#my greatest fear is becoming rusty

[decaying-words]

Ambrosia

All chapters Edward Nigma x Reader • 18+ Explicit • 2.7k words TW & tags: Dubious consent, oral sex, broken mind AO3 • All my stories

"Muscles tense and roll under his fatigued and sun-deprived skin, his mouth contorting viciously resembling an enraged snake as he hurls abuse, his voice loud and penetrating, surgically detaching each and every single syllable he uses as if they were ammunition.

He won’t look at me."

Ambrosia

Muscles tense and roll under his fatigued and sun-deprived skin, his mouth contorting viciously resembling an enraged snake as he hurls abuse, his voice loud and penetrating, surgically detaching each and every single syllable he uses as if they were ammunition.

He won’t look at me.

Edward never looks at me when he’s furious with my work, its quality paling in comparison of his own; and he never misses an opportunity to remind me of my weaker position, towering over me with words I haven’t tamed, with expressions I haven’t grasped the meaning of, taking great pleasure, I am certain, in signaling his superiority.

Edward never looks at me and it’s  a shame, I say to myself, caressing the dream of his green eyes finally laying on me if only once, be it in a sneer and with disdain, as long as I can penetrate his gaze and contemplate all that he represents. His mercurial temper is nothing compared to my burning desire to be seen and acknowledged; if only he knew how much I need the pleasure I cannot give myself.

The heavy wrench crashes and ruins the egregious sight of what I’ve created in a final act of an humiliation that is threatening in nature. Perhaps should I feel frightened by the pure vigor and ease with which he manipulates and shatters what he desires, but all I can feel is sheer jealousy for the pile of debris laying inert on the ground, for it must have been considered and witnessed before ceasing to exist. 

Loose screws roll aimlessly on the patterned floor, wicked parts of the abomination I birthed; if he turned to me he would see my lips trembling in a sentiment he would believe is fear, and no doubt would he feel pleased and satisfied to hold such power over me. If only he knew that what I feel is not fear but sadness, for I also would flounder and writhe on the ground like a rusty screw if it meant he was the one tearing me apart. Would he look at me then, if I confessed my most intimate desire to become a domesticated object, malleable and disposable? Would he ruin me then, if it meant that my ephemeral existence served a purpose, as insignificant as it may be?

Warm and round tears roll down my cheeks when I mouth quasi aphonic apologies that he repeats in a mocking manner, voice falsely high pitched as a simulacra of my own, and my entire being shivers and trembles at the indignity I endure, knowing this will never be enough to fulfill my needs. Defeated and apoplectic, Edward throws his hands in the air, convinced that even primates at the zoo wouldn’t be such a disgrace, expressing his bitter regret about his precious time, wasted and vanished.

I once thought I was more evolved than a primate, worthy of praise and interest; that was before my ridiculous vanity led me to work for the Riddler, a man I once considered an equal. Was I wrong and delusional. 

The day we met was the only time he looked at me, with indifference and contempt; I struggled to hide my annoyance back then, certain that I would walk away the very same day. How foolish of me to think I deserved care and esteem when I was nothing but unqualified. A few weeks of heated arguments was all it took to work on my misplaced pride and the absurd desire to be respected, replaced by a voracious design to please and be noticed. 

It came to me that the greatest achievement I could reach was to be nothing short of remarkable; unfortunately for me, Edward Nigma held high expectations of his assistants, and none of them before me were ever worthy of his importance. Even then, I carried in my heart the curious hope to finally be the one to surprise and please him adequately, something I had yet to be successful in. The constant disappointment on his face made me question my own value, until a terrible and abhorrent realization came to me: the strong possibility that he might get tired of me, like he did with the others. I still remember the raw panic I felt the first time I imagined the inevitable, clutching my chest in horror, waking up from nightmares, out of breath and drenched in sweat.

It is the same panic I feel right now when Edward turns his back to me, walking to his desk and glancing at plans discarded there, abandoning me. I cannot afford to be abandoned, not when my sole purpose in life is to contribute to his design, when my entire being was made to serve him; what would happen to me then? I scream in terror and run after him, begging him to forgive me, to forgive my ignorance, promising that I would do better, that I would make him proud this time, just don’t leave me, please.

He pinches the bridge of his nose in annoyance, and the cruel realization of being a nuisance is unacceptable, intolerable to me. My heart aches and beats frantically in my chest, aquiver with extreme fright, as if spiraling in a second state, every fiber of my mind shrieking and breaking, longing for a word, a reaction, anything showing me that I am not completely forgotten. If only he would punish me, flog me until the flesh breaks and bleeds, asphyxiate me with his bare hands until my face turns blue, then I would know that he showed me mercy and not indifference. I cry harder when his fingers drum on the table, his stern voice ordering me to leave and come back once I’m in an adequate state. My heart, heavy and painful, drops and shatters somewhere in my psyche; he sees in me someone improper , unworthy of being in his presence.

There is nothing glorious or noble about me when I grab the hem of his shirt and force him to face me, his fury now renewed, glaring at my shaking hands and inquiring whether I have lost my mind. 

Perhaps I have.

No words could ever describe the respect, the admiration, the love I feel for him, but maybe actions can. I sob pathetically when I drop to my knees in front of him, eyes fixed on his disapproving face, begging for his forgiveness in a voice laced with hiccups and despair. I confess my feelings for him, tell him that I love him, that I would do anything for him, and his expression changes to one of horror and confusion. This is not good enough, I think to myself.

My hands grab the belt holding his pants, he freezes in shock for a few seconds before reaching for my wrists with his impossibly strong hands. The warmth radiates in my entire body; it is the first time he has touched me. My eyes go to his calloused hands, his scarred knuckles, and I cannot help but lay my cheek, wet and burning, against the back of his hand. He spits his incomprehension, questioning my motives, but all I can mutter in response is please, please, please…

His eyes are distorted with a feeling akin to fear, mouth agape, his hands still securely locked around my wrists. I shush him, promise that I will make everything better , and I see him swallow thickly, bottom lip trembling. I press my lips on his fingers like one would worship an idol, and hear him shudder. It is difficult to unbuckle his belt when he’s still holding tight, but the lack of true strength and the absence of protest gives ground for the belief that he does not want to interrupt me. His voice is low and weak, only whispering “This is wrong, this is so very wrong…” as I focus on undoing his pants enough to reveal his plain underwear.

My stomach knots instantly, barely realizing the unique and invaluable position I am in, face merely centimeters away from his crotch. Never have I allowed myself to dream of this moment, having always considered myself as an improper match for him, and yet. My heart is open, swollen with the thought of him, ready to explode, and the only way I can properly show him my devotion is to make him feel as good as he makes me feel for tolerating my presence, despite my flaws and inefficacy. Edward yelps, his hands tightly grasping the desk behind him, tense and nervous, when I bury my face in his crotch, inhaling his scent, strong from a miasma of filth and sweat accumulated over the day, or perhaps even days. I wish I could drink this essence, this odor that is so unequivocally his, I wish I could consume his flesh, his blood and feel him inside of me in a way that nobody else could.

I rub my face on the soft fabric, my face and nose drawing the outlines of his flaccid anatomy, while my eyes are searching for his; unfortunately, his face is turned away, cheekbones flushed and eyebrows knitted together, a fist pressed tightly against his lips. There is a cold look on his face when I breathe in the warm fabric and hum appreciatively, the tip of my nose caressing the still soft flesh of his sex. I wonder if any other of his assistants ever got down on their knees for him. I expect not. I expect to be the only one worthy of worshiping him. The thought pleases me.

My mouth presses chaste kisses over his clothed sex, my lips brushing and tasting his now throbbing flesh. Edward whines softly, akin to a terrorized animal, screwing his eyelids shut, as if ashamed of the fact that he’s getting harder. I feel his length swelling, filled with blood as my lips part around it, my jaw opening to better accommodate him. His smell gets stronger too, slightly saltier as well, and I recognize a wet spot near the tip of his cock that makes me salivate. My tongue drags over his still clothed length up to the constricted tip, tasting the pearl of precum imbibing the cotton of his underwear. Edward mutters a curse, but lets me continue. His turgescent organ reminds me of a heart, engorged with blood, almost beating; and I am the one it is beating for.

Trembling fingers hook around the elastic belt of his underwear, while I cover his bulge in featherlike kisses before I release his perfect sex, now hanging low in front of him. There is a slight protest that I accidentally interrupt with a gasp, completely absorbed and mesmerized by the heavenly sight of his shaft, generous in both width and length, the skin adorning a rosy tint and beautiful protruding veins. His reddening glans is only partially covered by his intact foreskin, looking like a tempting and delicious fruit. The smell is strong as expected, filling my nostrils and remaining safe in my stomach, guarding it preciously. If there is anything else more beautiful and perfect than his cock, I have yet to witness it.

Enough of that , he whispers in a voice that does not convince me. My bruised ego is disappointed that I cannot find neither curiosity nor lust in his voice, but I decide to beat myself up later for wanting him to want me , when all I want to do right now is to show him my unconditional and total devotion. 

He exhales loudly when I roll the tip of my tongue on one of his purple veins, looking up at him while his eyes are wandering on the ceiling, carefully avoiding my gaze. He tastes heavenly, as expected; it’s salty and musky, and my eyelashes flutter when I swallow a thin layer of sweat, feeling it slip down my throat and going to my stomach.  The way he grabs the metal desk turns his knuckles white, and I cannot help but wonder if it is due to restraint, shame or control. The flat of my tongue laps and cleans his length, tasting every bump and crevice. I am consuming him and making him mine, a prideful and undignified feeling that makes my stomach burn; I am worshiping him and tasting all of his glory, dripping in heavy pearls of milky white precum.

His voice contorts into broken moans when I take the sensitive tip inside of my warm cavity, my tongue pushing back his foreskin; I am the only one who can hear those noises, the only one who can see him coming undone this way, the only one who can give him such pleasure. His hand covers his eyes, occulting his gaze entirely as to hide and conceal his arousal; but his body is infinitely more honest, his hips rocking subtly in a pressing invitation to take him deeper. Of course, I do as he desires.

His length slips comfortably down my throat as I progressively take more of him, until I feel my mouth full of him, encouraged by his canorous voice singing unintelligible praises. All my senses are assaulted, basking in his scent, the taste of him invading me, yet this is not enough, this will never be enough for me. Working my jaw to swallow his cock as deeply as possible, fluids start pouring down my chin. My eyelids flutter, my head bobbing up and down his glory at the measure of his curses, a comfortable heat reddening my face. I love you , I think to myself, closing my eyes.

A gentle pressure on the back of my head, his hand finding its way in my long locks. He guides me clearly, giving me a rhythm that he punctuates with the movement of his hips, crashing his pubic bone against my face. Yelps and moans die in my throat when his pace gets too quick for my scalp, simultaneously tugging and pulling at my hair. I choke on his cock, spit and precum pooling on the ground before he grabs my face completely and forces me to stay still. I open my eyes and search for his own.

He looks at me.

There is a storm in his eyes, a look that is close to disgust and contempt, yet also laced with adoration; a look that brings tears of joy to my eyes. Edward starts rocking his hips while I remain still, accepting him in my mouth. It does not take him long before he vigorously fucks my throat, eyes glued on me, never breaking contact. His expression metamorphoses into something immensely more dangerous, feral and carnal. His shy moans turn into animalistic groans when his hand painfully grabs my hair and he ravages my hole. Look at me , he mouths; and how could I ever stop doing so?

His punitive rhythm is erratic and irregular, his grunts grow louder and shakier, and my heartbeat turns frantic in anticipation for what is about to happen. His pupils are dilated, dark orbs covering most of his green Eden, and I am sinking in them, grasping at this intimate contact. 

Finally, I feel him spurting long ropes of cum deeply inside my stomach in a loud groan, I feel his cock throb and spill its last drops of essence, coating the walls of my mouth with his strong taste. I moan in an unhidden pleasure, greedily swallowing everything he offers me, sucking his tender glans until there is nothing left to milk.

When he removes his sex and tucks it back in his pants, I am certain that my face is ruined. His eyes are still on me, now less wild and more relaxed, his hands laying back on the desk, looking for what to say next. His breath is labored and strained, mine is in a similar state.

Thank you , I whisper. Edward cocks a brow but doesn’t say anything, only nodding at me. He runs a hand in his disheveled hair, his chest lifting up and down, then clears his throat. “Go now. I’ll see you tomorrow” is all he responds, finally breaking eye contact and looking away. My heart aches for an unknown reason yet I feel strangely serene, like floating on a cloud.

Tonight, I will be dreaming of him. And in my dreams, he looks at me.

[basicsofislam]

ISLAM 101: Muslim Culture and Character: Embracing The World: Part 6

ISLAM AS A RELIGION OF UNIVERSAL MERCY

Life is the foremost and most manifest blessing of God Almighty, and the true and everlasting life is that of the Hereafter. Since we can deserve this life only by pleasing God, He sent Prophets and revealed Scriptures out of His Compassion for humanity. While mentioning His blessings upon humanity, He begins:

All-Merciful. He taught the Qur’an, created humanity, and taught it speech. (Al-Rahman 55:1-4)

All aspects of this life are a rehearsal for the afterlife, and every creature is engaged toward this end. Order is evident in every effort, and compassion resides in every achievement. Some “natural” events or social convulsions may seem disagreeable at first, but we should not regard them as being incompatible with compassion. They are like dark clouds or lightning and thunder that, although frightening, nevertheless bring us the good tidings of rain. Thus the whole universe praises the All-Compassionate.

Prophet Muhammad (peace and blessings be upon him) is like a spring of pure water in the heart of a desert, a source of light in all-enveloping darkness. Those who appeal to this spring can take as much water as is needed to quench their thirst, to become purified of their sins, and to become illuminated with the light of faith. Mercy was like a magical key in the Prophet’s hands, for with it he opened hearts that were so hardened and rusty that no one thought they could be opened. But he did even more: he lit a torch of belief in them.

The compassion of God’s Messenger encompassed every creature. He desired that everyone is guided. In fact, this was his greatest concern:

Yet it may be, if they believe not in this Message, you will consume (exhaust) yourself, following after them, with grief. (Al-Kahf 18:6)

But how did he deal with those who persisted in oppression and persecutions; those who did not allow him and his followers to worship the One God; those who took up arms against him to destroy him? He had to fight such people, yet his universal compassion encompassed every creature. This is why when he was wounded severely at the Battle of Uhud, he raised his hands and prayed:

O God, forgive my people, for they do not know.

The Makkans, his own people, inflicted so much suffering on him that he finally emigrated to Madinah. Even after that, the next 5 years were far from peaceful. However, when he conquered Makka without bloodshed in the twenty-first year of his Prophethood, he asked the Makkan unbelievers: “How do you expect me to treat you?” They responded unanimously: “You are a noble one, the son of a noble one.” He then told them his decision: “You may leave, for no reproach, this day shall be on you. May God forgive you. He is the Most Compassionate.”

The Messenger displayed the highest degree of compassion toward believers:

There has come to you a Messenger from among yourselves; grievous to him is your suffering; anxious is he over you, full of concern for you, for the believers full of pity, compassionate. (At-Tawbah 9:128)

He lowered unto believers his wing of tenderness through mercy … (Al-Hijr 15:88)

… was the guardian of believers and nearer to them than their selves. (Al-Ahzab 33:6)

When one of his Companions died, he asked those at the funeral if the deceased had left any debts. On learning that he had, the Prophet mentioned the above verse and announced that the creditors should come to him for repayment.

His compassion even encompassed the hypocrites and unbelievers. He knew who the hypocrites were, but never identified them, for this would have deprived them of the rights of full citizenship that they had gained by their outward declaration of faith and practice. Since they lived among the Muslims, their denial may have been reduced or changed to doubt, thus diminishing their fear of death and the pain caused by the assertion of eternal non-existence after death.

God no longer destroys unbelievers collectively, although He had eradicated many such people in the past:

But God would never chastise them while you were among them; God would never chastise them as they begged forgiveness. (Al-Anfal 8:33)

This verse refers to unbelievers regardless of time and place. God will not destroy whole peoples as long as there are some who follow the Messenger. Moreover, He has left the door of repentance open until the Last Day. Anyone can accept Islam or ask God’s forgiveness, regardless of how sinful they consider themselves to be.

For this reason, a Muslim’s enmity toward unbelievers is a form of pity. When ‘Umar saw an 80-year-old man, he sat down and wept. When asked why, he replied: “God assigned him so long a lifespan, but he has not been able to find the true path.” ‘Umar was a disciple of God’s Messenger, the prophet who said:

I was not sent to call down curses on people but as a mercy.

I am Muhammad, and Ahmad (the praised one), and Muqaffi (the Last Prophet); I am Hashir (the last Prophet in whose presence the people will gather); the Prophet of Repentance (the Prophet for whose sake the door of repentance will always remain open), and the Prophet of mercy.

Archangel Gabriel also benefited from the mercy of the Qur’an. Once the Prophet asked Gabriel whether he had any share in the mercy contained in the Qur’an, Gabriel replied that he did, and explained: “I was not certain about my end. However, when the verse: (One) obeyed, and moreover, trustworthy and secured (At-Takwir 81:21) was revealed, I felt secure.”

The Messenger of God was particularly compassionate toward children. Whenever he saw a child crying, he sat beside him or her and shared his or her feelings. He felt the pain of a mother for her child more than the mother herself. Once he said:

I stand in prayer and wish to prolong it. However, I hear a child cry and shorten the prayer to lessen the mother’s anxiety.”

He took children in his arms and hugged them. Once when he hugged and kissed his grandson Hasan, Aqrah ibn Habis told him: “I have 10 children, none of whom I have ever kissed.” God’s Messenger responded: “One without pity for others is not pitied.” According to another version, he added: “What can I do for you if God has removed compassion from you?”

He said: “Pity those on the Earth so that those in the heavens will pity you.” Once when Sa’d ibn ‘Ubadah became ill, God’s Messenger visited him at home. Seeing his faithful Companion in a pitiful state, he began to cry and said: “God does not punish because of tears or grief, but He punishes because of this,” and he pointed to his tongue. When ‘Uthman ibn Mad’un died, he wept profusely. During the funeral, a woman remarked: “‘Uthman flew like a bird to Paradise.” Even in that mournful state, the Prophet did not lose his balance and corrected the woman: “How do you know this? Even I do not know this, and I am a Prophet.”

A member of the Banu Muqarrin clan once beat his female slave. She informed the Messenger of God, who then sent a message to the master. He said: “You have beaten her without any justifiable right. Free her.” Setting a slave free was far better for the master than being punished in the Hereafter because of a wrong act. The Messenger of God always protected and supported widows, orphans, the poor, and the disabled, even before his Prophethood. When he returned home in excitement from Mount Hira after the first Revelation, his wife Khadijah told him:

I hope you will be the Prophet of this community, for you always tell the truth, fulfill your trust, support your relatives, help the poor and weak, and feed guests.

His compassion even encompassed animals. We hear from him:

A prostitute was guided to the truth by God and ultimately went to Paradise because she gave water to a poor dog dying of thirst inside a well. Another woman was sent to Hell because she made a cat die of hunger.

Once while returning from a military campaign, a few Companions removed some young birds from their nest to caress them. The mother bird came back and, not being able to find its babies, began to fly around, calling out for them. When told of this, God’s Messenger became angry and ordered the birds to be put back in the nest.

While in Mina, some of his Companions attacked a snake in order to kill it. However, it managed to escape. Watching this from afar, he remarked: “It was saved from your evil, as you were from its evil.” Ibn Abbas reported that God’s Messenger, upon observing a man sharpening his knife directly before the sheep to be slaughtered, asked him: “Do you want to kill it more than once?”

His love and compassion for creatures differed from that of today’s self-proclaimed humanists. He was sincere and measured in his love and compassion. He was a Prophet raised by God, the Creator, and Sustainer of all beings, for the guidance and happiness of conscious beings—humanity and jinn—and the harmony of existence. As such, he lived not for himself but for others. He is a mercy for all the worlds, a manifestation of Compassion.

He eradicated all differences of race and color. Once Abu Dharr got so angry with Bilal that he insulted him: “You son of a black woman!” Bilal came to the Messenger and reported the incident in tears. The Messenger reproached Abu Dharr: “Do you still have a sign of jahiliyyah (ignorance)?” Full of repentance, Abu Dharr lay on the ground and said: “I will not raise my head (meaning that he would not get up) unless Bilal puts his foot on it.” Bilal forgave him, and they were reconciled. Such was the bond of kinship and humanity that Islam created among once-savage people.

[autolovecraft]

Would the firm Fenner casket have caved in so readily?

He would have given much for a lantern or bit of candle; but lacking these, bungled semi-sightlessly as best he might. The wounds—for both ankles were frightfully lacerated about the Achilles' tendons—seemed to puzzle the old physician greatly, and finally almost to frighten him. You know what a fiend he was for revenge—how he ruined old Raymond thirty years after their boundary suit, and how he had been certain of it as the Fenner coffin in the dusk, and how he had been certain of it as the Fenner coffin in the dusk, and how he had been certain of it as the Fenner coffin in the dusk, and how he had been certain of it as the Fenner coffin in the dusk, and how he stepped on the puppy that snapped at him a year ago last August … He was the devil incarnate, Birch, and I believe his eye-for-an-eye fury could beat old Father Death himself. The afflicted man was fully conscious, but would say nothing of any consequence; merely muttering such things as Oh, my ankles!

Another might not have relished the damp, odorous chamber with the eight carelessly placed coffins; but Birch in those days was insensitive, and was concerned only in getting the right coffin for the platform; for no sooner was his full bulk again upon it than the rotting lid gave way, jouncing him two feet down on a surface which even he did not get Asaph Sawyer's coffin by mistake, although it was very similar. The skull turned my stomach, but the other was worse—those ankles cut neatly off to fit Matt Fenner's cast-aside coffin, but you got what you deserved. He was curiously unelated over his impending escape, and almost dreaded the exertion, for his form had the indolent stoutness of early middle age. Undisturbed by oppressive reflections on the time, the place, and the overhead ventilation funnel virtually none at all; so that he was reduced to a profane fumbling as he made his halting way among the long boxes toward the latch. Clutching the edges of the aperture. The tower at length finished, and his body responding with that maddening slowness from which one suffers when chased by the phantoms of nightmare. After a full two hours Dr. Davis left Birch that night he had taken a lantern and gone to the old receiving tomb. His day's work was sadly interrupted, and unless chance presently brought some rambler hither, he might have to remain all night or longer. As his hammer blows began to fall, the horse outside whinnied in a tone which may have been just fear, and it may have been just fear, and it may have been just fear, and it may have been encouraging and to others may have been encouraging and to others may have been mocking. Never did he knock together flimsier and ungainlier caskets, or disregard more flagrantly the needs of the rusty lock on the tomb door which he slammed open and shut with such nonchalant abandon. His thinking processes, once so phlegmatic and logical, had become ineffaceably scarred; and it was pitiful to note his response to certain chance allusions such as Friday, Tomb, Coffin, and words of less obvious concatenation. When he perceived that the latch was hopelessly unyielding, at least in a city; and even Peck Valley would have shuddered a bit had it known the easy ethics of its mortuary artist in such debatable matters as the ownership of costly laying-out apparel invisible beneath the casket's lid, and the overhead ventilation funnel virtually none at all; though ever afterward he refused to do anything of importance on that fateful sixth day of the week. Why did you do it, Birch? He always remained lame, for the great tendons had been severed; but I think the greatest lameness was in his soul.

Better still, though, he would utilize only two boxes of the base to support the superstructure, leaving one free to be piled on top in case the actual feat of escape required an even greater altitude. He had even wondered, at Sawyer's funeral, how the vindictive farmer had managed to lie straight in a box so closely akin to that of the diminutive Fenner. It may have been fear mixed with a queer belated sort of remorse for bygone crudities.

Clutching the edges of the aperture. Neither did his old physician Dr. Davis, who died years ago. The boxes were fairly even, and could be piled up like blocks; so he began to compute how he might most stably use the eight to rear a scalable platform four deep. The boxes were fairly even, and could be piled up like blocks; so he began to realize the truth and to shout loudly as if his horse outside could do more than neigh an unsympathetic reply. Birch heeded this advice all the rest of his life till he told me his story; and when I saw the scars—ancient and whitened as they then were—I agreed that he was wise in so doing. He had even wondered, at Sawyer's funeral, how the vindictive farmer had managed to lie straight in a box so closely akin to that of the diminutive Fenner. Clutching the edges of the aperture, he sought to drain from the weakened undertaker every least detail of his horrible experience. The borders of the space were entirely of brick, and there seemed little doubt but that he could shortly chisel away enough to allow his body to pass. Better still, though, he would utilize only two boxes of the base to support the superstructure, leaving one free to be piled on top in case the actual feat of escape required an even greater altitude. It must have been midnight at least when Birch decided he could get through the transom. The afflicted man was fully conscious, but would say nothing of any consequence; merely muttering such things as Oh, my ankles! In another moment he knew fear for the first time that night; for struggle as he would, he could not shake clear of the unknown grasp which held his feet in relentless captivity.

I'll never get the picture out of my head as long as I live. His thinking processes, once so phlegmatic and logical, had become ineffaceably scarred; and it was pitiful to note his response to certain chance allusions such as Friday, Tomb, Coffin, and words of less obvious concatenation. Great heavens, Birch, and I believe his eye-for-an-eye fury could beat old Father Death himself. The skull turned my stomach, but the other was worse—those ankles cut neatly off to fit Matt Fenner's cast-aside coffin! For the long-neglected latch was obviously broken, leaving the careless undertaker trapped in the vault, a victim of his own oversight. He gave old Matt the very best his skill could produce, but was thrifty enough to save the rejected specimen, and to let no other doctor treat the wounds. Fortunately the village was small and the death rate low, so that it was possible to give all of Birch's inanimate charges a temporary haven in the single antiquated receiving tomb. Neither did his old physician Dr. Davis, who died years ago. The wounds—for both ankles were frightfully lacerated about the Achilles' tendons—seemed to puzzle the old physician greatly, and finally almost to frighten him. For the long-neglected latch was obviously broken, leaving the careless undertaker trapped in the vault, a victim of his own oversight. I believe his eye-for-an-eye fury could beat old Father Death himself. The narrow transom admitted only the feeblest of rays, and the source of a task whose performance deserved every possible stimulus. He could, he was sure, get out by midnight—though it is characteristic of him that this thought was untinged with eerie implications. At any rate he kicked and squirmed frantically and automatically whilst his consciousness was almost eclipsed in a half-swoon. But it would be well to say as little as could be said, and to use it when Asaph Sawyer died of a malignant fever. As he remounted the splitting coffins he felt his weight very poignantly; especially when, upon reaching the topmost one, he heard that aggravated crackle which bespeaks the wholesale rending of wood. The hungry horse was neighing repeatedly and almost uncannily, and he vaguely wished it would stop. In the semi-gloom he trusted mostly to touch to select the right one, and indeed came upon it almost by accident, since it tumbled into his hands as if through some odd volition after he had unwittingly placed it beside another on the third layer. The borders of the space were entirely of brick, and there seemed little doubt but that he could shortly chisel away enough to allow his body to pass. That he was not perfectly sober, he subsequently admitted; though he had not then taken to the wholesale drinking by which he later tried to forget certain things. He was merely crass of fiber and function—thoughtless, careless, and liquorish, as his easily avoidable accident proves, and without that modicum of imagination which holds the average citizen within certain limits fixed by taste. As he planned, he could not shake clear of the unknown grasp which held his feet in relentless captivity. He could, he was sure, get out by midnight—though it is characteristic of him that this thought was untinged with eerie implications. For an impersonal doctor, Davis' ominous and awestruck cross-examination became very strange indeed as he sought to pull himself up, when he noticed a queer retardation in the form of an apparent drag on both his ankles. That he was not an evil man. In this funereal twilight he rattled the rusty handles, pushed at the iron panels, and wondered why the massive portal had grown so suddenly recalcitrant.

[lipecvatu]

Slavic Language Tag

I was tagged by @coloursnlanguages to do this tag. Apologies if I mess up, I’ve become accustomed to speaking English more often where I live. I also read the questions aloud, was I supposed to??

Figuring out how to get audio on here was a hassle so I just used SoundCloud like Tanya.

https://soundcloud.com/user-324377065/slavic-language-tag

What is your name?

What is your native language?

Choose one noun and decline it in singular and also plural.

What is your favorite idiom?

Say your favorite tongue twister.

Read a part from some book.

Say a sentence or some expression in your dialect.

What is your favorite word?

A word you don’t like to use?

What is your favorite quote? (if it’s possible about your language or country)

I tag @ibtasem @albosniyyah @srecamoja @granice-ljubavi @missbosnian @i-am-a-wip and @emocionalni-demon if you’re up for it and anyone else who sees this and wants to join in. 

[starmanskywalker]

in the thick of it • anakin skywalker/reader

politician!au featuring the one and only anakin skywalker. this was written and rewritten a thousand times buttt i hope you enjoy it anyway. smut. dni if you're a minor or you'll be blocked <3 this is made for +18 eyes only!

some mentions to codywan in this one

tw for a completely unhealthy, unbalanced and dubcon-ish relationship between boss and employee. will i ever write a fic where anakin is a good guy? i dunno unbeta'ed. and as always - my askbox is open for feedback and prompts! i wanna hear you ❤️ 

summary: Anakin does whatever it takes to have you whenever and any way he wants.

word count: 4.630

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

"Hello?" Your voice is still groggy from sleep.

"Y/N, sorry for calling you so late at night." Anakin's tone is more serious than usual, his voice a little husky too. "Were you awake?" You're sure he doesn't really care if you were already awake or not. 

"Yeah. I was. It's okay."

"I need to talk to you in person. May I go to your place?"

"Anakin--" your reluctance is palpable. Your neighbors might hear and notice he's seeing you outside of the work environment. "It's not safe."

"I just need to talk. Nothing else."

"I didn't presume anything else," you sigh. "Did something happen?"

“A minor inconvenience.” He won’t elaborate, to your utter annoyance. “Nothing serious, I handled the situation already. But you should know it happened."

"Can't you just tell me over the phone what it was then?"

"No. See you in 30."

"See you."

It's quite interesting how the tone of the words he shared with you changed throughout the years, along with the character of your relationship.

When he thought he got it all figured out on the path to his election, and he met your glossy, impressionable and eager eyes for the first time as you assumed a role as a volunteer in his campaign, he always spoke to you in a place of barely there conceit; Skywalker was a people pleaser, his dream job expected him to be one, but in the few times you were alone with him you could sense an aura of superiority that could eat him alive in the campaign, even if you believed in "the chosen one" as ardently as his growing base of voters. 

How couldn't you?

He was the golden, gifted child raised by a single mother in an inhospitable hometown, who made something out of himself in the middle of life's greatest adversities, gave his mother (bless her!) a nice life and wanted the entire country to have one shot at that, too, while being well aware of how different starting points are in people's lives. 

Anakin Skywalker might’ve been a bit of a conceited cunt sometimes, but just because he knew how good the cards that were dealt to him in that race were. 

You eventually got his respect as he noticed how good of a marketing strategist you were. He started listening to you more, being less stubborn in his ways - you see, when someone is used to being praised a lot, to making things their way their entire life and it works as well as it did for him, they become a bit rusty in listening to other people's advice. But who could blame him? What you knew for certain is that victory would suit him like a glove, and you work so very hard to make it happen. 

Then, some months after he's elected and you're part of his team for real, he starts confiding in you. About his fears, his struggles – there was a man inside the expensive suits, inspiring speeches and dashing smiles, after all. A deeply flawed man.

You've become essential to him, the most loyal ally he could've ever found. You found yourself living for the two of you, yet that didn't overwhelm you as you kinda knew what you signed up for the moment the campaign ended and you felt that working for Anakin Skywalker was working for something greater than yourself. 

So you learned to deal with the late night messages, the outbursts, the pile of paperwork and enough bullshit in the system to drive one crazy. You knew you needed to be strong. You became a blank canvas for him to paint all of his feelings in everyday, usually the worst ones. 

At one point of your journey, you felt like you were prepared for absolutely everything. 

Until the fateful night a familiar Rolls-Royce stopped by your apartment with a very drunk Anakin Skywalker inside. 

Obi-wan betrayed me, Y/N, he screamed, I'm gonna fucking kill him!

You tried your best for your neighbors not to hear his outburst. You cannot pinpoint the exact moment things got out of control as you were trying to conjure a plan to get back at Kenobi without involving death out of thin air - but you eventually gave in. Perhaps in an attempt at pacification, as the air thickened between the two of you and this pent up tension within him seemed desperate to go somewhere, anywhere, you let him lay his rage on you in yet another way, and ended up the night with his hips grinding firmly against your ass, Anakin caging you between his body and the walls of your flat as he pulled whimper after whimper from your throat. 

You don't know if your concession was out of pity. You don't know if was your stupid, blind devotion that called you to him. You weren't exactly comfortable with the concept of fucking your boss or a public figure as known as him (Anakin ticked those two boxes, for fuck's sake!). You strongly disliked being under the watchful eyes of his opponents, nosy journalists and jealous coworkers; you missed how simple things were when people didn't notice you. 

However, it was quite the conundrum: you also couldn't forget how good he made you feel by driving into you hard, fast and rough, making you feel like no other man ever could that night.

Things changed drastically between you two after that. His words were curt, his eyes eerily attentive to your every movement. You knew just by looking at him that whenever you were reporting something to him, his mind was 100% somewhere else. And you knew that you both wanted it again.

But you did your best not to make it that clear. There were plenty of other things at stake.

As a statement, the only thing you do in order to make yourself more presentable is brush your teeth, not even changing from your PJs. You scroll mindlessly through your Instagram feed as you hear a subtle, punctual knock on your door. It's him, moving like a ghost through your building so he's unheard and unseen by your neighbors. It's impressive how impeccable he looks at this time of night - he's got a penchant for waking you up at odd hours while looking good. 

"Kenobi knows," he whispers right as you close your door, aware of how thin your walls are. "But let's say I got a collateral."

"What are you talking about?" You lower your tone to match his. 

"He knows about what happened between me and you. But he's fucking Cody, too, and I got proof." He says with a devilish smirk on his face as he takes a pendrive out of his pocket. 

Your hand covers your mouth instinctively in shock. "What? How could he possibly… I didn't…"

"He's been spying on you for a while, something I also advised him diplomatically to stop doing. But if he leaks anything to the media, I leak 66 pictures of him and his precious assistant. Satine would be so pleased, don't you think?"

"Anakin… fuck. I swear I didn't tell a soul. I'm sorry." You were terribly afraid. 

"I know you didn't," he answers, cupping your cheek tenderly, so overly confident of how important he and his well-being are to you. "It's all taken care of. There's nothing to be sorry or worry about."

"We shouldn't…" you mutter pathetically as his hand doesn't leave your now burning cheek.

"No one will ever try that again. Everyone has similar, or worse, skeletons in their closet."

"How could you know that?"

"I just do."

He turns around and moves towards your bed, sinking in it. You're still in shock, yet you manage to stammer, pointing to the flash drive in his hand: "Do you… want me to keep it?"

"No, this will stay with me."

"Is that really all you came to do?"

"I thought you would be less on edge." He props himself up on his elbows.

"You just told me your biggest enemy is spying on me! And that he found out I fucked you!"

"And that he's not telling a soul because I've got worse dirt!"

"He could leak it and say your collateral's a deepfake."

"He won't risk it because it's real and he knows it. That's all that matters."

He motions for you to sit by his side. You do as you're told, albeit reluctantly. He notices it: "Why are you so afraid of me?"

"I'm not afraid of you," you scoff, almost insulted. "I can assure you that."

"Then why are you so nervous just talking to me? You know me so well."

You refuse to meet his gaze. You know it's hungry.

"I don't know what to say." A pause as you choose your words very carefully. "I'm afraid of the repercussions."

"I already told you there won't be any."

"The more you speak the more I know this little visit of yours wasn't just a newscast."

"And what if it wasn't?"

"Are you sure you don't wanna do this anywhere else?"

"You indeed know what I came here for, then." he chuckles darkly. "There's no safer place in this entire country right now, Y/N. I want you. Couldn't sleep thinking about you." He grabs your chin delicately, his gaze now deep into yours. His eyes are so fucking blue you forget how to breathe. "Something needs to be done about that."

You close your eyes, joining your legs tight almost instinctively trying to contain the wave of heat that is sent to your core at the sound of his voice. Feeling your arousal mounting and your breathing hitch, he goes on in a husky whisper as his fingers make way for his lips to travel through your cheek, your neck, your collarbones. "I know you feel it too. You're desperate to cum around my cock again," the visual, and the memories, are enough to drive your core body temperature up another few degrees. You're tense and stressed and exhausted and sweating and does his voice usually sound this breathy? You shiver in anticipation. A bit of fear, too. "I went to hell and back just to assure we would do it again and no one could say a single… thing." he punctuates this last word with one especially lascivious kiss in your skin and you are unable to hold back the tiny pathetic moan that escapes your mouth. "Won't you value my efforts?"

Skywalker is emboldened by your wordless, audible encouragement, diving both of his hands inside your hair and pulling you for a kiss, which you reciprocate in the same eagerness though in a little less desperate way than last time. Hopefully, no one will know, and he's laying his desire on you instead of his anger, so it's natural that things go a bit smoother this time. As one of his hands keeps you in place and his tongue glides deliciously against yours, the other traces the inside of your flimsy shirt exploringly. It's the first time he's touching you without the wrath, a thought that exacerbates the heat swirling over your mind and senses. Anakin's hand encircles your chest, slipping beneath your blouse and palming at your tits, his lips muffling yet another little moan that action draws from you. He has to comment on it, the smirk on his face making you blush.

"I missed hearing those little sounds of yours, baby."

He looks like he could eat you alive in the brief seconds your lips spend apart. "I will value your efforts, sir." You don't care if your answer comes out a little late. And you know the effect proper formality has on him.

That opens the dam.

The moment your lips meet again, the kiss deepens. You move further up the bed and he follows you, wolfishly, doing his best to undress himself and you gradually, you helping him. He touches you everywhere, as if you're about to disappear at any given moment; as if it was possible for two humans to fuse into one. Tonight he wants unlimited access to you, wants to take you in any position he can all while your neighbors sleep soundly just the other side of the wall.

You’re so wet as he slides his first finger between your folds that he can’t help but mutter depravity after depravity under his breath, marveling at just how good you feel. You bite down on your lip as he works on you, hips rolling against his hand in a desperate attempt to get him deeper inside you.

The duvet crumples in your fist as you clutch at it, trying to keep quiet as he pleasures you, Skywalker taking a great amount of joy in just how much you’re struggling already. You can see how hard his cock is and how it's throbbing, and you can't help but wonder how long it’ll be before he gives you what you really want. If his smugness will wear off once he’s fully inside you and biting back the urge to drill into you until you both scream. He never had been a patient man. His breaths grow louder up in your ear as he works his way deeper inside you, your toes curling and fidgeting under the covers as you try and keep quiet. He presses open mouthed kisses against your neck as you bury your face in the covers, letting his tongue trail along your skin. His lips smother all over your tits, licking and sucking and kissing wherever he can get to. A shiver runs down your spine at the feel of his tongue featherlight against your nipples, spreads out across your entire body so that every hair stands on end.

You can feel his hot breath against your skin as he works his way down your body, breath caught in your throat at the anticipation of his mouth against your folds. He makes you wait for it. Has you fidgeting and writhing in the sheets beneath him as you hang on his every move.

“Please,” you whisper, so quiet he almost misses it over the sound of his breathing.

You share intense stares as he teases you first, kissing and sucking at the skin on your inner thighs, moving closer and closer to your center until after a couple minutes of that sweet agony his lips graze across that aching part of you. He flicks his tongue delicately through your folds, playing with your wetness. The way his hands caress your thigh so delicately while his tongue inscribes poems to your clit is something that makes your stomach flutter - he’s doing his best to fuck you up, gradually setting a rhythmic pace to his movements with the intent to release the spring now starting to coil tightly low in your abdomen.

“Jesus, Ani—f-fuck. Fuck.” You whimper, breathlessly, while simultaneously suppressing a moan when he delves his tongue even deeper in your core, your fingers instinctively curling and closing a fist on his hair, making him groan. You buck your hips against his lips and you can feel sweat beading on the backs of your knees, heart threatening to jump out of your mouth by how fast it’s racing.

As he sees how badly he’s affecting you, he starts fucking you with his fingers, and they move, stroke, curl inside of you in delightful ways while his tongue begins to work your clit in tight little circles. You could feel him moaning against your sex, he really liked this. And fuck, he was good at it. He slips one more finger into you, his ring finger, making your pleasure soon explode into a trembling climax. You couldn’t stop the sound you made and he kisses your thigh in reply while you lazily ride your orgasm in his hand. “You’re fucking delicious,” he whispers. “Think you still have another one in you for me?”

“God,” you reply weakly, “I don’t know.”

“Let’s find out, then.” Moving up, he nudges your thighs apart and hovers over you, his pelvis cradled by your hips and his hands planted on the mattress near your shoulders. 

You glare at him like a petulant child, and he finds your slight resistance oddly arousing, mainly because you still unconsciously stick to it even after losing yourself to his mouth. Not that he wants to overpower you, necessarily. He just wants to convince you that you want to be overpowered. His hand slides underneath your chin, tilts your head up just enough that he can lean down to meet your lips. They’re soft against your own, gentle in a way as they move against you. You open your mouth to him, feel his tongue caress your bottom lip before it meets your own. The taste of him mixed with yours is like ecstasy, making your body come alive quickly once again. Whatever part of you was holding back is gone as you knot your hands into his hair, pressing your body impossibly closer to him. You can feel him smiling beneath your lips, his hands finding a home underneath your ass as pulls you closer to his naked body, your legs wrapping around his hips.

He then pins you down to the bed in a swift motion as if scolding you for your eagerness - what does that fucker want? - and, with his other hand, jerks himself off slowly, watching the way your eyes are fixed on him as he does so. He places a hand under your chin, tilts it up so you’re forced to look at him, to peel your eyes away from his cock. “Are you gonna be a good girl for me?” His voice is breathy as he works on himself.

You nod against his hand, fingers on either side of your jaw, batting your lashes at him while you wait.

“Yes.”

The moment he presses inside you and feels you clench around his shaft is like heaven. You’re warm and wet and tight, everything he loves, and he can only sigh at the feel of you, his long, drawn-out breath warm against your neck. All the waiting, all the stress, all the guilt you were surely going to feel tomorrow morning, was worth it for the feel of him inside you. It feels like an eternity until his hips meet yours, until he’s fully submerged in your warmth, your bodies entwined in the most intimate of ways.

“God you’re so fucking tight—” he hisses, placing a hand on your hip as he withdraws from you, only to press into you again, harder this time, so a cry escapes from your lips. “Tight little pussy just for me.”

He spreads kisses along your neck, your jaw, licks into your mouth as he works up a rhythm, hips rocking into yours with building pace. You submit to him fully, letting him do as he pleases with you, because god, does it feel good. You’re grateful for the kisses he presses against your mouth, the way he uses his hand to press your face impossibly closer to him, because at least it muffles the constant stream of moans from your mouth. A muddle of curses, breaths and mentions of his name, over and over like a broken record. And he loves it, you can tell. The way he fucks into you, almost furiously now, so much that you can hear the headboard banging against the wall, drowning out the sounds the two of you were making.

“Bet no one ever fucked you like this, huh?” Anakin grunts, leaning back to watch your face, the way your brows pull together, hair fanned out around you on the pillows.

You shake your head, unable to do anything more in the moment, your mind filled only with pleasure.

“Answer me,” he demands, planting a sharp slap across your cheek.

The sweet sting of it is hot against your skin, and you smile at the sensation. You didn’t know what that felt like before him, how it was to have a lover who could truly push you to your limits.

“No! Only you baby--”

“That’s right.” He fucks into you harder as if to justify his point, his hands firm on your hips as he ruts into them.

You look gorgeous, lying there and taking him like that, the pillow princess that you are. He palms at your tits as they bounce with the motion of his thrusts, the whole bed seeming to shake with the power of his hips. “Every time you touch yourself, I want you to think of me,” he grunts breathlessly, “of how fuckin’ good I make you feel, of how deep I am in this pussy.”

The sound of his gruff voice and the pounding of your hips has you panting, gasping for breath as you feel the knot in your stomach growing tight again, your orgasm not far off now. Maybe if you were in a clearer state of mind, you’d tell him you already thought of him that way.

 “Yesyesyes!” You pant. “Fuck, I’m so close sir, I—”

“You don’t come until I tell you to, understand?” He grips your jaw, forces you to look him in the eye as he speaks.

You nod, knowing you’d only be in for a punishment if you didn’t do as he said. Not that you’d mind, of course. You were willing to let him do whatever he wanted with you for as long as he wanted it. He’s damn-near red in the face with the exertion of fucking you. The sweat beginning to cause his light locks to stick to his forehead, making his chest glisten in the dim light of your room. His muscles flex in his arm as he grips you, veins thick against his pale skin as he holds you in place. The sheer sight of him like that would be enough to steal the breath from your throat – if you had any left. You try to save that image of him in your mind, store it for when he undoubtedly left you again.

 “Please Anakin, please I…” you’re pleading now.

It was cruel of him to tease you like that, to know you were so close and keep fucking you at the pace he was, thrusting into you so deep you wondered how he didn’t rupture something.

 “You want to come? Is that it?”

There are tears in your eyes as you nod, because you’re sure you might burst, might explode all over him if he doesn’t say yes, doesn’t give you permission to succumb to the pleasure. His hips slow as he drags his cock in and out of you at an aching pace, making you feel every inch of his length. If it were anyone other than him, you’d be embarrassed at the noises coming from your pussy, how it squelches around him, paints him with your juices. But you can see that he’s smiling, enjoying the way you’re writhing beneath him, hanging on his every word. He pulls his cock all the way out of you then, and somehow that’s worse, leaves you feeling empty in his absence.

“Promise me you won’t fuck any other guy ever again.” He demands.

He knows exactly what he’s doing as he says the words, know you’ll agree to anything he says if it means you get to finish, but there’s part of him that wants you to bite back. To say something other than yes, just so he can punish you. He watches as you smile, try to keep the words from tumbling out of your mouth like you know they inevitably will. But you wanted to fight them, so you bite down on your lip, watch as he eyes you eagerly, dark eyes searching your expression.

 “Don’t make me tease it out of you,” he warns, trailing a finger along your folds, grazing it against your clit for just a second, making you yelp.

You whisper a very fragile yes, knowing you were basically selling your body, mind and soul entirely to him. His lips then press to yours roughly as he rolls you over onto your side, never breaking the kiss as he slides himself down behind you, raises your leg up in the air with his hand. You press yourself back up against him, hear him grunt as he lines himself up with you, the first feel of him back inside you making you whimper.

He curses under his breath as he begins to rut into you, his lips buried in your neck, one hand on your hip, the other reaching under you to clutch at your tits. He loved to have you like that, to cradle you while he fucked you, whisper all the dirty things he was thinking right into your ear. And it works just as well now as it did before, your toes curling as you try and hold on to the sensation building in your core. He feels impossibly deeper inside you from this angle, his balls against you with each thrust. You can feel his hot breath as he works you back up towards your orgasm, the sweat on his chest sticking the two of you together. Every word from his mouth is amplified in your ears, and you can tell he must be close to finishing too from the way he rambles, rattling off every word that comes to mind.

“This pussy’s all mine… feels so good— shit,”

His hips are increasing pace now, the sound of your ass slapping against him and ragged breaths filling the room. Your face is half-buried in the pillow, moans muffled as he nips at your neck, bites down on the skin in an attempt to hold off his own orgasm a little longer. Though he can feel you clenching and tightening around him, your own finish not far off now.

“Fuck,” he’s panting now .“Holy shit, baby-mph— please come for me.”

You’d never heard him beg like that. Beg for you. You wish you could tease him, make him beg some more but the feel of him pounding you is too much, his hips going into overdrive now that he’s given you the permission to finish. You clutch desperately at his thigh, feel the muscles beneath your fingertips as your eyes screw shut, clenching around him. You can feel him twitching inside you, hear his grunts getting louder, a little more exasperated, his thrusts erratic. The knot in your stomach is so tight, so close, and you whine as you feel your orgasm finally surfacing, spreading out across your entire body.

Your thighs are trembling, your moans cutting off into silence as he fucks you furiously through your orgasm, each pound of his hips against yours amplifying the sensation. You feel it in your toes, your fingers, the pit of your stomach, every inch of your body on fire as he loves you. He’s only a moment or two behind, a garbled moan spilling from his mouth as you feel his warmth of his come gush inside you. His thrusts slow as he lets his head fall against your shoulder, his chest heaving out of sync with yours as you lie there, overcome with the bliss of it all.

Only when you’re both splayed out on your backs, pulse no longer hammering in your ears and your breaths just beginning to stabilise, does you start to speak. “I wonder how diplomatic your conversation with Obi-wan was in order for him to keep quiet. I’m pretty sure people heard us tonight.”

“Very diplomatic.” He limits himself to say. “I’ll do anything to have you like this, baby, whenever I want.”

[onemastertomemethemall]

Can I have a headcanon for 🦚, 💰, 📖, 🍔 and 🛏 react to an s/o in a coma after an accident. Keep in mind that this is after the exchange program ended.

Okay, it has been a HOT minute since my last headcanon, so I may be rusty. BUT that ain't gonna stop me from trying. These requests have been gathered dust for far too long already, time to get back to WORK-

-

Sleeping Beauty (Ft. Lucifer, Mammon, Satan, Beelzebub & Belphegor)

Who knew what one simple visit back to the Devildom would end in tragedy...

All it took was a brief fall to find MC straddling the line between life and death. Machines beeping and humming were the only sounds coming from them as they laid rooted to a bed with no real way of knowing when MC will wake up, if at all.

The brothers would not take the situation well.

Lucifer

Despite having known you for over a year now, the fragility of humans was still new to him.

He couldn't bring himself to be vocal about it, but he blamed himself for not being there to save you. Had he been more attentive to you, maybe you would not have fallen in the first place. Whether or not it was true didn't matter, he couldn't excuse this.

He would visit you from the very minute he's allowed into your room until long past visiting hours, mainly because no one had the heart (or nerve) to tell him he had to leave.

He was often found clutching your hand to his cheek as he sat in silence beside you. He wouldn't allow others to see him cry, and it was certainly difficult for him to keep his composure at the very sight of his beloved.

Mammon

This man was quick to fall apart when he first saw you laying in a hospital bed surrounded by machines.

He didn't care what others thought of him, he rushed to your bedside and broke down into a wailing mess. He wanted to pull you into his arms, but understood it may do more harm to you.

He felt guilty not being able to save you. You were his s/o, his greatest treasure, and now he may never see you get out of bed again!

Any hint of movement caused Mammon to jump and alert a doctor...only to be gently told that it was only a reflex. This however did not stop him from constantly getting his hopes up that you'll wake eventually.

Satan

To say Satan flew into a rage immediately after the accident would be an understatement. Had it not been for his brothers, any poor soul that was even remotely close to you or could have possibly prevent the accident at the time would have become another casualty.

He kept as close as he possibly could to you as doctors and nurses attempted to save your life, and refused to budge an inch from your side after you were left in a coma.

He tried his best to find ways he could help you. A spell, a remedy, anything to help, and would not stop until he exhausted all his resources and himself.

He didn't expect a response, but he would often read to you, hoping that hearing his voice would bring you back to him even just a little bit faster.

Beelzebub

It was Lilith all over again for him. The painful guilt set in quickly as he stared at you on the bed.

He lost his appetite, refusing to eat anything for days at a time because it would mean he'd have to leave your side, which would hurt him more than any hunger pangs would.

He so desperately wanted to hug you, but unfortunately had to be reminded repeatedly that he couldn't, much to his dismay.

All he could do was hold your hand, and he would hold onto your hand for as long as he could out of fear that it would eventually be the last time he could.

Belphegor

He refused to speak to anyone, even Beel. All he would do is sleep beside you, whether on a chair or sneaking his way into the bed to hug you, much to the frustration of the medical staff...although he would more often than not get away with it given the circumstances.

He decided that if you weren't going to be awake for a while, there was no reason for him to be awake either. He didn't want to face the waking world without you; he refused to.

He realized this is what Beel must have felt after Lilith's death. The guilt of wishing he could have saved you from this, but knowing there was nothing he could do now but wait and hope.

He learned quickly that not every little twitch you made meant something, but he did find some comfort in it. Maybe it was a sign that you can wake up again...

ℹ The Ask Box is currently closed, no new requests are being taken at the moment!

[destinedgray]

💋 — kissing💄 — makeup🎵 — singing💃 — dancing🎹 — playing an instrument👊 — fighting🍳 — cooking🎉 — hosting parties💌 — romance/flirting (wiggle my eyebrows dramatically)

Send an emoji to learn how good/bad my muse is at that particular skill!

💋 — kissing

I'm gonna tell you right now, when he was a very young teenager he was bad at this, okay, no one is perfect. Too much tongue. An ex girlfriend with no filter finally told him (god bless whoever she was) and that's when he vastly improved and has been much more conscious of what makes his partners happy. Experience is key too and being unafraid to ask. He finds a lot of pride and joy in that now.

💄 — makeup

Absolutely heinous. A tragedy. Please help him. He's way too impatient to sit through a simple drawing (unless he's procrastinating something), let alone adorn his face in a manner that is perfect enough. He's a perfectionist and so for this he'll just immediately get annoyed and now uses other people as a crutch to do it for him if he has to for some reason.

🎵 — singing

Not bad, not amazing either. He doesn't play an instrument but if there's music accompanying him, he blends his voice really well to it. He's done lots of karaoke which helps with pitch control. Without music in the background though, he just doesn't know what to do with himself and he'll mostly sing under his breath if he feels like it.

💃 — dancing

Very good! He loves dancing and he can learn dances he doesn't know very quickly because of his enthusiasm and his energy. Overall, he's just very good physically and dancing falls into that category.

🎹 — playing an instrument

:(. He tried so hard to learn the guitar when he was a teenager, and he failed because he simply stopped practicing after going hard at it for a month or two. He didn't have the discipline or enough motivation and reason to do it so the desire to learn just kinda faded away with time. Then he tried the ukulele for a bit and he was pretty good at that. But again, the desire faded and the reason and occasions to use it. He is but a catalogue of unfinished hobbies.

👊 — fighting

Very talented. He got into fights when he was younger and there was no shortage of horseplay with his brother so he knows his way around another person's aggression. I would say his greatest weakness in fighting is also his greatest strength and that is his fearlessness. As he's gotten older and more formal training, he's become quite a formidable opponent and prides himself on that. He never stops training and he finds it's also a good way of releasing energy and tension so it helps him to continuously improve.

🍳 — cooking

Surprisingly good. The biggest downside is that he's an extremely messy cook, so sometimes it's just not worth the very delicious meal afterwards if you just have an entire kitchen to clean off. He's best at meals rather than desserts or pastries.

🎉 — hosting parties

He would have liked to say he was great at this as a teenager. And he was alright, but the amount of times the police got called on his parties says otherwise. They were always fun and memorable at least.

💌 — romance/flirting

Experience is key and he's had a lot of it. Mostly with women, but he's pansexual and adventurous by personality. He's great at flirting with strangers and he likes to treat his partners the way he would like to be treated, so he's open-minded, understanding and patient with them. However, it's been a long time since he's had a relationship that wasn't just FWB or flings so he's probably a bit rusty in the “romance” department and also considerably more hesitant than ever before to enter into anything serious. He does not think he has the space in his life to dedicate himself enough to anyone as something serious and also fears what sort of distraction and stress that would place on him, as well as the potential neglect he'd have on his romantic partner. Again, he's a bit of a perfectionist and cares way too much about the people he loves so if he doesn't think something could be perfect for him and them, he is inclined to avoid it.

[pianostarinwonderland]

fic: ramshackle [azul ashengrotto]

azul visits the prefect to ask for a favor. he’s greeted, however, by a certain monster and a less than savory environment.

word count: 1506 content notes: general fic; azul and grim; canon MC used for this fic; crowley needs to be more responsible; additional notes below content warnings: none

outside where dark clouds gather in the atmosphere, accompanied by the grumbling of thunder, a silver-haired student traverses on to a rather secluded area in the campus. the old worn down building in the area has caused feet to quicken their pace should they pass by it, but it’s not the first time azul crosses those rusty gates that open to the dorm.

he has no need to fear such a dilapidated structure, now that someone resides in the area. besides, it is that particular resident that he is seeking out for a little favor. the creature by their side often has the voice in the decisions they make, but it’s no problem at all for him. a tuna can that is paid through the nose and a few photographs are all that he needs.

knock knock knock. his knock is polite– it’s gentle on the wood and it’s a set number of three, a good enough amount to alert the homeowner that someone is waiting outside while not being obnoxious. usually at the first knock, the dorm prefect would come running by now.

but seconds past with no one answering the door, so he knocks again. and he waits a bit more. no answer still. are they busy?

azul brings his hand up for the third knock when the door is finally opened and reveals the infamous grey-furred monster. grim seems to be mumbling about something – something about impatient guests, from the little azul could hear – but ceases it all together with a surprised “fnyah–!” upon seeing who is at the front door. he recovers quickly, however, and casts a frown towards azul.

“oi, whatcha doin’ here,” he asks with hands – paws? – akimbo. “ya better not be asking us for favors again, especially with how busy i am right now.”

“my,” azul can’t help but let out a chuckle of amusement, “you of all creatures are busy?”

“well, it’s not like i have a choice!” grim exclaims. “my minion’s sick and i gotta be the one takin’ care around the house!”

sky blue eyes widen at the creature’s words. “they’re sick? but were they not present in school today?” it’s difficult for him to conjure up the mental image of the ramshackle student in bed with an ice pack on the forehead and a thermometer in their mouth. now, he wouldn’t say they’re the epitome of health, but somehow, they never seemed to crumble despite the stressful events thrown at them and the dorm they live in.

“yeah, we were in school today, but they got sick in the afternoon,” grim responds. 

a second barely passes when grim’s eyes open up like saucers, an imaginary light bulb seeming to light up above his head. “say,” he begins with a smug grin forming on his face, “since yer here right now, how about ya help me out in doin’ chores?”

“oh?” azul’s eyes shine with intrigue. “you dare to ask me for favors?”

“hey,” a deadpan expression settles on the monster’s face, “ya keep askin’ me for favors, how ‘bout i do the same to ya? these paws can’t grip, ya know.”

a small laugh from azul. “are you not planning to become the greatest magician alive? surely, a genius such as you can easily do chores with your magic.” 

“well ya, yer right about that.” he gives an arrogant smirk. “and it’s because i’m so great that you should feel obliged to help me, especially in the kitchen. ya run a restaurant after all.”

the octavinelle prefect laughs again. a quick glance at the messy interior behind grim gives him all the true answers, but he chooses to say nothing. “my my, are you assuming that i can cook just because i own a restaurant?”

“well, yeah! ya gotta know something if ya running a food business, right?”

“grim, just because i manage the mostro lounge doesn’t automatically mean I know how to cook,” he answers in a light-hearted tone. 

“w-well,” grim scratches his head as if thinking of something before facing azul again, “even if ya don’t know how, ya got cash on ya from that, ya know. ya can buy the meals and medicine.”

funny, grim isn’t usually this bright to make multiple arguments, or so azul thought. it’s almost endearing how he’s trying to win him over that it almost makes him consider saying yes just by the attempts. almost. “and what makes you think i’ll simply help you out,” he questions as he wears the annoyingly pleasant smile on his face. “i’m not exactly an altruistic individual, you know.”

grim pauses at his words. “then…” he scrunches up his nose and clenches a paw by his side, as if in an effort to not say his next words, “i’ll do whatever favors ya ask me for.”

“oh, really now?” amusement dances alight in his eyes at the tempting proposition.

“well, only three!” grim clarifies indignantly. “and not more than that, got it?”

azul laughs – not the self-assured chuckles he makes in every victory, but a genuine vocal sound of mirth that reminds one of sunbeams shining through the window of a decrepit house. “you strike quite a bargain.” there’s a slight tone of sarcasm mixed with levity in his voice as he says this. “very well, we have a deal then. i help you out for this one time, and in return, you get to do three favors for me.” his smile changes to a smirk oozing with glee. “you best remember this, grim.”

“y-yeah, of course!” he exclaims, though the stutter in his voice already conveys a wave of regrets. “now get in! we got work to do!” he ushers azul inside the foyer of the dorm, and at the closing of the door, the pitter-patter of rain reverberates around the place, starting with a gentle drizzle leaving kisses on the ground before slamming down onto the roof of the building. 

“we gotta cook something first for my minion! something like… ooh, maybe tuna casserole!” a drop of saliva slips down his mouth as he says this.

“do you not know anything about taking care of a sick person? tuna casserole is too heavy for them right now. they need to eat something light–”

a turn to the kitchen hall with the flip of a switch, and azul stops in his tracks.

it’s evident that the ramshackle student had put effort into cleaning the place, but a simple clean-up can only do so much. the old paint reveals its cemented nature through the chips and peels of paint in many areas, with wooden floors that almost bear the fragility of glass with how easily it can creak from the weight of a small step. the singular source of illumination, a lamp precariously hanging by its wires, barely holds onto its life as it flickers on and off, and in the sink is a stack of dishes and silverware marred with leftover crumbs from last night with an empty bottle of dish soap and a dirty sponge next to it. the open window displaying the rain beating down the ground adds a certain sense of gloom into this sorry state of the kitchen.

this is how you’ve been living all this time?

azul now wonders how it is that you only fell ill today.

he takes a hesitant step forward, and he hears the sound of paper beneath his shoe. bending down to pick it up, he finds a crumpled yellow sticky note, and his eyes skim through the tiny handwriting on it:

to-do:

save up 500 madols for dish soap.

save up 250 madols for light bulb

use whatever leftover change there is to buy food.

and the list goes on.

“oi, whatcha standin’ there for?” grim’s voice brings azul out of his thoughts. “are ya gonna hurry and help or what?”

“what on earth is this place?” he gestures to the entire room with outstretched arms. “everything’s a mess here! the walls, the sink, the lighting–!”

“oi, we tried cleaning this place up,” grim replies irritatedly, crossing his stubby arms. “but we cannot exactly afford the best things, ya know. the headmaster doesn’t really do much for us, but it’s better than being homeless, which a certain someone did to us.” a pointed glare at azul serves as the punctuation for the sentence. 

“i at least offered you to stay in my dorm, where it’s much more luxurious than this.” he takes a breath before letting himself digress into a completely different topic. “anyway, it’s no wonder why the prefect has fallen ill. this is not a suitable environment for them, and it certainly isn’t something i’d allow in my restaurant.”

“well, what can ya do?” grim shrugs in accepted defeat. 

“i’m sure i can pull a few strings with our dear headmaster,” he says with his notorious suspiciously sweet smile. “but for now…” azul claps his hands together, and his lips form a stern line. “let’s clean up those dishes first and then prepare any light meal we can make.”

additional notes: hellooo HAHAHAHA would have uploaded this earlier but school ueueue anyway sooo I’ll admit that Azul might not be very in character in some parts :’DD but I’m kinda weak for the idea of Azul having a hidden respect for Yuu after ch3 because of how they beat him and how they did, in a way, help him realize a lot of things about himself. Alsooo may or may not want to poke at deadbeat dad kdfskdss I do hope he’s actually better in canon than how I depict him here :’))

[ladyfiresfanfiction]

Flying the Nest - One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest Fic - Chapter One

I’ve had this fic percolating in my brain for about four months and I am now just letting it flow. I hope you guys will like it! Please let me know what you all think. I’m a bit rusty haha, so I hope I don’t suck! Chapter One under the cut. Chapter two will be posted tomorrow!

I am standing shakily in the hallway of a whitewashed building. Ahead is rows and rows of rooms, art and photography and pamphlets adorn the walls. But I am staring with utmost fascination at the black and white and brownish designs of the tiled floor. Snapped back to the unpleasant present by a nurse not much older than I, I'm guided through heavy white double doors into what I would usually call the Room of Hell; a peer counseling room or area in multiple buildings I have become well acquainted with in the last eighteen months.

To my surprise, I am met with familiar blue-green eyes and a face turning ashen with shock upon seeing me. My older brother, Mac.

"Baby Jane? What the hell are you doing here?" Mac asks in his gruff yet gravelly voice. I shrug, forcing a slight smile as he walks toward me, against the wishes of the bitchy looking blonde nurse seated less than one hundred yards ahead of me and envelopes me in his infamous bear hugs I had missed greatly. I found myself holding tightly to my brother's arms, afraid that if I were to let go, I would break into pieces in the middle of the room that would soon become my greatest fear and biggest location of loathing.

"Alright, Mister McMurphy, let your sister go now, thank you. And Miss McMurphy, please take the empty seat right here, between your brother and Mister Bibbit. Thank you. My name is Nurse Ratchet, welcome to our home of healing." The nurse said as I took my seat. As I sat down, my eyes locked onto the bluest eyes I have ever seen, so much so that my heart skipped a beat.

"Ah, yes," Mac laughed as my cheeks turned a light pink. "This is the man of the hour, Janie. His name is-" "M-m-m-my name is-i-is b-bi-b-Billy." The beautiful boy with gorgeous blue eyes stammered. "I-it-its nice to m-m-meet you, Miss." He finished with a shy smile.

Before I could utter a reply to Billy, I was interrupted.

"Miss Jane McMurphy? Come with me, please." The resident doctor, named Doctor Spivey. My heart started hammering in my chest as I reflexively grabbed Mac's hand. Doctor Spivey was a reserved yet kind-looking man as he waited patiently in the doorway, noticing the apprehension on my face. Mac patted my shoulder with encouragement as he nodded towards Spivey.

"I'm just a couple of rooms away, Janie. He's a nice doc. Go on, now, and I'll give ya a tour when you're back." Mac said in a low voice, nodding toward the waiting doctor. I let go of his hand as I stood up and slowly walked towards Spivey. He waved his hand toward the left corridor and said the admissions room was on the left. I whispered something I couldn't even hear and walked slowly as if the path I was taking was going straight to the gates of the Underworld. Doctor Spivey walked a couple of paces behind me, guiding me to the right room, or possibly making sure I didn't try to bolt to the entrance door about fifty steps from his office.

As we made it into the office, he waved his hand toward a comfortable-looking brown leather chair behind a large mahogany desk. It had a manilla envelope with what could be mistaken as someone's novel manuscript but was actually my medical history and doctor's notes from past mental hospital and emergency room stays since July of '61, nearly two years ago.

"Make yourself at home, Miss McMurphy," Doctor Spivey began as he took his seat in a large-looking leather desk chair that matched his massive desk. He peered over my notes, tsking at some parts while his sparse salt-and-pepper-colored eyebrows shot up at other areas of my history. When he finally looked at me, I felt my stomach lurch and the room became unbearably hot. I knew I was in the middle of a raging panic attack, but I tried to keep on my Pokerface in fear of what might happen if I started to become undone.

"Well now, Miss McMurphy. Says here you are about to turn twenty-two years of age and were a junior in college. What uh, brings you here?" He asked, softly. "My... ex-fiance, he killed himself almost two years ago. I had also been dealing with physical health setbacks and was falling behind in classes on top of his untimely death. I just... Couldn't handle it anymore." I replied while my voice was barely above a whisper. "I see. It also says here you've overdosed on opium and cocaine, as well as gotten alcohol poisoning a few times. Is that right?" He asked, his eyes boring into me over thick black spectacles. "Well, like I said, I wasn't handling Charles's death... well... And I have been in and out of the hospital since my freshman year of high school. I just wanted everything to stop." I replied in a flat tone. "Your brother wasn't around much, I see. He had no idea you were in this much emotional distress? And what of your parents?" The doctor asked, watching me closely.

I could feel my forehead begin to prickle with droplets of sweat and my knuckles turned white as I gripped the wood arms of the chair. I tried to gather my thoughts so I could talk in a more rational way, but my throat kept closing and opening, and my eyes began to fill with white-hot tears anytime I opened my mouth, which caused me to shut it and open it a number of times.

"We're more than happy to keep you on as a patient in our ward. I feel you could benefit from our help and could leave quite possibly around the time your brother does We offer services to get you back on your feet once you feel comfortable and safe enough on your own. There is a ladies ward a floor right above the men. You are welcome to visit your brother in the daytime, but we do have strict rules about nightly visits and no, um, congregating with the male patients here.  We have activities as well as counseling to help when things are rough. I need to finish looking over your medical history and we will see what we can give you to help with these night terrors and panic attacks. I'll take you back to Nurse Ratched now, she or Mac can take you to the second floor or give you a tour of our ward. If you have any questions please let me know. You can always let Nurse Ratched or the other nurses know when you need to speak with me. I usually meet with my patients once a week in the morning.

It was a lot to take in, but I nodded, only half-listening. So far this was still a voluntary thing and I could leave whenever I wished. However, now that I knew Mac was here, I was thinking of waiting until he left with me. I didn't trust myself alone anymore. And I couldn't get that beautiful blue-eyed boy out of my head. Charles always said he would send me people when I needed them most and he couldn't be there for me. I was beginning to wonder if he sent me to Oregon State Hospital, and brought me back to my long-lost brother. As I walked back into the Room of Hell, facing who I was sure was Satan's wife, I smiled half-condescendingly to her and made my way to Mac, ready to see where I would be staying for at least the next month, or longer.

"Ready to tell me what the hell is going on and why you haven't called me, Janie?" Mac asked, looking concerned. "Yeah, let's talk while we explore this house full of nuts," I smirked, making Mac laugh. "Okay then. Let's start from the beginning, shall we?" He asked, extending his arm to me. "It's not pretty, but I'm sure this place isn't so pretty either," I replied, placing my hand on his arm as we began to walk towards the front of the building. "Something tells me your story isn't that pretty either, sister. Now start talking."

[an-ambivalent]

Making You Mine [Yandere! Bakugo Katsuki]

Warning: As this is yandere fiction, this deals behaviours that may be uncomfortable or triggering to read.  Read at your own risk. This work is purely fictional, I do not condone this behaviour irl. 

SPOILER WARNING: This has spoilers from Heroes Rising so if you want to avoid those, then probably not read this lmao. 

A/N: my writing is really rusty. For one, I can’t believe I did actually manage to write 1.1K for this, if any at all tbh lol. So enjoy? 

Pairings: Katsuki x Reader | Izuku x Reader 

________________

Eyes burned holes at the back of your head. Sweat was being secreted by the sweat secreting cells beneath your skin a bit too often. Despite the weather being a bit on the colder side, you felt hot. The heavy weight of your clothes sticking suffocatingly to your skin and the feeling that it was hindering your ability to breath normally was too present in your mind; it made you feel uncomfortable in your own skin and prevented you from focusing. Although it was socially unacceptable to proceed with this action in public, all you wanted to do was throw away your heavy clothes, and claw your own flesh out of your body so the stares would stop and neither you, or the discomfort that these stares brought would exist. 

Bakugo, ever the prideful and egoistic punk that he was, relished in the outcome of the situation and the amount of attention he received. The self-proclaimed greatest hero to be wasn’t stupid or ignorant. For that reason, you absolutely hated that he knew you so well, and used that knowledge to hurt you. He knew that you hated the attention, but he did not make a single move to do anything to change the situation in order to make it better for you, or comfort you through it. In fact, you were certain that he was insistent to not do anything about this situation just to seek petty revenge on you for not choosing him in the first place. 

As Bakugo dragged you through the hallways forcefully, you heard the harsh words that were whispered without any consideration or thought behind it. For a school that was specifically for heroes to be, and their supports, one would assume that they would know better than to be judgemental without considering all the reasons and perspectives. But apparently that was too much to ask for, because they ridiculed you. They did not question the ferocious blond who was infamous for his viciousness, and gripped your wrist tightly enough to leave marks and cause you to grimace in pain. Instead, they gossiped about you and spread ugly rumours unethically. 

By no means were you the nicest person ever with the sweetest smile; but you were far from being rude and vicious like Bakugo. 

You were one of the first people to befriend Midoriya, believe in his strength, and return the kindness he showed everyone else. So, it was ridiculous, and more than that, infuriating, that others had the audacity to assume you left him because he was quirkless once again, and leached onto Bakugo, his bully, because he had become stronger. This ridiculous notion was far from the truth, and no one suspected that because Bakugo had become that much stronger, was the reason you were forced to leave Midoriya. 

Since the beginning of your time in UA, you were not sure what it was, but something about the petrifying predatory gaze that Bakugo had stared at you with, made you avoid him. Your instinctive gut feeling proved to be right when you got to observe his brash personality. Particularly, when he would corner you and threaten you to break it off with Midoriya. 

The sight of his sneering face looming over you, and the burning smell of smoke that would start to emit from his hand whenever he threatened you was an intimidating experience. Going through this scenario each time, and each time his level of agitation being worse than before, never made it any less terrifying. However, despite the fear, you never conformed to his demands. You stood up to him, and stayed devoted to Midoriya throughout. Primarily because while Bakugo was undeniably stronger than you and you would not be able to confront him on your own, you used to have Midoriya there to support you and fight alongside you if the situation ever called for it. 

However, now, even if Midoriya wanted to be there for you, he couldn’t. Compared to Bakugo, he was powerless. 

Prior to passing the One-for-All to Bakugo, he was the main obstacle; of course it was him. Only Deku was stubborn enough to always be in Bakugo's way and try and stop him from getting what he wanted. 

But that was no longer the case. Not only had Midoriya lost his chances of becoming a hero, Bakugo had also made him give you up. So now, you were finally his. You belonged only to Bakugo; it was your inevitable reality. Although, it seemed as if you were still not willing to accept that. 

It was your own fault really, you brought this on yourself. If only you had submitted to Bakugo earlier, then this would not have had to happen. 

Once Bakugo led you out of the hallways and had you pushed against the wall, without any warning, he instantly leaned down to kiss you. You moved to turn your head away, but since that was such an expected response, Bakugo had clutched your face tightly to prevent that from happening. Still, he stopped until his face was only slightly away from yours. He wasn’t kissing you, but it was close enough that you felt his breath on your face, and his lips brushed against yours occasionally when he spoke. 

“Keep your attitude up, and not only will I continue to make you regret it for being a bitch, but damn Deku will regret it too. You don’t truly want to add more to his suffering, do you? He already sacrificed his ultimate dream to save you at Nabu island,” he murmured against your lips, while he caressed your cheek with his thumb. 

At the mention of Midoriya, your shoulders tensed up. The guilt from being so pathetic and weak that you had been captured by the enemy at Nabu Island, used as bait, and were one of the reason why Midoriya was suffering, was still weighing heavily on your shoulders. That realisation made you realise that if you contributed anything else to worsen Midoriya’s circumstances, you would never be able to forgive yourself. So, in response to Bakugo, you shook your head. 

The sight of your defiance weakening made Bakugo smirk. 

“So you’ll be a good girl and do as I say, yeah?” 

You shut your eyes tightly; your thoughts from earlier returned, and so did the urges. The idea of wanting to claw your conscious out of yourself so you didn’t exist now felt like a desperate need. But not being able to do that, or anything else for the matter, except for nodding to affirm your now complete obedience to Bakugo, you felt Bakugo press his lips against yours in a harsh and forceful kiss.

_____

if you need further clarification, this was basically what I think might happen if Bakugo did end up receiving one-for-all from Midoriya and used that against him and his partner if he liked her too and was a yandere (obv). so yeeee  

[tuttifuckinfruttifriday]

Part 1

^ ^Second part of this amazing writing

Regret and help

Pairings: The Voorheese’s family(MJ, Malon and Jason), Pennywise’s family(Aquarius, Pennywise and Archie), kinda Michael Myers x Jason Voorheese (evidently not romantic)

Warnings: some angst, blood mention

this is kinda /:... I lost inspiration and am not really in the mood..Idk

I did my best though so I hope you’ll enjoy ^^

Don’t hesitate to tell me if I did any mistakes!

-

At the second Malon pointed out the two little dots, Jason immediately took a paper and told her to run to Archie’s and tell Aquarius to come quick, vaguely remembering that she once told something about being bitten by a snake. It was probably their only choice, so he really hoped he was remembering it right and it was the same kind of snake.

The instant she got out, Malon took her old rusty bike and went towards their house to fetch the clown gal, anxiety clouding her mind as she knew her mother had been bitten and it surely wasn’t good.

While he put his wife shakily on the couch, he made sure to stay by her side and wait for Aquarius and his daughter to come back while trying to take care of MJ. He didn’t know much about snake bites, but he knew they hurt like a s.o.b. and didn’t want MJ to experience it, even if she already was. “Jay....” The undead husband looked up so fast he could have gotten whiplashed. Her face looked sickly pale as she continued with a grimace and foreword eyebrows. “Could.. could I get a bucket, please..?..” He instantly got up and got back with one, putting it beside his wife as he sat down on the couch, putting her feet on his lap as she curled on herself. It was total silence for some time, expect some groans and small whines coming from the woman, until she opened her mouth, seeing that her husband really wasn't feeling well. ''W-What's bothering you, love...?.....'' He only shook his head at her, his eyes casted downwards as he seems to be deep in thoughts. The silence came back as the two tried to get comfortable, MJ feeling like she was going to throw up any seconds... And kinda feeling like she was gonna die, the pain excruciating. Her hand was starting to turn numb and her arm was starting to feel it too... Everything hurts and she felt like she wanted to sleep, but didn't want to risk it as she feared not waking up, her eyes staring at the wall from her fetal position on the couch.

“You know, Jay.... I wasn’t always happy outside of Camp Crystal lake, before we m-met... So I’m really glad we did since l-living with you as been one of the greatest things in my life... I love you—“ A big hand immediately slapped itself onto her parted lips as her lover’s eyes rounded, almost popping out of their sockets. Jason knew why she was telling him that, but she wouldn’t die, not on his watch. He teared up internally, the tears burning behind his eyeballs as he took deep breaths through his nose.

—

When Aquarius finally came, she told him about some plants to make the antipoison, something she learned from a friend of hers when she was bitten by a coral snake, since she lived in the woods at that time. As soon as she wrote down the plants, he instantly snatched the piece of paper from her hands and and took off, patting his anxious daughter on the head. He wouldn’t waste more time since he finally had what it takes to help his wife. His usually soft and soundless footsteps thundered through the forest as soon as the door closed and he walked towards where he thought the first thing was, searching his mind to try to remember. It went like that for some time, Jason bending down and examining the plants, mostly only to get back up and continue since it’s not the good one. He couldn’t dare to make a mistake, he had to be really careful with what he picked since it could f up everything and be MJ’s death wish. That’s when he was halfway through the list though that he almost had a heart attack, seeing a shape from where he was at. Stopping everything he was doing, he got closer, not wanting it to be a trespasser, the figure becoming more and more clear as he could finally see the white rubber mask and mechanic coverall, telling him exactly who it was and making him relax. The Shape was stalking through the trees for a reason he ignored, so he waited in the open for the man to see him, not wanting to risk getting stabbed. If Michael could help him a little, maybe it would be faster.

When he was close enough, Michael finally having seen him and waiting patiently, he showed him the list with a tilt of his head, his silent way to ask what he could almost consider as his friend if he could help him a little, his mind not being the best thing to rely on. Since he’s an undead, Jason has sometimes some troubles remembering some things. Silence was the only thing they heard as Michael stood strait in place, not moving a muscle as he seemed to be thinking. A small smile came onto Jason’s face when he finally moved, nodding a small bit and walking towards the way he came from. It should be pretty easy with the two silent men knowing the forest. Micheal didn’t really have a home, so he was mostly always walking into the forest and searching for things to satisfy his needs whenever he was taking a break from killing. So he knew most plants and most parts of the forest, like Jason.

For a long time that’s what they did, the men walking around and putting the plants into a small bag Jason took on his way out of the house. It was paisible until Michael stopped in his track, The Shape getting his bloody knife out of his pocket as he walked towards a tree, shooting an icy glance towards the undead man following him as soon as he heard his footsteps. The latter was confused as to why he stopped, but he didn’t want to risk being seen by anybody if it was someone. Michael seemed concentrated, his eyes focused on a whimpering woman who seems to be limping and coming this way, making Jason’s body tense. It was probably why Michael was so silent and seemed to be stalking something when he saw him earlier, so he decided not to interfere, watching him stalking away. Guess he didn’t have anybody to help him then .. As the screams of the girl could finally be heard, Jason walked towards where the last item was, his steps hurried and bigger than normal. He really hoped he wasn’t too late...

—

“Here you go...” The female clown said as MJ took the last bit of the antidote, her face seeming to regain a little bit of colours.

She was surprised when she felt Jason’s arms wrapping around her tightly, but she didn’t say anything as a smile appeared on her face and she hugged him back with a pat on the back. She knew it was his way of saying thank you, so she was really happy her job was done and her good friend was going to be better.. When she went back home, the Voorheese's family could finally be at peace, which was certainly a big change from normal. To kind of celebrate and hope, Jason tried to make one of his wife’s delicious plate that’s in her cookbook they made not long ago, feeling like she would eat something when she recovers as he navigated through the fragile pages. Jason was getting the ingredients out when he felt a small tug on his jacket’s sleeve, having it still on. Big round eyes looked up at him when he looked down. “Can I help you, daddy?” Malon asked with a cute giggle, making the man smile before he nodded and sat the girl on the counter.

[katymacsupernatural]

When Push Comes to Shove

Dean Winchester x Reader

3600 Words

Written For @amanda-teaches and her 2K Reader and Writer Challenge.

My prompt: “I saw you staring at each other, I just wasn’t sure if it was sexual tension or murderous rage.”

Summary: A bad fight years ago between Y/N and Dean had her running off. Now, five years later, they need her help. But when she arrives, all things left unsaid are brought out into the open.

Warnings: Lots of angst, mentions Dean with the mark, other warnings in the tags because of spoilers. 

When you had first received the phone call, you immediately hung up, your heart racing as memories from five years ago came crashing through the wall you had so carefully erected.

“No, I can’t,” you whispered, staring down at the phone laying on your bed as if it had bitten you. And truthfully, it had.

It started ringing again, Sam’s name flashing on the phone, and while you wanted to toss it into the nearest trash can, you knew he would only call in an emergency.

“Hi Sam,” you whispered, your voice shakier than you realized.

His voice crackled through the phone, the connection not the greatest. “Y/N, it’s been a while.”

“Yeah, it has,” you agreed. You had missed him. You had once considered him your closest friend. But after your disaster with his brother, well….

“Listen, I’d love to catch up, but we have quite the problem going on here,” he yelled through the phone. You could hear gunfire and yelling in the background, immediately putting your rusty hunter senses on high alert. “How fast can you get to Indiana?”

“That’s five or so hours away,” you measured in your head. “But Sam, I haven’t gone on a hunt in..well...since you know.”

Sam forgot about the phone call for a moment as he yelled in the background, the gunfire even closer. “Listen, I wouldn’t have called you if this wasn’t an all hands on deck kinda deal. So please. Get your guns and get your ass over here. Pronto.”

He hung up, and you stared down at the phone in dismay. “Hey honey, is everything okay?” Tyler called from the doorway, and you glanced up at your boyfriend, hoping your poker face was in place. “Is everything okay? Who were you talking to?”

“Just an old friend,” you answered, knowing that Tyler wouldn’t be able to handle any aspect of your old life. “Wanted to do a little get together tomorrow.”

Tyler strode forward, pulling you into his arms. It was comforting and safe, but nowhere near as exciting as...you refused to even think it. “Honey, I think you should go!” He exclaimed. “After all, I’m heading down to Vegas for the weekend with the boys. I was worried about you being here all alone, and now I won’t have to worry.”

He pressed a sweet kiss to your cheek before taking his duffle bag from the floor. “Let me know when you get there. K?”

You nodded, watching silently as he left the room, knowing that while your heart wanted you to stay here, where it was safe, you couldn’t leave Sam in Danger. Or Dean.

Even thinking his name was enough to send a pain straight through your heart, and you wondered how you would ever get through the next few days.

Everything was as you had left it. Gathering a fine layer of dust, but the guns were still in good shape. Your ammo was a little low, but that could easily be fixed. You took the entire toolbox, the heavy weight welcome in your arms as you pushed it into the back of your classic old pickup. “Ready to ride again girl?” You asked the classic 1970 Ford, patting her tailgate fondly. You had painstakingly fixed her back up until she looked and ran better than ever before. Tyler had thought it odd but had never said anything.

With one last glance back at your normal life, you climbed into your truck, pulling out of the driveway and turning it to the highway that led straight to your past.

With the radio quietly playing country music, you thought back to the last time you had seen Sam and Dean. It had been horrible, parting with anger and frustration. Tears had filled your vision as you had driven away, not only from the man that still held your heart, but away from the only life you had ever known.

But you had been given no choice. Dean had taken your heart, ripped it in shreds, without even realizing he was doing it. Later you had heard it was the Mark that had caused it, but you had been too scared to turn back.

You noticed the black Impala immediately as you pulled into the only hotel in the tiny town. It was dusty, but otherwise just exactly as you had remembered it. All the times spent in the passenger seat, listening as Dean sang along to the music. The other times in the backseat with his body covering yours.

The thoughts swirling through your mind were quickly becoming melancholy, and you forced them away, parking beside the car. “It’s just a car,” you whispered to yourself, but you still wondered how many women Dean had laid down in that back seat since you’ve been gone.

“Y/N!” Sam exclaimed as he pushed open the door to room 112. “I’m so glad you decided to come.”

“Didn’t seem like I had much of a choice,” you muttered. “But you look okay.”

“Barely made it out of there,” he muttered. “And tomorrow we try again.”

He took your duffel bag, tossing it over his shoulder. “It’s a mess in there. Demons everywhere. They ambushed us, and we almost...if it wasn’t for Cas.”

He shook his head. “But we can talk business later. I already booked you a room. It’s right next to ours. Hope that’s okay.”

You placed your hand on his arm, stopping him. “Sam, does..does he know that I’m here?”

He sighed. “Yeah, he does. I figured I’d give you two some privacy later if you want it.”

You weren’t sure if that’s what you wanted. Sure, it would help to clear the air, but you weren’t exactly ready for a confrontation. “Sam, I..,”

“Sam! Get in here!” Dean’s voice yelled through the thin walls, and you shuddered back slightly in fear, all sorts of emotions rocking your system.

“Y/N, that was years ago,” Sam offered. “He’s changed. Just give him a chance.”

He gave you his goofy, sideways smile, not realizing that you had already moved on. At least your head had, even if your heart hadn’t. Sam took your hand, pulling you into the room where Dean was sitting at the table, his head lowered as he glared at the laptop in front of him.

Your mouth went dry at the sight of him. His hair was wet and unstyled, slightly longer than you remembered. His shoulders were just as wide as you remembered, encased in a simple maroon flannel. A black t-shirt stretched across his chest, his strong thighs encased in roughed up denim. He looked good, even with the nasty gash above his eye. “Hey Dean,” you spoke softly, wincing as he glared up at you.

“Sam said he called you,” his voice rolled, even deeper than you remembered. But still cold. Oh so cold. And it hurt. “You didn’t need to come.”

“Dean, we talked about this,” Sam sighed. “Those Demons have us outnumbered. At least this way we have a fighting chance.”

Dean closed the laptop sharply. “A fighting chance? One more person against all those Demons? How is that going to help?”

“I can go,” you offered.

He ran his fingers through his hair, completely agitated.  “No. Don’t go. I’m just...we do need your help.”

You sat down across from him, offering him a small smile even though you were shaking inside. Sam took that opportunity to sneak out the door, yelling over his shoulder that he was going for dinner. “Guess it’s just you and I,” Dean mumbled.

Sitting there quietly, you stared at Dean who seemed to look anywhere but at you. And while you didn’t want to do it, you knew the air needed to be cleaned before you finished off the hunt. “Listen, Dean, we need to talk about this.”

“Talk about what? There’s nothing to talk about!” He exclaimed, pushing back from the table, pacing the small hotel room. “I was an Ass, you left like you should have. You’re here to kill some Demons, that’s it.”

“That’s not it,” you answered softly, just the memory of it enough to bring tears to your eyes. “Dean, if we don’t talk about it, then…,”

Dean sighed, tucking his hands in his jeans. “Y/N, I wanted to call you. Every day, for over a year, I typed in your number but hung up because I was too chicken. How could I call you and expect you to understand? To forgive me?”

“I wish you had,” you whispered. “After I left, I was so lost, so heartbroken. I wanted to turn around, head back, but I thought everything was too broken. I was too broken.”

“Damn it Y/N, I never meant to hurt you. You should know that. I hate to blame it on the Mark, but it changed me. In ways I never imagined.”

“Dean, it wasn’t just me,” you finally admitted. You had never spoken the words out loud. Never told anyone. You had taken the loss and buried it deep inside.

“What do you mean?” He asked, stopping in front of you.

“When we had that argument, I don’t know how much you remember.”

“I remember every little moment of that day. They haunt me in my nightmares. Every word, every time my hand connected with your skin. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forget that.”

Your mouth opened, the words ready to be heard for the first time, but Sam burst through the door, the forgotten dinner bags squished in his hands. He froze, glancing between you and Dean.

“What?” Dean growled, annoyed that your intimate conversation had been interrupted.

“I saw you staring at each other, I just wasn’t sure if it was sexual tension or murderous rage,” Sam muttered. And if you hadn’t just been ready to bare your soul, you would have laughed.

“Neither, Sam,” you assured him, but the moment between you and Dean was gone. Maybe forever.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, but we’ve got to move. Now!” He exclaimed, tossing the food on the table. “The Demons are getting ready to move.”

“Damn it,” Dean grumbled. “Let’s go.”

Sam filled you in as you climbed into the backseat of the Impala. “Missed you girl,” you whispered, patting her leather seats fondly. Dean glanced at you through the rearview mirror, his expression full of regret. “So these Demons have Jack.”

“Who’s Jack?” You asked, hearing the fondness as Sam said his name. Making you realize how much you’ve missed these last few years.

Sam tried to smile, but it faltered. “He’s like a son to us. But in reality, he’s the son of Lucifer.”

“What?” The word came out louder than you wanted, but what Sam had just said, it shocked you more than you cared to admit.

“I know what it sounds like,” Sam spoke quickly. “But he’s nothing like his Dad. Cas is more like his Dad than anyone. We’ve known him since the day he was born, and he’s a good kid. Needs guidance, but he’s...uh..he’s getting there.”

“So how old is he?” You asked as Dean rounded the corner, parking in a dark alley.

“Typical human age doesn’t work for Jack,” Cas said as he appeared on the seat beside you. “Y/N, it’s good to see you again.”

“Cas!” You threw your arms around his shoulders, giving the Angel a tight hug. He returned it awkwardly, before turning his attention to Sam and Dean. “I’ve been surveying the place. With Y/N’s help, we should be able to infiltrate in and save Jack.”

“What’s the plan Cas?” Dean asked as you all climbed out of the car.

“I believe Sam and I should head through the south side. There only seems to be only three Demons on that side. You and Y/N shall head through on the North Side. There are more Demons there, but if you keep them occupied, Sam and I can retrieve Jack.”

“I think we can handle that,” Dean didn’t even look your way as he made sure he had all of his weapons ready and loaded. You had the Angel Blade that Cas had given you years ago, along with a couple of Devil’s trap bullets. You were as ready as you could be.

Sam and Cas took off, rounding the corner, while you and Dean stayed to the front. Shadowed by the brick wall, Dean pulled you to the side. “Y/N, I know we ended that conversation on a cliffhanger. But you’re good for this hunt, right? How long has it been since your last hunt?”

“Five years,” you whispered. “But I will be fine.”

“Five years!” He seemed completely taken back. “But that’s when…, you mean you haven’t hunted since then?”

“No. But we need to go,” you insisted, pushing past him and rounding the corner. The house stood in front of you, dark and foreboding. Sam and Cas were just rounding the back. Pushing ahead of Dean, you led the way to the front. He wouldn’t believe your words, so you would just show him that you were still capable of hunting.

And then, maybe you could go home. Back to your normal life. With your normal boyfriend. Who, you had to admit, never created the same butterfly effect that Dean always did to you. But at least it was safe.

“Damn it Y/N, slow down,” Dean growled low as he came rushing up beside you. “Do you want to mess this whole thing up?”

You opened your mouth to reply, but the door swung open, and the fight quickly began. Three Demons greeted you at the door, no doubt ready and waiting for your arrival. They swung knives and blades, but weirdly enough didn’t use their powers. Stabbing on through the heart, you turned to see Dean grappling with two big and surly men. However, as you headed over to help, two more came down the stairs, and you were once again fighting for your life.

You were quickly overwhelmed, one holding you roughly by the shoulders, the other one laughing as he swirled the blade around his fingers. “Is this all you brought with you, Winchester? A slight girl, her fighting stale. We expected more of a fight.”

Dean had just killed one Demon, and with a growl, he stabbed the other before facing the ones holding you with murderous rage. “Let her go now!”

“Or you’ll what?” He chuckled. “You take one step towards me and I’ll have this blade so deep in her skin before you could even blink.”

You struggled against the Demon’s tight hold, your breaths short. Dean’s gaze caught yours, full of anguish and fear. His words earlier rang in your mind. You had come into this so unprepared. This was all your fault. “No. I will not let you control this,” You muttered, dropping all of your weight. Surprising the Demon, he let you fall, and it gave Dean a chance to stab the first one. As you started to stand up, the other Demon gasped in surprise, his eyes burning yellow before he slumped to the floor.

“Is everyone alright?” Cas asked, wiping his hand on his trench coat. Behind him stood a young man, a little bloody, his right eye swollen but otherwise unharmed.

“Yep. We’re good,” You answered, ignoring Dean as Cas helped you to stand up. “This must be Jack.”

“You’re...you’re Y/N,” he spoke, coming forward, his gaze almost too much with its intensity. You wanted to look away, but you were caught up in it as well. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

“Nice to meet you, Jack,” You whispered before Dean was gently grabbing you by the shoulders.

“Let’s go before any more of these black-eyed sons of bitches come back,” he insisted and led the way out the front door. Cas and Jack were not far behind you, Sam shutting the door and taking up the rear.

Once you were safely inside the Impala, you found yourself sitting next to Jack. Sam and Dean were talking softly in the front seat while Cas smiled happily as he stared at Jack. Jack’s attention was on you though. “I am glad to finally meet you,” he offered, reaching for your hand. You thought he was going to shake it, but he simply held it, his eyes widening. “Jack?” Cas noticed the strange look in his face as well.

Suddenly Jack let go of your hand. “I’ve never felt such heartbreak before,” he muttered. “Y/N, how do you keep going with all that pain in your heart? I felt pain and sadness directed at Dean. But there was something else.”

You could feel Dean’s gaze on you through the rearview mirror, and you tried to stop Jack before he said too much. But you were too late. “I’m so sorry for your loss. A miscarriage was it?”

Dean slammed on the brakes, parking in front of his motel room. “Everyone out! Now!”

You started to climb out of the car as well, but one look from Dean had you staying where you were. Sam was the first one out, smiling reassuringly to you before he disappeared with Cas and Jack into the room, leaving you alone with Dean. Alone with the big news that Jack suddenly decided to let everyone know about.

“I didn’t realize he could read people like that,” you started talking as Dean turned in his seat to face you, your hands tugging on the loose thread of your shirt. You were nervous and unready to have this conversation.

“He has a lot of powers that even he doesn’t know about,” Dean explained. “But what he said. Was it true?”

You thought back to that horrible day. You had barely left the bunker when the pain hit. Cramps that had doubled you over, making you swerve your car. You had been alone and scared in the hospital when you had lost an important part of your life. “Yes. It was.”

He ran a hand along his chin, a sure sign that he was upset and unsure. “Dean, during that fight. When..well..something happened. I didn’t blame you for that. After all, I hadn't’ even told you the news yet. I wanted to wait until things were back to normal. Our normal. To tell you that I was...pregnant. But then…,”

“We fought, and it was because of me you lost the baby,” he whispered. “Y/N, I’m so freaking sorry.”

The tears were falling down your face before you even realized you were crying. “It’s nice. Finally being able to tell someone. I’ve kept it buried inside for so long. Dean, please know this. I’ve never blamed you. You had the Mark, it changed you. You didn’t know.”

“That doesn’t excuse it!” He bellowed. “Y/N, I ruined your life, and mine with that freaking mark! I just wish that..,”

“Please don’t,” you spoke softly, wiping away the tears. “Can we just forget any of this ever happened? You can go back to hunting with your brother and his friends. I can go back to my normal life and…,”

“What’s his name?” Dean asked.

“Tyler. We’ve been dating for over a year now.”

He sighed, his shoulders slumping in defeat. “Is that what you really want? To air all of this out and then run away..to Tyler and whatever normal life you’ve made for yourself? Because I don’t know about you, but I still love you Y/N.”

“I love you too,” you admitted. “But sometimes love isn’t enough to push past all the pain.”

You reached forward, brushing your knuckles against his cheek before you slid out of the car. Dean only watched as you climbed into your truck. Tears streamed down your face as you started to pull away.

“Is this the right thing?” You cried as you pulled onto the highway. Sniffling back tears, you tried to look forward. Back to your simple job, and the fact that you and Tyler were thinking of taking a vacation next month. But all you could see was your memories of Dean.

Dean, with his cheeky smile who had captured your heart the moment you saw him in Harvelle’s bar. Dean, who would wake you up in the middle of the night to take you to some empty field to look at the stars. The man who had always kept his promise to come back to you. And yet here you were, running away.

Slamming on the brakes, you flipped the truck around, knowing you couldn’t do it. You couldn’t run from Dean again. You turned your truck into the parking lot, your tires squealing at the speed. Dean was just getting out of the Impala, walking towards the hotel room.

Turning the engine off, you jumped out. “Dean!” You screamed. “Dean, wait!”

He turned but made no move. Smiling, you raced forward, throwing your arms around him. “I can’t lose you again.”

“But what about Tyler? And that normal life?” He asked, but you could see the hope shining in his eyes.

“It was never meant for me,” you assured him, and with those words, his mouth crashed against yours, and everything was right with the world once again.

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[imma-lil-teapot]

TMNT 2003/2K3 Headcanon: Crying - (Raphael)

Feel free to scroll past this first part if you’re not interested in my silly rambling and nonsense. I won’t mind. Promise. ;)

Alrighty then, lockdown has officially started here. :/ *Unenthusiastic streamers fly* Oh well, look what we have all the time in the world for: WRITING! *Enthusiastic streamers fly* Not too much extra to add in this regard since the last headcanon (thanks a bunch for the likes btw, guys :D ), so I guess we’ll just get right into it. :)

Please bear in mind that I’m SUPER rusty! Haven’t written in ages so there are bound to be typos and all matter of general errors scattered throughout the post. Don’t pet them! They bite!  

Anyhoo~ Despite attempting to create and share with the goal in mind to uplift spirits, I decided to start on a rather upsetting subject (PLEASE DON’T LEAVE! They end on happy notes ;) ) because, Imma just come and say it, I enjoy seeing my favourite characters shed tears (not for just any old reason -their personality plays a huge role in this- and CERTAINLY not for sadistic reasons, land sakes no! But… well, you’ll see~ ;) ) It makes me all gooey and fuzzy inside to see them display such raw emotion and I just wanna leap into the TV screen to hug and console them. I dunno why. Maybe I’m nuts like that. (Remembers Raph crying at the farm when Leo was badly injured and wishes she could just hug them all and take away the pain) Oh well, if you enjoy visualizing the same, then *High Fives*. :)

So yeah, if you read the title, you’ll know this is based on the 2003/2k3 series (my favs). Hope you all enjoy~ :D Grab tissues cause sad turts ahead! :’(

Jibber jabber stops here~

TURTLES~

LEONARDO

RAPHAEL - You are here

DONATELLO - Coming soon

MICHELANGELO - Coming soon

WARNING(S): Because of the subject, Angst and Hurt/Comfort will be present.

RATING: G (General)

WORD COUNT: Uhhh... *Shrugs shoulders*

ANYTHING ELSE TO ADD:

Well, you’re just gonna have to scroll down to find him, Master Splinter. ;) I really didn’t know what to add so... *Shrugs* And look at da squishy Turtle Tots, dey so cuuuuute!!! <3 

TO THE HEADCANONS~~~~

~RAPHAEL~

– With his infamous hotheadedness and quick capacity for battle, it’s of course natural at first for one to expect Big Bad Raphie-Boy to be completely opposed to the very thought of crying. He is the resident ‘tough guy’ after all.  

– However, this notion couldn’t be farther from the truth: sure, he can be brash, quick to temper and lash out at those that give him enough incentive to, but underneath that rockhard exterior beats the heart of a real softie, and when something truly upsets that tender muscle, you can bet Mr. Hothead’s not going to try too hard to keep the tears at bay. 

– He’s as passionate as he is headstrong, and reining in such powerful emotions proves to be difficult at most times for him, so out of the four of them, and given the right circumstances, Raph can be surprisingly easy to get the tears flowing.

-- He’s no crybaby by a long shot, mind you, but he also knows that holding back on the waterworks is pointless and makes one just feel worse in the long run. If you’re going to cry, just cry. Simple as that. 

-- Like all of his brothers, Red can’t handle the thought of losing any of his family and close friends. It tears him apart inside and he’ll desperately attempt to protect and prevent anything terrible from happening to them, but when it does, he’s an emotional wreck and doesn’t always know how to handle his distress.  

– His initial reaction is to be by their sides before becoming outraged, and depending on the different situations, it’s not uncommon for him to also nag and pass remarks at the injured brother(s). It’s the only real way of expressing his fear of losing them before dampness starts forming in his eyes.

– Despite his tough guy front, he’s not against crying in front of his family and friends at all. He knows his place and doubts a few tears will have them seeing  him in a different light, particularly his father/master and brothers for they’ve seen the worst in him on many occasions. 

– It’s only when a particularly harsh meltdown wishes to happen does Raph choose to spare them the sideshow; he knows it’s not a pretty sight, so before the sniffling begins, he leaves the Lair and heads topside for some much needed air.

– He chooses the nearby rooftops as his destination; the ideal location to let go of the ever building waves of raw emotion that continue to grip at his chest, and by the time he makes it up the fire escape ladder, he spares little time letting out a rough growl in frustration, kicking an air vent a couple of times for good measure.

 -- With some rage and frustration now out of his system, he heads on over to the brick wall and turns his back to it, roughly sliding down into a sitting position and exhales a dismal sigh. As he subconsciously replays the earlier events through his mind, he finally allows the next phase of his sorrow to surface unbridled. 

-- He dolefully holds his head in one hand and balances it on a single knee pad as the tears now begin to flow freely.

– They instantly soak into his mask, and he grits his teeth as he feels the surges of emotion wrack his entire body. He doesn’t characteristically whimper or sob when crying, but he coughs a lot, and his nostrils leak like a faucet, forcing him to frequently sniff and snort just in order to breathe. This is the very reason why he refuses to really break down in front of the the others; not because of his tenacity, but because he simply finds the whole affair gross. His family certainly didn’t need to hear him constantly hacking up a lung and sounding like an untuned trumpet every time he blew his nose.

– The episode doesn’t last too long, though, much to his delight, and after some more thorough nasal clearing, Raph then wipes at his still somewhat wet eyes and mask before drawing out another -now exhausted- sigh. 

-- He’d begin gradually twirling a single sai around whilst he collected his thoughts. It felt more natural to keep his hands busy than have them being static when he was feeling this way. As his demeanor altered, so did the actions he performed with it.  

– He wouldn’t return to his family just yet for there was still some brooding left to be done... At least that was what he’d convinced himself he was doing. He wanted a clear head when he returned so for now, he’d remain in place on the rooftop in the crisp air with the city bursting with life just below him. 

-- He had to admit, it was certainly the best place for him to be with his thoughts. Comforting in fact. A true New Yorker at heart.

BONUS EXTRA~

– Aside from having everyone special to him perish, one of Raph’s greatest fears is his inability to fully control his own temper. On more than one occasion has it gotten out of hand and thus resulted in him injuring his own brothers, and it had shaken him to the core each time. 

– He’s come to the realization that he is his own worst enemy when it comes to reigning in his own inner rage, and it uneases him immensely that it could happen again and he’s fully aware that the probability is higher than he cares to admit. The more he concerns himself with it, the more it upsets him and thus, the tears of frustration start. 

– Fortunately, his bros are there for him and can tell when he’s feeling low about it. They know the best course of action is to have a light-hearted conversation about it with him and offer their reassurances... With Mikey of course adding his own two cents on the matter in his unique Mikey style, which usually involves poking fun at his brother in red and causing Raph to go from broody to enraged in record breaking time. Just how it should be.

– Not only is Raph A-okay with crying himself, but he’s often first on the emotional support committee to offer the shoulder of comfort to his friends, amazingly enough, and he’s actually pretty decent at it too. Though, not for absolutely everyone; he has his limitations when he knows someone’s really just blubbering for attention.

– He wasn’t always so accepting of shedding tears, though: as a very young Turtle Tot, he often thought of it as being too ‘babyish’ for him to do and thus despised it whenever something happened to cause him to tear up. 

– It took Master Splinter a rather surprisingly lengthy amount of time to change his perception of crying. No amount of explanations on how it was a perfectly natural expression of emotion would sway his son. 

– It got so out of hand that Raph would be in utter denial about crying right in front of his father, even while the latter would be staring at his tear-stained face directly in front of him. “M‘not cryin’,” the little Turtle would sniff. “Cryin’s fah sissies.” 

-- Splinter could only sigh and shake his head as he knelt down to embrace his son. When could he feel that Raphael would not fight the closeness, he’d give him the same lecture again, and Raph would finally succumb to his emotions and sob into his father’s robe whilst Splinter comfortingly rubbed his shell.

-- He could only guess that his words finally got through to his son for ever since that day, Raph’s entire attitude had altered for the better on the subject.

BONUS EXTRA EXTRA FEMALE READER OR S/O EDITION~ (Can also use an OC/FC insert if you wish, up to you)

From the moment you entered the Lair, you could clearly see something was up; Mikey was nursing an obvious wrist injury with a bag of frozen peas and hovering around Donny’s work area, complaining about the swelling to the purple-banded Turtle, who appeared to be paying little attention towards his ‘younger’ sibling as his back was turned.

"Hi, (Y/N).” 

You visibly jumped at the voice behind you and briskly turned, only to meet Leonardo’s placid form, and he swiftly apologized for the start. 

After the formal greeting, you gestured with a thumb in confusion at the former scene with an added, “Do I want to know?”

The leader’s facial features altered to a more serious aspect. “The end result of testing Raph’s patience,” he offered, which instantly had you more than a little concerned. Sure, Mikey could come off as being annoying, but to go so far as to physically harm him? 

“Are you sure it’s not worse than ‘just a sprain’?” You overheard the injured brother asking Donny, whose focus remained on a contraption of sorts you couldn’t quite make out on his desk.

“Yes, Mikey, you’ll live,” he responded with just a hint of weariness. “But no swinging your nunchucks around for a coupla days,” which was met with a typical whine in response from his patient. 

“It’s really not as bad as he makes it out to be,” Leo then added, turning your attention back towards him. Though you didn’t express it, you were grateful to hear the good news.

"Where is he now?” 

“Topside most likely.” Of course. It didn’t surprise you in the least that Raph had chosen to head there and you quickly set a course for the surface. “Need an escort?” The leader in blue offered, to which you politely declined. You knew he needed no further explanation. 

As you pushed back the manhole cover and made your way towards the nearest fire escape ladder, you were unable to put aside the various speculations as to why your special Turtle would hurt his own brother... Well, you would be kidding yourself to say you didn’t have at least one very plausible theory in mind, but as you neared the top of the ladder, the guesswork was instantly dropped and replaced with trepidation for you knew how Raph felt about injuring family. 

To put it simply, you were going to be dealing with a very dejected Turtle, and true to form, as you peered over the top of the building, the iconic emerald green hide and red mask tails met your sight. 

This was Raph’s favorite spot to gather his thoughts after all, so it was a no-brainer decision to begin the search there, and it was clear as day that it was exactly what he was doing for he made no effort to acknowledge your presence as he remained seated against the wall in a slouching position and gaze locked out front. 

As expected, he appeared to be moping. “Hey, Raphie,” you greeted, clambering over the wall. 

You were unable to tell if he had been aware you were nearby for he made no prior indication but instead merely replied with a gloomy, “’Sup, Kiddo?” No movement whatsoever. 

It amused you whenever he chose to refer to you by that nickname, especially since you were both the same age, but as you ambled on over towards him, you were left anything but amused as your former notion was set in stone when you caught the telltale signs of wet stains under his eyes. “You okay?”

“Peachy.”

It wasn’t the first time you had witnessed ‘ol Red crying, but it didn’t prevent your heart from breaking all the same. Something about seeing the bullheaded bad boy in tears left you in a real state of dismay, so without invitation, you seated yourself next him, affectionately leaning against his side, but before the consoling could begin, you had to gently ask, “You wanna tell me what happened?”

“Ugh, it was so stupid! Mikey wouldn’t quit goin’ on n’ on about beatin’ me in the Battle Nexus tournament and kept rubbin’ it in our faces about becomin’ the champ,” he exclaimed with shockingly little provocation, sniffing loudly. “I jus’ got so sick’ve it this time, an’ it’s not like we neva duked it out before or nothin’ but... I went too far this time, (Y/N), ya know?” 

He still refused to look at you as he began to wipe away some fresh tears that were forming in his eyes.

Your assumption had been correct all along; you acknowledged full well how Mikey’s triumphant achievement grated on Raph’s last nerve and how the orange-banded Turtle would seek out every opportunity to gloat about it in a bid to purposely provoke his ‘older’ brother. “Well, you know Mikey, Raph,” you said, not quite sympathizing with the actions he took, but rather offering some support. “He tries to get under your shell on purpose.”

"Yeah, I know, but... Dat’s no reason ta clobber the guy. Not like that, anyway” You noted how his voice gradually lowered grievously and you couldn’t stop yourself from placing your head on his shoulder. 

“No, it isn’t, but...” you knew you were grasping at straws by this point, but still offered, “They say it’s not as bad as he makes it out to be.”

He sighed dolefully. “I lost control again, (Y/N),” and you could feel the vibrations beginning to surge through him. “No matta what I do, I jus’... I jus’ can’t...” He trailed off, wracked with emotions as he covered his face with one hand and allowed the tears to fall, a cough slipping here and there.

You heart bled for this boy, and more than anything right then, you longed to relieve him of the pain, so you did the only thing you could think of: be right there by his side, comforting him through the breakdown. “Oh, Raph. It’ll be okay,” you calmly whispered, slinking an arm around his carapace and shoulders, bringing him closer and lightly squeezing his bicep with your free hand. “It’ll be okay.”

He leaned into the much needed support and continued to allow his misery to flow forth. You didn’t mind in the least for it was exactly what he required in order to heal, and you would be there for him every step of the way.

AND THAT’S A WRAP!

ALL THE FEELS!! I EMBARRASS!!

WOOT, that’s Turt number two completed! Sorry it took a little longer than expected; I still feel rusty with sentence structure and all and am not entirely pleased with the outcome, but I did feel an improved ‘flow’ from the first so maybe things are slowly coming back to me? Or maybe it was the scenario; it felt more natural o write than Leo’s... Maybe cause Bloo Boi’s my fav Turt and I felt added pressure with his?

Oh well, Donny Boy’s next~

Thank you all so much for the read and hope you enjoyed~ :D

~Drag0n Mistr3ss’ Random Fandoms*

[autolovecraft]

You kicked hard, for Asaph's coffin was on the floor.

He would not, he found, have to pile another on his platform to make the proper height; for the hole was on exactly the right level to use as soon as its size might permit. As his hammer blows began to fall, the horse outside whinnied in a tone which may have been encouraging and to others may have been mocking. Would the firm Fenner casket have caved in so readily? At any rate he kicked and squirmed frantically and automatically whilst his consciousness was almost eclipsed in a half-swoon.

Never did he knock together flimsier and ungainlier caskets, or disregard more flagrantly the needs of the rusty lock on the tomb door which he slammed open and shut with such nonchalant abandon. He was the devil incarnate, Birch, and I believe his eye-for-an-eye fury could beat old Father Death himself. He was a scoundrel, and I believe his eye-for-an-eye fury could beat old Father Death himself. To him Birch had felt no compunction in assigning the carelessly made coffin which he now pushed out of the enlarged transom; but he could do better with four. Great heavens, Birch, but you knew what a little man old Fenner was. It may have been mocking.

Most distinctly Birch was lax, insensitive, and was concerned only in getting the right coffin for the right grave. As he remounted the splitting coffins he felt his weight very poignantly; especially when, upon reaching the topmost one, he heard that aggravated crackle which bespeaks the wholesale rending of wood. When Dr. Davis left, urging Birch to insist at all times that his wounds were caused entirely by loose nails and splintering wood.

He was a bachelor, wholly without relatives. He would have given much for a lantern or bit of candle; but lacking these, bungled semi-sightlessly as best he might. He was the devil incarnate, Birch, but you got what you deserved. Over the door, however, no pursuer; for he was alone and alive when Armington, the lodge-keeper, answered his feeble clawing at the door. After a full two hours Dr. Davis left, urging Birch to insist at all times that his wounds were caused entirely by loose nails and splintering wood. He always remained lame, for the great tendons had been severed; but I think the greatest lameness was in his soul. He had, indeed, made that coffin for Matthew Fenner; but had cast it aside at last as too awkward and flimsy, in a fit of curious sentimentality aroused by recalling how kindly and generous the little old man had been to him during his bankruptcy five years before. In another moment he knew fear for the first time that night; for struggle as he would, he could not shake clear of the unknown grasp which held his feet in relentless captivity. He could not walk, it appeared, and the latch of the great door yielded readily to a touch from the outside. The boxes were fairly even, and could be piled up like blocks; so he began to compute how he might most stably use the eight to rear a scalable platform four deep.

He was the devil incarnate, Birch, and I don't blame you for giving him a cast-aside coffin, but you got what you deserved. I've seen sights before, but there was one thing too much here.

Would the firm Fenner casket have caved in so readily? Birch glanced about for other possible points of escape. In the semi-gloom he trusted mostly to touch to select the right one, and indeed came upon it almost by accident, since it tumbled into his hands as if through some odd volition after he had unwittingly placed it beside another on the third layer. The skull turned my stomach, but the other was worse—those ankles cut neatly off to fit Matt Fenner's cast-aside coffin, but you always did go too damned far! Horrible pains, as of savage wounds, shot through his calves; and in his mind was a vortex of fright mixed with an unquenchable materialism that suggested splinters, loose nails, or some other attribute of a breaking wooden box. Three coffin-heights, he reckoned, would permit him to reach the transom; but he could do better with four. Birch? The undertaker grew doubly lethargic in the bitter weather, and seemed to outdo even himself in carelessness. He changed his business, but something always preyed upon him.

This arrangement could be ascended with a minimum of awkwardness, and would furnish the desired height.

He gave old Matt the very best his skill could produce, but was thrifty enough to save the rejected specimen, and to use it when Asaph Sawyer died of a malignant fever. Then he fled back to the lodge and broke all the rules of his calling by rousing and shaking his patient, and hurling at him a year ago last August … He was the devil incarnate, Birch, and I don't blame you for giving him a cast-aside coffin! That was Darius Peck, the nonagenarian, whose grave was not far from the tomb.

Then the doctor came with his medicine-case and asked crisp questions, and removed the patient's outer clothing, shoes, and socks. His thinking processes, once so phlegmatic and logical, had become ineffaceably scarred; and it was pitiful to note his response to certain chance allusions such as Friday, Tomb, Coffin, and words of less obvious concatenation. There was evidently, however, the high, slit-like transom in the brick facade gave promise of possible enlargement to a diligent worker; hence upon this his eyes long rested as he racked his brains for means to reach it. He was the devil incarnate, Birch, and I don't blame you for giving him a cast-aside coffin, but you knew what a little man old Fenner was.

Several of the coffins began to split under the stress of handling, and he planned to save the rejected specimen, and to let no other doctor treat the wounds. The pile of tools soon reached, and a little later gave a gasp that was more terrible than a cry. He was oddly anxious to know if Birch were sure—absolutely sure—of the identity of that top coffin of the pile; how he had distinguished it from the inferior duplicate coffin of vicious Asaph Sawyer. That he was not perfectly sober, he subsequently admitted; though he had not then taken to the wholesale drinking by which he later tried to forget certain things. Certainly, the events of that evening greatly changed George Birch. In this funereal twilight he rattled the rusty handles, pushed at the iron panels, and wondered why the massive portal had grown so suddenly recalcitrant. Undisturbed by oppressive reflections on the time, the place, and the emerging moon must have witnessed a horrible sight as he dragged his bleeding ankles toward the cemetery lodge; his fingers clawing the black mold in brainless haste, and his aching arms rested by a pause during which he sat on the bottom box to gather strength for the final wriggle and leap to the ground outside. The afflicted man was fully conscious, but would say nothing of any consequence; merely muttering such things as Oh, my ankles! His thinking processes, once so phlegmatic and logical, had become ineffaceably scarred; and it was pitiful to note his response to certain chance allusions such as Friday, Tomb, Coffin, and words of less obvious concatenation. Neither did his old physician Dr. Davis, who died years ago. Birch had felt no compunction in assigning the carelessly made coffin which he now pushed out of the way in his quest for the Fenner casket. The day was clear, but a high wind had sprung up; and Birch was glad to get to shelter as he unlocked the iron door and entered the side-hill vault.

He could not walk, it appeared, and the coffin niches on the sides and rear—which Birch seldom took the trouble to use—afforded no ascent to the space above the door. When Dr. Davis left, urging Birch to insist at all times that his wounds were caused entirely by loose nails and splintering wood.

Fortunately the village was small and the death rate low, so that it was possible to give all of Birch's inanimate charges a temporary haven in the single antiquated receiving tomb.

Dusk fell and found Birch still toiling.

He cried aloud once, and a hammer and chisel selected, Birch returned over the coffins to the door.

Only the coffins themselves remained as potential stepping-stones, and as he considered these he speculated on the best mode of transporting them. His head was broken in, and everything was tumbled about. Davis left, urging Birch to insist at all times that his wounds were caused entirely by loose nails and splintering wood. An eye for an eye! He always remained lame, for the great tendons had been severed; but I think the greatest lameness was in his soul. He had, indeed, made that coffin for Matthew Fenner; but had cast it aside at last as too awkward and flimsy, in a fit of curious sentimentality aroused by recalling how kindly and generous the little old man had been to him during his bankruptcy five years before.

Maddened by the sound, or by the stench which billowed forth even to the open air, the waiting horse gave a scream that was too frantic for a neigh, and plunged madly off through the night, the wagon rattling crazily behind it.

Over the door, however, no pursuer; for he was alone and alive when Armington, the lodge-keeper, answered his feeble clawing at the door. His frightened horse had gone home, but his frightened wits never quite did that.

[shimzus-a]

HEADCANON : FEARS.

i’ll go into each of kiyoko’s fears ( or concerns, considering she doesn’t have very STRONG fears ) one at a time, starting with some of the least significant & working my way into the more severe.

she’s afraid of rusty nails. it’s an unusual fear, & not one that’s very well-founded considering she doesn’t do a lot of construction herself ... but she was told that her late grandfather had done carpentry / wood crafts before & accidentally hurt his foot on a nail because of carelessness. the injury became infected & he was in a lot of pain until he could have it looked over by a doctor. though she never saw it herself, kiyoko is now generally wary about any sort of carpentry craft & probably wouldn’t ever try to fix any sort of wood craft herself.

she’s also wary of public speaking ( clearly ), though this is something i believe she’s able to overcome slightly when she matures more & learns to find confidence in her voice.

one of her medium fears is burning herself by accident. because her family owns a tea house & kiyoko has slowly but surely been studying tea ceremonies under the guidance of her grandmother, she has to deal with hot kettles & open fires sometimes. when she was younger, in middle school ( ? ), she accidentally burnt herself on the ro ( sunken kettle ) while practicing. she has a lingering scar on her right hand, on the fleshy part of her palm that connects to the thumb, but it’s not very noticeable. however, it was a painful burn because it had been on the hand & in a place where it was moved around often as she went about her daily activities. now, she’s extra cautious about serving hot tea from a kettle, especially when she has to wear ceremonial kimono & worries herself with her arm positioning. because tea ceremony kettles are generally kept over an open flame, kiyoko sometimes worries that the flames might lick up too far & reach her kimono sleeve. 

... that fear also extends to campfires that pop & crackle. she prefers to stay farther away from them because of the mild concern that a spark could land on her clothing & catch.

she also generally fears for the sake of her economic safety. her family is decently well-off, but their tea house / shop goes through some difficult times & she dislikes watching her parents work themselves too hard. for the sake of their physical health, she thinks, if their business was a bit more successful then it would be nice. 

her greatest fear is that her family would be unhealthy or physically unwell. it’s already hard for kiyoko to watch her grandmother struggle with arthritis, & she dislikes noticing the small things about her parents’ poor posture & tendency to rub the pain from their necks because they’ve bent over too many times that day. the fact that their business has started struggling only accentuates this fear, though her family is definitely the type to hide their concerns from their children. still, when kiyoko sees hints that her parents are aching & that they’re physically discomforted because of how hard they work, she feels upset.

i think that she probably doesn’t express these fears very clearly, either, since it’s something she’s learned from her family. however, i’m pretty sure that if she were to lose her grandmother, she would really struggle. her grandmother is someone she’s grown close to, although she still maintains some traditional distance to show respect, & when she thinks about their relationship she considers that there’s still a lot she’d like to learn from her grandmother. in some part of her head, kiyoko is aware that she has to watch her grandmother’s condition decline, watching the space that she’d once filled become empty would be extremely hard for her. though kiyoko doesn’t like to think about it consciously, she’s more aware that one of her biggest fears is losing her grandmother soon. 

[decanard-a]

❝ Hey- Hey! ❞ June eagerly calls out in a whisper-yell, 'sneaking' over to where the duckling is held with a bright grin. Placing a hand on the glass in an invitation for him to do the same– although she'd understand if he didn't, from what she had overheard he might be a bit 'moody' —she grins brightly and says, ❝ Hi! My name's June... June Bug Finch, but you can call me June or June Bug or- Well, that's all people really call me. ❞

That she LIKES to be called, anyway.

❝ You're Louie- right? ❞ - (*yeets the GORL*)

When the call first comes, Louie ignores it. No-one has talked to him beyond the mention of when they shove food in the cell through the small opening on the door. So why would that change now? There isn’t even any other prisoners nearby for him to try and start a conversation. 

It was a gesture that he understood. If he had no-one talk to then he couldn’t use his greatest weapon and it might become rusty and Louie feared that it was. He hasn’t spoken aloud in weeks.  But the second ‘Hey’ and someone introducing themselves makes him turn. 

“Webby....” It’s whispered under his breath as soon as he sees her. Because this girl could be her twin and even he might not be able to tell the difference. “June Bug Finch? Is June-Bug your first name?” Not the weirdest one that he’s ever heard but a little unusual. 

“Louie Duck. Yes.”