be fitting just how I would of liked for him to develop from someone whose acknowledgements and influence aren't recognised to someone whose achievements are recognised but not overly praised or anything of the sort something like having him be somewhat of a myth someone whose influence is known but works in the shadows (not literally) but he isn't directly known and isn't like all might. Ugh I don't know how to word it but I hope you understand. I suppose the closest example I can think of is Kim dojka (minus the angst)

(for context this is the poem I assume you're talking about)

Edit

I suppose this maybe better phrasing to what I was trying to say last paragraph.👇

[fickledame]

The Curse of WIPs

Does anyone else just get randomly so depressed about the amazing unfinished Veronica Mars WIPs out there?

Just thought I'd write this post to plead with a few authors. We have such amazing talent in this fandom - I just hope like anything they will return to finish these amazing stories.

I just re-read @mysilverylining's Surrender Dorothy. She has lots of amazing WIPs, but something about this one just gets to me. It's the perfect premise going back pre-season as if the show hadn't happened. Many people struggle to write pre-season 1 L/V well, and Lilly too - but ugh, it's so good. It breaks my heart this might not be updated ever. I *need* to know what happens. Off Grid @therealcactusbetty - I am actually obsessed with this fic. It's just beautiful and I'm about to re-read it AGAIN. Love the slow burn, hurt/comfort, misunderstandings, etc, and Logan as a cowboy, of course. So much amazingness. Next up is Mars and the Real Meaning of Christmas by @susanmichelin. It has so many of my favourite tropes - one bed, mutual pining, pretending to be in a relationship. Please tell me you will continue it? I need to know where Keith is, and see the Christmas fun break down their barriers.

For a Good Time/Call and Artificial Light @alilamba - going to be honest when I first read the premise I wasn't sure how I felt about Logan as a sex worker. Why, I don't know, it's actually genius! The first fic where Veronica and Piz hire Logan (just go with it!) is perfect, but the continuation is cherry on top. Similarly I love the set up of Artifical Light and would be so happy to see both continued. No Souvenirs @elliebear75 - another amazing premise, Logan and Veronica are some of the handful of people that survive the end of the world and are stuck on a ship together. I need to know what happens!! I know I've missed a load of WIPs, and I seem to spend half my life cursing WIPs exist as they break my heart, but glad they are for what we've got.