#but like its one sentence and so vague but still warning for it

[hanibalistic]

#6F417E | EARTH-42 MILES MORALES.

genre | fluff, faint angst / reader is gn

synopsis | miles found you fainted in an alleyway one day, except you died two years ago.

word count | 3440

warning | brief mention of injuries / use of spanish phrases translated from the internet :( let me know if i'm wrong about anything! / everything i know about e-42 miles morales is from the movie 

note | not the proudest of my writing here. also, a disclaimer that the events in this fic will deviate from canon haha

parts | one, two, three, four

"Uncle Aaron, I think we forgot to get detergent."

"You forgot to get detergent. I didn't forget nothing."

Miles's shoulders slumped in distaste. His frown mirrored the quiet complaints he spilled out of his mouth as his fingers tugged at the grocery bags dangling on them. He must have been delirious to still forget an item written on a piece of paper and to think the word 'detergent' wasn't even crossed out on the grocery list his mother gave him. It wouldn't be too big of a deal, but he imagined his mother would be mumbling about it as she set the table for dinner. 

The doorknob fumbled a bit before the door swung open. The brightness in your eyes dimmed upon seeing Uncle Aaron's furrowed brows, which reminded you of the cautionary tale he kept retiring about being aware of opening doors to unknown knocks in case of danger. You still had difficulty getting used to a dangerous Brooklyn because yours was bright and sunny, and it had its very own Spiderman. Miles had laughed when you told him about your Brooklyn, asking if there was a ranking for crime fighting bug of the week; Spiderman today, something like Ant-man tomorrow?

“If I’d been a serial killer–“

“Which you are not,” you sang with vague cheerfulness as you tried to take the groceries from his hand. 

“Hence the question being hypothetical–“

“Miles! You’re home!”

“Mi vida.” It was not audible. He opened his arms habitually and let you dive into his embrace. “How’s your day? Did you glitch?” 

You perked up from where you buried your face in his shoulder and examined the bracelet permanently latched around your wrist. Gwen was the one who put the finishing touches on it, and she was so excited about the product that she came over in the middle of the night to hand it to you. It has been about two weeks since you began wearing it, and you have not glitched once. You told Miles it should be safe to conclude that the bracelet worked, but he always asked for good measures anyway. 

“I helped around the house, as always,” you replied. Fixing the bracelet, you felt a soft magnetic pull against the tips of your fingers that touched the metal. You let go of it and rested your chin on Miles’s shoulder, sighing in contentment at the mere solidity of his body. “I didn’t glitch.”

Knowing that he was not being paid attention to, Aaron decided against scolding you for cutting him off twice. Instead, he rolled his eyes and turned to the kitchen, where Rio was shifting through a stack of sealed envelopes. He placed the groceries on the square table in the middle of the kitchen and smacked his teeth, looking pointedly at Rio as he nudged his head toward the apartment door.

Rio didn’t have to look to know you two were stuck in each other’s arms by the door. She smiled, shifting through the letters carefully with a shake of her head. “He is happy, Aaron.”

“Happy enough to cut me off my sentence,” he scoffed before adding, “twice.”

“I’m sure they will apologize if you say something,” she mused. “Especially [Name]. They’re a good kid.”

Aaron’s eye twitched in dismay. Rio was right—you were a good kid. He couldn’t hate you enough to delude himself into believing otherwise, and of course, he didn’t actually hate you. Besides the apparent naivety he suspected came from living in a safe Brooklyn, nothing about you was blatantly dislikable. You were helpful, albeit not the brightest learner. You listened well, which could be a product of being in another’s hospitality. And, most importantly, you were Miles’s safe place. For the first time in years, Aaron could see his nephew find time to be the teenager he was supposed to be. You practically breathed life into him, which worried Aaron the most.

You were a second chance that Miles was unwilling to let go of, but whether you return to your Earth was not his decision. What would happen to him when you leave? You would destroy him. 

“I got the groceries, Mrs. Morales!”

Rio dropped the envelope in her hand and smiled upon your arrival. "Mi amorcito!" 

You tilted your head with a thoughtful grin after you put the grocery bag next to all the things Uncle Aaron had taken out of the one he was holding. When Rio flashed you a questioning look, you shrugged. "Miles called me that before. I didn't know what it meant."

A choked-out cough sounded from behind all three of you, and standing by the kitchen sink was Miles, gripping the edge of the sink and coughing out the water that ran down the wrong pipe. Rio covered her teasing smile with a hand, but her shoulder moved to the gentle beats of her lighthearted chuckles. Aaron stared at his panicking nephew, a tinge of judgemental pity laced in his eyes. 

Slamming his fist to his chest, Miles swung around to glare between the three of you before his eyes landed on your curious face. “What are you talkin’ about?”

"When did he say that to you?" Rio asked. 

You rolled your eyes skyward. If you remember correctly, it was during the first few glitch attacks when you would break down from the sheer pressure of it. He had encouraged you to sleep with him on those nights, and you gladly accepted the offer. It was during one of those tearful nights, you believed. He had whispered it when he thought you were asleep, with teary hiccups still occupying your body's consciousness, and you remembered he had been stroking your hair to lull you to sleep. Everything about him was tender during those nights—his touch, voice, and presence. Unbeknownst to you, its cause was that he physically could not muster any energy when you suffered. 

"He must have thought I was sleeping," you said, then you looked sheepishly at Miles, who returned it with a sneer. “I wasn’t asleep yet.”

“Clearly,” he muttered. 

"I didn't take you for someone who would sneak into people's rooms when they're sleeping?" Aaron chimed in. 

“I didn’t!” Miles groaned in embarrassment. “They cry like hell whenever they glitch. What was I supposed to do?”

“I did cry like hell when I glitched,” you said in agreement as you turned around from the kitchen cabinet where you were stocking the cleaning supplies. “I was the one who looked for him, actually. I couldn’t fall asleep alone. The glitching was terrible.”

Aaron’s eyes darted between you both. Miles reached out for you, his arm moved boldly, but the tip of his finger that touched your shoulder to get your attention was timid and boyish. He exhaled when you smiled at him, and the faintest smirk only you could discern to be a curve of contentment grew on his face as you walked near him. You scrunched your nose into a tight-lipped smile when he muttered something only you could hear, likely giving an unnecessary explanation for his comment on you crying like hell. 

The rate you two could engage in your own world was almost admirable if Aaron wasn’t so cautious of Miles’s growing feelings for you. But watching as you two helped each other stock the kitchen cabinets, shoulders brushing and shoving playfully, he knew he couldn't do anything. 

"We forgot to get detergent."

Rio gasped. She glanced at the washing machine filled with dirty clothes waiting to be cleaned, one of which included her work uniform, and she sighed. She would have to wear the one she did on her last shift. “I guess I’ll make a run to the store after my shift ends,” she mumbled with a thoughtful hum. “Or I can do it later on the way to the bank. I needed to deposit something.”

“The bank closes at six,” Aaron said questioningly.

“They have a drop-off box that opens through the night. It’s super convenient,” she clarified with a finger snap. “I’ll just stop by briefly before my shift starts. I might forget tomorrow.”

“Your shift starts at twelve, right?”

“Yeah,” Rio nodded, “overnight.”

“You gonna eat dinner with us?”

“I will,” she nudged her head toward where you and Miles were bickering about the washed dishes, “if those two would step away from the stove so I can cook something!”

The two of you froze up at Rio’s demanding tone. Quickly organizing the knickknacks on the dish rack next to the stove, not forgetting to scoff at each other about storing the utensils, Miles ushered you out of the kitchen with his hands clamped over your shoulders. Uncle Aaron watched your backs disappear into Miles’s room, and he saw your ridiculous faces trying to hold back from laughing at what he could only assume was an inside joke, as nothing was amusing about this situation. He gulped—he couldn’t do anything about Miles’s feelings for you.

The only thing more dangerous than a teenage boy in love is the person he is in love with. Taking you out of the picture would do nothing but bring Miles out of the canvas with you, leaving two vacant spots once close together. If you left, you would destroy him, but more importantly, he wouldn't hesitate to follow you everywhere. If you jumped the universe, he would jump the universe. If you got stranded in purgatory, he would strand himself in limbo. If you went to Hell, he would go to Hell because, at some point, it stopped being a biblical state of eternal torture. At some point, Hell is not a place; Hell is just where you are. And Miles would follow you there, always. 

You jolted up with the television screen flashing at your face. Even in your sleep, your body subconsciously remembered there was something you need to do. Before Rio left for her shift, which was just a little after Miles and Uncle Aaron left for the occasional hangout, she gave you a sealed envelope to deposit into the bank mailbox because you insisted that you were going to head outside for a short walk of fresh air anyway, so you might as well help you with this tiny task. Except you fell asleep on the couch after getting ready and woke up at one o’clock in the morning.

Scanning the quiet apartment, it was easy to tell nobody had returned home yet. Rio wouldn’t be home until early in the morning; Miles tended to get home around two to three o’clock when he was off with Uncle Aaron doing who knows what. Leaning your head against the couch cushion, you drew a mental map of the path to the bank before closing your eyes. If you jogged, a round trip would take you roughly fifteen to twenty minutes. Not a problem! 

Sliding off the couch, you reached into your crossbody bag that was big enough for a phone to feel for the envelope Rio gave you. It was still in there. You zipped the bag and patted it twice for safety, then fixed your jacket sleeves in preparation for the chilling night breeze. Turning off the television and the living room lights as the last step, you grabbed the house key lying in a bowl with some loose change and left the apartment. 

Keeping up a light jog was easy under this cold weather and the dark streets. You liked walking at night, but you were never outside this late. There were no cars or people, much unlike the bustling morning you preferred much more. Uncle Aaron’s cautionary tale repeated in your head and increased your speed through the empty pedestrian road. The more you stayed outdoors, the more you thought it a bad idea to be outside at this dead time. 

“What? What is–what?” you muttered as you moved your body about. 

Glaring at you was the metal deposit box enclosed in the bank walls. It took you a hot minute to find it because it was behind a wall off the side of the building where the ATMs were. You thought it was a terrible design choice only because you couldn’t find it immediately; it would not have been if you managed to. The second hurdle came when you realized the handle to the mailbox wouldn’t budge. 

“How do you open this?” you laughed as you gave the handle another pull. When the metal texture began hurting your skin, you let go to loosen your jacket sleeve until it reached your palm so you could use the thick fabric as a shield. This time, you put a leg up on the wall to use it as leverage. You pulled again. Nothing happened. Huffing in dissatisfaction, you pointed at the mailbox as if it could understand you. “You’re really–mhm!”

The swift kick to the wall could be heard. Miles perked up to where the soft rummaging noise came from and squinted his eyes behind the prowler mask. He scanned the area carefully, looking for any signs of people to find none. He remained tense even as he dropped the matter—gritted teeth and clenched jaw over a bank heist only a few days in planning. He has done this many times before. Maybe not robbing a bank specifically, but criminal activities were no longer a stranger to him as they were. He would even say he enjoyed it; he liked being strong, and it was a source of easy money. However, the main reason why he turned to a life of crime was to distract himself from the death of his father and you. Now that you were here to repaint a corner of his world with colors again, being a prowler was losing its appeal. 

"Miles."

He snapped out of his trance at his uncle's impatient voice screeching through the earpiece, and cleared his throat. "Sorry. What's up?"

"What's up?" His uncle sounded incredulous. "Are the bombs set up?"

"Oh–uh, yeah." He peeked out from behind the bush to check out the blinking red light he set up at the foot of the gate. "They're all set up."

"And you? You got your head in the clouds just then.”

“I’m fine, Uncle Aaron,” Miles clarified with the kind of grit that would have gotten him in trouble usually. He took a deep breath. “Let’s detonate them so we can move on from here.”

The other end shuffled and scratched; its noise muffled the careless footsteps behind the ATM wall.

“Detonation in three….”

You pouted when you shoved the envelope in your bag, still mumbling about not finding an opening to the night deposit box. It was a good enough reason to give Rio tomorrow when she returned home from the hospital; that metal handle would not budge!

“Two…”

Miles perked up at the familiar figure trailing slowly by the bank entrance where he set a bomb device. His ears did not deceive him when he thought he heard footsteps somewhere, and neither was Uncle Aaron wrong about his head being in the clouds! Nobody should be out to the bank at this forsaken time, but his surprising lack of attention made him miss the slow walker—he tilted his head—a slow walker wearing a jacket he remembered he also owned.

You blew raspberries as you patted your bag twice for safety measures. When you looked up, you met eyes with a figure in a purple suit. His stance seemed agitated, and Miles was. He cursed under his breath when he recognized your face, his legs already bringing him out from hiding. What were you doing here? You should be at home!

“One.”

“Uncle Aaron, no!”

The ground shook under your feet, but what made you lose your balance was the impact of the sudden explosions that came in three—bang, bang, bang! The bank building was collapsing, or perhaps it was only in the process of being destroyed? You didn’t get a chance to see clearly. You could hear the alarm bells, though. It wasn’t the wailing kind; it was the kind that rang non-stop. 

Meeting with the ground was not an extraordinary experience for you, but it felt worse than being pushed in this case. Face planting on marble tiles was mentally more endurable than outdoor brick floors. At least you thought that way for now. A groan left your lips as your brain was overloaded with sensations; you absorbed too much, from the alarm noises to the growing pains at the bottom of your body. You groggily looked to where it came from and saw glass shards sticking to your legs through the fabric of the pants. Great. Turning away from them, you noticed your bracelet scratching up tiny sparks, and you couldn’t bring yourself to wonder if you’d broken it.

“Oh no–shit! No, no, no, ¿por qué estás aquí?” Miles unmasked himself, showing his anxiously darting eyes. His hands hovered over your body indecisively, but he felt his fingers inching toward your face where blood trickled down the side of your skin. Miles needed to look through your hair for the source. Curling his arm under your neck, he lifted you to his chest. “Oh no, oh no. Lo siento, lo siento, lo siento–no quise hacerlo.“

You stirred upon his voice phasing in and out of your muffled hearing. Even with the migraine, you could recognize his voice. He was spilling words you didn’t understand, but some of the vocabulary you knew he had said to you before. Mi cariño, mi corazon…mi vida—he whispered that to you today when he came home from school. He probably didn’t think you heard, but you did. You exhaled, then an exhausted whimper pushed itself out of your mouth when the breathing hurt your throat.

He quickly regained his composure upon seeing a sign of life, immediately hooking his arms under your knees, pulling you to his chest, and leaping away from the falling debris. The sight of you bleeding and injured was all too familiar to him. But instead of letting the flashbacks stop him in his tracks, he planned to do something he couldn’t last time—saving you or at least trying to save you.

Returning to where he was hiding, away from the burning building, Miles scanned his surroundings. “Uncle Aaron! Uncle Aaron, help!”

“Miles!” Aaron emerged from the shadows. “We have to go now, we don’t have time–“ he stopped at the sight of you in Miles’s arms–“what happened?”

“They were here–I don’t know why! They’re not supposed to be out here at this time!” 

You remembered how he carried you, which seemed to always be bridal style. It wasn’t as if he did it all the time, though. His hand on your back felt much weirder, too, like he was digging claws into your skin to keep you in his arms. If your senses had gathered better, you would have teased him with the hope that he hadn't gotten tired of you joking about his feelings for you. Licking your dry lips, you rolled your head to meet his chest. It heaved with each word he hollered beyond the fire, the alarm bells, and the disagreement coming from his uncle. They were arguing about where to go. Miles clutched your body closer to him every now and then. He was hell-bent on bringing you to seek medical treatment, and his uncle was not.

“Gwen is waiting!”

“She would want me to help [Name]!”

“We triggered the alarms, so law enforcement will gather here!” Aaron argued. “The police can bring them to the hospital just fine! We need to stick to our plan!”

“[Name] is dead on record. We can’t just bring them to the hospital!” Miles said. “I’m taking them directly to mom.”

A foolish boy. “You’re gonna throw away everything we built.” It was more than just doing crimes, it seemed. There was a bond, a mutual trust built in the process that was on the verge of collapsing. “For that.”

Miles widened his eyes in disbelief. He had his doubts about the way his uncle felt about your existence. Still, he held out hope that the aloofness resulted from the great unknown of the multiverse and Aaron’s personality rather than that he thought your presence was a nuisance. Supposed he was wrong. The casual dehumanization was all he needed to decide how to proceed. Miles hopped a few steps back, his brows furrowing and his grip on your firm. 

“Tell Gwen I’m sorry.”

Aaron clicked his tongue. “Tell her yourself.”

[klipgenie]

you should’ve never said yes.

summary: alhaitham was always distant and whenever he would come around, there would be arguments and tears shedded. Having you go to bed sad and angry— he said what others may have thought leaving you baffled and mute.

a/n: i love alhaitham sm but i feel like he’s just not as emotionally available as he convinces himself he is :(

warnings: angst with no comfort, fem reader. alhaitham acting like a bitchy teenage boy

hope you enjoy!!

tonight was another failed night as alhaitham promised to come home before dinner. But you cooked dinner 4 hours ago..it’s okay you thought, putting his dinner in the microwave.

his favorite meal was yours and that’s what really connected you two— a love for food and books. Sitting back on the couch wondering why..why must these people overwork alhaitham to the point where he has to book hotel rooms or sleep in his office. You were starting to get a little heartbroken and glum thinking that you’re marriage was just you being a neglected housewife— something you always feared as a little girl.

as you sit with your thoughts at the dinner table, the front door rightfully opens as an overfamiliar statureous shadow appears behind the door making its full appearance. you were staggered that he came home tonight..after so many weeks going on months of craving his warmth and to be near his vessel- he finally showed up.

with a desperate gasp you stumble out the chair to greet him— eradicating any unnecessary weight of clothes and hand items he was carrying. “i’ve missed you— oh! you’re food got cold but i’ll warm it up for you.” was all you said before rushing around the kitchen to satisfy you’re overworked..and ungrateful husband.

“are you going to eat?” you questioned nervously. Perched up beside your husband and agitatedly twisting your hair between your fingertips. with a sigh and a shake of his head “no” he gets up leaving for the bedroom. sitting there vague of his response you wait a few before following him to the bedroom where he’s rested. “what’s wrong alhaitham, you sure you don’t wanna eat or anything..you’ve been getting awfully thin-“ you softly spoke in a caring and motherly manner before being brutally cut off

“y/n! i’ll eat when i feel like it..now stop pestering me. do not start this today, i’m tired.” was all it took for you to muster up the daring sense to respond to his plea to be left alone.

“al haitham, have you no respect for the work i do as your wife?” you say now leaving the doorway of the bedroom strutting to the end of the bed where he lays. “all i do for you while you work and leave me alone!” you cry “i do not want to do this with you right now, i’m a busy man with a bunch of work to do. Who will pay the bills without a job like mines? surely not you.” alhaitham retaliates as your voice of nagger is too galling for him as you feast a tantrum about him.

taken aback you won’t settle down for nothing as you raise your voice at him, tired and holding back emotions and biting your tongue “i just want you to spend time with me and appreciate the things i do! is that to much to ask for?”

“yes! yes it is! is it to much to ask for when i beg the gods for you to leave me the hell alone?” that sentence alone cut deep into you like soft meat. leaving you there baffled and silent.

“you knew what the consequences were when you married me.”

with a scoff— coming back from your stillness “no, you did! you were the one that proposed” spitting out with a solemn expression “you should’ve never said yes.” took you took your breaking point as his words couldn’t shatter or break your heart as there was nothing left but sad matter. At this point, you both were shouting at each other like little kids.

Looking back at it now you’re reminiscing on if the argument or you begging and worrying about his well being wss worth it. You didn’t learn from the previous arguments, overthinking every word he said that slipped between his dull lips as you cry in your trembling hands.

[mrvlbimbo]

Jason doesn't know

Eddie Munson x reader

(based loosely on the song Scotty Doesn't Know)

1.3k words

smut, voyerism I think, love confession, its sweet but its a little filthy

“How long do I have ya for?” was the first thing Eddie asked when she stepped into his van. 

She made quick work of stripping out of her clothes and climbing onto his lap. “Fifteen minutes maybe. We’d have longer if you just came to my house.” She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, hands smoothing over his chest. 

“Why's that?” he asked, pouting dramatically as a direct contrast to the way his fingers were already tugging and pinching her perked nipples. 

“I need to call Jason,” she answered, arching into his touch and his mouth on her neck.  

“Not that asshole,” he groaned, resting his head on her shoulder. He lifted his hips up, and shimmied his pants off along with his boxers, his hard cock now resting against the soft skin of her inner thighs. 

“Yes, that assshole. He’s my-” He ignored whatever she was saying in favor of sheathing himself inside of her. “Aaah,” she moaned at the intrusion. “My boyfriend,” she finished the sentence shakily, already a bit cockdrunk from the way his length was nudging at her cervix.  

“You got a walkie talkie. Call him right now,” he demanded, holding her flush against him so she couldn’t get any friction. 

“Eds. You’re balls deep inside of me. I’m not going to call Jason.” She giggled despite herself, whining impatiently and wiggling her hips to move him impossibly further inside her. 

“I’ll sit nice and still for you, baby,” he pleaded, although he knew there was no need for that since she was already reaching over to grab the communication device out of her bag. 

She sent a few test messages, rolling her eyes when she got no response. Finally there was crackling on the other end of the line. “What?” a sharp voice called over the walkie talkie. 

“Just uh-” Despite her best efforts her cunt started to clench around Eddie, which in turn caused him to give a rough trust upward and then a muffled apology. Luckily she was able to take her finger off the record button before Jason could hear her surprised moan. 

“Checking in,” she finished, clicking off the record button again so she could bounce slowly in Eddie’s lap, something he couldn't be happier about, his large hands cupping her waist and guiding her. 

“Uh why?” Jason replied, sounding more than vaguely uninterested. 

“One sec, Eds,” she warned, halting her movement so she could respond to the question. He whined loudly in response, bucking his hips upward. He had promised to stay still but now that he was wrapped in her heat, it was easier said than done. 

“Just wanted to talk to you.” That was a lie. A bold faced lie. She knew he got pissy if she didn’t call everyday and she hated when he got mad. Eddie was still whimpering, likely able to be heard over the sound of her voice. Without thinking she shoved two fingers in his mouth to keep him quiet. This did not help, instead instantly coaxing a moan from him the instant she touched past his lips.

“What was that?” Jason asked. 

“Uh. It was my cat. He’s sick,” she stuttered out, not able to stop the grinding of her hips against his any longer. She bounced on his lap languidly, fingers pressing at the back of his throat. 

“Fuckin hate that cat,” Jason snapped, getting tired of her already. 

She giggled at how absurd it was that he thought her cat was sick and not that she had the school freak between her thighs and he was giving it to her better than Jason ever had or ever could. “Oh no. He’s uh… throwing up. I’ll talk to you later.” Her words were rushed and unconvincing but she couldn't bring herself to care because she was now single mindedly focused on cumming. 

“Fuck baby. I was so good,” Eddie whined, frantically thrusting up into her and moving her hips in tandem. His words were still muffled by her fingers in his mouth so she retracted them, a string of split connecting them in an obscene way. 

“You were. So good for me.” She rewarded him with a gentle kiss to his lips, the kind she knew he loved. If they had more time he would lie her down in the back and take his sweet time, making her cum from his mouth and fingers once or twice before he was even inside her. But they never seemed to have that kind of time and she preferred to focus on him. He found it hard to complain when she gave him the most earth shattering blowjobs he could imagine almost every time he saw her. 

No time for a blowjob today, just for her to climb into his lap and ride him for all he was worth. And that's what she was doing, hips snapping furiously as she climbed to her peak. He was just taking it at this point, drooling with the pleasure she was giving to him and taking for herself. 

“Give it to meee. Just like that. Cum for me,” he whimpered, ducking his head against her chest close enough that he could practically hear her rapid heart rate. 

“Kiss me. Eddie. Fucking kiss me.” She yanked his head back up to crash their lips together. The plush pressure against her mouth was just enough to tip her over the edge. Her walls clenching around him made Eddie follow soon after her. 

“Oh god,” he gasped when she lifted off of him and started to get redressed, hastily pulling her panties over her seeping cunt. He reached out, grasping for any bit of her he could get his hands on and failing spectacularly. “Stay. Please,” he whined.  

She slid over beside him, letting him wrap his arm around her shoulder. And then she gave him that pitiful look that he hated, kissing his cheek and starting to pull away all too soon. “You know I can't. Jasons gonna be pissed at me. I need to try and smooth things over.” 

“Leave him,” he pleaded, interlacing their fingers and giving her a pathetic look of his own. He wasn’t above getting on his knees and begging for her and something about his look told her that. 

“I can't-” she started, only to be interrupted by his incessant pleading. 

“I want to be with you. Don't you want that?” 

“Oh, Eddie. Of course I want that, you know how I love you.” She draped her arms over his shoulders and around his neck, giving him a meaningful and downright loving look. His heart leapt in his chest at that, but then he was reminded of the conversation they were having. 

“Then stay.” He was stubborn, she’d give him that. 

“In your van, parked in the middle of nowhere?” she laughed at the absurdity of his offer. In his defense he didn’t think he’d get this far. Usually she’d be gone before he could even ask once for her to stay. 

“Come back to my place. Sleep over,” he bargained, cupping her cheek and pressing little kisses all over her face. 

“Ok, ok. Fine.” She pushed him off of her, removing his wet mouth from her face in the process. 

“Wait seriously?” This wasn’t the first time he had asked her to stay, trying every method he could think of but nothing worked because she always left him high and dry right after they had done the deed. 

“Mhm,” she muttered, cozying up against his side as he frantically pulled his pants back up and buckled them. He dug around in his pockets for the keys, frustrated at the amount of time it was taking since he clearly wanted to get her home as soon as possible in case she changed her mind. 

“Fuck babe. I love you so much,” he whispered, almost loud enough for her to hear. Maybe she did hear, from the content sigh that left her lips as she rested her head against his chest, he was leaning toward thinking she had.

taglist here:

@angelsarecallin @sebby-staan @niviiera @chaoticgurl @evqans @slut-for-matt-murdock @multihaven @tinyboxxtink @hold-our-destiny @weh-heh-heh @battiebabe216 @captain-satan @avril-reblog-cave @dragon-ash13 @stxvercgersslut

(lmk if u want to be added)

[hopepetal]

Masterlist

Read on AO3!

Part Five! Warning for brief, likely medically inaccurate, non-descriptive mentions of stitches.

Reblogs and comments are much appreciated! :)

@applestruda

“You can’t do something like that again.”

Grian looked up at Pearl, his hands pausing from their task of preening his wings. “Huh?” 

Pearl set down her hairbrush, sighing heavily. “You know what I mean,” she began, “earlier today. With Impulse.” She leaned forward, narrowing her eyes. “You’re looking too deep and forgetting that, whatever is in there…” She gestured vaguely with her hairbrush. “...it’s not as important as Impulse is.”

“I just…” Grian grumbled softly, running his hands over his feathers, “I don’t know what to do, Pearl. I don’t even know what we’re going up against, other than it’s…”

“Wrong,” Pearl finished his sentence, nodding. “I know. I don’t really…” A yawn interrupted her, and she set aside her hairbrush. “I’m scared, Grian,” she admitted, leaning against him. “I don’t know what to do.”

Carefully wrapping his wing around her, Grian sighed. “I’m scared, too. But we have to do something, before whatever’s going on with Impulse gets really bad.”

The two sat in silence for a bit, taking comfort in each other’s company. In the space of silence, their thoughts had plenty of room to make noise.

What they knew was this: Impulse had been cursed. Or something of the sort. Whatever had been done to him was draining his life force, or at least had been. When it originally let up, Pearl and Grian had been skeptical but relieved. Given the burns on Impulse’s hand, they’d figured that he’d paid the price and let it go, but still remained wary. 

But today…

“It must’ve come back,” Grian muttered, “or maybe it never really left.”

“It’s strong enough to almost completely cloak its presence,” Pearl added, “so there’s always a chance we try to do something about it and it just hides from us, and then we’re back at square one.” She let out a worried sound, her wings fluttering slightly. “What if this isn’t something we can fix, Grian?”

Grian reached out and gently took her hands in his own, rubbing his thumbs gently over the back of her hands. “Whatever it is, we’ll find a way. I promise you, everything will be alright.”

Pearl gave him a weary smile. “I’m gonna trust you on this one. Don’t let me down, now.”

Grian smiled back. “I won’t. It’s getting late,” he added after a moment, “and you look exhausted. We should get some rest and come back to this tomorrow.”

Pearl pulled away from Grian. “Yeah, you’re right. Try to get some sleep, at least.”

Grian stood, carefully stepping out of the tent before stretching his wings and folding them behind his back. “G’night, Pearl.”

She gave him a little wave goodbye. “Good night, Griba.” 

Glancing up at the sky, Grian was relieved to see that it was mostly clear. The stars were bright, and that made him feel a little better. A small grin appeared on his face as he slowly walked over to his tent, thinking of the children’s story he’d grown up believing. That stars were actually the souls of courageous heroes, who died valiantly in battle. He didn't really believe it anymore, but it was a small comfort to the part of him that still made wishes when blowing dandelions. 

He settled into his tent with a satisfied trill and took a moment to finish preening his wings, having only a small section left over from his chat with Pearl. Having already changed into his night clothes, it was just a few minutes before he was ready for bed. 

Grian settled down on his stomach, spreading his wings out to either side of him until he was comfortable. Tucking an arm beneath his pillow, he shifted a couple times to find the perfect position before closing his eyes. 

For once, his exhaustion bested his insomnia, and Grian fell into sleep. 

–

The sun beat down on his skin as Grian held the body of his dearest friend close. Blood the same colour as his feathers coated his hands and the sand around them, and tears flowed in a constant stream down his sunburnt cheeks. 

“I’m so sorry,” he keened, grief twisting his cries into a mournful birdsong, “oh Scar, I’m so sorry. It should’ve–” It should’ve been me.

He gently set his friend down, laying him to rest in the warm sand. Standing up, Grian extended his wings– broken, flightless, stained with the blood of his friends and enemies alike.

“One more life to go,” he murmured, and the voice of the sole survivor echoed across the land.

The flightless bird took one last desperate reach for the sky. 

And Grian

fell.

–

Grian woke with a strangled gasp, the memories of a red desert already fading as he was struck with a feeling of danger like he had never felt before. And it wasn’t just danger– no, a feeling of pure bloodlust emanated from just outside the tent, someone was outside his tent, someone was in camp and wanted to kill him.

Grian instantly rolled out of bed, grabbing his dagger from the side table. Before whatever outside was given the chance to break in, he shot out of the tent and turned to face his would-be murderer head-on. His wings mantled themselves behind his back, feathers puffed up threateningly as he held the dagger out in front of him.

His eyes adjusted to the low light of the night, and Grian realized that he knew that silhouette. 

Impulse stood in front of him, blinking away the red glow that had just been in his eyes, confused and slightly alarmed. “...Grian?” he asked, voice still groggy from what had been effectively a forced sleepwalking, “what are you…?”

“You’re not Impulse,” Grian hissed, his grip on the dagger tightening. “I saw you– I saw you!” His voice slowly rose from a whisper to a shout. “Let him go!”

Impulse took a few steps back, confused and now even more alarmed than before. “Grian, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m myself, I– I’m right here, just calm down…”

“I’m not going to calm down!” Grian snapped, his eyes fixated on where the red had lingered in Impulse’s eyes. He shifted back, preparing to strike. “I see you. I know you’re there.” He no longer saw Impulse– in his eyes, there was only whatever curse had befallen his friend. He knew one thing, and one thing only. 

Grian had to get rid of the evil that had hidden itself deep in Impulse’s mind.

Time seemed to slow down. At the same time, it all happened so fast.

Pearl had sensed the initial bloodlust, though not as strong as it hadn’t been directed toward her, and woken up. Upon hearing the shouting, she– dazed and still half-asleep– had stumbled from her tent and realized exactly what was happening as Impulse scrambled back.

“You’re looking too deep and forgetting that, whatever is in there…”

Pearl ran towards the fight, shouting for Grian to stop, knowing he wouldn’t.

“...it’s not as important as Impulse is.”

She threw herself in front of Impulse, pushing him to the ground just in time for the blade to slice through her wing.

Pearl screamed.

A distant howl answered her cry, and the camp exploded into chaos. 

Grian’s eyes snapped back into focus, and he dropped his dagger and staggered back. Horror shone on his face, especially when his gaze landed on Pearl’s damaged wing. Impulse shot up, eyes wide as he looked between Pearl and Grian, unsure of what to do and still terrified.

Scar burst out from the swaggon, his hair shining pure white and faint wings glowing behind him. “What’s happening?!” he called, stepping toward the gathered knights. 

Mumbo stumbled out of his own tent, holding his rocket launcher and looking a bit taller than he had been before bed. His hair was clearly longer as well, and the way that the sprout on his head had shot up would’ve been comical had it not been for the situation.

Tilly burst into the camp, sprinting over to where Pearl was kneeling on the ground and pressing herself against Pearl’s side, whimpering softly. Pearl took in a sharp, shaky breath. “I’m alright, baby. I’m okay, Tilly girl.” She wrapped her arms around the dog’s neck, taking a moment to calm herself down.

“I don’t…” Grian cut himself off, shaking his head. “I… what was I doing, oh my gosh, what…” He stared at his hands as though he expected to see blood staining them red. “Pearl, Impulse, I’m so sorry.”

Impulse gave him a weak smile. “I don’t really know what happened either. One minute I was asleep, the next I was outside your tent. And then…”

Pearl slowly stood, glancing back at her wings and trying to extend them. While her uninjured one opened with ease, the other could only open slightly before sending sharp pain through her. “I think,” she started, trying to take deep breaths and keep her voice from shaking, “I think I’m going to need stitches.” 

Grian looked absolutely devastated. “Pearl, I–”

She shook her head. “We’ll talk later. I’m going to need your help.”

Mumbo looked concerned, though he slowly lowered his rocket launcher. “Are you okay?” he asked, “I mean, uh, obviously not, but…”

Pearl gave him a reassuring smile. “I’ll be alright. Don’t think I’ll be able to fly for a little while, but it’ll heal. It was just an unfortunate accident.” She sighed. “You should all get back to bed. Grian, come with me.” She gave Tilly a soft pat and whispered something, and the dog padded away.

Slowly, everyone began to disperse, Scar’s hair regaining its colour and his wings fading away as he walked back to the swaggon. Mumbo seemed to realize that he had accidentally shapeshifted from the scare and changed himself back before disappearing into his tent. Impulse lingered a moment longer, his face unreadable but his body language giving away his anxiety.

“I’m sorry you got hurt, Pearl,” he said sincerely, “I’ll see you both tomorrow.” With that, he left, and the two were alone.

“Pearl–” Grian began, but she cut him off.

“Not here. Not now.” Pearl sounded… angry. Of course, she had every right to be, Grian was angry at himself, but still… oh, he hated when people were angry at him. It made him feel so small. 

Nevertheless, Grian dutifully followed Pearl to her tent, where she went straight to a specific chest and pulled out her medical kit. “You know what to do?” she asked as she handed him the kit, but it wasn’t really a question.

Grian nodded, and Pearl carefully lit a lantern, putting it on a stable surface. She sat down, and Grian sat behind her, silently preparing the tools. “Aren’t you taking pain medicine?” he asked, his voice almost swallowed up by the silence.

Pearl shook her head. “After.”

“Doesn't it hurt?” Grian pressed as he finished preparing the tools and carefully prepping the injured area. 

Pearl’s voice became slightly more strained. “About as much as you’d think it would,” she answered tersely, and Grian stopped talking.

He began to carefully stitch Pearl’s wing, falling into the repetitive motion after a moment. He wasn’t given long to sit in silence, as Pearl only waited a moment to get used to the feeling before speaking up.

“What happened?” she asked, and the anger in her voice made Grian wince.

“I… I’m sorry Pearl, I wasn’t–”

“Thinking?” she finished for him. “Yeah. You usually don’t.”

“Pearl, I…”

“What would've happened had you hurt Impulse and suddenly made whatever was happening to him worse? We don't know what he's going through. We don't know the full extent of what's happening. We can't act without thinking, Grian, especially when it's our friend's life on the line.” Pearl’s hands were shaking, and she clenched them into fists. “I told you. I told you that you couldn’t just laser focus on the curse. Even if you had managed to get it out of Impulse, what if that had hurt him? What if that killed him? What if the curse had jumped to you after you pulled it from Impulse? What if–?” And she had to stop here, to take in a breath. “What if you had died?”

Grian frowned. “Pearl, that won’t happen. I won’t let it–”

“We’re not invincible, Grian!” she cried, “tonight is a wonderful example of that, actually!” For a moment, there was silence. “We may be Watchers, but we can still bleed. We can still die. And even if we don’t, I…” She buried her face in her hands. “I’m sorry.” She slowly placed her hands back in her lap. “I’m still angry at you, though,” she added on. “What you did wasn’t okay. I know you’re hard headed and stubborn and you don’t think things through, but we can’t just solve every single problem with… enthusiastic violence.”

Grian nodded, before realizing she couldn’t see him. “Yeah. I… you’re right, Pearl. I really don’t… it was like all I could see was that thing, and it made me so angry and I just…” He took a moment to focus on the stitching before continuing. “I don’t have an excuse. I acted on instinct and I hurt you and I could’ve– it could’ve ended up so much worse, and I’m so, so sorry.” He had to bite back tears as he spoke, pausing in his stitches so he wouldn’t mess up because of crying. “I never meant to hurt anyone.”

The anger had faded from Pearl’s voice, though it still sounded a little strained from the pain she was in. “I know, Grian.” Most of all, she sounded tired. “I know.”

Grian finished up the stitches and carefully bandaged the area, before Pearl took a very generous dose of the pain medicine. He gave her a slightly concerned look, and she’d returned that with a deadpan stare.

“Has it been too long since your last wing injury?” she asked, raising an eyebrow, “have you forgotten how incredibly painful it is?”

Grian shook his head, holding his hands up. “No, ma’am,” he answered weakly, earning a small laugh from his sister. “No judgement here, none at all.”

Pearl carefully sorted her medical kit’s supplies before placing it back into the place it had been earlier. For a moment, both sat in silence again. 

Grian started to stand. “I should probably head back to my tent…”

Pearl placed a hand on his arm, interrupting him. “Can you stay here instead?” she asked, a soft vulnerability hidden in the plea. “I just…”

Grian nodded, almost too eagerly, and sat back down. “No, I…” he trailed off. “...I think I need it too,” he admitted, his voice wavering slightly. “If you don’t mind.”

Pearl smiled– an exhausted, pained smile, but one of relief all the same– and pulled him into a hug. “Thank you,” she mumbled into his shoulder, and Grian hummed softly in response.

It took a few extra blankets and pillows for them both to get comfortable, but eventually the two siblings drifted off to sleep. Grian’s wing rested gently over Pearl, a comforting and protective gesture all at once. 

Times would get difficult. Bonds would be tested, friendships would be strained. But no matter what, they would heal. Things would get better, and they would be stronger for it. 

Pearl fell asleep, and dreamed of falling stars.

[skazoo]

still do.

↳ choi jongho x f!reader

he couldn't stop loving you, even if he tried. and he did try for some time. it just didn't work.

length. 3.7k

genre. exes (and friends) to lovers, fluff, crack and a sprinkle of inevitable angst (i'm sorry).

warnings/tags. language, mention of death, mention of illness of a loved one, implied depression, .

networks. @kflixnet k-labels

notes. hello with another "this was supposed to be just teeth rotting fluff but somehow turned a little depressing and angsty on its own, i swear i didn't touch anything" do we see a pattern here? bc i do. i offer this lil jongho fic after sm time of absolutely nothing but i've finished my exams literally the other day, (DURING PRIDE MONTH!?!?? unacceptable) hope you like it!!

i'm desperate for feedback and i love comments with your opinion!

(cross-posted on ao3 only)

navigation

it’s a well-known fact —to your friend group, to the employees of the cafè on the way to your apartment, to the old lady that sells flowers at the corner of the big building you work at— that choi jongho not only likes you but he’s irremediably and unequivocally in love with you.

and that is still not right because jongho doesn’t just love you, no, that would be too obvious, too easy. he still loves you. 

if he goes back enough in his memories, jongho could say he’s always loved you.

he’s never been one to believe in love at first sight so when wooyoung drunkenly introduced the two of you at his birthday party, and he found himself unable to breathe let alone speak a coherent sentence to you, he immediately panicked. was he having a heart attack? a stroke? he was healthy, an athlete! how could this be happening to him!? he even made his own doctor hate him with all the panicked questions he asked the poor man on the phone but apparently, all he needed to relatively calm down was wooyoung’s loud laugh as he told him that he simply had a crush on you.

did he have a crush on you? 

you, with your beautiful smile and melodic laugh and sparkling eyes and– okay, yeah. he did have a crush on you but who wouldn’t!?

strong argument indeed, he thought.

that fateful night was only the start of a happiness he didn’t know he was able to experience.

you became friends, then best friends, then something more and then you were kissing, sleeping, and cuddling in bed together, going on cute little dates, and showing more PDA jongho ever imagined doing. 

he thought you were happy with him. navigating life with the same confused curiosity all young adults seem to innately possess.

then something happened that he couldn’t have ever predicted. and not because he wasn’t paying attention to you or because he was slacking off with his boyfriend duties, no. it came as a complete shock to everyone —you included, in a sense— because the signs just weren’t there. 

out of the blue, without notice, you broke up with him. after a year and for reasons that are still beyond his comprehension.

questions thundered into his mind asking why you had come to the heartbreaking decision, why you had sent him a ‘we need to talk’ text at 2am in the morning, and why he’d later found you at the front door of his apartment with tear-stained cheeks and puffy eyes, soft whimpers vaguely sounding like ‘sorry’ and ‘it’s not your fault’. 

if he thinks back to that night, jongho gets chills from how scared he was; holding your body to his chest, not knowing what to do or what to say, not knowing who hurt you or why you were hurting.

when he thinks back to that night —something he finds himself doing more often than his heart can take— jongho clearly remembers the silent promise he repeated in his head at least a thousand times after you went back to your apartment. a promise he’s set on keeping.

and it’s for that very promise that he now sits in the crowded cafe downtown, drinking an overrated caramel macchiato and hiding behind a book he has no interest in.

at least it’s what he tells himself. that he came to the same coffee shop you told him you’d be meeting your date at because that’s what friends do. he tells himself he’s wearing a mask and sunglasses inside because he can and will love you platonically if that’s what you need or want. jongho tells himself a lot of things and he hopes he’s strong enough to believe in them in a way that will make them reality sooner or later.

but it’s not like two booths away from him you’re faring any better.

are people outside your friend group really this boring and uninteresting? have men always been this arrogant and full of themselves? was your current ex-boyfriend the exception that proves the incredibly unfair rule? 

when you met jongho you knew you were lucky. hot college athlete with sarcasm to match yours and a badly concealed heart of pure gold? you knew you hit the jackpot. but you weren’t ready to realize that he really was one in a million men that actually put in the effort to go beyond the bare minimum.

why is it, though? 

the question threatens to break loose all the pent-up frustration this date is generously providing you with and you opt to ignore it and hide it in the back of your mind for another occasion. one that includes cheap wine, pizza, and an equally bewildered yunjin sitting on your couch with funny socks and mouth full.

for now, you only limit yourself to throwing a fake smile at the obnoxious man sitting in front of you who’s spent the entirety of this heinous date talking exclusively about himself and his crypto-currency business. 

he’s finishing what you think is a long rant about the stock market when he moves to get up.

you think you’re finally seeing the light at the end of the tunnel but he just lets out an annoying chuckle and looks at you with his small and pig-like patronizing eyes. “don’t worry, love. i’m not leaving you i’m just going to ‘powder my nose’, how you girlies say.” he winks and you resist the urge to gag at how… slimy he looks and feels.

as soon as he’s out of sight you let yourself slump on the small table, groaning a bit as you do so.

what were you even thinking? you tell yourself that today is going to be a well-suffered lesson for your future self: no dates with people that quote elon musk as if he’s some kind of greek philosopher.

your hands reach for the phone in your bag on their own. the last message you received was a sarcastic ‘have fun’ from wooyoung in the group chat but other than that everything is quiet, seemingly wanting to punish you for going against your friends’ advice to bail on the guy as soon as you saw him treat the barista like shit.

under the group chat, jongho’s name glares at you. 

you would be lying if you said out loud that this date didn’t have the sole purpose of distracting you from the claustrophobic guilt you’re feeling lately. 

jongho had never really cried in front of you but you swear if you could you’d erase the image of his damp eyes looking at you with confusion on that ugly night. and if you have to be honest you’d erase the encouraging but strained smiles he gives you now that you’re back at being friends too, because they don’t do anything but make you feel a shittier person than you already think you are. but maybe you deserve it. maybe this is finally going to be the occasion in which you understand that your actions have consequences.

your fingers work quicker than your brain can catch up, and before you realize it, you open again the conversation with jongho that ended before you went out and start typing.

> you: wyd?

> jjong: you’re on a date

> jjong: focus

> you: what is this an exam?

> you: nevermind this was a bad idea…

> jjong: texting me or the date?

> you: shut up

> you: the date 

> jjong: aw i’m sorry i could have told you that like,, an hour ago

> jjong: oh wait 

> jjong: i did!

another groan leaves your lips, only this time laced with a small chuckle at his antics. you mark the message as seen and throw your phone back into the bag. 

you hope other people can't see how much you miss him.

while you’re too focused on burning holes in the bathroom door from how hard you’re staring at it, dreading the moment it will open to reveal your current problem, in the loud noise of the cafe you don’t hear the heavy stomps of someone approaching you from behind. 

only when you feel two warm hands plant themselves on your shoulders and you hear a familiar voice muttering to itself something that sounds like ‘found you’, you’re forced out of your angry trance state and you’re asked to quickly choose between either your fight or flight instincts. you throw a blind punch and the person creeping up on you folds into two.

but that’s on him because who creeps on someone sitting alone at a table and touches them without making themselves known? what happened to ‘hello, what a coincidence to see you here’? what happened to manners?

you snap your head to the figure behind you and you let your panic subside but your annoyance rises.

“how– what are you doing here!?” your words come out in a hiss that makes the old couple sitting in the booth behind you turn around and look at you with judgy eyes but that doesn’t affect jongho in the slightest.

“saving you? duh.”

“who asked you that?!”

“what– Y/N, you texted me even before you met the guy, may i add. and the message said: ‘please end my suffering.’ in my book that’s a cry for help!”

he’s right but you let out an affronted huff anyway. arms crossed and lips in a pout you know is childish. “whatever.”

you feel him staring at you with a raised eyebrow and a smug smirk that you, oh so badly want to wipe off his face. 

“what?” you spat. your tone more embarrassed than you’d like to let on.

“what, what?”

“what the fuck are you smiling for?”

he throws his arms in the air exasperatedly. “am i not allowed to be happy now?”

“of course you are, it’s just… you being happy,” you air-quote to punctuate your suspicions on his current joyous disposition. “usually means wooyoung fell or someone got hurt.”

he laughs. “do you think so lowly of me, Y/N?”

“shut up.” the napkin you’ve been fidgeting with because of the irrational panic rising in your guts is now messily crumpled on the table and you groan at the whole situation. head in your hands and eyes closed. you’re so bad at this.

what happened to moving on? what happened to leaving jongho alone because he doesn’t deserve someone treating him like shit? you broke up with him supposedly to save him, but, not even three months in, and now that your mind is clearer you think it’s okay to want him back? to feel full again every time you talk about the things you did together and bask in the silence that follows with a warm knowing smile? you think it’s good to let your eyes wander to his face when you know he’s not looking, falling in love all over again? to feel your face involuntary stretch into a smile every time you spot him waiting for you outside work?

whatever your fucking problem is, you’re scared that you’ll come to find out its only solution is the person you fought so hard to push away. because what if you managed to scare away the last source of happiness you had? it’s selfish, you know, but it’s also the only thing you can think about as he looms over you; body so dangerously close to yours that you can catch the flowery perfume he always wears.

you think he’s speaking to you because his big hand is outstretched in your direction and his eyes are looking at you expectantly, with a veiled urgency.

“sorry, what?”

“i said get up and let’s go.”

“go where exactly?”

he rolls his eyes and you keep to yourself the striking resemblance he has with a spoiled child right at this moment.

“c’mon, we’re living this tinder nightmare here.”

“oh, are we?” you ask equal parts amused and curious of where this little skit of his is going.

when his deadpan expression doesn’t shift into one of his gummy smiles at your slightly annoying antics you know something impulsive and possibly embarrassing is about to happen and you know you will be the only person who will have any sort of unnecessary remorse out of the two of you.

your hands fly to your parted mouth and you hiss at him again. “are you serious!?”

he smiles.

“jongho, no.”

jongho yes, the mischievous look he throws you seems to proudly announce. 

he checks the toilet door one last time before gently grabbing your arm and not-so-gently yanking you out of the booth. a surprised squeal leaves your mouth but not a word of protest is heard from you.

“oh my god, i’m really doing this.”

his eyes are set on the door and he speaks without looking at you. “doing what?” 

“leaving someone like that while they’re in the bathroom! that’s so… i don’t know jjong, that’s so rude!”

you see his shoulder shake and you know if he were to face you right now you’d see one of his shit-eating grins. what you can’t imagine is the softness in his eyes as you call him with your nickname for him. he missed it. he misses you. painfully, completely, constantly.

his wide strides are followed by your frantic steps as he maneuvers the two of you out of the door and into the busy downtown street.

“so what? do you wanna go back in there and risk being bored to death by a guy that’s not even a quarter of what you deserve?”

“wha– no! i just–”

“then why should you feel sorry for that sad excuse of a date, uh? like, really, he took you to the most overrated place he could think of, Y/N. he didn’t even know you don’t like coffee!”

you chuckle at the frown of deep offense that blooms on his face. his lips in an affronted pout. “but that’s what the date is for, jjong. he couldn’t have possibly known.”

he stops in his tracks when he’s far away enough from the crowd in line waiting to be granted entrance to the place you just left. 

“i do, though.” an imperceptible strain to his voice as his eyes search yours in a way that’s almost desperate. “i know you don’t like coffee and that you like to sleep on the right side of the bed and that you just have to sing that ridiculous song to tie your shoes because otherwise, for some inexplicable reason i still have to understand, you can’t.”

has the world around you stopped? your ears are ringing from the deafening silence and you feel like everyone around you has stopped breathing and is waiting for you to say something to the boy in front of you who stares you down in determined distress.

“i know you, Y/N.”

you know he deserves an explanation. him more than anyone in your life. him more than yourself, even. jongho with his proverbial patience that let you cry and consoled you the whole night even after you’d told him you were breaking up with him. jongho that didn’t push or torment you with questions the days after. jongho who accepted —maybe in pure and raw self-preservation— to go back to being just friends, with tears in his eyes and a smile on his lips because that’s what you’d told him you needed at that moment. his kindness that, more often than not, you’re convinced you don’t deserve.

“i know.” you close on yourself, your arms coming to hug you tight so that he can’t see the cracks that constantly try to spread over your skin. “i know you do.” an imperceptible whisper that threatens to drown in the buzz of the busy city around you.

“then why?” his eyes are pleading and his voice is quiet when he speaks again. 

“i know i should give you time and i know you’ll tell me one day but please–” he gulps down a lump that you know he’s had for at least three months. one of worry, confusion, and guilt. one you know you gave him.

“–please, give me something. anything.”

silence.

“Y/N, please say someth–”

“my mother was sick, jongho. she still is.” the line you’ve dreaded crossing for so long is no longer a line. the wall that’s been standing in between you and everyone else now has a hole in it. 

“i was out of my mind just from the news of her condition, i– i wasn’t well mentally and physically just from that and i saw time slip through my fingers, felt every single second like a punch to the guts. i threw away all the clocks in my mother’s house, i started sleeping on the floor outside her bedroom, i– the week i told you i was busy with deadlines, we were still together, remember?” he nods, small but it’s there.

 “i spent those days obsessing over something that was not yet real. my brother had to slip me sleeping pills to let me close my eyes for even a second.” your voice cracks because the guilt you get from just looking at jongho always has to be added to the guilt you feel when seonghwa kindly asks you how you’re doing lately.

“i-i was a mess just from that and i didn’t want you to be with me when what i was scared of was going to finally become a reality. i didn’t want you to see me like that because i didn’t think it was what you deserved. and you may be unable to understand and yell at me that it had to be your choice and not mine but i still don’t think that what i did was wrong, i’m sorry.”

the apology floats in the air between you. it’s not articulate or rich but it’s the only one you can get out at the moment.

“my psychologist says– he says i’m doing better now. we agree that the worst is over but there’s this…  unknown that hangs over my head and every second that passes i don’t know if this guillotine will cut my head off or miss me by a hair.”

he just looks at you with that unreadable expression that scares you.

“i didn’t– i don’t want to go back to when the worst wasn’t over and i’m scared that if i give myself back to you i will take you down with me one way or the other.”

you don’t know what you expect him to say or do after you just vomited everything you’re constantly trying to keep hidden, on him, but his loud silence is starting to feel too heavy, unsettling.

he doesn’t feel present, his eyes unfocused and unblinking. 

he shakes his head as if to wake up from a trance and looks at you with eyes too full of love. no pity in them and you want to thank him for it.

“ba– Y/N why didn’t you tell me?”

the simple question throws you off. 

why did you do the things you did? 

why does anyone do things?

you want to cry and tell him that not everything has an explanation. not a logical one anyways.

“i don’t know, okay! i wasn’t sure how you felt! god, i didn’t know how i felt and–”

“how could i have ever felt!? we were together for more than a year, Y/N. i loved you. i still do.”

“w-what?”

he lets out a chuckle that is not mocking or mean or condescending, not one you would’ve expected from anyone else. it’s kind and soft and a little bit amused, much to your irritation.  “do you find it surprising?” 

you open your mouth to say something but he beats you to it. 

“i am in love with you, have been since the moment i saw you at that stupid party and when you told me you had to break up with me i just– Y/N, i couldn’t let you go or stop loving you, even if i tried. and believe me, i did try for some time, but it just didn’t work.” 

with tears clouding your vision you’re surprised you manage to find the time or strength to tease him. “you tried?”

and apparently, it is those two words that make him break out of the containment chamber he’s forcing himself to be trapped in. he smashes through the protective glass in true jongho fashion. a well-placed punch and the chains that kept him away from you thinking that’s what you needed, dissolve into thin air as he closes the distance, messily rushing to you and caging you in a desperate hug that steals the air from your lungs. 

you feel his hands claw at the back of your shirt and it’s the heartbreaking and deep affection that allows you to accept that you’re not difficult and you will not be. not to him, not to the people that love you.

he buries his nose in your hair, breathing you in like he wants to absorb you forever, then everything that happens next goes naturally, smoothly, following a line that was always supposed to be the one and only.

it fits perfectly. when you kiss and it's like the universe, your friend group, the employees of the cafè on the way to your apartment, the old lady that sells flowers at the corner of the big building you work at, knew it was meant to be.

you both stand with your eyes closed, embracing each other.

he wants to be a person who deserves you and whom you deserve. jongho loves you and he wants to be there, picking up your pieces, putting you together like a puzzle, taking his time. 

you sniff, looking up at him with what you hope looks like a soft expression and not some sort of a pained smile. “hi.”

“hey.” he smiles back, thumbs caressing away stray tears.

“you know that i saw you sitting there the second i stepped foot into the coffee shop. 

“you did not.”

“you were reading the book upside-down.”

he blushes but his arms tightens around you.

“i was not.”

[supersoakerfullofblood]

Beta Reading, Workshopping, and Peer Editing for Indie Writers: a Guide

Beta reading is a term you might hear tossed out as a vague buzzword, kind of like how people talk about "character development" and "worldbuilding"; I've made a bunch of posts to demystify words in that latter category, but beta reading is a different type of term. Where those latter words and their ilk are terms of craft, things we can discuss in theory ("this is how I think characters are developed best"), beta reading is about a novel after its first draft and first wave-ish of edits. Pretty much everything before and after the production of a novel or story is purely up to what works best for the writer, so this post will introduce beta reading if it's new to you, and I'll give you my process if you want to tinker with it!

Beta reading is when interested readers work through your polished manuscript and make workshop comments so you can make an extra wave of edits. Publishing houses usually have two waves of this type of reading--alpha reading (AR) and beta reading (BR). If you can find enough people to alpha read for you (and you want alpha readers), go for it! But if you're confident in your grammar, your ability to craft a scene and characters, and the other formalities of creative writing, alpha reading isn't a requirement (as an indie. If you ever query your work to a house, it'll probably go through alpha reading).

Alpha reading is to catch grammar and syntax slips, mischaracterizations, character development that doesn't add up, excesses of adverbs and adjectives, and other craft faux-pas that the average reader wouldn't catch. Your alpha readers should pretty exclusively be other writers.

Beta reading is to gauge what your audience is thinking or feeling while they read your work. If your beta readers want to make alpha reading comments ("I don't feel like [character] would do that here"), that's A-okay, especially if you didn't have alpha readers, but that shouldn't be your chief concern with your betas. These are your audience surrogates! The job of beta readers is to tell you what they think or feel: "I like this," "I don't like this"; "This paragraph hit me hard"; "This word is confusing"; etc. If they add more words to their comments, that's A-okay ("I like this because these words go well together" or "This word is confusing--does it mean X or Y?") but not necessary! If your beta readers are your audience and not people who really get how writing works, then you should be taking any reasonings in their comments as loose, loose suggestions. Maybe those words that go well together to one reader feel, as you look at them a second time, cliche. Or perhaps the confusing nature of a word or phrase was by design. In any case, try to see your beta readers as a "live audience reaction" and not a "live reactionary critique."

One aside about alpha/beta reading: "this is bad" and "this is good" comments are toxic and should be avoided at all costs. Tell your readers to avoid these before they start writing. No good can come from these. Even "I don't like this" and "I like this" are worlds better, though still not great. But absolutely warn your readers against using objective blanket statements like "good/bad" as they read.

Now that we've laid the foundations, I'll go into my own process so hopefully everything above makes more sense.

Before I give my manuscript to beta readers, I go through 2-3 waves of revision on my own. After I finish my first draft, I wait about a month to let the dust settle, to gain at least a little emotional distance from the project so I can look at it a little more objectively. Then, I read it through, revising for content: cut this scene, add a scene here, chop paragraphs and sentences, add paragraphs and sentences, move this chapter here, make sure this character actually functions as he should in the narrative, etc. These are my macro edits.

Then I let it sit a week or two and go into line editing: punctuation and syntax, word choice, tweaking figurative language, etc. Close pruning of your work. Filing your nails after you've clipped them.

The third read-through is at a normal reading pace, as if you were a reader, to catch anything that may have slipped past during your close edits and revisions. This third read-through is likely the first time you've read your manuscript as it should be read--a book! This step, then, is a victory lap, but it's also one last troubleshoot. You might not find the errors in a computer program until you run the program. So too it is with writing.

This is a lot of work! You might want to relegate these tasks to your readers, but DO NOT!!! If you're still heavily revising and editing your work, don't let your readers to the table. This is your work and your story, and outside influence will stray it from what you want. Own this. Buckle down. Read.

Once you've got your polished draft, it's time to contact your readers! I would recommend 4-6 readers total unless you think you can handle more cooks in your kitchen at a time (I cannot). I typically just ask some of my friends to beta for me. Here's an example text:

"Hey all! I finished that book about church camp a while ago and was wondering if you'd beta read for me! Basically, I'd just need you to read through the book and make comments in the sidebar whenever you like something, don't understand something, are excited or intrigued by something, or other general impressions. You can comment however often or little you feel comfortable with--some people make one comment a chapter, others make multiple comments a page--anything works great. Really all you shouldn't comment are blanket statements of "this is bad" or "this is good," but feel free even to say stuff like "I like this" or "I don't like this." Just avoid objective language when possible.

I don't have any money for this, so sorry in advance, and if possible, I'd love for all of my beta reading to be done by the end of summer.

Let me know if you're down or not! :)"

I really have had readers comment that much and that little on my manuscripts. This is normal. If your readers are supposed to comment whenever something in their attention triggers, different readers' attentions will trigger differently.

It's also a wise idea to form your beta reading group (again, especially if you aren't doing a wave of alpha reading) as a mix of people from different backgrounds and writing experience. My church camp novel group is below:

Person A who went to church camp with me, is into poetry

Person B is into fanfiction, little church experience, mindful of social issues

Person C has little church or writing experience, mindful of social issues

Person D is very into writing, pretty into church

Person E is very into social issues and church, not a writer

I would advise to find a similar balance of people who are into your subject matter and those who aren't.

It's also helpful to give them a timeframe to read by, and make this longer than they need. I gave people ~two months for my ~60k-word novel.

Also, as a little incentive for your readers, plan something for when everyone's done! A post-beta party! Something like this will also encourage you through the process :)

Once you have your betas' comments, it's time for one last wave of revisions. Compile these comments however you like, and start tweaking. I like to have each beta's document open so I can cross-reference while I work through my own doc. And remember: these are audience comments, not writer comments (unless you explicitly brought writers on). If someone says something confuses them, that might just be their cross to bear. If none of your other betas were confused by it, or if one of your betas compliments the same section, it may be worth ignoring that first comment. Try to rule with the majority when you can, and take everything with a grain of salt. "I don't like this" doesn't mean it needs to be changed. It means you should figure out why that reader doesn't like it.

If you have any questions, my asks are open! Again, this is a pretty open concept where anything works as long as it works for you, so don't feel pressured to "get it right." But if you have any questions or suggestions, I'm all ears :)

Hope this helps!

[vvishes]

YOU MAKE MY SOUL SHINE

where you were brought back to kaichou after being injured in a mission …

ft. ver vermillion x gn!reader

50% sugar - this will mostly include being comforted and cared for by our beloved kaichou

warnings - you have been injured severely, you have also passed out

a/n - originally , i thought i would be describing blood , but i guess not ! you may also realise i’m trying to make my writing longer , and i hope you enjoy it ^^ (also to not create any misunderstanding , you and ver are already in a relationship)

“oh thank … they’re awa … hear me ? … haps, can you s— …”

your conscience slowly woke up from its slumber, your closed eyes furrowing from the sudden voice, but somehow you were unable to recognise it. it sounded so familiar too. every word honeyed with a peaceful melody that flowed from one sentence to the next.

“[na]… ou there ..? it’s m …”

you were greeted with a vague and blurry figure as your eyes fluttered open. after blinking them a few time, more significant features were becoming more and more visible.

their fluffy, pinkish-red hair, slanted eyes with a serene yet degrading gaze that could most definitely threaten anyone with one simple look.

“hey, [na] … [name] !” the voice said sternly, almost yelling.

after a while of attempting to clear out your clouded head, it hit you.

“the mob ! what about the— what about the mob ?!” you yelled, getting up from laying on the bed, only to immediately fall back down after feeling a sharp sting in your waist. you clutched it to try reduce any pain, stifling your cries.

“[name], your body is healing, don’t touch the wound.”

you quickly turn your head as the voice had startled you. although your sight was still slightly hazy, every feature was now visible. it was ver.

a long pause had filled the room with silence as you stared at him, processing everything.

“ver, i need to go back and finish off the mob …”

if ver were to describe your face and the emotions you felt at that very moment, he would say you looked helpless.

he averted his gaze. “no need to worry about them anymore, i took care of them.”

“then … i failed … right ..?”

ver’s eyes widened slightly at your question. he slowly walked to the bed you laid in and kneeled beside it. his calloused hand softly brushed your face, instinctively getting your head to rest on it.

at that very moment your focus was on ver and ver only. it genuinely did seem like he has cast a spell on you and had caused you to drop any thought out of your head and fill it back with him.

“i want to be absolutely honest with you, love,” ver started, saying each word slower than he usually would to make sure you would understand him the first time. “you tried your very best. you actually wiped out most of the mob. however few of the members had sneaked up from behind and, uh, injured you quite a lot.”

all the information you had gathered made you want to fall asleep, however you really wanted to get payback from the mob, so you continued listening.

“most parts of your body are slightly bruised, however you do have a concussion, so you may feel dizziness for the next few days.”

you knew that this was meant to be a serious moment when ver was explaining your injuries, but something about his voice felt so comforting and you tried your hardest to not doze off from his calm presence.

ver chuckled lightly and stood up, “don’t worry, i can stop talking. if you wish i can leave the roo—“

“no please, don’t.” you mumbled.

“huh ?”

by then, you were already to embarrassed to say anything else. you slowly curled yourself into a ball, even though it hurt slightly doing so.

“what do you mean by please, don’t, love ?” ver asked

“don’t go … stay .. stay here … please ..?”

ver hadn’t taken his eyes off you. he smiled as he got into the bed. you two were lucky enough that the bed fit both of you perfectly.

during this moment, ver starts rambling about recent shenanigans until you doze off, however this time, you were already asleep. he was quiet, making sure he wouldn’t wake you up.

he shuffled a little closer to you, admiring your relaxed face, your chest slowly lifting up, and falling back down.

he gave you a peck on the lips, and rested his forehead on yours.

“i love you dearly, [name]. i wish i could hug you right now but i don’t want to hurt you, so take these words, okay ?” he whispered, closing his eyes.

he thought you were asleep, but little did he know, you were listening to every single bit he had said, and a warm smile formed on your face.

you wouldn’t admit it to his face all the time, but you too loved him just as much.

© 2022 vvishes ┄ all rights reserved. do not copy, claim, or plagiarise my works. do not repost on other platforms. translations are only allowed with strict permissions.

[pinkwright]

do u ever daydream about me ? | shuri udaku.

ƸӜƷ

pairing — queen panther!shuri x ex!y/n

trope — exes still in love (post-breakup)

inspo — lucidia (egodeath) by ambré + been like this by doja cat

warnings — vv dramatic bc its me, they r lovesick ur honour, reader is hurting like srsly, shuri is hurting like srsly 2, everybody hurting srsly okay, breakup isn’t described, lots of heart/rib metaphors n descriptions lol, the sides r povs, pretty vague contextually (?), no happy ending bc life, shuri has a panic attack but its not overly detailed, shuri’s vv self-destructive (stop thats my baby), no real sense of a timeline, they need each other u guys, its not set who hurt who so u can use ur imagination, literally just angst w a pinch of fluff if u squint.

a/n — thank u for all the love on my first fic. i wanted a fic that hurt so i was tempted to deliver n here it is, i hope u enjoy it !

⟢˚ taglist: @mbakuetshurisprincess @inmyheadimobsessed @letitias-fav @barkbarkbo @saintwrld

ஜ

side a

let’s make sure its reel, baby can we film it? now you got me here, stuck up in my feelings.

longing buries itself within your chest, the weight is settling in the cage of your ribs, and they seem to tighten at the steady chuckle that falls from her pretty lips, only amplified by the surround sound in your barren apartment. your subconscious berates you for the continuous empty promises made to yourself, empty promises that only contribute to the depths of your very own despair – but can anyone truly blame you for missing all that love?

the short film – a lovers’ moment of perfection, an ode to what was and what could have been, what should have been – captures your love at the height of pure joy and contentment. it was a homemade film taken in your kitchen; the camera held up by you — the interviewer to shuri's interviewee. your giggles ring in the background working in tandem with the soft beat of your favourite track to produce, as shuri had said, 'the symphony to the rhythm of her heart.'

shuri’s gazing just over the lens of the camera and into your eyes, the love spilling from the gaze makes you giddy and shy, so you clear your throat. “so, miss ‘i’m the queen of wakanda, i do what i want’,” you gently mock. your soft laugh coercing a giggle out of shuri’s lips, “to what do i owe the pleasure of her majesty’s great presence?”

she rolls her eyes, her lips dropping into a soft, fond smirk, “i can’t come to visit my wife, to whom my heart resides with? i do need to come to check in on her from time to time, s'thandwa.” she smiles. her eyes are boring into yours when her face comes to rest in the palms of her hands, her elbows placed on your kitchen counter as she regards you with the renowned intensity of the black panther.

your breath catches behind the camera and the viewer watches as shuri’s smirk grows over the stammers of your speech, “you’ve never even asked me to marry you,” you splutter flustered. “and your heart’s still your own…” your sentence trails off at shuri’s contemplative but amused expression. the queen is rising to her feet and making her way towards you, the camera’s gaze lowers to the floor but remains recording stagnantly between your bodies. slowly, she takes your hand in both of hers and lifts your knuckles to her lips, kissing them gently, unseen by the lens but scorched into your very being — every memory with her was.

the exhale that leaves your lips is soft, as words begin to trail out of her, brushing against the heated skin of your hands; words that heal wounds that have yet to manifest, settle the unsteady rhythm of your heart, caress the traumas of your youth, and continue to soothe the restlessness of your soul – washing away the boundaries between separate but familiar souls, guiding them to become one under the false veil of “forever”.

a sharp wail breaks through the atmosphere of your room, your trembling form curling pathetically like a baby in the womb – trying desperately to garner some semblance of comfort for the shattered shell of desolation you had become. the pulse of your heart is desperate, throbbing for the calm existence of life before pain, before her.

your lungs burn for oxygen as you use the heel of your palm to repeat firm, solid thumps against the pain in your chest. no one tells you that the heart you use to preserve the realisation of your love and nurture innocent youth, the one that overflows steadily with tenderness is the same heart that uses the pain of separation to fuel its anger, the caged animal raging with vengeance, screeching against the jagged bones of its cell.

no one told you that it would be like this.

i gave you all this time, gave you my everything. can’t put my trauma to the side; when you told me i was lying, had me feeling like i died, baby.

side b

i know that you miss all this love. maybe we should get back in touch. maybe you could make me over shiny and new.

shuri sits up with a gasp, the ringing in her ears deafening as she swings her feet over the edge of her bed to attempt to ground herself. the ache in her stomach is expanding, the anxiety crawling its way to her throat and she’s struggling to breathe, “my queen, it seems you are experiencing a severe panic attack, may i call for assistance?” griot sounds, vaguely registering from between the screams of her turbulent mind.

she’s gasping so hard that her ribs begin to ache, gripping the sheets beneath her to keep from crying out from the sheer force of the jagged claws that plunge into the cause of her sorrows over and over again. the dreamless heavy state of her short rest can only quell her broken state for so long.

all she can think about is you; your tenderness, your patience, your strength – her need for you. the tears are gathering on the lashes of her shut eyes, the force causing her head to pound rapidly, colours dancing behind the lids of her eyes, and she’s clenching her jaw to calm the storm breaking through her form.

she counts to ten until her world is eerily still, and everything is silent.

shuri forcefully exhales a deep breath and her senses tune back into the real world where she can hear the heavy knocks on the doors to her chambers, “'mkanikazi wam'... are you all right, mama?” aneka’s whispers are rapid, fearful, but firm, with an undertone of gentleness shuri thinks she doesn’t deserve.

“i’m fine, aneka, just a bad dream.” the lie falls from her mouth too easily, reflexively, but her voice is straining wetly, and her emotions are quickly rising to break her facade. she doesn’t wait for a response but hears the hesitant retreating footsteps of the dora when she's shakily exhaling, then she breaks.

her tears are falling mercilessly as her shoulders shake, and again, she is tempted to put on her suit to use the panther's claws to rip the organ out of her chest. the bothersome vessel only seems to mock her, steadily drawing on its hinges to taunt her with temporary relief just to rear its true animosity.

and for a split second, a second quickly washed away by the instantaneous remorse and shame, she wishes she had left her heart buried with her mother.

but she also knows she doesn’t deserve that kind of relief – she needs it to hurt, to remind her how she hurt you, she craves it almost. she’s sobbing into the walls around her, surrounded by a strong nation weighed down by the excruciating pain of their mother, their protector. shuri’s voice is unrecognisable as the words uncontrollably dig their way out of her aching throat, calling out to you, echoing painfully through the only medium she knows.

“bast, please.”

lucid dreaming i dream about you, do you ever dare dream about me? when i talk to god i ask about you.

ஜ

[losersimonriley]

I want to ask about all of it but please,,, a crumb of sundowning 🙏

Camus I would post sundowning in its entirety right here right now if you asked me to 💘

Here’s a hospital scene mixed with a little flashback:

He clears his throat, fully doubting this will do anything, but willing to try anything.

“Johnny?”

It’s the first time he’s said the name aloud since–

Since.

“Johnny?” She asks, flipping through the chart. “He goes by Johnny? There wasn’t anything in here—”

“No. No, just…,” he trails off, not knowing how the fuck he’s supposed to finish that sentence without giving the impression that they’re something they’re not. He does go by Johnny but you can’t call him that. Nobody else can either actually, unless it’s me. Right then. Jesus Christ. It’s almost a more embarrassing scenario than when he wanted to tell the nurse aide to let him be the one to bathe him.

He remembers Soap warning Alejandro not to call him Johnny. It feels like a lifetime ago. He didn’t know it at the time but that was only the first of several incidents to come from the name.

Soap has completely pulverised their only source of intel. Ghost would be seething about it if he weren’t so turned on.

Soap hadn’t lost it until the rat-faced bastard taunted him with the nickname he’d overheard Ghost use.

“Call me that one more time, ye fuckin’ wankstain, swear I—”

Soap rears back to put a boot in the man’s face, but Ghost finally gains the sense to put a stop to it. He grips Soap by the collar and yanks.

“Simmer.”

It’s unbelievable how quick the raging fire dies down. All from a simple touch and command. He vaguely wonders what else his sergeant might do if he only gave the word.

“Sorry.”

“Mind tellin’ me what the actual fuck that was about?”

“He called me Johnny,” Soap mumbles, looking off to the side.

It reminds him of a child explaining to a parent why he got into a fight in the schoolyard. Similar to a child, the reason is because of name calling. And this one is just a normal bloody name.

“I call you Johnny.”

“Yeah, well, you’re the only one who can.”

He’s said that before—weeks ago in Mexico. Ghost still doesn’t understand it, hasn’t asked, too hesitant about throwing a wrench in this little friendship they’ve started to build. It’s been so long since he’s had a mate like Johnny. Never, actually.

But throw a wrench he must do now because when Price finds out about their prisoner…well. He needs answers. Ones that make even the slightest bit of sense to himself at the very least.

“Why?”

“Because it sounds sexy coming out of your mouth, sir.”

Insubordinate little—

“I don’t know, Ghost,” Johnny sighs, running a bloodied glove down his face. “Supposin’ the both of us need to figure that one out.”

“Just a name I use for him.”

It sounds weak even to his own ears. Heat gathers in his cheeks and he can only hope the mask is high enough to cover the blush. She gives a thoughtful hum before nodding at him to continue.

Why is this so humiliating?

“Johnny,” he says with a bite. “Eyes open for us.”

Nothing. The disappointment that floods his body shouldn’t be so sharp. He’d expected this, afterall. He flops back into his chair.

Emily presses her pen down against Soap’s fingernail with more and more pressure each passing second. Simon digs his own fingers into his kneecaps and Johnny doesn’t open his eyes. Just as expected.

What’s not fucking expected is Johnny’s arm suddenly jerking away from the pressure against his hand.

Ghost shoots up out of his chair once more.

[backtothefanfiction]

Rain Grows | Aramis x Reader Imagine

Summary: sometimes we all just need a good cry.

Length: Short

Warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, depressed feelings

A/N: as usual at the moment, I’m feeling very emotional and angsty and need some hurt comfort from one of my boys. Tonight I chose Aramis.

It was like someone had blown out the candle inside you. The one that kept things running. Your spark. Your hope. Now- there was nothing.

You had always been known for your joy. Your bright smile. That small skip in your step. You had kind words for everyone. But now- now you just wanted to curl up in a ball and cry.

The moment the candle went out, it was like a delay, the smoke making you hazy as you aimlessly wandered around the market in a daze. All the usual faces tried to say “hi” to you, but you couldn’t seem to say it back. You couldn’t even give them your usual toothy grin. Your new polite tight lipped smile became the hushed talk of the market- and it only made you feel worse.

When one of the older ladies finally asked you if you were okay, it made your heart ache. You didn’t know what to do. You didn’t know how to act. This had never happened to you before. Then suddenly his name was echoing around your hollow skull. Your knight in roughed up leathers. He always made your heart skip a beat and brought a smile to your lips and a blush to your cheeks. You just had to see Aramis and everything would be okay.

When you got to the garrison it was empty, most of the musketeers- the inseparables included- were all up at the palace and not due back for a while yet. So you decided to wait. And wait. And then wait some more.

Feeling hollow and empty, you sat yourself on the steps that lead up to the Captain’s office and you waited. Your fingers fiddled idly with your skirts, the rough fabric rubbing against your fingertips grounding you and giving you something to focus on as you waited for the time to pass. 20 minutes. Half an hour. 1 hour. 2. 3.

When it began to rain, you still didn’t move. The cold drops of early spring rain hit the back of your neck- your arms- droplets running down and soaking into your clothes. But you didn’t care. You barely noticed. You had completely checked out, that empty darkness seeping out and wrapping its tendrils around every fibre of your being. You were vaguely aware of the passing looks of the stable hands and a few passing musketeers, but you never looked, never paid them attention, just kept your focus on your one mission. Waiting for Aramis and not completely falling apart until he got here.

*****

“Ahhh, I do love the rain.” Aramis hummed to himself and smiled as he took his hat off and allowed the water to wash over him.

“He’s mad.” D’Artagnan muttered to Porthos and Athos as the four of them made their way back down the street towards the garrison.

Porthos chuckled, “Is that so?” He said to his friend, clapping him on the shoulder, “because I remember just last week you said you hated it.”

“Ahh yes, but that’s because it was still Winter then my friend.” Aramis said back, “Spring is here now. The birds are returning, the flowers are blooming,” his fingers reached to brush across the petals of a couple of blooming flowers in a window box they passed.

“And it’s not so cold.” Athos finished Aramis’ sentence for him, in his usual droll tone.

“Exactly!” Aramis smiled enthusiastically, sweeping his hat back onto his head.

“Afternoon boys.” A fellow Musketeer said as he made his way in the opposite direction, away from the garrison from where he had just come.

“Benoit.” They each greeted him, none of them intending to stop, until he did.

“Umm, Aramis, you should know, there’s a young woman waiting for you. Been there a while.”

“Does this lady have a name?” Athos asked.

“She didn’t say, was just asking after Aramis, but I think it’s that girl who works down at the tavern on-“

Aramis didn’t need Benoit to say which tavern, he already knew it was you. But you never visited him at work. You’d seek him out in the tavern- sure- but you never sought him out outside of your work. “How long has she been waiting?” He asked.

“I’d say just gone 3 hours.” Benoit replied before he began to start walking in the direction of his next destination again.

“3 hours?” Porthos said.

“In this weather?” D’Artagnan added.

“Shit, it must be really bad.” Porthos continued, a hint of amusement beginning to fill his voice as he prepared to make a joke and mock his closest friend, “Don’t tell me you got her knocked up?” He began to joke, but Aramis’s face had grown serious.

He ignored his friends as he began to pick up speed, his brisk walk turning into a light jog as he left them behind to run on ahead. You had been waiting for him for over three hours. Why? It had to have been important if you were willing to stay there and wait in the rain for him.

His pace slowed as he came through the gate to the garrison, your rain soaked body near frozen on the stairs as you looked down at your fingers. He found himself pulling his hat off of his head in respect. His steps towards you were slow and tentative, as if he were stalking an animal in the woods, not wishing to startle it, just get a better look. He suddenly froze mere feet away from you as Porthos’s booming and defensive voice grew closer to the gate, making you look up at him like a startled deer.

“Hey- hey…” he said in ever softer tones as if to soothe you and make sure you were okay, “it’s okay.” He said. You both looked away from each other to his brothers as they came into view of the gate, their hesitating eyes locking on the two of you and your more somber faces, each giving you both a silent nod of acknowledgment before passing by and making their way inside.

“You should come inside,” Aramis said, taking another gentle step closer to you, “dry off-“ but his words got trapped in his throat when your eyes met his. They were so scared. So worried. “What is it? What’s happened?” He asked, placing his foot up on the bottom step and leaning in to you, his fingers instinctively reaching out for your face. He forced you to keep your eyes on him. Silently reassured you that he saw your pain and had no intention of averting his eye or looking away.

You had no words. You thought the moment you saw him it would magically make things better, but it didn’t. You didn’t know what else to do now. You had waited in the rain all afternoon in the hopes that you would see his face and it would make everything okay. Now you were just wet. Empty and wet. Your chest sagged, heart breaking and suddenly the dam broke too. Tears filled your eyes and big chest wracking sobs burst free. Aramis quickly shucked off his jacket, wrapping it around your shoulders. He then sat himself beside you on the step and wrapped you in his arms.

His embrace was comforting, the smell of his leather familiar. He kissed the top of your head as you just cried. Your tears mingled with the rain on your cheeks and after a few attempts of trying to brush them away for you, Aramis just gave up and held you tighter and continued to let you cry. “There, there,” he cooed softly as he slowly rocked you back and forth on the step, “let it all out.”

“I’m sorry.” Your broken voice said between sobs, but he wouldn’t accept it.

“Now, now, there’s nothing to be sorry about.” He said with another kiss to the top of your wet head.

After another few minutes wrapped up in his embrace, your sobs began to break. “There, there.” He continued to gently say, “it’s okay, I’ve got you,” he repeated, until your breathing was finally under control again and your tears ceased to fall anymore, the rain seaming to also grow lighter too.

As you pushed yourself up away from his chest, wiping at your face as you tried to meet his eyes, his own hands moving to replace your own to do the task for you, you slowly attempted to find your voice once more. “I’m sorry.” You said again. “I just-“ but you couldn’t find the words to explain what happened… because truly you didn’t know what happened, but with his presence, his kindness and warmth, the safety of his arms protecting you as you allowed yourself to shatter into a million pieces, it somehow eased the tension in your chest. You still felt a little bit empty, but now you felt lighter.

“It’s okay.” He said to you again as he smoothed back a sopping wet strand of your hair from your face. Already he could see the light in your eyes returning. He looked hesitantly down to your lips, then back up to your eyes. He’d wanted to kiss them for a while, the way you’d nibble on them and blush when you saw him and give him not your big smiles you gave to everyone else, but your smaller adorable, bashful and intimate ones. But now, knowing he meant so much to you that when you were hurting, he was the only one you’d share your vulnerability with, it made him want to kiss you even more. But now was not the time. Instead he decided to use his mouth instead to distract. “Do you know why I love the rain?” He asks you, his fingers reaching out to intertwine with your cold ones as he looks out towards the gates of the garrison.

“No.” You reply as you carefully watch his face from the side, the corners of his lips turning up as the dark clouds above began to pass and make way for a clearer skies.

“Because it washes away the old and makes everything clean, ready to start a fresh.” He says proudly, his chest puffing up slightly as he turns his head to share his grin with you and it makes the corners of your own mouth twitch, a faint ghost of a smile slowly gracing your features, observing his boy like wonder about the world.

“It also,” he continues, his thumb rubbing gently across the back of your hand, “brings life.” He smiles. “It waters the plants and helps the flowers to bloom and the crops to grow. There’s so much wonder in the rain. Everyone gets so caught up in it, you know. Their clothes get wet and the shoes get muddy. But it’s so much more than that. Plus,” he says, standing and pulling you up with him, “when it eventually passes and the sun begins to shine again, sometimes,” he says, pulling you into the centre of the garrison, his eyes moving in small searching flashes to the sky until they stop and he too stops, turning you in the right direction to see what he does, “you get to see truly rare beauty that no amount of money in the world could buy.”

His hands rest on your shoulders from behind and his finger points up to the sky- and there you see it, faint at first, but slowly growing stronger. A rainbow. It makes you smile. A full one this time too. You feel his body relax behind you at the sight of it and you can’t help but relax back into him again, your smile growing content.

“See, even the sky cries some times.” He says into your ear, and you can feel the smile on his lips with how close his mouth is to it.

“And maybe it sends rainbows to let us know it was a good cry.” You turn your head and smile at him.

He beams, a small breathy chuckle escaping his lips. With a warm twinkle in his eye, he kisses your temple in agreement. “Sometimes we all just need a good cry.” He confirms.

[geminigengar]

Would You Still Love Me Then?

eddie munson x goth!reader

y/n gets plastered at a party and asks eddie just how much he loves them

warnings: macabre • talks of death, suicide, murder, corpses, & injury • alcohol consumption • illusions to smut • no use of Y/N • all fluff

A/N: could be considered dark fic idk this is literally just how i talk with my partners🤷🏽 • reader is black coded.

word count: 1.6k

eddie was layed out on the couch at steve's. he wasn't having a good time, but he wasn't having a bad time either. he was comfortable nursing a beer and zoning out.

he hadn't drank enough to feel anything, only working the one beer the whole night. he told you beforehand he'd be your designated driver for the night so you could relax. midterms were over and you'd busted ass studying these past few weeks. eddie was so proud of you despite how worried he'd been that you were overworking yourself. tonight he was content to watch as you let loose and unwinded with your friends.

he was more than happy to spread out, taking up the entire couch, and wait until you were ready to leave.

or he was until you rushed over on unsteady legs through the throng of party-goers to sit on his lap, kicking your feet up on the coffee table; your platform boots making a resounding thud even over the thrum of the music. eddie threw an arm around your shoulders. he pressed a kiss to your temple. he halted mid sentence, asking if you wanted to go home, upon seeing the tears in your eyes.

eddie sat up, tightening his arms around you protectively. "whoa hey, hey, hey pretty baby what's wrong? what happened?" he was panicked but he hid it as best he could as he wiped the tears from your brown cheeks with his thumbs.

you weren't a cryer, not by any means. his first thought was someone had bothered you when you were out of his eyesight; making him all the more concerned. pushing the thought of beating the hell out of whoever hurt you to the back of his mind he focused only on consoling you as you laid out on top of him.

you sniffed as you palmed at your eyes, smearing your bat wing eyeliner you had perfected before coming here. "eddie," you started with a pout "what if-"

you cut yourself off with a broken sob and buried your head in his neck, crying quietly. eddie cradled your head, whispering sweet nothings in your ear. glaring at any partiers that looked at you both. not that there were many that even noticed your presence with the amount of alcohol and everyone's drug of choice being passed around.

he pressed kisses to your curls as he rubbed your back until you calmed down enough to speak. when you finally relaxed enough, eddie held your face in his hands to make you look at him. he wiped the stained mascara from your under your eyes as he asked what had upset you.

after blinking at the ceiling a few times to gather your thoughts you looked back at him, a pout adorning your features. "what if my skull isnt pretty?"

eddie starred at you for a few moments hoping what you asked would make sense after a second.

still wasn't clicking.

"huh?"

you rolled your eyes at him, as if your question was the most simple thing in the world. "my head eddie." you swiped at your nose with the sleeve of your sweater, adjusting your septum ring. "what if my skull's ugly? what if- if i die right? and my head is- is left. what if my skull's a bad one, what if its like misshapen or, or discoloured or something?" you vented.

eddie was at a loss for words, his only reaction a raise of his eyebrow.

he knew you were into what he affectionately called 'some dark shit.' but he couldn't recall ever seeing you torn up about it. he'd seen you emotional on late nights watching horror movies, asking if he could passionately murder you the same way the killer of the day ended a life onscreen. or telling him how romantic a suicide pact with him would be. these nights always ended with you underneath him, writhing as he whispered vague threats he didn't mean but still made your blood run hot.

yeah, he knew you were absolutely fucking weird but he adored it. sure, it sounded completely insane; but he knew it came from a place of genuine love. he knew you respected the idea of death and found beauty in it. even if he couldn't explain it himself he was honoured that you loved him as much as your love for the macabre.

"like-" slurring your words, you started again, "like babe, if i was beheaded would you put my skull on the wall? would i have a nice enough skull to put above a fire place?"

eddie snorted, twirling one of your loose curls around his finger. he squished your cheeks with his free hand to accentuate your already prominent pout. "my love, you have such a beautiful skull, vlad the impaler would die to get his hands on it," he stated with a quick peck to your lips.

he could practically see your heart swell at his words. they held such love and adoration he never imagined would ever be directed at him as he cradled your jaw in his hands like you were made of glass. to him you were the most precious thing in the world.

"you mean it?"

"i mean it," emphasising his words with a kiss to your forehead.

eddie heard a quiet "what the fuck?" from steve as he walked past the couch. eddie wasn't sure how much of the conversation he or anyone else had overhead but he didn't care. not when you were holding his hands and pressing little kisses to his cheeks and neck on whatever skin you could reach.

"although babe?" he added "i'd never mount your head on the wall."

you pulled back so fast eddie had to grab your waist to ensure you didn't fall of the couch. you looked at him, your face contorting to reflect the utter betrayal you were engulfed with at the stab in the heart you felt at his words. the tears that started welling in your eyes again nearly broke eddie's heart before he kissed your cheeks, catching any fallen tears.

"you know why, love?" he spoke between kisses into your hair. eddie held your jaw again as he pressed your foreheads together in a gentle and intimate show of his overflowing affection. "because i won't need to. i plan on growing old with you 'til we're crazy old fucks yelling at kids from the porch. and when i go out i'm damn sure it'll be with you. and if you go before me, you already know i'll follow you anywhere, baby. from our joint coffin, when our bodies are decaying and rotting together until we're dust in this life, to wherever you wanna take us in the next. i don't plan on going a day with you, now or ever."

you felt tears form in your eyes for the umpteenth time that night. god, you loved him so so much and he loves you too! you wondered how you got so lucky to receive the love of your best friend and soul mate. you knew you were unusual, different from most, and still this delightfully troublesome man had waltzed into your life; not only embracing all your quirks and oddities but loving them. loving you.

any doubts you had, no matter how small, vanished at his proclamation. you knew he was telling you the honest truth, you could feel his sincerity settling into your bones. you always knew you'd stay with him as long as he'd have you and hearing he'd having you forever, despite your flaws and fuck ups left you in tears.

you were never letting him go.

eddie then pulled back, frantic at the sound of your sobs. apologetic, he started to speak but your lips were on his before he could apologise.

in that moment everything drifted away for him. there was only you, and god he loved it. the feel of your soft, dark lips against his own; the sensation of your warm hands against his chest, your long nails digging deliciously into his skin.

he was consumed by the outpouring of adoration and love you poured into every second of the kiss. his hand tangled in the back of your hair to deepen it, needing this moment with you; needing you to know how much he adored- how much he craved you- how much he loved you.

you felt it as youbroke away, choosing to place lazy, sweet kisses along his neck and jaw. you sniffled again after working your way back to his mouth, pressing another soft kiss to his lips. "i love you, edward. so much."

eddie grinned, kissing your forehead once more before he shifted you both into a sitting position, "i know."

you laughed at his sudden change from seriousness and soft to his usual brand of humour, "dickhead."

"your dickhead."

"yeah, all mi-" you cut off with a squeak as eddie lifted you bridal style from the couch. normal he would carry you on his front, a strong grip on both your ass and thighs that he loved so much; but with you drunk and in a floor length skirt, he worked with what he had.

"i'm all yours, always." he kissed you quick as he made his way through the crowd, "let's get you home, sweet thing." he was laughing as you kicked multiple couples out of his path on his way to the door.

eddie he reached the van he'd parked down the street, he set you down in the passenger seat, clicking your seatbelt on with another kiss to your cheek and closed your door.

the moment he was situated in the driver's seat, music on, windows down, and headed home home; you reached your hand over, splayed across his chest. eddie grinned as he held your hand as he kissed your knuckles, his eyes on the road. "by the way sweetheart, i love you too."

[dirtytransmasc]

the level of just... I don't want to be rude, but stupidity that just consumes this whole idea, I don't even know where to fucking start.

like what? what is this? some random person on the internet in the 20th century being a bastard is vastly different than 3 princes of the realm, son's of the heir, from a fantasy show/universe that can't be compared on a timeline, since its y'know, fictional and takes place in a fictional timeline, but most things point it being vaguely 12th century based. its not some fucking gotcha, like yup a lot of people nowadays are born out of wedlock, myself included, that totally nullifies any and all consequences of being a royal bastard at a time when being a bastard was literally a death sentence...

like what else should I say? this is just so nonsensical, I can't even come up with a response.

it's really tiring seeing TB fans strip the context and nuance from literally every scenario ever. like it was never really about them being bastards, it was about them being bastard prince's, that were still being pushed as legitimate heirs to not one, but two thrones, and were an active threats to multiple children (Alicent's children. Baela and Rhaena, cause if they hadn't been betrothed to Jace and Luke, which is a death sentence in its own right, would have to be taken out of the picture to secure the boy's reigns. their own legitimate siblings.), and the fact that its literal treason committed by the heir to the throne, who then did whatever it took to defend her lies, no matter who it hurt... like yes, people were mad that they were the bastard, but it was definitely influenced by all of the context surrounding it.

then there's the comments, which... jesus... these are my favs (warning, they're somehow more nonsensical):

so first off, we have this one, which, the logic is so far out the window I don't even think any amount of logical response can touch it. bastards are, by definition "a child born to parents who are not married to each other" which doesn't describe Alicent's children at all. just because they don't meet your weird, blood purity, eugenics type bullshit standards, doesn't make them bastards, it just makes you dense.

and then there's this one. just because it wasn't shoved down your throat so hard you can't even attempt to refute it, like it was in the show, in the books, doesn't mean it wasn't there, and doesn't mean its not true, your head just permanently takes residence in your ass. they were most definitely bastards in the books, they just showed it instead of told it, unlike the show that told you outright that they were.

I just want one day where TikTok doesn't give me a stroke, cause this damn near put me over the edge.

[resignedbiology]

freedom — freedom?

a kainess 'breakup' oneshot, aka alexis ness finally decides kaiser can kick rocks rated G: no warnings, just kaiser slander !!

Alexis Ness wasn't so much a man — he occupied the same niche as shadows, reflections, glancing sights from your peripheral. He'd made his home in the silhouette of Michael Kaiser; or perhaps, it had been crafted for him, a cramped little box that never grew any bigger. It was the same size as it was when they were children, meant to keep him perfectly bent and contorted into what Michael wanted. Some birds love their cages, don't they? ... some of them, certainly.

Fortunately, Kaiser had forgotten one key aspect to caging his little sparrow — he'd never clipped his wings. The air was cold. The updrift was strong. He could do it — he could fly away.

Ness turned his head to look at Kaiser, the lamplight's warm golden glow highlighting the stray blue streak of hair that had been pulled out of his hood by the icy wind. His heartbeat sped at the sight of him, just a little, as it always did. He hated it, how conditioned his body was to favour Kaiser like the monarch he so desperately wanted to be. Maybe it would always be like that. A whistle pulled the players' attention to the train lazily making its way to a stop before them, countless people disembarking with bags, coats, souveniers, umbrellas, canes; for what it was worth, Ness' eye for detail made people watching into an artistic experience.

All of these people, living such different lives, each with a story hundreds of pages long to tell. Someday, I'll have my own story too. He stood on the platform while the attendants picked up Kaiser's bags and loaded them into the sleeper car. Rocking back and forth on his heels was just one way of keeping himself calm; he'd need any help he could get.

"What are you smiling at?" Kaiser's affect was flat; not quite yet annoyed, but getting close. For once, Ness' smile didn't immediately fall back into a blank slate.

"... freedom."

"Wha — Ness, I know you're tired but you shouldn't be delusional —"

"I'm not going with you."

"What?" the blond's teeth clenched, lacing the word with an authoritarian disgust.

"I'm staying in Belgium. I refunded my ticket, and they're sold out, so I'm not going with you."

"... if you're trying to make a joke, you've never been funny, Ness."

"It's not a joke, I'm staying here. Don't make this harder than it has to be, Michael —" his sentence was harshly clipped off by the blond's fingers knotting into the collar of Ness' jacket.

"Ness, if you try me one more time —"

The conductor blew a whistle, sending a tired glare Kaiser's way. It was apparent some people didn't know or care about his highness and his temper tantrums. In that moment, he still had an audience, but they weren't there to applaud his outburst; all they saw was an angry man, one to be treated with disdain and vague worry. Something about the way Kaiser let go of his collar, with just enough of a shove to push Ness back a bit, it was — cathartic. You won't be able to push me away if I never come back.

"If you're not in Berlin by this Sunday, I will make sure you never play in Europe again."

"Goodnight, Michael."

The last caustic stare Kaiser gave him was feeble, pitiful.

As the train left Ness on the platform alone, he shuddered out a cloudy breath. Cold air cycled through his lungs, deep inhales and exhales working over time to keep his mind from spinning. Only the soft sound of someone calling for his attention made him turn his head. A woman with mousy features was giving him a shyly concerned look. Ness managed to smile free of any manipulated joy, a massive feat he'd later reflect on.

"I'm okay, ma'am, he's — he's always been like that."

"... you know, dear, men like that never change. They'll eat up space in your life until you've got nothing left. You look like a sweet boy, you don't need people like him."

For a moment, Ness' lips opened, but no sound escaped. He knew exactly what he'd intended to say — some sort of groveling attempt at covering up for Kaiser's manipulation, his arrogance, his violence — but he refrained. He didn't have the words to voice how much her words meant, how sagely that advice was to him, specifically him, in that moment. Ness put a hand to his heart, realising his pulse had calmed, no longer responsible for beating to the whims of another man.

"You're right — I don't need him."

While he waved goodbye, the woman gave him a little smile and a polite nod before going on her way. Ness' hand slipped into his breast pocket, taking the plane ticket out to hold inbetween his thumb and index finger as if to examine its authenticity. It was real; Alexis Ness could finally fly away.

[magicalbats]

Kinktober Day 6: Chastity

Rating: R-18+

Word Count: 7860

Warnings: amab!reader, trans!Scaramouche, Scaramouche has a pussy, chastity device, orgasm denial, light cock & ball torture, face fucking, cunnilingus, face sitting, gender role reversal, noncon to dubcon

A/N: It seems fitting for the sixth day to go to the sixth Fatui Harbinger, doesn’t it?

⭐

The click of cool metal sliding into place sounds unbearably loud in the otherwise silent room. It's vaguely reminiscent of an executioner sharpening his blade against a whet stone, or perhaps a hangman tightening his knot on a noose, and you can’t help but nervously squirm in place. Even knowing the kind of trouble it could get you in isn’t enough to stop you from acting on that instinctive urge. This felt like a death sentence in what might very well end up being the most literal sense and you were understandably scared. Frightened of what would come next. 

But the Balladeer doesn’t seem to pay you any mind at all, an exceedingly rare blessing in your miserable existence, and the brunt of his attention remains focused on the task at hand. His fingers are cool to the touch and elegant in their slim length as he checks that the contraption is secure around your scrotum before giving the skin of your testicles a not particularly gentle tug to make sure that they too are locked in place as they should be. Evidently deeming everything to be in order, he finally moves on to the final piece. 

The implication of the tiny — much too tiny — cage is not at all lost on you, and you squirm again when he brings it close to your dangling cock. A sharp look from him is all it takes to get the message across and you force yourself to grow still and pliant again. Keeping your hands behind your back where they’re obediently folded is a real struggle as your commander fits the tight steel over the head and forces it down until it latches into place at the base, effectively trapping your penis in its own diminutive prison. 

You suck in a sharp, warbling breath when you glance down at yourself, taking in his handiwork with nothing short of fast mounting horror. Not only was the cage cramped and tight, but it was also so short in length that it forced your cock to press up into your pelvis until it looked as if you may as well have not had anything there at all. Feeling emasculated and neutered all in one fell swoop, you suck in a wet, faltering breath. 

“My lord - -“ 

Scaramouche wraps those long, dainty fingers around the metal and squeezes tight. “Did I give you permission to speak, filthy cur?” 

Whimpering, you close your eyes and shake your head. Even with the cage protecting you from the Harbinger’s full wrath, it still made you a little ill to see him handling you like that. It may not have hurt you physically but it was certainly doing a number on you mentally. 

Issuing a curt huff, Scaramouche disinterestedly lifts your trapped cock to cradle it in the palm of his hand. Using the other, he grabs the heavy lock off the low set table next to him and quickly snaps it into place. Carelessly, he drops your genitals without a second thought to the matter and you seethe when the tight contraption pulls at you and humiliatingly bounces between your legs. You had no idea what you’d done to earn this bizarre form of punishment but you sorely hoped it would be over and done with, and you would be freed soon. 

“There. That looks much better.” Scaramouche murmurs, evidently more to himself than to you, as he takes a step back to better admire your predicament. Perhaps under normal circumstances you would have found the grace to be flattered by his appreciative glance over your naked body or maybe you would have even reciprocated it but, well … better circumstances would not have found you locked in a cock cage against your will. 

Nervously licking your lips, you decide to test your luck. “My lord Balladeer, I’m afraid I don’t understand. If I could just - -“

“Silence.” He cuts across you like the crack of a whip, making you cower. “It’s not your place to understand, is it? I don’t have to explain myself to you. Now, get out of my sight.” 

You can’t quite wipe the shock off your face. “I’m sorry?” 

“I said leave me!” Scaramouche snaps, gesturing sharply at the door on the opposite side of the room. The volatile spark in his sapphire-blue eyes accompanied with the scowl tugging at his mouth turns out to be incentive enough for you to bend down to retrieve your clothes from the floor, and you do so with great haste. 

You’re almost to the doorway when you hear him add, much more quietly, “And don’t you dare ever question me again.” 

Making a mental note of that, as if you hadn’t already known damn well, you slip out into the chilly hallway with a surreptitious glance in either direction. Luckily the Balladeer’s offices were sequestered to their own little wing of the palace grounds and the corridor is thankfully empty of any other presence. Quickly, you start to pull on your clothes before someone happens to catch a glimpse of your humiliating state, grimacing each time the metal shifts with you and pinches the skin. You had no idea what to do about this or how long he was expecting you to wear it, but you decidedly did not like it. 

Pants secured now, you hesitate a moment before experimentally squeezing yourself through the front of them. Just as you’d feared. You couldn’t perceive any sensation at all save the vague, distant brush of your underwear barely tickling you through the thin metal bars. This was not good. It wasn’t good at all. What the hell were you even supposed to do with this thing stuck on you? And what was the reason for it? You really had no idea how to answer either of those questions. 

Heaving a long suffering sigh, you finish getting dressed and beat a hasty retreat from the area. You were just going to have to figure out how to work around this until he decided to take pity on you. That probably should’ve been your first clue that this would be no easy trial to overcome, seeing as the Balladeer had little sympathy or forgiveness to spare, but you were nothing if not an optimist. 

~*~

Hours pass, and you soon realize you’ve never wanted to touch yourself as badly as you do when you can’t. You’d never had this problem, had never found yourself in a situation such as this, and your fingers itch to wrap around your cock unlike ever before. You feel dizzy with it, half delirious on your feet, but trying to resist the urge just seems to make it worse. 

Finally having no other choice, you hastily excuse yourself from the training grounds with a rushed excuse of having stomach pains, and you practically trip over your own feet to get behind a locked door. Any would have done in that moment but luckily you find the first bathroom you come to unoccupied. Slamming the lock into place, you fumble to get your pants pulled down and desperately palm at your cock with fast growing panic. Nothing. No amount of pulling or tugging, or tentative squeezing netted even the smallest result. None that were pleasurable, anyway. It was like you’d been castrated except your cock was still very much there, out of reach and aching for friction it wasn’t going to get any time soon. 

Back against the wall, you sink down to curl up on the floor and try not to cry. You weren’t going to survive this if your lord drug it out much longer. 

~*~

A day passes, and the first morning is so much worse than the restless hours you’d spent tossing and turning in bed, much to your bunk mates annoyance. It’s the discomfort in your groin that actually wakes you up, and you turn over with a groggy moan before realization suddenly hits you like a sack of bricks. 

Your eyes snap open in the pre-dawn gloom, yanking the blanket up with a quick jerk to peer down at yourself. Where you once would have found morning wood pressing against the front of your standard issue sleep pants, there was now only … nothing. Nothing at all except a small, faintly lumpy outline. Panic grips you so hard and so fast that for a moment you almost forget about that exchange with the Balladeer in his office yesterday, but it all comes rushing back when you yank the front of your bottoms down to expose yourself. Coming face to face with that horrid cage fills you with a deep, withering sense of shame and you clench your teeth, willing your hard on to go away. The metal was much too tight and constricting for you to get even slightly aroused without causing a great deal of discomfort, but this was somehow even worse. Like your own body had betrayed you, disregarding all the warning signs to stop filling out your cock until it was pressed tight against the interior of the bars, aching and flushed. 

It hurt, of course, but somehow even worse than that is the fact you couldn’t do anything about it. You could relieve neither the pressure of the cage or the frustrated sexual tension tightening your loins to the point of great discomfort. You were trapped without a way out until the Balladeer decided to unlock you. 

Fighting back a hysterical sob, you flop back onto the pillow and beg your cock to soften, staring up at the ceiling while the sun slowly starts to crest the horizon outside the barracks. This was going to be a long, long day. 

~*~

Mid afternoon rolls around and you can hardly even think straight anymore. Your mind was a muddled, static mess of thoughts, each somehow managing to be more desperate and frantic than the last, which seemed almost impossible at a certain point and yet … 

You’d considered every possible angle to the situation, no stone left unturned and all that. Cutting yourself free with a pair of shears or whatever else you could get your hands on had sounded like a good idea until you remembered how tight the cage actually was. You would never be able to fit a blade between metal and skin without harming yourself in the process, so that notion was quickly discarded. Using something other than your hands to stimulate your cock just to relieve the throbbing pulse there likewise seemed promising until you realized how much that would actually hurt in the long run. The most promising possibility you’d lingered on was using water to stimulate the head, wondering in your hazy desperation if you could somehow eke out an orgasm with enough patience but … well, you didn’t really have the time for that. Your presence would have been sorely missed after a while, and there was no telling how long something like that would actually take. With the cage in the way, you couldn’t even pull back the foreskin to expose the glans for direct contact so that, too, was ultimately tossed aside. 

You even momentarily played with the idea of going to one of the other Harbingers and begging them to either free you themselves or make the Balladeer do it. It felt like you were losing your mind but even then you still recognized what a terrible choice that would have been. Not only would you further humiliate yourself by telling someone else of the sorry state you were in, but you also understood that no one other than the Tsaritsa herself could tell him what to do. And you certainly weren’t going to go to her about this. 

You’re so distracted by your own thoughts and the ever present pinch of the metal contraption around your genitals, constantly reminding you it was there no matter how hard you try to pretend it’s not, that you almost miss the sudden hush that falls over the training yard. It’s only when the man standing nearest to you, a big soldier with an even bigger mouth, visibly shrinks in on himself that you glance up. Your breath catches in your throat when you see none other than the Balladeer strolling across the frozen dirt, disinterestedly glancing over the gathered rank and file of the sixth regiment as if you were all so far beneath him that you didn’t even warrant proper acknowledgement. 

Just the simple act of looking at him is enough to bring back the memory of receiving the order to report to his office. The way he’d sounded, the droll pitch of his voice when he issued the command for you to undress, and the way he’d proceeded to handle your cock and balls with almost clinical detachment. The ominous click of the metal locking you in place. It was all so vivid and real in the moment that a wave of flustered embarrassment immediately shoots up your neck to warm your face. You were blushing, and rather profusely by the feel of it, but you quickly try to make yourself invisible. If you could just blend in with the other men standing around you … 

But of course you have no such luck. Not in this lifetime and probably not in the next either, if your track record was anything to go by, and you stiffen when the Balladeer’s attention abruptly lands on you. His expression remains as impassive as ever, as if he doesn’t even recognize you or recall what he did to you only just yesterday — and much to your shame your cock eagerly jumps under that hard, inscrutable gaze. The bars dig into you, physically preventing you from filling out and lengthening all the way, and you suck in a sharp breath that makes a few of the soldiers standing around you glance over. 

The embarrassment was going to kill you if the Balladeer didn’t do it first. 

All he does is slowly blink at you though, the gesture so bland and unimpressed that you actually start to wither in shame. But then, to your surprise, a small twitch of his mouth pulls at the corners and he smirks at you. Outright smirks at you! All mean and secretive, he pins you with that scathing look for all of a single heartbeat and then he’s turning away with an elegant swish of the veil on his hat. Flicking his arm out, he speaks loudly enough to address the whole yard. 

“Get back to work. Now!” 

You certainly don’t need to be told twice. 

~*~

That evening is no better than the first and you spend hours tossing and turning, alternating between futilely trying to rub yourself over the cage and lying on your stomach so you can hump the mattress as discreetly as you possibly can. There was no shortage of mastubatory activity in the male barracks and it was an unspoken rule that everyone just looked the other way, pretending not to see or hear anything. Each of you had your urges, after all, and you wouldn’t hold it against one another if a little stress relief after a hard day was needed. 

But you were clearly pushing the boundary of that understanding, and you’d already been told to fuck off by one of your bunk mates who’d threatened to smother you in your sleep if you didn’t stop. You could feel the tension in the room slowly mounting higher and higher each time your bed gave a little creak and you knew you were really toeing a fine line here, but you couldn’t bring yourself to stop. You were so desperate to feel anything at all that for a split second you actually considered asking them to help you. 

That was the delirium talking, though. There was no way you could do that and expect not to get your ass beat, possibly even killed, for the insult. Although you were sure one or two of them probably would have taken you up on the offer, and you were quite tempted, the risk of angering the others was far too great to actually take the chance. It was another unspoken rule here, an intrinsic understanding that while some soldiers would turn to each other for companionship, no one outright talked about it. No one blatantly offered themselves up like some cheap whore to a room full of other men. 

Oh, but you wanted to so bad. You’d long reached the point where you didn’t care how you achieved it, what low you had to sink or how you debased yourself in the process. You just needed to cum. The thrumming tension in your body was overwhelming and torturous, mind numbing in its potency, and you would have done anything to find relief from it. Anything at all. 

Even seek out the Balladeer? 

That thought stops you mid stroke over the cage, your cock so swollen inside its tiny prison you could feel the indent of bars digging into sensitive flesh. You could go to him. Maybe you should. Perhaps that’s even what he’s been waiting for — for you to break and come crawling to him on hand and knee, begging for his mercy. You wouldn’t have put it past him, truth be told. 

In fact, the more you thought about it the more you convinced yourself in your addled state that this was exactly what your lord Harbinger wanted. There wasn’t really any other possible answer, was there? You don’t stop long enough to consider the alternatives. 

Viciously ripping off the bedsheet, you find your feet and make a quick beeline for the door. You catch a murmur of grumbles behind you and one audible “thank the gods” before you’re out in the hall where you pause long enough to squeeze at your throbbing cock through the front of your pants. Just to make absolutely sure. 

Still nothing, though, and you loudly hiss through your teeth as you hurry off down the silent corridor, all but tripping over yourself in your haste. 

~*~

You find him in his sparsely furnished office, looking just the same as the afternoon before. You’re admittedly a little surprised by that given how late it is and how many obligations he has to tend to throughout the day, but he doesn’t even look the least bit flagged or tired. As beautiful and immaculate as ever, he merely stares at you with that same dispassionate look over the cup of tea he’s sipping. 

For a wild, erratic moment, you actually consider throwing yourself at his feet and pleading with him to take pity on you. 

But you force your legs to carry you forward as calmly as you can, your heart thundering in your chest. You stop a respectful distance away, bowing low, only for your head to pop up again when he draws a stilted breath laced with unmistakable annoyance at your presence before him. 

“What do you want?” 

You swallow hard, forcing the muscles in your throat to cooperate. “If I may, lord Harbinger?” 

“I already told you to speak.” He snaps. “Do not waste my time or my patience with you.” 

“Forgive me,” you rush to say, stumbling over your words now that you’ve been given permission to freely voice them. “I only wanted to, um, request that you please take this … device back. I’d greatly appreciate it, my lord. Please.”

Huffing a quiet laugh, Scaramouche sets his cup aside on the low table beside him and neatly folds his hands in his lap. He looks at you like some mangy stray on the street, like you’re less than the dirt on his shoes as he tips his head back to haughtily peer down the length of his nose. “Why should I?” 

“It’s causing me a great deal of distress, if I’m being honest. It’s tight and uncomfortable, and it hurts - -“

“Good.” 

Your mouth parts in surprise but nothing comes out for a prolonged moment. You just couldn’t wrap your head around this. Why would he deign to punish you in such a cruel way? “I’m sorry, lord Balladeer, but I really don’t understand. What have I done to deserve this?” 

He tips his head to the side, pinning you with that flat look again. “Do I need to give you a reason?” 

“I’d certainly appreciate one!” You blurt, and jittery panic immediately rises up from deep within your chest. It threatens to drown you, suffocate you on the spot, but you blindly push ahead anyway, even when what little was left of your higher functioning mind warns you to tread carefully. “Apologies for speaking out of line, but I can’t sleep like this. I can’t even think. It feels like I’m losing my mind and I’m afraid I’m going to make a very stupid decision if I stay like this much longer. I can’t even properly relieve myself,” you choke on what you’re saying, making Scaramouche lift a thin brow at you. “I have to sit on the toilet just to take a piss now or this damn cage makes a mess everywhere. Do you have any idea how emasculating it is to not even be able to pee like a man anymore? Do you even care - -“

“Enough!” 

Scaramouche is suddenly on his feet, quickly striding towards you, and the look on his face immediately steals the breath from your lungs. You’d never seen him look so furious, and it’s somehow that much more terrifying than his usually unreadable mask. You start to backpedal in terror but he’s on top of you in an instant, and you choke on a startled gasp when he fists the front of your shirt so he can yank you down to eye level. Finding yourself nose to nose with the Balladeer himself was something you could have gone your whole life without experiencing, and you simply gape at him from millimeters away, shocked into mute silence. 

“Did you ever even stop to think maybe that’s why I did it?” He hisses right in your face. “You’re so cute running around with that dopey look all the time and it pisses me off. You shouldn’t even be here. You’re not fit for service are you, wretch?” 

Despite the undeniable fear searing your veins, you still manage to frown at that. “S - sir? What does that mean?” 

Scaramouche barks out a bitter laugh and shoves you away from him, making you stumble and almost fall on your ass. “Just look at you! You’re small and weak. Useless.” He hisses the word like venom. “You wouldn’t even make good cannon fodder. You’re just another filthy mouth to feed, no closer to a real man than I am, and yet you still have what I lack. That doesn’t seem very fair to you, does it?” 

Your brows shoot up in shock and disbelief, almost disappearing straight into your hairline. 

“You’re surprised? Oh, I just bet you are.” Scaramouche’s mouth pulls into a mean smirk, all sharp edges and bitter steel slashing viscously across his face. “Still, you have a lot of nerve coming in here and accusing me of not understanding what it means to be emasculated. To be denied something so integral to your identity. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re just begging for me to kill you right here and now.” A pause, while he disinterestedly looks you up and down. Finally crossing his arms over his chest, he freezes you in place with a bitingly cold look. “Take your clothes off. And do not question me.” 

Recognizing that you have no other choice, you slowly comply. Of course you know this can’t be good, that you’d somehow set forth the least desirable outcome in coming here, but a foolish little part of you still hopes for the best. Maybe, if you were lucky, he would simply unlock you and send you on your way. Call the whole thing a wash. Hell, if he put in transfer papers for you to be moved to another regiment first thing in the morning you wouldn’t have considered that a bad thing at all. 

But luck is never on your side, it seems, and you awkwardly attempt to cup your hands around your caged cock as discreetly as you can, trying to hide your shame from him. You’ve all but withered away completely under his sharp, slicing gaze so there’s more than enough room for you inside the steel trap now but that doesn’t exactly make it any less humiliating. In fact, it almost seems to make it even worse, especially when Scaramouche merely stares at you as if he’s never before seen a more pathetic sight. 

At length, he finally speaks. “On your knees.” 

You hesitate, understandably wary of what your compliance would mean, but then he narrows his eyes at you in warning and you practically collapse onto the floor. It’s impossible to find a comfortable position like this though, and you eventually have to settle on closing your thighs together to stop the metal contraption from pulling at your cock. It’s a bit demeaning to sit like this but at least it wasn’t pinching or digging into you. 

Waiting until you stop squirming, Scaramouche lets the tension settle over the room for another moment longer before unfolding his arms and reaching for the complicated sash around his middle. Your eyes practically pop right out of your skull when you realize what he’s doing but maintain your obedient silence while he slowly works to discard layer after layer; cotton and silk, and a sinuously thin, clinging fabric that you don’t have a name for. Last but not least, he unravels the foreign undergarments from around his narrow hips and carelessly tosses them aside. 

You can’t quite hide your reaction when you realize you’re looking at an almost perfectly flat, smooth pelvis, the little hint of a dainty slit peeking out from between his thighs telling you in no uncertain terms what's going on here. It’s a struggle to make sense of it though, and you hastily jerk your attention across the rest of his naked body to take note of every otherwise masculine feature on him. His perfectly flat chest, the tapered quality of his waist down to his narrow hips … in every other way he was a man but - -

“Do you understand now? Is this explanation enough for you?” 

Giving a small jolt at the sound of his voice, you drag your gaze up to his. Even that seemed distinctly male, the way he looks at you so hard and uncompromising, without apology. It truly was just that one singular part of him that deviated and you genuinely had no idea what to say. Should you apologize, even though you hadn’t done anything? Even though you hadn’t known, couldn’t have even guessed at something like this if you’d tried? Surely he didn’t expect it to lessen the indignity of having your own cock figuratively taken away … right? 

Scaramouche chuckles faintly at your confused silence and steps forward, his bare feet shuffling softly against the cold stone floor. “Don’t give me that look. I didn’t show you this to garner sympathy. Gods have no use for such things, you know.” 

He sighs, soft and almost dreamy, and you frown at that. Gods? You’d heard rumors about him, of course. How he’d been the Balladeer for decades upon decades, far outliving any of the soldiers under his command, but the same could be said for some of the other Harbingers too. This was the first you’d ever caught a whiff of divinity being at play though. You can’t help wondering what it means, but don’t get a chance to linger on it. 

Standing directly in front of you now, Scaramouche reaches out to snatch a biting fistful of your hair and he yanks you up to balance on your knees. You hiss at the sharp sting, trying to keep your legs pressed together to prevent the cage from swinging but it just makes you teeter dangerously to one side. The unrelenting hand in your hair forces you to keep balanced though and, with a low hiss, you slowly bring your watering eyes up to look in his face.

“Although I do resent the fact that you, a lowly wretch, have something I don’t,” he all but purrs at you, the sharp quality of his expression spelling nothing but trouble. “I don’t actually need it to put you in your place. Shall I demonstrate for you?” 

You start to tell him no, that won’t be necessary, hoping a bit of levity might ease the tension in his shoulders, but he doesn’t wait for you to respond. 

With a mean tug, he shoves your face into his pelvis and rudely grinds against your mouth for emphasis, widening your eyes to the approximate size of dinner plates. A startled sound bursts out of you but he pays it no mind, using his hold on your hair to keep you firmly in place. The way he snaps his hips forward jostles you hard enough to nearly send you toppling and, with no other choice, you shuffle your knees a little further apart to brace against the rough treatment. Even knowing it was a soft cunt pressing into your face doesn’t help shake the impression of being forced to service another man, and you loose a startled, keening sound against his skin. Everything from his wide legged stance, the low slouch of his pelvis as he further angles his pussy against your mouth and even the way he peers down at you with his head tipped at a slight angle, all of it screams masculine domination. 

And to your muffled squawk of horror, your body responds with such immediate, overwhelming force that you start to feel lightheaded. All at once your cock is harder than it’s ever been, straining pitifully against the cage, and you can’t help but seethe into the press of him on your mouth. It’s hard to breathe like this and it only gets harder when you feel a fat bead of precum slowly ooze out of the sensitive slit on your cock. You’ve never been so hyper aware of your own arousal but you try desperately to write it off as a result of being locked up for over twenty-four hours now with no relief in sight. You weren’t enjoying this … you couldn’t be! 

“My, my,” Scaramouche suddenly drawls, bringing your attention up again. “That’s quite an interesting reaction. Don’t tell me you were secretly hoping for something like this to happen?” 

You give your head a plaintive shake and he outright laughs, aggressively yanking your neck around at a sharper angle so he can properly shove his cunt in your face. He’s all soft, silky petals and so firm against your mouth that it strikes you as vaguely odd — manufactured, almost — but there isn’t enough time to think about that right now. 

“Stick your tongue out, vermin.” He commands, his voice rising in pitch with excitement and something you can’t quite place. “I’m going to fuck that pretty mouth of yours and you’re going to thank me for it, do you understand?” 

A whimper bubbles up in your throat when he pulls on your hair again, forcing you to nod your head in agreement. Even if you’d wanted to tell him no you physically can’t, not when he was all but smothering you in his pussy, and you have no other option than to comply. 

Hot with arousal and shame alike, you obediently unfurl your tongue from your mouth and press up to dip between satiny lips and folds, not quite fleshy but something else entirely. Scaramouche takes a quick moment to adjust your position, making sure he’s got you right where he wants, and then he starts up. Doesn’t even give you a moment to ease into it or acclimate, he’s just immediately thrusting into you with sharp, demanding jerks of his hips that rattle your head from the force. You’re helpless though, completely at his mercy like this, and you heavily groan into him when your cock jumps inside the swinging cage. 

“Hah! I should have known this was all you were good for … do you even have any idea how pretty you look right now, on your knees like this for me? Maybe I should have done this sooner.” 

He sounds infinitely satisfied, beyond pleased with his ability to dominate you even without the thing uselessly bobbing between your thighs. Twisting his hand in your hair, Scaramouche wraps what he can of it around his knuckles and relaxes into the motion like it’s second nature for him. Your mind is still trying to catch up and actually process what’s even happening, but your body doesn’t seem to need any further explanation or context to decide that this was a very nice situation to find yourself in. You felt like you were going to cum harder than you ever had in your entire life without even needing to touch your cock to do it. 

“You know,” he says, almost conversationally, the steady snap of his hips not faltering for even a second. “I’m actually a little surprised none of the other men take advantage of having you around like this. I think a lot of them would probably appreciate having such a willing little cock sleeve to vent their frustrations out on. Maybe they just haven’t realized how willing you actually are yet?” 

The mere implication that he might tell them, keep you caged and needy, and declare open season on your mouth and your ass for them to use whenever the urge struck, should fill you with terror and shame. And it does, distantly — but more than that you feel a surge of white hot arousal so powerful it nearly bowls you over on the spot. 

Lurching forward with a wounded, faltering grunt, you open your mouth wider and seal it around as much of him as you can, even going so far as to add a tiny bit of suction for good measure. You weren’t sure what’s come over you to not only get off on having him fuck your mouth like this but to even put in the effort to do a good job for him … it was humiliating in its own right, particularly with your trapped cock useless between your legs. Scaramouche noises a brief sound of approval in response, the sound rushing straight to your achingly tight balls, but he remains otherwise unaffected. Even in your submissive, heady daze you can’t help wondering how much of it he can actually feel. 

He certainly didn’t look like someone receiving oral from an underling. You knew you would have been an absolute wreck with anyone’s mouth on you like this, especially after being caged for so long, but he almost seemed to be deriving more pleasure from the act itself than any sensation it may have given him. There was nothing in his demeanor that pointed at actual arousal and, perhaps strangest of all, you couldn’t taste any slick coming out of him either. The only thing on your tongue was the somewhat bland flavor of clean skin and the meaty little nub he was fucking you with. 

It was all very strange in a vague, confusing sort of way, but your painfully hard cock assured you you were fine with it. 

“Look at me.” 

Your balls tighten to the point of real, genuine discomfort as you roll your eyes skyward to peer into his perfectly cruel and beautiful face. He wasn’t even panting or sweating from exertion but, issuing a low groan, he brings his other hand down to join the other on top of your head. Roughly holding you in place, he slams into your mouth so hard and so fast that you cry out, wailing against his cunt, but he doesn’t stop. 

Only when you feel dangerously close to passing out does he abruptly jerk you off him with a loud, gasping breath that makes your lungs ache. Swaying unsteadily on your knees, you try to catch your breath while Scaramouche gently — surprisingly so — brushes the sweaty hair back off your face. You felt like a wreck. Probably looked one too, but at least one of you was affected by this. 

“Heh. You’re surprisingly obedient when you want to be, aren’t you?” He murmurs. Then, in a stronger voice, “Lay down for me. On your back.” 

You shoot him a slow, uncertain look before deciding you liked the calm, serenely placid face of the Balladeer much more than the angry one. As long as it kept him happy, you were willing to oblige. 

Moving stiffly, you awkwardly shift backwards to sit on your butt. The floor is chilly enough that it sends sharp bursts of ice shooting through you but you try to ignore it, carefully sitting back to recline on the stone without jostling your cock cage too much. That proves to have been in vain though, because as soon as you’re lying prone Scaramouche uses his foot to kick your legs apart, completely unconcerned by the way you hiss and tense up. 

“Keep these spread, or else. Do you hear me?” 

“Yes, my lord Harbinger.” You grit out, trying not to focus too much on how the metal drags at your cock and presses into your balls, jostling pitifully between your legs as you obey his command. 

Humming a quiet sound of approval, Scaramouche steps closer to stand between your thighs. “You really look disgusting right now, you know that? Maybe I don’t even want one of these if this is how it makes you act.” 

Blearily lifting your head, you glance down at yourself only to immediately regret it when you see how swollen and flushed your cock is in its tiny, humiliating prison. You’d never seen your own genitals look like that before, darkened skin bulging under metal bars and your testicals so heavy with unspent cum that they looked liable to burst at any moment. No wonder you felt so incredibly sensitive and overwhelmed. It hurts just looking at it. 

His mouth slowly pulling into another smirk at your reaction, Scaramouche shifts his weight to one foot and lifts the opposite leg. “It’s not usually in my nature but I suppose I could show you some mercy. After all, I wouldn’t want you to think me an unjust god.” 

There it was again. Talk of godhood and the divine — but you barely even manage to file that away for later, your mouth dropping open in barefaced shock when the Balladeer steps down on your trapped cock. You can’t seem to decide if you were repulsed or if it was the hottest thing you’ve ever been privileged enough to see as his dainty, elegant toes spread across the metal bars and press down to just barely touch you through them. You’re so painfully hard at this point that you’re acutely aware of the sensation for as distant and light as it is, and you quickly clench your hands into tight fists to stop yourself from shaking right up off the ground. 

“Oh! Shit!” 

Looking much like a smug cat that had helped itself to an exceptionally fat canary, Scaramouche stiltedly draws his foot up and down, making the cage pull at you and press in harder, heavy balls lifting tortuously with the motion. “Hmm, you like that I take it? Judging by the way this looks right now, you must really need to relieve yourself. What was that you said earlier about not being able to piss like a man anymore?” 

“I’m so sorry.” You quickly seethe, struggling not to hyperventilate as you watch his foot work over your cock in excruciating slow motion. “I didn’t know, I promise. I really had no idea. Please have mercy on me, my lord. I’m begging - -“ 

“And you look so good doing it.” He purrs, pinning you with a sly grin. “But I think it’s only fitting that you can’t cum like a man either. Rest assured, vermin. I’ll show you mercy this time but you’ll do it like a girl. You’d like that wouldn’t you? Having the honor of me playing with your cute little clit until you cum?” 

He gives your cock a careless nudge with his foot and you feel it so deep in your bones that you practically heave up off the floor, wheezing like he’d sucker punched you. Cackling in cruel amusement, Scaramouche steps over your splayed out leg and moves around to your shoulder. You realize what he’s doing almost immediately and you whimper as he straddles your head and sinks down, firmly settling his cunt on your face. Giving his hips a little wiggle for good measure and to make sure he’s comfortable, the Balladeer relaxes his weight on top of you and you quickly discover that you can’t breathe. 

A muffled sound of panic escapes you, accompanied with a pitiful jerk of your limbs, but he merely chuckles and stretches down to daintily take hold of the cage. Your toes curl tight enough to hurt as he holds your cock upright with one hand while the other pokes and prods at you through the metal bars, making your chest seize in a suffocating gasp. You’d tried to do the same thing but evidently you hadn’t been hard enough, the double edged quality perfectly evident to you now that you were helplessly twitching every time the pad of his finger brushed against you through the metal. Perhaps worst of all though was how even when it was more painful than ever and much, much too tight, your body was still eagerly arching into the touch. You couldn’t make heads or tails of it, only understanding in the heat of the moment that you were finally going to cum. 

“I can’t believe how much you’re leaking right now,” Scaramouche croons, steadily maintaining the pace of his rubbing along the head even though you fitfully jerk and writhe underneath him. “Are you sure you haven’t already cum? It’s been a long time since I last saw a human orgasm but …” 

You noise a frantic sound of confusion, muffled in his cunt, and he laughs. 

“Relax. Judging by the size of these, I’m sure you’re going to burst like a fountain any minute now.” He accompanies that statement with a condescending pat to the side of your swollen ballsack and you outright shriek, twisting to get away and escape his attention. Once again cackling as if he’s never seen anything funnier, Scaramouche follows you and delivers another pat to the achingly tender skin while his other hand stays busy caressing you through the cage. 

Overwhelmed in the worst possible way, your eyes start to roll back in your head as your pelvis juts and twists, equally torn between welcoming the abuse or shying away from it. It’s a struggle just to breathe let alone figure out what you’re even doing here, on the floor of the Balladeer’s office with his cunt resting squarely on your nose and mouth, making it impossible to get enough oxygen, but the one thing you’re certain of is that you’re close. Your whole body writhes and convulses with each taunting pass of his finger over the glans and, at last, you give in to it. Accepting the stinging swat to your balls, you thrust your cock up and fuck into the air for everything your shuddering legs are worth. 

Evidently recognizing the warning signs, Scaramouche releases you and leans back to fully settle on your face with a quiet, almost surprised groan. You plaintively shriek underneath him at the loss of friction, no matter how minuscule it had been, but your hips just keep moving even without it. As if they’ve got a mind of their own now, they continue to weakly pump upward, fucking into the air like you would fuck into a mouth or a tight hole, or even a hand — and a vague sense of surprise washes over you when Scaramouche mimics the motion, slim hips thrusting to fuck your mouth with his cunt once again. 

“You’re going to cum even though I’m not touching you anymore?” He breathes out, thin and strained over your own frantic whimpering. “How pathetic.” 

Just like that, the coil snaps. Your cock jumps so hard the resulting clatter of shifting metal sounds impossibly loud and you wail as spurt after spurt of semen shoots out of you, painting across your heaving stomach. It seems to ride the line between pleasure and pain though, so intense after such a long period of denial that it actually makes the contracting muscles in your groin cramp up. 

Even worse, it seems like it’s over much too soon for all the grief you’d gone through to get here, and you collapse, going limp under the Balladeer with a haggard, embarrassingly high pitched whine. You were exhausted and, to your great shame, still rock hard inside the cage. And it wasn’t showing signs of flagging any time soon. 

Scaramouche notices it too, of course, chuckling faintly as he reaches down to give your abused cock a playful smack. Oversensitized pain shoots through you all at once, making you twist underneath him with renewed fervor. You want to beg him to stop. Beg him to get off you and let you slink away with your tail tucked between your legs, but you can’t even speak with his pussy smothering you. 

“Adorable. You’re so tender and helpless like this … I wonder if you’ll cum again?” He delivers another swat to the cage, making it flop in the opposite direction and drag your raw cock right along with it. You cry out in unmistakable distress, rapidly gasping for air as your hips instinctively lift again as if begging him for more attention even though you’re quite certain that’s the very last thing you want right now. 

Luckily, or perhaps unluckily, depending on how you looked at it, he merely laughs at the weak, jerky thrusts of your cock and settles back once again. Taking a moment to meanly drag his damp cunt over your mouth and nose a few more times, just to rub salt into the wound, he finally moves to stand and you’re instantly assaulted by the rush of fresh air that hits you all at once. You lay there, choking down mouthfuls of much needed oxygen as you track him with your eyes, unsure what he’ll do next and understandably wary. 

The very last thing you’d expected was for Scaramouche to turn towards you, pinning you in place with a faintly amused smile. He still looked as flawless and unaffected as before but the noticeable gleam in his eyes … your chest constricts painfully tight. Oh, this was not good. 

“I guess I was wrong about you.” He murmurs, further tightening the noose around your neck without even laying his hands on you. “It looks like you’re actually good for something after all. I think I might just have to keep you all for myself.”

⭐

Crossposted here

[aarcanechaoss]

1. Car's Outside

Masterlist - Two | Three

One drunk mistake...

Warnings: Smut MDNI | Higuzai

Notes: I got baby fever and had a dream about this exact scenario so um here ya go.

One drunk mistake.

This was just one drunk mistake, and she could get over it... eventually.

Ichiyo Higuchi was currently locking lips with the enemy.

Specifically, said enemy was Osamu Dazai.

Only they weren't just kissing now, no. His hands had expertly tugged her hair free of its bun and were now making quick work of the zipper down her back- her dress clinging oddly as it fell loose.

"You're so beautiful Belladonna." He murmured against her neck. She nearly moaned at the praise alone. "Let me make you feel good."

So she did.

Her fingers tangled in his hair, his mouth practically attached to her cunt as he brought her third orgasm forward... and all with his tongue.

"Fuck." She cried out, free hand slamming over her mouth to muffle her loud moans.

She didn't need the ADA to know who Dazai was fucking, and it was embarrassing enough that she had caved to him at all.

In her defence it had been months since she last got laid- she tried desperately to wait for Akutagawa but sometimes the need was just too much...

"Say my name Ichiyo." Dazai snaked up her body, a satisfied smile on his slick soaked mouth. "Say my name and you can have my cock."

"Dazai." He shook his head, not the answer he wanted. "Oh-Osamu."

"Good girl."

Her eyes nearly rolled to the back of her head as he thrust into her. She was sensitive and needy and desperate for more. More release, more of him.

She'd regret this later. She'd mourn her dignity later... mourn any semblance of a relationship with Akutagawa if he ever found out about this later.

Her nails dug into his skin as his hips moved against hers. Bliss- it was fucking bliss to have Osamu Dazai worship her body like this. His lips peppering her skin in marks that she vaguely remembers telling him not to leave and her chest heaves as his lips meet hers. She could taste herself on his tongue- a tongue that had done so much work to make her cum three times. She'd never met a man so happy to bring her pleasure before... isn't that a shame.

One harsh thrust had her reeling, her nails absolutely drawing blood as his hand slipped between them, rubbing her clit like it was his life's mission.

How unfortunate the rumours were true, that his dick was so fucking good- that his mouth was amazing. Fuck Akutagawa was going to hate her- Nakahara was going to hate her.

"You can do it Ichiyo, one more after this I promise." He said against her mouth his hips moving faster and faster. Thank fuck for nullification was her final thought as pure pleasure took over no longer giving a single shit as she moaned out his name, as he rolled onto his back with his cock still inside her.

"Osamu." Her face was in his chest hands now flush against the ground below as his hands gripped her hips tight- no doubt in her mind would she have finger shaped bruises there later.

"Ichiyo. Good girl, so good f'me." His head fell back, eyes heavy as he watched through lowered lids. Her thighs were shaking as his hands guided her along his cock as his hips became flush with hers every time she sunk back down onto him.

Her body shook as her final orgasm crashed over her, Dazai's following suit. His chest heaved but he made no effort to push her away, made no effort to do anything but bask in their orgasms and trail a hand up and down her spine.

One drunk mistake alright.

~~*~~

Two and a half months later Ichiyo found herself frozen, staring through her GP's soul as she explained calmly why Ichiyo had been so sick recently... she was sick alright so sick she had miraculously begun creating another life form.

No not miraculously.

She thanked her doctor with a shaky breath and left the office, paying at reception and barely noticing the tears streaming down her face- in joy or fear she didn't know as she scribbled one lonely sentence on a scrap of paper... just in case her voice didn't work.

She needed to see Dazai.

He deserved to know.

One drunk mistake.

[ao3dorian-gay]

tagged by @thehollowone16 :) thank u !!

writing procrastination game!!!

1. What's the name of one of your Wips?

"A Field of Mirror" taken from one of my fav poems, decribing standing on a frozen lake.

2. Describe a Wip in the format of __+__=__

open heart, closed eyes = wrong-genre savvy double blind + redemption

3. What tags/warnings will one of your Wips need if you share it?

...unhealthy relationships, usuallyy lol

4. Alternative title to a Wip?

i have a hard time coming up with one title lol. I guess for "life and death by water" maybe something like "that which cannot be stilled" to keep the river / persistence theme ? but idk.

5. Which Wip are you most likely to update/finish next?

god who knows. theres a lot of close to finished things I just can't figure out how to polish or be happy with

6. What is one of your Wip's document title, not its name but what you have it saved as?

"hakutsuki" is the fun one. most are just the title or shorthand (like "nwt kbt" for the random crossover idea w atla. i should start keeping chapters separately. i just use headers so i can navigate easily.

7. Post any sentence from your Wip?

“I didn’t know they made them so polite in Kiri, hm. I thought they were all. Filed teeth and, you know,” Deidara mimicked a growling beast, sounding not unlike how Zabuza had in the early morning.

8. A scrapped idea from your wip?

I was going to have Haku recognize the Akatsuki because of when Itachi & Juzo tried to kill Yagura and failed, since that was before Zabuza left Kiri (given that the blade fell into his hands *after* it was in Juzo's), and have him resent Itachi further for leaving Yagura weakened but alive instead of trying to kill him. I think I'm leaving that out; i don't see Yagura --only survivor besides Itachi -- telling people how close his defeat was. just that he reclaimed kubikiribocho and now it's zabuza's

9. What's a story you'd love to write but have yet to start?

soo many. really want to work more on my A:TLA and Batman crossover ideas at some point.

10. How many Wips are you actively working on?

actively ??? ...pass. no, uh. maybe 5 actively but just shifting between my interests that day.

11. Is there a scene you're struggling to write right now?

ughh i'm really struggling to get "open hearts" back on track to my original goal. i had a vague outline and we're all out of whack. I need to plan and maybe revise just so I figure out how to get to the next ponit.

12. Not a question but a second kudos!

Tagging: entelechies if u want!1;;;; idk. anyone who wants to fill this out just say i tagged you pls ;;