#faded and monotone

[jsab-au-remix]

I granted dove the ability to see you guys, but in doing so they no longer have free speech in this au or the og jfac

[garbagequeer]

only a minute and a half into the new riverdale this is already the most beautiful television ive ever seen

[omegasmileyface]

albums the third time you listen to them >>>>>>>

[sparklingstarr-tv]

Well

Idk i have been in a sad kinda setting since some time

[ghosty1111]

process of stimming to like 2 songs:

[thefactsofthematter]

how the fuck did june go by so fast

[deepseacityunderground]

one of the best songs of all time i fear

[ohproserpine]

ii. deer dolly

part i | part ii | more | ao3

tags: fem! reader, reader is a performer in a speakeasy, human! possibly ooc! alastor so he's a bit more "tame" here, unsettling & obsessive behavior, jealousy, possessiveness, written before episode 7; may become inaccurate, unwanted advances (not by alastor), murder, graphic descriptions of injuries

As the days unfolded into weeks, Alastor remained true to his word. A routine soon formed between the two of you: he would make regular visits to the speakeasy, engage in polite conversations with Mimzy, and take his usual seat to enjoy your performance.

In time, Alastor's interactions with you grew more intimate. And one night, following the success of one of your busiest night and biggest show, he surprised you with a beautiful necklace. Pulling you into your dressing room, Alastor asked for permission to formally court you. Without hesitation, you agreed, and in a burst of affection, proceeded to kiss him within an inch of your life. 

Since then, Alastor had begun to take you on dates outside the speakeasy. He whisked you away to quaint diners, lively jazz joints, and even introduced you to his mother—a sweet woman who welcomed you with open arms.

Throughout your time together, not a single one of your performances escaped Alastor'. Why would they? For him, your shows were the very essence of color in his otherwise dull and monotonous existence. His devotion to you almost mirrored religious fervor as he attended each of your shows like an impassioned disciple in the dimly lit speakeasy pews.

Your voice became a spell, luring Alastor like a foolish sailor drawn to a siren's call. In those moments, the world faded away, and he followed the melody with an irresistible pull, captivated by thoughts of you, you, you.

Only you.

Tonight, however, was anything but ordinary.

Alastor, following his usual routine, occupied his customary spot at the pub, savoring his whiskey with slow sips from his glass. However, the comforting rhythm of the night, which he had grown used to, was broken when the band screeched to a halt, the shrill notes of the violin cutting through the air. Immediately, the pub erupted in a chorus of boos and shouts.

Alastor blinked, his smile turning strained as he noticed a man stumble onto the stage. It was clear that he was intoxicated, moving about as gracefully as a headless chicken, as he made his way towards you, nearly knocking you off your feet.

Noticing the commotion, Mimzy clicked her tongue, slammed her drink onto the counter, and swiftly rose to her feet. She rushed to the stage, the glitters on her vibrant dress catching the dim lights of the speakeasy.

“Why, I oughta—" she began to seethe, as she stomped towards the stage, finger wagging in the air. “That’s the fifth time this week, Giovanni!”

"Ah, Mimzy! Jus' wanted to surprise my sweetheart," Giovanni slurred, his thick accent muddled as he clumsily leaned into you, head tucking into your neck.

Snap.

Alastor felt a visceral reaction, something within him snapping as the glass in his hand cracked under the strain of his grip. The fractured crevices dug into his skin, and golden liquor seeped out, mixing with crimson red blood.

As a regular performer at this pub, your popularity was unquestionable, and Alastor was not entirely pleased with the attention you garnered from other men. If given the opportunity, he would have you whisked away from this place. In his eyes, your voice was too lovely for a place like this. Your talent deserved a grander stage than the confines of this tacky establishment.

“Ahah,” you smiled awkwardly, shuffling away and shrugging the man's arms off of you. “Not your sweetheart, Giovanni…”

"Are you not happy to see me, carina?" Giovanni’s voice dropped to a whisper, his hand dropping to grip you by the waist. He leaned his face in closer, and you cringed. The man's breath reeked of alcohol, and his eyes were a bloodshot red. “Come on~ I came all the way to see you.”

“Ya' can go see and do whatevah the fuck you want with her after the show!” Mimzy scowled, stomping her heels onto the wooden flooring. “Can't have a moment of peace in here. Someone get him off my stage!”

"I'll do whatever the fuck I want!" Giovanni retorted, his anger bubbling over as he lashed out, kicking the microphone stand in Mimzy's direction. She barely dodged in time, the crash of the mic hitting the floor drowned out by the screeching feedback.

"Please. Just go," you pleaded, your patience wearing thin. "Why? Why do you always have to make a scene?"

"Ay, carina, don't get bratty with me. Let's talk in the back," Giovanni insisted, his grip on your shoulders tightening as he attempted to pull you off the stage. But before he could, Mimzy's guards intervened, forcefully yanking him away.

"Hey! Get ya' hands off'a me!"

Turning around, you rushed to get off the stage, but Giovanni somehow managed to break free and extended his hand, trying to grab onto you. Panic welled up within you as his hand reached out, but relief followed when he was abruptly stopped by none other than Alastor.

"Now, now," Alastor's voice had a lilt as he held onto Giovanni's wrist, but the venom woven into each word was unmistakable. His ever-present smile stretched wide, serving as a clear warning. "Causing a commotion isn't the best way to impress a lady."

"This ain't none of ya’ business. Let go’a me!" Giovanni scowled, attempting to wring his hand out of the brunette's iron grip. Alastor merely chuckled and adjusted his glasses with his free hand, the unsettling grin still playing on his lips throughout the exchange.

"This ain't none of ya’ business. Let go’a me!" Giovanni scowled, attempting to wriggle his hand out of the brunette's iron grip. Alastor merely chuckled, adjusting his glasses with his free hand, the unsettling grin still playing on his lips throughout the exchange.

"Ha ha! Kind sir, when someone disrupts a delightful performance, it becomes everyone's business," Alastor laughed, the sound of it tinged with sarcasm.

"But I must commend you. My, that impromptu performance of yours was quite remarkable; you truly made a wonderful spectacle of yourself!" Alastor's grin widened, his mocking tone drawing out laughter from the crowd.

Then, Alastor bent down to meet Giovanni face to face, his amusement fading. 

“Though I think you've overstayed your welcome, no?” Alastor's grip tightened around Giovanni's wrist, the pressure leaving bruises in its wake, hues of purple, green, and blue blossoming beneath the skin.

Alastor's grin turned sharp. "You will leave. Now."

"F-Fuck are you gonna do if I don’t, aye?" Giovanni spat, attempting to maintain a façade of bravado despite the pain. He tore his hand away from Alastor's grip, cradling his wrist. "Ya' think you can tell me what to fucking do?!"

"Hmm. I would at least advise you to salvage whatever dignity you have left and leave. If you had even a dust of intelligence in that hollow head of yours, that would have been the first thing you'd have done," Alastor chuckled.

“Damn right. Ya ain't got no fuckin place in my establishment,” Mimzy scowled, snapping her fingers and gesturing towards the men surrounding Giovanni. “Take him away, boys!”

As Mimzy’s goons surrounded him again, Giovanni sneered, "This ain't over."

"Oh, my dear pal, I assure you, it is very much over. The lady has made her wishes very clear," Alastor grinned.

With a final snarl, Giovanni was forcibly led away from the scene, his protests fading into the background as Mimzy's guards escorted him out. Mimzy wasted no time, bustling backstage and barking orders to her staff to clean up and prepare the stage once more.

Alastor's charismatic facade returned as he turned to you, though a glint of irritation lingered in his eyes. "Apologies you had to see that, cher. Let's hope the rest of the evening proceeds much more smoothly."

"I hope so." With a sigh, your gaze shifted downward, and you spotted his injured hands. The glass he had broken earlier had left wounds all over his calloused palms — not deep, but enough to draw blood.

Concern etched across your face, and you gently touched Alastor's hands. The radio host, accustomed to your touch by now, allowed you to inspect the damage.

"You're hurt," you pointed out, caressing his skin.

Alastor met your gaze with a reassuring smile. "Ah, this is just a trifle. A mere inconvenience, I assure you! My, I've endured far worse during hunting, darling! This is hardly worth mentioning."

"But—" you began, only to be interrupted by his finger pushing against your red lips.

"Worry not, cher. I'll take care of it. There's no need to play nurse," he spoke with finality, as if this was a matter not open to further argument.

"Alright," You managed a small smile. "I am really sorry things turned out this way, Al. I didn't know Giovanni was going to show up again. He's always been like that for as long as I can remember. I told him to stop but he never does."

"No need for apologies. None of this fault is on you, darling. Though it does add a touch of excitement to otherwise mundane affairs, doesn't it?" Alastor chuckled heartily, though you sensed there was a bitter undertone to his laugh.

"Excitement? That man is a shitshow just waiting to happen," Mimzy returned and walked up to both of you, rolling her eyes. "And I thought I got rid of him for good..."

Suddenly, she leaned in with cosmetics in hand, deftly swiping lipstick across your lips and delicately brushing blush on your face. "Now come on, dollface, let's get you back to that stage."

You realize you're still on shift, but the thought of performing feels nearly impossible at the moment, especially with all this lingering adrenaline in your system. Admittedly, you're a bit shaken up, and all you want is to curl up by Alastor's side and savor the night with a drink in hand. 

"Oh, Mimzy…I'm not sure I can really perform right now, love. I feel…" you slowly trailed off, faltering under the weight of Mimzy's hardened gaze.

The blonde cooed out your name, her fingers gently wrapping around your arm, soothingly rubbing it up and down. "Dollface, you're not here to question; you're here to perform! Alastor here has been so kind to get rid of your little problem. Now, let's get back up on that stage and do what you're good at."

"Pardon?" Alastor snapped with a raised brow, his usually jovial tone replaced by a sharper edge. "Well, I don't mind in the least. In fact, I rather enjoyed putting that simpleton in his place. I'm sure your patrons can afford to wait, can't they? This poor dear is still shaking in her heels!"

But you intervened, mustering a smile and smoothing down the wrinkles on your dress while nervously tending to your hair. "Oh no, Al, it's alright. Mimzy's right. I can't just let one man ruin my entire night."

With a deep breath, you steeled yourself, taking a moment to compose before adding, "Besides, the show must go on, right?"

Alastor paused, his eyes narrowing as he studied your nervous tics. The radio host silently appraised your form for a few more seconds before eventually giving in. "Hmm, very well. If that's what you wish."

"Thank you, Al," you whispered with a smile, tilting your head up to press a kiss against his cheek. Your lipstick had left an imprint on his bronze skin, but he made no move to wipe it off.

With a chuckle, Alastor leaned back into you and returned the gesture warmly. 

"I'll take care of everything, doll," he whispered, voice low, before pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. "He won't ever bother you again."

Confused, you blinked up at him with those bright eyes he loved so much. "How do you plan to do that, Al?" you asked, but he ignored you, staring at you with that unsettling look in his eyes again.

Alastor suddenly raised your hand to his lips, brushing the knuckles with gentle pecks, causing your mind to blank and cheeks to go aflame. 

Tapping her foot impatiently, Mimzy's irritation grew as the display of affection lingered longer than she deemed appropriate. With a swift swat of her hand against the man's shoulder, she hissed at him. "That's enough outta you!"

Alastor smirked to himself and began walking back, seemingly satisfied with the subtle disturbance he had caused. He was such a bastard, but he was yours.

With a shake of your head and a smitten blush gracing your cheeks, you returned to the stage. The blinding spotlight enveloped you as Mimzy tossed the microphone back into your waiting hands. 

Meanwhile, Alastor reclined in his seat at the booth, his gaze fixed intently on you as you resumed your performance. The audience, having brushed off the brief interruption, eagerly redirected their focus to you.

Rabbit, rabbit! Won't you run away? Don't give the farmer all his fun today~ He'll get by without his rabbit pie. So run rabbit, run rabbit, run, run, run!

As you neared the end of the song, Alastor joined the crowd's applause, rhythmically snapping his fingers together.

Wonderful, as always.

.

Snap.

The sudden, jarring sound shattered the stillness of the forest, followed by a shrill scream that seemed to shake the trees. Giovanni's hands instinctively shot down to his ankle, where his bone had twisted in a gruesome sight that sent bile rushing to his throat. However, he had no time to inspect the damages as a rustling bush caught his attention. Desperately, the man began crawling on the ground, doing his best to move farther away, dragging mud and dirt all over his body.

"Don't give the farmer his fun. Fun. Fun," emerging from thick shrubs, Alastor sang lowly as he continued his slow advance, relishing in the fear that emanated from his prey. He raised his hand, fingers idly tracing over the red mark on your lips, and if he focused hard enough, he could still feel the burn of your affections. "He'll get by without his rabbit pie."

The dense forest around them seemed to close in, casting eerie shadows as Alastor's menacing silhouette moved closer. Giovanni, now gasping for breath, cast terrified glances over his shoulder, desperately searching for an escape route.

"So run rabbit, run rabbit, run, run, run," Alastor continued to trail after the man, his axe slung over his strong shoulders, a sinister grin etched on his lips.

Ah, it had been so long since he last pursued larger prey, opting for smaller catches like rabbits and squirrels lately. This, however, was a different kind of pursuit, and the thrill was delicious.

“It's rather unsavory to disrupt a live performance,” Alastor mused, gripping his axe and running his bandaged palm along the side of the blade. "Oh, the misery! Each performance interrupted, a masterpiece marred!"

“Though I suppose you redeemed yourself with your own impromptu circus show,” Alastor snickered, reaching down and seizing Giovanni’s sprained ankle, dragging the screaming man back toward him.

"Good show!" The radio host grinned as he pressed his feet against Giovanni's back to prevent him from escaping. Alastor raised the axe high, the glint of the blade reflecting the crazed gleam in his eyes.

"Now, let's see how this act ends."

With a practiced swing, he brought the blade down, chunks of flesh and blood spraying onto his clothing and skin from the impact. Alastor laughed as the light gradually faded from the man's eyes, his once-struggling arms and legs now falling limp.

“What a show!”

[euphoriaslux]

two’s a party.

summary: you recently transferred to stanford, and decide to tutor a tennis player in your class. he has a friend. severe indecency ensues.

word count: 3.3k

warnings : smut, threesomes, f!oral receiving, swearing, smoking, drinking. slight cuck energy if you squint (i’m sorry ((no i’m not))). no challengers spoilers!

a/n: this fic got away from me big time but this movie has rotted my brain and as a result i have written utter debauchery that i will not apologize for. just had to get this out of my head, enjoy!

-

stanford science hall. monday , march 3.

You swear the last thing you’ll hear before your body is lowered into your grave is the process of lactic acid breakdown.

It’s 2:30 PM. Kinesiology 189 with Professor Wilson, a lanky middle-aged man with a PhD in exercise science and a half-grown beard that you don’t think will ever fully grow in, is almost over. He’s teaching Extended Studies of the Human Body in a humid classroom filled with student-athletes, most of whom are trying to stay awake, trying to hide that they’re taking a nap, or making no attempt to hide that they’re on their phones. You don’t really blame any of them, because the professor’s voice is so soft and monotone that it feels like he’s begging everyone to pay attention to anything but him. You’ve managed to stay somewhat on course with the thread of today’s lecture, the notebook in front of you filled with scribbles of incomplete molecular structures and somewhat legible drawings of the muscular anatomy of a hamstring.

This class is required for your biology major since you’re on a pre-medicine track. You don’t know why you’re doing it, the whole doctor thing, but you’ve developed a weird fixation for this class. The functionality of the body, how muscles stretch and tear with each movement, and how amino acids work to build them back even bigger.

And, possibly because of the tennis player who sits four rows ahead of you every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.

His last name is Donaldson. You know because of the faded label on the massive bag he throws on the floor every time he walks into class, at least ten minutes late with a backward Stanford Tennis cap on his head. His first name remains a mystery, partly because he never talks in class, and mainly because you’ve made no attempt to speak to him. You like to think it’s because you’re so focused on the curriculum.

Professor Wilson knows your name, though, since you’re in his office hours every Thursday at 11 A.M. In part because he gives out most of the answers to his homework, and because you just transferred to Stanford your last year and very desperately need a letter of recommendation for medical school. Hence why you agreed to tutor a student with lower than 60% in the class during one of your meetings. And why everyone in the class was staring at you right now.

“... first come first serve, so reach out to her sooner rather than later.”

You give a tight-lipped smile, glancing around the room. Most people have looked away, back to their distraction of choice, but you meet eyes with the fluffy blonde-haired tennis player.

stanford library. wednesday, march fifth.

It’s 11 A.M., and you feel like your brain is about to explode if you look at another practice set.

“Hey”.

Your head whips around to the harsh whisper, only to be met with the blue-eyed mystery from your class. He has that large bag slung over his shoulder, with the end of a tennis racket peeking out of it. His hair is slightly stuck to his face, and his compression tee is slick to his chest like a second skin.

“Hi,” you whisper back. He smiles before tossing his bag on the floor and sitting in the chair across from you, either unaware of or completely ignoring the glares he’s receiving from the other students studying.

“You know,” he pulls out some kind of nutrition bar from his bag, unwrapping it and taking an aggressive bite, “for someone advertising their services, you’re pretty hard to find.”

“You’re in Mr. Wilson’s class, right?” you ask, hoping your subdued voice will remind him that he’s in a notoriously quiet place. He hums, pointing at you with his half-eaten snack.

“And I’m trying not to fail, but you didn’t leave your number anywhere in the classroom, and you bolt after every class. So how am I supposed to patronize your tutoring services…” he trails off, his volume the same level as when he walked in. You furrow your brows as he leans back into the chair.

“That’s when you say who you are.”

You feel a burn on the back of your neck as you tell him your name. He glances down towards the problem set you’ve nearly finished.

“How do you turn in any of those, I can’t get halfway through one of them.”

You pause for a moment before leaning slightly across the table to whisper:

“This new weird thing called studying. I think it just got approved by the CDC.”

“Very funny,” he shakes his head as reaches for your binder with your class schedule printed out on the front of it.

“Why are you taking so many bio classes?”

“Because I’m a biology major,” you can’t help the sarcasm dripping from your voice, and he looks at you with a raised eyebrow.

“Sorry, you’re making this too easy for me,” you raise your hands in conceit.

“I have practice every day at five so you can tutor me for like an hour beforehand,” he says before standing up, crunching up the silver wrapper and stuffing it into the front pocket of his blue jeans. You scoff at his sentence.

“Well, thank you for so generously fitting me into your schedule,” you roll your eyes, turning the page in your textbook. He grins.

“Tell the coach you’re there for Art. They’ll let you through.”

stanford tennis courts. friday, march 7th.

It’s 4 PM, and the California sun is sweltering. Your shorts feel like they’ve become a part of your legs, and your bag feels like it weighs a thousand pounds. By the time you make it to the tennis courts Art is already on the green concrete, shirtless with beads of sweat dripping down his face and chest. You hear his grunts as he sprints across the court, hitting the ball toward a slightly taller brunette with dangerously short red shorts. You watch them at the entrance for a few minutes, slightly entranced as the two play so seamlessly, as if they know every move the other person is going to make. You force your eyes away as you walk up the bleachers, stepping over leftover water bottles and chip bags to sit down and grab your notes from your backpack. It takes a couple more minutes for Art to notice you, yelling your name after he turns around to grab a ball his partner had hit particularly hard. You wave, and he says something you can’t hear to the brunette before the two of them jog across the courts and up the stands to where you are, blocking the sun as the two stand side by side.

“Who’s your friend?” you ask as you stuff the problem set you were working on in between the pages of your notebook.

“I’m Patrick,” he says, with a toothy smile and his ears poking out from under his hair. He has a bit more of a boyish charm to him than Art does, whose eyes are glued to his brunette counterpart.

“Are you in Mr. Wilson’s class too?”

Patrick opens his mouth to answer but Art speaks first, slightly pushing his friend with his shoulder as he says “He doesn’t go to Stanford, too busy being a tennis pro.”

Patrick rolls his eyes but his smile doesn’t leave his face. You notice how different this Art feels from the one in the library, how direct his playfulness is and how close he and Patrick stand together, their sweaty torsos nearly melding together.

Interesting.

“Like, Andre Agassi level pro?” you smile as the two of them laugh. Patrick raises the bottom of his shirt to wipe the sweat off of his forehead, and you can’t help but take a glance at the exposed skin just above his waistband.

“Sorry, he’s like the only tennis player I know.”

“No, no I’m taking that as a compliment that you think I’m on the level of Agassi. No takebacks if you see me play,” Patrick points at you.

“Will do,” you salute, turning over to Art.

“You ready to study?” you ask him as he makes a comically loud groan, his head falling back. Patrick laughs, reaching over to ruffle his friends hair.

“You do remember that’s why I’m here, right? Midterms are in two weeks.”

“I definitely have not forgotten that.” he says. You purse your lips just as Patrick’s eyes seem to light up.

“I’m staying at the Courtyard Hotel for the weekend. You two can come over and study, I need to review my last match anyway. Kill two birds with one stone,” Patrick suggests.

“Just studying?”

“Just studying,” Art says, wrapping his arm around his friend's shoulder. You glance between the two of them, trying to decipher the unspoken communication they seem to be doing. But you can’t crack it, so you shrug.

“Sure.”

“Let us finish this set, and then you’ll have me all to yourself. Sound fair?”

“Wow, what a privilege. Don’t take too long, it’s hell on Earth out here!” you yell the last part as Art jogs down the steps and back down towards the net. You look up once you realize that the sun is still being blocked, and Patrick is still standing in front of you.

“You ever play?” he grins, flipping the tennis racket in his hand.

“Tennis? God, no, that would not be a pretty sight. I’ll stick to what I’m good at,” you gesture to the books and notes in your lap. Patrick nods.

“If you ever want to learn, I could teach you sometime, you know if-” he’s cut off by Art yelling his name, and you both glance to see him with his hands on his hips.

“Go, don’t keep your boyfriend waiting,” you wave him off, and you swear you can see him blushing. Must have been the glare.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says over his shoulder as he runs toward Art.

courtyard hotel. saturday, march 8.

It’s 11 pm. There’s a cold shiver in the elevator as you wait to get to the fourth floor, your tennis shoes tapping against the floor as one hand plays with the handle of the pack of beer in your hand while the other crumples and re-crumples the piece of paper with the hotel room number Patrick scribbled on it.

what are you doing?

You don’t have time to think about the consequences of your actions as the robotic voice signals that you’re on the fourth floor, the elevator doors fluttering open. It’s like your feet have a mind of their own, as you find yourself almost mindlessly wandering through the hotel halls until you’re planted in front of room 4B. You raise your hand to knock on the door but before you can make contact with the wood it’s thrust open, and Patrick is standing behind it. His dark hair is slightly tousled around his face, his striped shirt unbuttoned and his black boxer briefs low on his waist. He’s smiling, that same big smile as before, but his face is a little flushed, a gentle pink hue touching his cheeks. The two of you don’t say anything for a few seconds, as if you were both testing to see who would concede first to acknowledge the other’s presence. You raise the pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon in your right hand.

“I brought studying fuel.”

You were never good at waiting.

Patrick laughs before he moves slightly out of the way to allow you to walk into his room. It’s small, with a queen-sized bed and a tiny desk, and the A/C emits an odd rumbling sound as it smacks against the window. Clothes and scorecards are strewn across the floor, and the scent of cigarettes permeates the room. You place the alcohol on the floor before deciding to sit on the bed, kicking off your shoes as you cross your legs. Patrick seems to stall for a moment, smiling to himself before closing the door behind him. He doesn’t lock the door, but you didn’t notice.

“Art’s not here yet?” you ask, watching as Patrick walks over and tears open the cardboard case, cracking open a can. Taking a sip, he leans against the desk as he smiles.

“Art can be bad with time.”

“As I’ve noticed,” you reach your hand out to motion towards the drink and Patrick hands it to you, staring as you take a large sip.

“Well,” you wipe the side of your mouth, “I told him to bring the topics he wanted to study, so I guess we can’t do anything until he gets here.”

Patrick nods with a slight pout, his fingers playing with the pop tab of the can. “I guess we can’t.”

“How’s tennis… stuff,” you laugh as you finish the question, not sure of exactly what to say.

Patrick seems to tense a little at the mention of the sport, moving over to sit next to you on the bed. His knee grazes your leg and you feel a slight buzz at the contact as he takes the beer from your hand.

“I’m kinda fucking it up right now,” he says, and you furrow your brows.

“How? You were like, really good yesterday.”

He chuckles, shaking his head slightly. He hands you the beer and you finish it off, placing the empty can at the bottom of your feet.

“I’m good with Art. It feels so fucking natural and easy with him. But in my other matches, I don’t know. I just … can’t replicate it.”

You nudge him with your leg.

“Sounds like you two were made to play tennis together.”

He makes a noise of agreement, his hands slowly moving to ghost over your thigh.

“You and Art are pretty close?” you ask as he plays with the bottom hem of your shorts, but he doesn’t say anything. You take his silence as a yes.

“Do you ever get jealous?”

“Of Art?” he asks, almost incredulously. You shrug.

“Yeah, or jealous of the girls he’s with. Either or.”

Patrick sits on that for a few moments before smirking.

“What’s mine is mine, and what’s his is mine.”

You laugh at that, a real deep laugh, and Patrick giggles next to you, the both of you tipsy from the can of beer you finished. You reach over and put your hand on his flushed face, rubbing your hand across his cheek.

“What were you doing before I came?” you feel his face warm even more against your skin as you position yourself closer to him.

“Practicing- or, sorry, rereading my scorecards from my last match.”

You tutted as you moved your hand to the back of his neck, gently running your hands through his hair.

“You can tell me the truth, Patrick.”

He turns his head to press a gentle kiss to the palm of your hand before looking up at you as if to check if that was too much. Whatever your expression is gives him the confidence to move down to your neck, his tongue licking your skin.

“I think you know.”

You feel a pull in your lower stomach at his words, muffled by his mouth nipping at the sensitive spot just below your ear, and he sucks hard enough for you to put your hand around on his face at the pressure. Pulling his face up, the two of you stare at each other for what feels like an eternity, and his eyes glance toward your lips. You wanted to wait, to make him beg and plead for it, but your body seemingly pulled you forward as your pressed your mouth onto his.

You were really quite bad at waiting.

He tastes like tobacco and faintly of the fruit medley in the dining hall, and you sigh as his lips interlock with yours and his hand grabs the back of your neck, pressing you into him. The kiss gets messy and hard, his tongue gliding over your bottom lip and into your mouth as you lift your leg to straddle Patrick, grinding into him. He whimpers into the kiss as his calloused hands drop down to the waistband of your shorts, hesitating for a moment before dropping his hand into your underwear. You grind just a little bit faster as his fingers press circles into your clit, covering your mouth with your hand as you moan.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs as he uses his other hand to guide your hips, and your move your hands down to tug firmly on his hair. You can feel your climax building, the pressure in your stomach getting closer and closer to taking you over the edge-

You both jump at the sound of the hotel room dor slamming shut. Art is standing there, in that damn backward cap and a Stanford tee shirt as he crosses his arms over his chest, saying nothing as you and Patrick sit up straight, him adjusting his crotch and you smooth down your shirt, avoiding his gaze. Finally, the silence is broken by Art laughing.

“Christ, I’m not the cops,” he slips out of his slides as he waltzes over and opens a can of beer, drinking about half of it in one go. You look at him, and at Patrick, and then back at him, not knowing what the hell you just got yourself into.

“You want to fuck him right?” Art asks, and you can’t help your small gasp at how easily he said that. You glance at Patrick, hoping he’ll know what to say, but he’s just staring at Art.

“I-um,”

“So, no one’s stopping you,” Art cuts you off, taking a final swig of his beer and moving to stand directly in front of you. You open your mouth to try and explain, but before you can talk Patrick’s mouth is on yours again, his hand roaming your body. His grip is firmer now, his fingertips digging into the side of your stomach. He tugs at the bottom of your shirt and you separate, breathless as you pull your shirt over your head and toss it on the floor. Patrick’s mouth moves down to your neck, then your collarbones, and then your chest as he reaches around to take of your bra, and you feel on fire from Art’s gaze across the room. As Patrick kisses down your stomach and yanks down your shorts, you turn over to meet Art’s eyes.

“Come here.”

Whatever resolve Art was holding onto crumbles as he quickly takes off his shirt and slips out of his Nike shorts, tossing his hat on the dresser. In a flash Art’s hands are on your neck, tilting your head around to kiss you as Patrick lifts up your hips so he can take off your underwear. Art’s lips are softer than Patrick’s but he kisses you a little bit harder, his hand cupping the base of your neck. Somehow, they both taste the same. You moan into Art’s mouth as you feel Patrick’s tongue swirl around your clit, rolling your hips into his mouth as Art’s cock presses into your back. It’s just so much so fast, and that familiar buzz starts to pool in your lower stomach.

“Look at him,” Art turns your head to Patrick and you look into his eyes as you cum, Art’s hands hold your head forward as a wave of euphoria crashes over you. Patrick’s hands are digging into your hips as he stares up at you and Art. Your chest heaves up and down as you try to catch your breath, leaning against Art as Patrick leans back up, his mouth a few inches from yours.

“Who do you want first?

[monster-disaster]

[tentacle] The monster under the bed

tentacle!monster x human!Reader Good to know: somnophilia, a bit of dub-con

Summary: Your aunt's house is not as empty as you thought.

A/N: For kinktober 2023, I have a new town full of monsters. Here is the masterlist.

The change in the air is thick and heavy after you leave the Welcome to Grimbrook sign behind you. You feel it in your core. It's cold and silent. For a second, everything goes quiet, and the time seems to stop. The rumbling of your car gets muffled, and the colors of the lush, green forest at your sides fade into a milky fog flowing above the ground. You can't see the tall mountains and their sharp edges in the distance anymore. The clear blue sky turns gray, and you can't find the sun anymore, either. Just a few dim rays shine down on the road in front of you, showing your way to the village next to the sea.

As you get closer, you can smell the salty scent of the water even through the closed windows of your car. It's heavy in your nostrils. The sound of the waves gets louder too. From the top of the uphill, you can see the village with its old stone buildings and the sea behind everything. It seems colorless, merging into the dark sky at the horizon. It is beautiful and terrifying at the same time. There is something in Grimbrook that you can't pinpoint but freezes your insides. The only light you can see comes from a lighthouse at the edge of a cliff. It emits a soft, rhythmic beam of yellow light that cuts through the heavy fog, casting eerie shadows over the still village. Seagulls glide through the mist above the white seafoam, waving across the dark surface.

"Okay," you hum, forcing your eyes to go back to the GPS on your phone. The blue line clearly shows your way to the house you have to reach before night falls. It leads you out of the center of the villages until you reach a small suburb with Victorian houses standing in a long row with grand iron gates and gardens.

The monotone voice of the GPS informs you when you reach the right house, and after sitting in your car for a few more minutes, you have no other option but to get out and make your way up to the porch. The wooden planks creak under your steps as you look around a bit better. The house is old, with tall walls, characterful windows, and a dark green door with a golden knocker in the middle. It's cold in your hold as you knock it against the door.

You don't get an answer, though.

The door opens, and you find yourself facing a narrow foyer with stairs on the right side. Pictures and paintings hang on the walls in dark wood and golden frames. You can see the entrance of the kitchen at the end. And on your left side, there is an arch that leads you to the living room.

"Hello?" You break the silence. Your voice is hoarse and quiet. You have to force your legs to move and not turn back to your car and leave this place immediately. "Somebody?" Your gaze lands on a small table in the corner next to the entrance door. There is a letter with your name on it.

Dear Cat, I'm sorry I can't be here when you arrive. Make yourself at home, and we will talk tomorrow. Delilah

"Great," you sigh, letting the paper fall back onto the surface of the small table.

For a second, you think about searching for a hotel or something similar to spend the night, but to be honest, it doesn't sound much better either. You know you should leave the town to feel better, but it's not an option. So you close the door behind you and wander further into the house.

You got a call a few weeks ago about your aunt you met long years ago. She died, and now you have a house. You can keep it. You can sell it. Whatever you want.

The house is old, with a lot of wood, dark colors, and golden details. There are still newspapers from months ago on the coffee table in the living room. The rug under you is faded and thin. The floor creaks every now and again. There are two rooms and a bathroom upstairs. The bigger room is still occupied with your aunt's belongings. The scent of her perfume still lingers in the air. You remember her when you were a kid. She came to your grandmother's funeral, and you never saw her again. Nobody really talked about her in the family. The only things you know are that she was kind but preferred her own company above everything else. She lost her husband in her late twenties but stayed in Grimbrook, barely leaving the town.

The guestroom is much more bare than the other parts of the house. A bed in the middle with two nightstands and a lamp. There is a drawer in front of it and a mirror on the wall. The window is slightly open, letting in the cold autumn breeze. You have a view of the street from here. It's calm and empty. The only reasons you know you are not the only person in the town are because you can see a few cars here and there and a dog barking in the distance. The fog is thick and heavy. You can't see the end of the street through it.

After wandering around the house some more, you decide to call your friend until you have no other option but to change and try to get some sleep.

Climbing up on the bed in the guest room, you settle under the thick covers. The scent of the linen is faded and mixed with dust and the night air coming through the window. It's dark outside, not counting a few lamps on the street. Their orange lights filter into the room. And everything is quiet. So quiet that your ears almost start to ring. You are not used to it. You live in the city with constant noises.

When sleep takes you, it's restless and everything but relaxing. You fidget and turn, trying to find a comfortable position as you balance between the darkness and the real world. Your head feels just as foggy as Grimbrook, and at some point, you can't decide if you are dreaming or not.

You are on your back, one arm on your stomach, and the other is next to your body. The autumn breeze caresses your skin, moving up from your feet to your ankles and calves. Shiver runs through your spine at the feeling. You want to reach out for the blanket, but even though your arms move, they do not obey your command. Something pets the thin skin of your wrist. It's soft and barely noticeable. You feel your muscles stretch as you reach up to the headrest of the bed, but you don't even know why. The cold moves up further on your legs. It curls around your flesh, spreading you in the middle of the bed. Your heels dig into the mattress. Your body tenses when your limbs don't do as you want. A frown deepens between your brows.

"What?" A hoarse grunt leaves your lips. When you open your eyes, you meet darkness, and you are not sure if you are really awake or not. Your eyelids are heavy, and not even a second later, you fall back asleep again.

The bottom of your pajama slips down on your legs. The waist stretches around your parted legs. Something slides up on your stomach under your t-shirt. It is slick and soft. A gasp echoes in your room when it flicks your nipple. The thing curls around the flesh of your tits, groping and caressing. Your nipples harden under the strange touch. Saliva? A tongue?

Where are you?

And there is something else between your legs. The muscles of your thighs tense, and the hold around you tightens.

"What?" You groan again into the silence. As you look down on your body, you see your t-shirt around your neck. Your breasts are bare. Something dark and purple curls around them, squeezing and licking. The teasing on your nipples is almost painful. At the back of your mind, you want more. Your head falls back onto the pillows, and you are asleep again.

The tentacles between your legs move up and down on your pussy. Your panties are ruined between your wet center and the slick touch of theirs. One of them flicks your clit. Your back arches at the feeling. The cold night air hits your aching pussy when the thin fabric is pulled aside. One of them stays around your clit, flicking and rubbing the hard bud. The other one goes straight to your hole.

You want to move. To get closer or farther away, you can't decide. The tendrils don't let you go anyway.

You break the silence with a sudden moan. The limb enters you slowly. It slips into you easily, stretching your walls until you can't take another inch. It fills you up.

"Fuck," you groan.

Your breasts are soaked. The slickness on your skin shines under the dim streetlights. The tentacles play with your flesh, rubbing and pinching your nipples. The pain takes your breath away every now and again until you feel dizzy.

The others between your legs move without pausing even for a second. Your clit throbs, and your walls flutter. Pleasure flares inside your veins, rushing through your body with such force you never felt before. Your lungs burn for air, and your muscles ache as you lay taut, panting.

When you open your eyes, you see the ceiling and the old lamp hanging above you. You want to force your mind to think, to panic, to do something, but your senses are full of pleasure. The only thing you can do is moan and grind against the tentacle inside your pussy. It pounds into you, reaching every spongy spot inside that makes you see stars and beg for more. The sheet under you is soaked with your mixed juices. You can feel it dripping out of your hole.

Fuck, you want to shout, but you can't find your voice. You just shake and tremble in the hold of the limbs keeping you in place on the bed. Every nerve in your body is on edge, and when it snaps in your lower stomach, you can't remember how to breathe. Your climax forces you down and stops you from moving. A thin layer of sweat shines on your bare skin. Heat burns you from the inside, and your pussy flutters and sucks on the tendril inside you. It still moves in and out. It twitches and rubs against your walls. And doesn't stop even when the darkness envelopes you again.

When you wake up the next morning, you need a few minutes to remember where you are. The sun shines through the window, casting an orange hue over the old rug in the middle of the room. As you sit up, your t-shirt falls back over your torso, but your pants are still around your knees.

"What?" You grunt out. The question is barely louder than a whisper. Your hand shakes as you reach down between your legs. Your pussy is wet, sensitive, and swollen. A moan escapes you when your fingertip slides over your slit.

Your dream is still vivid in your mind. You can feel the tentacle in your pussy, using your hole and rubbing your clit. Your center starts to throb with need at the memory. And your breasts. Your other hand grabs one of your tits. Your nipples are still hard peaks through the thin fabric of your shirt.

"Hello? Cat?" The sudden noise snaps your head up to the door of your room. The voice comes from the entrance of the house. "It's Delilah." "Hey!" You croak out. You are not even sure if she can hear you. "I will be down in a minute." "Great!" She shouts back. "I will make some coffee, and we can talk about your plans with the house." Your fingers sink into your hole. You are still stretched out. You move in and out of your pussy easily.

Yeah, you think, you need a few nights if you want to decide about your plans.

- Masterlist Grimbrook Masterlist Patreon

[luveline]

BABE i miss badass bau!reader!!! do you feel up to write something about her and spencer? 🫣🫣

—Spencer comforts you, even when you think you don’t need it. fem, 1.2k

You’d think that agents and staff working for the Behavioural Analysis Unit would use a little subtlety when gossiping about their coworkers. It’s in the name. You’re a profiler, after all, but you wouldn’t need to be to know that the sudden quiet that falls over the kitchenette area when you walk in is for a reason. 

You’re determined to act unbothered. Only, it’s high school all over again, the whispering and the staring boring holes in the back of your head, and you’re thinking What are they saying about me? What have you done now? 

Flustered, you make a cup of herbal tea and forget it on the counter by the sink. Humiliated, you rush back to your desk. 

Spencer doesn’t look up as you sit. Your desks are together again for now, but who knows what whim will have Hotch separating you again. Last time it had been for ‘enabling bad behaviour’. 

So what if Spencer likes to talk? He’d only think all the things he’s saying to himself. You’re speeding up the process if anything by listening. Plus, whatever the others might think, he’s interesting, smart and funny and he deserves to be listened to when he wants to tell you things. 

“Hey,” you say, trying to push the humiliation brewing in your chest back to a quiet place. 

“Hey,” he says. He talks to you in a way he doesn’t with the others. He’s more relaxed, less exuberantly friendly and more like a true friend. 

He’s the only one in this whole office you’d ever want to sit next to every day. “Hi. What are you reading?” 

Spencer folds his novel closed over his hand, an answer on his lips that stutters and fades. “Hey, are you okay?” 

“I’m fine.” 

“You look unhappy.” 

It’s that unfortunate moment that Morgan decides to arrive, a cup of coffee in one hand, a brown paper bag in the other. He shrugs out of his leather jacket, eyeing you both where you’ve stopped your conversation, the slight light of smugness to his eyes as he says, “Doesn’t she always?” 

“Around you, Morgan, yes,” you say, turning your body fully to your computer. “That would be accurate.” 

Morgan laughs heartily. “You love me.” 

Maybe. You certainly don’t like him. Or, you’re annoyed with him most of the time. You wonder occasionally if he and the rest of your teammates are emotionally blind, considering the way they treat Spencer. Everybody makes their funny ‘harmless’ jokes, you’ve never understood why. They’re profilers, aren’t they? Can’t they tell it hurts his feelings?  And they love to tell you that Spencer’s your soft spot, he is, but he’s also a nice boy who wants to be listened to above all else, so you’re a little bitter about it. You weren’t too sweet to begin with. 

Today, you aren’t in the mood. You ignore Morgan and open your emails. 

“You want tea?” Spencer asks, standing from his desk. 

“No.”

“You always have tea in the morning. I’ll make it. Sit tight.” 

You follow Spencer’s figure as he leaves. Morgan wiggles his eyebrows at you from across the divider. 

“Do you ever think about taking him out?” Morgan asks. 

“That’s an inappropriate question,” you say. You aren’t monotone, but you certainly don’t bustle with emotion either.

“You like him, he likes you.” 

That’s exactly what Spencer needs, you think bitterly, the moody girlfriend, another thing to make him an outsider.

“You make each other happy,” Morgan continues.

“You get the same blueberry muffin every day,” you say, clicking an email attachment Hotch sent this morning distractedly, the temptation to roll your eyes at an all time high, “will you marry the baker?” 

“I could. His wife might not like the idea.” 

You hold in a smile. You sort of maybe do love Morgan, even when he’s prying. Better when Spencer returns and Morgan asks about the younger man’s weekend trip to Quantico’s seven floor library. 

“It was awesome,” Spencer says, putting a mug down in front of your keyboard, his palm still warm from the mug taking temporary station on your shoulder. “There were more books about inmate crime than there were dictionaries. Is that okay?” 

You take a sip of your tea. “It’s perfect,” you confess once you’ve swallowed. How does he know how you like it? He must steep it just as you do. Even the water level. You’d think it were the tea you’d left behind if it wasn’t in a new mug, scalding hot. 

“Morgan, could you excuse us, please? For five minutes?” Spencer asks. 

Your eyes widen of their own accord. Morgan makes flirty winky faces to hide his concern and meanders up the steps to Hotch’s office, pointedly looking away from the bullpen and your mess of desks. 

“What’s going on?” you ask. 

“I was hoping you’d tell me,” Spencer says. 

He’s wearing his glasses today, a rare sight these days, less so at the office when you’re sure there won’t be a case to go on. His hair curls at the base of his neck and flicks out under his ears, brown eyes like the flat of a mirror against the light, dark and deep. You wince when you realise you’ve been looking him over intensely, averting your eyes to the cup of tea warming your fingers. 

“You know you can tell me anything,” he says. 

“Sure.” 

“I’d defend you. Just like you would for me.” 

You drag your eyes to his. “I don’t know what you mean.” 

“I mean, if you want me to go fight your corner, I will.” 

“Who says I need that?” 

“It’s Madge, right? The blonde woman with the pearl earrings. She and Andrea monopolise the kitchen in the morning and talk about all of us.” 

You hate profilers, but you could never hate Spencer. You can’t find it in yourself to be upset that he’s worked out what perturbed you so quickly. 

You cross your arms over your chest, leaning back in your desk chair slowly. “There’s no point arguing with them, babe, you’d end up at Human Resources by the end of the day forced to write an apology letter.” 

Spencer looks like he wants to touch you again, hand heistant, fingers moving as though he’s typing curled into his palm. “I’ll stick up for you if you want me to. I don’t care if they make me write a letter.” 

“Can’t argue over silence,” you say.

It’s a kind offer, and he really is so handsome. Everybody else in the office might drive you up the wall but he’s a sweetheart, through and through. 

“I like when you smile. Doesn’t happen much,” he murmurs. 

If it were anyone else, you’d tell them to fuck off. “Thank you, Spencer. I like your smile too.” 

He leans down for a hug. Again, if it were anyone else, you’d wriggle out of reach and give a speech on boundaries, but it’s him. He folds his arms behind your head and back, encouraging your face into the crook of his neck as he bends to meet you, gentle even when you don’t hug him back. “Don’t listen to anybody,” he says, rubbing your shoulder with his thumb. 

“I don’t.” 

“Who cares if they’re talking about us?” Spencer asks. 

You touch his waist. “Not me.” 

[jsab-au-remix]

The Rainbow Shapes is a group of shapes with certain powerful abilities. There are one of each color shape; pink, red, orange, yellow, green, blue, purple, gray, and white

The previous Rainbow Shapes visit the current in their dreams to tell them of their responsibilities and train them accordingly. When one Rainbow Shape dies, the others grow weaker and their colors start to become muted

All Rainbow Shapes have something rainbow on their body, i.e. Esther’s band and Cube’s flower crown. They receive their rainbow thing once they are fully trained, the only exception of this being Dove, whose rainbow was apart of their coat from their creation. In addition, Dove is the first of the gray Rainbow Shapes

The white Rainbow Shape holds the most power, coming directly from the Tree of Life. They do not receive their rainbow until found by the others of the group, as to avoid people using their power for themselves. As of the current generation, the white shape is in an entirely different universe, this being the first time this has happened. So the previous Rainbow Shapes had to find out how to universe jump and teach it to the current generation

[yandere-daydreams]

file #4: the body mod fic.

part of the FREAK SHIT MARCH evidence packet.

pairing: yandere!wriothesley x reader (genshin).

length: 3.1k.

warnings: non/con touching + groping, nonconsensual piecing, dubiously consensual tattoos, permanent body modification, intimidation, needles, obsessive behavior, and unbalanced power dynamics.

“Just one?”

The question had been hushed, meek, directed more towards your lap than the man sitting across from you. The warden – Wriothesley, you chided yourself, biting the inside of your cheek and attempting to remember what he’d asked you to call him, Wriothesley – broke into a wry smile, but nodded, leaning back in his armchair. “Just one,” he reassured. “And you’ll taken care of until your release date.”

You didn’t respond, but he must’ve seen the way you paled at the suggestion. “Having second thoughts?”

“No, it’s just—” You grit your teeth. Your eyes flitted up momentarily, but fell back to your legs just as quickly. “I… I’ve never really liked needles, I guess.”

You could see his eyes light up, his grin broadening as he tried to stifle his laughter. You scowled, but couldn’t blame him. He was used to dealing with hardened criminals, the scum of Teyvat, thieves and spies and murderers, and here you were – on the verge of fainting because he asked you to get a tattoo. “I promise, you don’t have anything to worry about.” At least he was trying to sound comforting, even if it was clearly a half-hearted effort. “I’ll make sure you’re in good hands.”

And he had, in a way.

You just wished he would’ve mentioned that those hands would be his own.

Calloused fingertips dug into your bicep as a scarred palm pressed into your skin, keeping one of your arms loosely secured against the mattress of the cot while the other was pinned between the bedframe and his chest (the placement unintentional, or so you hoped). You’d been shaking when he brought out that terrible machine – a vial of dark ink trapped inside of a cage of copper and steel; a single, silver needle protruding out of one end and a leather grip wrapped around the other – but it’d only taken an hour for fear to fade into boredom, another for boredom to drag on into a rotting, discolored sort of exhaustion. For as much as you’d been dreading it, there was more pressure than pain. It was repetitive, if anything – a monotonous pierce, stab, pierce, stab that you could only try your best not to focus on. You could already feel an ache settling below the skin of your shoulder, already knew that you wouldn’t be able to lift your arm for days, but you tried not to—

His needle stabbed into the thin skin over your shoulder blade, and you couldn’t stop yourself – letting out a low hiss as you flinched into the cot’s thin mattress. You expected Wriothesley to laugh, to drag a damp cloth over the affected area and mutter something like ‘bear with me’ or ‘my bad, love, my bad’ like he had a dozen times before, but instead, there was a muffled click as he switched off his awful machine, a dull clatter as he dropped it onto a bedside table already crowded with bottles of disinfectant and the nurse’s bizarre tools. “We’ll stop here. It’ll take another session, but I think you’ve been through enough for one day. For a virgin, especially.”

You were only half-listening; the phantom of his machine still buzzing in your ears. “Are you sure?” You asked, trying to hide how desperate you were not to spend another night in the empty infirmary with a man you barely knew. “It’s not that bad, I can go for another—”

“I’m sure. Sit up, I’ll let you have a look.”

You pursed your lips, but didn’t protest. You could see how Wriothesley had gotten into such an authoritative position. The way he spoke, his constant undertone of stern stability – it was hard to so much as imagine talking back to him, let alone breaking one of the rules that’d been meticulously and painstakingly drilled into you when you’d arrived at the Fortress of Meropide a little under a week ago. Still, you’d been terrified – too scared to so much as speak to another prisoner for the first two days. You weren’t dangerous. You couldn’t hold your own in a fight, or protect yourself if someone else, someone stronger decided they had a problem with you. You could barely even call yourself a criminal, but apparently, the Iudex hadn’t agreed. You’d been on your way to the fortress before he could finish reading out your sentence, and now, you were trapped in the darkest, deepest place in all of Fontaine, alone and so, so painfully vulnerable. If it hadn’t been for Wriothesley, you probably would’ve requested to forgo your imprisonment entirely and be sent straight to the gallows.

A hand on your shoulder, a softened lull to his voice. “You can sit up, can’t you? I’ll have to call Sigewinne, if you’re in that much pain.”

“Right, I— uh, sorry,” You stammered as you shook your head and pushed yourself up, careful to keep the thick, overly starched cot sheet pressed to your chest. The infirmary was empty, the door locked and sealed, and while Wriothesley hadn’t seemed to think much of ordering you to take off your shirt and lay face-down, you couldn’t bring yourself to brush off the stark, damp chill that came with any amount of exposure in the fortress so easily. You guessed that, after enough time, you’d get used to it. You guessed that, when you did, the thought of not being so cold so constantly wouldn’t make you feel so sick. “I…  I think I’m still getting used to this,” you went on, with a strained smile. “Still a little out of it, I guess.”

“That’s alright, love. We all take a few months to find a way to cope.” When you glanced over your shoulder, there was already a mirror in his hand – a compact, small enough to fit in his palm. You had to crane your neck to see it, but Wriothesley knew how to strike the right angle, and soon enough, the sprawling, spiraling pattern stretching from the lower curve of your shoulder blade to the ball of your shoulder came into view. It took you a moment to make out the pattern, but relief accompanied the delayed realization. Lumidouce bells, all blossoming and linked together by a single vine. He’d finished the linework, and there was a smattering of color in the bottom corner – only, oh, he’d gotten the shade wrong. Rather than deep violet, he’d used a light blue, more similar to ice than the water nearly everything in Fontaine stole its palette from. Judging by his expression, though, all beaming pride and low-brewing mirth, he hadn’t caught the mistake. “What do you think? Don’t keep me in suspense, now.”

“It’s… nice,” you said, the sentiment sincere despite your hesitance. And then, laughing, “I was—Well, it feels a little silly now, but I was terrified you’d leave me with, I don’t know, a sea monster or a giant wolf or something.”

“Maybe next time. Not a wolf, though - you don’t strike me as that vicious.” You bit your tongue, forcing yourself not to tell him there wouldn’t be a next time and opting to focus on the soreness starting to knot in your shoulder, instead. You swung your legs over the side of the cot, moving towards where you’d left your shirt draped over an unopened crate, but Wriothesley caught your wrist, tugging you gently back onto the thin mattress. “Where do you think you’re going?” he asked, his playfulness suddenly more irritating than it had been, a few second ago. “I don’t think we’re finished, yet.”

Not for the first time, your smile wavered. “I… I thought we only agreed to one, sir.”

“Of course.” He squeezed your wrist teasingly. “One of each.”

Something heavy and spiked dropped into the pit of your stomach. This time, you couldn’t help the way your expression dropped. “Sir, that’s really not what I—”

“It’ll be worse the longer you put it off.” You weren’t dangerous. You weren’t a criminal. You weren’t strong, but Wriothesley was. Before you could so much as push yourself to your feet, his arm was around your waist and he was perched on the edge of the cot, one leg tucked underneath him to make more room for your body, soon pulled between his thighs. The back of your shoulder screamed where it pressed into his chest, but you managed to swallow the little, pitiful sound threatening to bubble past your lips and clung to your sheet – suddenly so much thinner than it’d seemed, seconds prior. If Wriothesley noticed your apparent panic, the distress of his prisoners was an inconvenience he was willing to endure. Only half-consciously, you tried to shove yourself away from him, but his muscle-bound arm was snaked around your waist before you could gain any distance, keeping you flush against his broad chest. He was so much bigger than you’d realized, when he was on the other side of that desk, when he was engraving something intrusive and permanent into the very fabric of your being. This had been a bad idea. Trusting anyone here had been a bad idea. You should never have—

Your elbow slammed into his diaphragm, and Wriothesley let out a slow grunt, his fingers burrowing into the plush of your side. “Easy now, love,” he half-muttered, half-breathed, bowing his head to speak into the side of your throat. “We had a deal, remember? Can you tell me what it was?”

“You—you said I wouldn’t get hurt if—” You forced yourself to stop, to swallow, to breathe. “But, I only agreed to get one tattoo, and you—”

“I said I’d take care of you. Get you a nice, cushy job with the fortress administrator, keep you out of any over-crowded bunks, make sure the other prisoners don’t cause you any trouble – that kind of thing. I’m really not supposed to play favorites, so even doing that much is going to take more than a little discretion on my part.”

“But, you offered to—”

“I said I’d take care of you, and I’m going to.” You could see him fishing something off of the bedside table with his free hand, but you forced yourself not to look, not to make the ever-growing pit in your stomach feel that much more hollow. “You’ve heard a few stories about what it’s like in the underworld, right? I try to keep all of you nice n’ safe, but a few are bound to fall through the cracks. Rehabilitation can only do so much and—well, I’m sure you know all about how bloodthirsty desperation can make someone.” There was a pause, an ebbing lull to the tenderness in his voice. “I’m just trying to keep you safe, sweetheart. Are you going to help me get a little practice in, while I do that?”

Practice. If he wanted practice, you were sure there were another hundred prisoners who’d willingly lay down and let him carve a hole through whatever he wanted to. Still, you did your best to calm yourself down, to stop thrashing, to shut your eyes and try to ignore the large, pulsing thing you could feel pressing into your ass. You didn’t nod, didn’t give him permission, but when his fist balled around the infirmary sheet and tugged it away from you, the only resistance you managed to scrape up was a slight frown and a wary glance in his direction. “You’re already in for a rough night,” he explained, as if that was any excuse. “Might as well get the hardest one out of the way first, right?”

You refused to let yourself linger on the implication that this wasn’t going to be the last, too.

You clenched your eyes shut as his large hand pawed at the right side of your chest, kneading into the softened flesh with an almost delicate sort of care. “It’s easier after a little stimulation,” he murmured, as if that meant he had to spend so long circling your nipple with a calloused thumb, occasionally swiping over the sensitive bud in a way that made your thighs twitch and your face burn. When your nipple was stiff and pebbled, he pulled away, but it was a momentary reprieve – torn away from you with a splash of freezing disinfectant. It dripped down your chest and filled the stagnant air with a thick, chemical haze as Wriothesley caught your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, pinching tightly. You felt the long, curved tip of his piercing needle against your skin, and braced yourself for the pain. Wriothesley wasn’t kind enough not to drag it out, though. “Wanna count me down?”

You shook your head, pushing yourself that much closer to his chest, desperate for any kind of stability. You’d hoped that Wriothesley would take your clear obstinance as a sign not to drag it out any longer, but he seemed to savor it – the agony of the wait, the way the dread seemed to multiply tenfold every time you forced yourself to suck in a ragged inhale. Seconds seemed to pass like frozen honey, only just beginning to drip. You’d started to think he wouldn’t do it, that he’d just laugh and admit this was all part of some bizarre, invasive hazing ritual when Wriothesley let out an airy chuckle and plunged his needle into you.

Oh, archons.

You really thought the tattoo would’ve been worse.

It was faster, at least; a bright shock of pain followed immediately by a steady, throbbing sort of ache that seemed to drown out every other sensation and fill your mind with a buzzing, numbing static. You didn’t realize your eyes had shot open on reflex until tears blurred your vision, until you glanced down just in time to watch as he dragged the needle through and replaced it with a small, silver stud – a barbell, as wrong as it felt to think of yourself having something so vulgar attached to you. You were crying unabashedly by the time he finished, pain and humiliation dripping down your cheeks in hot, wet streams, but Wriothesley’s shallow pool of sympathy must’ve run dry. “Ah, don’t make that face, sweetheart – we’re only halfway done.” You felt him panting into the crook of your neck as his hand found the other side of your chest. The last threads of his veil of composure frayed and broke apart as he groped unabashedly at your chest, toying with your nipple as your sobs echoed off of the clinic walls. You felt something thick and hot and wet crash against your collarbone and drip down the curve of your chest, and forced yourself to believe it was only disinfectant. That there was nothing it could’ve been except disinfectant.

Wriothesley’s hips rocked against your ass, the rigid outline of his cock pressing into you, incinerating any lingering delusions you might’ve had of helpful prison wardens exchanging one favor for another. Five fingers bit into the plush of your chest as he brought his needle to your unmutilated nipple, his hand surprisingly steady despite the airy, drawling moans he was pouring into your throat. “P-please don’t,” you managed, fighting to speak above the pathetic cries and choking fear doing their best to strangle out your voice. “Please, I can’t—I don’t want to—”

But, Wriothesley wasn’t listening. It wasn’t a spark, this time, but a red-hot knife, stabbed deep into your chest and twisted as far as it could go. You heard Wriothesley let out a rough groan, felt something warm and damp against your ass, and then, you were gone.

~

You startled awake hours later; bolting upright as you heaved in jolting, uneven inhales. Immediately, pain knocked you out of your panicked daze – sharp and piercing, imbedded into the back of your shoulder and either side of your chest, strong enough to remind you to measure out your breathing and calm down before you blindly threw yourself back into a seething pit of violent criminals. It took you a second to realize that you weren’t on an undersized infirmary cot, anymore, and another to piece together where he’d taken you – a bedroom nearly triple the size of your bunk. The warden’s chambers, you figured, as you scanned over the limited decoration and piles of dust-coated paperwork stacked onto every possible surface. Wriothesley’s room.

Wriothesley’s bed, at that. A cold chill ran down your spine as you realized that he’d taken the time to strip you out of your ill-fitting coveralls and redress you in a shirt sizes too big to be one of yours – the bleached, threadbare material a stark contrast to the satin sheets draped over your legs. You started to push them away and move towards the edge of the mattress, but froze as a door on the far side of the room creaked open – Wriothesley slipping inside and letting the door shut behind him. He moved away from it quickly, but as it closed, you could’ve sworn you heard the muffled, deafening click of a lock sliding into place and cutting you off from the rest of the world – or, the rest of the underworld, rather. As if there was anyone out there who would bother to save you, even if they could try.

“There’s my sleeping beauty.” He grinned as he lowered himself on the side of the bed, positioning himself closer to you than he absolutely had to. He reached out, moving to cup your face, but quickly let his hand fall back to his side when you flinched away. His smile dimmed, but didn’t fall away. “Get a chance to see the improvements, yet?”

After a second of hesitation, you shook your head, and he nodded to your chest - the gesture more of an order than a suggestion. Reluctantly, you pinched your collar between two fingers and peeled away from your skin. Through the narrow sliver, you could see his handiwork: a pair of twin rings hanging from either nipple, connected by a thin, lax, silver chain – so light, you could barely feel it brushing your diaphragm as the air caught in your chest.

You dropped the collar before you could give in to the nausea beginning to coil in the pit of your stomach. You couldn’t bear to look at Wriothesley, so you kept your eyes on the sheets, kneading at the fabric half-consciously as you struggled to find your voice. “That wasn’t what we agreed to,” you muttered, mostly under your breath. “Can I go back to my bunk, now?”

His smile took on an almost apologetic note. You tried again. “Am I... Am I going to be able to leave?”

This time, when he reached out, flinching away wasn’t enough to stop him – his hand catching your chin and drawing you that much closer to him. You tried to lurch away, but it was too late, his lips were already crashing into yours, his tongue already slipping past your teeth and raking over your own. While your eyes widened in shock, his went half-lidded, closing just a second too late. Abruptly, it occurred to you that you’d never really noticed the color of his eyes – a pale, faded blue. The color of the half-formed flowers currently stretching across your back.

Wriothesley’s hand slipped to the nape of your neck. You let your eyes fall shut, and did your best not to think at all.

[haoboutyou]

gym crush | choi seungcheol

fluff | 1151 words | suggestive descriptions. i’m y/n’s just really thirsty

an: please take this as a formal invitation. requests are open! (whether i answer on time is another problem)

you don’t like the gym. absolutely not. it gets super hot and humid inside, it stinks of sweat, and the big machines always intimidate you.

what to do? you’re just a girl.

you usually wouldn’t even phantom the idea of stepping foot into the gym if it wasn’t for your best friend. really, the only reason why you’re even sitting in one right now was because you arrived too early for your meet up with him.

that’s how you ended up perched on a high stool, legs swinging as you patiently look around while soonyoung finishes up his last few sets of… pull-ups? you’re honestly not sure. how he’s still chatting with you while completing his sets – barely panting through it, too – is beyond you.

“so i was thinking,” soonyoung casually starts, lifting himself like he was made of paper. “we can get dinner at the new italian place downtown? i heard they’re having a opening promotion right now.”

“mmh, sounds good.” your eyes are flitting all around the gym, trying to find something interesting enough to catch your attention.

“right, i almost forgot! seokmin texted earlier; he said he’ll drive by to pick us up later too.”

“really? that’s great.” you sound enthusiastic but your hunched posture informs soonyoung otherwise. at this point, your best friend can tell that you’ve tuned out of the conversation. he huffs at the way your eyes zone into the far corner of the gym, where the weight benches are. soonyoung scoffs more when he realises your eyes are trained on a very specific person, watching intently at the way the muscles on his arms bulge every time he lifts a dumbbell.

“yeah, he also said he saw mingyu running into a tree earlier… even said a rat fell on him and started pulling at his hair and controlling him like a robot. do you think the rat would make a better chef than mingyu?”

“wow really? that’s great.” your replies get progressively monotonous as you keep your eyes trained at the corner. yeah, now he definitely knows your mind has completely left the conversation.

your breath hitched as you watched the mystery man run a hand through his faded red hair, baggy t-shirt sleeves hitched up to reveal more of his biceps? triceps? never have you ever wished you paid more attention to your biology lessons back in high school.

everything about this mystery man has you swooning. the thick veins on his hands running up his arms, the way his eyebrows furrow in concentration, how the sweat glistening on his forehead seemed to cast a heavenly glow all around him. you can’t forget the grunts he lets out with every movement, entrancing you with his deep voice. gosh, even his hands are perfect. an angel has descended to soothe all your gym-related problems, converting you into a devout worshipper of his physique.

you’ve never been more thankful for soonyoung’s suggestion to wait in the gym.

soonyoung’s arms may be burning from hanging on the pull-up bar for too long, but he just couldn’t believe his eyes; your mouth is hanging open and– wait, is that drool?! is his best friend really drooling over a man in the gym?!? a laugh of disbelief escapes him as he finishes the last of his rep. soonyoung mutters a quick prayer of thanks to god for gifting him prime blackmailing material. he drops back to the ground and swiftly snaps a picture of you, in all your thirsting glory, before he picks up the rest of his stuff.

“y/n,” he calls out. “i’m gonna hit the showers and then we can go. you good staying here on your own for a bit?”

“yeah, yeah! i’m not going anywhere, don’t worry.” you wave him off, not even bothering to turn towards your best friend. soonyoung lets out another tut as he turns towards the gym’s locker room. that is, before a brilliant idea comes into mind.

“hyung!”

the red-haired man turns towards soonyoung’s voice. “hoshi, you’re going already?”

your best friend nods his head, grinning at how your eyes seemed to pop out at the way he was casually talking to your new-found eye candy. “are you doing anything tonight? i’m meeting seokmin and the others for dinner later, wanna join?”

“kwon soonyoung!” you whisper-hiss. “what the hell are you doing? you guys know each other!?” is that blush creeping up your neck he sees? the tips of your ears tinge so pink soonyoung thinks he can almost feel the heat radiating from them.

“thanks, but i’ve already got plans.” the mystery stranger shoots you a gentle smile, flirty (flirty?!) wink (WINK?!?) towards you. still, you can’t hide your disappointment; you would’ve loved to get to know this new-found work of art more.. “maybe next time? you can properly introduce me to your pretty friend then too.”

soonyoung thinks he heard a strangled cry from you, coughing as you somehow manage to choke on your own saliva. he chuckles at your suffering. “sure, hyung. i think she’d like that too!”

soonyoung doesn’t know what to expect when he finally emerges from the locker room cleaned and refreshed, but it definitely wasn’t you raining attacks on his sore arms and shoulders. seungcheol (he had introduced himself to you while soonyoung was gone– in fact, the two of you managed a whole conversation while he was gone (no, you were so shy and embarrassed you were barely able to keep eye contact with him)) waves at the both of you as you leave the gym to wait for seokmin to arrive.

you’re convinced the blush on your cheeks is going to be a permanent feature of tonight. it doesn’t help that it becomes the main topic during dinner with seokmin and mingyu, the other two boys cracking up at soonyoung’s dramatic retelling of your new-found gym crush.

(it also doesn’t help that you had a balled up fist under the table all night, hiding the hastily written phone number on a piece of paper that seungcheol had managed to slip to you while you were leaving, mouthing the words ‘call me!’ behind soonyoung’s back.)

-

bonus!

“remember when you couldn’t keep your eyes off me when we first met?” seungcheol swings his arm around you, broad shoulders almost engulfing you whole.

you groan, choosing instead to bury your head into your boyfriend’s chest. soonyoung cackles from across the booth. you have to physically restrain yourself from clawing him alive.

“hyung it wasn’t just that; she was drooling over you!” he wiggles his eyebrows, ignoring the daggers you were staring his way. blush makes its way up your cheeks, dusting them pink.

seungcheol laughs, planting a kiss on the crown of your head.

“if it makes you feel better,” he whispers in your ear. “you were my gym crush too.”

soonyoung almost falls off his seat laughing when you blush even harder.

[nvuy]

confiteor (WILL YOU EVER LOOK UP AGAIN?) — sunday

summary. the bronze melodia is a position that requires weariness, empathy, and patience. unfortunately for sunday, he receives far more than he expects through the voice in the window.

notes. i’m ashamed. this is dedicated to the anon that held me at gunpoint and forced me to post this to tumblr. otherwise, you can read it here.

warnings. mdni. this is LONGGG it’s about 7k words. religious themes, religious guilt, explicit sexual content, very inappropriate use of a confessional, mild degradation but in a religious way, reader is AFAB i fear and uhh. indecent and guided mutual tug sessions, if you catch my drift.

“Next. Please, step forward.”

Sunday had heard it all before. Timid footsteps, hushed whispers, skin stretching as the person trembled and fidgeted. It was always confronting to sinners, to step close to his voice and absolve.

Nothing truly shocked him anymore. He’d fallen in a state of numbness, in taking this position. A Bronze Melodia, as it was called.

He’d heard murder confessions, perjury, disloyalty, misconduct, everything. He had to grow used to it; this was his job. To forgive, to press his fists into palms beyond the confessors' sight line, and pretend he was as all-forgiving as he appeared to be.

He had learned to hold his voice steady.

Sunday found himself absentmindedly fixing his sleeves, though they already sat perfectly on his wrists.

What he could never predict was whether the person behind the window was here to absolve, or to mock the Aeons. It was always a guessing game for him; perhaps that’s what kept him from straying too far from the path.

The position was tedious, though patience was a virtue of his. He liked to akin himself to an adaptable man, warping his words and honeying his rather monotonous tone to that of reassurance. A false promise of hope, if you will.

He was good at that. Humans were exceedingly predictable in most of their actions; he had learned as such and had tried to drill the knowledge and dangers of the species into his dear sister, too.

Humans were cruel. Robin had never believed him, even in the feats of his struggles as a child, how one of the wings below his ear was mercilessly snapped in an act of child’s play. Child curiosity, it was dubbed as, though to him, it felt more like hatred.

He remembered crying that night, with his right-wing bandaged by his caregiver, and Robin had to remain in his room and sing him to sleep.

Now, it was different.

Quiet shuffles of footsteps were heard. He could tell they were the last recipient remaining, for the muted idle chatter of attendants had faded, and the sun was beginning to set. Members of kinship and the like would return home and sin, and then enter the church begging for forgiveness tomorrow. A never-ending, boorish and lonely cycle.

How shy. He listened to apprehensive slow steps until he heard the click of sharp heels stop just short of the window.

“Come to me, my devotee. I have sought THEIR presence within us.” Sweet words, peppered with powdered sugar poured from his tongue. “Tell me… what ails you such?”

The quiet intake of a breath, sharp and hushed.

Curious, Sunday leaned against the interior wall, just barely closer.

When there was no answer, he added, “do not be afraid. I am here to forgive. I cannot judge you.”

Another harsh inhale.

And then, “I apologise, Reverend.”

“Not at all.” A small, gentle smile pulled onto his lips. You could not see him through the box, and he made sure to stay clear of the iron bars of the window, but he hoped you heard the warmth and comforting sweetness in his tone. “Are you new to the congregation? Your voice is unfamiliar.”

He heard the shuffling of clothes. A pause, and then a wilting, “yes– no, sir.” Another pause, longer than the last. “I have not visited the confessional, but I do sometimes attend service.”

Sunday hummed curiously. “And what has prompted your change of heart?”

He heard the tapping of nails against the exterior of the box, pensive and thoughtful. Rhythmic, like in time to a tune he couldn’t quite place his finger on.

The setting, orange glow of the sunlight, partially tinted a deep bloodied colour through the stained glass windows of the church, crept further through the bars of the confessional as it drew closer to the horizon. The light was warm on the lick of his fingertips that rested close to the frame.

The persistent tap, tap, tap sounded like an agitated display of impatience. Like a song of trepidation and dread, yet much too quick to be sorrowful. Excitement, perhaps?

Then, there was the hard swallow of a lump in their throat. He heard it through the wall.

“I fell in love with a man.”

Their voice, your voice, rang clear as if you were standing next to him without the muffle of the confessional in between his body and yours.

Sunday’s eyes flitted to the wall by his head as if he could see you through the wood.

He said nothing.

Speckles of dust caught in the setting orange sun from the stained glass windows.

“A beautiful man,” you continued softly. “Generous, kind, considerate…” Your voice tapered off like a votive candle flickering in the breeze.

Sunday remained quiet, choosing instead to focus on the soft beating of his heart in his ears, and the sound of your breathing.

There was another ruffle of clothes—a blazer perhaps? It sounded like stiffened cotton or something as luxurious as pure wool. He wondered if such a material could be purchased by someone so common. Wool was a fleeting thought; an easy purchase with the wave of a credit card.

There was a pregnant pause, as if you, too, did not know what to say.

“Is he a bad man?” Sunday inquired encouragingly, still soft and eloquent.

A hiss of an inhale.

“No, not at all.”

Still, nothing.

Sunday watched the wall for a moment, imagining a figure on the other side fidgeting nervously. He could hear the tussle of form-fitted clothes shifting back and forth as if the devotee had been unable to stand still.

“I offer my sincerest apologies,” he started gently. “But I fail to understand any wrongdoings in your confession.” He prompted his voice to remain even. Patience. All in due time. “If he is as truly good a man as you put it, then there is nothing I see to absolve.”

“It’s not him,” you tried. There was a drone in your tone, as if you were trying to defend yourself. “It’s who he is.”

“An unattainable man, I presume? Or, is he perhaps forbidden?” The pressure was light. He was not so much forcing or coaxing words from your throat, but to embolden you instead.

He heard you hum nervously in agreement. He thought it to be a reply to both of his questions.

“Is it his status?”

Another uncomfortable tussle of clothing.

“Yes, sir.” He heard you lean against the confessional through the strain of the wall. “He is a holy man.”

“Ah… a man of the church?”

“I cannot want what I cannot have,” you dwelled softly. “I know the answer is to let go, but it has been months, and I have grown worse.”

Sunday hummed. Quite the predicament indeed. Such a precious scenario, though. Somebody ordinary in love with the unordinary. So sweet, like fruit growing on a tree in a sacred garden.

The tragedy of unattainable romance was fleeting for the congregation. Even Robin, his dear sister, a truly devoted romantic at heart, could never commit herself to a person. To worship another, and to take eyes from Xipe, would be worth a painful, slow and torturous death unlike no other.

Grotesque and twisted, like the many priests before him, who had been slashed and severed for their transgressions.

To turn your back on The Family��

He willed the thoughts away.

“I do hear you. I pray for your struggles.” His gloves pressed to the window. “But, it is not unreasonable, nor a defiance of the Holy, to be in love with a man of the church.”

“That’s the thing. It’s beyond love, Reverend,” you said, hoarse and strained, like you’d raked a hand down your jugular. “It’s everything.”

The shift of clothes again. This time, a hand brushed against a zipper, though there was no tug at the clip. He listened attentively, like a song he’d never heard before.

The stretch of clothes around skin, the glimpse of an expensive leather shoe from the corner of his eye, and attire inappropriate for the church. Exposed legs, too much skin, a low neckline of a shirt. Patterned stockings following black embroidered flowers and thorny stems travelled up bare legs like serpents.

“I want to ruin him.”

There it was.

“I want it so he thinks no more of the Aeon he worships, and only of me.”

His lips only barely parted at what he was hearing. A startled quiet breath escaped him.

He heard the skin of your knuckles pull taught into fists. They tapped against the wood.

“But it’s wrong of me to think this way, so I humbly request your blessings, Reverend, even if I–” You paused. Sunday flinched when a hand pressed against the iron bars, dreadfully close to the feathered wings beneath his ears. “There’s something bad inside of me. I need your help.”

Never had he heard something like this. A sinner be so outwardly humble and honest in their speech; to admit that you were wrong. To admit that your behaviour was treacherous and ghastly.

And to pine after a man of worship and unbreaking devotion.

To defy the Lord. To fight teachings, to fight him and his words. A stubbornness like no other, and one so incredibly shameful and distasteful, and yet, you still carried a weight of guilt heavy on your chest.

Another shudder of a breath. Another pitiful, desperate noise. All to receive his good graces.

“I don’t ask for forgiveness anymore. I don’t think I even deserve your blessings, sire. I don’t think anybody does.” Maybe he would agree with you, and maybe he wouldn’t. Instead, he leaned against the wall and stared up towards the ceiling of the confessional. “I only ask to hear your voice.”

Sunday’s breath hitched at the suspicious sound of a zipper being tugged, roaming hands, far too purposeful in their placement. He didn’t wish to imagine where your fingers travelled.

Instead, he squeezed his eyes shut.

“If you have convinced yourself that nothing can be done, then why would you seek me?” he asked, a waver in his tone. His ear pressed to the wall again, cold against his warm skin. “…If you think you cannot be absolved, then I am unable to help you.”

“I want relief,” was all you said. You pressed against the confessional. “Blessed Reverend, I want you to relieve me.”

Sunday was at a loss for words. He was listening attentively again.

You did not ask for forgiveness, peaceful solitude, or punishment. He did not understand what you were referring to specifically, choosing instead to pull delicately at the tips of his gloves. They suddenly felt constricting, like they’d grown a size too small for his hands.

Usually, he’d refrain from mindless fiddling and fidgeting. Something was different now.

Something warm ran from the pit of his stomach up to his neck.

It was vile. Like a serpent’s tongue following the rigid bone of his spine towards the nape of his neck. Warm and forked, like a pitchfork wielded in the hands of the irreverent.

The slimy body of the snake would twist and coil around his neck, squeezing the delicate flesh, marring it, coercing more sweet honey from his tongue until you were writhing.

The localised swelling heat curling in his stomach burned hotter when your breathing faltered and strayed from its natural rhythm.

It faltered too immorally to be mistaken for a simple hitch, or an error in your presentation. It was not a reflection of apprehension, nor fear.

It was–

“Would you be honest with me?” Sunday asked gently. His trembling hands curled into fists, still pressed against the wall and out of view of the window. “I only ask one answer of you.”

“Of course.” Strained, weak, unsure. Another pathetic attempt of an even breath left your lips. The aroma of something rich and sweet wavered through the bars of the window. “Anything for you.”

How depraved. Indecent, perverse. Your tone was repulsive, and so incredibly honest.

He heard the sound of something slippery, like the swallowing of spit in your mouth, or perhaps something far far more obscene.

He was tempted to move closer, to bite at the hand that fed him.

Your devotion was corrupt, focused solely on the sound of his breathing from inside the confessional. You were not here for redemption.

The box grew warm with his shaken breaths.

“Then, pray tell…” His temple rested against the interior of the confessional, and something hot and vile stirred in his stomach, like fiery pits of devastation. Like claws from a being unforeseen by Aeons above. “Are your hands between your thighs?”

You let out a stuttered gasp.

Sunday closed his eyes and tried to control his shaken breathing. His perfectly fitted clothes suddenly felt too tight, too restricting, every crease and fold tattering and ruined heating skin.

He swallowed thickly, wings barely catching on the window of the confessional.

“I’m not–” Your hands abandoned their position and pressed to the window, the diagonal frames digging into your soft flesh. The pad of your longest finger shimmered in the setting sunlight. “–I’m wrong. There’s something wrong with me.”

His gloved nails dug into his thighs. The dove white trousers stretched with the pressure.

He could not see you fully, no, for if he could, he was afraid he’d throw the door open, drag you into his lap and satisfy that burning ache that ricocheted in his stomach.

“To think of you this way,” you continued meekly. “It’s disgusting and vile and I need you to help me.”

He had to agree with you, though his fingers pressed just shy of the borders of the window. He almost grabbed your hand and dragged his tongue up your finger.

He felt the same. Hot and sticky, clothes clinging to him like they’d been doused in glue. The feeling pressed into his burning skin like a fragrance of saffron and black peppers.

That seductively enticing aroma of your perfume that lingered through the gaps in the windows. Honey and dessert, and the salty smell of your sweat. He did not eat sweets anymore; that sweet tooth was long left to dust and decay, and yet his mouth watered.

He felt as though he was being tempted to bite into something that held dire consequences.

Desperate to relieve the burning below his skin, Sunday unbuttoned his blazer. “Do you wish to be absolved?”

“I–” He heard you shuffle. The telltale swish of cloth. The click of heels. You’d dressed up for him, even if he couldn’t see you, and you couldn’t see him. Even your painted nails he peered at; a dark navy blue, like the wings at his waist that stretched in relief when he freed them from the confines of his jacket. “I don’t deserve it.”

“So, why did you come?” he asked. The larger, navy blue wings were much too big for the small perimeter of the confessional, but anything was better than to feel as restricted as he was.

His gloved hands pressed to the window now.

He wanted to touch you.

God, no. He couldn’t think like this.

He wanted his fingerprints branded into your skin, to stain every inch of your flesh like cigarette burns, forever marring the perfection.

“To relieve myself.”

Sunday smiled, and it was pained. You heard it in his tone. “How honest.” His temple pressed onto the cool wooden box again, leaning as close as he could to your voice. “Aren’t you ashamed?”

His forehead pressed to the wood beside the window, out of view. The orange rays of the sun setting outside licked upon his fingertips that curled over the iron bars. The warmth felt cold.

“Very,” was all you said.

Sunday fought the urge to moan, pressing his teeth into his tongue and hissing at the pain.

This was wrong.

He couldn’t stop himself.

“Go on, then. One hand. Relieve yourself.”

He heard a muffled sigh of relief. Perhaps you, too, had pressed yourself against the exterior of the confessional. The only thing parting you from his body was a thin slide of wood.

A sacred sanctuary that you would reform from pure selfishness.

One of the hands on the window abandoned its firm grip around the frames, and he heard a quiet gasp.

It was quickly cut off.

“Let me hear you,” Sunday whispered through the window. A gloved hand raked down the side of the window, and his head knocked against the corner of the confessional. His halo suddenly felt like a crown of thorns, weighted and punishing.

He would indulge.

If you were here to ruin him, then he would indulge.

He heard a wet squelch that made him shiver. His other hand had absentmindedly crawled up his thigh, trembling to remain flat on the seat. The skin below his trousers was pulled taught and had grown sensitive.

You moaned, and it was so close to his ear that his spine snapped straight. His fingers brushed over his straining cock beneath his belt.

The awful, awful, yet so beautiful sounds that tore from your throat left him reeling for more. For his mind to fill in the blanks, squeezing his eyes shut tight until even the light from the window was shunned out of his eyelids.

“Slow your hand,” he whispered. “Enjoy yourself properly.”

The squelching slowed significantly after only a moment of hesitation. He heard you continuously pant like a helpless mutt, confused, perhaps frustrated, too.

The other hand still curled as tight as it could around the iron diagonal bars of the window shook with reckless abandon.

Debauch sin felt good. Like a drug. Like alcohol washing down his throat and filling his stomach. So, so good, like the slide of his hand up his shirt. His other hand, much less secure, fumbled with the golden buckle of his belt.

He wondered if you felt the same. “How will you sleep tonight?”

“I won’t,” you whispered hoarsely. He was sure your appearance was something to match the rasp of your voice. “I will toss and turn.”

As will he. He’ll lay on his side, tangled between freshly washed white sheets and feathered pillows, and touch himself. He knows it so. He feels the strain of his palm tracing along the hot skin, thumbing the beading slit while he thinks of your perfume.

His cock twitched in the confines of his pants when the heel of his palm knocked against his tip. So hot, and so difficult to breathe. This box was not made to entertain whores, nor himself.

Sunday managed to unbuckle his belt. The leather straps smack against the side of the box.

You’re so wet. He can hear you through the confessional, and a dreamy sigh escapes his nose.

“How many fingers are inside of you?” He couldn’t quite tell. His hands curled into fists.

“Just one, sire.”

Sunday huffed, thumbing the button of his trousers around his waist. The claws in the pit of his stomach had returned, scratching and marring the inner walls and slicing through the bubbles of acid, desperate to be set free. It hurt.

He could imagine how you felt. He could imagine everything; the rhythmic sound of a single finger sliding in and out of the pretty wet hole between your legs. Pressing your body against the exterior of the box, desperate to feel the cold wood against your burning skin.

Your finger being hugged tight inside of you, pressing and dragging along sensitive nerves deep near your womb.

He was a mess.

Hair frazzled, halo dimming and fading when the light angled into the box just right, wings twitching, battling a game of whether he was to wrap them around himself or spread out as wide as they could.

You must’ve heard the zip of his fly undone, for you gasped, and your finger sped up accordingly. That same wet squishing of your poor poor limbs trying to accommodate how shameful you’d become.

His teeth caught on the tip of his glove and pulled the material off. The white cotton fell to the floor uselessly.

“You must be so lonely,” you said to him through the window. “So deprived.” He felt the fanning of warm breath against his ear. “I can fix that.”

Sunday, attentively listening with glowing cheeks, slowly freed his cock from his pants. A sigh slipped past his wet lips.

A different sound echoed from between your legs, and you groaned as close to his ear as you could.

“I want to hear you, Reverend.”

His hand dragged up his cock and he moaned. It was a shameful display of sincerity, and he wished he had bit his tongue again. Instead, he panted against the wood of the confessional, and muttered, “touch yourself.”

A wet noise that made his hips shift forward into his hand told him your finger had abandoned your insides, instead dragging up to play with that precious bundle of nerves.

He heard the stretch of skin, the shift of whatever clothes you had kept on yourself, and what you had thrown to the side. You were leaning against the box; your scent was stronger, that perfume and something sweeter, mixed with the salt and sweat of your skin.

He only hoped your thighs were as parted as his were. One of the sides of his knees knocked gently against the wall of the confessional.

So wrong. So shameful, so blasphemous, to do this, to please you and please himself to the thought of you, and then exit the church as if it had never happened. As if he wasn’t trapped fucking his palm like a mutt in heat, unable to control the panting and the incessant whispers of groans that escaped his lips.

Cum beaded at his slit, sticky and dribbling down to the base of his tip.

He wanted nothing more than to heave the door open, taste the slick that ran down your legs, and then bend you over the nearby podium and–

“So wet,” he murmured through the window. The only response you formed was a whimper. “So shameless. Do you feel guilty?”

“O-of course,” you tried. It was pathetic between the hot coiling in your stomach, like a deadly serpent curling around its prey and squeezing. “Do you?”

Sunday tried to imagine a hot tongue cleaning the mess of his cock, tracing the cum pooling at the base and flattening against his tip, angling just right to press into his slit flushed an angry scarlet, like wine and blood.

He could imagine ruining you for any other man. To slam his hips up against yours, to drag the head of his cock along those plush velvety insides until you were sobbing, struggling to accommodate him. He imagined you’d be perfect.

If only he could do all of those things without repercussions.

Tracing the swollen veins of his cock while you played with yourself with wet fingers was already too far. He could foresee punishment on his behalf and yours. Perhaps death, though neither of you deserved such luxury.

He did not answer.

Instead, he asked, “will you return?” His voice was shaky at best, and filthy at worst.

There was a hopeful twinge to his tone. He prayed you did not hear it.

You hesitated. There was a waver in your tone. “I shouldn’t.”

Your voice sent his mind reeling. He was thumbing at his slit while his thighs trembled. When his palm was coated in enough of his cum, he continued dragging his hand up and down the head of his cock.

He was growing dizzy. “But?”

“But I will.”

“This shouldn’t happen again,” Sunday heaved. His hand grew desperate, wetter, and the urge to pull the door of the confessional off its hinges and take you on the floor and away from the stained glass windows where the sun peered through was filling his senses. He yearned to know what you felt like squeezing around him. “You should not let this happen again.”

“I need you, Reverend,” you confessed. “If I am honest, my sins will be atoned for. As will yours.”

“You will not touch me tonight, and I will not touch you.” It was final. Without room for argument, though he sounded somewhat disappointed.

“But what about tomorrow night?”

Sunday breathed against the wood, tugging at his collar and rolling his hips into his hand. “If you return, I will punish you for it.”

“You tempt me, Reverend,” you said through a moan. “I will think of you tonight.” Your fingers had returned to your hole. He’d recognised the noise, somehow more obscene than it had been before.

His cock ached with hatred. How you would feel dripping down him like an unsatiated whore, trying so desperately to ask for his forgiveness, to try and seduce Godhood.

He hoped you felt empty. He hoped you hungered for his cock through the wall, breathing erratic and loud as his palm dragged along the length of hot skin over and over again.

Ecstasy filled his throat and every vein in his body. Goodness, the edge was glorious. He pilfered off the side for a moment before he stopped his hand.

His cock twitched in agony and he let out a groan that tapered off.

“Don’t you dare cum,” he snapped through the box.

You whined, but your hand obediently stilled

“I would imagine you’re filthy now.” He pressed his forehead to the cool wood. The surface heated up along with his skin almost instantly. It was so hot here. “Use your fingers again.”

“How many?”

So obedient. He almost purred at your behaviour. “Two.”

Oh, he spoiled you. That familiar sound again, so wet and warm and inviting, and you were moaning and shivering around your own hand. He could imagine slippery slick pooling along your palm now, lathering your fingers like a thin paste.

His own fingers found the flushed swollen tip of his cock again. It twitched in his palm. There was a greedy puddle of cum forming at the base of his cock now, and he quickly wiped drool from his lip.

Already frazzled from the orgasm he’d denied just mere minutes ago, your breathing grew louder and louder, though not alarming enough.

“Touch yourself again,” he rasped out. His halo was now a liability, too ironic. His wings were cramped against the interior walls, desperate to be let out. Wet fingers rubbed along his tip in rhythm with the sound of your own moving against yourself, drawing wet slippery rings around that adorable swollen bundle of nerves between your legs.

He hopes you struggle to cum tonight without his guidance. It’s a fleeting thought, but it makes his thighs lock and freeze against the seat.

He hopes you never find any satisfaction in another man. Wouldn’t that be a spectacle? A mindless bumbling whore stumbling after a High Priest, another Bronze Melodia.

You were murmuring his name now in a never ending chant of prayer.

Saliva caught in his throat as he breathed.

“Rub that pretty clit harder, will you?” Still in tune with your second hand that had finally pulled off of the bars to trace around the rim of your hole. He tried his best to keep up with the noise, eyes still wound shut.

You were hopeless. Struggling at the ministrations like a squirming worm caught on a hook. Your knuckles knocked against the confessional before your fingers slid into yourself.

This was heaven.

He knew it so, no matter how wrong it felt. It was a feeling, not the real thing; never the real thing. Not after tonight, but he could live with himself, if he ended up buried inside of you.

His tip bubbled and drooled at the thought of it.

You taught him self indulgence. And as sinful as it was, as wicked as it felt to buck his hips into his own palm, slick with need and sweat and dribbles of saliva that had fallen from his lips, he loved every pull of his skin.

Oh, it was awful. And it was so good. So treacherous, so disgustingly unholy, so blasphemous and insulting to do this in the very place he’d learned to be sacrificial and sanctified. Where he’d sit on the confessional with a heavy halo and a light heart and try to feel for the heathen on the other side of the window.

Spills of moans and moans left your lips, fingers working at that pace he had commanded of you. Your palms must have been soaked in your own slick now, the delicate flesh between your legs swollen and dark with blood.

He wanted to touch you.

It took everything at this point to keep the door shut. Like a woman being tempted by a serpent to bite into a forbidden fruit off of a large tree. He was sure you would have also indulged, had he offered you a slice of the fruit.

“I’m–” You couldn’t finish the sentence. The wood of the box groaned beneath the shared weight. “I need to–”

Oh. The scent was delicious. The hissing of a snake in his ears, the watchful eyes of a nightingale from somewhere far away, the taste of a sweet fruit running along his tongue.

He hoped you returned.

“Go on. Isn’t that what you came for?” He dared to say more, but instead bit down on his lip.

You bit down first on the fruit.

You came much more broken than he would have expected, and his hands paused around his cock to listen to that gorgeous melody. The drawn out whine came out more as a sob, fingers still drawing tight and hard circles around your clit as your hole clenched around weakened fingers.

Such a beautiful noise. You sounded as though you were struggling through wet heaves, filthy soaked fleshed between your thighs, skin tattered in sweat and bathed in the sunlight just barely peeking above the horizon from out of the window.

You whispered his name like a prayer. A pitiful drone, as if you’d become fully aware of your transgressions.

Wet fingers returned to the window.

His hot breath cooled the slick stuck to your skin, but Sunday kept his tongue pulled behind his teeth. Did you feel empty? Did you want more? Did you also want to pull open the door to the confessional and take him in the seat?

Your voice was weak. “Sire…”

Your tone rippled beneath his skin. His face was on fire. His hand sped up.

“How close are you?”

A whine ripped from his throat. “So close.”

He heard you breathe a hoarse laugh and his feathers raised behind his ears, and it was still one of the most ethereal tunes he’d ever had the honour to listen to.

His wrist grew tired, but he pressed on, thumbing at the overtly sensitive tip and his bubbling slit that wept in tandem. He watched your fingers against the window closely, imagining the heat of your flesh curled around his cock instead.

His cock twitched and twitched in his palm, and his hips raised off the seat for a moment.

Sunday heard you swallow. A hum rumbled in your throat, low and pretty.

He was sure you could hear how slick he was. It was humiliating how hard he’d grown just from the sound of you.

The wings below his ears were crushed against the wooden wall. The bones ached, but he ignored everything in favour of the sound of your breathing so close to his ear.

The sun had now drowned below the horizon.

“Cum, sir.” What a pretty plea. Your fingers tightened around the bars of the window. “Please.”

Sunday gasped, his own knuckles pulling back and knocking the other wall of the confessional as his hips twitched and twitched and he squirmed and his cock felt as though it was going to burst.

He came then, almost weeping as his teeth sunk into his sore knuckles. The sharp vertices of his halo felt weightless and warm, and his shirt felt just as constricting as it had before he’d come undone.

It was like fire oozing from him. Cum dribbled from his tip and painted his palms impossibly stickier than before. What fell from his hands pooled into a puddle on the seat and he grimaced.

An angry and raw garble escaped his throat at your words; who were you to do this to him? How could you do this to him—his cock twitched again, this time violently, as if aching for another round. His palm pressed heavy to his tip, still flushed that beautiful scarlet, and fattened with blood, experimentally giving it another drag along his palm.

Sunday’s hips jutted forward into his hand again. A discomforting chill ran up his spine and remained at the nape of his neck.

Viciously, he tore his hand away from his cock, staring at his sullied hand as if it had betrayed him. Maybe it had, you see, for he had no foresight his body would succumb to such temptations.

His body should not have succumbed. He should not have succumbed.

This was beyond his teachings; cardinal sin and disloyalty to Xipe, whom he praised every night with withering and wavering hands.

And now they were tainted.

“Just a taste, Reverend.”

Sunday’s spine stiffened as if a hot metal rod had replaced the bone.

His skin ached and his teeth vibrated with disgust. Sacrilege. That’s what it was. Vengeful and spiteful, much unlike sweetened delectable fruits off of a tree in the Garden of Eden. This should not have happened. You shouldn’t have ever come here.

He had an inkling of a feeling, as fleeting and dull as it was, that you did not feel guilty for your actions.

His teeth gritted, and his jaw ached in accordance.

Wretched thing.

Sunday, disgusted in his actions, ignoring the beads of sweat pooling down his neck like pearls, held out the degloved hand tainted in his cum through the gap in the window.

A tongue curled around his fingers, hot and heavy, and dragged up from the tip of his nails to his knuckles.

He resisted the urge to make a noise, instead catching his tongue in his teeth and biting down enough to draw blood.

His cock was swelling with blood again, tip flushed and leaking once more. He refused to touch himself again. He had already ruined the tranquillity of the church. He had already ruined you.

Sunday’s fingers twitched in your mouth before they dragged down your tongue.

When he was sure you were done, and his hand was covered in your spit, he grabbed your chin and drew you as close to the window as he could.

There, he managed to catch a glimpse of your face.

Sweaty, mangled, ruined, and so imperfect that his cheeks fill with blood at the sight of you. Your image is ruined by the light from the still burning votive candles from the completed service hours ago that shines behind you, branding the crown of your head like a halo.

Sunday assumed he looked worse.

“You will speak of this to no one,” he rasped. “Not ever.”

“No, sir,” you whispered. There was an impervious grin stretched into your lips. “It’ll be our little secret.”

“The second I hear wind that you’ve been sharing this night with those undeserving, I’ll rip your tongue from your filthy throat.”

You exhaled shakily. There were stars in your eyes.

Sunday’s eyes narrowed, and his lips pressed into a thin line.

“Of course.”

He let go of your chin and tossed you as far as he could backwards through the window of the confessional. You teetered, wobbly in your position of kneeling, before you briskly stood up.

He couldn’t bear the sight of bare legs, so he looked away and shrunk down into the corner of the box, out of view of the sunlight, and the barred window.

Sunday did catch a glimpse of those expensive shoes. Too expensive, too fancy for a church setting. Your clothes were the same, too form fitting to be dubbed appropriate in such a sacred place.

How could you appease to THEM if you were dressed to seduce their messengers?

He said nothing, did nothing, silently wallowing in pitiful hatred as white hot pin pricks of one thousand needles formed behind his eyes. His wings curled around his waist.

He let out a breath that caught in his throat.

“Goodnight, Reverend,” was all you murmured to him.

Your fingers retreated from the window.

Sunday attentively listened to the sound of your footsteps. He hoped he could be forgiven for this. He watched the ceiling with disdain.

When he heard you leave, and the telltale slam of the door shutting behind you, he retracted his hand still coated in your saliva and thumbed at the tip of his cock.

Your spit slid so easily against him.

He shuddered, and then he moaned. It echoed along the walls.

Silently praying for forgiveness, and covering his eyes with his other hand in the process, he drowned once more in solitude.

[lvlyghost]

Hello do you take requests cause I had this idea in my mind but I suck in writing

how bout a ghost x reader where he had a bad day and takes it out on his beloved reader who he's been in a really long relationship with, by starting an argument and maybe saying some really mean and bad things that break the reader. Like the reader is only a shell of herself and completely ruined by ghosts words and just crying or sitting completely still staring off the wall or just staring at nothing just being numb.

What would be interesting is Simons reaction when he realizes the damage that he's done, maybe he would cry/break down idk when he sees the usually happy reader being so dull and almost lifeless yk

But Pleasee don't do this to our hearts and write some comfort and a happy ending please I couldn't handle too much angst❤️😭

The Weight of the World

PAIRINGS: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Reader

SUMMARY: You promised to always lean on each other but sometimes love isn't enough.

WORD COUNT: 1.5k

TW: heavy angst, literally got some mid anxiety writing this🥴 swearing, self-doubt, hurt-comfort and slight fluff towards the end. lmk if i missed any.

A/N: finished this in one sitting lol, also not proofread and poorly edited, i've been having a shitty week so expect more angst lol. meet me in therapy. Enjoy anon!🤍🌟🫶🏻💕

Masterlist✨

You hesitate right outside Simon's studio, the place where he secludes himself from everything and everyone. Ever since he came from his last mission he seemed to be on the edge constantly. The usual softness that he reserved specifically for you was... absent.

Still you wouldn't let that stop you from approaching; having dating him for a few years now let you know so much of that. You knew when he was hurting. When he was sad, angry, jealous or even happy. Little to no people could say that.

Somehow this was different. He wasn't even letting you in, constantly keeping you at arms length and that hurt. How were you supposed to get to him this time? Get him to talk to you?

To look at you again with that same glint in his eyes, the spark that you ignited in him and that won't fade away even years after.

The sound of a chair creaking startles you, the same time the timer in the kitchen goes off. You walk back, turning the oven off, and sticking out the apple pie you so happily baked for both with hopes that you'll get him loosen a bit that dark cloud that's been looming over Simon these past few days.

The door of his studio is yanked open the heavy stomp of his boots resonating across the small apartment you two share, then his bulky frame appears just to grab the keys to his black motorcycle.

"Simon!" You call him, burning your hand in the process. He stills halfway through the living room, waiting for you to say something else. Wetting a cloth hurriedly and wrapping it around the burnt skin.

"I made something for us... maybe," standing behind him you leave a reasonable space between the two. You swallow down hard. "Thought we could have it together and just, you know spend...-"

"I don't have time for that now." His voice is cold and monotone. "Don't wait for me."

"But Si-" he turns on his heels, eyes hard and unyielding. He approaches slowly, making you gulp. "What's gotten into you, Simon?" You fight back the tears, this was the man you loved so dearly, the man you knew loved you back; there was a reason for the golden engagement ring on your left hand. "I..-"

"Fucking hell would you stop that? Please just..." he notices the wetness in your eyes. "I can't do this. Not anymore."

"Whatever it is I promise we can work it out together!" your lips quivered. "Just talk to me!"

"I don't need to talk about anything girl!" He seethes, one finger pointing at you. "Think some cheap counseling with you will make things right? Bloody hell no. Neither some homemade bread, this isn't fucking working and it won't until you learn how the bloody world works."

It breaks your heart into a tiny million pieces, breathing becomes a challenge and the injury in your hand can no longer be felt. Simon's words were worse than any physical pain. Where was the man you loved? The man who used to lift you up and kiss you on the forehead? The man whose hands couldn't stop roaming your body late at night? The man who'd helped you reach out for things he probably put away in the highest shelf so you'd ask for help. That same man that had proposed to you no long ago, right before he was deployed to a special op God knows where. The fabric of his mask moves when he keeps talking but you don't listen. You can't. Just like you can't stop the tears dribbling down your cheeks and the tremble of your hands. Simon's jaw clenched, brows furrowed as he takes a step back and leaves.

You walk sluggishly to where the dessert awaits. It's when your knees buckle that you finally let out a loud cry.

-

Simon knows he isn't a good man. He's done quite questionable things that he could never say out loud. He knows he's fucked in so many ways. But he also knows that there's one thing that kept him from spiraling further down into an abyss of death and self-loathing.

You.

The woman he decided he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. The girl that didn't care about his past, the bad moments and his complicated persona. You who would selflessly love him without asking for something in return. What had you seen in him in first place? Even now after three years he can't wrap his head around the fact that he has someone who waits for him.

Simon knows how much he loves you, but what he doesn't know is how—or in what earth—he deserves every part of you.

You've been avoiding him ever since that horrible night. Words he can't take back. Looks that haunt him every time he closed his eyes. He hears you cry when you go to sleep or when you're taking a shower. Muffled sobs and wails that will come for him until the day he dies.

You avoid him like a plague, when he walks in. After all he's the one to blame. He wanted to ask you to tear him apart maybe that'd feel less painful.

The last remaining of sanity that was left in him came crashing down when he began to notice how you stared off in a haze, numbly looking at the window. He was losing you. Destroyed the one good thing he had. So, a few days later, despite his own demons. Despite the things that broke him all irreparably during the last mission in Moscow, he comes to find you. Sucking in a sharp breath as his eyes set on your left hand.

The engagement ring was gone, forgotten someplace unknown. Simon felt the panic wrenching his guts.

It's all on him.

He whispers your name, calls you softly. Slowly sitting in front of you, the coffee table creaks under his weight. Words get caught in his throat.

"May I take your hand?" He pleads, not getting an answer. Simon sighs, lowering his head as silent reigns yet again. "I don't deserve you." He murmurs, eyes bored into the floor. "I... I ruin everything I touch. Just never thought I'd ruin my girl."

Your eyes flutter shut, wet tears clinging to your eyelashes. Simon watches as you stand and leave without a word, he follows close behind to your shared room.

"Love..."

"Don't call me that!" the hurt in your voice... the resentment in your eyes, he's earned it.

Simon reaches out for your arm, grabbing you firmly but gently, mindful not to harm you.

"Right I deserve that." If there's one thing Simon regrets it's being the reason that your eyes no longer shine. "What I said... what happened I...-"

Shaking your head and biting down your lip.

"You never gave me the chance, I thought we said we'd always find a way."

"I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry baby." in an instant he's pulling you close, although you want to push him away, scream at him, slap him for the calvary he made you go through. "I'm not good with words, and I'm no good person." You feel his body shaking with anxiety as your eyes widen in shock. "I tried... I can't forgive myself for my mistakes."

"Simon..." he hushed you, cradling your head with his big hand. "I can't sleep knowing I can't protect you from what's out there, couldn't bloody protect that kid in Moscow, or my family."

You guide him to the bed, sitting down side by side and holding onto each other.

"Said I would always be with you Simon, why the hell did you push me away?! Have I not given my everything to you? We promised to always make it work!" He grabs your face staring intently into your eyes. "What happened there?"

He blinks, deciding how much to say. There was no need for you to know the entirety of it. He wanted to shield you from the horrors of this world, and he would as long as he lived.

"A young lad whose life's was cut short because I wasn't there on time. How can I come back to you, be happy when someone else just lost their kid..."

"That wasn't on you! Simon Riley you stop that now." He inhales, cinnamon and vanilla flooding his senses. It's you all of you. "Stop carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders. We do that together, yeah?" Your chest hurts from how hard it's beating. "You've done far so much. You won't lose me."

A rumble in the sky and cars passing by outside your home is all you hear. Brown eyes like honey stare back into your soul.

"You took it off..."

"I burnt my hand, it wasn't healing properly. And you know what?" He quirks a brow. "It wasn't homemade bread. It was an apple pie, you silly."

"You'll never forgive me for that one won't you?" He doesn't chuckle but the air feels lighter.

"No. Probably won't." Simon takes your burnt hand bringing it to his lips, they're soft against the marred skin.

"But we're still getting married, yeah?" He asks.

You smile fondly, humming when he kisses your forehead, tears have now dried.

"Yeah. We're still getting married."