#★ grime

[griimezz]

You know what sure. I’m gonna start calling myself plural again. I’m gonna start using I& and me& again. Maybe I’ll even start use we/us. I’m not sure I’m quite ready to use the term headmate again yet.

My blog is open to any plurals, endo or not. I’m a psych major so I’ll be looking into this topic more and more as I advance in my major.

If you plan to start discourse, I’m gonna block you. This is me healing. This is what works for me. Radical acceptance of myself and my plurality and other’s plurality as well is what helps me heal.

[beachyma]

need 2 ride carl till he cries 🙏

yes yes yes omg yes 🤭! my sweet boy is so lana del ray coded it's insaneee (also tysm for the req sweetie!)

"Don't s-stop, m' almost there." Carl whines into your shoulder, a small pool of drool forming on his chin. Each rise and fall on his cock collects a puddle of stickiness around the tip. His fingers grip the fat of your hips each time you slid down on him, moaning your name over- and over again. He pleads with quiet whimpers and moans for you to slow down, tears began to swell in his eyes every time you clench around him, your slick walls taking his entire length. His hips buck upwards when you bounce up and down on his thick cock, the filthy sound of skin slapping against each other echos throughout your bedrooms walls. He quietly sobs into the side of your neck, he doesn't know how to you can take him any deeper, your tight pussy always sucks him in so well.

[lunatiqez]

“SHEDBOUND” — Carl Grimes x Reader

Pairing: Carl Grimes x Reader

Genre: Romance

Summary: After get caught up in a herd of walkers, Carl and Y/N find safety in an abandoned shed. Y/N worries out loud, so Carl finds away to shut them up.

Word Count: 0.8k

A/N: I kinda went off the request for this one— readers less optimistic and more worried, oops!!

“Y/N! GO! I’VE GOT YOU COVERED!” CARL shouted at you. He has his rifle in his hands and he’s shooting at the walkers coming towards the two of you. It was cloudy and gray out, it looked as if it was about to rain.

You knew that leaving the Alexandria walls was a bad idea, but your boyfriend convinced you it was okay— or in his words, “we’ll be fine, you just need to live a little!”

If living a little meant being surrounded by a bunch of dead people, you’d be perfectly content being switched out with one of the walkers you were fighting against.

“I’m not leaving you Carl! Let’s get out of here!” You bolted away, Carl dragging behind you still trying to kill some of the stragglers from the group.

Being in a panicked and hurried state, you ran until you saw a shed, opening the door and quickly closing it behind you, relieved that you got away. Then, you realized that you left Carl. You opened the door to go back for him, but as you did you saw him running by. Swiftly, you grabbed his forearm and pulled him into the shed, alarming him— rightfully so.

“Calm down, Carl. It’s me. It’s Y/N,” you reassured him. His back slid against the shed wall as he tried to catch his breath. You cupped his face slightly, silently making sure he was okay.

“Are you bit?” Your voice trembled slightly, afraid of the answer. He shook his head. Another sigh of relief left you.

“Okay! Okay. We’re okay. We’re gonna be okay.” You tried to convince not only him, but yourself as well.

You crawled to the window in the back of the shed, making sure not to make any sudden movements. You peeked out of it slightly and looked around. They were everywhere. Thankfully, they hadn’t seen you or Carl go into the shed, so they were all mindlessly staggering by it.

“I’m sure..” you started, “I’m sure it’s just a herd passing by. They’ll be gone soon.” You told him. He half heartedly smiled in response. You crawled back over to him and sat down next to him.

“Told you it was a bad idea.” You leaned your head on his shoulder.

“Mmmhmm.” He stretched out his words in agreement.

“I wanna hear you say it though.” You smirked at him. He shook his head.

“Not happening.”

“Oh c’mon, you know you want to,” you giggled. “Okay, Y/N, you were right and I was wrong. As always!! I’m a loser and you’re the best.” You said in a voice that could only be you trying your best to sound like him. It didn’t sound like him at all.

“It’s not gonna happen, Y/N!” He finalized the argument. You huffed and took your head off of his shoulder.

“How long do you think this is gonna take?” He shrugged.

Slowly, you got up and went over to the window yet again. You looked out of it and sighed once more, there were still a ton of walkers. One looked back and just about caught a glimpse of you. Before it did, you turned to the corner of the shed so you weren’t visible to the being. You motioned to Carl to be quiet and that the herd was still passing through.

He made a hand movement that signaled you to come over to him, but you shook your head aggressively. You hated the walkers— you always had. You were about 8 or 9 when this whole thing started, and you were still terrorized by them. Although, ever since you met Carl, he was helping you learn that you didn’t have to fear them as much as you did.

He stood up and pulled you towards him, making you gasp. Silently, he held you close. When you felt it was okay to talk again, you did.

“I think we’re okay. Y’know, what if you fell and made a bunch of noise? Or you dropped me?” You asked him.

“Oh my gosh, Y/N. Do you ever shut up?” He chuckled.

“You can’t make me!” You said, acting offended by his rude comment. How could he say such a thing?

“Oh yeah?” He asked you, still holding your body close to his own.

“Yeah! Freedom of speech.” You pointed your nose up in a “matter of fact” manner.

“I don’t think freedom of speech matters anymore, babe.”

“It does! It—“ you were cut off by his lips touching your own. Your eyes widen and then flutter shut comfortably. You kissed him back slowly, not wanting to break away from his contact.

Sure, it wasn’t the most romantic of places to kiss, but you were head over heels for him, so any place could be romantic. He pulled away, making you open your eyes.

“How was that for freedom of speech?” He giggles.

“Shut up, that doesn’t even make sense.” You rolled your eyes.

[dixons-sunshine]

It took me forever to find a transition and it still sucks lmao 🥲. Anyways, here's an edit of Ricky because he's awesome and hot af and I love him so much.

[strgrlxox]

🚬

Can we talk about jealous Rick? 😫💗 him being protective and not liking anyone else hitting on what's his? 🤭💗

i feel like this man was born jealous

he'd never admit it tho

"i'm not jealous...i jus don't like the way they were looking at you like you're not mine."

he's so jealous

especially if u don't notice that the other person was flirting w u

he'd go insanee

will fuck u as soon as u too are alone

sometimes (if he thinks he can get away w it w/o being caught)

he will fuck u in kind of public spaces

like behind a building in alexandria or sum

if it wasn't for carl...

he'd make u scream so loud the whole town could hear

he has almost zero shame

especially not when it comes to people trying to act like they have a chance w u

he's secretly so insecure

worries sometimes that you'll leave him for someone younger or somethingg

but you find certain ways to let him know that that's never going to happen

and you can be pretty damn convincing 🤤 💋

[roseshavethoughts]

El Camino Christmas (2017)

El Camino Christmas (2017) #Review

Synopsis- On Christmas Eve, a young man who meets his father for the first time ends up trapped in an alcohol store with a group of strangers during a robbery. Director- David E. Talbert Starring- Luke Grimes, Tim Allen, Vincent D’Onifrio, Dax Shepard, Kurtwood Smith, Michelle Mylett, Emilio Rivera, Kimberly Quinn, Jessica Alba, Jimmy O. Yang Genre- Comedy | Western Released-…

[griimezz]

I definitely understand detrans kinks as a detrans kink haver myself but I think people need to realize that it’s kink. Outside of those specific times where I consent to those things, you are going to treat me as the gender I am.

If you can’t do that, you aren’t just into the kink, you’re transphobic.

i'm normally pro-kink but if your kink is forcefemming trans guys maybe you're just a transphobe

[yandere-wishes]

⭒ㅤׂ Do You Think We'll Be In Love Forever? ㅤׂ ⭒

⭒⌒★ Yandere!DC Men x Reader ★⌒⭒

゜。♡ 𝓌𝒽𝑒𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝒾𝓇 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒 𝓉𝓊𝓇𝓃𝓈 𝒾𝓃𝓉𝑜 𝑜𝒷𝓈𝑒𝓈𝓈𝒾𝑜𝓃 ♡ ｡ ゜

​𓆩☾𓆪 Nightwing - Dick Grayson | بالشب - دیک گریسون

He's mesmerized by the sight of you between his arms. Definite little doll smiling up at him through tear-soaked eyes. He floods your essence with saccharine kisses, sweet vows, and anguished 'I love yous' all paying testimony to his sugar-laced obsession. He's desperate to taste your sweetness on his tongue, lick through your flesh like a lollipop, and unravel your bones with his teeth.

He had been so young once, chasing virtue and strength into every dark alleyway, following bats and hope into vicious nights. Back then, he hadn't understood his mentor's desperation for paper-thin kisses and phony love. But now feeling the push of your body beneath his fingertips makes him understand how satisfying real love can be. To observe you in the sun's gentle rays. To feel your body curled next to his on cold nights. He plays hero under the moon's watchful gaze only to return home to you upon daybreak.

❀࿔ Red Hood - Jason Todd | نقاب قرمز - جیسون تاد

He glides your fingers across his scars, shuddering under the weight of your touch. Stardust cauterizes ancient wounds, licking away the rotten grime. Jason clenches his teeth, there's something so intimidating about the softness of your touch. It stings worse than any crowbar or bullet wound, intruding, harrowing. It's almost like you're plucking the constellations of his past from under his skin, trying to rearrange the stars into something cathartic.

He can't help the hapless way his nails scratch across your bones, the gurgling laugh that escapes his throat. You're Elizabeth Lavenza and Ophelia trying to mend a broken boy, with your wry smile and terrified eyes. Jason traces his lips across yours, his kiss is ravenous, frantic. Faux-hero desperate for an inkling of love, of bliss, of softness.

´ཀ` Arkham Knight - Jason Todd | سلحشور آرکام - جیسون تاد

He likes to think he's shed his human skin long ago. Left it to die in that burning warehouse with his old mask and youth. But when he hears your laughter, that haunting echo reverberates off the edifice walls. He can't help but think maybe, just maybe a trace of humanity still lingers beneath his armor. Your smile glares at him in every carmine puddle he treks through. He dreams it's your blood marring his gauntlets, syrupy sweet as he licks them clean. Daydreams about your ethereal face painted in reds and purples by his iron-clad hands.

His kisses are razor blades cutting through your lips, forcing his love down your throat, and watching as you choke on the rust and ache. He's trying to merge two bodies into one void, to engulf you. Mirror his scars upon your flesh with dull knives and jagged fingernails. He kisses you again, you swear you're going to drown in his sea of red. Maybe that's all the love he has left. He

｡♦｡ Red Robin - Tim Drake | رابین قرمز- تیم دریک

He plays hero in the night, little bird chasing villains and evil by moonlight. When he blinks it's you he sees lying on the couch watching TV. He's starting to think you're his favorite show, afterall your window is about the size of a flat-screen TV and he's always too eager to peak through for the next screening. Episode 84, you're hugging your favorite teddy bear, lost in euphoria as your knuckles turn white around the controller. Tim watches heart in his throat as you claw out the boss's eyes. Sanctimonious champion vying to save the holy princess.

Tim bites his fingers, addresses each tooth mark to you. He pens his love letters upon his own skin, sealing them in red when he finally punctures through. Maybe life is just a video game, an endless kaleidoscope of cutscenes. And he's just a besotted hero dying to kiss the precious princess who doesn't even know he exists.

ꨄ︎ Robin - Damian Wayne| سینه‌سرخ - دامیان وین

His heritage pounds between his bones. The deja vu of an ancestral lifetime runs rapid through his veins as he chases you across the rooftops. His father, his mother, his brothers, always chasing, running after things they know they'll never reach. Your blades clash against his and Damian can't help but wonder if this is the closest he'll ever get to kissing you.

You leave him with paper cuts that feel like venom, like saying 'I love you' while chewing on his bones. He ponders, does his father have the same scars, if Damian pulled away Bruce's skin what would he find? Kittycat claws and dragon bites engraved in the nth-wielded ivory. He feels legacy clawing at his throat as he pictures your fingers between his teeth. Tears blooming in your eyes as he uses diamonds and ceremonial knives to engrave his name upon your flesh. Dotting the I with a heart and entwining each letter. God, he's so tired of being lonely...

🦇 Batman - Bruce Wayne | بتمن - بروس وین

He can't help but pick you apart, chip away at the bones and flesh until he reaches your essence. Dissecting your heart with his tongue and savoring the ichor between his teeth. He's the world's greatest detective and yet he can't unravel his own ardor. This mania, this addiction festering within his crux gnawing at his sanity until every thought is consumed by the cadence of your voice and the stars scintillating in your big doe eyes. This desperate need burning inside of him are you really divinity? Will you bleed glod, if he tears you apart with his teeth?

You're so ethereal squirming beneath, kicking and screaming vying desperately for freedom. He's fought this love for far too long, tried to preserve you in the light. Cover your eyes and ears and make you forget about the monsters that roam in the dark. But he can't not anymore, maybe he never could. Maybe the only way he knows how to love is by trickling his darkness like nectar between your lips and watching as it paints you in his shades.

ᯓ★ Superman - Clark Kent | سوپرمن - کلارک کنت

His kisses melt into your skin sweet like molten sugar drizzled on jasmine rice. Like lava smothering roses, leaving a trail of fragranced ashes. Clark smiles and he notices how you cover your eyes. Like you're staring directly into the sun. Like you're scared of being burnt. Clark can't help but bury his head in the crock of your neck, inhaling your ather. Molten roses and floral ashes he likes the amalgamate of your scents. Like how his presence lingers upon you.

He holds you like a doll, like the little straw dolls his mother used to make. It's easy to be gentle, coddling when everything is so fragile compared to you. He kisses down your neck, your jaw, nuzzling his nose into your soft skin, trying to earn a giggle a gold star. Trying to wipe the fear from your eyes. He kisses you again, mumbling cloying words between your lips, wishing he could just push his love between your fragile bones.

˚✶˚ Superboy - Conner Kent | سوپربوی - کانر کنت

He's fighting back the urge to peel your heart from between your ribs. To trail kisses across it and marr his lips with your ether. He wonders if your heart beats as frantically as his. He wonders if your ribs rattle when he enters a room.

He wants to push little superboy earings into your ears, to lay upon you the piercings he could never have. It'll be his way of telling the world you belong to him, that you belong to Superboy. And yet he settles for draping his leather jacket across your shoulders when senses a shiver run up your spine. He settles for the friendly hugs and airy hello-kisses. He wants to say he's he loves you. he can't. It's all so annoying, tasting the dead words on his tongue.

𓂃✮ Superman - Jon Kent | سوپرمن - جان کنت

He's scaping his nails along the Hershey's kisses re-aligning the red blue and gold wrapping. It'll be obvious, right? If he leaves them in your locker you'll understand the colored metaphor you'll answer the question he can never ask. You'll know it's him, everyone always does, for the byproduct of the world's greatest hero, he's terrible at keeping his identity a secret.

He blames it on the legacy flooding his lungs. On the promises that beat in his blood. He's born to be a hero, to play the role of savior, but aren't heroes promised love too? Aren't they meant to save the girl from burning skyscrapers and crumbling sidewalks, to fly above the skyline and kiss her in tune with the setting sun? He's so desperate for the sweet fairytale ending, so desperate to kiss the girl who always knows just what to say. He leaves the chocolate in your locker before making a dent in the metal door.

˚｡⋆🪙⋆ ˚｡ Two Face - Harvey Dent | دو چهره - هاروی دنت

He can taste your pain on his tongue, swallow the barbed wire, and relish in the familiar sting of hope, expectation, responsibility. Maybe that's why he can't stop himself from chasing after you. Burning the world demanding you stop him, desperate for a silver of your deficit attention. God, you're so ethereal with his gun aimed at your head, his pretty little girl with big starry eyes laced with dread as they follow the cascade of his coin. 'I know' he wants to scream 'I know what it feels like' but the words never quite spill out that way. And Harv only laughs at his foolish attempts to play hero once more. Sanctimonious bastard, the words reverberate in his skull.

You may claim to be a hero but Two-face knows you'll fall, plunder to the ground like all the rest, that's what happens when you reach for the sky, deem yourself Icarus, and let the flames of glory engulf you until there's nothing left. 'You can't save them' Harv screams only for Harvey to hear. They want to get closer, to slip the coin between your lips and make you taste defeat, maybe then you'll understand why he's so keen on fighting you out of your crusade. Maybe then you'll take their hand willingly, letting them sprinkle kisses across your knuckles like dying stars.

˙⋆☠︎︎⋆˙ Black Mask - Roman Sionis | نقاب سیاه - رومن سیونیس

He wants to cut out your big heart and sink his teeth into it, engrave himself in every vein, and chew on the heartstrings. HIM he needs to be the only one in that plushie heart of yours. The only one with the right to be graced by your ethereal smile. He wants to awaken to your soft nimble fingers tracing hearts and stars across his chest. Pretty pink lips weaving feathery kisses across the scar of his pacemaker. Giggles tickling his neck as you bid him 'good morning' in that all too cheery voice of yours.

Roman almost moans as he hears his name spill from your mouth, each letter cradled carefully between your lips he can't help but want to push his thumb inside your mouth, to feel your purity and shock. There's so much he wants to call you so much he wants to whisper in your ear as he watches your cheeks glow red. To hold you in his lap and trail his fingers across your legs, to dress you in pretty dresses and short skirts and skin-tight tops. To taste the fear and dread on your tongue palpable like the blood he draws with every kiss.

༄✩༄ Scarecrow - Jonathan Crane | مترسک - جاناتان کرین

He likes the stars in your eyes, the mini constellations spelling out your greatest fears. The tears blooming in the corners of your dopey eyes have his lips twitching. You're so gorgeous like this, curled up on the floor trying to make sense of such an eerie world. Jonathan doesn't anoint himself a fool, he knows it's chimeric to think that you'd love him without the toxin, without the heavy drugs he's spilled into your veins. That's why he keeps you like this, scared and depressed. Always in need of him.

What's your greatest fear? He wonders when you tuck your head between your knees and sob all so quietly as to not disturb him. Is it him you see in your grandest nightmares? Is it the mask jumping at you from within the darkness, or is it Professor Crane abandoning you in such a macabre world? Mask on mask off it makes no difference. He just hopes he's the star of every nightmare, as long as you fear him as much as he fears losing you.

｡??｡ Riddler- Edward Nygma| ریدل - ادوارد نیگما

It's frivolous to think he will not solve this riddle. That he will no unearth this plague you have bestowed upon him. This fixation, this obsession, he needs to understand you, to peel away your skin and glimpse at your inner clock workings. To undo your screws one by one and find out what exists between that haunting laugh and those knowing vicious eyes. To rip apart your wires, and feed upon your mind. To understand, he needs to understand you.

He got close once when he had your neck under his shoe, but the evil lith of your laughter rings across the room and he'd be lying if he said he wasn't unnerved. He doesn't know what question to ask first. 'what have you done to me'? 'why do you think you're better than me?', 'Why don't you love me?' Instead, the silence shatters with your voice, proud melody rivaling his own, your eyes lock on him and he can't suppress his shutter. "Well Eddie, riddle me this. What can kill any man, but isn't even alive itself?"

⁺♡⁺ Deathstroke - Slade Wilson | مرگ سکته - اسلید ویلسون

You're like a shooting star, dancing across the night as you stalk his latest kill. Little asssasin, you know your stuff but he finds your thirst for ineage and morality both exhausting and honorable. Most people grow up and spit out their morals with blood and broken teeth. Let the world's cruel realities claw and gnaw at their skin until it's hardened enough to survive. He's yet to see you extend such a courtesy to the world, makes him think that pulling the trigger on you would be some sort of mercy. Bullet through the heart leaving your body coated in his essence and one final kiss pressed onto your paling lips.

He dosen't notice the inkling of you rattling around in his brain until he realizes that this is the eighth him he's seen you smile at the end of his barrel. Pretty little girl chasing after morals and sand, hoping to escape the endless night by spilling just a little more guilty blood. You look like some sort of ethereal doll, immortal in your innocence and vicious in your virtues. He can respect that, truly but Slade isn't naive enough to think you have what it takes to survive. Maybe that's why he wants all so badly to feed you his victim's hearts and eyes and livers, to push them past your pretty lips, staining them the deepest red. Watching your delicate throat constrict as you swallow everything he gives you. Reveling in the sensation of your greedy little tongue swirling around his fingers licking up the access gore. Can almost picture your smile and stupid little head tilt as you thank him for the 'candygrams'.

⭑.ᐟ Respawn | احیا

Respawn drowns in his love. Pulling apart his heart to lay at your feet. It's all he's ever known, broken boy built to harvest spare parts. But you don't look at him like that, you don't even look at him like an assassin. No, you smile fondly as you nuzzle his neck with your nose. You look at him the way his father used to, like he's actually worth something more. He's never quite kissed you, he's not even sure he knows how. Instead, he holds you close to his chest making sure you hear the dull patter of his jagged heart.

He's born from greatness, left to rot in the dark. He refuses to play pawn, anymore. So maybe that's why, when he finally kisses you -with all the grace of a schoolboy's first kiss- it's so desperate and erratic, clumsily licking your lips and nicking his tongue along your teeth trying to think what his father would do. His fingers dig into your arms, preassing prayers into your flesh, screaming 'Don't leave me, you're all I have left'.

⭑☽ Ghost-Maker - Minhkhoa "Khoa" Khan | روح ساز - مینه خوا "خوا" خان

There's nostalgia in your essence, in your presence, something he can never wash away. He's grown addicted to the erratic reverbate of your pulse between his teeth. Kissing the bites he leaves marring your perfect body.

Why can't you just love him, let him haunt your every thought, and erode those pesky creeds, until he is the only thing you'll ever need? Khoa hates to admit it but he sees something in you, something so reflective of the little boy laying in the sand of the gobi desert, shooting phantom bullets and mocking stars. You scream every time he kisses you, recoil your tongue, and cry at the bitterness sweeping in. But Khao loves the challenge, the fight, loves forcing you into submission, even as your knife digs between his ribs. He's only ever content when your pith floods his mouth and your melodic voice rings through his ears. His precious little princess tucked away between his arms forever.

☾⋆ Phantom-one | روح یک

he never shows you his face. He blames it on his upbringing too used to old rules that he can never escape their clutches not even for you. His kisses are always clouds dancing across your skin, so light and airy they may as well be the wind. But tries to leave traces of himself with every kiss. Desperate pleas for you to look at him, to touch him, to love him back. All so he knows he's alive, still real enough to love.

He's always trapped between the land of the living and the realm of the deceased. Always so gentle with the love he's stolen, so careful to not break his lover, as his mentor did to him. He laces his fingers through your hair, sucks gently on the length of your neck, all while pushing 'I love yous' into your soul, marking you as his forever.

🎀𖹭🎀 : @your-yandere-kiss @fancyfeathers @yandere-writer-momo @nxdxsworld @lilyalone @neverano @natsukicookies @googeecat44 @starrydollita @mune-writes @a4g3lstarfire @yourhornysister @froggy-voidd @rissareader @6helpneeded9

@blacklunardice @princesstrunkz @mona1704 @testification

[seelestia]

✧ i'll show you (if you'll let me).

⎯ there is a certain touch of beauty to witnessing a side of theirs revealed to you so naturally. it becomes as easy as breathing if you just let it happen... so, will you? ( or in other words, a way you enable them to be themselves. )

#STARRING. aventurine, dr. ratio, sunday, dan heng ft. gn!reader. { 4.2k words }

#TAGS. fluff, established relationship. more: minor spoilers for aven's backstory (described mostly abstractly), ratio is referred to by his first name, i called sunday a nerd (sorry), dr. ratio & dan heng are certified workaholics.

#P/S. i think i may have yapped a little considering the word count but i hope it ends up being a good kind of yapping. tysm for reading! ♡

© seelestia on tumblr, may 2024. please do not repost, plagiarize, translate, use for AI-related purposes or claim as your own.

★ 〜 masterlist.

will you let aventurine hold you close when he sleeps? . . . whether it's an arm slung over your hips or his nose buried in your shoulder or fingers tracing shapes onto your skin. he doesn't ask for too much; only that you grant him the permission to cradle you in his arms, somewhere within his reach. it's a habit, he hopes you don't mind.

you have to wonder, though. considering the plenitude of pillows on the bed, why do his hands still seek you out? with all the credits he spent on those cotton-stuffed angels, you thought aventurine would relish them a bit more. but ah-ah, see? that is where you're wrong. sure, the pillows are extremely comfy but he always has a preference for things with much, much more value.

and the truth — well, his truth — is that even the softest cushions from oti mall couldn't compare to the privilege of laying his head on your chest, he'd say. especially when you brush his hair with your fingers - oh, one of the easiest ways to paradise. truly, the best value there is! can you blame a man for being honest and a little lovesick?

(“sappy,” you accuse. he pouts, offended.)

but aventurine has a flair for theatrics, you know that. his witty quips are as feather-light in weight as light-hearted they are in intent. but his touch - in the forms of kind caresses or rhythmic taps to a tune from his forgotten culture - lingers on your skin, with a yearning so heavy. you question whether it could be nostalgia or instead, silent awe at a reality he never imagined could ever be his.

(kakavasha remembers. clinging onto you for warmth like he once did to his sister, falling asleep with her prayers to mama fenge in his ears. the avgins believed gaiathra triclops to be the symbol of humility; so naturally, their prayers to her should also be humble, not too quiet but not too loud. all in moderation. for a frail child like him, those gentle prayers alone were enough to let him drift into a dreamless slumber and to ignore the shackles of reality if not for the briefest moments.

time passed. came a time where the melody he associated with slumber was no longer a soft voice lulling him but pure static, a noise to distract his mind from the chains around his wrists. they burned themselves onto his skin, searing, but he was already too familiar with the sensation to care. the mark on his neck was unwelcome, laughing at him, but he too laughed at his own pitiful reflection so what's the difference, anyway?

time passed again, the call of slumber then turned into clattering noises of chips doused in gold and dice thrown onto a surface. he thought it'd stay that way forever but before long, it morphed into up-and-down waves he couldn't decipher initially. they're gentle, faint like a human's breathing: your breathing as you allowed him to lie beside you for the first time, he realized back then. although he deems himself unworthy, an ugly grime on your pristine existence that still insists on cradling him — but despite it all, he finds this last melody to be his favorite so far.)

✧ a moment among the stars:

ticklish.

the sensation, minor yet still impactful enough, causes you to stir out of sleep. the light of noon greets your eyes and you become vaguely cognizant that the root of it all is the tufts of blond hair brushing against your neck.

there is a solid weight on your torso and a pair of slender arms loosely wrapped around your waist - but they're nothing you haven't grown used to. you comb your fingers through the messy locks licking at your skin, instinctively, and the fragrant scent of what you register as penacony's limited edition perfume kisses your nose.

“...ugh, what system time is it?” you let out a grunt, shifting around slightly to let your limbs breathe. you don't get an answer to your question, instead, aventurine's arms reestablish their hold on you. hooking you closer to him as if to wring out whatever proximity is left, if there is even any. his simple proclamation of “who cares?”, in a sense.

there it is again, that ticklish feeling. you feel soft lips grazing feather-like kisses against your collarbone. oh, he definitely isn't letting go just yet. truly merciless, a dozy morning thought accompanied by your tired sigh. the noise still comes out fond, however, so your feigned act of annoyance is fooling no one.

“it's warm, you know,” you grumble. but the yawn escaping your mouth right after betrays whatever stern image you're trying to adopt. not like you can ever be too stern with him. aventurine knows this, yes, and he gives you an A+ for effort each time.

“mhm,” he finally speaks, snuggling into your chest with no care about anything in the world, “g'morning to you too, lovely.”

his favorite mornings aren't his favorite if not thanks to your innocuous complaints and delightful attempts at pushing his pretty face away, no? a lazy grin graces the stoneheart's lips and eyes like exquisite gems, although sleepy, flutter open to gaze at you languidly. he takes the sight of you in then lets out a sigh - a fond noise just like yours earlier; the both of you really are two peas of a pod.

you must look a terrible mess right now and yet, the sight of you has aventurine smiling dazedly. “ah, what a spectacular sight. i really am the luckiest man in the galaxy,” he hums in approval. you want to roll your eyes but stops as he leans up to pepper (ah, one necessary correction: smother) kisses all over your face, arms dragging you closer to his chest like a cage. your eyes widen comically. what a nefarious trap, he has the advantage!

every remnant of sleepiness clinging to your mind evaporates. you squeal with laughter, shoving at his shoulder using the strength of a baby deer because no, you don't really want him to stop. he knows that too, of course.

“mwah, mwah, mwah—”

“pfft...! kakavasha, i can't breathe!”

(he has half a mind to pinch his skin, as if to remind himself that this is real. he can feel your giggles tickling his skin as if to tell him in return: yes, you are.)

will you let veritas pour his heart out after a long day? . . . well, that could count as too much of an overstatement. others say, “that man is like a brick wall!” some more dare to whisper, “doesn't his temper already exhaust whatever emotional quota he has?!” needless to say, everyone knows that dr. ratio is a man ruled by the mind, not by the heart. alright, that's quite true - but does that imply he has discarded the latter altogether? if so, then you beg to differ.

(not in the literal sense, of course! the heart is a vital organ of the body. saying otherwise would be akin to spitting on his shiny phd in biology... or his seven other phd's at that.)

the pedestal which the public places veritas ratio on reaches still great heights, even if it may not rival an ivory tower a member of the genius society resides in. it is so high up that mundane troubles of those below can't reach a genius like him, surely? well, as tall as he stands - somehow, the universe grants you a front row seat for a particular sight that proves otherwise.

if only they knew the doctor has a habit of mumbling these incomprehensible (more like barely intelligible) grumbles under his breath, striking a resemblance similar to a grumpy old cat. if you strain your ears hard enough, you might catch a “...this has to be it...” or “...i dare not think so...” from time to time as he roams around the room with materials in his hands.

(absurd, people would say. but you think it's extremely cute.)

veritas doesn't say it out loud - but you can tell by the hunch in his stiff shoulders, by the one or two sighs he huffs every six minutes - that he is itching to tell somebody of all the tomfooleries he has encountered today. of course, the topics he laments about vary; it's only when you hear him exhaling the loudest sigh that you get to find out.

mostly though, it's about his students and remarks on how they can further improve their performance — sure, he could phrase it a little gentler — but you still find it sweet that he cares. if not that, then it'd be about indolent colleagues, complicated formulae and more. on some days, he'll even let out an exasperated “truly mind-boggling! could you believe that?” to which you'd reply with an “uh-huh, go on.”

at the end of a ranting session, veritas takes careful note to leave a kiss on your person afterward. no matter where it is - on the lips, the cheek or your hand. no matter where you are - sitting on the couch beside him, behind the kitchen counter or across the room. the warmth that stays on your skin when he pulls away is somewhat tingly. appreciative, you think, especially when he looks at you with such loving eyes that his colleagues would be sure to retch in shock if they were a witness.

looks like you are right on the money; he has never discarded his heart, after all. so yes, to rephrase - will you lend veritas a listening ear when he needs it?

✧ a moment among the stars:

“...yet another headache.”

as unsubtle as ever, the doctor's complaint is barely hidden behind the guise of a mumble. those neatly styled violet bangs of his aren't doing an excellent job at concealing that frown strewn across his forehead either. veritas's posture is tense, a dead giveaway, as he goes over the piles of documents on his desk.

you cock an eyebrow upon seeing the stamp belonging to the intelligentsia guild on one of the papers. definitely work. it has been two system hours since he took a seat at the work desk, you concur, or lifted a finger to do something besides flipping through drafts. a mere glance at the stack of documents is enough to convince you that those researchers at the guild must really value veritas's input.

a perk of being a genius, maybe? the phantom of a weight lands alight on your shoulders. with a mug of black coffee in hand, you make your way to him. your footsteps are without a sound, only the noise of porcelain being placed down onto woodenware is enough to announce your arrival. “rough day at work?” you ask, peering down at his progress.

(a doctor's handwriting really is something. you resist the urge to squint.)

veritas doesn't seem to mind. if the way he smiles at the sight of you, albeit tiredly, is any indication. “hah,” he rests a hand on his temple and scoffs wryly, “so much grievances like you wouldn't believe.”

oh, he is teetering on the precipice of a tangent but stops himself. “...fret not, i'm fine. this is hardly something beyond my expertise,” he shakes his head, the motion causing his reading glasses to slide down a smidgen down the bridge of his nose.

you're too familiar with the self-assured bravado he puts on. you're quite endeared, actually. “okay, mr. i-require-no-rest,” you take the glasses off his face and he breaks into a frown. at the childish tone you're using or for having his reading glasses taken away, you don't know.

“why don't you take a little break?” you suggest. veritas sighs, “need i remind you that dilly-dallying is for fools who wish to waste their time?” and crosses his arms defiantly. he knows your strategy, he has come face-to-face with it several times.

“do you think a break with me is a waste of time?” you present him with a rhetorical question, quite the difficult adversary.

(and he keeps losing to it every single time.)

“well, that's—” the doctor nearly splutters, taken aback. “that's different if you insist on inserting yourself as a variable,” he infers, putting emphasis on the last part accompanied by an incredulous look.

“the answer is up for debate then,” you shrug with a cheeky smile. your hand then deftly lifts the mug you previously set down to your lips, veritas's eyes dilate in bewilderment. “so,” you hum at the rich taste of your handiwork, “wanna tell me about your day? haven't heard about the council in a while.”

“you—” he gasps in defeat, “i thought that was supposed to be my mug of coffee.”

(he has a slight pout on his face, but you dare not point it out lest it disappears in the blink of an eye.)

“our mug of coffee,” you take a few more sips with an innocent decadence. “all is fair in love and war, doctor.”

“i can never win with you,” he buries his face in his palm with a groan. you laugh heartily, a sound that chimes like quaint little bells in his ears - it elicits a reaction from his lips, for them to quirk up at the corners in the smallest of ways.

“regardless. . .” veritas relents and reaches for your free hand. you let him. “it seems a break wouldn't be so amiss, after all,” he then presses a kiss on the side of your wrist, affectionate.

(your heart skips a beat.)

will you let sunday regale you with facts you've never heard of before? . . . a man of eloquent words, no less a man of educated mind. you have no doubt that the books in the dewlight pavilion really aren't just there for show - not that you're allowed to browse through them at your own desire. a servant's voice would stop you in your tracks should your fingers ever brush against something in the family's secret bookshelf.

how mysterious.

but sunday makes it known to the staff that you, in particular, are allowed more access to the shelves - perhaps, not too much - but more than even mr. mccoy, at least. with the way you have to crane your neck far up to pinpoint the tallest height that the shelves reach, you wonder: has sunday gone through everything here personally?

your immediate answer is most likely. you know sunday fairly well; to have something that he hasn't scrutinized from the inside out in his possession will surely gnaw away at his psyche incessantly. not being in the know at all times is a looming fear for him. but of course, you have other ways to confirm the answer for yourself.

pick out a book from a shelf there, either intentional or purely arbitrary, and watch as sunday carefully traces his steps towards you. his curiosity is piqued, which topic has caught your interest this time? but he tucks it under proper cordiality. with a hand behind his back, he'd utter your name in the softest tone and ask the familiar question of “would you like to know more?” — asking for your permission to ramble, essentially — you find this tendency of his to be charming, so you nod each time.

(and he smiles when you do. a smile less refined at the edges, kinder and relaxed.)

the best place to start from is always the beginning. you think sunday agrees because he often starts by telling you the history and its origins before moving on to its impact on the galaxy, then his personal stance on the topic. it's a pattern, you notice, his ramblings have a pattern. and it's consistent every time, you might've believed he was reading off a script. and what's more? sunday is blissfully oblivious of it.

fascinating. you ponder: what kind of things you can do with this information? decisions, decisions, decisions. . . but ultimately, you opt for keeping it a secret like a treasure only you're allowed to see.

(that might be true in a way. you don't doubt that robin, his dear sister, is familiar with this side of him. does that mean he treasures you like he does her? your chest starts to feel a bit lighter.)

if you were to point it out, you fear you might never witness it again - goodness, to know that he has been displaying such foolishness or rather, what he viewed as an embarrassing freudian slip in front of you? his wings might as well resort to covering his face for good until the end of time.

as you listen to him talk (with such elegance at that), you can't help whatever tender look you have on your face. really, who would've thought the head of the oak family could be such. . . a nerd?

(you hope in secret that sunday will be more willing to show sides like these to you in the future. and that they're not a weakness at all, not when they're shared with you.)

✧ a moment among the stars:

“it looks like you're fascinated by the dreamscape nursery rhyme this time.”

sunday spares the article in your hold no further inspection. one glance at the cover and walls of memorized information rush to the front of his mind. he looks familiar with it; could it be a part of his childhood too? but then again, everything found here is within his knowledge.

“i am,” you say with intrigue, “it got me ruminating for a while.”

you meet his gaze, stumbling upon yellow irises that glimmer akin to gold under penaconian chandeliers. you think you see a hint of affection in them, swimming around your reflection like a school of fish in a pond. it makes you smile.

he smiles back, oblivious to your thoughts but returns your gesture. he asks, “how so?” and you reply without delay, “i read through it and the morbid undertone took me by surpri—”

or at least, it's supposed to be without delay until you realize sunday has stepped closer in order to peer down at the page you're holding open. and suddenly, you're extremely aware of every minute detail like how his breath brushes against the side of your cheek and how his chest rumbles as he hums in acknowledgement.

(you flush in the neck and he perceives this reaction of yours with mirth.)

“my apologies,” sunday chuckles and pulls away, “i've simply forgotten the rhyme and wished to refresh my memory.”

“somehow, i feel that isn't the case...” you mumble accusingly. that seems to amplify whatever little amusement he gets from flustering you. “oh, my dove. i can assure you that it is,” he caresses your head, a little placatingly.

most times, sunday isn't so laidback about giving affection in public — since he has an image to maintain — so you assume the fact that the servants are out and about, leaving only you and him here, plays a role in his unusual boldness. you accept the gesture with a bashful pout.

“now, where were we?” sunday clears his throat, “ah, yes. some people have noted on the nursery rhyme's strange quality but still, it retains its popularity in penacony. it is also widely assumed that the hound resembles the bloodhound family while—”

you hold back an amused sigh, but it's more out of fondness than anything. he'll start from the history then the effect on the general public, as per usual, but you're not the only predictable one here. you'd listen to him anytime too, won't you?

(you do adore when the head of the oak family would put off his public figure mask around you. if only for just a while.)

will you let dan heng rest his head on your lap when it's just you two? . . . the sense of comfort it provides isn't something he can explain with words. as if he has ever been good with words in the first place. saying a sentence bereft of logical reasoning or witty remarks doesn't come easily to the express’ guard. neither does intimacy. . . but you know that already, don't you?

after all, it isn't a secret that dan heng prefers speaking with his actions. if to show one's intentions is the end goal, then actions are the fastest route to choose. words, although able to sweeten the trip like how a beautiful scenery can, will eventually lead to actions regardless so why take the extra step?

but you're different from him; you articulate what you think and what you mean. you're honest in ways that keep catching dan heng off guard without fail — just like the first time you offered your empty lap to him when his head was swirling in pain — but he supposes that is one of your charms. “words can be useful. we're not all born mind readers,” you told him once and he hummed, accepting of your perspective.

(“look at you two! opposites attract!” march chirped. he recalled shooting her a look of indignation and she rubbed the back of her head sheepishly in response.)

dan heng has learnt to grow used to your propensities - but by far, your shameless invitations are still one matter that can't be comprehended even with time. he cannot understand; how you smile as you sit on his futon in the archives (he doesn't mind), how you link gazes with him so effortlessly, how you pat your lap knowingly and say, “why don't you rest your head here?”

(he has to restrain himself from bursting into flames like a heliobus.)

sometimes, he'll accept reluctantly or he'll decline with an underlying tone of longing he doesn't want you to notice. because as much of a good hold dan heng has on nonchalance, he cannot deny that this particular gesture of yours has left a mark on him.

(it remains persistently.)

when he rests his head on your lap, he can't help but take a deep inhale - your fragrance fills his senses and he discards the selfish desire to keep it all to himself. your fingers are soothing as they thread through his hair gently. the feeling that washes over him is serene, almost comparable to submerging himself in the pure waters of scalegorge waterscape.

when overcome by such a tranquil state of mind, dan heng wonders what expression he might be making at that moment? he always keeps his eyes closed, so it's a shame he may never know. but you do, and you don't think you've ever seen him look so at peace before like he does now.

(perhaps, that's why you keep offering him this in the first place.)

✧ a moment among the stars:

“someone looks tired,” you state with a pointed stare. the archives isn't a room too spacious and the only ones here are you and him. the target of your sentence is obvious.

but dan heng doesn't take the bait, barely looks away from the entry he is currently authoring. still, he spares you a glance and hums glibly, “are you projecting? if so, feel free to use my bed in the meantime.”

you let out a noise, something gibberish that conveys disappointment but it is effectively drowned out by the typing noises. “you haven't even touched the food i bought you,” your voice becomes mellow, “why don't you rest for a while?”

he isn't convinced, you think, since his fingers are still hard at work. the new info the team brought back must've been a lot if he's that focused.

“dan heng?” you try again, hopeful for the last time. you don't take him for a fool, of course, he'll know when he reaches his limit and have proper rest then. but would that really be ideal? a second passes and that hope flickers like a dimming light. but just an inch before the edge of giving up, the typing slows to a stop.

“. . .alright,” he murmurs. finally, after a good hour spent drawing patterns on his backside with your eyes, dan heng turns around to face you. he look tense, you note with abject concern.

“here,” you usher him to your lap, empty and conveniently so. dan heng shoots you a blank look - this isn't the first time you offered and this isn't the first time he reacted like that. you try to suppress a laugh, failing gloriously at it. “just for a little bit,” you utter through a stifled fit of chuckles.

dan heng shakes his head, not in rejection but in defeat. his eyes slip close, second nature, as he leans to situate his head on your lap. you welcome him with a hum and let your fingers card through his hair. a calm sigh falls from his lips like a water droplet in springtime.

“this. . . is nice,” he admits, sudden and unprompted. you nearly doubt your ears for a moment there. did he— “i don't hate it is, uhm, what i mean to say,” dan heng adds and it dawns on you that your ears are still working. his eyes are still closed, not that you'd expect anything else, he prefers to treat it as a shield from being face-to-face with embarrassment.

(or to avoid your ecstatic gaze. he can feel warmth rushing to his cheeks already.)

“i know,” you smile, brushing away a few messy strands from his forehead. he isn't an open book but you think you've read the pages enough to remember all the little details. “but thanks for telling me. i'm no mind reader but i think i can read yours pretty well.”

“i shall provide no further comment,” he holds back an incredulous exhale, yet his lips still curl slightly at the corner. you feel the teeniest desire to trace the curve of his lips with your fingertip but settle for silently admiring them instead.

“it's fine. i know the answer already,” you say, words dripping with affection. such a shame dan heng never looks up at you during a time like this. because if he did, he wouldn't have missed seeing the sheer fondness in your gaze that rains down on him in light showers. a true shame.

(one day, he'll gather the courage. maybe.)

— thank you for reading! reblogs with comments are most appreciated. ♡

[illusioninfnty]

Fight, Flight, Fuck!

જ⁀➴ Fuck or Die : Day 21

feat. Josh Washington ᯓ★ A scary man corners you alone, hopeless in only a mere towel. Your first reaction? Plead that you'll do anything to stay alive.

warnings! : NSFW 18+, lowkey bisexual reader if you squint, josh in psycho costume, dub-con bc reader doesn't know it's him, breast play, no prep, fingering, degradation, one (1) pussy slap, unprotected sex, creampie, use of chloroform (not during sex)

ᯓ★ kinktober m.list || read on ao3

You sink down deeper into the hot water that fills the large bathtub, closing your eyes in relaxation. At the other end of the tub lies Sam, classical music blasting through her earbuds. It wasn’t your initial intention to be sharing a bath with her, but there was only enough hot water for one bath, and neither of you were going to give it up.

And to be completely honest, you really didn’t mind it much.

You don’t realize that you were drifting off until you hear the slam of the bathroom door. You jolt, some of the wash around you splashing outside of the tub. Sam hears it too, with the way she pulls her earbuds out of her ears and looks around.

“What was that?” she asks, voice low with caution.

Your eyes narrow. “I’m not sure.” You pull yourself out of the tub, grabbing a white towel to dry yourself off with. When you go to reach for your clothes that you left on the ground, they’re nowhere to be seen. You look around the room, trying to see if you maybe forgot where you placed them, but to no avail your clothes have seemingly disappeared.

“Hey Sam?” 

She hums in response. 

“Where are our clothes?”

“Shit,” she hisses, looking around frantically. “Ugh, those jerks. Seriously guys? Not cool!” she yells out, in the direction of the door.

“Assholes.” You roll your eyes. “I’ll go find them.” You secure your towel to yourself, adjusting it so all of your more private areas are covered.

“You sure you don’t need any back up?”

“Don’t worry. I can handle these pricks.”

She laughs, placing her headphones back in her ears and resting her head against the edge of the tub.

With that you head outside, shutting the bathroom door behind you and leaving Sam to her peaceful bath.

As you walk through the lodge and down the stairs, you’re unsettled by how dark and quiet it seems, much more than it should be with some or your friends still roaming around.

“Guys?” You’re only met with the eerie silence, your voice the only thing echoing back to you in the spacious lodge.

“Alright, you got us. It’s not funny anymore, give our clothes back!” you shout out, hoping someone, anyone, will take pity on you and relent.  

You try again as you walk through the lodge. “Josh? Chris? Ash? Where the fuck are you?”

No answer. You sigh, frustrated, and make your way to the cinema room, hoping you can find them in there.

When you arrive and begin to search the area, a deep, scratchy voice intervenes. “Looking for me? I don’t think you’ll have much luck by looking, poor little thing.”

Your blood runs cold at the unfamiliar voice that rings out throughout the lodge. You turn to run out the room, but you gasp as a figure emerges in the entryway.

He is large and imposing, at least a head taller than you. His dark blue overalls look to be stained with a dark liquid, and you aren’t sure you want to find out what it is. The scariest of all though, is the mask that he wears. It’s white, caked in dirt and grime, reminiscent of a skull. The ugly teeth of the mask protrude out, and the black of the eye holes has it so you can’t make out the man’s actual eyes.

You go to scream and run away, but the man swiftly picks you up with ease, clasping a hand over your mouth and shushing you.

“Don’t make a sound if you want to live.” He whispers it into your ear, his voice deep and guttural, as if he’s purposely lowering his voice to sound scarier. 

Whatever he's trying to do though, it’s working. You feel your legs tremble beneath you, and you know you’d collapse onto the floor if he wasn’t holding you up.

“P-please,” you whimper when he finally takes his gloved hand off of your mouth, “I’ll do anything. Just let me go.”

He chuckles. “Anything?”

Fuck. You two sound like you just came straight out of a shitty porno. But maybe those girls had the right idea though. If this was going to be your one-way pass out of death, so be it.

“Y-yeah.” You nod. “Whatever you want.”

Your front sides are pressed against each other, and through it you can feel the stir of his cock as it hardens. One of his hands raises as it tears your towel from you in one fell swoop. 

You gasp in surprise, standing naked in his grasp as he starts to fondle your breasts, tweaking at your nipples that harden from the exposure to the cool air of the cinema room.

A strangled noise leaves your lips as his hands continue to paw at your breasts, the pleasure reaching down to your pussy. Embarrassingly, you can feel yourself grow wet down there. Your cheeks heat up at the thought. In your defense, it had been a while since you’d had sex. Even any sort of over-the-clothes touching wasn’t something that you’d experienced since a couple of months ago, at this point.

Sensing your increased arousal, one of the man’s hands leaves your breast and travels down to your pussy. His fingers flit around your thighs, until he finally lands on your wet slit.

“Such a slut.” He hisses out. You bite your lip as his fingers begin to tease at your wet folds. “How many of your friends have touched you like this?”

“N-none,” you reply—truthfully. Your hips buck against his hands, desperate for some relief from his taunting.

“How many do you want to touch you like this?” he fires back.

Your silence seems to be louder than words could ever be. He chuckles darkly, and then brings his hand back to slap your pussy. You cry out, throwing your head back at the pain.

“Fucking dirty girl. What would they say if they saw you like this, acting like a slut for my cock? What would Josh say?”

“How the fuck do you know—mmph!” You're interrupted by him shoving two of his fingers up your pussy. You’re startled by the sudden intrusion, and silently thank whoever’s listening for making sure that you’re wet as he does so.

His fingers piston in and out of you relentlessly; all you can do is moan in response, helpless against his body.

The intrusion doesn’t distract you from the dread that pools in your stomach by this psycho knowing Josh’s name. You desperately hope that he’s safe right now. All you can do in the moment is let yourself indulge in the temporary pleasure, and then escape so that you can find your friends, warn them, and make sure that everyone’s okay.

Sensing your thoughts drifting off, the man removes his fingers from you. You whine at the loss, but your walls tighten around emptiness as you hear a zipper and his cock springs out, pressing against your backside.

“Gonna shove this all inside of you, and you’re going to enjoy it real good, aren’t you?”

“Y-yes!” you cry out wantonly, hoping to please him with your eagerness. But at the same time, you were a bit startled by just how much you wanted this, too.

Without another word he shoves his cock into you, and you melt as his thickness stretches you out so nicely. He begins thrusting at a steady rhythming, gripping your hips so tight you’re positive they’ll be bruised later today.

You’re helpless at this point, at the mercy of this man and his incessant rutting inside of you. The cinema room is filled with the sounds of his low grunts, your unintelligible mewls, and the sounds of skin-to-skin contact as his hips meet your ass with his hard thrusts.

You grab blindly behind you, clasping your hands onto him for some stability, the denim of his overalls scratching at your skin. You whimper as he bends you over some more, the new angle having his cock reach deeper inside you. Your moan is stretched out as your eyes roll into the back of your head.

One hand comes down to reach for your clit, and you know you’re done for. As he begins to rub at the nub, your hips thrash widely. The combination of his cock hitting places inside of you that haven’t ever been touched and the sensations coming through from your sensitive clit have you cumming. You lurch forward as your breath comes out in broken gasps, falling apart on his cock.

The man isn’t too far behind you, as his hips begin to stutter and his grunts come out at a faster pace, in a more breathier tone. He whispers something too softly for your ears to recognize, and then he slams his hips against you one last time as he cums, the hot liquid filling you up all over.

His grasp on you loosens slightly, and you feel yourself shake as you attempt to recover from your orgasm, feeling his cum spill out of you and down your thighs. From behind you, the man rummages around, and you turn to see what he’s doing.

Before you can figure out what’s going on, a cloth comes up to your face, pressing tightly against your nose and mouth. You start to panic but soon feel dizzy, recognizing the sweet aroma coming from it to be chloroform. The world starts spinning around you, and you collapse in the man’s arms as his voice is that last thing you hear before you lose consciousness.

“Nighty, night, little kitten. I’ll get you all cleaned up.”

[griimezz]

You know what’s funny?

I did so much better when I didn’t medicalize my system. When we were headmates not parts. When we were plural not a person with DID.

I did so much better when I viewed us as a natural way of existing instead of a disorder.

I kinda wish I could go back.

[nemo-writes]

⋆˚࿔ ⋆˚࿔ 𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐜𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐞 ; 𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝜗𝜚˚⋆𝜗𝜚˚⋆

↣ pack!tf141 x witch!reader

↣ chapter summary; pushed to your limits, you endure under your mother's ruthless training. but the quiet of night brings an unexpected reunion—and amid raw confessions and unspoken truths, you draw a firm line between your past and present, choosing your new path over the fractures of your old life.

⚠️ warnings; none

★ previous ; next

☆ story masterlist

The cold expanse of the stone training chamber greeted you as you stepped through the heavy wooden doors. The air was thick with the hum of residual magic, a constant reminder of the battles fought here before you. Flickering sconces cast elongated shadows that danced mockingly against the dark stone walls, their flames sputtering in anticipation.

Your Mother stood at the center, a sharp, commanding figure whose very presence demanded attention. Her arms crossed over her chest, and her piercing gaze fixed on you with the weight of expectations that could crush lesser souls.

“This will be your life until the ceremony,” she said without preamble, her voice sharp and unwavering, cutting through the heavy air like a blade. “If you fail here, you fail the coven.”

The words struck hard, meant to suffocate any flicker of defiance, but you squared your shoulders, refusing to falter. You stepped forward into the center of the chamber, the hum of magic growing louder with each step.

Training began immediately, and there was no mercy in her approach.

Waves of fire and wind lashed toward you, their force leaving you barely enough time to react. You conjured barriers of shimmering energy to counter her attacks, your hands moving instinctively in intricate patterns, your magic sharp and focused.

“Too slow!” she barked, her voice echoing off the walls as the ground beneath your feet rumbled ominously. Thorned vines erupted from the stone, their sharp tips lashing out with deadly precision. You sidestepped, barely avoiding the onslaught, and summoned a blade of pure energy to sever the attacking tendrils. The effort sent a sharp thrum of power through your bones, but you held steady.

Every spell she cast, every challenge she threw, was designed to break you—to punish you for leaving, for daring to defy her control. Yet you met her assaults with spiteful determination, the simmering rage within you sharpening your focus. Each successful counterstrike was a small victory, a reminder that you were not as fragile as she wished to believe.

“You’ve grown complacent,” she sneered, her tone icy. “The time you wasted outside the coven has softened you!"

Her words were daggers, meant to carve away your resolve, but you gritted your teeth and replied evenly, “And yet I’m still standing.” The flicker of amusement that crossed her face was fleeting, but it didn’t escape your notice.

The grueling session stretched on for hours, testing every ounce of your endurance. By the time she finally called for a halt, your body ached, your clothes were singed and dusted with soot, and sweat clung to your skin. Yet, despite the pain and exhaustion, you remained standing.

“Adequate,” your Mother said, her tone clipped as she assessed you with a critical eye.

You wiped at the sweat on your brow, your expression neutral as you replied, “I’ll do what’s required.”

She nodded once, a silent acknowledgment of your effort, before turning on her heel and striding toward the exit. Her long robes swept behind her as the heavy door swung shut, leaving you alone in the quiet chamber.

For a moment, you allowed yourself to breathe, letting the tension in your shoulders ease as you took in the stillness of the room. The scorched stone and scattered debris bore testament to your struggle, but it wasn’t defeat that lingered in the air—it was resolve.

You straightened, brushing off the grime from your clothes. There was still so much to do, so much to prove, but you would face it all, one step at a time.

. . .

Later that night, as exhaustion weighed heavily on you, Sybil pressed close to your side, her warmth grounding you in ways no magic ever could. You trudged down the hallway, the familiar path to your room offering a small sense of solace.

“Miss, please—wait!” a voice called out behind you, urgent and trembling.

You turned to see Marnie, the young maid who had delivered your clothes days earlier. Her pale face was illuminated by the faint glow of the lantern she held aloft, her chest heaving as though she had been running. She grasped your arm tightly before you could react, her fear palpable.

“There’s no time to explain,” she whispered, her voice strained. “You have to come with me. Now.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but the desperation in her wide eyes silenced you. Without waiting for a response, she tugged at your arm, pulling you down a corridor you hadn’t walked in years.

Sybil let out a low growl but followed close, her alert posture mirroring your unease. The flickering lantern light in her grasp guided your way through twisting hallways that grew colder and darker the farther you went. The air grew damp, and the faint scent of earth replaced the sterile stillness of the upper floors.

Marnie led you to a narrow staircase descending into the underground levels of the manor. She hesitated at the threshold, her voice breaking as she urged, “Please. You’ll understand when you see.”

You followed her down the stone steps, the silence broken only by the distant drip of water and the soft scrape of your boots against the floor. The lantern’s light cast eerie shadows on the rough stone walls, making the underground space feel even more oppressive.

At the bottom of the staircase, an older woman stood waiting. Recognition flickered—it was Fiona, a maid from your childhood who had always been kind to you. Her sharp eyes studied you intently, worry etched into her lined face.

“Keep watch,” Fiona instructed the two younger maids at her side. They nodded nervously before scurrying off alongside Marnie, their hurried footsteps fading into the distance.

Fiona motioned for you to follow, leading you into a small, cluttered supply room. The air inside was stale, the shelves lined with long-forgotten supplies.

Then you saw him.

Johnny.

He sat by a small table near the far wall, his long hair held up in a messy ponytail. His once-distinctive mohawk was completely gone. In front of him sat a cup of tea, untouched and forgotten, its faint aroma mingling with the stale air of the room.

You froze in the doorway, your breath catching in your throat as your mind struggled to process what you were seeing. Of all the scenarios you had imagined, this—him—had never even crossed your mind. The sight of him here, in this place, after everything, left you reeling.

At the sound of your steps faltering, Johnny looked up, his tired eyes meeting yours. In them, you saw everything—pain, regret, longing, and something that looked like desperation. He stood slowly, his movements tentative as though he feared any sudden action might shatter what fragile thread held this moment together.

He murmured your name, his voice rough and low, holding the weight of everything unsaid. He took a hesitant step toward you, his entire being radiating fragility, a vulnerability you had never associated with him. He looked unlike anything you had ever seen before: broken and raw, stripped of the easy charm and boisterous energy that had once defined him.

But before he could take another step, Sybil moved.

The Borzoi stepped in front of you, her white fur bristling as she lowered her head and bared her teeth. A deep, rumbling growl rolled from her chest, reverberating in the small room as her sharp fangs caught the dim light. Her stance was protective and unyielding, her hackles raised as she planted herself firmly between you and the man she had once loved, just as you had.

Johnny stopped in his tracks, his face crumpling as though Sybil’s reaction struck him harder than any blow. For a moment, he stood there, his hands twitching at his sides as if unsure whether to raise them in surrender or let them fall in defeat.

You couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. The tension in the room was suffocating, the charged silence broken only by the low, menacing growl emanating from Sybil’s throat. And in that moment, all you could do was stare, the weight of the past colliding with the sharp sting of the present, leaving you rooted to the spot.

His fragile appearance fueled the fire rising in your chest. You took a sharp step forward, your voice cracking as it rose.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you hissed, your words laced with equal parts panic and fury. 

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” you continued, your hands shaking as you gestured toward him. “Coming here—do you even understand what this place is?! You’ve put yourself in danger, Johnny, and for what?! To satisfy some... some whim?!”

Johnny raised his hands in a placating gesture, his face pale and his eyes pleading. “I had to see you. Just once—”

“No!” you snapped, cutting him off. “You had to stay away! Do you think this is a game?! Do you think they won’t find you?! That they won’t—” Your breath hitched as the weight of the situation bore down on you, threatening to overwhelm your already frayed nerves.

He took a hesitant step forward, his hand reaching out toward you. “Lass, please, I—”

“Don’t you dare touch me,” you spat, your voice shaking but firm. His hand fell to his side, his shoulders sagging under the weight of your words. For a moment, he looked as though the world had crumbled beneath him, but you couldn’t afford to feel sympathy—not now, not here.

“Sit down,” you barked, pointing sharply to the chair he had just risen from. “Sit your ass down, Johnny!”

He hesitated, his mouth opening as if to protest, but the look in your eyes brooked no argument. Slowly, he sank back into the chair, his posture defeated, though his blue eyes remained fixed on you, filled with unspoken words.

Your attention snapped to Fiona lingering by the entrance. “You need to leave,” you said firmly, your voice steady despite the turmoil inside you. “Go back to your posts. I won’t have you involved in this any further.”

Fiona hesitated, her lips pressing into a thin line. “But, miss—”

“I said go!” you insisted, your voice breaking slightly but your resolve unshaken. “I’ll handle this.”

Fiona’s eyes softened with something like pity or concern, but she nodded reluctantly, the door creaked shut behind her, leaving you alone with Johnny.

You turned back to him, your chest heaving as you tried to catch your breath. Johnny’s gaze never wavered from you, his presence simultaneously infuriating and heart-wrenching.

You exhaled heavily, the tension in your shoulders weighing you down as you pulled out a chair and sat across from him. Your legs felt weak, the exhaustion of the day compounding with the whirlwind of emotions his presence had brought. You glanced at Sybil, still poised like a sentinel by your side, her eyes never leaving Johnny.

“Stand down,” you murmured, your tone soft but commanding. She huffed, her tail flicking in irritation, but she obeyed, retreating a step. Even so, her ears remained pricked, and her gaze darted toward the door every so often, her alertness unshaken.

Johnny fidgeted in his chair, his hands gripping the edge of the table as if it were the only thing keeping him grounded. His lips parted, and the words began to spill out in a flood, his brogue thickened by his heightened state. “It was Leah—no, not her—she didn’t mean it, we know that now, but it wasn’t about her, it was about you, lass. The curse, it was a parasite—Alejandro said—and it... it wasn’t meant for us. It was for you.” His voice cracked, his sentences tangling as he struggled to get it all out. “They wanted to isolate you, to—to pull you away, and we—God, we didn’t see it—”

“Stop,” you cut him off sharply, raising a hand. His words faltered, his wide, desperate eyes meeting yours.

With a flick of your wrist, you waved at the cup of tea sitting untouched on the table before him. A faint shimmer of heat rippled over its surface, steam curling lazily upward as you warmed it with a simple spell. “Drink,” you ordered firmly. “No talking. Not until it’s gone.”

He blinked, caught off guard, but you held his gaze with unyielding intensity. Slowly, he reached for the cup, his hands trembling slightly. His first sip was cautious, his lips pursed as the heat hit him, but he didn’t complain. Instead, he settled into a slow, deliberate rhythm, sipping the tea in silence.

The quiet between you was heavy but oddly grounding. You leaned back in your chair, your arms crossed as you watched him. The act of drinking forced him to pause, the heat of the tea slowing him down as he took each sip with care. His breathing evened out gradually, and the wild, frantic energy that had gripped him when you first entered the room began to dissipate.

Sybil shifted beside you, her head resting on her paws but her sharp eyes never leaving Johnny.

When he finally set the empty cup down, he let out a long, slow breath, his shoulders sagging as though the weight of the world had momentarily lifted. He looked up at you, his eyes clearer but no less filled with emotion. You said nothing, your own expression unreadable as you waited for him to speak.

He began to speak, his voice quieter and steadier than before, though tinged with the raw emotion that seemed to cling to him like a second skin. He recounted the events that led him here—the unraveling of the pack, the curse that had ensnared them, and how everything had been orchestrated to isolate you. There were details you hadn’t known, fragments of the story that filled in gaps you hadn’t realized existed. He told you about the painstaking journey he had taken to track you down, the guilt that weighed on all of them, and how they were left trying to piece themselves back together in your absence.

You listened, your expression neutral, though your heart churned with a mix of emotions you refused to let surface. The words were significant, the pieces he shared adding clarity to the murky picture of what had happened, but in the end, none of it really mattered. Not now. The past was carved into stone, the choices made and the consequences paid. 

Whatever answers he sought from you weren’t ones you could give him—not anymore.

When he finally stopped, silence fell between you, heavy and expectant. His hands fidgeted with the edge of the table, and his blue gaze flicked to yours, searching.

You leaned forward slightly, your hands resting on the table as you fixed Johnny with a firm, steady gaze. The flickering light from the overhead light cast soft shadows across his face, emphasizing the gaunt hollowness that hadn't been there before. He opened his mouth to speak again, but you raised a hand, cutting him off before he could start.

“No,” you said, your voice sharp yet steady. “My turn now.”

He froze, his lips pressing into a thin line as he sat back in his chair, his shoulders tense. His hands fidgeted on the table, but he didn’t interrupt.

“I’m not coming back,” you began, your tone resolute. “Not to the pack, not to that town, not to the life I left behind. If you can tell Laswell that, she can sell off everything I left. Maybe Farah or Alex will want something—it doesn’t matter anymore.”

Johnny flinched as though you’d struck him, his eyes widening slightly. “You don’t mean that,” he whispered hoarsely. “You can’t mean—”

“I do,” you cut him off again, your voice soft but unyielding. “I’ve made my decision, Johnny. I’m staying here. I’m taking leadership of the coven.”

The words hung heavy in the air, and for a moment, he just stared at you, his mouth slightly open as if trying to process what you’d just said. His hands curled into fists, body coiled like a spring ready to snap.

“You don’t have to—” he began, his voice rising, but you cut him off with a sharp glare.

“Don’t you dare,” you snapped, your voice low but venomous. “Don’t you dare tell me I don’t have to do this. You think I’m being forced? That I don’t know what I’m doing?” You leaned closer, your eyes narrowing as your anger flared. “I paid the price to heal Leah.”

Johnny froze, his breath catching in his throat. “What?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

“I paid the price,” you repeated, your voice trembling slightly but no less firm. “Leah—she’s alive, she’s whole, because of me. And maybe that’s for the best after everything.”

His face crumpled, his hands clenching tighter as he leaned forward, his lips parting to say something—anything—but no words came out. The guilt and anguish in his eyes were almost too much to bear, but you didn’t let it break you.

“You’ll relay this to the pack,” you said, your voice softening but still firm. “Tell them I’m staying here. That I’m rebuilding my life, in my way, on my terms. And please...” You paused, swallowing the lump in your throat as you struggled to keep your composure. “Don’t come back. Any of you. My heart has endured too much already, and this—this is the least you can do for me. All of you.”

Johnny’s head dropped. For a moment, he looked utterly defeated, the weight of your words pressing down on him like a physical force. 

“I’ll tell them,” he finally murmured, his voice so quiet you almost didn’t hear it. He lifted his head just enough to meet your gaze, his eyes shining with unshed tears. “I’ll tell them. But—” His voice broke, and he had to take a moment to steady himself. “You’ll always have us, lass. No matter where you are.”

You said nothing, your expression unreadable as you leaned back in your chair, your hands falling to your lap. Sybil nudged your leg gently as you tried to keep the tears pricking at the corners of your eyes at bay.

Johnny sat there for a long moment, before he finally stood, his movements slow and reluctant. His gaze lingered on you for a heartbeat longer, as if committing you to memory, before he turned and headed for the door.

He paused at the door, his hand resting on the frame, his shoulders hunched under the weight of everything left unsaid. Slowly, he turned back to you, his eyes glistening with tears that clung stubbornly to his lashes. His voice, when he spoke, was hoarse, trembling with emotions he could barely contain.

“Can I... touch you?” he asked, his words cracking under the strain. “Just once. One last time.”

For a moment, you hesitated, your gaze flicking to Sybil, who remained at your side, her head raised and alert. But Johnny stood there, his hands shaking as if even the question itself was too much to bear.

You nodded, a small, reluctant gesture and stood up. “Alright,” you whispered. “But just this once.”

He stepped forward hesitantly, as though afraid you might change your mind, his movements slow and careful. When he reached you, his trembling hand reaching up to touch your face. His fingers were rough but gentle as they traced the curve of your cheek, his thumb brushing softly against your skin. He closed his eyes, his breath shuddering as he pressed his forehead briefly against yours.

Then, as if unable to help himself, he dipped his head, burying his nose in the crook of your neck. He brought you snug against himself, one arm wrapped around your waist, and the other cradling the back of your head.

You shivered, the familiar sensation of him so close stirring a wave of emotions you couldn’t quite control. But you didn’t pull away, allowing him this moment, this chance to hold onto what had already been lost.

“Your scent,” he murmured against your skin, his voice breaking as a tear slipped down his cheek. “I just... I needed to remember. Keep it close.”

You stiffened slightly as he shifted, his lips brushing close to your face, but you pressed a hand lightly against his chest, stopping him. “No,” you said softly, firmly.

He didn’t argue, didn’t try to push further. Instead, he drew back slowly, his tear-filled gaze locking with yours for a final, heart-wrenching moment. “Thank you,” he whispered, his voice heavy with sorrow and gratitude.

Without another word, he turned and walked toward the exit, his steps slow and heavy, as if every movement cost him. You stayed rooted to the spot, watching as he disappeared through the doorway and into the darkened corridors beyond.

When you finally stepped outside to see him off, the sky was painted with the soft hues of the encroaching dawn. Johnny’s figure was barely visible as he disappeared into the edge of the forest, his long hair catching the faint light before he vanished entirely into the shadows.

Tears slipped silently down your cheeks, hot and unbidden, as you stood there in the stillness of the morning. Sybil pressed her nose to your hand, a soft, comforting whine escaping her as you wiped your face roughly and turned back to the house.

You didn’t look back again. There was nothing left to see.

banner credit

[evieelyzabethh]

"soft"

⭒"baby do you wanna touch? look at how you make me blush"⭒ Arcane characters as different romance tropes {fem reader}

cast ✧ Vi, Ekko, Jayce, Viktor, Mel

cw ☞ slightly pervy jayce, lots of fluff

♞Vi ~ Opposites Attract♞

♞Vi really likes being able to be the protector. It's a bit too much pressure having to be a good role model, she struggles with the idea of people looking up to her. She's brash, she has a foul mouth, she can never seem to make the right decision, the only thing she feels like she's capable of is fighting. She's always rough, her hands are perpetually bloody and bandaged, her lip is cut, her hair cut is choppy and haphazard, she stomps when she walks. No one expects her to be with someone so soft

♞Not Piltie soft, not softness afforded to you because you'd never know suffering. Not soft like a downy blanket or a stuffed animal, soft like a worn t-shirt or like the petal of a flower. Something worn and broken down, something that rather than becoming hard or wilting away, it remained. Soft doesn't have to mean innocent, sometimes the softness is out of spite; out of determination to thrive. Softness as a form of rebellion.

♞ She would be in awe of you. Everyone in the lanes ends up fucked up. Overrun with shimmer, Grey, and cycles of violence, you don't have a choice in being hardened. Theories of evolution don't support softness; no good armor is gentle. And yet, the way you patch up her wounds, the way you communicate, the way you move, is all languid and smooth. You're like water and, for the first time, she isn't oil, she's ice. You aren't all that different, all she has to do is be willing enough to melt into you.

♞This isn't to say your helpless. You can throw a punch just fine but defense may just be the best offense. Turns out, knowing how to punch isn't as important as knowing when. You play defense, you bob and weave through physical situations and have a way with words that isn't often appreciated down here. In a world where everyone is always on high alert, shoulders tensed and fists clenched, you just breathe. It sounds simple, what if you just didn't fight? Not just through actions, but also through how you move. If stealing is inevitable, why not learn to grow? It's not just kindness, it's awareness. Why is stealing inevitable? Why do all of us starve? Why do we fight the neighbor; because the people who built the complex are too far.

♞Your softness brings out domesticity in Vi. Even though she still enjoys pit fighting on the side and the occasional bar fight, it's only because she looks forward to coming home. She enjoys the warm bubble baths and the shoulder massages, she's satisfied to see all the dirty and grime wash down the drain, she likes feeling not just clean but lighter. It's safe. Usually, she's the bigger spoon, but in your admittedly cramped tub, you sit behind her, and she allows her head to sink into your chest, the warm water sitting at her chin as she listens to you giggle as you kiss her sudsy neck and ask how her day was.

♞She indulges you when it comes to your self care days. She rolls her eyes as you slide the fluffy headband over her face, but she can no longer hide her content when you hold her hand to paint her nails after you use some sort of wooden tool to dig the dirt from beneath him. Every night with you feels like heaven after she just dug her way out of hell.

♞The perfect end to these nights is requesting you read something to her. It doesn't really matter what, it could be some cheesy romance or sciency textbook you swiped from Jayce's lab. She forgets how much she likes to read; she often doesn't have the time for it. And sometimes the words tend to swim around, floating through one ear and out the other, fighting to stick into the grooves of her brain but ultimately slipping right out, but even that does matter. It's the time spent. It's the hard cover and the soft pages. It's you and her.

★Ekko ~ Time Travel Romance★

★He is convinced you were made in a lab. He thinks it is impossible that you were just made that way, seemingly made just for him. Sometimes it's like you share the same brain, you think of the same jokes, you have the same ideas, it's like there some sort of bridge between both of your brains where even your synapses connect and blink in unison

★He's sure there's some sort of sappy saying that applies, one or two times of these occurrences just being a coincidence but after ten it's fate. What does it mean if these instances are innumerable, these moments of connectedness. Meeting you was a coincidence, sure, but you were always you before you met him. You laughed at the same things, you laughed in the same voice that from the start seemed to be in perfect harmony with his, the sound came from the same lips he's kissed thousands of times that practically fit together like puzzle pieces. In his mind, maybe even meeting wasn't a coincidence, with how perfectly you slot together, maybe even that was fate

★He was never even a big "fate" guy. He likes to believe that every one's choices are their own just as every one's consequences should be their own. The idea that his forever was already planned and picked for him, even if it was the most perfect pairing he could ask for, wasn't appealing because it wasn't his pick. His choice matters. His actions matter. He doesn't think of it in a "fate" way, he doesn't think he was always destined to pick you, he hardly even thinks of you as a separate entity

★Not to get existential or anything, but people are born from a hole and get placed into one after they die. Stars hit the end of their life cycles and from their ash come new stars. Every second someone dies and someone else is born. It's all so incredibly cyclical. Everyone ends up back where they started until forever. I mean, there's no proof for it, but surely the heat death of the universe would cause the spark that creates a new one, to be alive is to make life. The very act of breathing gives life to trees, the life of everything is in some way dependent on the life of another, all of which provides life to the whole. And surely our ash won't disappear, just as even the tiny neurons in our brain remember those whose voices, scents, and touch we can't remember. Essense never seems to leave. Your own is your own and it seems to have a never-ending magnetic urge to come back together and be whole. The cycle never ends because everything desires to be whole.

★That's how Ekko feels. With everything desiring to be whole, time is the throughway. It's the channel that brings everything together, not fate. You weren't destined to be together, you were made to be together, you had always been together. Two parts of the same whole which is part of an even bigger whole that has yet to be discovered and found, but you will together. The larger the magnet, the bigger its field of attraction, and you two will grow and grow until either you have become completely whole, or you shatter from passion in the process, the pieces of you mixed and spread to be reunited even stronger just a few moments later. Moments that could be seconds or millennia. When time is the only infinite and the desire to be whole is constant, what significance do those moments matter.

★Ekko knows better than to push the limits of time, so I use this trope very lightly. He does travel through time, but in much smaller ways. 4 second ways. It's a beautiful thing to not be confined to the parameters of time, even better to understand the sheer power of the second. This isn't to say he's never felt the urge to go back further, only that he knows that the universal and personal consequences would be even greater

★Thinking of it less like time travel, it's more akin to a replay feature. To go back further and change too much maybe wouldn't be a sci-fi disaster, but it certainly would be a disaster in his mind. Sure, bringing stopping Powder from blowing up that factory would have maybe prevented the death of Vander and even further instability in Zaun, but he would remember. The weight of his time would never leave him. What he changes in a matter of 4 seconds has changed the outcome of his entire universe, he knows that small time can matter just as much as big time. That big change certainly would change how you meet. If you two ever meet. He cherishes what you two have to even risk knowing what he left behind for the potential to make everything better. In his whole life of being selfless, this minutely selfish act he believes he's owed. He has absolutely no desire to push forward.

★Instead, he replays his little moments with you. Sometimes it's to prevent small mishaps, like dropping your favorite mug or the embarrassment of tripping in public. Sometimes it's just to relive you. It's a guilty pleasure of his when he can't stop you from leaving to replay your goodbye kiss at least once more until he's ready to let you go. Some may say he abuses his control of time, but he never takes what isn't his, so what can be the harm in elongating what's already eternal.

❂Jayce~ She Fell First, He Fell Harder❂

❂Jayce is hard not to love when you understand him. Just visually he's appealing enough, but internally he's very endearing. He's dorky, and sweet, and one of the most intensely loving people you've ever met. It's a real skill to so thoroughly have faith in humanity. Yes, he's naive, and rather dependent, and maybe a bit of a perv, but he's also touch-starved with a deep desire to be affectionate. He's touchy; emotionally and physically.

❂ Things are always sweet, even before he really falls. He does all the gentlemenly things, he holds open the doors, he ties your shoes, he gives you his jacket when you get cold. They're noticeable actions, his consuming hand on your knee as he steadies himself while double knotting your laces, his large jacket swallowing you in his scent and warmth. Eventually, it gets smaller. He keeps hair ties on his wrists, when you can't decide on what you want for dinner, he knows for you, your music recommendations being to pop up on his playlists. Rather than consuming you, he's being consumed.

❂There is no such thing as being too close. He actually gets frustrated that he can't be even closer. His favorite moments are when he's wrapped in you, when he's listening to your music, when you hug him, when your thighs are wrapped around his head. He likes being consumed. He likes knowing how your brain works; what makes you tick. He likes to know what you like, what you don't like, what you think of his haircut, what you think of his projects, what you think of him. He's probably asked you that a million times. What was your first impression of him? Did you love him at first sight? Did you think he was handsome?

❂If he could crawl into your skin he could. Being a very touchy person, it's not a surprise to anyone that he enjoys having sex with you. It's how he feels most intimate; he likes to be inside you, it's how he feels most connected. It's not the simple fact that you feel good, he likes the warmth, he likes how you suffocate him, he likes to make you feel good, he lives for it, it's the fact that there is no clear separation between the two of you. It's not clear where you end, and he begins, whether it's his cum or yours leaking out of you, whether it's his moans or yours bouncing off the wall. He likes there being ways of separating the two of you, so thoroughly mixed, there's no point in pulling him out of you.

❂While you fell first, there was never a moment where he didn't love you. Certainly never a moment where he didn't notice you. It's kinda like you were always there, and eventually you coagulated into something so great he couldn't just ignore you anymore. You were always in his lab, always in the corner of his eyes, always looking out for him, always lingering. Your scribbles on his notes, the clicks of your shoes, your fingerprints on his machines. He never didn't like you, it's just that the like accumulated to love and, if you can believe it, the love became something else entirely. He's a scientist; The Man of Progress. If nothing else, he is an inventor. He used science to make magic, surely, he can make love into something even greater.

❂He draws you constantly. Your name lives in the margins of his notes, your face can be made from his pointless scrawls, your voice can be heard through his. Even when he's not thinking, he's replicating pieces of you. You are his brain's base state, that is how totally you consume him.

☽Viktor ~ Oblivious☾

☽Viktor is someone who never put much emphasis on a relationship. He liked to focus on his craft, spend all day in his lab, and go home to his empty apartment, maybe crack open a bottle and read near his desk lamp. He just never thought he needed it. Obviously, relationships with others are important, but he never expected to find what he wanted in a partner from Piltover

☽It couldn't be clearer that he was from Zaun. The way he dressed, the way he spoke, hell his illness is a byproduct of him living in Zaun. You can take the man from his home, but you will never take his home from him. This being said, he's no stranger to the cold looks and the effort put in to minimize his efforts. Jayce's name is on the patents, Jayce speaks to the people, Jayce is the man of progress, not Viktor. If he wanted affection and appreciation, he wouldn't think to look where he was at.

☽This being said, he is completely oblivious to you crush on him. It's not even a complete focus on work, it's because he wouldn't assume that of a Piltie. It's also not a self-worth thing, he has never been insecure of his home, and he has even less felt a desire to assimilate better within Piltover and beg for their approval. He is as prideful as he is stubborn, he has never thought he was less than. Due to the arrogant attitudes of the world around him, he assumed you were the same

☽He takes your kindness for pity as for. He assumes you tidy his space as a passive aggressive way of telling him he's a slob. He thinks your warm greetings are all part of some large joke. He assumes the snacks you try and share with him are out of obligation rather than sincerity. He never listens to Jayce when he tries to tell him that you're just nice. What would Jayce know? Everyone is nice to him because he's...well, Jayce. He's been to council meetings, he's seen the Lanes, he's heard the snide remarks since he got here, he knows that kindness to people like him is never just kindness.

☽Still, as you persist, he softens some. He finds that you're quite nice to talk to. The more you come around, the more he expects you to. Almost anxious, he's filled with something in his chest, maybe anticipation. He wants to know the ideas you have on the new blueprints he just drafted. He wants to hear about your studies. He wants to hear about that book you started reading. It's a breath of fresh air to have someone to talk to about non-work matters. A friend is what he thinks of you, and how he thinks you see him. Never mind how your eyes seem to dodge his gaze and your cheeks redden on the rare occasion that his hand brushes over yours or his knee grazes your thigh. He doesn't even try and make excuses for it because he doesn't even notice it.

☽He also doesn't notice a few things about himself. Mainly about how he puts a brush through his hair in the morning or how he straightens his tie while he waits for your knock at the door. His thigh bouncing is surely just because it's colder than usual in the lab. He doesn't notice how much he talks about you. How much he looks back over the notes you leave, both the meaningful ones and the small hearts and stars you leave on his pages. Even worse, he doesn't notice when you ask him to be your date to an upcoming gala

☽He thought you were kidding. Galas weren't at all his thing, he wasn't that smooth on his feet, and to be quite honest, he found most of those around him to be insufferable. He knew you enjoyed things like this, and strangely after mentioning his mind would infrequently wander to images of you all dolled up, but he didn't picture himself with you. Oblivious to your very obvious crush on him, he doesn't see himself as someone you would want in your happiest moments. So, when you asked if he had any plans that night, and he mentioned his lab, and you asked if you could meet him there to escort him to the party, he thought you were kidding. You were not kidding.

☽You looked beautiful. Viktor isn't often at a loss for words, but when he heard you knock and walked over to open the door for you, his bad leg nearly gave out, pushing himself further into his cane. He looks...disheveled. Glasses perched low on his nose, ink on his hands, hair in a state of disarray, wrinkled clothes. Even worse, you looked disappointed. You tried to make a joke of it, asking if that's what he planned on wearing, and he replied in a confused tone that he didn't think you were going to go at all.

☽You cry and for the first time he recognizes that the way he feels may not be as uncaring as he thought. He's bad at comfort, lightly tapping your shoulder as you confess through labored breaths that you really liked him and you thought he liked you back and if he really didn't want to be bothered with you, he could've just said as such. You push away from him, surprisingly, eyes puffy as you notice his shocked impression for the first time. "I didn't know." is all he can muster. He didn't know you liked him, and he certainly didn't know he liked you.

☽Even more surprisingly, as you dust yourself off to spend the rest of your night alone with a pint of ice cream, he pulls you in for a kiss. It's awkward and stiff, but when he realizes what he's doing, his eyes finally close and he holds your face as he wipes the tears from your eyes. He apologizes about the gala, not that it mattered all that much now. You had only wanted to dance with him, which you did all night long anyway.

☼Mel~ Friends to Lovers☼

☼Affections is something that has never come all that easy to Mel. She was always told that she needed to be the wolf, she was supposed to be cold, unfeeling, and ruthless. And while that never would've been her, affection is not her first instinct, receiving or giving. She has gotten quite comfortable with you over the years.

☼The friends to lovers would be so smooth that there is no place you could pinpoint when the friends became lovers. Even as friends, she spent more time with you than anyone else. You took your meals together, you practically lived together, you worked together. So many nights were spent just casually in each other's presence, slowly getting closer as you would move from her couch, then the chair by her bed, to being halfway up under her as you fell asleep sprawled on top of her sheets.

☼Even more than the close proximity, was the emotional and physical intimacy. Learning about her mom, her brother, hearing her question what she's even doing here in Piltover, listening as she dreams of a world with no rulers and no warring countries and just peace where she can live on her own little island and just sleep. A world where her mom feels at peace enough to stop making war, a world where there is no undercity, no topside, just the sun, the land, and peace.

☼And she tells you all of this and more. Simpler and lighter things, that new dress she saw when window shopping, the latest gossip, this new tea she tried a week ago, and she tells you with her hand casually thrown over yours or her head on your shoulder. She doesn't notice when she starts, but eventually her hugs become less sporadic. It's no longer startling for her to just come up to you and hug you, and when you ask her why, she just replies with a smile and says because she wanted to. She does a lot of things because she wants to, lightly running her hands through your hair, lightly bumping into you when walking side by side, plopping down right next to you as you finish work.

☼You two had been inseparable for a while now. While not sharing every moment of the day together, the moments that matter are always spent in each other's company. The hard moments after meetings with her mother, the tiring late nights after a long day of having to be social, the happy times of enjoying the hard work of a new recipe. Even before people started speculating if you had been dating, it was always Mel and You. You two were almost defined by each other, traits being compared in relation to who the other was. You were nicer but Mel was more talkative. You were always linked together in conversation.

☼Ambessa wasn't a fan of this, of course. She knows what it feels like for others to make you weak, and she may have a point when she tells Mel that to protect herself, she also had to protect you. However, Ambessa underestimates her daughter. She underestimates your bond. Mel has no qualms with being your protector just as you don't mind being hers. Mel understands love far better than her mother does, love isn't only having someone to protect but also having someone to protect you. You aren't some princess in a castle, and she is no knight who must keep the dragons from your tower, you can take care of yourself. If you need her, she's there. Love is her willingness to be there, it doesn't force her

☼Mel doesn't question anything about the two of you. She loves the way you both flow. She cares for you deeply. That's all there is to it. She never saw the point in putting any sort of label on it, she's been telling her she loves you since she realized that she did. There's never been any shame in that, because she does love you. What's the point in saying I love you as a friend or as a partner, she loves you in a way that transcends both those terms. She loves you deeply. So deeply it fills her, it fuels her, it makes her feel whole. Though, you've always made her feel whole.

☼So, when she starts referring to you as her lover, there is no big fanfare. The relationship had never really changed, how you felt certainly didn't change either, just the name you told everyone else to put on it.  

[dixons-sunshine]

I don't really know why I did this. I just heard the sound on TikTok and this was the first thing that popped up in my mind lmao. (I'm not funny, I'm so sorry.)

[all-purpose-dish-soap]

Youve mentioned that shark soap is the first to use remora (I can't spell today) reader as a sex toy.

Does this possibly infer that someone else is the second 🤔

I 100% see it as price though. Or gaz,

hot filth coming right up <3

(shark mer 141 + remora mermaid reader au)

it’s Price. definitely Price the second time. probably because after Soap got to you, you became a little insatiable and you know... sleeping next to Price at night... things happen.

and Price is not opposed to Gaz joining in. (. ★ ᴗ ★.)

when it’s time to go to bed, Price lays back with you in his sandy cave nest. you press up into him and coil your tail, pressing the soft warmth of your body against his. even yawning and sleepy as you are, you know what your job is.

you set to work grooming his scales, his chest. you work your specialized palms meticulously across the planes of his body, leaving nothing untouched; no buildup of salt or grime unscraped.

it takes time. he’s much taller and broader a creature than you are.

he makes himself comfortable in his bed of sand, stretches out, and huffs as you situate yourself more firmly on top of him. your tail curls around his hip. he gives a low, pleased rumble. each brush of your nimble fingers soothes his mind and his ego. prized pet.

the sensation is strange—not quite a massage, but a satisfying feeling all the same. his muscles twitch as you brush over his chest. The beginnings of arousal coil in his stomach, and his scales grow warmer under your touch despite the cool water around them.

“that’s it,” he rumbles, placing his large hand on your hip. “keep going.”

you hum in acknowledgement.

under you, you feel him begin to unsheathe. you’re not surprised. this is the nightly routine, after all.

⬇ nsfw, d/s flavors + objectification, size diff, monster dicks, merman sex ⬇

you press your hips to his in idle response and line his emerging spear up to your sheath.

his hand on your hip gently squeezes. he shifts his body slightly to angle you properly.

“you’re in a rush, pet,” he chides, though he makes no move to stop you. in fact, he leans his head back. “you know i like to take my time.”

you bite your lip as the first cockhead pops out of his tail and directly into your slit. just the bulbous tip has your stomach muscles clenching. “s-sorry.”

“i know you are.” his fingers dig into your flesh in warning as you try to move. “but i’m not going to fuck you just like that.”

you rock against him anyway. as best you can—plant your palms on his chest and arch your back to better grind yourself down. he watches you writhe and buck against him like an animal in heat.

his free hand comes up to trace down your curved spine. “you’re being greedy. be good and let me set the pace.”

“mmhmm—!”

you try to slow, but you can’t. you want to be full. he smiles a slow, wicked smile. the tension in your body as you struggle to hold yourself back and fail is so pleasing. you look like you feel so empty without him.

“you’re being so naughty. is this how a good pet behaves, hm? trying to take more than you’re given?” he slides his hand around to your rear and squeezes it. “you’re going to wait until i say you can. you’re here to be used, not to beg me for what you want.”

you nod quickly. but still you rut your hips. you can catch him just right on your sensitive nub—

“stop that. you aren’t going to push me into going any faster.” he knows exactly where you’re trying to get him to touch you. he knows exactly how desperate you are. he gives your rear a firm slap. “behave.”

you whine. you make the prettiest little sounds when you’re desperate like this. you make so much noise, in fact, that Gaz stirs outside.

his voice echoes outside the cave. “sir?”

Price’s eyes don’t leave you. “what is it?” he calls back.

“is something wrong?” Gaz replies, hesitant.

“quite the opposite.”

you keep silent, now trying in earnest not to squirm. you can’t imagine Price wants to be found out like this—to be seen in so compromising a position.

you’d be wrong.

while you watch the dark cave entrance with wide eyes, Price pinches your nipple. you let out a loud gasp, bucking in shock.

Price grins. Gaz is right outside, listening to every sound with appropriate concern—why not take advantage of the opportunity? he wants Gaz to know.

he pinches again. harder. “come on, pet. make some noise for me.”

you cry out at the command, helpless to contain your pleasure.

he grows harder under you. “that’s a good girl,” he purrs. then he raises his voice. “Gaz, come.”

Gaz—pressed as close to the entrance of the cave as he could be without physically transgressing—is there in moments.

Price doesn’t so much as raise his eyes to Gaz in greeting. he simply shifts, finally pushing his cock into you to make you arch and better display you to his new audience. you struggle to suppress your whines, fins curling up behind you despite your best efforts.

Gaz’s gaze turns hungry and lingering. for all his performative concern, he must’ve been expecting this. but he doesn’t encroach. he doesn’t crowd you. he waits to be invited. permission must be granted before he can do anything but hover, eyes glued to you both.

“i said come. closer,” Price commands. “come look at my pretty toy.” he presses his hips up into yours, feeling himself slide deeper. your fingers flex and curl against his chest. such a small fish compared to them. a toy indeed.

soon, Gaz is pressed against your back, his hands feeling you up and down. Price is feeling indulgent—toward both of you—and Gaz is nothing if not an opportunist.

you get much, much more than you begged for. Price’s rough hands, his slow thrusts, the sweetened way orders fall out of his mouth like praise. Gaz’s steadying grip, his teeth on your shoulder, his cocks rutting into the curve of your spine, your ass.

following orders, isn’t he? both of you.

and you keep following those orders even after Price spends himself in you once—you clenching around him in euphoria after edging yourself so long awaiting his satisfaction; Gaz’s hands guiding his superior’s second cock into you with such rote efficiency you wonder who he wants to touch more. you’re swollen and used, and Price’s second cock feels bigger than the first. it’s all you can do to keep your eyes open as Gaz grabs your hips and pumps you up and down for Price’s pleasure.

Price watches with a lazy smile. it’s debauched. Gaz’s desperate need to please his superior; your willingness to be reduced and devoured; the way Gaz slides his own cock into you quietly; the way you take both his and Price’s without complaint despite the immense stretch. you arch between them, wrecked and writhing as they use you both for their own pleasure.

the friction of Gaz’s cock against his sends heat up Price’s spine, and he pulls out and fucks up into you, watching his length and Gaz’s disappear into your slit over and over until he cums again.

“such a good little pet,” Price growls through his teeth, low and sweet. “aren’t you?”

you promise you are. and you continue to be even when Price flips you over, putting you on your back as an offering to gaz.

it’s different when Gaz is having his way with you. it’s all for Price’s pleasure, the way he watches, the way he directs you—two of his favorite toys. Gaz keeps you open and on display to his superior and fucks you every way he knows Price likes.

each time Gaz speaks to you, touches you, moves you, it’s to please Price. but that’s what possesses you both—drives you and Gaz to the edge of your sanity, filled up by the overwhelming desire to please the man who watches you. you’re both props to each other. you’ve never wanted anything more.

as Gaz’s gentle orders turn strict and harsh, Price’s praise softens.

their words bleed together, and by the time they’ve had their fill of you, you’re more spent than you’ve ever been. a boneless, exhausted puddle, used and marked and bruised and deliriously happy.

Price runs his hand over the marks left over. handprints. bite marks. claims of ownership.

Gaz knows better than to hesitate. he wastes no time moving away with a nod from his superior. Price intends to enjoy his handwork—your weary form—alone.

you’re left gasping, body trembling and slick with spent pleasure. your hair is tangled, your body marked with bites and scratches, your eyes hazy from pleasure and exhaustion. despite it all, Price curls his big hand around your cheek. “are you satisfied?”

“if... if you are. sir.”

he smiles at the quivering of your voice, the way you still seek to please. “you don’t have anything else you’re craving, pet?”

it’s a teasing question. he knows you have nothing left to give, even if you wanted to.

your body twitches under his fingers as they trace you, sensitive from so much use. he sees how you shiver when he touches the bite marks left by Gaz’s possessive teeth. satisfaction coils in his stomach at the sight.

still. it’s a trick question to you. you can’t be sated until he is—you don’t want to be.

you press into his side and let your hand wander over his chest in a way that could be sweet or suggestive, depending on where his mind lingers.

it’s tempting to give you more. but he elects instead to sweep you into his arms and bury his face in your chest. you curl around him with a sweet sound.

“insatiable thing,” he rumbles. “sleep. you’ll have much more to tend to in the morning.”

more mer au / more Price / more Gaz / masterlist

[ohsc]

₊˚⊹♡ in a week | sam winchester x reader

based on the song in a week by hozier

a/n - i’ve been wanting to write this fic for SO long and i know it’s kinda short but i’m happy with how it turned out!! in a week is my favourite hozier song and honestly one of my favourite songs of all time and aaagh i just had to write something for it, i hope you like it!!

cws - fem!reader, 1.4k, character death, fatal injuries, blood, process of dying, hurt/comfort, mentions of heaven

other fics can be found on my masterlist

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

Sam knew as soon as he hit the floor that he wouldn’t be getting up again.

It was strange, how the cold of the air made his blood seem almost hot against his skin, staining his rapidly paling flesh with a deep red he’d seen far too many times it was a wonder it hadn’t become his favourite colour. His favourite colour was actually green, natural and calming, far from the monsters and grime of his day to day life, closer to the comfort of his brother’s eyes and his own whenever he looked in the mirror and knew that he was okay. The damp grass beneath him was green, and though he wasn’t okay, having her at his side somehow made it all alright.

There was blood on her too, not too dissimilar to his own injuries. They’d both been in the clutches of death far too many times for the feeling of the tiredness that had started to cling to their bones not to be similar, but it was the first time Sam had ever felt comfortable over the whole thing.

With her laid at his side, it felt almost peaceful.

“Come here, sweetheart,” his arm lifted to tuck around her and that was enough for him to wince at the movement through he just grit his teeth through it until her body was pressed up against his, slotted together amongst the damp grass and the flowers of the early spring nature. “That’s it, there we go.”

It had been a while since they’d both gotten to the floor. There had been a silent understanding in the fact that neither of them would return to their feet, that they would spend their final moments by each others side with the bugs and the dirt. Sam could list numerous times that he had been fearful of her life, had done everything he could to save her, because he simply couldn’t live without her, couldn’t let her die alone.

Bodies held against each other, blood mixed and soaked into the earth, they weren’t alone.

“Stars are out,” her voice trembled, far too breathy, but she still sounded so pretty. The same voice that whispered in his ear to wake him up and the last thing he heard before he fell asleep. Sam had always admired foreshadowing and the beauty behind it. “Look, it’s—” her breath stuttered on her next inhale and his hand easily found hers, cold skin pressed to cold skin, clinging with what little strength they both had, a silent comfort, encouragement. “—it’s Orion’s Belt.” She finished, and though Sam couldn’t quite make out the individual constellations through his blurred vision, he was happy to enlighten her regardless.

“It’s pretty,” he murmured, blinking up at the beads of light that blurred and warped in his vision, before his head tilted to look at her instead. Even as his vision broke down slightly, he could picture her features. The shape of her nose, her lips, the colour of her eyes, eyelashes that tickled her cheeks as she blinked or laughed or smiled at him. It was enough to bring a smile to his face and he leaned in to kiss her temple. “You’re so beautiful.”

Her breathing hitched, a wet catch in her chest, and he didn’t need to see the tears in her eyes to know that she’d started crying. Sam had known her for so long that she had become a part of him, her soul intertwined with his in golden string, so he knew all of her mannerisms and sounds. The tears weren’t for panic or pain, something closer along the lines of contempt, tears that settled with acceptance.

“I love you,” the words practically heaved out of her chest and her fingers trembled in his as she struggled to tighten her grip much. He had felt in real time as the strength in her body bled out along with the crimson that stained her clothed and skin. It would have been frightening if not for the way his own strength had left him, evaporating with every heavy exhale. “Sam, I—” another struggled breath, another significantly weakened squeeze to her hand. “—you’re my home.”

Sam didn’t realise that his fingers had started going numb until he lifted his free hand up to cup the side of her face, a cheek usually flushed with colour now just paled hidden beneath his palm as he held her. And despite the way his vision blurred, with tears that time, he smiled at her. It took a lot more effort than he liked though he leaned in and pressed his mouth to hers, lips soft and shaky breaths as he kissed her, pouring all of his affection and feelings into her mouth along with their last kiss. “I love you.”

When Sam laid back against the grass again, he knew he wouldn’t sit up again.

There was so much he could have said, so many words and kisses he could have given her in that moment, but as he glanced down at her once more, felt the heaving of her chest with each breath, it all felt unspoken. He was comfortable to lay at her side, he felt loved. Sam had often wondered over the years how he would finally be taken out, but in the arms of his lover in a field of grass under a pretty sky was better than anything he could have imagined. He couldn’t have pictured a calmer or more secure way than sealing his last breaths in the touch of his lover.

Their flesh was colder, paler, and if he had the energy in him he supposed he would have started shivering. The night was cold, a remainder of the biting winter freeze that was slowly being melted by the spring. Whenever the sun came up everything would warm, though Sam wasn’t sure if he’d see the next sunrise. His heartbeat was slowing, he knew hers was too.

“I’ll find you,” he promised softly, words more breath than voice, blinking through tears that felt hot on his cold cheeks as he struggled to squeeze her fingers. “If we don’t get there together I’ll find you, honey.”

A soft sniffle at his side. “You’d better, Winchester.”

Sam smiled, wet and shaking, tears fell when he couldn’t squeeze her hand anymore.

He supposed that it would take some time for them to be found, in a week or so. The field wasn’t really near anywhere populated. They’d be accustomed to the local wildlife and the bugs in the ground before their bodies were discovered, but there was a comfort in knowing she’d be at his side through it all.

Hours, they must have laid there in each others arms for, or years, Sam couldn’t really tell. Her hand was still tucked away in his by the time the sky started to glow orange and it made him smile softly, a final sunrise. They’d spent countless mornings on the road or on cases together, stole small moments away to appreciate the sight.

“Look, sweetheart,” he breathed, a struggle in itself to tilt his head towards hers. “Look at that.”

Only once he’d blinked through the film of tears the sight of her eyelids instead of her irises was unmistakable. Curled into his side, her hand tucked into his, she looked like she had done every morning at his side for the better part of his life. Only she was cold and pale, and her chest wasn’t moving anymore.

“Honey?”

She stayed still, a perfect imitation of beauty at his side, tucked amongst flowers and green grass, she looked so pretty.

The sound that left him was wet and shuddery, though somewhere in his mind he was thankful that she had left first, she could hold the door open for him.

With what little strength he had left Sam curled on his side, her body completely pressed up against his as his head dropped, forehead pressed to hers, hand still and discreet in hers. A deep breath left his lungs, and they didn’t expand again.

Their bodies were found in a week, at home with each other amongst the flowers.