#because that. that would sting. that would hurt a lot. because either way they're letting someone down

[isaacathom]

spent all day being completely unproductive but now i have a changeling paladin ready to go at a moments notice with a whole like. Vibe established in my head. they've got a whole thing going on

the basic gist of their life, in as far as what matters, is they live in some moderate size town, they've a member of the local church, everythings grand. they're an adult, like 20s+ easy. they've been in this community their whole life, they have the identity they use most frequently, and they will only sometimes swap to masks to fill little additional roles the church might need of them. everythings chill.

they get sent out on some small task or another with a close friend of theirs, and things go poorly. not quite sure how or what, SOMETHING happens to the friend. The paladin is fine. and obviously distraught about the whole thing.

So what prompts the paladin to adventure out is a desire for two things. the first are the means to support this friend of theirs and that friend's family, who had been relying on them prior to this incident. And the second, presumably, to find a way to actually help them? (this all depends on what that something is. if its a curse or some serious injury, there has to be a reason they cant just fix it easily - ie that the nature of it isolates the friend from the community if theyre still alive, that people are loathe to interact with them or smth, or theyre just straight up dead and the paladins going more That Route, which is difficult for a Paladin given. uh. they dont get high enough spell slots to do that themselves! whoops!)

but, but, changeling, right? whats up with that part? well, their intention is that they will gain no glory for anything they do. its hard to be anonymous when seeking adventure, but if theyre someone else, well... then it hardly matters. the deeds they commit, as this heroic paladin, will not reflect back on their life back home. They will tell their friend's family that they were sent away to another temple, yknow, work is like that and so on, and just bring the gifts. hell, bring the gifts anonymously, because the point isn't to be lauded. thats the opposite of the point. the point is to help. they want to see their friend heart and hale, they want to see their family endure and thrive, because they've naught much of their own. it's something to cling to.

so out on the road, they're someone else. still a knight of this religious order, still fiercely devoted to its tenets, because that is their centre. there may be physical traits which tie together their various masks and forms, but the loyalty is there. even pretending to be someone else, or BECOMING someone else, that's hard to break. that's important to them.

things of this nature. a whole thing. itd basically never come up, is the thing! its basically something just for me as a hypothetical player. That if the party were to ever return to their home town, they'd try and slip away quietly after setting the party up somewhere, with some thing (taking advantage of their religious connections, even) before heading to their friend's house to deliver gold and supplies they'd been accumulating. just something like 'well, i head to X's house and knock on the door. And when either [the partner] or the kids open the door, they'll see the familiar face of [completely different character name] smiling brightly at them'

itd be the characters little secret. :)

[hoseoksluna]

VAPOR, pt I. | jjk ft. myg

pairing: boyfriend!jungkook x steam!oc

genre: smut, a hint of angst

word count: 10.6k

summary: yoongi never promised his healing time would be easy and when he hurts you enough that you need your other "boyfriend", jungkook is quick to rescue you.

pinterest board: blur | playlist: car playlist

warnings: mentions of a sex toy, jungkook is upset and angry at his hyung, public sex, dirty talk, sexual tension and frustration, praise kink, fingering, oral sex (f. receiving), bruising, cum swallowing, going behind someone's back........

note: HI MY LOVES—MY STEAM DRABBLE IS HERE AND I'VE NEVER BEEN MORE EXCITED TO POST SOMETHING, OH MY GOSH. OKAY, before i say anything else, i would like to put a disclaimer here: even though all my characters are fictional, they are still human in this world, which means they fuck up, which means they're not perfect whatsoever and never will be. i would like to really put an emphasis on that before you read and if i receive any vulgar and rude asks about this, i assure you that i will not respond to them. OKAY ALL SERIOUSNESS ASIDE—this was fucking AMAZING TO WRITE and i already CANNOT WAIT to start writing another part, this time with yoongi included. i promise to make everything right and—SPOILER—this couple WILL get a happy ending, so don't worry, my loves. ENJOY READING. SPAM MY INBOX. I LOVE YOU.

There’s a mango-scented candle rustling in a bag, resting on the passenger seat, and Jungkook is driving very carefully so as to not knock it over and possibly break it. For a moment, one that reemerges in his headspace as he keeps his foot light on the pedal, he wonders if he should buckle a seatbelt around it and ensure its safety that way, his fear of ruining his surprise for you causing his brain to come up with the strangest of ideas—in the name of the love he carries for you. 

Is it love, though? 

Jungkook furrows his brows, that thought seizing his sternum enough that he has to turn his music down and let some fresh air in through the window so he doesn’t crash his fucking car. Icy sweat stings his spine, his stomach churning and without sparing a second longer, his eyes take after the sadness of the weather outside his vehicle. His vision blurs and he rubs his eye, one at a time, to focus on the road.

A red light blinks at him and suddenly, there’s fury that he feels deep within chest. 

Conceivably because slowing down means he has to face the onrush of emotions sloshing in him. Has to hear the rain not just outside, but inside, too. Has to feel the prick of those raindrops along his waterline. The heft of those clouds outside and inside his clavicles as well, tightening and tightening. 

Jungkook sighs, drumming his fingers upon his steering wheel, trying to distract himself from it all. From the invading question that absorbs his body like the vapor rising across the night-clothed street—when did he get so emotional? 

Unfortunately, he knows the answer right away.

You’ve been sad. On your own. 

It’s been a few weeks since all three of you made a deal to stick together. Yoongi has been brave, his good mood clutching him for a lot longer than Jungkook sadly estimated. You’ve spent these past two Fridays and weekends together, out and about, rolling in bed, rolling in Yoongi’s apartment. It was all fun and games until the boss reached a dead end. Somehow. Jungkook still doesn’t know what it was that Yoongi actually saw—what was that one particular thing that caused him to spiral. 

To relapse. 

And you didn’t tell him until it was too late. 

Perhaps, you did tell him—nonverbally, that is. You stopped adding your signed messages whenever he was texting with Yoongi during the week and even those alone stopped coming in as the days went on. There was something wrong and he knew it. His intuition only proved to be right when another weekend showed its face and it contained no undertone of you. And no suggestion of Yoongi either. 

Silence. Dead silence. 

And it wasn’t until Jungkook got an incoming call from an unknown number half an hour ago that he realized the gravity of the situation. 

It was you who called him up, sobbing into the phone, having stolen his number from Yoongi’s device. As difficult as it was to understand what happened, Jungkook tied all the strings of information you gave him between your broken breaths and blubbering: Yoongi hasn’t spoken to you all day and took a shower alone, the latter being the most devastating of the two. 

He felt bad for you, terribly bad for you—but simultaneously, he was upset with you. 

Still is. 

It’s one of the reasons why he’s driving up to Yoongi’s apartment. With a mango-scented candle and a puffed-up bag of cheese balls. He doesn’t want to think what the other reasons are, not when he’s staring down his gift for you, clicking his tongue at last and reaching over for the seatbelt and sliding it into its buckle. Just in time for the traffic light to turn green.

Now, now he’s speeding down the road, turning up the volume of his car playlist. A slow song by the Arctic Monkeys is playing and it’s a movie—the set of circumstances that are happening in the present. The rain, the tightness in his chest, the but faint adrenaline of the momentum. What is he really doing? 

It feels as though he’s following a script, however his eyes haven’t skimmed down the entire thing. He doesn’t know how this is going to end. Hell, he doesn’t even know if he’s doing the right thing because he’s planning on staying outside of his hyung’s apartment. Like hell he’s going inside when his sweetheart—

Jungkook purses his lips. Moves the shift stick. Kills the engine. Closes his eyes. 

His heart thumps. Turbulently. It stirs worry in him. What if he’s going to die? 

This is the first time he’s left in the hands of the unknown. He’s always had the sixth sense of knowing tactness like the back of his hand, although this time he doesn’t know shit. Doesn’t know if he’s breaking his best friend’s trust. Doesn’t know what’s going to happen once he sees you, possibly wearing one of your nighttime robes. The last time you touched him was the last time he had his release. His hand doesn’t feel as good as yours does—and his orgasm isn’t as fulfilling as when it’s shared with you. He’s brimming with frustration, with anger so vast that he could explode and he knows it’s unfair to be mad at Yoongi, when he himself said it wasn’t going to be easy, that it was going to take a lot of work. But Jungkook can’t help his feelings. Can’t help to see you. 

Only you. 

Broken, tear-stained, when it should be blush painting your cheeks red from all the love and happiness your own boyfriend should give you as it’s his duty. Something he’s responsible for. Something he should put above himself. 

“Drunken monologues, confused because it's not like I'm falling in love, I just want you to do me no good and you look like you could,” Alex Turner sings and Jungkook’s chin quivers, his heart gaining tempo, his perturbation rising—owing to the violence of that muscle, owing to the state of your feelings. 

He wonders if you’re still crying. 

He’s outside of Yoongi’s apartment. Didn’t even realize it, mind too fucked up, too full of you. 

Grabbing his phone, he sends you a text. 

I’m here. Come outside 

A reply pings right away. 

SWEETHEART: ? 

SWEETHEART: it’s raining 

He’s halfway typing his response that he doesn’t want to go inside, but he decides against it. Doesn’t want to make it worse for you. If you knew of the dark corners of his mind that don’t particularly like Yoongi at the moment, you wouldn’t look at him with those pretty eyes of yours as you always do. 

He can’t afford that. 

I have an umbrella

As his thumb hovers above his phone, waiting for your reply, he can almost hear your sigh. Can feel your breath on his clammy palm as he rubs it on his pants in effort to rid himself of the nerves crawling in his veins. The breath he was favored enough to hold in his grasp the last time he had you to himself—clamping your mouth shut as he spanked your clit for being so beautifully responsive to his touch, rubbing it until your eyes whisked back while Yoongi slept beside you, unaware. 

It’s engraved in his brain. It plays on loop before sleep overtakes him at night and it’s his first thought in the morning once consciousness reminds him that you’re not his. 

SWEETHEART: is it cold outside?

He figures you’re asking the question in order to decide whether you should change or not. It seems as though warm pajamas don’t exist in your world, for the beginning of September is in the process of blooming. It nudges his anger; provokes it enough to fill it with a lethal dose of a yearning to buy you the warmest pair of pants he could find. He clenches his fist, thumb quick to type a response. 

Wear something that covers your legs or stay home. 

The same thumb shakes at the expression of his firmness, his anger disturbed, wholly—wholly disturbed. If you come out wearing your little shorts—

A reply pings again. 

SWEETHEART: ok ill change

And another one right away. 

SWEETHEART: ill text u when i come down

That’s a good girl. 

He almost types it right then and there, but something within, despite the slowly calming storm of his feelings, despite his cock tightening in his pants at the swift image of your bare legs, at the lingering perception of you being a good girl and listening to him, drags his thumb to his emojis. A sudden renewal of his sixth sense, and he doesn’t understand how it’s happened as it dawns on him, makes him realize that’s not exactly what you need right now. You didn’t call him for a fuck. 

You called him for emotional support. 

👍🏻

And like the good girl you are, you merely take five minutes. Stay true to your words, text him as you’re coming down and Jungkook grabs his umbrella from the backseat. Doesn’t forget to unbuckle the seatbelt in the passenger seat. Saves himself from the embarrassment. 

The trees sway in his direction, inviting him in, once he takes two steps at the time, coming up the stairs. He watches them through the clear roundness of his shield, beckoning him closer. The rain pelts against it, but softly this time. Merciful as it knows you’re about to emerge from the ocean of such unfathomable sadness. It doesn’t wish to frighten you, rather it desires to soothe your escaping, make it less harrowing. Even the wind that whips at him stills as soon as you open the door, bathed in light. 

And Jungkook is struck with the notion that he wants to do the same. 

You’re wearing flared leggings. Gray. With sneakers of the same color and a white top that hugs your waist, that seems way smaller than the last time he touched it. He gets a glimpse of it, and it unnerves him, as you lift your hand to curl a strand of your hair behind your ear because otherwise your body is shrouded in a flannel that’s too big for you. Too robust for you and your particular liking of tight, little clothes. 

He doesn’t want to know who that garment belongs to. Doesn’t even want to come close to unfolding that thought, to even let it get a taste of his burning blood. Because there’s another matter at hand. 

You’ve lost weight. 

And he’s going to kill his hyung for it. 

You step out and it’s an instinct, the way his arm draws closer to you so you don’t get touched by the rain, even if it means the raindrops get to trace the back of his head and the nape of his neck. Yet even that invigorating, tender liquid doesn’t cool the scorching lividness that takes place beneath his skin, beneath his bones. But then you touch his hand, left to left, drag it away and hide yourself in his chest. Everything changes when you do that. 

Jungkook explodes. Silently. Gently. His chin quivers again and he doesn’t care that you can hear the tremor of his heart as you lay your ear against it. Doesn’t care that his grip might hurt you as he hugs you back, thinking he could wrap his arm twice around your much different waist. And he takes you like this. Back to his car. He doesn’t even feel the wetness pooling in his waterline, leading you as you walk backwards. And you laugh, you laugh softly while he inhales your mango scent that has somehow even crept up to your scalp, and he doesn’t believe it’s that easy. 

It can’t be that easy to make you feel better. 

He opens the door for you, a façade of nothingness plastered on his face as he tries his hardest to remain stoic so you wouldn’t see the turmoil churning within every perimeter of his body. And it’s an instinct, too, the way he catches your little purse when it slips off your shoulder, even though he doesn’t see it, too busy devouring your gaze—afraid, awfully afraid that tonight might be the last time he sees your pretty eyes, considering the contempt he’s now showing his hyung. 

If Yoongi finds out about this, it’s over. 

His life is over, too. 

Anger, frustration, sadness, love—how is he able to feel all of those emotions at once? You purse your lips, your weary eyes skip his features all the way to his mouth, stopping at his lip ring and the question rises again in his brain. 

Is it love? 

The rain falls harder. And so does he, unfortunately. 

“I got you something. It’s right there.” He tips his chin to the passenger seat without taking his gaze off of your busy eyes. They’re still looking at his mouth, watching every word come out. He finds it so endearing that there’s nothing more he wants to do than grab your cheeks and kiss you for it. Maybe his frustration would loosen a little bit if he did it. “Don’t sit on it.” 

It’s that addition to his previous sentence that causes you to flick those pretty irises of yours up to his. And he studies it as the double meaning uncoils in your brain, even though it was by accident that it tumbled out of his mouth. The weariness in your orbs parts like clouds upon the heavens, though no sunshine spills through them. There’s still a lingering blankness, something unknown, something foreign. Then, the tiniest of smiles curls your mouth and it jolts through him, his heart thudding harder—to the point that even more profound discomfort settles in. 

“Did you get me a dildo? I could use one right now.” 

The perplex that seizes him almost causes his legs to give out. And he can’t help it, the way his eyes roll back and his hand, with your purse hanging from his forearm, runs down his face. Jungkook wants to get drenched in the rain—maybe if the raindrops put out the sudden fire licking at his every nerve ending, maybe then he’ll come to understand how you manage to be in the mood when your state of mind can’t possibly let you have dirty thoughts. 

His cock tightens again and he calls you by your name, firmly. He can’t have this. Not right now. He needs to be sensible. You need it. “Get in the car.” 

You listen, but your smile falters. Grabbing your bag from his forearm, you turn around, bending over to wrap your fist around the bag on the passenger seat. Jungkook doesn’t mean to look at your delicious round cheeks and once he discovers that they’re hidden under that layer of the hideous flannel, he sighs a breath of relief. He can’t look at you that way. Averts his gaze, immediately. 

As soon as you’re seated, he clicks the door shut. Considers letting the rain have him. Did he make a mistake, being firm with you? 

Inside his car, his favorite song is mellowly playing. In the mere few seconds, you’ve managed to suffuse the entire atmosphere with your mango scent and Jungkook inhales it. It takes him into a whole different world, one filled with eternal sunlight as the song portrays it. He finds himself in a country of spring that has been briskly rained upon and now is being softly seared with those shafts of light and speckles of heat, the details of your beauty. 

“For the love of my life, she's got glow on her face…” the singer sings and the lyrics plod into his mind. Jungkook wishes the description applied to you at this very moment like it had before, like it had every single time he stole a glance at you. He misses your glow and your glitter and it pierces his unstable heart that he finds no traces of those particles of shimmer on your cheekbones and eyelids as you’re rummaging through the bag, not even on your cupid’s bow as you gasp, gently, discovering he bought you your favorite things. 

You’re looking at him with such smothered joy and it would relieve his feelings if he didn’t feel such guilt, if he didn’t feel as though he was a crumbling pillar, a failure undeserving of your time. 

You take the candle into your small hands. Such a stark contrast—his heart aches at the sight of it. You pop the lid open, sniff the aroma and your mouth rounds in a terribly, terribly cute manner. Jungkook is glad for the lack of light in the space of his car, which hides his growing manhood. He props an elbow on the door and pinches his nose, trying to regain his composure— 

“It’s mango-scented,” you say in disbelief, pouting and Jungkook can’t breathe. “And cheese balls, are you kidding me?” You open the bag right away, plopping the treat into your mouth. He’s surprised you eat just one—it doesn’t feel right. “Thank you. Honestly. Thank you.” You cradle it into your chest and Jungkook has to look away. 

What has Yoongi done to you that you react this way to such silly things? He needs to ask, but he fears your answer. And what’s worse, he fears what he’ll do to him once you tell him. 

“What did you tell him?” He needs to get away from this place, but it has to correlate with your plan, if there even is any. If not, he’ll handle it. Figure something out. 

You take a sharp breath, loading your gifts back into the bag, keeping it nice and safe on your lap. Then, you lick your lips and look at him with an intention that causes his heart to jump right there onto the wonderfully clothed flesh of your thighs. “I told him I was going home.” 

Home. Since the moment he knew of your existence, your home has been the place wherever Yoongi resided. It never mattered where. Jungkook grips the steering wheel, knuckles white. “Where do you live?” 

You tell him your address. He knows that from this day on, he’ll never, ever forget it. He starts the engine, wondering in the meantime about the ordinariest things of your life. Do you live there during the week and spend your weekends at Yoongi’s apartment? Or has he completely overtaken your life that you spend every hour of it in his presence? He wants to know. And he wants to get some food in that slim tummy of yours. “Do you have any food there? When was the last time you were there?” 

It’s you who looks away now, staring ahead, playing with your fingers while the rest are still wrapped around the bag. “I don’t live there anymore. Haven’t been there in months.” 

Jungkook bites his lip. Too, too many questions are hovering in his brain—he barely has the capacity to think about them, let alone hurl them at you. “What did he say when you told him you were going home?” 

You snivel and his heart on your thighs twitches in pain. He has to grip the steering wheel harder in order not to jump out of this car and kick down Yoongi’s door. 

“Nothing.” 

Jungkook puts the car in drive, wordlessly, seething inside. He’ll invent another plan while yours will remain its prototype. Will keep you safe.

Safe, fed and tearless. 

The drive is quiet, save for the euphonious melodies emitting through his never-ending playlist. The rain has become less severe, soft in nature, only adding to the background noise—adding to the process of your mollification that he’s overseeing. He’s put a stop to the questions. Has figured you have enough of them, for the only reason you decided to lie to your own boyfriend and go behind his back was because you needed to get out of his clutches. 

A decision he approves of. 

The quietness has helped him regain his composure fully, set some things straight in his brain as the anger in him slowly dissipated. Space is good, for both his hyung and you and he’s proud of you for allowing yourself to get to this point that you walked away. Yoongi, evidently, has returned to his hermit tendencies and Jungkook knows very well that it’s something that he needs in his healing time. It’s who he is; who he always has been. He didn’t push him away too many times for him to be possibly wrong about this and while the information he gained from you that Yoongi changed his ways shattered Jungkook’s heart and glued it back together, he knew, somehow, deep within him, that it was just an effort. For you. 

He didn’t think it was a façade because Yoongi is certainly not a phony person. 

He did it for you. Tried his hardest. And succeeded. With your help, he’s sure—which makes it all the more beautiful—but Yoongi is still Yoongi. 

Someone who deals with things on his own. 

And although the distance he needs hurts other people, he doesn’t mean it. Jungkook knows this just as well, despite the fact what he truly thinks is that Yoongi should try harder. 

For you. 

He needs to tell you this. Needs you to know. But he doesn’t think you’re ready to hear it just yet, which is okay. The plan is constructed, he’s here for you and he will make you feel better. He will caress your heart and make your belly full. Will make you forget for a little while before he gently brings you back to reality. 

You deserve this. After everything you’ve been through. Because of him. Because of Yoongi. 

And because of this, he no longer feels guilty that he has you to himself without Yoongi knowing. Even if that means he risks his brotherhood, even if that means he risks his affection for you seeing the light of day. 

You’re more important. 

It’s this thought that gets interrupted by a sudden ring of your phone. You jump, zipping your purse open and Jungkook keeps his eyes on the road. He doesn’t really want to see the kind of picture you have Yoongi saved under. He has to keep his feelings intact. Remain calm. 

Your breath shakes. “He’s video calling me.” 

Sparks of electricity nip at his fingertips. A surge of adrenaline, the threatening, false notion that he’s doing the wrong thing. Jungkook almost smirks. It’s so fucking thrilling to him. 

He lets you decide on your own what to do, but you grow unsure, nerves burdening you. He feels that heft and it’s quick to sober him up. 

“Should I get out of this car? Say I’m taking a walk?” you ask, your pretty, pretty eyes wide, your pupils so tiny. Jungkook wants to take your hand in his, take your fear that makes you think these silly thoughts and crush it. 

He’s here. He’s going to take care of this. Of you. 

“Let it ring.” 

You look back down at your phone, lip between your teeth, but Jungkook keeps his eyes on you, the red of the stoplight pervading you with the danger of your girlish freedom. And it does ring two more times before Yoongi gives up. 

Good. 

You have the right to need to distance yourself just as much as he does. Give him the same silent treatment like he did to you.

There’s a smug smirk plastered on his face when he catches you putting your phone back into your purse before the light turns green. He speeds down the road, driving with just one hand, ready to unfold his plan. 

One he’s already shared with you. 

He’s taking you to the mall. 

His hand itches to take yours as you walk beside him. Strangers stare you down, but you keep your attention on the myriads of shops lining the side of the promenade. He doesn’t understand how it’s possible that there’s so many people wasting their Thursday at such a place like this. At this hour, especially. It kind of makes him regret that he took you here, despite the fact the sole purpose of it was to feed you until you were full. The lights are too bright, children are screaming and running around and it’s giving him a headache, but one look at you changes his mind in an instant. The glow he missed has found its way back to your cheeks and there’s a glint to your eyes that he hasn’t seen in a long while. The paleness is gone and he’s not really ignorant to the way a bush of roses begins to bloom in his chest at the realization. 

You stop dead in your tracks all of a sudden. Your little purse slips off of your shoulder. As attentive as he always is, he slides it back up, a smile tugging his mouth to the side. He thinks it’s just so damn cute. And the fact you don’t pay any attention to it as well. Probably used to it. 

Red posters of sale adorn the storefront that has caught your eye. Jungkook is unfamiliar with it, but you seem to be completely enthralled by it. 

“Where do you wanna eat?” he provokes. Already knows what restaurant you’ll be feasting at, obviously, but poking you is a matter of enjoyment for him. “There’s so many food courts to choose from.” 

You look at him and clutch your stomach, as if the mere mention of food made you hungry. A faint, faded light flashes across that glint in your irises before it dwindles away and Jungkook is ready to throw you over his shoulder and push people off of his path to get you there right now. 

“Can we… go here first?” you ask, hesitatingly, grabbing a hold of his elbow, but he feels as though you’re squeezing his heart, wringing it out of all that liquid emotion that he swallowed down earlier in the car. Your touch is warm, like the pond water kissed by the sun back at his cabin, seeping into his skin and languidly streaming through his body. 

It’s automatic, primal and right, the way he clasps his other hand across your fingers wrapped around his bicep and the way your body draws closer to his. It should be normal to do this when he’s seen you bare—when he’s seen you feral, needy and disappear into your pleasure, one he’s the creator of. Why does it feel so thrilling? So dangerous? 

You can meander through as many stores as you want. And he tells you that, or at least tries to, as he smiles at you, softly, and nods his head, letting you lead him inside the shop that has so vehemently caught your attention. 

A trillion styles of jeans, tiny tops, skirts and shorts of the same size, Jungkook understands your fascination as he takes it all in. And he’s pleasantly surprised when you indulge him as you fondle every material of every clothing you like, telling him how pretty you find it. You’re not timid to show him your disappointment either, wrinkling your nose, when the fabric is too frail or too expensive for the price, muttering vulgarities directed to capitalism and leading him away. 

It isn’t until your sight stumbles upon a rack of dresses that your breath, audibly, hitches in your throat. And you unlink your arm from his, going straight for your seemingly new obsession. 

A red dress. A sheer fabric, more like. With roses sewn in, a split in the middle, one strap covering only a part of the hanger. It’s the only piece of clothing you actually take into both of your hands, putting it against your body, as if to see what it would look like on you. Fuck if he knows what you’re doing—all he knows is that his throat is dry, the image of you wearing something like this making him a living, breathing corpse. 

Jungkook clenches his fists. Even more so when you disappointingly click your tongue upon seeing the price tag, putting it back where you found it. The thought of you not having that dress causing his heart to lodge, tightly and disturbingly, in the shriveled walls of his throat. 

Not happening. Not under his watch. 

That dress was made for you. 

Jungkook licks his lips. Doesn’t stop the words from spilling out. “Why don’t you try it on?”

You give him a look as if he was a mad man. And he is. That he certainly is. “Please, this costs more than I can afford. I’d only go home crying if I tried it on and had to put it back.”

He stifles a laugh at how ridiculous you sound. Picks up the price tag. Less than two hundred thousand wons. It wouldn’t even make a dent in his bank account. 

He grabs the hanger. Hands it to you. “Go try it on, sweetheart.” 

You roll your eyes. Don’t look amused at all. Your brows knit ever so adorably and the corners of your mouth curl downwards, arms crossing over your chest. Oh, he’s going to wipe that expression off of your face. Paint it in pretty, pretty colors. “No, thanks. I think I cried enough today. Let’s go.” 

You walk past him, but Jungkook stops you. Grabs your arm. Calls your name, firmly. “I’m not gonna repeat myself.” 

You huff. “Is there something wrong with your ears?” Your brows quirk and he thinks he died again. Might melt into a putty. Just for you. 

He smirks, showing his teeth. “It’s no issue for me,” he says, speaking of money, taking your hand in his and enveloping your fingers around the hanger. “So be good and try on this dress for me. Off you go.” 

Jungkook turns you around and, with his palms on your shoulders, he leads you towards the dressing rooms, not stopping until he finds one that’s unoccupied. You huff and puff again, but he gently pushes you inside. And when you open your mouth to say something, he drags the curtain to the side. A laughter bubbles in his chest. 

“You’re not buying this for me.” 

Jungkook shakes his head. “Strip.” 

There’s no witty remark, no exhales of your exasperated breaths, only the obnoxious music blasting through the speakers and he assumes that you gave in to him. A tendril of proudness, not of his actions but for you and your good behavior, swims in the hot bloodstream of his veins and it’s now, now that he’s almost alone and you’re out of view, save for your feet clad in pink socks under the curtain, that he perceives that he’s coated in sweat. The disorder of his colorful, all kinds of feelings has turned him so numb that he doesn’t even feel grounded in his body. He needs a strong sip of alcohol. And a good meal. 

He begins to flutter the sides of his leather jacket, just to alleviate himself of how hot he feels, when he hears you gasp, your footsies shuffling on the carpeted floor. He takes a step towards the dressing room, a trembling hand reaching for the curtain and stopping there—a spasm of nerves zaps his abdomen, spreading iciness to the tips of his fingers. He knows what he’s about to see will make him a dead man for the third time this evening and because of that, he takes a deep, soundless breath, closing his eyes for a mere second before his hand pulls the curtain away. 

Nothing, absolutely nothing could have prepared him for the sight before him. 

And nothing is what you’re wearing underneath the dress. 

Abruptly, there’s no music. There’s no gasps emitting out of that marvelous mouth of yours. And the film in front of his eyes is in slow motion, accompanied by the winged fuckers going equally mad inside his stomach. You’re twirling. From side to side. Patting down the material tight against your slender body. A grin on your face, one that he’s last seen during that time joy rested in you, bathes you in a glow that he longed to see. The glint, the light in your eyes takes on a whole new intensity and it shoots embers into his bare hands, burning him ferociously and curtly—just for him to find that he likes it and that he wants more. You turn around, facing him, and you swathe him with that flaring, almost raging light. It’s the sole thing he senses amidst the numbness of his headspace. 

Except for one thing. 

The ruffle of the sorry excuse for a rose beneath the singular strap of the dress is but an inch above your stiffened nipple while the other, just as excited, is left bare for his eyes—as if the principle of being exposed like that awakened your body. But it’s the vast, stitched red buds of that flower across your small waist, stomach, mound and the apex of your thighs that brings his attention to this other thing that he’s aware of. 

He’s hard for you. 

This image of you will perpetually haunt his dreams. Your little, carmine rose tattoos as if lining your skin, mainly. His throat swallows, dryly. 

Jungkook cups himself in an effort to hide his arousal and his bafflement from your stark, astonishing beauty. He thinks you’re unquestionably otherworldly, so far beyond his reach and his league that it aches. As much as the apprehension that if you wore anything else in this fucking dressing room, he’d fall to his knees just the same.

And then you speak and somehow you bring sharpness back into his reality. 

“The socks go well with the dress, don’t you think?” 

Jungkook glances at your feet and what he sees makes him pinch his eyes and let out a rumble of laughter. There’s a fucking Pikachu on your socks, grinning up at him, mocking him for getting hard for you for the third time. 

He can’t look back up and be a witness to the magnificence of your body. If he allows himself to do so, he will combust. Bring the whole building down—

A set of footsteps sound behind him and, with a racing heart, Jungkook steps inside the dressing room, shrouding you with his body without touching you, pulling the curtain shut. You startle, backing away until your spine leans against the mirror and there’s no space, none whatsoever, for him to run from you because when he turns back around, it’s your eyes he meets first. Nose to nose, breath to breath. 

When did they start making dressing rooms so fucking small? 

His breath picks up speed. He wants to pretend he doesn’t see the thick veil of your feminine carnality shunning out the light in your irises, because he can’t afford this, not when you’re sad, not when you need a friend, not when he needs to be stable for you. But the more you look at him, the more you draw him in and he has very little strength to fight against it. 

Averting his gaze, he props a hand on the wall beside your mirror. Notices your clothes, untidy, sprawled on the bench. Finds no traces of you taking off your underwear, which means only one thing.

His heart nearly skips a beat. 

“Where’s your underwear?”

Your grin forms into a smirk and you latch both of your hands onto the sides of his jacket. Danger mingles into that carnality in your eyes and Jungkook knows, right at this instant, that he’s fucked. “Didn’t take any.” 

His cock hardens even more in his hand. A brief flashback of the way he ripped your panties off at his cabin when you disobeyed him fills his mind, and he grows weak. It’s still a private pleasure of his, one that he likes recollecting, no matter the events that took place after. And the whole escapade has caused him to form a certain attachment to your underwear—or lack thereof. Knowing you didn’t take any on your first, secret night out with him suffuses him with delectation, one that intertwines with a rising question in him. 

Did you choose not to wear it for the sake of the old time or did you choose not to wear it because you’re expecting something from him? 

He yearns to know. Needs to. 

“Why?” 

Your fists bunch up his T-shirt underneath the jacket, tip of the tongue darting out to lick across your top lip. Your eyes follow the way you squeeze the fabric and Jungkook catches your long lashes quivering at your discovery of his quite prominent problem. A blush scatters along your nose and cheekbones and he doesn’t have to look down to know that his hand scarcely conceals his imprint. He’s grown harder for you in this close proximity and, peculiarly, light pervades him now that you know about his arousal, even though he doesn’t expect you, nor demand from you, to do anything about it. 

“Oh, you know.” Palms flat, you drift them down his stomach. Jungkook stiffens, a forest burned by you. “It would only get in the way.” 

He sucks in a breath, pressing his other hand beside your head, caging you in, his cock in full clothed glory for you. His head spins, but paradoxically, he feels himself gaining strength, as if you managed to rejuvenate him by laying out your cards on the table in such a filthy, electrifying manner. 

“Get in the way of what?”

You mirror him, sucking in a breath of your own. “Get in the way of you fucking my brains out?” 

A quirk of his brow. A twitch of his cock. He can’t breathe—you’ve taken all of the remaining oxygen in his lungs when you sucked in that breath and uttered those dirty, dirty words. How are you capable of this? What has Yoongi done to you? Jungkook drags his teeth up his bottom lip, although it attenuates close to nothing. His arousal only blossoms, the bush of roses in his gut thickening, so akin to your little, feigned tattoos. He yearns to feel them under his palm. 

A dead man, for the fourth time. 

His knees might give out. His hands are clammy.

Though his mouth acts on its own. “Have you forgotten what I’m capable of doing?” 

He watches the flashback swim past your irises and it connects to your mouth, expanding it into a coy smile. “I guess I have.” 

Bad, bad girl. It’s you who’s fucking his brains out, trembling like a little leaf, longing for his touch, calling out for his hands. He feels them buzz, interwoven with your senses and your desires. Even if you didn’t move an inch, if you remained still as a sculpture, his hands would still know you want them and it drives him to the peak of insanity—enough for him to consider taking you right here and there, in all seriousness. In spite of the fact he still has a mind of his own and is aware that he shouldn’t. For Yoongi’s sake, yes—but mostly for your sake. 

The tips of his fingers tingle with the craving to rip that flimsy fabric off of you and make you remember what he did to you, even though you fully remember. Something about that fills him with an onrush of vigorous energy, one that needs a release. It whispers, most intensely, its plea for it within his skin. 

“Do I really need to remind you?” Jungkook asks, playing your little game after all, digits clenched into fists on either side of your head. You nod, briefly, seemingly becoming smaller in his captivity, hands drifting lower, rooting by his hips. He’s surprised he’s letting you touch him like this, but then he’d let you do anything you want. He sweeps a glance at your form, just once, before he bores his gaze back into yours. It did something to you and he draws closer, senses you squeezing your thighs together. Such a cute, bad girl. “It would be a pity to rip this dress off of you. What would they think, hm? If you walked out of this dressing room and had to explain to them what happened?” 

Jungkook drags a finger down your neck and at the first physical contact, you release a breath that wafts over him, deepens his heat. He traces the line of your strap until he reaches the frilly bud of the rose and tugs at it, just once. 

He’s about to continue taunting you, but you catch him off guard. 

“I dunno, I’d tell them I wanted you to do it. That I needed the reminder,” you whisper and your low tone of voice curls unfathomably somewhere within his gut, forcing him to double over. You hook your fingers around his belt loops and Jungkook brims with gladness that he didn’t wear a belt. “What was it that you did to me?” 

He nearly, nearly rolls his eyes back. The effect you have on him—he craves to bunch your hair in his fist, teach you a lesson regarding what you’re doing to him. 

And he just might. Take full responsibility while he’s at it. 

Two responses swirl on his tongue, however. 

One to scold you for provoking him in public, but he knows it would stall the aroused energy and back it away into a corner. The other to keep going and drive you to his level of insanity. 

It’s a crossroad and he’s standing in the middle, a man in charge, his morals questioned and at absolute fucking risk. His blood pumps at full speed and sweat lines his forehead. He’s on the verge of bursting. Time and tension presses against him and with all that energy and strength pulsating in him, it’s scarcely the one he needs to put a stop to this all. It all leads into a far different direction, leading him away from the clearness of his morals. 

Fuck. 

Then, your chest lifts in desperate staccatos and that’s it for him. That’s the breaking point. 

No way out. 

Only way in. 

For you. 

Jungkook wets his lips. “How well can you keep a secret?” 

In the same trembling staccatos, you exhale in relief and he’s ready to give you everything. Absolutely fucking everything. “I’m the best in the game.” 

A flash of light in his being. He’s immensely pleased with your answer, growing hotter and hotter. He inches closer to you, flush to your body, lips by your ear. Feels your little nubs pressing against his upper abdominal muscles. Craves to sink his teeth into the delicious flesh of your ear. “You can’t tell anyone about this,” he starts, mimicking your low tone, speaking of the evident elephant in the room, hoping you catch onto it. “And if they ask, you have to come up with something else. Can you do that?” 

He pulls away a tiny bit, just to study your reaction. Your hold tightens on his belt loops while your mouth parts and your head nods in agreement, ever so needy but patient for his next move. He wants to lick you all over just for that, reward you until you lose your voice. 

“You teased me with your words, with your little bratty mouth, and even though you listened well when I told you to lick your finger for me, you disobeyed me when I instructed you to not wear panties at my place,” he starts, lips mouthing your ear and he feels the need of your body to stabilize at the memory. Offering you his own, he presses closer to you until he pins you against the mirror, until both pairs of lungs sync in movement, his fingers skimming, barely, over the sides of your hips. Though something resistant takes place in the middle of that entwinement. Something that gives his mouth the aftertaste of copper. “And when I found out, I ripped them off of you. Fingered you so fast you came in seconds and made a mess on my hand. And then…” he pauses, an inkling regarding how to get rid of his uneasiness plaguing his mind. “Then I made you apologize and you did. You did it so sweetly that I made you come so many times until you lost count,” he alters the memory, concluding the reminder finding the aftertaste rapidly increasing, transmitting down to his heart, burdening it with a heavy load that he doesn’t know the contents of. 

“Can you show me what you did? I think I might remember better if you do.” 

He almost sinks to his knees, but the resistance, the coppery aftertaste in his mouth immobilizes him, keeps him glued on his spot and his hands begin to tremble. An image of Yoongi blazes in the back of his mind and, fleetingly, Jungkook sees a swift movement, a memory of getting hit. If his hyung is in as bad a mental state as he is, it’s inevitable that history will repeat itself. You haven’t received his blessing. Neither has he. 

But at this very moment, he thinks knuckles to his cheek will simulate the act of a kiss. 

Secrets are secrets and he’s weak.

Awfully, awfully weak. 

“Is this what you want me to do?” he asks, looking you dead in the eye, lifting his chin, hoping you see his frailty—hoping you see that he’s hanging by the thread. “Finger you in this dressing room until you ruin that pretty dress?” 

A smile. “Well, you didn’t get me a dildo, so your fingers will have to do.” 

A sharp inhale of breath. “What about this cock, huh? You don’t want it?” 

You drag a finger along his jean-clad length, barely touching him. Jungkook twitches all over. 

“It’s too big for me, you know I can’t take it.” 

A deep chuckle. He’ll ruin his jeans himself. “If my mind serves me well, you’ve always taken it well. Came around it a lot of times.” 

You whine. This, this is your breaking point and all of Jungkook’s muscles tighten at the recognition. He’s gonna give it to you. Say fuck it to it all—his life was damned the moment he set his eyes on you. Knew he was going to die prematurely. Thinks dying in Yoongi’s hands is quite merciful. It’s his best friend after all. 

“Please, Jungkook, I—”

He grabs your waist, tightly. His thumbs touch and his stomach drops. “You what?” He’s going to make you say it, he doesn’t care. He needs it. He craves it. 

A mewl, one that coils around his length. “I’m so wet. I need you. Please, do something. Anything. Let’s get out of here.” 

He turns you around and because you didn’t expect it, you gasp—loudly. Angels must be by his side, for your sounds get instantly swallowed by the blasting music. You can be as loud as you want, as he wants and he makes a mental note to remind you that when the time asks for it. 

His fingers gather the flimsy fabric, bunching it at your waist. In the sharp light, shining down at you most perfectly, he has a splendid view of your drenched thighs and swollen clit. He presses you against him, needs you to feel how hard you made him, how rock solid his cock is at the sight of your mouth-watering filthiness. He needs you in his mouth, he needs you. 

“Where?” Jungkook asks, staring you down in the mirror, brows furrowed, head tipped to yours, lips in a tight line, parting with every hardened exhale. “Where do you need me? Show me.” 

You moan, ever so softly and he can’t help but grind against your ass, fingertips making dents in the flesh of your waist. You take your hand and drift it down to your sweet little cunt and Jungkook holds his breath. You rub your center, your adorable lips wrapping around your small fingers and you show him the thick sheen of your arousal, glistening in the light. Just like you did the first time he set his eyes on you, even though the paradisiacal sight wasn’t meant for him. 

Now it is—and he’s nearly about to weep in joy. Such spiritual experience, swathed with gratitude and mercy, healing him through and through. This is for him. You’re willingly giving it to him. He never thought he was ever deserving of it, but now in your hands, at your service, it feels too good to be true. His eyes wet, his arousal taking a new form, becoming something bigger, more profound, something that will change him, cling to him for the rest of his life. 

“Here. I want your fingers.” 

He takes your palm in his, planning something with it. “Just my fingers?” 

You lean your head back against his chest. “All of you, please, please.” 

At your service. 

Jungkook wraps his lips around your fingers, sucking your dew, swallowing it, needing more. You grow more desperate, watching him in the mirror, and your little index finger grazes his lip ring, smiling sweetly, pleased with yourself. He coos at the sight, but then you turn around, pressing yourself against him, your cunt against his thigh, his cock against your tummy, and you grab the back of his neck and pull him in, harshly, for a kiss. 

You eat his mouth. He’s barely able to reciprocate your hungry kisses, the roll of your tongue, your moans at your own taste and he decides he will simply slow you down. 

Reaching behind you, his fingers tease your entrance. In response, you lift your ass for him, arching your spine as much as you can. He knows that if he were to pull away, he’d see your juices in the mirror, in the stark light, but your starvation and your craving tastes too good and he physically can’t. 

Gathering your slick, he drags his fingers past your parted lips towards your clit and you swirl your hips for him, outrunning him—making the tip of his digit give you the circles you want. He groans into your mouth, out of breath and it isn’t until he rubs your bud rapidly, with deep pressure, and you moan so loud that it alerts him enough to pull away. 

The music did not, in fact, swallow that sound. 

Jungkook clamps your mouth shut.

Without stopping his movement. Watches your eyes roll back. And he’s greedy, unfortunately so. 

Turning you around, he props your leg on the bench and he looks at your pretty cunt. Swollen red clit, like your feigned tattoos, parted lips, dripping hole and equally soaked folds, glistening in the direct light. He swears, can’t help it, fondling your femininity, all four of his fingers gliding with ease, back and forth, everywhere. Down to your other hole, to your inner thighs, back up to your seashell, to your mound and lower tummy. He cakes you with your arousal, one he’s the creator of, bunching your dress higher until he’s holding you right underneath your breasts that spill over his forearm. So full and perky—he’s unhinged. Utterly, utterly unhinged. 

He wants to smear your slick over those clothed nipples as well. 

Fuck. 

Jungkook rubs your clit again, with the same speed as before. Your eyes lid, but keep the eye contact in the mirror, ravaging him through and through. He submits to it, even though he has the upper hand, even though he has the capability to make those eyes go cross. And they do—when he sinks his fingers inside of you, middle and ring, stuffing you full. Your walls suck him in so hard that he almost loses his footing, squeezing you so hard against him that he’s sure he will leave bruises on your tender skin. He silently promises he will kiss them later. 

“Is this what you wanted?” He lifts your leg, hoists it up in the air and begins to fuck you speedily, fingers curling in your spot every once in a while. He doesn’t want to make you come fast, but then time is pressing against him and he knows the mall will be closing soon. He still has to fill that belly. Would prefer if you came around his cock. “My fingers fucking your needy little princess parts, hm?” 

You moan his name and Jungkook shushes you in your ear, rewarding you regardless by abusing your clit with circles, alternating between those and swiftly fucking you in your tight hole. 

“I’m gonna come, Jungkook, I’m gonna come.” 

He withdraws his fingers. All of them—even those wrapped around your leg. You sway on your feet, heady, panting, and he stabilizes you with a hand on your arm. He smirks at you in the mirror, fingers in his mouth and you give him a dirty look. 

Before you can tell him off, he explains himself. “You’re coming around my cock, I don’t give a fuck, sweetheart.” 

His words wipe your face off of that scowl and you smile at him. A sunshine personified. Jungkook chuckles, pushing you against the mirror with his hand on your sternum and getting on his knees. 

He places your leg on his shoulder. “Hold your dress for me.” 

You listen right away, ever so eager. One hand clutches the hem, the other sneaks to his hair. Jungkook likes it so much that he doesn’t waste a second and envelops his mouth around your little clit. 

Just briefly. He has your dew to drink. 

He swipes his tongue along your slit. Over and over, until his sweat drips in pearls down his temples and he makes new bruises on the sides of your hips. Even goes one step further and fucks you with his tongue, letting out short little breaths and soft moans against you, gone feral by your taste and your fleshiness. He takes your lips in his mouth, plays with them with his tongue. Pulls away, stares lovingly at them and spits on your clit, sucking it inside his mouth and rubbing his face in your dripping juices, licking up everything you’re giving to him. 

And when your knee gives out, he catches you in time, standing to his feet. Doesn’t kiss you. Is selfish. Wants your taste perpetually on his tongue. Your eyes sink to his wet chin and you lick your lips, a feral look on your own gracing your features. You resemble a horny little animal, one that he craves to own and make his. But he can’t burden his heart with that thought. Doesn’t have the strength for it, not when he’s still hanging by the thread. 

“How do you want my cock?” he asks, his own eyes lidded, darkness consuming him. “Like this or from behind? You decide. I’m giving it to you. It’s yours.” 

You’re left speechless. He taps your cheek, gently, to make you talk. If you don’t, it will be his ruination and he will die. At your Pikachu-clad feet. A sweet, sweet death. Ideal. 

“I—I can’t take it from behind.” A deer in the headlights, terribly cute. 

He chuckles, caressing your hair. “But you have.” He grins, but it’s an answer for him. He’ll take you from behind in the safe confines of your home. “Like this, then. It’s more than perfect, sweetheart.” He kisses you, deeply, but he doesn’t give you his tongue. His heart expands, his affection crawling all around the kiss. He wonders if you can feel it. 

Pulling away, he unbuttons his pants and takes out his length. He’s soaked his underwear, but he doesn’t mind. His arousal drips down and he rubs it along his tip to make it as painless for you as he can when he enters you. 

And once he does, your eyes roll back and you break into whines, ones that fuck with his brain. Your leg is wrapped around his torso, but he joins the other one, holding you by your splendid little cheeks. Like his fingers, you suck him in, even though he hasn’t given you all of it yet. He’s already losing it. Doesn’t know what’s going to happen to him once he’s balls deep. He won’t last. He physically can’t. 

Jungkook bites your lower lip, sucking it into his mouth. “You want all of it?” 

You tug at his hair. “Yes, all of you.” 

At your fucking service. 

He sinks deeper into you, hissing, furrowing his brows, sweat dripping down every perimeter of his body. Your mouth latches onto his neck and he’s gone. Even more so, when you graze your teeth upon his skin before you suck it—like he sucked your lip. He fucks you hard for it, making you let go of his neck and moan against the column. It pleases him so much that he does it again, a warm pressure coiling in his lower belly. It creates a cacophonous sound, your body colliding into the mirror and it mingles, beautifully, with the music playing. As well as the squeaky noises of your slick gliding along his cock every time he draws out. 

“Who do you belong to tonight, huh?” Jungkook rasps, filling you balls-deep just like you wanted, driving into you slowly until his pelvis kisses yours. “You can be as loud as you want, sweetheart. Nobody’s gonna hear you but me.” 

Rapid, whiny moans. He mimics their speed while maintaining eye contact with you and he groans when your eyes go unfocused, mouth parted. You’re just as gone as him. He pecks you for it, so terribly pleased. His orgasm inches closer, enveloping him with even deeper, thicker darkness. 

“To you, Daddy,” you cry out and because you called him by the title, he maneuvers you. Hoists you higher on his cock, with your legs now dangling from his forearms. And like this, he drags you up and down his length, his own moans breaking at the feeling of you tightening around him. He’s gonna come now and it’s your fault. 

“No, sweetheart, you can’t call me that when we’re here,” he scolds, shaking his head, brushing his lips against yours. “I can’t ruin you the way I’d like. They’d kick us out.” He kisses you, slowing down his tempo, stalling his orgasm. “Now apologize or you’re not coming.” 

“I’m so sorry. I won’t call you that in—in public.” 

A rewarding kiss to your neck. A hard stroke. One that blankets his vision with colorful stars. “Good girl,” he praises, looks down at you and kisses you without breaking the stare. “Now you need to be the best girl and come around my cock. I can’t fill you up—you didn’t wear your panties. I’d ruin your leggings for everyone to see.” You cry out again, the idea dizzying your mind as much as his and you tug at his hair, scratching your fingernails down his neck, touching him all over. “Can you do that for me? Can you come for me and not make a mess like the last time, hm?” 

He pounds into you, the strokes so hard that the sound of skin slapping turns disturbing and he holds his orgasm for your sake, all of his muscles clenched, stars dancing across his vision, pecking your features. And that’s it for you. 

You come so hard around him—and you are the bestest girl in the world because you manage to keep your eyes on him throughout the entirety of the wave of your orgasm washing over you, licking up at your body. Mouth parted, his name slipping past, a deep tinge of red, deeper than your dress, flushing your cheeks, eyes dazed, so gone, so fucked out, dark and alluring, so akin to his.

His bestest girl. His sweetheart. 

He needs to pull away. He needs to come. 

“Sweetheart, I know you’re tired but I need you to take off your dress and get on your knees.” 

You do it so quickly, without talking back, that even his own flush finds its way to his cheeks, his heart growing even larger and hotter, winged fuckers zapping his stomach. He fucks his fist in your face, loving the way you’re watching what he’s doing for a little while with a lingering hunger before you flick your eyes to his, beckoning his orgasm out of him. 

“Good girl,” he whispers, muscles straining, movement quickening. White clothes the colorful stars, the warmth in his stomach on the very brink of exploding. “Open your mouth.” 

And he paints your mouth in the same shade of white. You’re so good that you wrap your lips around him, sucking him softly, making popping sounds that prolong his orgasm and he grasps your hair in his fist, gently, despite the violence of his release. He’s not just giving you his cum; he’s giving you all of his affection and when you swallow and smile at him in such a kind, beautiful manner, it wets his eyes in a way that he can’t explain. 

He helps you get on your feet and you worsen his state of emotions. Like earlier, you fold into his form, hugging him skin to skin, squeezing him so hard that he stops breathing altogether. And when you begin to weep and smear his chest with your precious tears, he weeps with you. 

Never in his life before has he experienced such embrace, such love unraveling in the form of tears and quiet sobs. And he doesn’t want to absolve this again. With you, it’s perfect. And right now, he could die with the utmost certainty that you’re both crying for the same reason. 

Love unable to be real, to be fulfilled. 

He senses it. Senses it in the way he cradles your head and wipes your tears away. In the way your lips wrap around his, kissing him as if this was the very last time. You don’t have to say a word. He knows. And it’s enough. 

Jungkook dresses you. Runs his fingers through your hair in effort to fix it and make it look as nice as it did before he ruined it. And his eyes drench again when you zip him up in the meantime. No one has ever done that for him. 

The warmth in his heart heightens. He doesn’t understand how it’s possible. 

Taking your hand, purse and your dress, he leads you to check out. Pays for it. Carries the bag. Pretends you’re his; pretends his duties are nonexistent and his morals have different colors—just for this night. Doesn’t let go of your hand, even as he orders a good bowl of soup for you and himself, even as you sit down together and wait for your food. Even as you look at him deep in thought. 

“You saved me,” you unravel, a soft, tender, drowsy mien gracing your face and his heart thuds against his ribcage, gratitude surrounding it, eyes wetting again. “Thank you. And for the dress. I’ll only wear it for you.” 

The thuds halt. And it’s the only thing that does—a tear rolls down his cheek and he can’t truly believe he’s baring his feelings like that for you, in front of you. He feels as though he was dreaming and he fears he’s going to stir to awakening any moment now. 

A waiter brings your food. None of you pay him any kind of attention, though you don’t forget to say your thank you’s. 

Jungkook opens his mouth to say something, despite the fact no words rise on his tongue, but something interrupts him. 

His phone rings. 

And it’s none other than his hyung himself. 

© 2024 hoseoksluna, all rights reserved.

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[luimagines]

Back again with four is wind's ancestor stuff!

Just going further into the period of time that wind needs to accept the idea that four is his ancestor instead of time is a little rougher than I first said it was.

Wind probably struggled a lot with the jealousy against twilight and at first it was okay, it wasn't really brought up much at all, but whenever he saw twilight and time being close it did sting. Then when they visit Malon again it's even worse to him. Like maybe the three of them are just talking about stuff, but with jealousy tainting his vision it looks almost like they're the parents and son together which just hurts even more.

Also he doesn't talk with anybody about this and just let's it all stew inside of him. And even then, to who can he talk about it? He refuses to talk about it with time as he wouldn't be able to handle the disappointment coming from him. He also doesn't want to talk about it with twilight. It's just awkward you know and who does that??? Not him. Warriors is not an option either, also because he's scared of the disappointment and just, he would try and find a solution for it rather than just letting him vent. Four is just a no go. All he wants to show four is him being happy with four and nothing else, though this might bring some resentment with it tbe longer he lets the jealousy stew. All the others are just in general not an option for him either for various reasons.

Of course four does still try to hang out and stuff, but notices wind's lack of general interest in it even though wind does try to hide it. But four does go and talk about it with the others and the general consensus is to let him be for now. Clearly they all also noticed wind's behavior too, but hope wind can resolve it with himself or come to them for help with it.

Of course wind doesn't and just goes and let's it all stew even more and more to the point that he can get snippy to twilight and four at times.

This is where the others try and talk with him, but them it just doesn't go well, either because they're not good at that sort of thing or wind's refusal to budge in it and saying that he's got it under control.

Heck, even legend gives it a try and slap some sense into him! That four is a good guy and that he should be happy that he's related to him! ( meanwhile legend still has to say that he's likely related to sky to sky, but that's a problem for an other time.) And that this behavior is clearly hurting four. Which it is, although good at hiding it, it's eating him alive that someone could just be really disappointed in being related to him.

But it just doesn't work, though wind learns to hide it better, because the last thing he wants is for four to feel that way. That is, until somehow they find out that wild is related to twilight due to the spirit animal thingy only coming to help to those that are related to it. And twilight being well Wolfie and wolfie having helped out wild during his adventure it was easy to put 2 and 2 together.

Wild doesn't mind honestly. Honestly just finds it funny and makes jokes about being related to a wolf and stuff. (Honestly an other favorite headcannon)

Wind sits quietly through the whole ordeal, staring into the fire as it dawns on him that that meant that wild is also related to time. And he can feel it boil rapidly back up and while he does try to calm down, he just was too late and just finally let's all the jealousy out screaming at everyone and nobody at the same time. Though, before he can register what he had even done he's running from the camp they had sat up.

When he finally found a place to hide he feels terrible, he didn't mean to, but it happened. He felt disappointed at himself for this as it's just not like him at all.

Meanwhile four is just stunned and honestly distraught, because honestly, was he that disappointing??? He liked to think that of course he's not disappointing, but clearly he was for his decendant. So much so that he freaked out like that. It finally causes him to spiral and the others are quick to pick him up and comfort him the best they can.

Wild just feels guilty for accidentally having caused this whole ordeal, but time is quick to squash that idea and says that this has been stewing for longer and that this was just what broke the camel's back.

The other's that aren't good with comforting are just at different stages of either anger or disappointment in wind for having done this rather than talk about it to any of them.

After a bit four goes to find wind, wanting to talk to him himself. When he finds the boy he can see that wind has been crying and is clearly still deep in the self pity. He sighs at it and sits down next to wind. Wind of course tenses up at it, to him this was the worst option of all the links. And it's even worse, because four is disappointed in him, his ancestor is disappointed in him. He knows he deserves it after what he did, but he still hates it.

They talk about it long and hard. It's both a bit of a painful, yet cathartic talk. One that was needed way sooner, but Wind knows that was his fault as well. Four forgives him in the end, but does say that it doesn't mean that he doesn't forget as Wind did hurt him with this and it would be a while before all the hurt will be gone. Wind promises to let the jealousy go and that he truly didn't mean to hurt him.

After that they walk back with a warning from four that the other's would like to talk with him too.

Four probably would have started that conversation with something like- "....Do you really hate being my relative that much?"

It's enough to shock Wind into spilling his guts. At first Wind would have tried to defend himself but instead he only gets worked up the more he spills his inner thoughts. The dam has been opened and it was going to take a miracle to get it to close again.

Four is taken aback from the force of Wind emotions but he has enough forethought to wait patiently for him to finish his tirade before he gets to speak again.

Then the real conversation can start.

When they get back to the camp, Time is the one to steal Wind away before the others can get their two thoughts in and Time gets to do the Dad tm stare that Wind has come to hate just as much as everyone else.

Now that Wind has calmed down, Time will have to do a little digging as to why Wind acted the way he did and what he's really thinking. He eventually would get to the end of it though and set things straight between them.

When they return, Time calls off anyone for dog piling on Wind- if they want to talk to him, it can wait until the next day.

Wind is thankful because he's crying a lot lately and he doesn't have the energy to keep having this conversation over and over again.

[twomanyideas]

Santu Claus is Coming to Town

A collaboration by @mdelpin and @oryu404 @becausewritingshouldbefun January 2023 Challenge Prompt: New Beginnings Pairing(s): Gray x Natsu, Sting x Rogue, Lyon x Erza (mentioned) AO3 | Ch 1 | Next: Ch 2

Summary: It's the most wonderful time of the year... supposedly. Natsu, in his absence, has taken Gray's Christmas spirit with him, and an unfortunate event from Rogue's childhood has him dreading the holiday altogether. Needless to say, they're not particularly excited about attending their Aunt Ur's annual Christmas eve party. But the night turns out to be full of surprises, making it one they certainly won't be forgetting anytime soon.

Chapter 1: Santa Bring My Bastard Back to Me

Christmas had always been Gray’s favorite holiday. That often surprised people, given he wasn’t exactly the most cheerful person to be around, but there was just something in the air that never failed to lift his spirits.

But this year was different, and while he hadn’t yet reached ‘Bah, humbug’ levels of bitterness, he was skirting fairly close.

The reason was simple. 

Natsu, his childhood best friend and boyfriend, had gotten himself stuck on another fucking continent with no chance of getting home before Christmas. And yeah, Gray knew all too well that he was being unreasonable for feeling this way. It wasn’t Natsu’s fault they’d canceled all flights out of Rivera because of a massive snowstorm.

But after five years of only being able to see each other on the occasional weekend and during school breaks, Gray had been looking forward to spending more time together now that he was back home. Instead, they both got swept up by work. Gray was lucky enough to have landed an entry level position at an architectural firm soon after he'd graduated, and while Natsu still worked for his dad, he’d gotten promoted last year. Now he traveled along with Igneel for work so often, it felt like Gray saw him even less than before.

Was spending Christmas together really too much to ask?

“Please tell me that’s not what you’re planning to wear to your aunt’s party.” 

Gray looked up to find his mother frowning at him. It took a minute for her words to pierce through his self pity, but when they did, it just added to his misery.

He’d completely forgotten all about his aunt’s Christmas Eve party.

“I don’t suppose there’s any way I could just stay home?” he asked. The last thing he felt like doing was feigning cheer at a loud family party.

“If he’s not going, then I’m not either,” his younger brother Rogue said as he plopped down on the sofa next to him, destroying any chance Gray might have had of his mother taking pity on him. The smug look Rogue flashed him let him know the bastard knew it, too.

Great. Thanks a lot, half-pint.

“You're both going, and that’s final. Now, go change into something a little more festive,” Mika directed, putting her hands on her hips as she looked back and forth between Gray’s sweatpants and Rogue's all black getup. “How about those Christmas sweaters I bought you?” 

Gray touched a hand to his forehead. “Will you look at that? I think I have a fever. I must be coming down with something.”

“Yeah, me too.” Rogue said, faking a cough.

“Oh come on guys, it’ll be fun,” their mother badgered as she paced to the kitchen and back, gathering all the food she was bringing to the party. “This is the first time in a long while the whole family will be together. Even Ultear made it.”

That touched a nerve. What was she talking about? The whole family would not be there.

Besides, what did Gray care if Ultear and her asshole husband had graced them with their presence when Natsu wasn’t around to make fun of them?

“Wow. Nice, mom.” Rogue rolled his eyes and sighed.

“What?” She paused, her eyes widening as she finally realized her mistake. “Oh honey, I’m sorry!”

“Don’t worry about it,” Gray grumbled, even though it did kind of hurt that she’d forgotten Natsu’s absence so easily. You’d think she’d notice. The guy had only been terrorizing their pantry since they were ten, and they’d been a couple since his freshman year of college.   

He got up from the sofa and headed off to his room to change into something his mother wouldn’t give him a hard time over. Rogue followed, looking about as thrilled as he felt. Gray doubted either of them would be wearing those Christmas sweaters. 

It took some searching, but he found a shirt that was ironed and wouldn't have him sweat to death. He’d just located a clean pair of pants when the doorbell rang, soon followed by the elated sounds of his mother greeting their visitor.

He knew it couldn’t be Natsu. He hadn’t rung their doorbell since he was twelve, just made his way in through whatever door was open. Even so, Gray couldn’t quite silence the part of him that desperately hoped his boyfriend had somehow made it home in time.

He quickly finished dressing and went back downstairs, skipping the last steps when he caught the sounds of someone rummaging through the fridge. For a second, he truly believed he’d find Natsu grabbing the makings of one of his monstrous sandwiches with whatever leftovers he could find, but his mother shattered that illusion before Gray could even come out to see for himself.

“For God’s sake Sting, get out of my fridge,” she complained, “I swear you’re as bad as Natsu!”

“Lay off him, Mika, he’s sixteen. You know better than anyone that teen boys are always hungry,” his father snickered, tossing Sting an apple from the fruit basket that sat on the counter.

“Thanks, Mr. F!” Sting inhaled the apple while peering into the multiple shopping bags full of food and drink Mika had lined up, no doubt studying their contents and making a mental list of what he was going to eat first. 

“Are you sure you’re bringing enough?” Silver glanced at Mika as she packed a box with as many bottles of wine as she could safely fit. 

Mika stopped what she was doing and gazed at Silver worriedly. “Do you think I should bring more?” 

Gray had never figured out whether his mom was really oblivious to his father’s sarcasm or whether she just enjoyed playing dumb. Either way, he rarely got a rise out of her.

“I think we should go.” 

“Not yet. We’re waiting for the boys.” 

“Gray still moping around?” 

“I am not moping, I’ll have you know,” Gray said, entering the kitchen before his parents got too comfortable talking about him. “Of course,” he sighed, taking in Rogue’s best friend and his ridiculous Christmas elf costume, complete with red suspenders, bells on his hat, and even bells on his bright green shoes. Of course he would, and of course it would have been Sting. Gray had been a fool to think otherwise. The guy practically lived at their house, hanging around his brother like the two couldn’t function without each other for longer than a day. 

And speak of the devil, Gray heard his brother coming down the stairs. He turned to look, fully expecting some sort of passive aggressive move to protest having to change, but for once, it looked like Rogue had actually put in some effort. 

While he was still wearing the black jeans, he’d found a clean white button-down shirt to go with them, and he’d even tied back half of his hair into a ponytail, revealing the side of his face Gray couldn't remember seeing in forever. 

“Nice!” Silver complimented him. “And perfect timing! Why don’t you help me load the car? Gray and Sting, you too.”

"Sure thing," Sting said, jingling with each step as he grabbed a couple of bags, but he knocked one of them straight into the counter when Rogue walked into the kitchen. “Ow! Hi! Sorry!” “Hey,” Rogue briefly flashed him a smile before he nodded at the bag Sting had just savaged. “Careful with that. You don't want to mess with my mom when she's full of ‘Christmas spirit’.” 

Gray snorted at that, and while his father shot them both a warning look, he didn’t disagree.

“I heard that!” Mika called out, already running around the house and turning off lights, but stopping to come at Rogue with a face that had Gray struggling to hold back his laughter. 

“My, who’s this handsome young man?” She crooned, cupping Rogue’s cheeks, and fondly gazing into his eyes as if she'd never see them both at the same time again. “Are you done?” Rogue huffed, glaring and red-faced as he let her pluck at him, taming a few rebellious strands of hair and making sure his shirt was tucked in nicely from all angles. 

“No!” she said, pulling her phone out from her jacket pocket. “You have a face. We need to take pictures.”

“What are you talking about? I always have a face.”

Now, normally Gray wasn’t a big fan of pictures, but Rogue’s hatred of them was legendary. And given how he was stuck going to this party because Rogue had opened his big mouth, he felt a little payback was in order.

“I think pictures are a great idea!” he said, mustering up as much enthusiasm as he was able, just to piss him off. “How about by the tree?”

“That’s a lovely idea, Gray!”

“How about by the tree?” Rogue mocked in what sounded absolutely nothing like Gray's voice at all, and stuck out his tongue. 

“Rogue!” Mika scolded as she ushered them all out of the kitchen. “It’ll just take a minute. Besides, I have so few pictures of you.”

“Oh, right. My bad,” Rogue said, pointedly looking at the walls, which were covered in family pictures, and at the digital frame that displayed a constant slideshow of shots. 

Gray wasted no time in standing in front of their Christmas tree, a huge Isvan pine that stretched all the way to the ceiling and took up a sizable chunk of the living room, but his smile froze as soon as a picture of him and Natsu grinning like idiots as they tried to shove a s’more into the other’s mouth popped up on the digital frame. 

He could remember that day clearly. The two of them had spent the afternoon building a firepit in the backyard for his mom. They’d broken it in that evening, roasting s’mores from their deck chairs with the rest of the family. Then, after everyone else had gone inside, they’d stayed by the fire, kissing until–

“You know he’d be here if he could,” his father said, patting him on the shoulder and offering him a smile. 

“Yeah,” he said, still wrapped up in his boyfriend’s face and the memories of that night until the picture switched to one of him, Rogue, Ultear and Lyon on Lyon and Erza’s wedding day. 

“And Rogue, can we please get this over with? I’d like to leave soon.”

Rogue sighed long and deep–the closest to a yes that most would get from him these days–and followed their mother's instructions for the pictures she wanted. 

Seeing the discontent on Rogue’s face as he struggled to pose and smile to please their mom made it worth having to do the same thing, as well as keeping his mouth shut when he had to sit through the round of pics his mom shot of Rogue and Sting together. 

Look at that, the little bastard could actually smile after all. 

Rogue bolted as soon as she'd uttered the word “Alright,” grabbing Sting's hand and the car keys from the table.

“We’ll start loading the food.”

“Can someone please grab the presents?” Mika called out as she went to get more bags from the kitchen. 

Gray figured he might as well do that, so he quickly sorted through the tower of presents, grabbing the ones meant for his aunt’s house and placing them into boxes which he set in the entryway to be loaded along with everything else. Then he got to work arranging the remaining presents underneath the tree. 

He paused when he got to his present for Natsu. He’d bought him the usual ridiculous amount of candy and snacks, and he’d found a plush red dragon that he knew his boyfriend would go bonkers over. But the envelope the dragon was holding in its arms was his big present, and Gray couldn’t wait to see Natsu’s reaction when he opened it. 

When he’d heard of a new resort opening up on Mt. Hakobe, Gray had taken advantage of their introductory specials to book them a four-night stay. Then he’d gone a little crazy with the extras: tickets to their onsen, a one-hour couple's massage, lift tickets and equipment rentals, and passes to their indoor water park.

Yet for as much fun as all those sounded, it was the thought of having Natsu to himself for those four nights that thrilled him the most. They’d finally get to try out all the things they never got to do because they both lived with their parents.

He put the present down along with the others, trying very hard not to think about how much he’d wanted to give it to him tonight. 

“Oh good, you’re still here,” his mom said as she entered the room, dragging a box behind her. “Can you please take this to the car for me? I can finish up here.”

“Yeah, sure.” Gray peered at the contents before picking the box up carefully to keep from breaking any of the bottles. “That’s a lot of liquor.”

“Tis the season,” Mika smiled, grabbing presents and rearranging them to her liking.

Fair point. He was definitely planning on having more than a few drinks. He left her to it and carried the precious cargo to the car.

It wasn’t long before they’d filled up the trunk completely and were strapped into their seatbelts, each of them carrying something on their lap that didn’t fit in the back. 

“Will your father be joining us later?” Mika asked Sting once they’d backed out of their driveway.

“Yeah, he just sent me ahead cause he said I was driving him nuts.”

“Wow, shocker,” Gray muttered under his breath, earning himself a glare from both Rogue and his mother. Sting, however, gave no sign he’d heard him.

His Aunt Ur’s house was visible from a distance. She’d always put up lots of decorations, but it looked like she’d kicked things up a notch this year. Huge inflatables and dancing animatronics covered every inch of her front yard, and how she wasn’t causing a town-wide power outage with the amount of lights strung about basically everywhere was a mystery. 

Ahead of them, cars slowed down as they passed the house, while others parked and got out to examine the display up close. The whole spectacle caused them to have to park further than expected, which wasn't helping Gray’s mood in the slightest, seeing as his mother had laden him down with boxes to take inside. 

As he got closer, he discovered the animatronics played music, too. It literally looked like someone had thrown up Christmas on his aunt’s lawn. And was that a dragon?

God, if Natsu were here, he’d fucking love this. Gray could almost hear his excited cries as he oohed and aahed over every little thing. Come to think of it, shouldn’t Sting be doing the same thing right about now? He glanced over to see Sting was indeed taking in the spectacle, but he wasn’t bouncing on his feet with excitement like Gray expected him to. He was just sort of gaping at it, not a thought behind those blue eyes. “I might lose you in there,” Rogue joked, flicking the bauble replacing Sting’s regular stud earring. “You blend right in.” Gray watched Sting nearly jump out of his skin, trip over his own feet and almost drop the box of presents he was holding. Thank God it wasn’t the liquor. “Stupid shoes,” Sting laughed nervously. 

Yeah, the shoes… real smooth, Sting. Gray peered over at his brother to see what he thought of this bullshit, but the idiot looked none the wiser. As he followed his father to the front door, he could only hope that he and Natsu hadn’t been this lame.

“Uncle Silver, Gray!” Ultear opened the door before they could ring the doorbell. “Come in. We’ve been waiting for you guys.”

“Yeah, sorry about that. We had to park kind of far.” 

They filed in, moving out of the way so the others could come inside. Ultear greeted them all with enthusiasm.

“Isn’t it wild?! It’s been like that all day. Someone even left a donation earlier,” she laughed. 

Gray was happy to see his cousin, but he was more interested in putting the boxes down somewhere, so he made his way into the kitchen, following the sound of laughter set to a backdrop of Christmas music. 

He counted no less than three fully decorated trees on his way there, and even though he still wished Natsu was by his side, he could feel the Christmas spell start to grab hold of him.

0-0

A/N: Well we're back with a new story and our first official collaboration for the year! This one, like most of our stories, started out as a drabble and now looks absolutely nothing like the original idea. 🤣

We had a lot of fun creating a world for them to inhabit (and we wonder why things grow outside of our control) and might revisit it at some point. You never know.

If you like it, let us know! If you have any questions about this world, ask us. You have no idea how much background we create for even the simplest story. Seriously, it's a problem!

Anyhow we hope you enjoy this first chapter, and know that the following three are already written. We'll upload them as we edit them and we plan to start on the last one in the next day or two. So bright side, we hopefully won't leave you hanging for the conclusion!

[fkevin073]

t’s a little silly, but… what if alysanne and jace had a secret romance all these years in dragonstone? but obviously aemond and alys are forced to get married, and the story proceeds the same but, they both have feelings for each other and they knew that this would end when alys got married but they didn't think it would be with aemond...

OUU OMG THE ANGST ANON!! YOUR MIND 💥

but damn, this would hurt.

I mean I think the thing that stings Jace the most (both in this situation and the story) is that if Jace had inherited the Targaryen looks, he more than likely would have married Alysanne. his mother's choices impact his ability to be with the person he loves romantically (though he does care for Baela, and I think after a bit of marriage he would have fallen in love with her in his own way). so yeah, Jace would be extra bitter/frustrated in this universe, because here she would feel the same way.

I don't think they'd go full on lovers because they're both hyperaware of the taint of bastardry, so I'm thinking more chaste kisses/no actual intercourse level of love affair here. it would also add to alysanne's tension with baela, though to be honest I think Baela is a bit "looser" with concepts of monogamy because she seems to have a close relationship with her dad, and daemon is well, daemon.

but damn, this would be full on love triangle. I think (yet again) there would be a bit of role reversal here. alysanne is the kind of person who once she falls in love with someone, she sticks with them. She's not the kind of person to fall out of love. so I think she would have feelings for aemond, but maybe more in the way she has 'feelings" for Jace in the story. if things go IKYLAO route, it would be easier for her to leave aemond and go to dragonstone, but it would definitely still hurt.

but if things go "well" and rhaenyra becomes queen... I think after a time, Alysanne would eventually let herself love aemond completely. if rhaenyra was completely against marrying Jace and alysanne in this universe, they'd both know that their love affair would have to come to an end, because they love their family more than themselves, and wouldn't want to jeopardize them.

a lot of tension though. aemond would be jealous of Jace, and Jace would be jealous of aemond, and alysanne would love both of them. I think she'd lose her mind a little over it, because I don't think there's a world she could choose between either of them fully unless one of them was actively trying to murder the other or something.

thanks so much for the ask! sorry for my rambling!

[the-white-soul]

So this is unwinnable, a situation not even a god can tamper with... You really are so horrid you remind me of someone, but enough on me, I can't make an offer nor do I care about what happens since well my worlds been dead for a long fucking time, I'm just the lingering remains of what could have been. So I ask the Final question. Why? Why go through with all this trouble I mean ha ha don't you have better things to do? or are you just doing this for petty reasons, a simple yet undying hatred for them? Perhaps a desire to prove one self is better? Maybe a want to destroy them all? Either way, they need me and well I can't stay forever ya know. so Remember this Bucko. I Have NOTHING TO LOSE. *Anon Vanishes*

(Jack) "I know you can't hear me anymore but that's the one similarity we have. Chara was my life. They're dead."

(Sergeant) "Did you hear everything else he said?"

(Jack) "Of course! Asgore killed my beloved Chara. Not with bullets or mind games, worse than all of that. He put thoughts in their head! Now they hate me! My Chara used to be submissive and agreeable. *Thought back* Yes, so damn submissive. Pretty as well. More pretty than my own wife. Why would I get a gross wife? Beauty is in the eyes of the beholder I guess."

(Sergeant) "Uh, do your belongings still work?"

(Jack) "Believe me, it's fine!"

(Sergeant) "You're not in love with your own child right?"

(Jack) "Are you calling me a pedo?! *Grabs his neck* Cause if there's one thing I'm not it's a pedo! Understand?"

(Sergeant) "Please don't kill me."

(Jack) "I never fire my coworkers. They all seem to make mistakes before they leave, which makes them unable to keep going. It's a weird coincidence! I don't know why it happens but if you believe in that don't make me attempt to fire you."

(Police Officer #53) "Constable, Asgore has returned!"

(Jack) "Perfect. Put him in a room with me. I have a lot to talk about with him! *Asgore is pushed in forcefully screaming to leave and strapped onto a chair like in a psych ward.*"

(Asgore) "What are you going to do to me?"

(Jack) "Well, you froze up in court! That's a pretty big deal! You know, when Chara hurt it hurt right in my heart like being stabbed a hundred times! Unfortunately, I can never give you the same amount of pain as I had, but I can get close! You know Flowey came to me!"

(Asgore) "He did? *Started sweating profusely* I swear I had nothing to do with it! Also, I loved Chara! I know that's why you're mad! I didn't want them to die I promise!"

(Jack) "You didn't? So bizarre! I've just thought of a punishment for you! *Grabbed Asgore's eyelids and forced them open. Then put a picture of Chara at a young age.* Because you love Chara so much, I'll let you look at this picture I found of him for as long as I want! You won't even have to blink! That'll be heaven for you! You killed this kid so you must really love them!"

(Asgore) "*It felt fine for a few moments. Then the water started coming and suddenly he started feeling a burning sensation.* Stop this please I'll do anything!"

(Jack) "No, let's look at my beautiful kid a bit longer!"

(Asgore) "*The water made him almost unable to see. He could only see everything so blurry he couldn't even tell that Chara was a human anymore. The eyes went bloodshot and it got worse and worse.*"

(Jack) "One of my favorite stories to tell little Chara was the turtle and the scorpion. It perfectly describes the reason our kinds can never get along. It's just in your nature to be terrible vermin to the world! Even if it would kill all of us!"

(Asgore) "Monsters aren't like that!"

(Jack) "Well if that's true maybe scorpions aren't either! I have a pet scorpion I call Sorpy! Sorpy is a very well-trained boy! So if they are trained very well maybe they won't sting you in the eye if I get close enough!"

(Asgore) "No, I've heard that some of them can feel terrible on normal skin."

(Jack) "*Put the scorpion right next to Asgore's eyes and it stabbed him. It bled out. Asgore was done talking and just started screaming.* I'm going to leave you alone now! *Walked out of the room while Asgore was in the closest to hell he's ever been to.*"

[klutzyroses]

Black Army HC: S/O getting hurt protecting them

How would the Black Army react to their S/O getting hurt while protecting them from a minor potential injury?

Ray Blackwell

It had begun when Belle wanted to catch a butterfly. He had stalked it all the way through to where Ray and you had been relaxing together. The butterfly had landed near Ray, to which he was oblivious, unlike you.

What you also noticed was the feline ready to pounce and he looked like he meant business.

Way too late does Ray notice his cat running to him and swiping a paw towards his hand, unfortunately missing the butterfly by inches but from the sheer velocity of the swipe, it was going to leave a nasty scratch on him indeed.

Only it never did...not on him anyway.

"Ow!" Hearing you yelp and pull your hand towards your chest, pain written into your features as you now have 3 nasty scratches on the back of your hand.

They're not all that deep, but they're bleeding pretty bad and they STING.

Ray is stunned for a few seconds, realizing you had taken the hit for him, before taking you to get it cleaned up

He is grateful...but annoyed, ngl. You didn't have to do that, you weirdo.

It wouldn't have been the first time he was scratched by Belle, but he never wanted you to take on any pain that was meant for him.

After your hand is all wrapped, he covers it in kisses, many times.

"If I can handle the battlefield, I can handle a few scratches from a cat. Don't ever do that again, understand?"

He doesn't let go of that hand until he absolutely has to.

Sirius Oswald

He wasn't even sure how it happened.

You were helping him move a pile of books across HQ, and it had been relatively uneventful as you engaged in idle chat.

He insisted on carrying the majority of the books of course and no protest from you was going to deter him.

Lowkey, you were a bit pouty about it, until you noticed the door ahead was starting to open.

Now, Sirius was just a few steps ahead of you, with you trailing just a little behind. However you also noticed that Sirius was clearly not aware of the door because he wasn't slowing down.

Then the door suddenly flew open as Seth opens it from the other side with vigor, unaware of either of you until it was too late.

You, however were fast enough to get between Sirius and the door before he got hit with it and while you had intended to catch the door, what actually ended up happening was you catching the door...on your face.

The door literally slams open on your face.

You dropped all the books and papers in your hands and clutched your face as it aches from between your brows to your nose as the area turns a little red.

Seth is beside himself in a panic as Sirius lifts your hands so he can have a look at your poor nose.

Thankfully it's not broken, not even bleeding but it's definitely throbbing and all bruised up. Ouchies.

Seth gets a hell of a lecture until you save him.

Sirius immediately has you seated as he gently rubs the bridge of your nose as tears come to your eyes.

Yes, it's that sore.

He is thankful you were protecting him, really, but he really wished he hadn't gotten hurt in the process.

"Little lady, why would you do that? Look at your nose, that's got to hurt."

He kisses the area and treats you to your favourite food, made by him just for you, to show you how much he appreciated it.

Luka Clemence

He felt so bad about this, really bad.

You had been helping him with dinner that evening and one of the big steel pots was sitting precariously on the edge of the counter. Problem was, Luka was standing by that same counter and was too occupied with cutting carrots to notice it.

Thus, when he lightly bumped the counter, that's all it took for the pot to slip right off. And from the trajectory, it was obvious Luka's foot would be on the receiving end.

Now, this steel pot was big. Really big. And it was falling from quite a distance...with hot soup in it. So Luka was going to be limping for awhile and in a lot of pain if it touched him.

But you weren't about to let your boyfriend suffer such a fate, were you, Y/N?

You rushed quickly to his side, startling Luka with your sudden movement as you crouch down to catch the pot in your hands. At least...that was the plan.

Either you underestimated the weight and heat of the pot, the velocity of the fall, or overestimated your ability to catch.

Either way, the burning pot didn't so much land in your hands, so much as on your wrist. Very awkwardly and painfully so.

The kitchen is soon filled with your cry of pain. It's like ice in Luka's heart as he immediately gets the thing away from you.

You now have a sprained wrist and mild burns on your palms. You poor thing...

He has you put your hands under some cold water and doesn't let you spend even another second in the kitchen.

He knows you were trying to protect him and he loves you for it but...

"Please don't do that again. I want to be able to protect you... so I don't want you to get hurt for me like that, ever."

He presses his lips against your wrist, and then against your own, hoping he can convey his feelings through a sweet kiss.

Seth Hyde

Neither of you were entirely sure how it went down like this. Literally.

So what had happened was that you were walking with your boyfriend on a date, and he stumbled.

On what? To this day, neither of you are entirely sure.

But he trips and stumbles, gravity fails him, he falls backwards.

But not to worry! Y/N to the rescue!

You rush to catch him, subconsciously aware that he is too big to catch at that speed. You go for it anyway.

And instead of catching him, you end up falling too, succumbing to his weight.

Seth expects to feel the cold hard ground underneath him, except he just feels something soft and cushy...followed by a muffled yelp.

It took him a few moments to realize you were the cushion that saved him and he is on his feet in 0.00001 seconds, whilst holding you bridal style.

He will be so dramatic, mourning and devastated that you took the brunt of the fall.

"My sweet Aliceeeee, why would you do such a thing?!"

"You...would've gotten dirty..."

But now you're the one who is dirty. Squished and dirty. Poor darling!

He will insist on carrying you for the majority, if not the rest of the day, snuggling you close in his chest.

"Nooo, I can't let you do that again! I can never let my precious Alice get hurt for me! I'm the one who should be protecting you! "

Expect to be spoiled and treated like a princess for the remainder of the day.

Fenrir Godspeed

It was silly really. Really silly.

You had been with him in the barracks when a few of his soldiers decided to play a little joke on him.

They snuck up on the two of you with a basket of tomatoes and barely contained snickers.

Fenrir didn't see them but you certainly did. You weren't sure what they were up to, but judging from the red fruit, you knew it wouldn't be pleasant.

You knew very well that your boyfriend would not take this well.

That's why, when a series of tomatoes went flying towards the Ace of Spades, you moved automatically towards him.

"Fenrir, look out!"

He only had time to turn your way just as he was being shielded by your body before...

SPLAT!

Your vision is soaked in red as you get pummeled by tomatoes and unfortunately for you, one that was not ripe yet gets you right in the head with the same force as a baseball.

So yeah...OW!

It knocks you off your feet, luckily Fenrir is able to catch you as he realized what was going on.

The soldiers felt so bad. They never meant to hurt you.

Fenrir is not a happy camper but his first concern is you, cause now you have a large bruise spreading in the center of your forehead and a headache to remember.

He appreciates it, but is still not happy as he wipes your face clear and caresses your cheek.

"Thanks babe, but I can take a few hits from a lousy fruit. Better me than you."

He is definitely treating you to a warm bath and cuddling afterwards.

And those soldiers? Well they got paid back in full from their captain. Yikes.

Don't mess with Fenrir's Y/N! Don't do it!

🌸

[crymeariveronceagain]

i just love the idea of keefe being both touch starved (bc of his parents) and extremely sensitive to touch (bc he’s a strong empath), but then ALSO proving with sophie that his love language is touch and— djsjsjakksks …anyway keefe and touch thoughts?

oh my dearest anon

oh my sweet beloved anon

prepare to suffer

Keefe Sencen doesn't know that he's touched starved, for the longest time. Sure, he's cold. Sure, he's lonely. Sure, the water is always at a boiling temperature when he takes his long showers. Sure, the blankets need to be as heavy as they can. Sure, he's clinging to Mrs. Stinkbottom like there's nothing else he can hold onto. Sure, he's running from everyone and everything. Sure, he's cold and lonely and stuck and upset about everything. That can't be due to any major underlying cause. No way.

He associates touch with bad things. Not because his parents outright hurt him... they just... Aren't touchy people. They're really not touchy at all. They just... don't. Or, if they do, it's usually not friendly.

Cassius is prone to yanking Keefe around, maneuvering him like he's some doll to shove. He's also prone to pushing his kid, a bit, not a lot, but enough to throw Keefe off balance sometimes. Also, he tends to kind of, like, put a lot of weight on Keefe, with the intent of it hurting, just a little. Keefe usually cringes away from that. When he's angry, too, Cassius's arms get big, and he'll move in dangerous ways. He tends to lash out in big ways that would make anyone flinch. It's violent, and startling, and even though Keefe doesn't get hurt by it, it's enough to make him flinch away from Cassius's movements.

His mom just runs really cold. She's an ice cube, basically. Her hands feel like snow, her skin like ice. It's not comfortable. Poor circulation. And she barely touches him anyway. He thinks he disgusts her. People don't touch disgusting things.

Overall, their idea of a hug is, like, maybe a brief shoulder touch. Maybe, maybe, if he's really lucky, his dad will set his heavy hand on his shoulder and not try to make it painful.

But even if the touch is more gentle than usual. This kid can feel things. And there's nothing like disgust, disappointment, and overwhelming hatred aimed at him to make him not want to touch anyone ever. Those feelings burn. They sting. They ache. Is it any wonder he doesn't like the touches his parents give him? Is it surprising that he shuns everyone else, too?

He avoids touching his friends, too, in the beginning. And even after the beginning. He doesn't want to know what they feel like. It's like his mind takes in an entirely different sense, but only when he touches someone. It's like he can see right into their hearts, and know everything about them right then in a way that makes people uncomfortable. It's always made people uncomfortable. "How did you know that?" Someone asked, when he was a kid. They'd told him never to do that again without permission. "It's rude, and you should never do that again."

He doesn't mind that. It's a lot. Either it's warm or disgusting, feels like a blanket or like a death sentence. It's all loud, bright, colorful, and bad, all at once. It's too much to handle, and besides. They know what he's doing. He just wants information. That's the only reason he'd touch them, isn't it? He's just looking for an excuse to read their emotions.

He doesn't tell anyone that he hasn't been fully and truly hugged in what feels like forever.

And then Sophie changes all of that. She doesn't shove him away. He can't escape her feelings. She is warmth and vibracy. She is hope and determination and she is warm. He swears, if she ever hugs him again, he'll probably have an emotional breakdown in her arms. Let's hope she doesn't, he decides. She doesn't have to hug him. She doesn't have to touch him.

Honestly, she shouldn't want to, anyways.

He doesn't want her to. He's sure of it.

They're dating, then, and he's clinging to the hope that she won't put her warm self so close to him, hug him like she wants to hold the broken pieces together, kiss him like the world is ending, cuddle him like they're falling apart. He doesn't want that, he tells himself. Who would want that? Nobody wants that. Especially not with him.

So, she picks up on his subtle signals, for a while, and doesn't hug him all that much. PDA? Never heard of that.

And they're doing fine, she guesses. But there's something off about her boyfriend.

He makes a point of sitting a distance away from her, keeping his hands to himself. She doesn't mind it, but it's a little odd. Usually people want hugs, once they're in a relationship.

She doesn't talk to him about it, that's just weird, especially because they're in a relationship, but instead, decides, in a flurry of stupidity, she'll just try to make it not so bad.

So when he sits down, that evening, a ways away from her, like always, to watch the movie with her, she gets up to go get popcorn, and sits back down right next to him.

He tenses up. She doesn't move, wondering if he'll push her away, say something, tell her to move over. He doesn't say anything, doesn't do anything, barely breathes. She waits.

And then, as if someone had cut the strings to a marionette doll, he relaxed, slumping, just a little. And she took it as an answer. She pressed play on the movie.

She was only just leaning against him, subtly, that's all she was doing, and inside Keefe's head, he was screaming. It was an overload of feelings, all of them gooey, warm, safe, happy, loving, caring, inescapable, kind, tinged just the slightest bit of apprehension and nerves, and he wondered if she knew he could feel everything she did. She hummed, a little, and the vibration of her chest made his heart beat louder.

He stared at her. She was going to disappear, going to vanish, going to leave. Nothing gold can stay, he thought, almost mechanically. Everything good has to leave. Everything perfect will vanish. This is a one time thing.

You don't even want this.

That was the biggest lie he'd told himself in actual years.

He didn't want this to end, he didn't want her to move, he didn't want to have to live in a world where he didn't feel warm and safe and okay and he wished he could just stay here and that the world would stop being warm, for once. He was used to a cold world, he could take a cold world. It was the warmth that was impossible to deal with.

Sophie was just... So. So. So. So warm. So. So. So. So. So safe. So loving. So caring. So gentle. So wonderful. She was as happy to be near him as he was panicking about being so near her. He didn't know what to think. He didn't know what to say. He didn't know what to do.

And he was crying. Not a lot, just a little.

And just like that, Sophie paused the movie and was pulling away from him.

Crap, crap, he thought, angrily, I knew it was too good to be true. I knew it was an accident. She would never touch me.

"Keefe?" Sophie asked, softly. "What's wrong?"

He couldn't make the words come out right, and instead more tears were steadily crawling down his face.

"Sweetheart," she asked, again, ever more gently, and how could he take her seriously when she wasn't close to him, anymore? How could he believe anything she said when the distance between them was so far and yet so little and she wouldn't even cross it? "What's going on in your head?"

Keefe pushed his face into his hands, his body refusing to stop crying.

"You're worrying me," she said, softly, moving to be in front of him. "I'm sorry if I did something. Do you want me to leave? I can give you some space--"

"No!" Gasped Keefe, desperation finally winning. "Please," he begged, almost sobbing, "Please, don't leave."

Confusion filled Sophie's face like sand filling up an hour glass. "Darling," she said, gently. "What's happening?"

He couldn't make his mouth work. The only thing that would work were his arms. For some reason, he had function there that he couldn't pull off with his tongue. He opened his arms wide, in a way he'd always seen people ask for hugs.

She didn't move, for a moment. She wasn't going to do it. He knew it. She thought he just wanted to know how she was feeling. She thought he wasn't serious. She didn't know why anyone would want to touch him--

Her arms wrapped around him, and he caved inwards like he was trying to hold the sun in his lap. Her arms were warm, and soft, and tight around him and he couldn't think beyond the feeling of her emotions because it was gentle worry, soft love, soft kindness, respect, and how are you supposed to deal with that? How was he supposed to feel emotions if emotions felt like this, if he felt so perfect right now, so full and complete and seen, and known, and loved, like he'd never been so whole and complete before, why had he never felt this way?

Why was he crying for the feeling of being whole? His shoulders shook, but Sophie didn't leave.

Instead, she simply held him tighter. "I'm not going anywhere," she whispered, and his entire soul was falling to pieces inside of him, and she was helping him tape himself back together. "I will love you as long as you need."

He wasn't sure how he was ever going to let go.

[fabricated-misslieness]

pairing: chūya nakahara x lazy male reader

req: yes | wc: 1.87k | cw: nsfw, size difference, praise kink, biting, blood, dirty talk, belly bulging | minors dni

anon: Hi! I was hoping I could get a smut for chuuya if you could make it kinda of a part two from the other chuuya fic u have and if u can could u add a size kink and a praise kink if so thank you so much!

a/n: you thought the demon was a himbo, ha!

"You know these don't tend to last long." You send the man pushing you against the wall a wink, making sure he knows you're still top. Chūya chuckles in response.

"I'm prepared for that." Chūya gives you a smirk. You don't know it, but he doesn't mean it. He hopes it is only your sheer amount of power that attracts him to you, but he knows it's not true. He really isn't that keen on having this be a one time thing. He rather it be a long, loving relationship, keep it lasting for as long as he can; if he has to teach you commitment, he will.

You raise an eyebrow for a minute, judging his composure. "Mkay.. good. You need me to lift you, though? You're quite a way down."

Chūya huffs and rolls his eyes. With you, he's heard something along those lines about a million times. He can't control his height and he certainly can't control yours. Jeez, it's as if you were a giant. If you and him stood next to each other, he'd look like a child, not that he was that much taller than a child anyway.

"Oh shut up with that… but yes." As much as he didn't want to admit it, even though it was very clear, he couldn't kiss you from 'all the way down there'.

"Thought so." It's the shit eating grin on your face that makes him regret this. "Hold on to the horns will ya? You'll need the support."

"Doesn't bother ya?" Chūya asks, doing so anyway. They feel rather tough, like how he imagined crocodile scales to feel. Your wings, on the other hand, weren't as he'd imagined them to be. They felt like leather, despite the fact they looked like rubber. He couldn't fathom how hot they'd be in summer.

You shake your head, in turn moving his arms. "Nah. Anyway, what do you think about the fangs?" You momentarily open your mouth wider to show him. "Would you rather I don't bite you or I do?" They're not as sharp as say, a vampire or a werewolf, but they could definitely puncture.

"Maybe test them first?" You know, what he meant was that you bite his finger, or something, not his neck. It definitely stung, but it hadn't punctured. He was sure if you hadn't controlled your strength, he'd bleed. He hissed at the pain. Though it was nothing he couldn't handle, you'd taken him by surprise.

"My bad, precious." That was a new nickname. "What do you think? Did you like it? No judge if you're into it." The mention of a biting link made him think of some past lover with said kink. It sort of made him jealous.

"What if I find your sweet spot? Would that persuade you?" You bite his neck, finding the spot that made him moan. "Knew it. They're usually there." He hated the way you rubbed your past lovers in his face. In time, he'd make you forget. He was sure of that.

"Well?"

"Okay.."

"Would you look at that?" Chūya couldn't focus on anything right now, the pleasure, and pain, was too much. You would pester him for how long he took to adjust for sure. "I'm balls deep in you and I can actually see it." He hadn't registered that first part until now.

He looked down to see his stomach clearly bulging. He laughed at the sight of it. You were really a giant, in more ways than one. It was kind of.. hot though. The size difference was already turning him on, at this point it was a lot.

"Sexy." You remark, licking your lips. If it weren't for your dick, he would want that tongue in him.. again. "Can you even talk right now?"

Chūya chuckles, fixing you with a playful look before pulling you down by the horns. "Of course I can." He whispers in your ear.

"Good." You move the slightest bit, though to him it felt more than that, which urges a moan from his throat. "Although I'd like to see you try when I fuck you with no mercy."

Chūya is flustered to no end, but as the competitive guy he is, he can't just back down, even with your dick inside of him. "Is that what you say to everybody? 'Fuck you with no mercy'? How about 'fuck you 'till you're begging for hell?'"

You smirk, shaking your head to mess with his arms. His hands were surely indented with the pattern of your horns by now. "I'll keep that in mind."

"Are you ready now?" You were going to nag him about the time, just like he'd predicted. "You've been sitting on it for so long you could call it cockwarming. But maybe you're into that, haven't discussed the deets just yet."

"What can I do?" You laugh. "Your dick is big, you said so yourself."

"Then the details. What do you like?"

"P-Praise." He's a little nervous to admit it, what with the fact he acts like a tough cookie. He had to build up some courage for this moment.

You shift a bit as you think about it. All of a sudden, you start moving slowly. It's still quite a bit painful for Chūya, but your praise makes up for it. "You're doing good, baby." Your rough voice along with the way you grip his hips with your claws sends chills down his spine. "Just a bit more."

You chuckle, toying with the idea in your mind. You thrust a bit more, barely even containing yourself with how horny you are, before stopping to ask. "Like that?"

He had bitten his lips to keep his moans from coming out; he'd nearly drawn blood "Yeah, yeah, just like that." If his eyes weren't shut so tightly he'd be so much more flustered by the look you're giving him.

"Think you're ready yet?" The impatience was clear in your voice.

"Mm, yeah."

Your thrusts are slow at first, as a precaution. It was a wonder how you hadn't started going fast, though. You'd been in him for so long without moving that the impatience and anticipation were building up.

"You can go faster now." You smile, but you don't speed up, which confuses him. He was sure you wanted more, so why didn't you give him more?

"How much faster?" It's only now that he realizes it's a cheeky grin. 

Your sultry eyes seem to enchant him, making him unable to think properly; well, that and the thrusting. "I don't know."

"My terms, then." He doesn't like the sound of that. Luckily, you catch onto his uneasy look in time to reassure him, but your words don't do much. "Don't worry, you'll be just fine."

There's no warning after that. Your thrusts are quick and hard, just how you like them though only a little less than normal. After all, you'd gotten from, say, a 1 to a 7. Since when did you start calling your thrusts like a vibrator?

"You're doing good, baby!" He didn't know why, he did but he didn't know now, but he thought you'd sound more sarcastic.

His grip on your horns loosen and his arms feel weak. Just how vulnerable did you make him feel? He couldn't hold back from letting out a loud, high-pitched moan. It caused you to laugh, which he hated since he knew you were about to tease him. "High-pitched, just for me?"

He rolled his eyes at you, maybe a little bit because of pleasure, responding just as quick. "I mean you– oh! Holy shit!" He was interrupted by his own moans.

"What was that you were going to say?"

"Straying from– ah shit! Shit shit shit!" He repeated. That chuckle of yours made him realize you'd been hitting him hard on purpose to tease him. "Straying far from," He stops himself from moaning by biting his lips momentarily. "p-praise here."

You almost pout when he finishes his sentence, but you nod. "Right, sorry, precious~" You basically purr. “You’re taking my cock so well. Are you ready for more?”

“What?” You’d only just changed pace, so why would you- “Ah! Fuck me..” You hadn’t even given him time to answer, and you didn’t mean to either. This pace was the fastest, and roughest, Chūya had ever felt before, and god, did he love it. He could barely even form words, apart from curse words that were oh so familiar. The only thing that left his mouth were moans and he couldn’t even bite his lips.

“Mm, can’t talk anymore?” You weren’t really good at praise, were you? Well, it was new to you, since most of your lovers turned masochists at the sight of you. You didn’t make them, they just did. smug hoe

His arms, tired and a little sore, fall from your horns and grip your wings, which are wrapped around him. It causes you to hiss, but it’s a mere feeling in the back of your head from all the pleasure you’re getting. “Careful with those, darl.” You say with a chuckle. “You can’t break them in your state right now, but they still hurt.”

“S-Sorry.” He manages to say, continuing with moans afterward. They’re high pitched, most of them, as much as he tries to at least make them a little lower. 

“Oh? A word?” Your smirk is as much a nightmare as it is a dream. He wants to punch it off your face but also kiss it off your lips. “Right, right, praise. You take me in so well~” Chūya just barely manages a laugh.

“Ah, fuck!” Chūya shouts. He can feel himself getting closer and closer.

You smirk, moving to his neck, kissing and nipping. Your fangs sting his neck everytime you bite down, but you make sure to control yourself. Though sooner or later you’ll bite him and draw blood, it’s only inevitable.

“Go on, baby. Come loose for me, let me feel your seed on my abs.” You move to his ear, whispering and licking the lobe. 

Your words are what sends him over the edge of bliss. His seed spills all over the both of you, which is a turn on for sure; it moves with his constantly bulging belly. 

You close your eyes when you feel yourself coming closer. Instinctively, you move to his neck, giving him a harsh bite, which makes Chūya groan. You couldn’t control yourself from not biting him, even when his neck is already littered with other marks. Blood drips from the wound, two small holes.

It’s only when you go over the edge that you apologize. You move off of him, pulling him on top of you instead. He snuggles into your body, hissing in pain. “Sorry.” You move your wings to wipe the blood away.

“It’s fine… well, not really, but eh.”

You chuckle, keeping one wing on the wound and the other over the top of you. “I’ll make it up to you later.”

The promise of another time is reassuring, whether it be sexual or not, though he rather it be a date. He likes to know he has a little bit of a chance.

[r4zzled4zzletime]

saw john doe edit

had thought:

John saying "you broke my heart" to Harley and then possibly —depending on playthrough — hearing the same thing from Bruce is so powerful

Rant

Turned out to be a really long rant/hypothesis/short essay idk lol

Arguably, John realises that whatever he's had going on with Harley was incredibly off-balance — possibly even more than what he has with Bruce, depending on your feelings/playthrough — somewhere during the bridge scene. Maybe a bit before, but right there and then something hits him hard enough to say that to Harley.

John's emotions might seem to be all over the place from our (Bruce's/player's) point of view. However, that doesn't mean John doesn't know how he feels nor does it stop him from expressing his feelings if they're frustrating, confusing, or big enough. Case in point: John points out Bruce's distrust towards him after the Bat places a tracker on him. I assume this expression of disappointment isn't a one time thing, based on John's talk about Bruce's and his off-balanced relationship in the Fun House.

So, during the blockage of the bridge, something ticks John off (pun not intended). The question is: what? Harley's manoeuvres, thinking she has him wrapped around her finger? Bruce's trust, letting him speak with Harley? Memories of their time together? The realisation that they're standing opposite of each other instead of together? All of this and more?

If we assume that you play nice: Bruce still starts off the relationship by using John, but they do befriend each other nonetheless.

Disclaimer: I don't know whether what I'm about to say can take place in the game. Let's look at this hypothetically, like a story, a possibility.

So, you're friends, maybe a bit bumpy but friendly enough for John to face off Harley and tell her she's broken his heart.

What if, the shooting and distrust of the Agency afterwards, is enough for John to take the villain route? I think that especially the possibility of seeing Bruce choose to protect Waller instead of him, who was also at gunpoint, could trigger a 180 in John.

After this whole ordeal John runs off — well, let's himself fall into the water — with a heart in turmoil. I imagine him getting so incredibly frustrated with everything and everyone, including himself, that he just breaks. Like a snake, John sheds an old and useless skin and creates a new one: a strong one, a defensive one, an assertive one — Joker. Additionally, I believe that Joker could either go back to Harley — seeing they're pretty much on the same side again— like canonically in the game, or leave her due to resentment.

Let's say what comes next, would be pretty much the same as Telltale invisioned it; the games, hurting and threatening the city all happen, and at last, the rooftop scene.

Bruce, beaten up, shaken up by all he's learned of his friends, and honestly, above all, tired, runs after Joker — who he still sees as John.

Extra subject to rant about at a different moment: Bruce insisting Joker is the same John he knows, or at least, that he can get through Joker to John, is really sad.

Once he catches up with John, Bruce decides to yell: "You've broken my heart, John!" — the very same words John spoke to Harley, said by the person that was supposed to be her opposite. Being on the receiving end of something you said to someone that hurt you, must sting, a lot.

So Joker lashes out, to protect, but also to stop himself — John — from resurfacing and suffering.

Because it is unfair! It is unfair to hear that he's on the wrong side! For him to end up where people he wants to loath (note: assuming the Harley thing hit hard) are, opposite Bruce Batman ('Bruce' has too much emotional value, so Joker depersonalises him), must be a cruel joke!

And so — through pain caused, as well as experienced, lack of guidance through the ambiguities of life, and yearning for control over life's unjust jokes — John becomes a repressed memory and Joker evolves into Gotham's own bred, born and raised...villain or victim?

You deserve a cookie for reading all of that. Here, have some: ✨🍪🍪🍪✨

I guess I really needed to let all of that out, huh. After all, I haven't really rambled about this to anyone because I really don't want to be judged for making their relationship this intense and even possibly, slightly romantic in a complicated way.

This is tumblr though, so I can hide behind my silly nickname and just throw things that are on my mind into the void of the internet.

(it's 1 AM)

[nagito-kissmaeda]

Alone at the Edge of a Universe - Komaeda x Reader

Summary: You were in an accident before everything went to hell. You don't remeber how it all started. Now you live in a small apartment with a strange man who seems to be trying his best to look after you, but doesnt know how to take care of himself.

AKA: oh my god they were roommates.....Despair Edition TM

Word count: 7169 Contains: fem reader, no pronouns usage, explict sexual content, unsafe sex, very mild blood/injury, panic attacks, despair era Read on AO3 ミ☆ Please send me a DM or an ask if you’d like me to write something for you!

There’s an explosion outside your window, and something huge tumbles to the ground. Everything in the apartment is shaking, Knick-knacks wobble and fall off the mantle, smashing on the floor, the bed frame shakes and lurches underneath you. Your fingers are digging tight into the quilt, trying to find purchase somewhere in the quake.

It is not your first collapsing building, and you fear it will not be your last. The world outside the apartment is dangerous and frightening, layers upon layers of horror folded together into the culmination of true despair. You don’t remember how it happened. It was some time ago (weeks? Months? Years?) that you woke up in a hospital, weak and emancipated, barely able to walk. You had been in some sort of accident, whatever happened to the world, started while you were still comatose and all the doctors were long gone when you finally came to. The fact that your life support was even still running was a stroke of luck.

There’s another thundering outside, but this one doesn’t make the house shake. Another building? You can't be sure, it was too far away to be of any danger to you so there is no reason to think about it. Instead you pull yourself up from the bed, bringing one foot down on the floor and being absolutely sure that there won't be any aftershocks before standing up properly. There are little broken pieces of glass and china all over the wooden floorboards, you cross the room on your tip-toes, careful to avoid any of the more dangerous looking shards. It is as you feared, your favorite knick-knack had also broken. You drop into a crouch, trying your best to gather the shattered pieces of what had once been a small glass jar full of little keepsakes.

Your housemate (if you could call him that) frequently brings back little presents from his adventures out into the fractured city. But this had been your favorite, a blue jar with a cork stopper, full of buttons, beads, marbles. Any pretty trinkets he could find for you. The shattering of this particular gift hurts something terrible, because you know it took him a very long time to collect it all. You manage to find a sturdier jar that survived the quake (it was once holding three stems of lavender, long since dead) and scoop as many of the shards and trinkets that you can inside. It isn't as pretty, but it will do for now.

He’s been gone for a week now, and you are hoping he will be back today.  

When he first brought you to the apartment, you couldn't even stand. Confused and scared about what had happened to the world during your coma, and having trouble remembering what your life was like before either. The apartment was a mess when he first found it, but there was a bed and clean sheets in a closet, so it was fine. He sat with you for hours, barely moving, just watching as you slipped in and out of consciousness, as the world finally came into focus. At first you were afraid of him, of his dishevelled appearance, trembling limbs and wide watery eyes. He never made any move to touch you, he sat there and would answer questions if you asked them, but otherwise just watched.

Once you were able to move on your own, he started heading outside for longer stretches of time. He used to just leave for a few hours each week to bring you back enough food until his next trip, but now he is often gone for days at a time. You wonder how long it will be before you can go outside with him. He is strange, but given the state of the world outside, you can’t imagine anyone else is faring much better.

You manage to salvage a decent amount of the broken trinkets and either pour them into a vacant jar or the trash and are in the middle of sweeping away any remaining shards when you hear a shaky knock on the door. He has a key, but he always knocks anyway. You let the broom drop to the ground and dash over to the door to let him in.

“Hey…” you say, pulling the door open. His red striped sweater has more holes in it than it did last you saw him, his hair curled and messy, more grey than white. His disheveled appearance means little, you are thrilled to see him, “Welcome home.”

His eyes are desperate as he looks you over, crossing the threshold of the apartment and closing the door behind him, “The quake...are you okay?”

“I stayed in bed the whole time, I’m fine.” You attempt to take his rucksack from him, to help him carry it to the kitchen. He pulls it away from you and carries it on his own, “A bunch of the gifts you brought me fell off the mantle, though. I should have been keeping them somewhere safer, I’m sorry.”

He wheezes, giggling under his breath as he starts pulling food out from the rucksack and onto the bench, “Don’t waste such sweet apologies on me. I can find more gifts if you want them.”

With you standing in the sitting room, and him unloading groceries in the kitchen. In a different time, this may have been domestic. Your heart warms at the thought, “No, it’s okay. I don’t want to cause you any more trouble.”

“Trouble?” He doubles over with laughter, the sound is scratchy in his throat, “You could never cause me any trouble.”

He doesn’t look like he belongs in the nice clean apartment. He stands in the middle of the room, all shaking limbs and wheezy breaths, clutching his own arms like it’s the only thing still keeping him together, but you can tell he is trying, he doesn’t want you to feel uncomfortable around him.

“Are you okay?” You ask, “you were outside when it happened”

He giggles breathlessly, gnawing on the cuff of his sleeve, “you are worried about me?” His knees shake like they're about to give out and he buzzes with manic energy, “Aha! the extent of your hope, it’s incomparable!”

You suddenly notice a line of blood running down from his forehead, curling down past his eyebrow and over his cheekbone. You rush over to him and take his face in your hands. His skin is pallid and sickly, his lips chapped and bleeding. You push his mess of dirty hair away from his forehead and gasp, “you’re really hurt, why didn't you tell me?”

He doesn’t say anything, he’s just staring at you with wet unblinking eyes as a wide smile tugs at his lips. Shuddering under the soft grip of your hands. The gash on his forehead is shallow, but blood is gushing out of it quite quickly and you aren’t really sure what to do. As you look closer at the wound, his eyes flutter shut and you feel him leaning into your palm. Your heart thunders in your chest, he’s cute under all the dirt and grime.

He cares for you a great deal, you aren't sure why. He won't even tell you his name.

“I’ll wash it out for you. Okay?” You say, taking one of his hands in yours and tugging him towards the bathroom. The one gentle tug on his hand is enough that he almost topples over, but he rights himself quickly. His hand is quivering in yours.

“Oh! You don't need to do that!” he protests, but continues obediently following after you, “I’ve dealt with much worse, aha! Don't bother dirtying your hands to fix something that will only break again.”

You grab him by the shoulders and lower him down onto the toilet seat. His big eyes peer up at you from behind the mass of hair now tumbling down over his face, he watches you with a pointed devotion that might make you uncomfortable if you weren't already used to it. He brings his sleeve up to his mouth to chew on it again, you take his hand in yours and lower it before he gets the chance, “I’ll be gentle. Don’t worry.”

His nails dig into the meat of his thighs and he is shivering again. You can feel his legs bouncing as you lean forward to take a better look at the gash on his forehead, he whines when he feels your fingers brush his hair away from his face. You sigh at him, “You know this will get infected if you don't clean it, don't you?”

He whimpers, practically rattling as his tremors get worse, “How kind of you to notice! But I have more important matters to attend to of course.” another bout of laughter boils through him, shaking his bony shoulders,“like you, for instance!”

You drop to a crouch so you can meet his eyes, resting one hand on his shoulder and holding his hair back with the other, “You can't look after me if you’re dead.”

“Oh I won't die.” He breathes, the depths of his eyes shining with a shocking lucidity, “Not yet.”

He really believes that. You can see it on his face, “Either way. I’m going to clean it. Sit tight.”

Sitting tight is not possible. To his credit, he doesn't move on purpose, but he is still shaking intensely as he waits for you. His protruding knees knocking as his legs bounce up and down. You purse your lips and wet a cloth in the sink, the water is a little brown, but all of the water is a little brown so there isn't much you can do about it.

“Okay.” You say, turning back to him and lifting the cloth to his forehead, “Let me know if it stings too much, alright?”

He nods, smiling up at you pleasantly as you bring the cloth down on the gash. There is a lot of blood, the coppery smell is overwhelming but you try your best to seem like it isn't affecting you. If there is any pain, it doesn't seem to be bothering him, his eyes are closed again and he is leaning gently into your touch. Your heart warms for him, and the hand you are using to hold his hair out of his face starts gently scratching his scalp. You hear him gasp, but he makes no move to stop you. His hair is soft, you can feel the grit of dirt and smoke caught up in it, but under that...he is so soft. The blood running down his face is well clean by now, but you don't stop. The washcloth falls from your hand with a splat and his eyes snap open. One of your hands is buried in his hair, combing the mess through your gentle fingers, the other traces the sharp line of his jaw, all the way up to and then down his cheekbone.

“What are you doing?” He asks, you are dimly aware that his shaking has stopped. At least for now.

Your pointer finger runs up the bridge of his nose and over his right eyebrow, now you are the one shaking, “I...don’t know.”

“You’re touching me.” He breathes

Your voice is barely a whisper when you reply, “I am.” you let your hand drop, “I’m sorry. I don't know why i did that.”

He reaches out and takes your hand in his, pressing it firmly to his cheek. His eyes are wild, “You can do whatever you want to me! I don't mind!”

His suggestion raises an unwarranted heat to your cheeks. You gently tug your hand from his grasp, “There’s some vodka in the cupboard. Give me a moment to disinfect you.”

You pick the cloth up off the ground and leave it on the side of the sink as you walk over to the kitchen. All of the food he brought back with him is still strewn about on the countertop, abandoned when you realised how badly hurt he was. You worry about him. Constantly. He was the one who found you half crawling, half stumbling through the desolate remains of the city mere hours after you woke up in the crumbling shell of the hospital. Since then he has been so careful of you, making sure you are well fed, bringing you gifts or clothes, anything he can find out there. He clearly doesn't extend the same olive branch to himself. You stand up on your toes to grab the alcohol from the top shelf, it was already here when he first found the apartment. Half empty. You hope whoever lived here before you had enjoyed it.

“This is going to hurt.” You warn as you step back into the bathroom. He nods loosely and you wring the cloth out as best you can before dousing it in the vodka, “Are you ready?”

“Pain or pleasure,” he starts, looking up at you with a loopy smile, “anything I feel by your hand is exhilarating.”

Oh. You liked that . It made something in the pit of your stomach twist.

You clear your throat and crouch down in front of him, pushing his hair out of the way. His eyes are half lidded, and you can tell he is uncomfortably lucid. He intimidates you a little like this, there is a sharp intellect behind his big green eyes that feels like he is dissecting you with his stare alone. Even though he has stilled quite a bit, his hands are still jittering at his sides. You gently press the alcohol soaked rag to the gash in his forehead, he hisses through his smiling teeth, but the sound teeters dangerously close to being a moan. You swallow, continuing your ministrations.

“Did you get hurt anywhere else?” You ask, purposely focussing on cleaning his wound so you don't have to meet his eyes.

“No.” He says. It doesn't sound like he’s lying.

“Okay.” You reply, “I trust you, but you can't hide these things from me. I have a duty to keep you safe, too.”

A shudder runs through him at your words and his eyes flutter shut. Like he is savoring it, “You are too generous, truly.” his voice is so breathy, and your positioning makes it sound like he is whispering in your ear. You bite your lip.

“It is not generosity.” You laugh a little, your fingers tangling in his hair again, “It’s selfishness. You are all I have and I don't want to lose you.”

He is shaking again, his long fingers grasping at nothing. Like he desperately wants to hold you but knows he can't . His arms wrap around himself instead, fingers digging into the fabric of his jacket as he rocks back and forth, “Aha! A regular Pylades you are, looking after trash like me!”

You have long since abandoned any pretense. Not even pretending to be tending to his wound anymore, your fingers brush through his hair unhindered, “Pylades?” you ask, twisting a lock of pale hair around your index finger. Surprised with how much classic literature he’s managed to remember through all this tragedy, this is not the first time he has quoted one such piece to you.

“From Euripides!” he’s grinning now, lips curled almost painfully wide, “You need me to jog your memory, hm?” He asks, leaning forward. He is very close to you now, and your hand freezes in his hair, “Orestes says ‘it’s rotten work’ and Pylades replies-”  

Oh. You do know this one.

“Not to me.” You breathe, heart thumping in your chest and mouth going dry. Your hand slides down from his hair to cup his cheek, you can feel his pulsepoint racing like a hummingbird under your thumb. He is so close now, you can see flecks of gold in his eyes. You can count his eyelashes. You are shaking, “Not if it’s you.”

For a moment, you think you are going to kiss him. For a moment, you want to kiss him. Instead you let your hand drop from his cheek and stand back up, “It’s um...it’s as clean as im going to get it. Might need stitches, but i dont have the means or the skill to do that for you.”

He brings his arms up in a shrug, “No matter. So long as you’re satisfied.”

“This isn't about my satisfaction.” You say, crossing your arms, “You need to take better care of yourself out there. Look, maybe next time i should come with you and-”

He shoots upright, suddenly towering above you, all quivering limbs and sweaty palms, “Nonononono. You have to-” he sucks in a wheezy breath and shakes his head, “-you have to stay in here. For you to be tainted by the world outside, the despair it would-” a breathy laugh escapes his lips, growing and growing in volume, his hands tanging his hair pulling strands out at the roots, “-It would be glorious .” He growls, shaking and panting as he starts hitting himself in the head with his fist and a crescendo of, “nononononononono” is erupting from the cavern of his mouth.

It is frightening, but you are used to it. He gets in these fits sometimes, but has never attempted to hurt you, it’s more like he’s fighting himself. You wrap both your hands around his wrist, holding his arm still so he can’t use it to hit himself anymore before slowly bringing it back down to his side. He is still shaking with a mania that seeps out through every pore, but at least he isn't hurting himself. His mouth runs a mile a minute, arguing with both himself and people you have never met. He talks to them a lot, these other people, you don't want to ask him about them.

“Hey.” you whisper, “I’m here. It’s okay.”

His big eyes turn to you, but he doesn't calm. He is still muttering and shaking, but this is okay. You start slowly rubbing your hands up and down the length of his forearms, “You’re doing fine, sweetheart. I’m not going anywhere.”

He whines and brings one of his sleeves up to his mouth to gnaw on it. You don't stop him, when he gets like this it’s one of his less destructive habits. It's preferable to scratching. You keep rubbing his free arm, your other hand curled around his hip. His eyes are slowly growing less wild, drool is dripping down his chin, “Alright. We’re going to move to the couch. Nice and slow.”

You loop his arm over your shoulders and tuck your other hand into his back pocket, slowly walking him over to the couch. This is the main reason you haven't left the apartment, the door unlocks from the inside so if you really wanted to, you could leave at any time. You’re scared though, both of what is waiting out in the city, and of what will happen to him if he comes back one day to find you gone. He is finally starting to calm when you lower him down onto the couch, still chewing absently on his sleeve, but his breathing has slowed a little. A soft smile tugs at your lips, and you tuck some of his hair behind his ear.

“Why do you worry about me so much?” You ask, more to yourself than to him. Stroking his cheekbone with the pad of your thumb, “I am no one to you.”

He is tired now after his episode, his arm is slow and shaky as he reaches out to you, resting his hand in the dip of your waist. The warmth of his skin seeps in through your shirt, your heart climbs up into your throat when he squeezes , “You are hope. You are everything to me.” his eyes are half lidded, and his smile is soft, “The corruption, the despair it...haahaa...it tainted us all, but you-” he takes a deep, shuddering breath, “-you slept right through it. You’re still hopeful...still perfect…”

“And if I hadn't. What would I be to you then?”

“Dead, most likely.” He sighs and it rattles through his chest, “Is there even a point to talking about what might have been? In my experience it has never helped any.”

He’s right. You hate the idea of a reality where you never meet him. This realisation makes your stomach turn. Familiarity breeds comfort, but when what is familiar is a man who is (under dirt and grime and sweat)  incredibly beautiful, you find that it breeds something else as well. You give the hand on your waist a pat, and he lets you go.

“The sun is setting.” You say, trying to distract yourself from how much you want his hand against you again, “I’m going to light some candles before it gets dark.”

“Oh! Before you do.” He manages to pull himself up from the couch and stumbles over to his rucksack, bending over and rummaging through it some, “I hm...i found something for you.”

You stand in the middle of the room, the last dregs of daylight are casting an orange light over his shaking form. He comes back over to you, holding out his offering, for a moment you're not even sure what it is.

“Oh my god…” You whisper, turning it over in your hands. It’s a polaroid camera, a little banged up but it looks like it will still work, “thank you.” you smile up at him, heart melting to nothing in your chest, “thank you so much.”

He laughs a little, shaking as he passes another two objects over to you, “I only found two film cartridges, but i can look for more!”

“No! This is perfect, I'm amazed you even managed to find two.”

“My luck may not be worth much.” He says with a sad smile, “but if i’m able to bring you some happiness with it, then i'm glad!”

“Here, just...give me a second.” Your hands are shaking as you fumble with the first cartridge, popping open the back of the camera and clicking it in. Before he has a chance to protest (because you know he will) you lift the camera up to your eye and snap a photo. For a moment he is dazzled by the flash, but then immediately starts wheezing.

“Wha....What?” His knees are wobbling again, his eyes are wide and unblinking.

The photo slides out of the camera and you grab it between your index finger and thumb, giving it a light shake, “I took a photo of you.”

“Why would you do that?” He’s laughing, but it sounds more confused than it does manic, “You only have two cartridges of film and you would waste a photo on garbage like me?”

“I don't think it was a waste.” The photo has just about finished developing, the light from the flash doesnt do his already pale skin any favors, but you smile all the same, “Sometimes you’re gone for a long time, and if i can't come with you then...i dunno, it’ll be nice to have.”

“You...miss me?”

You see no reason to lie, “I miss you.”

He is just staring at you now, eyes slowly examining every inch of your face. Your heart is racing. He takes a slow, shaky step towards you, practically vibrating with nervous energy.

“I shouldn't.” He says, even as his trembling hand rests on your hip, the pads of his fingers slipping up under your shirt to stroke your skin, “I’m disgusting for even thinking about all that I want to do with you.” His grip on your hip grows tighter, and you feel a warmth in your stomach, “If you knew...eheh...if you could see what i was thinking right now.” his breathing has quickened, and the hand on your hip is trembling. So are your legs, “you’d kick me out of this apartment like the...the...haahhaa...the perverted trash that i am.”

Any thoughts within you about resisting or denying him have long dissipated. You do not even hesitate as you loop an arm behind his head, digging your fingers into the back of his hair, “I wouldn't.”

He doesn't say anything, he’s just looking at you and trembling. A whiny moan escaping his lips.

“The things you want to do to me…” You start, fingers slipping under his striped sweater, just enough to feel his skin, “Show me.”

His hand joins its brother on your hips, and he tugs you towards him. Your lips colliding in a desperate kiss, all tangled tongues and nipping teeth. You moan into his open mouth, your fingers tangling even tighter in the mess of hair on the back of his head, he groans when you tug a little harder, slipping one of his hands up the front of your shirt and palming you over your bra. You cling to each other like two lost sailors adrift in the sea, attempting to find purchase in a world long gone. Your kisses open mouthed, wet and sloppy, desperate and needy. He is moaning and shaking, his long fingers tightly squeezing your breast as his other arm wraps around your waist and somehow tugs you even closer. He is so thin, pressed up against him like this you can feel his bones shifting under his skin. You bite his neck so hard you taste copper on your tongue and a moan explodes from his lips.

“Yes... yes! ” He stammers, drooling and shaking. His mouth pulled in such a wide smile that his lips tear and bleed, “hurt me...hng-hahAHA... destroy me !”

Your hands become frantic, grabbing his jacket and tugging it down his arms. His sweatshirt soon follows, ripped up over his head with a tenacity you didn't even know you had. You want to feel his skin, to suck, to bite, to bury your nails in it. Desperation is building inside you, almost ready to overflow. His skin is salty with sweat when you run your tongue over the length of his collarbone, fingers on your left hand running over each jutting rib as you slip your hand down to grasp his hip. The bone is sharp under the soft skin of your palm. Despite all his sweating and panting, his flesh is still cold under your hand, you want to warm him up. You tug your own shirt up over your head, chucking it behind you and unclasping your bra.

A wheezing laugh escapes him, he pushes his hair away from his face but it immediately falls back down again, “You...you’re…” his breath hitches, his pointer finger traces the underside of breast, shaky and cold, “you’re so soft...so warm .” he moans, licking his lips, “my goddess...would you permit me to pleasure you with my mouth?” he purrs. His eyes are swirling with arousal, his hand creeping up to massage your breast in his palm. It feels so good, he feels so good. He looks at you with this endless devotion, like you are something precious to be protected and loved .

“My guardian angel.” you whisper, tucking a wisp of hair behind his ear, “Whatever you want to do to me. Do it.”

His ghostly green eyes are blown wide, and he is wheezing again, “You just...what did you just call me?”

“I would have died out there on my own. You know that right?” You say, leaning in close enough that the tips of your breasts brush against his bare chest and cupping his cheek in your palm, “You saved my life. You are my guardian angel.”

“You are too kind to me, truly.” He whispers, his cold hands moving to your shoulders as he guides you backwards, “I am little more than garbage after all.” the back of your knees hit the couch and you collapse onto it, “Just a bug under the heel of an ultimate’s shoe...but you...hm…” he drops to his knees in front of you, his grin is all sharp teeth and drool. Some people might have been afraid of him, you thought he was the hottest fucking thing you’ve ever seen, “you deserve to be worshipped .” he breathes against your skin, leaning in and wrapping his lips around one of your nipples. His mouth is warm and wet, you throw your head back in a wail, digging your fingers into the mess of hair on his head.

His hand slides up the side of your ribcage, thumb rubbing small practiced circles around your other nipple. A needy moan escapes your lips, and your legs drop open almost instinctively. He scrambles forward to nestle himself between them, the sharp angles of his torso dig into the soft flesh of your thighs and his free arm wraps around your waist to tug to two of you even closer together. A strangled cry rips through you as the bare skin of his chest presses firmly against your sex, hips bucking against him almost involentarily, overcome with a desire to just feel him . He laughs against your breast, sinking his teeth into your flesh as his tongue continues lathing across your pert nipple.

“Mm...you’re so soft…” He whispers, resting his cheek on the plump skin of your breast, “your skin is so smooth…” His other hand is still toying with your nipple, rolling it in between the calloused pads of his thumb and forefinger, “haaAAH...I’m so lucky. You permitting scum like me to pleasure you? Your kindness is...hm, how could I put it?” his tongue darts out to give your nipple a lick, you shiver, “It is inexorable ”

“Wrong again.”, You laugh breathily, carting your fingers through his unruly hair, “This is no kindness. This is desire, unflinching. I want you so badly, selfishly .”

A raspy giggle escapes him, shaking his shoulders as he pulls his arms from you to wrap them around himself instead, “Someone like you getting so riled up over someone like me...eheh…” His hands are shaking when he brings them back down to your waist, gripping the elastic waistband of your sweatpants, “The ideas I have - the things I want to do with my fingers,” he starts pulling your pants down. You lift yourself up a little to help him pull them over your hips, warmth blooming in your cheeks, he moans at the mere sight of your panties, “f-fuck…” he whines, all drool and sweat, “i want to finger you until i die . Oh... oh god… ” he’s kneeling lower down now, you can feel him shaking between your thighs, “you smell so good...i want to eat you until there's nothing left. Like you’re my last meal…” his hands come up and grip your thighs tight, he leans in closer to your center and you can barely hold in a moan when you feel his nose bump against the wet spot on your panties. You don't hold in the moan when you feel his tongue. You aren't sure you could if you tried, it tears out of you, the one swipe of his tongue over your soaked panties is like a bolt of lightning to your cunt.

He continues like this for a while, moaning and shaking as he drags his tongue up and down your panties. Occassionally suckling your clit through the fabric. His bony fingers dig so tight in the soft flesh of your thighs that you swear you’ll have bruises tomorrow morning. After one particularly brutal suck, all you can do is sob, pulling his hair so tight that his lips are torn away from your centre.

“Something wrong?” He asks, playing innocent, but the look in his eye is cool and intelligent.

You heave a shaky breath, staring down at him, “Take them off. Please! ”

You swear you see his hips twitch at your demand. Eyes glazing over and tongue lolling out of his mouth as he hooks his fingers through the legs of your panties and tugs them down, leaving them to dangle off your left ankle. A whimper escapes you at the feeling of his breath against your wetness, his hands are hovering above you, shaking in the air like he isn't sure what to do with them. He wants to touch everything, he just can't decide where to start.

In the end, his left hand comes to rest at your hip, while his right middle and ring fingers push their way inside you. Your head lolls backward and your mouth drops open with a long moan at the feeling. His fingers are longer than yours are. A lot longer.

“I can feel you... twitching around me.” he makes a strangled noise, half a laugh, half a moan and pistons his fingers slowly in and out of you. The sound it makes is obscene , but it seems to only encourage him further. He leans in, and wraps his lips around your clit, sucking gently and occasionally flicking it with his tongue. Your hips buck reflexively, trying to get closer to his mouth.

“Ahh - ah! You taste so sweet...” he whispers against you, his breath cold on your burning flesh, “I - mmph...i feel like adam biting the apple...or persephone swallowing the pomegranate seeds...haah…” he removes his fingers, and his tongue slips inside you, swirling around before he returns his attention to your clit, “But which do you think it will be, hm? Will i be forced to leave you, or will i be bound to you for all eternity?” his eyes meet yours, boiling with passion and desire. He looks godlike between your thighs, grinning up at you with sharp teeth and the sheen of your own slick all over his chin. All you can do is shake and moan, quivering for want of him, “Care to try your luck answering the million dollar question, my goddess?”

“Never leave me…” you say, chest heaving. You reach down and cup his face in your hand, “I will never ask you to leave me.”

“Never?” he asks, his smile growing manic and his nails digging into your thighs. You hiss at the pain, “A dangerous promise.” His tongue enters you again and he moans sinfully against your skin, slowly thrusting the wet muscle in and out of you. His hands slip down under you and he lifts you up by you ass, pulling your sex even closer to his face. You whimper and moan and grind against him. Fingers tangled in the mess of his hair as he tongue fucks you into oblivion.

He’s whining and groaning, devouring you like a man starved, and when you feel the couch lurch, you realise he is also desperately grinding his cock into the front of it. You tug on his hair again, weaker than last time as the wobbly feeling of pleasure has overtaken you. He slowly draws back from your sex, licking his lips and staring up at you with his intimidating eyes, “Mm?”

A shaky breath rattles through your lungs and you lean forward to kiss him, tasting yourself on his lips, “I want you inside of me. Would that be okay?”

“I was already inside you.” He says, smirking and sticking out his tongue as a reminder.

“You know what i mean.” Your eyes flit down to the tent in his jeans, making what you really want even more obvious than it already is.

“You spoil me.” He breathes, pressing a wet kiss to your jawline, “You couldn’t possibly know how desperately I want to sink myself inside you...but I- haaahh ...I am not worthy of such an intimate act.” His fingers reach out, and slowly begin circling your clit, you choke on a moan, “I am more than happy to pleasure you like this...no need to worry about my satisfaction.”

“But I want to see you come undone.” You hiss as his index finger circles you entrance, “I want you on top of me, inside of me. I-“ his finger pushes inside and your breath catches, “-I want you to fuck me. Please .”

A giggle bursts from his lips that quickly grows into a cackle. His shoulders shaking with its intensity, a line of drool dripping down his chin, he throws his arms wide and shoots you a manic grin. All teeth and gums, “If that is what you truly desire, then it would be pointless to deny you any further!” He clambors up from the floor, stumbling a little as he struggles to remove his jeans, “After all, I want you as well.” He purrs, his jeans and boxers dropping to the floor, “More than that…” he breathes, lowering you by your shoulders until you are lying back on the couch and nestling himself in between your open legs. Your heart is racing, he is hovering over you now. His lips barely a breath from yours, and the head of his cock brushing against your sex. He groans, “My goddess, I hunger for you.”

He hisses a breath in through his teeth as he starts pushing himself into you. Hips shaking as he resists the urge to shove himself in with one long stroke, his eyes roll back into his head and he moans. The feeling of him slowly entering you, combined with watching the strangled ecstasy on his face, it’s the most aroused you’ve ever been. You can feel yourself clenching around him, your own hips quivering as he finally bottoms out inside of you with a raspy groan, “So wet…” he hisses, “You feel so good around me…” he slips one of his hands down between the both of you, rubbing gentle circles around you clit. You keen loudly at the feeling and his hips stutter into yours, “Y-you like that, huh? I felt you tighten around me…”

You nod loosely, struggling to speak through your moans, “Please...move…”

He visibly shudders at your request, slowly inching his hips backward, and then forward again at full force. A moan that shifts to laugh halfway through escapes his lips, and he finally sets his rhythm. His hips snap against yours with a desperate fervor, he whines and mewls above you, his hair bouncing delicately with the movement. Eyes half lidded and drool slowly dripping down his chin. You look up at him in absolute awe, he looks and sounds like an angel . Covered in grime, twisted and tangled, but an angel all the same. His fingers return to your clit and you moan again, digging your nails into the skin of his back, tracing the protruding vertebrae with your fingertips.

A particularly deep thrust causes a choked sob to break forth from his lips, his head lolls forward and he nuzzles into the join between your shoulder and neck, “You’re perfect .” he breathes, hips still pumping, “I’m throbbing...can you feel it? Can you feel what you are doing to me?”

You can . You can feel the warmth of his cock pulsing inside of you. His arms are trembling and his breath is a rapid staccato, he’s trying to maintain his composure, “You feel so good, sweetheart.” you whisper, running your fingers through his hair. He breath hitches when you call him sweetheart .

“You are so kind to me…” He wheezes, his breath warm against the column of your throat. You shiver, a strangled moan escaping you as his dexterous fingers circle your clit even faster. Your thighs tighten around his narrow waist, hips grinding against the meat of his palm and deeper onto his cock. All you can do is shake and moan, the muscles in your stomach tight and only growing tighter. He looks at your face, visibly euphoric, “are you close?”

You nod and he drags his tongue up the shell of your ear, “Jeez...I can’t believe trash like me is going to make you cum.” His eyes are wide when they meet yours, lips pulled tight in a grin, “You’re going to cum for me!” His hips move against yours at a frantic pace, his hands groping any part of you he can reach, a laugh in his chest building to a crescendo as he hits deeper and deeper inside of you, “You’re going to cum around me and I’m going to feel it...I-haaaaHAAAAA-“ he can’t speak any more, he’s laughing and moaning and fucking into you with an unbridled desperation.

“You need to...cum...Ah~ I want you to cum too…” you swallow, words catching in your throat when his fingers start working your clit again, “Cum inside me, angel. Please .”

“In-Inside?” He stutters, breath heaving and teeth clenched as he grows closer and closer to climax, “You would permit me to soil your insides with my filthy seed?”

“I don’t just permit you. I’m begging you! ” Your hips are canting up to meet his, wanting to feel him as deep inside you as possible. Drawing yourself tantalisingly close to orgasm, “I want to see you, to feel you. Come undone for me, please.”

His breath hitches, and his eyes grow dark. His fingers begin circling your clit at a brutal pace, his mouth collides with yours in a desperate kiss, all tongue and clicking teeth. You moan loudly into his open mouth, legs twitching underneath his frantic ministrations. His fingers on your clit, his cock pumping in and out of you, his tongue tangled with yours. The heat in the pit of your stomach is boiling, your breath is coming in gasps. It feels so good.

“You’re mine.” He whispers against your lips, and you swear you hear a sob catching in his throat, “accept me, please. Cum for me, my love.”

With those words, he kisses you firmly, thrusting deep and slow inside of you, and the coil in your stomach finally snaps as you cum with a strangled moan. Dragging your nails down his spine and curling your toes, warmth settles through your entire body and it feels like a perfect finality. He whines against your lips, grinding and writhing as you walls clench around him, then his eyes flutter closed and his mouth drops open in the most beautiful moan you’ve ever heard, and he cums .

His face softens in that moment, and for just a second, he looks normal. Like someone you might pass on the street or sit next to in class. You see him , and your heart turns to butter. You love him. Slowly, the speed of his thrusts peter out and he heaves a breath, eyes half lidded, giving you satisfied (albeit sleepy) smile. You return it, brushing your fingers down his cheekbone.

“Thank you.” He whispers, eyes moist with what will soon be tears.

You curl your hand around the back of his head and tug his forehead down to your lips. His skin tastes like sweat, “No. Thank you .”

*

He leaves the next morning. Unlike all the other times before, he never comes back.

[disapoitment]

Am I about to overanalyse another throwaway gag? Absolutely! This time it's from the classic season one episode, Napoleon Brainaparte.

So, towards the very end of this episode, our poor, beloved mice are about to meet their tragic end. They're threateningly informed that an afterlife awaits them, and as they cower in what they believe to be their final moments, the viewers are given a glimpse into their heads...specifically, what they each imagine heaven to be like. This scene surprised me on my first watch, because it was pretty unexpected. And surprisingly...sweet?

Let's start off with Brain's idea of heaven, which is shown first.

Right off the bat we have him surrounded by a chorus of Pinky angels. This is one of the rebuttals I have for people who doubt Brain cares about Pinky...I mean, if I didn't like someone, I definitely wouldn't include them in my idealised afterlife, nevermind multiple versions of them!

Uh, I digress. The thing I actually want to draw attention to here is the fact that Brain actively desires Pinky in his life (or, afterlife, in this case) and can't imagine existing, in any form, without him. We've seen it time and time again, from the episode "Snowball" to that one story from the comics, but this is one of the earliest, most apparent instances of it in the show. This scene alone proves to the audience that Brain isn't using Pinky to reach his goals, but genuinely sees him as a friend and a companion. And maybe there's an unhealthy splash of codependancy in there.

To take this a step further, an afterlife is commonly portrayed as a sort of perfect world; a place of eternal happiness, even. It's safe to assume from this daydream that Brain subconsciously associates Pinky with the same joy and contentment associated with heaven. We can even interpret this scene as Brain viewing Pinky as an angel, which is not only heart-wrenchingly sweet, but makes a fair bit of sense, all things considered.

After all, though Brain himself tends to shy away from explicit displays of emotions and empathy, he's been established to admire these traits in others. In "TV or not TV", he claims to find Princess Diana (who was well-known for her activism) attractive, and he repeatedly praises Pinky's kind nature throughout the series, even when it directly interferes with a plan. He even sabotages his own plots when Pinky objects for moral reasons, eg "Inherit The Wheeze", and then there's the iconic instance of him DESTROYING his own machinery after tearing up over Pinky's Christmas letter. I believe this is why Pinky is an angel in Brain's eyes: he's compassionate, he's pure-hearted, and he's innocent. Well, innocent in the sense of intention, at least. Pinky represents all the things Brain is too afraid to be himself, lest morality get in the way of his goals.

On top of that, Pinky always stays by Brain's side. He's the only person/mouse who has never left him, hurt him, or betrayed him. It's natural that someone so lonely, cynical and self-loathing as Brain would view his polar opposite as a literal angel...or, even more impactfully, a full chorus of them. Of course Brain's idealised heaven has himself as an angel too, but I'd say that's either his ego coming into play (he's both self-hating and conceited) or just to serve as a visual signifier that he's...um, dead. The flock of Pinky angels is what I'm focusing on here, because the sheer amount of them in comparison to Brain highlights them in this miniature megalomaniac's reverie. And also because it's more interesting to take the analysis in this direction! ♡

Honestly, there's not quite as much I can say about this segment of the scene. Brain is on a throne, so presumably he's imagining himself ruling...heaven? Good for you, Brain!

It's very in-character for Brain to put himself as the centrepiece of his ideal afterlife, and as much as I love this little guy, the angel imagery is obviously ironic. Whether intentional or not, this can be connected to his egotism, as well as his belief that everything he does, no matter how severe or morally corrupt, can be justified by the end goal of ruling Earth and making it a better place. I don't believe that Brain genuinely sees himself as an angel when it comes to his purity, but rather that he thinks all his sins can be forgiven if/when he becomes the "benevolent dictator" (his words, not mine) of the planet...or maybe that's just what he tells himself to be able to sleep at night.

He looks noticeably very content and calm as an angel. I would go off on a tangent about how this is a version of Brain who is finally freed from the burden of his never-ending cycle of failure, and that this suggests that he needs to break out of his world domination obsession to ever be truly happy, but...I'll spare you.

Oh, Pinky. Poor, poor Pinky. He's so selfless that it stings :(

It says a painful amount that in his idea of heaven...he's not even in it. I don't think he hates himself, yet he's so good-natured that he ends up neglecting his own desires for the sake of others. In this scene, he has literally forgotten to include himself in his own idealised world. I hate to say this, but this could be a result of his codependent relationship with Brain. He's so focused on Brain's happiness and goals that his life almost revolves around him at this point, and as I mentioned before, they fall apart without eachother. Pinky pours his heart and soul into helping Brain, partly because he genuinely believes Brain will make the world a better place, and partly because he'd do almost anything for Brain's sake. His love for Brain is so strong that he's the focus of Pinky's own paradise.

What I find significant is Brain taking the role of every single angel in the fantasy. He's portrayed as a sweet and wholesome creature wearing a cute smile, a stark contrast to reality. Even just him being an angel in the first place implies that this is how Pinky sees him. A big part of the latter's motivation to help Brain take over the world, though scarcely mentioned in the show itself, is so it can become a happier, nicer place for everyone. As a determined optimist, Pinky shares the desire to improve the Earth, and so views Brain as a sort of hero, someone surely worthy of a halo and wings.

His view of Brain as a good person can be explained further when we consider that he doesn't mind being bopped (and in some interpretations, downright enjoys it), can shrug off any verbal abuse, and clings onto any snippets of warmth he receives from Brain. The things others would raise their eyebrows at are things Pinky ignores or adores. I think it's safe to say that, overall, Pinky is the type to focus on his friend's positive traits and simply ignore most of the negatives, as seen in "Pinky's Plan" when he gives an extremely sugarcoated description of Brain to the world leaders. Because of all this, in Pinky's mind, Brain truly is an angel. It's bittersweet, really.

And here we have it again. Brain on the throne, ruling. This is all Pinky truly wants—for his friend to be happy, fulfilled and at peace, making whatever world he may rule a better place. There's not an awful lot more to say now, since this is just a repeat of the scene from Brain's fantasy, but I think that's the most heartwarming part. These two mice are working towards the exact same goal, and yet their reasons for doing so are quite different: Brain to rule the world, Pinky to make his friend smile. It's almost poetic in its simplistic beauty. The voice actors said it best when they described the show as a "desperate love story", and the little scenes like this only prove that to me.

Welp, that's all I have to say for now! I haven't reached this hard since I tried to get to the chromatica oreos on the top shelf in Tesco. But this was fun, anyway! Thank you ever so much for reading :'D Your patience must be incredible! 💕

[curious-menace]

Have I really ever requested one thing of you (the pegging telltale Riddler h/c)? Time to change that; let's see how the Eddies would respond to being told by their partner that they're a "bad boy" and "need to be punishment" (sexually, of course) - Pegging Anon.

I really enjoy these kinds of asks. honestly just give me a blank check for mayhem, unleash me upon the riddlers like a plague of locusts 

nsfw below the cut

Arkham! Riddler

please be careful with this riddler. He has problems reading peoples tone and if he thinks youre angry at him you're liable to send him into a panic.

he really doesn't like dirty talk. dont call him a slut or a whore or anything like that. Not only is it demeaning and humiliating( 2 things this riddler doesnt deal well with) its just a terrible way to get him to do what you want.

again, the idea of punishment in a sexy setting is a turn off for him. He’s afraid of being strangled or choked and he doesn't find being hit sexy.

to put it simply, this riddler reacts better to the carrot than the stick. if you want a good reaction out of him, praise and affection work better. call him a good boy, give him pets and rewards. 

IF you were to coax him into it, safeword, soft restraints and reassuring from you that everything will be ok, he’ll still probably cry. he might enjoy himself but the emotional stress will still leave him in an utter state.

i know some people use BDSM to cope with trauma but maybe dont try this on him. pitch the idea and let him mull it over. dont bring it up more than once or twice and let him decide

he always needs a lot of aftercare. he needs to be constantly reassured, not just after sex, that you love him , that he’s done well. lots of kisses and soft words and let him rest from the heavy stuff for a little while. 

Blacklight riddler

another riddler you need to tread carefully with. he’s a kinky shit but like...a soft kinky shit who bruises easily.

He wont need coaxing. its either a hell yes or a hell no and you shouldn't push that. He likes sex games but he’s got trauma, sometimes something that was fine yesterday is triggering today so please be gentle and respectful with him.

He doesnt mind being called a bad boy, just not too often. mix it up and don't patronise him all the time . you can tell him off without treating him like a kid. 

he likes edging and orgasm denial as a punishment. just dont ruin his orgasm or he wont let you do it again. 

please don't ever hit him during sex. a playful thump on the arm when he’s telling a bad joke is one thing but if you touch him roughly during the act, even if he knows its coming, he finds it triggering. 

He’s pretty exclusively a sub but don't think that means he’s into punishment all the time. mostly he just likes his dominant to take care of him.

BTAS Riddler

i feel like it would throw him for a loop. he’d be confused as all hell, even if you said it in a sexy voice he might not get the message.

 he’d probably scoff at the idea. the notion that he’s anything other than perfect is laughable. he’s certainly not some sort of bad boy. you should sit on his lap and get him on the same page as you. watch his mouth go dry and his eyes go wide as you explain all the things you're going to do to him for being bad. he’ll do his best to stay composed but we both know its you who’d be wearing the pants by the end of the conversation. 

he’d want to be tied up. he’ll be gibbering and rambling the entire time, desperately trying to stay in control of the situation.  He’ll try to do things for you but a gentle reminder that you’re in control and if he doesn't anything he’ll be punished more will have him biting his tongue. 

I think humiliation works best on this one. im imagining something with rope or his suits since he’s so fond of them. maybe try and make him cum while still clothed? maybe some shibari under his suit jacket? i’ll let you decide. 

he doesnt have a safeword bc he thinks its strictly a bdsm thing and refuses to admit he’s into that. he prefers to use the traffic light system. although you probably had to teach him that. before hand he was using some nonsense riddler made system involving humming different songs. ode to joy for fun/keep going and  vivaldi winter for slow down.  you will have to gently explain what a batshit insane idea that was. 

Original Riddler

I imagine he’d be into it, moreso initially than the others. He doesnt have so much emotional baggage and he’s game to try anything once. 

I dont know if he’d find the idea of punishment sexy but he’ll try it for you. he’d probably just prefer you to frame it as impact play or degradation or whatever “just because” you wanna try it. something about it being a meant as a punishment just seems weird to him 

he does like being called names but in a cute playful way. he’s not liable to take offence at anything you say, inside or outside the bedroom but digs at his appearance do sting a little. even if youre “in character” so to speak when you say them. just reassure him after that you dont really think those things.

He’s one of the tallest riddlers and also has zero shame so you’ll need to be inventive when thinking of punishments. tying him up could actually hurt him with his circulation, he runs around in glittery spandex all day anyway so good luck trying to humiliate him. 

Because he is so tall and strong, its hard to hurt him. you could try spanking him, ask him to count out the spanks and listen as his voice gets higher and more unsteady with each one. 

actually in that note and given his penchant for dress up maybe you could try sub/dom roleplay? pretend you're a doctor/nurse or something and you're punishing him for his bad diet? if the punishment thing doesn't work out at least you’ll both get a giggle out of it. 

Telltale Riddler

Oh he is absolutely going to fight you on this one “i think YOU'RE the one who needs punishing , love.” . if you want to punish him you’ll have to fight for that right

he’s never really subbed before he met you. He’s happy to show you how to punish a sub but he really needs practice letting someone else hold the reins.

he pretends he doesn't like dirty talk. if you get him riled up and start whispering filthy things in his ear he’s going to melt a little. 

I cant think of a specific he’d like or something he’d find egregiously offensive, so i think you've got a blank cheque for mayhem here. do what you like and he’ll tell you then and there if he’s into it or not.  

but no blinders or restraints though. he’s claustrophobic after being in that icebox. He IS an escapartist mind you. even if you put him in something he’ll have wiggled out of it before you can blink . he MIGHT tolerate something just there for aesthetics or because the fabric feels nice, like maybe his tie or your hair bow tied loosely around his arms.

in the same vein, he’s sensitive so maybe you could lightly torture him with some sensory stuff. ice cubes or wax play?

Zero year Riddler

i Cannot stress to you enough what a horny fuck this one is. at the mere MENTION of sexy punishment he’s like “oh yes punish me ive been bad “ wiggling his ass in the air like a target. will call you Daddy regardless of your gender because we all know he has  issues. 

He’s 100 percent going to lean into it, goad you and taunt you to punish him more, get angrier or hit him harder. he gets off on the pain, yes but he also just really enjoys being an insufferable shit. 

“EDWARD THIS IS PUNISHMENT YOU ARENT SUPPOSED TO ENJOY IT” - you, probably. 

i dont think the traditional sexy punishment things will work on this one. youre going to have to get creative. like tell him you are in charge of his wardrobe and death traps for the week. 

something that MIGHT work would be forcing him to wear a toy or even just some lingerie under his suit. He’s going to be embarrassed as all hell because this riddler is a big buff cheeto puff who takes his appearance seriously. BUT he cant deny the thrill of maybe the lace poking out over his waist band when he bends or the outline of a bralette being seen under his shirt, isnt a little arousing.

please dont be surprised when he turns around a week later and pulls this exact same shit on you. 

there you go nonnie !  this one was quite a lot of fun! i have a rule of trying not to write more than 6 points for each but it was hard to compress down this time around. so much variety in personality and temperament in the one character there's a lot to write about 

got something you wana talk about? send me an ask or a dm! im always game to talk about our favorite curious menace 💚💜

[anthropwashere]

our indestructible days ch 5

ch 1 | ch 2 | ch 3 | ch 4

All Ed can hear is screaming—hundreds of souls all tangled together in a deafening, incomprehensible choir. He's got no idea how Ling dealt with this shit for so long without totally cracking up. Either he and Greed get along a lot better than it shows, or Ling was just that crazy from the start. Never mind. Now's not the time to theorize. He's gotta get in the fight. They have to stop Father now or not at all.

He claps, intending to transmute the cracked and scorched concrete into spikes aimed for that weird energy shield, but freezes at the first glimpse of alchemical discharge around his hands. Red. Right. Better to hold off transmuting until he figures out if there's a way to avoid using Pride's goddamn Stone. Instead he shakes his hands free of any tingling and closes the gap to hurl his automail fist at the shield as hard as he can. The impact nearly winds him, as it nearly does anytime he puts that much effort into through the automail around. It sure as hell feels like he did more damage to his arm than to the shield, but whatever. Better he pay out the nose for a new arm when they all survive this rather than risk using the Stone. Winry'll understand.

[What are you doing?!]

The razor edge of Pride's—self? awareness? what do you call the part of a homunculus that would be called a soul in a human?—batters at his mind like gale force winds. It's a headache and heartburn and something so much worse than either. He trips over his own feet, or maybe his feet trip over him? He's not the swirl of shadow and gnashing teeth catching at his heels but it's still a part of him somehow. He doesn't know how the transference from Pride's Stone to outside his body happens but he can feel the ground beneath their shadow and he can feel the shadow pooling in his chest. He's got a fucking Philosopher's Stone grafted to his heart and a homunculus oozing around his cardiovascular system. No wonder Greed calls Pride a monster. The Ultimate Shield's a goddamn party trick compared to this.

He shakes his head, squinting through pain that's migraine-adjacent. Not now. He's got bigger things to worry about.

"Forcing you to pick a side!" He hollers, pummeling at the shield again and again, and once more for good measure. Some piece of his hand goes flying. Something grinds in his elbow; scarcely heard, felt through his port like an electric shock of warning. Too bad. He rears back and punches that scrabbling inch harder that really does wind him, at least for a moment.

[You're insane!]

Ed's grin is all teeth. Like he hasn't heard that one a hundred times before?

Teacher swings in startlingly close, bloodied but focused and furious and sprinting faster than he's ever seen her move. Blue light arcs between her hands, stone twisting like clay with a thought into a pair of swords. Ed has to push down a stupid twinge of jealousy at the display. Her eyes meet his as the light dies. "It's about time you showed up, Ed!"

Ed tries to warn her but Pride steals back control before he can do more than inhale. "Not quite," Pride calls out in an absurd, echoing sing-song. The shadow at his feet arcs out and up, a jagged wing that slams between the bristling shield and Teacher's blades before she can land a hit. She barely skids to a halt in time, spinning on her heel to gawk outrage at him. Ed feels his face twist in a crazed grin, then his vision goes stupid as even more eyes fan out across the shadow.

She's gonna kill him if they survive this.

Ed wrestles back enough control to stagger back, dragging the shadow like so much dead weight with him. "Damn it, don't do that!"

Pride doesn't answer but most of the eyes wink out. He trips over his feet-shadow-something again as his own watering eyes struggle to focus while five other eyes he can see through roam every which way but where he's trying to look. He blinks and finds himself on his hands and knees with no memory of falling down. Eyes meet eyes and there's no his-versus-Pride's, it's just their perspective. If he moves he will puke, and he has no idea if it'll be the meager breakfast he had at dawn or chunks of the soldiers Pride's shadows minced that'll come up. He really doesn't want to find out.

Major Armstrong and Teacher are doing their utmost to beat through Father's shield. Reactionary light from their every attack stabs his vision, damningly red. He swallows, and swallows again. He's gotta get up. One of them's gotta get up. They're sitting ducks right now. If Father takes an opening he'll definitely try to take Pride's Stone again, and he has no idea what that'd do to him, and there's no way in hell he's gonna leave Al in a million pieces let alone still stuck to that stupid fucking suit of armor—

Greedling jumps in out of nowhere, throwing a carbon-coated punch that lands a neat blow not against the shield but against Father's suddenly raised forearm—and sticks. Ed thinks Hohenheim shouts something but can't make it out over the screaming in his head-heart-Stone. Instead he just kneels there, dumbstruck, as Greedling is almost literally absorbed by Father and then subsequently knocked aside when Lan Fan leaps in to raise some hell. Something about that brief connection—conflict?—seems to have hurt Father in a way all the other attacks haven't yet, because right after that he curls in on himself like a dying spider with no sign of recreating that shield of his.

Pride hisses. [Oh no.]

Father screams, a guttural and senseless bellow of pain that rings throughout the parade field. More red alchemical light lashes out of him, a blinding burst of humming energy that chews through their shadow before the backlash bowls Ed over. He musters half a scream before he's—they're—sent flying. He knows there's pain, more than the there-and-gone scrape and bruise of his body as it's rolled and dragged along bare concrete and sharp-edged rubble. He feels their shadow burn in the light of this strange explosion. His skin burns too, maybe. His arm makes a splintered squeal that feels like a knitting needle's been jammed deep into his port which means something crucial just broke. He hears the souls of who knows how many dead Xerxesians groaning and crying and screaming, and Pride's screaming too, and maybe that's Kimblee laughing? What about Major Armstrong? And Teacher? What about Al and Mei? Donkey Kong and Piggy? Lieutenant Hawkeye and Mustang? All those Briggs soldiers? He doesn't know if they're okay. For all these fucking eyes he's got now he can't see. 

Please, don't let it be only him that survives this. Please, don't let anybody else die because he fucked up.

=

His Stone, despite having been reduced to a handful of guttering embers, can still muster up the power to heal this body's broken ribs and myriad contusions. Edward has fled, intentionally or otherwise, into his Stone and so this body is his to do as he pleases for the moment, and for the particular moment he has no intention of doing anything more than staying prone and catching his breath. His true self had burned to ash in the wake of Father's startling loss of control, and so he's reduced to viewing the battlefield through this body's stinging eyes alone. He can't see. He doesn't know where Father's gone. He doesn't know who will attempt to attack Father next. He doesn't know if he has the speed or strength left in him to protect Father even if he did. 

Even if he did. Even if he did, it's clear to him now—Father is losing control.

Father is losing.

Without the souls of all of Amestris to power his Stone and with all these living Amestrians doing their damnedest to wear him, Father's had no choice but to waste his own Stone on protecting his new body rather than make any progress toward regaining what power Van Hohenheim had dared steal from him.

How strange it is, to see how little it's taken to wear Father down to desperate measures.

Edward demanded he choose a side. Fight with Father, or against. What can he do? He must choose, and now, before either side recovers. The meanest glimpse of the battlefield is enough to determine who the victor will inevitably be. Still, Pride is nothing if not cunning. He has spent centuries in the shadows, calculating odds, gambling on the corruption inherent in all mortal men. A glimpse is all he needs.

If Father wins this battle, killing or absorbing every last human soul, he's already shown his true colors. He'll take Pride's Stone to save his own skin, never mind centuries of loyalty. It wouldn't be a true death, but it would be a death of the self all the same.

If Father fails today, then Pride and Greed will be the last of the homunculi. They've survived this long solely thanks to the human bodies they've bound their Stones to. Greed, the humans might well deign to spare; he's been a coward and a turncoat since the day Father excised him. But him? Pride has been nothing but faithful. If Father fails today then so too will Pride. If he runs then the humans will hunt him down purely for Edward's sake. They'll kill him truly, burn him out of this flesh as Edward has tried to do already. They've already killed most of his siblings. True deaths. Final deaths.

What kind of choice is he left with?

When the dust settles and Pride's Stone has finished healing Edward's body, Pride dares to grow tendrils of himself again. He strains in every direction, disoriented and unwilling to trust this body's senses any more than he must. His nose finds Father before his eyes, and when his eyes hone in on the still-strange shape he stills. Father is staring right at him. Not at Edward's body but at him. Father knows, somehow, that he's taken Edward's body for his own, and knows too that he would benefit from killing them both. He watches Father lurch toward them, black smoke dribbling from his slack mouth. Not smoke. Himself. He's clinging to control of God's power, and he's slipping.

"A Stone!" Father groans, wide-eyed and staggering. "A Stone! A Philosopher's Stone!"

He's become a shadow of himself; a pitiable shell of a god, hollowed out and scoured raw. Pride stares, unable to discern whether this turmoil knotting his new organs is pity or disdain.

"Edward!" Van Hohenheim shouts across some great distance. "Get out! Now!"

Easy enough for the old fool to say. He's not the one Father's after anymore. 

He feels the rebar pierced neatly through their left arm, his Stone healing the wound just so it can open again with his every twitch. It hurts. It hurts. His Selim container could feel echoes of sensations, enough to cheat convincingly, and human adults always made presumptions when it came to children's feelings anyway. This body has startled him with its capacity for pain at every turn. Even with the rest of its injuries healed he feels—echoes. Phantom sensations. Nerves throbbing with the memory of hurt. His skin itches; from sweat and dirt, yes, but from something more than that too. Their lungs are strong, their ribs healed, and still Pride chooses to sit where the crooked rebar has pinned their arm. He shies away from further pain even as their cardiovascular system throbs concern. 

He hears Alphonse Elric shout, though the boy's shrill voice is snatched away on a gust of wind. He hears panic, not the individual words. Whatever he's saying hardly matters. It's some familial concern, as if one explosion could possibly be enough to kill Edward anymore. Disregard the other boy; he'll only matter if they survive this damned day.

Pride shifts, wincing when he feels the rebar tug in their arm. Their automail arm is limp at their side. Not in pieces, but broken enough that even the minute responses he's managed before this would be a welcome change of pace. He doubts Edward would have much better luck manipulating it. At a glance he sees less a mechanical prosthetic and more an arm-shaped heap of scrap metal. He feels too, Edward stirring in his Stone, consciousness not so much fumbled for as bullied. He concedes control mostly so to avoid this strange burning-tingling sensation in their shoulder.

Edward groans, shaking their head and blinking rapidly, squinting further when Pride inches out a coil of shadow to gain a better angle on the state of the automail. Edward seems sluggish, disoriented, and so Pride ignores him for the few seconds he can spare. The arm is what's important. If Edward—if they—are to fight Father, then Greed has already proven how dangerous direct physical contact is. The automail seems exempt from that and Edward has proven infuriatingly reluctant to transmute anything at the risk of their Stone. The arm's their one sure weapon, and it's so much limp metal grafted to their shoulder now. 

Edward shifts, trying to force the arm to cooperate. The shoulder twitches, and creaks for its effort. The sound it makes is strangely muted; a dulled clunk that nevertheless seems startlingly loud in the silence after Father's inadvertent explosion. The fingers attempt a fist well enough and the shoulder hunches when he tells it to do so, but everything in-between remains frustratingly, terrifyingly inert. 

Pride peels himself off the ground, curling serpentine to better direct his glare. "How did it break?!" He demands through a mouth in his shadow alone despite knowing the answer. Steel alloys are strong, but Father has dragged God Himself down from his lofty perch; even his defenses are sturdy enough to tear metal asunder. Never mind the how, they're running out of time. He has three eyes watching Father's approach. He wishes it were more, too used to working with and from a dozen different angles at a minimum, but for the sake of urgency he's conceding to this body's infuriating nausea and minimizing where he can. As if the boy will ever thank him.

 Edward's physical eyes are riveted on Father too. "Rebound off his little meltdown," he says, matter of fact. "I'm surprised the whole thing didn't shatter."

Down an arm then, and Father's only yards away. "Get up! Run!"

Edward proves how insane he is once more by laughing, then jerking hard on their left arm. Red light crackles, hair raising along their skin. "Can't."

"My Stone can heal that easily. Get up!"

Edward does try, in his insipid, human flailing way. All he earns them is a hot rush of pain that leaves even their shadow gasping for breath. Metal scraping against bone is a uniquely awful experience Pride dearly wishes he had no context for, but here he is and here they are, and Father has now lurched that much closer. Pride spasms, growing teeth. "We don't have time for this. I'll cut the automail off—"

"Don't you dare."

Alphonse is still screaming, high and desperate, but the words aren't worth attending to. Pride sinks some, eyes on Father who is so, so close. Still croaking his desperation for another Stone. There's no trace of the cunning creature he's deferred to all these years. This thing is scrabbling and stupid. This thing is shameful. He averts their eyes, focusing wholly on Edward. "We'll die otherwise," he says.

Edward, stubborn as he is, grits his teeth and yanks on his left arm harder. Pain lances through the port and deep into their chest. They gasp equally, fingers and toes curling. "You do that, I'll hand us over to him," he says.

Pride gawks. They're running out of time but he has no choice but to gawk. "You wouldn't."

As answer Edward only throws him a crooked grin. Try me.

Fuck.

Fucking goddamn motherfucking shit.

Kimblee laughs. It's good to know somebody's enjoying all of this.

"Don't fight me this time!" Pride takes control before Edward can waste time with stupid questions. He grits their teeth, tensing despite knowing tension will make this all the more painful. Coward, Kimblee called him. That inaccuracy, his derision, chafes. Pride has no capacity for fear. He is, and has always been, pragmatic above all else. He tenses and strains and rips their left arm free. Steel dragged against bone and muscle and veins that scarcely bleed before healing perfectly. In his head-Stone Edward screams; he ignores it and runs.

Father must die today. This is a fact that chafes despite its logic. Centuries of loyalty—well. It's only right that it chafes now. But Pride is a pragmatic creature, and Edward has always put Alphonse's safety above his own. They can at least agree that dying now would be an infuriating waste of time. Father must die, and here Pride must aid that sentence. Fine. Fine. It's only fair. One good turn deserves another, doesn't it?

He'll worry himself with what might come after if they make it that far. Until then, it's time to take the offensive.

[eroticcannibal]

Okay, I have a question for you and other parents/ child care workers/ect. So your kid gets upset and wants to/ trys to bolt in a random direction, what do you do? Because right now my main option is grab their wrist and threaten consequences? And like?? I don't wanna hurt my 7 year old and keeping hold of them when they're trying to get me to let go without grabbing hard enough to bruise is?? Really hard? So what the fuck do yall do to keep your kids from bolting into the road or the woods or some shit?

First of all agch I am so sorry u are dealing with that, this is one of those things where ur gonna be the bad guy and feel fucking awful about it no matter what.

Obviously the Big Obvious ‘of course I know that’ advice is look out for what triggers the behaviour and avoid it like the fucking plague. I will admit there have been times where I did not correct Dorito’s behaviour because I knew they would run if I did. Which ain’t great. But I decided better they have other shitty behaviours than run off. Also school was a major trigger for that behaviour I really should have homeschooled sooner but OH WELL

We struggled with that a lot. Constantly. Every single fucking day. It was BAD. Official advice we got from child services when it was getting really out of hand is if they run towards danger, Stop Them At All Costs. Better to try and explain a sore wrist than being hit by a car. (and like, that will suck sometimes. Sometimes they are gonna pull very hard. They are gonna cry. They are gonna scream that you are hurting them. Sometimes they are gonna pull so fucking hard it is going to leave marks and bruises. Fuck, my gf was reported for that once when Dorito tried to run out into a road and like, REALLY fucking went for it. But better a sad kid and dealing with questions than a dead kid.) Aside from grabbing, u can also try physically blocking them or picking them up tho that ain’t always gonna work. If they consistently run towards danger, hold hands at ALL TIMES and invest in a wrist strap like these

(also this is a pro-baby reigns blog. Restrain them kids. Keep them alive.)

If u threaten consequences, make sure they know the consequences ahead of time, don’t only tell them when they’re already trying to run, and FOLLOW THROUGH EVERY TIME. Normally I’d say give a chance but when it comes to safety I *personally* think it’s ok to give a consequence immediately. And keep it related, like if ur out at the park, oh u ran? We’re going home. Now. If you want to be nice and offer a chance, do it BEFORE they run. Like me brother used to run as a toddler. Me mum would jingle the baby reigns if he was getting cocky but before he actually legged it, shut that shit right down. Some Authorities think it’s reasonable to threaten more serious consequences when it comes to safety eg no tv, no favourite activity for the day, no pudding etc. I prefer to keep consequences related to the act as much as possible, but every kid is different and if it keeps them safe then go for it. Either way it’s got to be something they care about. It’s gotta sting so that running isn’t worth it.

If they are old enough and have the sense to run without running into roads, or u are in a safe enough place (obviously what point that is will vary by child, and may also depend on where u live, at our old place we could never do that cus it was main roads everywhere but we live in a quiet village now so it’s much safer) just follow them. They’ll give in eventually. Might take an hour if they are especially determined tho, fair warning. I think Dorito’s record is about an hour and a half? I will say it is a worthy investment of ur time and energy to work on road safety a LOT, cus following is the lowest stress way of dealing with the behaviour for the child, and it’s honestly just fucking boring so it reinforces the behaviour less (negative attention is still attention and all that). (also tiny bonus, u get less shitty looks from clueless idiots who’ve never looked after a kid which is nice)

Obviously just because this is Official Advice From My Local Child Services doesn’t mean that’s what child services would say where u live or even that I am correct here, I am not an expert I just did as I was told. Whenever it comes to a persistent behaviour that can put a child at risk, I would always advise that you get advice from any local authority that has a responsibility for children, and get it in writing. Like it’s shitty to think about but whenever there’s something going on with a kid that puts them at risk, even if it’s the kid doing the thing, u gotta cover ur ass cus if something goes wrong, people are kinda legally obligated to assume the worst and point fingers. (At least, that is the case here. I have NO IDEA what child protection services and laws are like where u are at, all I know is here it’s assume abuse first, ask questions later)

Also I know one person who just. Put her fuckin kid on a bike. Cus he was kinda shit at riding bikes so he couldn’t peddle off as fast as he could run and she’d just grab the bike. And he couldn’t climb off very easily so he’d be stuck until he calmed down. I’ve only heard of that one case of that so I have no idea if it’s effective or a fluke but that’s a thing.

Again, sorry ur dealing with this situation. It’s stressful and scary and upsetting for everyone involved

[boxesblr]

Bonjour, it's Shy for sure!

Apologies for my late comment I had not been notified of that update earlier >:(

I gotta say you really like ripping out my heart huh?? Poor Dumbdog, left out in the cold like that...

Wonder when he noticed others were there, how much joy but also fear there must have been, especially because he must feel he can't approach them after what happened with his friends...

On that note, who were his friends? If that isn't too spoilery to ask of course!

Also, wouldn't they have sort of helped Yeti after he died, at least getting off the barb wire, even if they assume he is gonna revive? 🤔 Especially if they think that? Did they knew he wasn't going to? Were they afraid to touch the body?

Please tell me, they're gonna take Dumbdog with them this time. 🙏 Or at least get him some help so he can be rescued later, this poor wolf man deserves better!

You know, now that I think about it, why didn't he join their team? Fear of being ostracized? The thought that he can do more good if he stays hidden until they need him, sort of like an ace in the sleeve?

If all of them left and Yeti as the traitor was bad, does that mean there is one baddie and one baddie only in Zes group as well? We know Tay is safe, she's defector. She wouldn't have shot Chilled if she was evil, that would have been a very dumb move. Chilled isn't evil either, judging by him literally dying and reviving in front of Ze. Well, at least dying in front of him.

So we got potential for evil in Shubble, Cheesy, Platy, Toast and Aphex. I would love to take Shubble off the list but what if she's an evil medic? And Cheesy could be afraid of dying because his death is permanent!

I hope it isn't Platy, he was being so kind earlier and so supportive of the small wins. Which could be a play, of course. Same as Aphex's joy upon seeing Ze happier but tbh I feel like he's probably safe, unless he is going for the veryyyy long con. Which could be possible technically I guess, i don't know if Ze has seen Aphex die before.

I am side eying Toast very hard, not gonna lie, but we don't know enough about him to determine if he isn't innocent yet. I am keeping my eye on you, buddy.

Enough guessing, I know you probably can't answer all these questions because of spoilers anyway, but it is fun speculating! Especially to see what I thought in the end when everything is revealed!

Once again, I really vibe with the bromance combo, they're just so good, man. Chilled being lowkey scared is an interesting touch and I think it's sweet how he tries to not let it show as to not hurt Zes feelings. Or show a weakness to a person that's potentially dangerous, but I like to think it's the former.

Half-serious thought but if they turn into wolf-hybrids if they get killed by wolfs a lot, do they turn back if they're killed by humans a lot? 😳🤔

As an ace person, I really like the word Aceso but I am curious what it stands for. Is it a real thing?

Ze getting annoyed at being interrupted is so valid though, this group has a habit to do so, which is especially annoying if you try to get out vital information. I feel you, buddy.

Tay WAS right too! In a way at least. Don't know if it's the government yet, but still, they are curious and apparently ruthless as well.

Once again, you ended at a perfect cliffhanger which is honestly so mean T-T

Anyway, great chapter full of answers but also more questions, so I am excited for more!

Hope your day goes splendid!

Hi Shy!! Sorry for the more than late reply, had a bunch of life stuff going on :( Ty for reading and asking, I really appreciate it <3

I'm so sorry for hurting our boy ;-; I can’t imagine how scary that would be, like undeniable trauma and then fear when he sees other people. I wasn’t sure whether to write in names for his friend group, because I did actually watch a bunch of old DumbDog PW streams and it was lots of NLSS crew. Yeti never played with them but I know he likes the game and he’s played with Ze’s group before I believe. I think Skadj and the lots of NLSS members would be his friends, but I don’t have plans to write that! 

I’m not sure how much of the blackout DLC you’ve seen but I wrote yeti to be a Whisperer traitor role essentially, although the game mechanic of having the job pass on to another once the first Whisp dies is… difficult to figure out in the written context. I didn’t write too much of the group’s attitude, but essentially they had become so dispassionate towards humans and their lives that they probably didn’t care for Yeti once they saw him dead. It might also be that they assumed he would revive regardless of their intervention, and escape his own way via his connections. 

Dumbdog’s fate is in my hands and I want him to be happy, but I can’t make promises for his story <3 I can only imagine the distrust he might feel, even after meeting Ze, for a group that clearly has a traitor in it (which he heard from Ze, and also found him incapacitated with the bear trap)

Traitors not being able to revive after death might be a certain point of contention in future chapters, because as you said it does potentially rule certain members of the group out! Maybe a few of them have seen each other die before, or maybe they’re lying about it? I know I’ve focused on certain characters more than others, but betrayal in a friend group is sure to sting regardless. After Chilled, Aphex has known Ze the longest, but that might not mean much when it comes down to it.

I am an unquestionable bromance fan and love writing them. In recent streams I’ve noticed that evil or good, Chilled has a soft spot for Ze that he doesn’t for others, so I wanted to write that in for sure. He’s loud and paranoid and a sicko (affectionate) but I think he can be softer for Ze!

The effects of being killed by humans a lot is… an unknown, but I wrote a small addition in my initial post way back that maybe a certain someone would be interested in that idea and how it relates to retaining humanity :o

Aceso/Akeso was a goddess of wound cures :D I was shopping around for ideas for what a forum might be called relating to immortality and thought it sounded pretty! There’s probably more suitable names or more deeper meanings but honestly I just liked the idea :) 

Ze gets interrupted and talked over so much and I relate so hard to his frustration! I love writing alongside things that have happened in real life and thought it was a nice detail. 

Sometimes Tay has some really good intuition, I only hope it leads her to the right conclusions…

Sorry for the cliffhanger, I’m glad you enjoyed, and thank you so much for the ask <3 I hope you have a great day!!