#(rip the black ink i’m crying.)

[elizakai]

it’s not real if your eyes are shut.

(concept scribble lol)

there it is before the demons took over☠️

[soulofapatrick]

Let me help you - Rhysand x female reader 

Summary: Your period hits and Rhysand is there to help 

Words: 3.8K

Warnings; periods; pain

Y/N's POV

The moment I wake, the pain hits me like a tidal wave. It’s not the usual ache that comes with a period—no, this feels like my body is being torn apart from the inside. A low, guttural groan slips past my lips, my arms instinctively wrapping around my middle as the cramps twist and tighten like a vice. Sharp, unforgiving. It feels like I’m being ripped in two, like something is clawing its way through my flesh. 

“Gods,” I rasp, barely able to get the word out as another wave of pain surges, more violent than the last. It’s as if someone has taken a blade and is dragging it through my insides, slicing me open from the core. My skin is slick with cold sweat, each breath shallow and ragged as I curse whatever deity is responsible for this torture. Feyre and Morrigan warned me, but this… this is something else.

No one told me it would be like this.

I try to move, to do anything other than lie here helplessly, but the agony drags me under again, my muscles seizing so tightly I can hardly think. I force myself to sit up, gasping at the sensation of everything twisting in my gut. The room spins, the dizziness overwhelming. My vision darkens at the edges, and I have to grip the bedpost just to keep from passing out.

I try to breathe through the pain—deep breaths, in and out—but every inhale feels like it’s being cut short by the sharpness, the claws tearing into me from the inside. I can feel my pulse hammering in my ears, drowning out everything but the relentless throb. My whole body feels wrong, like it’s unraveling, bleeding me dry.

I need to get up. I need to clean myself up. I can feel the sticky warmth of blood pooling between my thighs, seeping through my nightgown, spreading like ink across the sheets. I have to get to the bathroom, grab a fresh pad, do anything to stop this mess. I manage to swing my legs over the side of the bed, but as soon as my feet hit the floor, the pain spikes again. A strangled cry escapes me, and I clutch my stomach, hunched over.

The world spins, black spots dancing in my vision. My legs feel like they’re made of water, trembling uncontrollably beneath me. I take a step—just one—and the ground rushes up to meet me. My knees hit the floor with a sickening thud, but I barely feel it through the haze of pain. I can’t move, can’t breathe. My body is paralysed by the sheer force of it.

Blood drips down my legs, a steady trickle that feels endless. Too much. Too much blood. It’s warm, sticky, and I know there’s more than there should be. It’s soaking through my nightgown, through the carpet beneath me, and the humiliation stings, but I’m too weak to do anything about it. My mind is too clouded with pain to even care.

Another cramp hits—harder this time. The pain shoots through me like lightning, and I gasp, doubling over as my muscles lock in agony. It feels like I’m dying. Gods, it really feels like I’m dying. Like something is clawing its way through my womb, ripping me apart from the inside out. My body feels like a battlefield, each pulse of pain a fresh wound.

And then, through the storm of agony, I feel him.

A gentle touch at the edges of my mind—Rhysand. His presence, usually so comforting, now feels too close, too intimate. His mental claws brush against my shields, tender and concerned. He’s looking for me, probably wondering why I didn’t show up for breakfast. I can feel his worry like a pressure against my thoughts, his claws scraping lightly as he tries to find a way in.

Are you alright? His voice, gentle yet insistent, echoes in my mind.

But I can’t let him in. Not now. Not like this. I’m covered in blood, curled on the floor like a wounded animal, and the idea of him seeing me this vulnerable is unbearable. So I slam my shields shut, cutting him off. Go away, I think, my mind a tangled mess of pain and shame. I can’t let him see me like this.

The pain flares again, and I curl tighter into myself, my arms wrapping around my middle in a vain attempt to hold myself together. My body trembles with each new wave of agony, and the blood… there’s so much blood. I can feel it running down my legs, sticky and warm, pooling beneath me, soaking into the plush carpet. I can’t stop it. I can’t even move.

I press my forehead to the cold floor, trying to focus on the coolness, anything to distract from the hell raging inside me. The cramps come in relentless waves, each one worse than the last, sharp and deep like knives being twisted into my flesh. I dig my nails into the carpet, trying to ground myself, but nothing helps. It’s unbearable. I’m suffocating under the weight of it, drowning in the pain, the embarrassment, the blood.

All I can do is lie here, curled up on the floor, hoping for it to end, knowing I have no choice but to endure it.

I wake to the sharp sound of the door slamming shut, jolting me out of the haze of pain and darkness. My mind is slow to catch up, my body even slower. Everything hurts, but the agony in my abdomen is the worst of it—sharp and brutal, cutting through the fog like a jagged blade. It feels like I’m being torn in two. I can barely move. My limbs are heavy, leaden, and when I try to sit up, the world spins around me.

Then I hear him.

"Shit," Rhysand’s voice is frantic, breathless, and close—too close. "What in the name of the Mother—" His words stop short as his footsteps close the distance between us, and before I can blink, he’s kneeling beside me. "Gods, there’s so much blood."

I try to respond, to tell him it’s fine, that I’m fine, but the words stick in my throat. I feel his fingers gently brush the hair off my clammy forehead, and even though I know I look a mess, a soft, involuntary whimper escapes me. Despite the situation, despite the pain, there’s a strange comfort in his touch—familiar, safe. I hate myself for needing him like this, for craving the warmth of his presence. He’s not mine, not really. We’re just… whatever we are.

But right now, I don’t care. Right now, I need him.

I manage to crack my eyes open, just enough to see the way his usually cool composure is cracking, his violet eyes wide with panic. "Why didn’t you say anything?" His voice is raw, full of frustration and worry, his hands hovering helplessly over me, unsure of what to do. He’s always so collected, always in control. Seeing him like this—flustered, panicking—it does something to me, something that tugs at my chest, despite the pain.

I don’t have the strength to speak. But I feel him again, the soft, familiar claws of his mind brushing against mine, asking for entrance. He’s trying to get through, trying to understand what’s happening. I almost shut him out again, the embarrassment of my situation too overwhelming. I don’t want him to see me like this—weak, vulnerable, covered in blood. But I can’t. I’m too tired, too shattered. I let him in, completely, giving him access to everything I’ve been trying to hide.

The moment he’s inside my mind, his panic shifts, morphing into concern, deep and sincere. His mental presence wraps around me like a warm blanket, his voice now a soft whisper in my thoughts. Tell me how to help you, darling. Please.

I feel the faintest shiver roll through me at the sound of his voice in my head, at the way he calls me darling. It’s always been just a word—nothing special—but now, with him, it feels like so much more. Even through the haze of pain, that flutter of warmth blooms in my chest, spreading through me. I wish I could answer him, but I can’t. The pain is all-encompassing, every thought, every breath consumed by it.

Without waiting for an answer, Rhysand moves. He scoops me into his arms with an ease that surprises me, as if I weigh nothing at all. I don’t even protest, too weak to do anything but lean into him, my head resting against his chest. His scent is everywhere now—night and mist, the faintest hint of salt and something purely him. It’s intoxicating, overwhelming my senses, and for a moment, just a brief moment, it distracts me from the pain.

The next thing I know, the world shifts around us as he winnows. The familiar sensation of weightlessness washes over me, and I squeeze my eyes shut against the sudden rush of air. When I open them again, we’re in his bedroom—no, his ensuite. It’s massive, opulent, and the smell of him lingers even stronger here. Everything, from the polished stone to the elegant fixtures, screams Rhysand. And all I can do is breathe him in.

He gently sets me down on the toilet, his touch lingering for just a moment before he moves toward the large, clawfoot bathtub. I can hear the water rushing, the soft hum of the pipes filling the space. He tests the temperature carefully, his brow furrowed in concentration. Even in my dazed state, I can’t help but watch him. He’s so beautiful, even like this, even with worry etched into every line of his face.

I let out a shaky breath, the pain ebbing and flowing like a tide, and I can’t help the thoughts that begin to swirl in my mind. He cares. He really cares. The realisation crashes into me like a wave. He could have sent someone else to help. He could have stayed distant, detached, like he usually is. But he didn’t. He came for me. He’s here, and he’s doing this for me.

I don’t realise I’m letting those thoughts slip through, letting him hear them. I don’t realise it until I feel him pause, his back still turned to me as he stands at the tub, his hands hovering over the water. For a moment, the only sound is the steady rush of water filling the bath. But then, I feel him. His mind brushes against mine again, gentle, but more intimate now, more knowing.

Of course I care. His voice in my thoughts is so soft, so tender, it sends a shiver through me. I’ve always cared.

My heart stutters in my chest, a fresh wave of heat flushing through my body, and I barely have the strength to register it. I didn’t mean for him to hear that. But I’m too tired, too broken to put up any walls. The pain is still sharp, but now… now it’s mingled with something else, something that feels like hope.

He turns around, his violet eyes meeting mine, and there’s something different in his gaze now. Something softer. He crosses the room with slow, measured steps, kneeling in front of me again, his hands gently cupping my knees. His touch is light, almost hesitant, but there’s a warmth to it that makes my chest tighten.

"Sweetheart," he murmurs, his voice low, a note of affection I’ve never heard from him before. "You’re going to be okay. I’m going to take care of you."

I don’t know why, but when he says sweetheart, it’s like something inside me melts. Despite the pain, despite the agony still tearing through me, I feel a tiny flicker of something warm, something safe. I want to protest, to tell him he doesn’t have to, that I can handle it on my own. But I can’t. I’m too tired, too weak. All I can do is nod, my breath hitching in my throat as he rises to his feet again, moving back toward the bath.

The water has reached the perfect height, steam curling up into the air, and Rhysand shuts off the faucet with a quick flick of his wrist. He watches the water for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts, before turning back to me. His expression is so gentle, so filled with concern, that it nearly brings me to tears.

Rhysand kneels beside me, his violet eyes soft yet steady, his brow furrowed in concern as he gently asks, “Are you okay with me helping you out of these?” His gaze flickers down to my blood-soaked clothes, and the weight of the question settles in the air between us. His voice is calm, but there’s something tender in it, something that almost undoes me. The way he says it—so careful, so respectful, as if I have the strength to refuse.

I give a small, barely-there nod, my body too weak to speak, and without hesitation, his hands move with an almost reverent gentleness. He never looks at me too long, his gaze never lingers anywhere intimate. Instead, his focus remains on my face, watching for any sign of discomfort. His fingers work swiftly, unbuttoning my ruined clothes, his touch featherlight as he peels the blood-stained fabric away from my aching body.

Even though my skin feels raw and every movement sends a fresh wave of pain through me, I feel… safe. Safe in his hands, in the way he handles me as if I’m something precious, something fragile. As he helps me stand, guiding me toward the tub, I lean heavily on him, my legs trembling beneath me. Each step is agony, but with him beside me, his arms steady around my waist, I make it.

He guides me to the edge of the bathtub, his hands still on me, firm but gentle, before he helps me lift one foot, then the other, into the steaming water. The heat wraps around me instantly, dulling the sharpest edges of the pain, and I let out a soft, broken sigh of relief as I sink deeper into the warmth. Rhysand’s hands never leave me, steadying me as I lower myself fully into the bath, the water rising around me in soft waves, soaking my bruised, aching skin.

For the first time, the relentless ache eases, if only just a little. The hot water cocoons me, and I let my eyes flutter shut, my body finally releasing a small fraction of the tension it’s been holding. I let my eyes close again, sinking deeper into the water, my body heavy but finally able to rest, even if just for a moment. And then, I feel it—a soft, warm press of lips against my forehead. My heart flutters, and before I can stop myself, a quiet whimper of need escapes me.

“Stay here, love,” he murmurs, his lips brushing my skin as he pulls back. “I’ll be right back.”

As soon as he slips away, I feel the absence of him acutely. The pain returns in full force, but it’s more than just the physical ache. My mind drifts to Rhysand, to the way he looks at me, the way he’s always cared for me. I’ve known for a long time now that my feelings for him are far deeper than they should be. It started with admiration, respect for the way he leads our people, but it grew into something else. Something I’ve never allowed myself to fully admit.

Azriel knows, of course. He’s always been able to read me better than anyone else. But I’ve kept it hidden from Rhys. Buried it deep under layers of friendship and duty because the thought of losing him if he didn’t feel the same—it’s unbearable. And yet, now, with him here, caring for me like this, it’s impossible to ignore.

What feels like mere moments later—the soft warmth of the water wrapping around me like a gentle hug—I hear the bathroom door creak open. My eyes flutter open, and there stands Rhysand, a vision of calm amidst my chaos. In his hands, he carries fresh clothes, the fabric crisp and inviting. My heart lifts at the sight of him, the concern etched on his face only deepening my feelings for him.

He kneels beside the tub, his eyes never lingering anywhere too intimate, always respecting my boundaries. “Let’s get you out of there, love,” he murmurs, his voice low and soothing. With practiced gentleness, he helps me rise from the water, his hands warm against my skin. As he steadies me, I feel a rush of gratitude for his care, for the way he makes me feel safe.

Once I’m on my feet, he moves with fluidity, quickly drying my body with a soft towel. I can feel the warmth of his breath against my skin as he helps me step into a fresh pair of panties. I glance down to see a period linen already tucked inside, a thoughtful detail that makes my heart swell. He continues to guide me into an oversized shirt, one that I instantly recognise as his. It drapes over me, soft and comforting, filling me with warmth and an inexplicable sense of belonging.

“Let’s get you comfy,” he says, scooping me up once more, his arms strong and reassuring around me. I nestle into his chest, breathing in the scent of him—night air, cedar, and something uniquely Rhysand. He carries me effortlessly into his room, laying me down gently on his bed. The moment I sink into the sheets, I’m enveloped by his scent; it’s like being wrapped in a warm embrace, familiar and perfect.

The duvet is plush, enveloping me like a cloud, and I can’t help but smile as Rhys fusses around me. He adjusts the blankets, ensuring I’m tucked in snugly, his brow furrowed in concentration. “How’s that?” he asks, his voice tender, eyes searching mine for reassurance.

“It’s perfect,” I reply, a soft smile spreading across my lips.

He then hands me a small vial filled with a shimmering liquid. “Madja concocted this to help with your pain,” he explains, his eyes locked onto mine, waiting for me to take it. I can feel the warmth of his presence like a protective shield, and I lift the vial to my lips, drinking it down as he watches intently.

“Good,” he murmurs, his tone filled with encouragement. He doesn’t move an inch until I’ve finished every last drop, his gaze unwavering, filled with a mix of concern and affection.

As I set the empty vial down on the bedside table, a wave of fatigue washes over me. Rhys shifts, preparing to leave and let me rest. But before he can, I reach out, grabbing his arm. “Stay,” I whisper, the plea escaping my lips before I can think twice.

He pauses, surprise flashing across his features, but then a soft smile breaks through. “Of course, love,” he replies, warmth flooding my chest at his willingness to remain by my side. With a snap of his fingers, he’s clad in nothing but a pair of black boxers that seem to shimmer like the night sky, the stars sparkling across the fabric.

I can’t help but let out a surprised giggle, the sound light and airy, breaking the tension in the room. Rhysand looks at me with an amused grin, his deep laughter filling the space. “What’s so funny?” he teases, his eyes dancing with mischief.

“You look ridiculous,” I reply playfully, a smile still tugging at my lips.

He laughs, a rich sound that makes my heart flutter. “I’d say it’s better than being overdressed,” he quips back, sliding into bed beside me.

As he settles in beside me, the warmth radiating from his body feels like a balm against the lingering pain. The air thickens with an unspoken connection, something that has always simmered just beneath the surface of our friendship. It’s as if the mate bond is finally clicking into place, binding us together in a way that feels both exhilarating and terrifying. Yet neither of us acknowledges it, choosing instead to revel in the comfort of each other’s presence, knowing we’ve always been this close.

I can feel his heartbeat against my back, a steady rhythm that lulls me into a sense of safety. Rhysand shifts, his fingers brushing against my arm, sending gentle shivers down my spine. It’s a simple gesture, but it ignites something deep within me, a longing that has been hidden for too long.

“Are you feeling any better?” he asks softly, his voice low and soothing. I nod, trying to find my words, but the moment feels too perfect for anything but silence as I turn my head to see him. He studies me, those fathomless eyes searching mine for the truth.

And then he leans in, his breath warm against my lips. My heart races as he closes the distance, kissing me softly, sweetly. It’s a tender press of warmth and promise, a moment that makes the world around us fade away. His lips are soft, coaxing me into a blissful calm, and I respond instinctively, leaning into him, deepening the kiss.

When he pulls back, our eyes lock, and I see something flicker in his gaze—something that hints at all the words unspoken between us. “Get some rest,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper, as if afraid to break the magic of the moment.

He tucks me against him, his body a perfect shield from the world. With each gentle stroke of his fingers through my hair, I can feel the tension and pain easing away. It’s as if he’s weaving a spell of comfort, one that wraps around me like a warm cocoon.

My eyelids grow heavy, and I let out a contented sigh, surrendering to the warmth and security of his embrace. “You’re safe, sweetheart,” he whispers, and those words resonate within me, echoing through my very soul.

Slowly, I feel myself drifting, the edges of my consciousness softening. Rhysand continues to stroke my hair, his touch a lullaby that pulls me deeper into sleep. I let out a soft hum, my body relaxing completely against him.

As I slip into a dreamless slumber, I can’t help but think that this moment—his presence, the warmth of his body against mine—is where I belong. And for the first time in a long while, I feel truly at peace.

ACOTAR Masterlist TAG LIST - updated 12th Oct 2024

TAGS:

@lilah-asteria @maleficmuse @fanficscuziranout

[acidsugar21]

Tongues and Teeth :: TWST

Something I made at literally 12 AM... not proofread so like go easy on me thanks </3 Kind of?? An AU of my TWST X Reader ??? Yeah. (Not really ig idk) Also angst?? I guess. Slight panic attack from Kalim and MC. Lot's of crying via Kalim <3 Characters: Kalim, Jamil, (fem!) MC Song: Tongues & Teeth, The Crane Wives {{Jamil to MC, MC to Kalim}}

I’ve grown a mouth so sharp and cruel

“For what it’s worth Jamil, I don’t forgive you.” You spat the words out like venom as you stared at the servant, your lips pressed into a thin line as your nose remained scrunched in distaste.

It’s all that I can give to you, my dear

You stared blankly at the flower that sat atop your clothes. The beautiful petals seemed to have a certain aura– one of purity. They remained uncrushed, unlike the flower Kalim had oh so kindly gifted you.

And when you come in quick to steal a kiss

You blinked owlishly as you touched your lips. The kiss Kalim had given you was chaste– quick. A small peck. For some reason, it left a bitter feeling on your lips– which was odd, because Kalim’s tasted as sweet as coconuts.

My teeth will only cut your lips, my dear

You watched from afar as Kalim sobbed violently over Jamil, the servant keeping his head low as he clenched his fists in irritation at the entire situation. The constant wailing of Kalim’s voice in his ears surely didn’t help.

And I know that you mean so well

The flower was gorgeous– a pristine white that separated itself from the dark of the night sky you and Kalim sat under. Kalim’s hands were gentle as he set the flower in your hair, his fingers brushing against your cheek.

But I am not a vessel for your good intent

The black and blue swirled and mixed, unnoticeable to the human eye as it settled in your gem. Your eyes stayed on the sand, your lips pressed together as you listened to the music. 

It was so odd how humans bounced back.

I will only break your pretty things

Wide eyes watched as Jamil crushed your flower– your flower. The white petals separated from one another, rips and tears in what used to be their flawless and soft petals. Now they remained crumpled up on the floor, sitting in a disgusting pool of ink.

I will only wring you dry of everything

Covering your arms, you watched as Kalim happily chatted with Vil– a certain gleam in his eye as he babbled on and on about what repairs needed to be done to Ramshackle and how excited he was to help with the money. Next to him stood Jamil, the brunette eyeing the younger housewarden with a hidden layer of irritation and exasperation.

But if you’re fine with that

You can be mine like that

Abandon all your stupid dreams about the girl I could have been, my dear

Somewhere out there, surely, there was a version of you that was happy in Twisted Wonderland. It was made clear to you by everything the world threw at you that you should be here. It wouldn’t let you go home.

But you don’t think that happy version of you existed here, in Night Raven.

‘Cause, in the night, I know you burn with feelings 

You stared at Kalim curiously from under your lashes, the cold wind whipping and tugging at your skin harshly. His smile was soft as he stared at the sky.

That was just about the only good thing to come from Ramshackle. The view it provided.

I cannot return my, dear

“I’m always chosen. Always. That’s such an obvious truth that I’ve never consciously processed it.” He admitted softly, shrugging his shoulders rather pathetically at you.

Oh my, dear

You gotta know that this won’t last

It was a calm reassurance you had told Kalim– a true one, by all means. Kalim was not responsible for Jamil’s overblot. At least, not entirely. It was high time that both he and the servant come to that realization, for the dancing back and forth over who was right and who was wrong had long worn out both their dancing shoes, you believed. 

It had begun to get irritating. 

But it was a sweet moment– a kind, moment. And that was something you didn’t get very often.

Desperation will erase that fact

Your cries echoed through the hallway of Ramshackle– like a gentle ghosts cry, it haunted the quietness of the night, all through your bedrooms door.

Jamil’s hand hovered over the old wood, never fully touching it as he listened to your wails as you wallowed in your own pool of misery. Eventually, he let his hand fall to his side as he heard your cries come to a stop.

“She must have gone to bed.” He muttered to himself, staring at your door one last time before walking off.

I’m keeping all of the answers in my cigarette box 

Your hands gripped the ghost camera. The stupid, orange, and old camera that Crowley had gifted you. It was practically useless to you– you’ve only ever used it a handful of times before. And that mouse motif– oh, the horrid mouse motif.

It was a stark reminder that you lived in a different world. A world that, by all means, should not be possible.

But it was, and you were stuck in it.

Yeah, the answer’s in the second before the other shoe drops

The confetti rained down on you, but not for you. The colorful pieces of paper dusted your skin as yells and hollers filled the air.

But not for you. Never for you.

Slowly, your eyes found Jamils. His dark eyes stared into your own, both of you looking at each other with what felt like apathetic expressions. But there was a layer of irritation under both of your surfaces as you attempted to drown out the wails of Kalim.

And for a moment, you realized– you were witnessing Kalim’s second loss.

Ever.

And one of your many.

And if you’re blind to that

I am fine with that

The wails of Kalim echoed through the empty Ramshackle dorm as he sobbed and cried for you and Jamil to come back. His hands shook as he raked them through his hair, his ruby-red eyes doused in tears.

His body couldn’t stop itself from shaking, his lips trembling as he yelled, and screamed, and soon he began to mutter under his breath. His words were so jumbled together that even Rook had a hard time understanding the housewarden.

Oh, I will ruin you

You felt like you were in a daze– a neverending one, to boot. Your heart beat in a way it shouldn’t as you ignored Leona’s voice, your eyes focused on the passed-out Jamil.

His hair covered his face in a delicate curtain as if shielding him from the world. It was as if the pure sight of him had been enough to reel you back in. As you caught your breath, you listened to Leona quietly.

But never did your eyes stray from Jamil.

Oh, I will ruin you

Each overblot. Every single one of them– in a way, they had all turned out the same, hadn’t they?

Each boy made it out alive.

They got to apologize– but never did you ever feel quite satisfied with them. A mere apology wouldn’t make up for the trauma they caused. 

But despite it all, nothing ever changed. Another overblot always took the old ones' place. A different person. A different time. A different challenge.

But you always stared it in the face– and you always saved the day.

It’s a habit, I can’t help it

I know that you mean so well

Child Kalim laughed happily as he ran in circles around Child Jamil, the light shining down on them as you and Jamil stared at the scene with dull eyes.

But I am not a vessel for your good intent

Jamil’s hand wrapped around your own as you both stared at a similar scene– your, scene. 

He squeezed it.

And you squeezed back.

You and Jamil– however harshly you had treated one another, in a twisted, sick, and hell-bent way– understood each other.

And you weren’t sure if Kalim ever quite could. 

I will only break your pretty things

The flower Jamil had gifted you (as a replacement, you added solemnly in your mind) has long since been discarded. Where it lay now, you had no clue. 

It was a shame, you thought. 

Even a replacement for the purest gift you had been given had been lost.

Perhaps you were just never meant to have one.

I will only wring you dry of everything

The red outfit you had been gifted was tucked away in your closet. Grimly, you shoved the clothes Crewel had given you aside as you stared at it.

You really, really liked the outfit. 

It was beautiful and dripping in gold– the silk shifted against your skin, causing you no irritation.

It was expensive, to boot.

Such a shame its history was riddled with something so horrible, you thought with a frown before slamming the closet doors shut.

And if you’re fine with that

If you’re fine with that

Kalim stared at you with wide eyes, his lips parted in disbelief as you and Jamil stood in front of him. 

Jamil had…used his Unique Magic on you?

Multiple times?

Questions swam through his head at the speed of light– were any of the moments you and he shared in Scarabia together real?

When were you under the spell and when were you not?

I will poison all your happy thoughts

I will love you like the ashes in my cigarette box

And if you’re fine with that

You can be mine

If you’re fine with that

The dress was long, and the gold that was embroidered on it glistened in the light as you made your way down the aisle. Red flowers decorated the venue as you avoided everyone’s curious gazes on your form, with your head dipped low as you continued. 

“You look gorgeous.” He whispered to you, making a small smile appear on your lips.

And as you peered up, you met his eyes.

But for some reason, you couldn’t tell if they were red or a dark, rooted brown.

You can be mine

[darthfrodophantom]

Death Is My Gift

Summary: When Danny becomes the personification of Death, his new powers are the least of his problems. Summoned as the fourth horseman of the apocalypse, Danny tries to sabotage it from the inside while also contending with the other three horsemen, the one who summoned him, and the knowledge that if he fails, he may have to help bring about the end of the world.

AO3: Link

Chapter 1: Still Dead - Thanks for Checking

“What the hell is that on your phone?” Sam asked, her tone dripping with derision. 

Danny looked up from his screen and cocked his eyebrow. “What?” How could she see what was on his screen when she was on the other side of the table? Not that he had anything embarrassing on there, but look it wasn’t his fault that he messed up his Insta algorithm because he watched one video about large superheated copper balls melting through a telescope lens and now he couldn’t stop watching more of them. But still, how could she see it?

She gestured toward the back of his phone. “That sticker - what the hell is it?”

Understanding dawned on the usually clueless boy and his face brightened. “Oh, it’s my new sticker! Isn’t it great?” he preened as he moved his hand to the side so they could see the sticker in its full glory. He had been waiting for them to notice it, and somehow it took all the way until lunch for them to comment on it. 

Tucker craned his neck around to see the purple coffin-shaped sticker plastered onto the back of Danny’s phone case. In white letters it read: “Still Dead. Thanks for checking.” Tucker snorted before he devolved into cackles. “Dude, that’s great!”

Danny grinned even wider. “Right? I thought it was too funny.”

“No, it’s stupid,” Sam argued, and her harsh attitude completely ruined the mood. “Danny, the less people associate you with death, the better.”

“Oh come on Sam, if they haven’t figured out that Danny Phantom and Danny Fenton are the same person by now when they have the exact same hairstyle, then a sticker is not going to phase anyone,” Tucker argued, ever in defense of his friend.

“Exactly!” Danny seconded.

“Or it’s exactly the last piece that helps people make that connection because there’s already so little separating you!” Sam exclaimed, though she did try to keep her voice down so no one else would overhear.

“Or maybe they’ll just think I’m a moody Gen Z kid that says this kind of dramatic stuff all the time. Which is why you should have let me keep that shirt.” He still thought that “Dead Inside” shirt was ironic and iconic, but Sam conveniently spilled black ink from her fancy new quill set  on it and refused to give it back for this very same reason.

“Yeah, he could just make it his brand,” Tucker agreed. The two of them always seemed to be on the same page.

Sam reached out like she was about to rip the sticker off his phone, but decided against it and shook her head. “Fine. You want to keep the sticker on your phone? Fine, but don’t cry to me when people start putting the pieces together,” she huffed.

“Well since that’s not gonna happen, you’re gonna be waiting a long time,” Danny grinned. He struck an overly exaggerated victory pose with his neck cocked slightly to the side while he tilted his chin up to the sky. 

Sam jerked back as the color drained from her face. “Danny what the—“ she cried out, so loudly and so suddenly that it caught the attention of other people in the lunchroom. 

Danny immediately looked behind him, assuming that whatever caused Sam’s sudden reaction had to be behind him. His need to protect his friends from whatever threat caused such a startled response rose up and hammered in his throat as his mind spun with the possible horrors he would see behind him. 

But he saw…nothing. Well, not nothing. He saw other students eating their lunches at other tables throughout the room. Students drifted in and out of the cafeteria as they finished their lunches. No ghost. No threat. Nothing that should cause Sam to turn as white as she did.

He turned back to face Sam, concern etched deep into his brow as he studied her face. “Sam? What’s wrong?” he asked in quiet urgency. If she truly saw some danger that he couldn’t, then he needed to know.

Sam studied Danny for a long moment, far too long for Danny’s liking. She wasn’t looking past him, she was looking at…him. “...Nothing. Nothing. It’s nothing. I think I’m just seeing things. I thought I saw…nevermind. It’s nothing,” she assured them. 

Danny raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure? Because something freaked you out.”

She shook her head and plastered a forced smile on her face. “Yeah, I’m sure. Too little sleep and too much caffeine has just got me jumpy. I’m fine, really. Besides, we need to act like we’re having a normal conversation: too many people are watching.”

“Well yeah, you practically jumped out of your seat,” Danny pointed out. 

She narrowed her eyes and gave him a half smile before she reached across the table and grabbed his abandoned phone. “It did let me get your phone though.”

“Wait hey!” Danny protested as he reached across the table to recover his phone from her clutches, but she deftly moved around his grasping hands. 

“Now let’s see about that sticker,” she teased. Danny immediately doubled his efforts to retrieve his phone. Not being able to rely on ghost powers made it a little more difficult than it should have been to win it back (was he maybe relying on those too much? That felt like too much of a Jazz question for him to think about it too long), but he did save the phone and his ironic sticker. He was so preoccupied saving his sticker that he didn’t notice that Tucker had gone quiet and regarded Sam with a very significant and curious stare.

Lunch wrapped up shortly after the scuffle over the phone, and the three of them rushed off to their lockers and then off to class. Just outside the door to the classroom, Tucker held a hand out to stop Sam and waited for Danny to get a few feet inside before he spoke up in a whisper.

“Did you see the skull?”

Sam blinked and her face grew pale again, just like it had in the lunchroom. “The what?” she asked with a slightly shaky voice.

“The skull? Over Danny’s face?”

“What? Yes! Yes I thought I was going insane!” she exclaimed, though still in a whisper to not catch any more attention. The briefest moment of relief washed over her, but it immediately washed away into even more worry.

“No, I saw it this morning,” Tucker admitted. “Thought it was just some trick of the light or something. It was there one moment and then–”

“--Gone the next,” Sam finished. “And when I saw it I just felt…off. Like this moment of dread. Like I was–”

“--Looking at something I shouldn’t have seen,” Tucker validated as he nodded his head. “Yeah, same here. It was a weird feeling to have looking at my best friend.”

“What does it mean?”

“No idea,” Tucker sighed as he looked towards Danny pouring over his textbook in the hope that he’d be able to at least pretend that he did the reading before class. “But knowing Danny, it’s probably nothing good.”

Danny noticed odd glances from his friends a few more times that day. He worried maybe he had something on his face, but then again Sam would have said something. Tucker would have stayed quiet to have a good laugh about it later, but he’d have clued him into the joke by now. Maybe he was doing something ghostly without knowing it? But if that was the case they would have definitely let him know. In the end, he chalked it up to his friends being weird and went about his strangely quiet day.

There weren’t any ghost attacks. He couldn’t remember the last time he went through a school day without being interrupted by ghosts. It felt…nice, but unnerving at the same time, like he missed something. Like he was supposed to clue into something happening in the Ghost Zone. But in the end he decided not to worry about that either, especially once school ended and he could just hang out with his best friends ghost free.

By the time they hit up the game store (Tucker was still trying to get them into tabletop games) and the record store (Sam wanted to browse the LPs), Danny had forgotten all about his previous warnings…until he hit the Boba shop. Second up to bat, he placed his order with the barista, a smiling young woman who wore fun earrings that looked like watermelon slices. He paid for his drink and left a decent tip, but when he looked back up from the pin pad, her haunted expression caught him by surprise.

No longer kind and smiling, her unfocused gaze stared beyond him with eyes opened so wide her eyelids disappeared. Her pale, gaunt face looked hollow and lifeless. Her mouth fell open unnaturally.

“Fifty-seven years, one hundred and thirteen days, seven hours.”

Her flat, emotionless voice echoed within the sudden silence of the rest of the room. Chills shot along his body as the hair on his arms stood on end. His gut twisted uncomfortably as the presence of something…wrong and haunting fell over him. The silence of the world pressed in around him and left him only with that eerie voice thrumming though the void.

“What?” he finally stammered out.

“Do you want a receipt?” she repeated in her normal voice. Suddenly the whole world came back around him. The noise and the commotion of the busy Boba shop almost felt overwhelming after the sheer absolute silence.

“Oh uh…no,” he answered lamely.

“He’s good,” Sam spoke up quickly from behind. She pushed him to the side and took over the situation, but concern etched deep lines into her forehead. “But I’ll have a…”

What Sam ordered was lost on him as Tucker pulled him over to the drink pick-up counter. “Dude, what happened?” he asked in an urgent whisper. “You just froze.”

“I don’t…I don’t know. I heard something totally different…” The eerie tone of her voice, the chill that shot like livewire up his spine (like the accident, but he really didn’t want to think about that), it all stuck with him and wouldn’t leave him. His memory was absolute trash at the best of times, but he could still remember every number she quoted to him like it had been etched into his very core.

“What did you hear?” Tucker asked as Sam joined them. Those concerned lines across her brow still made him feel like something more was going on here, because Sam usually only worried when there was actually something to worry about.

“Just…some numbers, like years and months,” he shrugged, trying to pass it off as normal, even if it couldn’t be further from the truth.

“Like a countdown?” Sam pressed.

Danny’s eyes grew wide. Exactly like a countdown. Down to the hour.

He didn’t need to say anything for Sam to know she was on to something. “So what was she counting down to?”

“You think I know?” Danny rebuffed as he pointed at himself. “But you guys heard it right? How…creepy she sounded? How hollow?”

“No, we didn’t man,” Tucker responded, strangely serious. “We heard her ask if you wanted a receipt and then you just froze.”

He looked between both of his friends, hoping for some kind of alternate answer or for someone to say they were pulling his leg, but they weren’t. “So you…you didn’t hear it?” he implored, desperate for someone to agree with him.

“No Danny, we didn’t,” Sam confirmed. “But Danny, we need to–”

“Pomegranate boba,” another barista announced. Danny automatically turned towards her, only to see the same lifeless stare directed his way.

“Twenty years, two hundred and twelve days, two hours.”

He shook his head and closed his eyes as the pressure of the void threatened to swallow him again, but then like before, everything opened up and the noise of the world rushed back to him.

“Danny?” Sam fretted as she stepped closer to him. 

He opened his eyes and looked out on the brightly lit boba shop. “Sorry I…it happened again,” he admitted.

Tucker and Sam exchanged significant glances behind Danny’s back before making an executive decision. Tucker grabbed their drink orders while Sam gently placed a hand on Danny’s back. “I think we should get out of here,” Sam suggested.

Danny could see the sense in that. The last thing they needed was to make a scene, and he could feel the eyes of both the people behind the counter and the ones standing in line. Best to beat a hasty retreat and figure this out somewhere a little quieter.

He scooted around the line of customers, hoping he could make a quiet exit. He caught the gaze of a young boy in line, but he only saw the vacant stare on his young face.

“Eighty three years, three hundred and two days, eleven hours.”

Danny spun quickly away from the boy and placed his hands over his ears, but it didn’t help as he locked eyes with a college student at a table who happened to look up from her laptop.

“Three years, thirty days, seven hours.”

And then the gaze of a well-dressed woman striding through the door.

“Forty years, eighty-eight days, nineteen hours.”

And the older man sitting with his grandchildren at a table.

“Ten years, one hundred and fifty days, three hours.”

Macabre countdowns from various shop patrons echoed around him. Anyone who met his gaze morphed their faces into the gaunt masks and intoned their countdown in that same hollow voice.

“Stop! Stop!” Danny cried as he curled in on himself. Tucker and Sam immediately pushed him through the doors and outside of the shop full of curious onlookers, but if they thought ushering him outside of the shop would be better, they were terribly wrong as Danny confronted more people on the street. The constant chorus of lifeless laments descended upon him in a deafening whirlwind.

“Ninety-eight days, twenty hours.”

“Sixty-eight years, two days, one hour.”

“Seventeen years, two hundred and ninety days, eight hours.”

Until they finally culminated in a chilling “Thirteen seconds.”

A morbid curiosity came over him as his gaze lingered on the older man who intoned the foreboding knell, just before the man clutched at his chest and dropped to the ground. Everyone around him rushed to his side and barked out orders to call an ambulance, but Danny knew deep, deep down in his core that it wouldn’t do any good. 

The man was dead. 

Dead, exactly thirteen seconds later.

Realizing this area was about to get a lot more attention, Tucker and Sam pushed Danny into a nearby alley and shrouded him from view. “Danny what the hell is happening?” Sam practically yelled.

Danny dropped to the ground as he clutched at his core that ached with the pain of what he just witnessed, and the horror of what he’d come to realize. He didn’t want to admit it to himself or to the world as a whole, but he had a horrifying feeling he knew what the times meant.

They were a countdown to death.

“I don’t…I don’t know why, but people keep telling me how long…how long they have…left,” Danny squeaked out between shallow breaths. The world swam around him and he clenched his jaw to try not to be sick.

“Left to what?” Tucker asked.

“To live you idiot!” Sam chastised. “Danny, are you sure?”

“What else could it be?” he exclaimed as he gripped at the hair on the sides of his head. “Someone said thirteen seconds, and then thirteen seconds later he…he…” His breath quickened in his chest. His heart thrummed too fast against his ribs. Sweat beaded on his brow as he shivered. This…this was a panic attack. Oh god, he was having a panic attack. But could anyone really blame him? He heard a man was going to die and just…just…watched it happen and couldn’t do anything. He couldn’t do anything!

“Danny…Danny just look at me,” Sam pressed delicately as she knelt next to him and placed a gentle hand on his arm.

His eyes reached her chin before he remembered - as soon as he met someone’s gaze, even from afar, they told him how long they had. He couldn’t know that about his best friend. He couldn’t. What if it was a small number? What would he even consider to be a small number? Would any number ever be large enough?

He slapped her away in a panic and retreated into himself as he buried his head into his arms. “No!” he screamed. “No, any time I look at someone they tell me how much time they have left and I can’t…I don’t want to know that. I can’t know that!” he practically screeched.

Sam and Tucker exchanged worried but uncertain looks. They’d dealt with a lot since the accident, but this was certainly a new complication where their very presence seemed to add more stress. 

“Okay Danny, okay. We don’t know if that’s what’s happening.” She paused as she felt him tense beside her. “But if you think that’s what’s happening, then we won’t look at you.”

Danny grabbed his hair tight in his hands as he shook in a huddle on the floor. How was he going to do this? Never look at anyone he ever cared about again? Make sure they never looked at him? What kind of life would that be? He couldn’t live like that, with that paranoia that some day one of them would mess up and they’d meet his gaze and then he would know how much longer he had left to spend with them. His breathing quickened again as he found himself spiraling further down into his panic, down into a depth of foreboding terror that he didn’t know if he could climb out of again.

“Okay but Danny, even if you aren’t looking at anyone, I need you to breathe okay?” Sam pleaded. “Just breathe with me. In and out slowly. In and out.”

He did as he was told because he didn’t really have it in him to argue. In and out, in and out. He took deep breaths in through his nose and out through his mouth like Jazz taught him. It probably didn’t help that he was still curled up in a ball and didn’t have great air circulation, but he didn’t dare uncurl.

“Okay, good,” Sam praised as she finished sending an urgent text. “Now let’s figure out what’s going on, because we will figure it out.”

“You mean figure out why I can tell when people are going to die?” Danny snapped.

“Yes,” Sam replied, voice calm despite Danny’s barbed tone. 

“...I don’t know if this is the right time, but there probably isn’t a right time so I’m just gonna say it,” Tucker sighed. “Danny, we noticed something weird earlier. It would only happen for a second, but it was like your face was covered by…like a translucent skull.”

Danny looked up but immediately thought better of it and ducked his head back down again. “A what?!”

“A skull. We didn’t know what it meant at the time–”

“We still don’t know what it means,” Sam added.

“--but it has to be related,” Tucker finished.

“This has to be more than a new ghost power,” Sam brainstormed. “This feels like something more significant.”

“More significant? What the hell does that mean?” Danny rebuked. He knew they were just trying to help, but honestly without an answer it was just making him feel more anxious and overwhelmed. He didn’t know if he could handle something more significant than being a half-dead, ghost-fighting freak.

“We don’t know,” Sam said, controlled and patient. “But we’ll figure this out Danny, we promise, just like we’ve figured out everything else.”

Everything else. Because there was always something. There was always some other side effect of the accident that all of them had to keep dealing with. Ghost powers, ghost fighting, his parents, new powers, a secret identity, ice powers, and now this. When was he done? When would he finally stop having more and more piled on top of his already overflowing mind? How much was a teenager expected to shoulder before he finally just buckled under the crushing weight of it all?

Apparently it would be one more thing.

He gasped as the cold breath escaped from his throat. He deflated a bit into his self hug. He knew the quiet afternoon was too good to be true. He knew it.

“Danny, you don’t have to go,” Sam mentioned, almost pleading.

“You know I have to,” he sighed with hollow defeat.

“No, you don’t. Let your parents get it, or Valerie. It doesn’t have to be you right now,” she begged.

“They never handle it well,” Danny argued as he stood but kept his gaze on the floor.

Sam shook her head, prepared to put her foot down. “But Danny, you literally just stopped having a panic attack, do you think now is the right time to do this? Maybe you just need to think about yourself for a bit!”

“When do I ever get to think about myself?” he barbed as he transformed. “Besides, a ghost can’t tell me how long they have to live, right? Sounds like I’m safer with one of them.”

Before they could argue with him he shot off into the sky, leaving a cloud of dread behind him. Tucker and Sam exchanged meaningful glances. 

“Follow him?” Tucker checked.

“Absolutely follow him.”

~*~

As yet another ectoblast grazed Danny’s side, he realized Tucker and Sam had maybe been right about letting someone else handle this. His head was not in the game. He couldn’t shake the feeling of dread that swirled around him and it made the fight against the ghostly crow that much harder to focus on. His newfound popularity also proved to be a complication as it led to more onlookers watching the fight. He couldn’t help but meet the eyes of people in the crowd, and every time he listened to their own voices toll their own death knell, he found himself wide open to a hit from the annoying ghost that honestly wouldn’t have been that much of a challenge otherwise. 

"Three hundred and twenty-one days, thirteen hours.”

He squeezed his eyes tight as he tried not to internalize how little time the concerned woman who looked his way had left, but closing his eyes during a fight was never a good idea.

“Danny!” he heard Sam yell, her voice distant but urgent.

He opened his eyes and saw the crow barreling in to charge with glowing talons ready to claw out his eyes. He immediately acted on instinct and threw out his hands to maybe summon a shield or take the talons to his arms or something.

He felt something cold and heavy fall into his hands, and he swung it without even looking at it too closely. A thin line of green slashed across the ghost and then it vanished. His overzealous slash continued through the brick of a nearby building that weathered and aged as decay seeped out from the fine line in the brick. When the arc of his swing stopped, he finally looked at what he held in his hands.

A scythe. Long and slender, the curved blade made a full crescent as it tapered into a neat, sharp point. The edge of the blade glowed with a faint green light, but it almost hurt to register: like its presence cut through the very existence of what his mind could accept as real. It looked so simple in his arms, and yet it felt dangerous. Deadly.

He stared dumbfounded at the blade in his hands. It felt heavy in his arms, but not because of its actual weight. It actually felt too easy and natural to swing. His fingers gripped around the shaft like he was meant to hold it. It felt so right and natural in his arms, and that scared him even more.

He immediately dropped it, but instead of hearing it clatter to the ground, it vanished into shadows as the absolute black swallowed it.

With panic etched all over his face, he looked desperately towards Sam’s voice, but only after he remembered that he didn’t dare look towards his friends. He dropped his gaze, but they understood his intent and rushed over to him.

“Danny, Danny are you okay?” Sam asked as she grabbed her friend’s arm.

“No…no I don’t think so,” he admitted. As hard as it felt to admit, he wasn’t well. He had no idea what the hell was happening, but he just knew none of this could be good. A sense of dread lingered around him that he couldn’t shake. A whisper of an answer tickled at the edges of his mind, but it was so cloaked in fear and terror that he didn’t dare even acknowledge its presence.

Sam nodded morosely and squeezed his arm. “That’s okay. We’ve got this Danny. C’mon, let’s get to my house. I think I know what’s going on.”

~*~

Danny sat in his favorite chair in the Manson library. Most of the room felt like something out of a middle-aged woman’s Pinterest page: a million shades of beige accented by a few plants or vines. Some books even had their spines facing the wall because their binding was too colorful. Sam managed to carve out a corner for herself. She separated this corner out with deep red curtains and inside its sanctuary she kept all her books (spines proudly out, thank you very much) on black shelves. Gothic sconces of wrought iron glowed with just enough mood lighting to read by and plush wine red chairs provided the perfect getaway to crawl into with a book. 

One of those chairs sucked him up inside its cushions and he let the weight of the fabric surround him. Sitting here with the dark mood lighting while Sam read aloud some new book or poem always felt like a comfortable space. Maybe Sam hoped the familiarity would bring some comfort to him right now, but even its power couldn’t counteract the horrible twisting in the pit of his stomach.

His friends swore they wouldn’t look at his face and would focus on his chest instead, but he still didn’t feel comfortable looking anywhere but at his wringing hands in his lap, just in case. He’d heard about too much death already today: too many times that seemed far too short for the nice faces that seemed burned into his mind. He had no idea who these people were and probably would never see them again, but he would forever remember their faces and would never be free of the knowledge of their death.

Would it be quick? Slow? Painful? Could he stop it? Could he save them? If he remembered their faces could he hunt them down and try to save them? Maybe not the ones in decades, but the ones who would be dying in the next few months? Could he help them so they didn’t end up like the old man on the street who died before his eyes while he was powerless to stop it?

The thump of a large book on a table shook him out of his thoughts as Sam stood near the small round table. “You’re not gonna like this, but I think I found the answer.”

That certainly caught his attention and he looked towards the book. Whether he’d like the answer or not, he needed to know. The heavy old tome looked like every Victorian book that Sam loved to collect, with a dark binding, embossed edges, and thick block lettering for the title.

The Tome of Record for the Myths and Legends of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.

No. 

No, that couldn’t be the right book. That was not the answer.

He shook his head and backed up in his chair as far away from the book as he could physically get. “No. That’s not the right book.”

Sam approached both Danny and the book gently, like any sudden movement would spook him. “I know this isn’t what you want to hear, but I know I’m right about this.”

Tucker leaned in from his chair and his eyes grew wide. “Wait, apocalypse? Sam you’re serious?”

“No, she’s not serious because she’s wrong!” Danny insisted.

Sam slowly opened the book and turned to a page marked with a dark black ribbon. “Just look at it Danny. It explains a lot.”

Against his better judgment he peeked at the new chapter: “The Fourth Horseman: Death.” He didn’t let himself read any more, but the haunting image of a black-cloaked figure atop a skeletal horse with a skull for a face and a very familiar looking scythe froze him in his seat.

The death knells. The skull. The scythe. 

No, just because it made sense, that didn’t mean anything. Lots of things in this world made sense without actually being right, and this was just another one of those things. It didn’t mean that he– He couldn’t possibly be–

Tucker trailed a finger along the text of the book as he read, his mouth and eyes falling agape. “Wait Sam are you…are you trying to say that Danny is…Death? Like the Death?”

He felt an irrational anger towards Tucker for putting into physical words what his mind refused to acknowledge. Because it was crazy…right? Some crazy, wacky theory. This couldn’t be reality, it just…it couldn’t be.

Sam nodded solemnly. “I am. I don’t know why, but Danny has somehow become the personification of Death.”

For some reason the finality in Sam’s voice forced him to really hear it. As much as he wanted to deny it, the nagging whisper always there on the periphery of his mind had been trying to tell him the whole time. He knew it from the first countdown, but refused to see it. He knew what the symbolism of the scythe meant, but he refused to connect it. And he knew that all of these pieces only added up to one possible explanation. Just like Sam, he’d already reached the same conclusion, but he just refused to see it. He couldn’t avoid it anymore.

He was Death.

He needed to get away from the book, the picture, the proof. He didn’t want to see it anymore. He fell through the chair, momentarily grateful to have some kind of physical barrier between him and the book, but the piercing, empty eyes of the skull on the page followed him even through the chair. He scrambled back along the floor until he hit the bookcase behind him. 

“No no no I don’t want this! I don’t want this!” he screamed in ever increasing levels of panic. He looked at his shaking hands, almost expecting to see bony hands stretching out instead of his normal skin. He grabbed at his face, his arms, anything to make sure that he hadn’t turned into some skeleton. “I can’t–I don’t want to be Death!”

Sam and Tucker rushed over to his side and pulled his trembling body into a hug. They tried to bestow him with whatever comfort they could, but they knew it wouldn’t be enough. Just like they did when Danny first emerged from the portal, they were at a loss for what they could do and they just tried to be a physical support for him.

Danny grabbed onto his friends desperately as he shook in their arms. He didn’t know how much he needed their reassuring strength and strong hug until he found himself in their arms. Maybe he relied on them too much for emotional stability, but something about their presence served as a grounding force for him and he needed that now more than ever.

“We’ll figure it out Danny,” Sam tried to assure him. “We always do.”

They did always figure it out. The accident, the ghost powers, the ghost fighting, the secret identity, Pariah Dark, Vlad, his horrifying potential future - they’d found a way to make it through everything that his strange life had thrown at him. It stood to reason they could make it through this too, but for some reason this seemed so much more imposing than all those other obstacles.

The personification of death. What did that even mean? Did he have to reap souls? Was he actually the one responsible for killing people? Was he now to blame for everyone’s deaths? Did he have to help people cross over or find peace or meaning in their lives? Could he still live his normal human life? He’d already been neglecting it so much because of ghost fighting, but would this completely eclipse everything else? It felt like such a huge burden to throw onto his already overburdened shoulders, and he didn’t know if he had the strength to keep it all up.

But even more than a burden, being Death pushed him even closer to the dark stench of death that always seemed to swirl around him. He already straddled a very fine line between life and death, and while he didn’t always know where he found himself on either side of it, he cherished the balance. He liked being reminded that he was still alive. He died, and he was a ghost, but he was so much more than that too. His heart beat, he kept growing - he still had a life. He needed those reminders to stay sane. But being Death…it pushed him so much further towards that darker side. It disrupted that balance that he held onto so desperately. Those reminders of life seemed so much further away, like they could be snatched away from him at any moment, and he didn’t want to think where that constant focus on death and loss would take him.

He couldn’t keep dwelling on this. He was a boy of action, and he never did well just thinking through things. Maybe that helped Jazz, but he needed to do something. Figure this out, get rid of it, something. So he pulled away from the hug slightly, enough of a signal for his friends to release the warm group hug. He missed that comfort immediately, but he couldn’t stay huddled up against the bookshelf forever.

“How did this happen?” he croaked. Trying to find a reason meant that he had to accept it as the truth, and that hurt, but he’d already accepted it. Now he just had to get rid of it.

“I don’t know,” Sam admitted. “But Danny, we have a much more pressing issue than how.”

“More pressing than this?” Danny questioned, almost hurt that his internal turmoil and need to solve this wasn’t considered a pressing issue.

“Yeah, because it gets worse.”

Panic clenched around his heart again. How could it possibly get worse? This already seemed like a destitute situation with no possible solution on the horizon.

“Worse than Danny having death powers?” Tucker inquired. Well at least Tucker was on the same wavelength.

She nodded morosely. She took a deep breath, but as she slowly breathed out she straightened up, her brow resolute. “The summoning of the fourth horseman…it’s the final sign. The apocalypse is coming, and Danny’s going to be forced to make it happen.”

~*~

I hope you all enjoyed this! It's a little late of a submission for Ectober's Day 17 Gothic Horror prompt, but apparently world-building a multi-chapter longfic took a lot longer than I expected. But I'm excited to share some of my lore behind this ghostly version of the four horsemen over the next two chapters!

[yuurei20]

Short Translation from Twst the 2nd novel: The Transformation

"‘It is you who should be silent!’ Lilia shouts. ‘Face the truth. Even if you were to defeat Malleus, if you do not understand what Riddle is telling you, then you can never become a true king!’

All at once, Leona’s expression has gone blank.

‘Leona-senpai…?’ Jack gives a faint whimper, his pupils dilating. Something has frightened him.

‘That's right. I think you’re right. It’s exactly as you say.’ Leona murmurs, bereft of emotion. 

As his once intense anger fades, his natural beauty becomes more prominent.

His expressionless demeanor is like a sculpture. But it is eerily unsettling. 

‘I can never become a king, no matter how hard I try…’

Something is tugging at Yuuya's leg, and he looks down to see Grim clutching at his pants. 

‘What's wrong?’

‘This is bad—real bad…!’ Before Yuuya can ask him why, a confused Riddle calls out, ‘What’s happening? Leona-senpai’s magical power is suddenly increasing!’

Riddle tightens his grip on the golden scepter in his hands. ’No—at this rate…’

Leona roars with all his might, a deafening howl that has Yuuya covering his ears.

Simultaneously, something bursts.

Shards scatter at Yuuya's feet: the remnants of Riddle’s collar. Before Yuuya is able to touch one to confirm, they have disappeared.

‘Riddle-kun's magic-sealing collar just flew off!?’

‘This is madness. Where did that magical power come from!?’

Cater and Riddle exclaim in surprise, but Leona—breathing deep—does not seem to hear them.

He lifts his head heavily, as if its weight is a burden to him.

'I’ve been hated and rejected since the day I was born, with no place I belonged, or future to live for.’

Leona’s long hair blows about in disarray, his face contorting.

‘That pain and despair…you really think you understand!?’

Leona is crying—at least, that’s what Yuuya thought. But the tears that flow from his left eye are as black as ink, as if absorbing the light. Even wiped away or scratched, the stain refuses to fade from his skin. 

‘Is that…blot!?’ Cater gasps, and a chill of fear runs down Yuuya’s spine.

Jack, sensing something is amiss, lunges for Leona. ‘Stop, Leona-senpai!’

Jack and the other Savanaclaw students all move towards Leona, but they are all blown away by a sand-laced whirlwind.

Thrown through the air Jack manages to land on his feet, but the students all around him are slammed soundly onto the ground.

Moans. Bodies buried in sand. Hands reaching out for the sky.

It is like a nightmare.

Fear paralyzes Yuuya. He does not even think to run.

Lilia casts magic of his own, but it is too late for anything now.

The sandstorm surges, scooping up everything in its path and growing even larger.

The blot oozing from Leona's wounds flows out with even more force, staining his face around his eyes pitch black. 

It flows along the straight line of red marks on his neck left by Riddle’s collar in a never-ending loop.

The black liquid that has been accumulating in the hollow of his throat then bursts forth, all at once. Solidifying, the liquid blot settles upon his shoulders like a lion's mane.

‘Life is unfair…and I’m going to make every one of you understand that.’ He speaks the words like a curse.

Droplets of darkness form a puddle at his feet, resembling sludge. They are absorbed by the parched ground, and yet they do not dilute in the slightest. Instead, they spread outward like a stain. 

Sinister bubbles begin to appear on the surface of the dark liquid. Slowly, at first, and then more vigorously, until soon they are exploding into foam: there is something being born from the blot.

A large and clawed, beast-like paw is first to emerge. Then comes the mane. Ears. Tail.

A terrible roar rips through the air.

In front of the dumbfounded group looms a towering, patchwork lion.

Its entire body is soaked in blot and, just like that monster that appeared with Riddle, there is a glass jar filled with blot where its face should be.

Leona's once golden magestone is now as black as charcoal, and attached to the lid of that glass jar."

↓From later in the scene↓

"The monster is stealing Leona's sanity. Yuuya looks up at Leona and the embodiment of blot that lurks behind him.

Leona's leg is securely bound to the four-legged beast by a length of blot acting like a chain. Cloaked in blot and dragging his leg painfully, Leona resembles an injured lion."

[tootoomanycats]

I'm so happy to be working on this short story (10 chapters)

Just Desserts is an idea I had a while back (post here), and honestly, it grew into something really beautiful. As much as I avoid it, I genuinely do enjoy writing angsty scenes. So please enjoy this teaser that I wrote while listening to this on repeat. (hits play again) K thanks I love you buh bye!

Levi forced himself up the steps to your apartment, pushing through excruciating pain in his knee as his heart pounded so violently it rattled deep in his ear drums. You wouldn't have left without saying anything. You wouldn't do that to him… unless…

Dread set in, and vision began to tunnel, darkness dancing on the edges as he started skipping steps. The cane fell out of his hands, clattering down before skirting across the ground below; it didn't matter. He had to get to your apartment; you had to be there still, and he had to apologize. Had to tell you the truth.

“FUCK!” He cried out when his left leg refused to lift, unable to clear the top step, body crumbling like a marionette on the small landing that led to the apartment door. He crawled, dragging as he gritted through the sharp pain that ricocheted each vertebra before knocking on the door from where he lay—listening for a moment, hoping to hear the shuffle of footsteps that never came.

He called your name.

No response.

“No.” He pulled himself to stand on shaking limbs, hands gripping the door for balance as he called out your name, knocking louder this time.

Silence.

“No, no, no, no.” The words came out in a hushed panic as he turned the doorknob; it was unlocked.

Just as he went to limp into the doorway, a white envelope caught his eye. Laying on the ground, staring back up at him, his name written in the delicate cursive he knew to be your handwriting. Dryness wrapped around his throat like barbed wire. Slowly sliding down against the door, he grasped the envelope and broke its wax seal. Hands shaking as the contents within were pulled out and unfolded. There were so many, many pages. Each with a different date.

“Are these…diary pages?”

October 12th.

I have never been so embarrassed. I mistook him for a child when he had been so kind to help me with my keys. To add insult to injury, he is the tea shop owner across the way. I don’t know how I’ll ever live this down.

That was the first day you met. He flipped through the more recent pages until he found a freshly torn page with no date, only his name. The ink was still fresh and smugged in certain places—small wet spots littered across, making a few letters hard to understand.

Levi,

You're right.

I’m a coward.

I’m sorry.

“Idiot,” He murmured as he held the torn pages in his hands, looking up to see that the apartment had been cleaned and what little you did have was gone. The tea plant he gifted you that once sat in the window was missing; only an imprint of where the terracotta bottom sat proved that it was once there. The cat toys that usually litter the floor were gone, as was Louie. With how little you had, it was difficult to tell if leaving was preplanned or done in haste.

Turning back to the pages in hand, he read through each entry. Dates skipped, and with the pages torn, it wasn't hard to put together that you had ripped out every entry that had to do with him.

November 11th.

He wanted to kiss me.

Fear grabbed my stomach, and like a coward, I fiend to be oblivious and went home. I wish I had been brave; why can’t I be brave? When I told Martha, I expected her to joke about it, but she just looked sad and hugged me. She told me it was okay. I didn't even know I had started crying until I was struggling to breathe.

He could hear his teeth grinding as he clenched his jaw. Every page spelled out in black and white how much you cared and how scared you were. And he had goaded you for it, shouted at you angrily when you were finally brave enough to try and tell him, as awkward as it was. "What have I done?"

Let me know in the comments if you'd like to be tagged as updates and chapters are posted! Tag List:

@l1zk4 @angelofthorr

[six-white-venus]

i.

i meet death for the first time when i’m ten and understand nothing about her except a few things-

she’s taking away grandpa

she made dad cry

and i didn’t care for either of that.

what is death for a child, anyway? what is loss for someone who never knew of it? a beginning of something from the end of everything.

ii.

the next time i see her, i’m thirteen.

i think there’s something that ties me and death together so tightly. i am not the same kid i was in ten; thirteen year old me wants to see death, wants her to take me home in her gangly arms. and i do see her, but she’s not here for me. she never is.

she wears a white saree this time and her skin is embroidered with flowers from my grandpa’s garden. i scream at her to leave, just this once. but death has always been cruel, ruthless. she rips him away from my fingers and tears away a good part of my grandma’s soul, too. cruel, ruthless.

but her head hangs low as she leaves the house without meeting my eyes. the sky is blue and filled with the sound of agony when i realize: death is a coward.

after that, she never leaves me, i think. i can never see her (refer: blue skies and cowards), but she presses her icy hands against my head every night when i’m asleep. i’d wake up sobbing, breathless, screaming, screaming for what i lost. i reach my hand out to the sky and try to grab hold of him. and distantly, i wonder if she was hanging her head to hide her smile all along.

iii.

i see him again sooner than i would have liked.

i am fifteen and sadder than i’ve ever been when another beloved of mine is stolen from my arms.

i’m screaming.

this time, he wears a cloak of billowing black and hides his face with a hood. he’s the hands that hold me back as i reach out to what was once mine, alive and breathing. he’s the black i wear throughout the funeral. his eyes (critical, empty, grey) meets mine (salt-filled, miserable, brown). i think i say something to him that day- a singular word collapsing into itself.

the sound of my screams and my lucky charm shattering follows him as he walks away.

iv.

the imprints of his hands remain on my skin. the grime of his fingers colours my arms and the ice of his touch still makes me shiver.

maybe, a mortal was never meant to know the touch of death and go on living. a mortal wasn’t suppoised to bleed at their own accord and wake up smiling with no rememberance of meeting him. i have been tainted by death and it has driven me insane, mother. will you sing me a lullaby and put me to sleep (forever)? would you shut out my smile with your tears every morning and wipe away all my sweet dreams from my eyelids and show me the nightmare that is my reality?

the next time i see death, i am getting ready for school. my eyes are swollen and lifeless and circled with darkness. my movements are controlled by a puppeteer inside my head and i look in the mirror and oh, i see death. i am death.

v.

on my sixteenth birthday, death announces his presence with the sound of seashells and the smell of sanitizer filling the air.

death is a little boy standing at our door and our eyes meet (his- painted black; mine- smeared blue) and i remember what i asked him that day.

why?

and death, he cries. his ink black tears stain our floor. death and i, we are both so tired.

i’m sorry, he says but both of us know he’s not, not really. he’ll be back the next day, the next hour and every minute that follows to devour something of mine.

we’re both tired of this game of tigers and goats, death and i. but he can’t hunting and i can’t stop bleeding and please, i am so tired. can’t you find someone else to feast upon?

i wish i didn’t know the answer to that question.

[navnae]

At a young age when Steve thought of heaven he had always had a specific image in mind. He thought of big fluffy white clouds and angels in white robes with beautiful wings. That’s the image his parents burned into his head for years and they made sure that he would never forget it. Every Sunday Steve had no other choice but to be in the church by his parents side. Not only did it look good for their family to give off that image, it made everyone feel like they could connect to them on a personal level despite the income differences which Steve never understood because money didn’t mean anything when it came to building relationships or creating this facade that his parents were desperately tried to show to others. They showered him with bible verses as he got older once they noticed how distant he was being and when he entered high school he stopped going to church. While they begged him to wait til he’s married to be intimate he already broke that rule, he smoked, he drank, he stopped dressing up as the perfect boy next door and went for a more rough look which they didn’t like in the slightest. That was only the half of what Steve did and what they saw with their own eyes, they had no idea what was happening behind his bedroom door when the house was empty.

During those lonely nights when Steve was laying in his bed snuggling next to his teddy bear that his parents forced him to get rid of but he refused, it had the scent of the man that he love the most on it. Steve perked up at the sound of a vehicle pulling into his driveway. With a wide smile on his face he jumped out of bed and ran downstairs. He opened the door revealing his boyfriend, Eddie, who has been by his side for awhile now. Steve wrapped his arms around Eddie’s neck as he pulled him into a hug and Eddie wrapped his arms around Steve’s neck nuzzling his nose against Steve’s skin. The laughter that came from both of them was so sweet and cute, nothing could prepare Steve for this kind of happiness. Eddie kissed Steve softly as he held him close. Steve felt like a kid in a candy store whenever Eddie was around that’s why it was so important for Steve to be with him no matter what. Sadly he knew the day would come and his parents would find out about their relationship. He’ll never forget all of those hateful words that his parents spat at him. They told him that hell will be the only place that is going to accept him and he was no longer welcome in their house. Steve and Eddie left the house feeling ashamed when they shouldn’t, loved each other and that’s all that mattered.

“You’ll never make it into heaven.”

Was what his parents said to him.

That night, Steve’s image of heaven changed drastically. When Steve thought about heaven he didn’t see the big fluffy white clouds, he saw Eddie’s trailer and his bedroom. When Steve thought about angels, his angels didn’t wear a white robe. Instead he wore a black leather jacket, ripped jeans, chains dangling by his side, variety of rings decorating his slim fingers, tattoos were inked in his soft skin, and he had dark curly hair that Steve couldn’t get enough of. So whenever the conversation was brought up about what image came to mind when Steve thought about heaven, Eddie would always be there. For the first time in years Steve felt free and actually loved by someone. It hurt Steve that his parents wouldn’t be able to see him grow into the person that he was becoming but Eddie let him know that he was going to be there for the ride. He let his tears fall as he laid in Eddie’s bed that night, Eddie gently ran his fingers through Steve’s hair as he sobbed in his arms.

“It’s okay baby. I’m here.” Eddie whispered. He placed a soft kiss on Steve’s forehead making him cry even harder.

“They couldn’t even look at me, it felt like I was a stranger to them. I wanted them to meet you and i wanted them to see how amazing you are. Now that’ll never happen! Eddie I feel so bad for putting you through that, I’m so sorry.” Steve rambled as his voice cracked while the tears kept running down his face. Eddie held Steve tighter in his arms trying be as present as possible for him.

“Shhhh. It’s okay, all that matters is that you’re alright. We’re safe here.” Eddie said before smiling softly. Steve lifted his head up to meet Eddie’s eyes, he couldn’t but smile back.

“I love you.” Steve said while tugging at Eddie’s shirt. Eddie laughed softly then cupped the side of Steve’s face, rubbing his thumb slowly over the light pink tinted skin.

“I love you too.” Eddie leaned in making their lips connect. Steve smiled in between kisses as he felt a huge weight being lifted off his shoulders. He could stay like this with Eddie forever.

This was his heaven.

[unklarity]

Malcolm Mini Box Write Up

Here is a little write up of Malcolm’s contents as a few people wanted to know what was inside!

(Photo on the left shows potion bottles 1-2, photo on the right shows 3-4 and the glass vial)

Potions:

1. Lisianthus for royalty, violet for seeing through lies. Lavender for mistrust, suspicion, being cautious with allies and enemies alike. Larkspur for devotion morphing into obsession. Tiger eye for single-mindedness and passion. Deer tongue for solving a mystery, vervain for protection from evil. Handwritten quote saying, “I thought I heard a voice cry out…” Sealed with black wax and thistle stamp, gold ink.

2. Clothes-pinned photos on a red thread, for the strings of photos in the back of the detective agency. Sealed with black wax and ballroom symbol stamp, gold ink.

3. Dust (ash from Hecate’s boat), a feather from Duncan’s bed, and two tiny eggs. Sealed with black wax and key stamp, gold ink.

4. Ripped up king card for the Speakeasy card game scene and for Duncan. Fluorite for the endless pursuit of knowledge. Sealed with black wax, bird stamp, gold ink.

Misc:

1. Tiny vial with brass feather and rolled up paper “On Tuesday last a falcon was hawked at and killed”; hung on a red thread.

2. Malcolm’s typewriter in the inside lid of the box.

3. Ballroom symbol in the bottom of the inside of the box.

This box is tiny so not too many photos but thanks for reading!!!

Malcolm has sold but I’m currently available for custom mini boxes, you can email me at unklarity (at) gmail (dot) com to inquire!

[therexasher]

Okay this is my first time posting on here, so please be patient with me!!

Tw: suicidal tendencies, self harm, self sabotage, suicide attempt, a little bit of smut

Word count: 2.8k

MJ fanfic, suicidal male reader,

Please read with caution 🙏, if this triggers you, don’t worry, I’ll make more writings (especially MJ) that are more wholesome to read, so please don’t feel like you NEED to read it, if it doesn’t suit you and you’re sensitive I understand pookie🫶🏽🫶🏽💞💞

It’s been years since that faithful day I was abandoned by everyone I’ve ever come to love. That day, I couldn’t hold anything to myself anymore. I felt so useless and worthless at the same time. I thought all I needed was a partner. Who would’ve thought I’d get with THE Michael Jackson. Certainly not me. But even this isn’t helping.

Michael is not home half the time, it brings memories of me being neglected. Of course I don’t communicate it, because I’m afraid he won’t listen and take my feelings for granted. So I keep to myself. Even when he is home, it’s rare, but then, he gets called for some last minute interview.

It feels like I have nobody again. I can’t handle this, I won’t handle this.

I rush out of bed, dashing to the bathroom in a flash, and for the first time in so long, I look at myself in the mirror. I’m small, I haven’t been eating, I can almost seen my ribcage. My face looks withered and sleepy, even though that’s what I do every day now. I wear a serious but confused expression on my face. I wear one of Michael’s hoodies, with the words, ‘BAD’ which is written in red ink. My black sweats are ripped, the fabric is slowly tearing off. This is my face. My face I wore every day. No one seeing my cries for help. No one will now. It will all be nothing. I won’t be a life. I’ll be just that. A face.

I know Michael takes medication for his pain. They’re prescribed to him, and I might—I hope, I’m allergic to something in those pills, this might finally end my pain. Before that, drawing blood will increase my chances of not feeling much pain from overdosing. I take out my pocket knife I’ve been hiding in the bathroom cabinet. While he’s busy rehearsing for Bad or Speed Demon, he’ll never see this coming. I’m completely alone in this house. In this moment. No one can stop me. No one will stop me. It’s just me. Me and me alone. I slide my sleeve up to my forearm, just enough to see my arm and the veins popping out. I take a deep breath, bringing the knife close to my arm, I take about another breath and with one swift move, I cut.

I do the same to other arm, drawing countless blood everywhere. The floor slowly being painted by my blood. I don’t wince or cry, I’m so used to pain, it doesn’t bother me anymore. I open the mirror cabinet, the rows of pills, different names, different colors, different combinations. I take as many pills as I can out of the cabinet, downing almost all of them. Immediately, I feel the side effects, I feel the burning sensation in my chest, but it’s too much. For the first time, the pain is too much, I gag and scream, but no one can hear me. I’m alone. No one can hear my screams. They never did.

I scream until my throat hurts,

“Help…” I mumble, I don’t feel my body anymore, my thinking slows, my mind draws a blank, and I black out.

I wake up in a blank white room, an eerie silence falls inside the room. I sit up and look around. There’s nothing but white walls and silence. I get to my feet, confused on where I am and how I got here.

“Hello?” I yell out, no answer. Is this my conscious mind? Am I inside my own head?

“Why do you continue to hurt yourself, sweetheart?” A soft voice behind me. I whip my head around. It’s him. Michael.

He’s wearing the Bad outfit, but his face is sad, I can see tears start to form in his eyes, he walks toward me, cupping my face, looking deeply into my eyes, like he’s studying me, studying my mind, studying me for an answer. But I’ve seen this look before. The look you give your son when he leaves to the army. Fear.

In an instant, the scene changes again, but this time, I’m in the room. The one at home. It’s dark, the silky sheets underneath me bring a sense of comfort to me, a sigh in relief, I’m in the bed, back home, but how did I get in the bed? I thought I blacked out. The bed begins to rock back and forth, like water, huh? I look out the window. I’m not home. There’s no roads. Waves. I’m on a boat. How did I get here? And what is going on? Just when I try and collect my thoughts, I hear screaming,

“Let me see him! I want to see him! Where is he!!?” That voice, it’s familiar. It’s Michael. He’s looking for me. But I can’t move. I’m paralyzed by fear.

The room rocks again, the waves are strong, strong than any waves I’ve ever seen. The rocking of the room makes me sick. I’ve never been sea sick before, but this is definitely taking a toll on me.

“Let me see him!!” The screaming continues, it hurts to hear him scream like that, the only light in this room is the moon, seeping into the cracks of the window, casting a shadow of light.

“Where is he?!! I want to see him!!” His screaming tears me to shreds… and just like that, the screaming stops, by an abrupt clash of water. I pause and try to listen for any further sounds. None. Silence.

No more screams. No more sounds of movement. Now only the rocking boat, and my stomach feeling sick.

“Michael?…” I softly whisper, I swallow the lump in my throat, standing up, hovering over the door. I admit, I’m scared, no, more than scared. Terrified.

I clamp down on the door knob, closing my eyes and taking a deep breath in, letting it out through my mouth. I open my eyes again, finally opening the door.

“Ah!” I yelp, water. Water is cold. Water. The boat is flooding. I realize now, he screamed because he couldn’t get to me. He screamed because he was scared he would never seem me again. He screamed, because he didn’t know when he could say the words “I love you,” to me again.

“Michael! Michael where are you?” Now I’m the one screaming. The corridor is narrow and dark. But I don’t care. I need to see if he is alright. I manage to somewhat get in the water, it’s cold, colder than ice. I wade in the water, shivering from the cold, I look for any signs of Michael, only a few steps in, I feel something, I kick something in the leg, I look down, I’m by a window, the light from the moon casting that same shadow I seen in the room. My breath becomes shaky, I slowly move my head down. It’s him. It’s Michael. But he’s dead. Wearing that same Bad outfit I seen him wear previously. I let out a bone chilling scream. Then the scene changes again. Only this time, it’s something that I want.

I open my eyes, the wind whips my hair, my eyes start to water. I’m hanging from a building, several stories high, this will definitely kill me, but what’s holding me up? I look up, my messy hair tearing my vision, but even through my messy hair, I can still see him. Michael.

“I gotcha. I won’t let you fall, okay?” His voice, so calm, soothing, I never took the time to actually listen, my own thoughts drowned out all sounds around me. This is the first time I’m hearing him.

“Why won’t you drop me?”

“What? Are you crazy? I’m not dropping you baby.”

“Hm, that’s interesting.” He’s not holding my hand, or rather, my wrist, so I can’t even let go if I wanted to. Smart move.

The wind finally moves the hair from my eyes, I see him. I see the look of concern on his face. That same look he gave me while in the blank room, except this time, he’s crying. I see dry tears, and new ones coming in to replace them. His strength is getting weaker, but he continues to hold onto me. He’s still wearing that Bad outfit. What’s with the reputation of this outfit specifically?

He looks sad and disappointed all at once. I never loved anyone. And to be honest, I don’t think anyone loves me either. But seeing that look on his face. Now I’m crying. I realize now, I don’t want to die. I don’t want to leave this world. I don’t want to leave this world without him. I love him. His grip tries its best to tighten around me, but to no avail,

“I… can’t…” He says through gritted teeth, my breath quickens, my heartbeat accelerating, no no, I don’t want to die, I don’t. In a flash, his loses grip on my wrist, letting go. I scream and begin to fall rapidly down the sky.

Once I reach the bottom, it goes black, the scene changes again, but I’m alive. I’m alive and I’m here. I still feel the sensation of where he grabbed my wrist, clinging onto it, trying to save me. Me. Me of all people. But I’m alive now. I’m okay. I look around, there’s lots of people around me. Lots of people. I remember this scene, this set, it’s the making of The Way You Make Me Feel. I came here once before, but I’m here now. I walk farther into the set, putting my hoodie on to try and go unnoticed. I hear the director call out “action!” And in a flash, I see the wonder of a man work his magic.

His body on beat with the music, following the lady. Not long after, she tries to kiss Michael, but quickly pushes away, he looks fully into it. He’s willing to kiss her. I feel a ping in my stomach. I’ve felt this before, long ago, when I thought I knew what love was and who I wanted to be with. Jealousy.

The Jealous feeling in my stomach swells, the lump in my throat hurts, like I just got hit by a train. I finally understand, after so long, I value this love. I never wanted to die, I wanted attention. I never needed help, I needed love. My screams didn’t work because they knew, they knew I need want all of those things.

“Stop!” I yell, “stop…” I repeat in a whisper, I fall to my knees and cry, I hear nothing but silence, as I lay there crying, then, the scene changes again.

I open my eyes, a blank room, again? I thought, I sit up, and realize where I am. I’m in the hospital. How did I get here? I look at he table to my right, flowers around a Get Well card, along with a rainbow balloon. This must be Michael’s doing. I chuckle at the gesture, picking up the card and reading it,

When I found you I had no where else to go

I was lost and confused

But you helped me

My love for you shines brighter than the brightest star

You will forever be my favorite boy

I love you so much

Love, Michael

Gosh, he’s such a romantic freak. I laugh into my hand, why did I ever take him for granted? This whole time, I thought I was the one being taken for granted. Maybe those dreams helped me, whatever they were.

I take one of the flowers, it’s a red flower, I don’t know much about flowers, so I’m not sure what it is, but, nonetheless, it smells wonderful. The smell reminds me Michael’s perfume. That sense of safety and security. I let out a pleasant sigh upon sniffing the flower. Suddenly, the door then opens,

“Sorry sweetheart, I had to use the bath- baby?” He looks shocked, but why? I tilt my head in confusion, and in seconds, he starts to cry and cling onto me.

“Whoa, Mikey, what’s wrong?” Mikey? Really? Mikey? That’s the best you can do? I bite my lip from the cringe name, he chuckles softly in my shoulder.

“Don’t worry, I like it love.” As if he knew what I was thinking. Gosh, this man is so perfect in every way. Why did I ever neglect him?

Now I’m the one crying. We hug each other again, this time, crying in each other’s embrace. I missed him so much.

“I’m sorry…” I whisper, “you don’t deserve someone like me…” he pulls away from the hug, looking into my eyes deeply, like in the blank room, cupping my face, like in the blank room, but this time he isn’t studying me for an answer, but rather, it’s something different, reassurance.

I place a hand on his cheek, he gives me a kiss on my forehead, then we touch foreheads together. This is it. Love. The love I never thought I would find.

“The doctors said…” he crooks, “you were trying to kill yourself. That you tried to overdose on my pills,” he pulls his forehead away, “is that true? Were you really going to kill yourself?” My hands travel my arms of where I cut at, trying to cover it up, he stops me, placing his hand over mine,

“Don’t cover it up, I already saw,” he takes a breath, “so you were trying…” he looks down at his feet, his outfit makes it seem like he just got out of rehearsals. I can’t lie to him. Not anymore.

“Yes… I tried to kill myself…” I shut my eyes for a split second, feeling chills run up and down my spine at my own confession. I tug his sleeve, his curls dangle from his face, his brown eyes shine in the lights above us, he saved me. Now it’s time I do the same.

“I promise. From this day fourth, I will not try any suicidal attempts. I understand the meaning of love and how you care me for me. I understand that I value that now. I love you Michael, and I’m sorry I don’t say it or show it enough. But I will do better.” I give him a warm smile, he chuckles,

“Either that coma really helped you, or you feel remorse.”

“Both- wait did you say coma?”

“Yeah, you were in a coma for about a month,” I was in a coma? For a month? But that didn’t even feel like a month. I heard some people have dreams while in a coma, but that felt too real to be a dream, and with the scene changing each time? It just all felt wrong. I hug myself thinking about it, it gives me an uneasy feeling. He notices and places a hand on my cheek,

“What’s wrong hunny?” His voice is soft and gentle, enough to calm my nerves. I explain to him what happened while I was in the coma, trying not to sound too crazy.

He cocks his head to the side,

“Huh, so that all happened while you were asleep?”

“Yeah… pretty weird… and it felt so real too. I thought you were really there,”

“Well you dreams are wrong,”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well for one thing, I wouldn’t let you go if you dangling on a roof, if I knew I wouldn’t be able to pull you up, I’d go with you. Secondly, I wouldn’t put you in a situation of which I knew It would hurt you, so those two dreams are wrong. The other ones are pretty accurate.” He smiles and I laugh at his remarks, maybe he’s right, I’m starting to believe that now,

“Oh yeah, hunny,”

“Yes?”

“When we get back home, I have a surprise for you,” he gets real close to my ear, I can feel his hot breath against me, sending my body with a tingling feeling, my face feels hot like fire, “I’m going to show you just how much I love you, so you will never do this again.” He slowly begins to rub my thighs and I have to remind him we’re in a hospital,

“I don’t care. You’re so lucky I don’t take you into the bathroom right now.” I feel my erection start to grow and get hard, I place a hand over my crotch, he stops me, his face so close to mine, I can feel his dangling curls on my forehead,

“Don’t hide it from me, baby.” His kisses me more passionate than ever, he slips his tongue in my mouth, I allow him to.

“Maybe we should take that bathroom trip now, huh?”

ACK! If you read this far, you are a super awesome and I love you, more to come soon, I’m so new to this tumblr thing, so please be patient with me.

[powerfulblob]

I think it’s hilarious that we almost didn’t get the Spot in ATSV

[mild spoilers ahead for both Watchmen and Across the Spiderverse

OK so let me explain

When Dave Gibbons and Alan Moore were working on the concept art for Watchmen, they were thinking to use this design for Rorscharch:

I saw this and thought it was fake but fuck, it’s the actual concept art by Dave Gibbons (see the article by CBR for details: I swear I’m not making this up)

^^Source: CBR

[Image description: A concept sketch of Rorscharch from Watchmen. He’s wearing a skin-tight white suit that covers his entire boy with black splotches of ink on it. He wears a blue fedora, trechcoat, black dress shoes (I think), and weird ankle-warmer thingies. I actually have no idea what those are, I’m sorry. For some fucked up reason it looks like he’s like ripping his jacket open which is really funny.

End image description

]

[ID: Image of the spot from Spiderman.

Has a skin-tight white suit with black spots on it.

End image description

]

like it’s hilariously similar: The only difference is that the first picture is like 75% gayer but that’s basically it

so:

We could have lost the Spot if Alan and Dave went with whatever the fuck is image number 1, since the spot‘s is design was just too close to be copyright-friendly

anyway there’s your little bit of comic book lore for today

why can’t i put this much effort into my english projects

[longtalkwithdeath]

Beautiful?

I think I needed this somewhere too.

There’s poetry in everything. Sometimes I can feel the words lingering on my tongue, my lips, my face, in my soul. It echoes and echoes until my head is buzzing with words in a jumbled mess until I write something down. I open my mouth and heave a heavy sigh, eyes darting around, trying to see everything. I sit in a wooden chair under a golden mural and think there's something there. I can feel it under my skin, behind my eyes. There’s something to be written and it’s screaming at me. I want to spin across the marble floor, arms wide open and eyes closed, to just feel. I want to run and run and run until things become clear again. But, instead, I sit quietly with my body abuzz with words. I write and write and write until there isn’t anything left to say. It helps. Or at least makes me quiet. Is this what the greats felt? A pull in every inch of themselves to create. To see something others don’t and be compelled to make something out of it. I see why they go mad. I feel mad. Did Da Vinci feel his fingers shake until he picked up the paint brush. Did Poe feel his soul scream until he began to write. Could they feel this too? Looking at art and getting this overwhelming feeling. My fingers itch and twitch and I just sit. I’m coughing up feathers and crying ink until I can’t stand it anymore. Staring out the subway window at the sun covered buildings and I just know I have to write about it. Even if it’s bad, even if no one ever sees it, I have to write. Maybe that is what being human is. Maybe that urge to make is what sets us apart. Fuck thumbs, it’s this pull in my heart that sets me apart. Can you feel it? Oh God, please tell me you feel it too. I dig my fingers into my skin and only see ink. Black, thick ink. I am paper and I’m ripping myself apart in my determination to create. Destroying myself to write, finally becoming beautiful. I am my own masterpiece, my mangled body bringing others to their knees. Bow at the altar of my suffering and see me for what I am at last: ART

[graveyard-ripper]

delxsive​:

          ivory’s entire form shudders with the weight of those body-heaving sobs, and now that she’s started crying, the scholar is unsure if she will ever stop. still, the doctor hears those words, comforting and smooth, attempting to calm a persona that threatens to spiral into hysteria. she looks up at john, big watery eyes blinking once as she gives a short nod of her head, eyes deterring to the smear of black across the male’s shirt …  shit. she releases her grasp on her ‘brother’ only to reach, wiping fragile digits across the stain with a countenance of culpability. ❝ sorry i …  i don’t know what ’m doing. ❞ she murmurs softly, ❝ ’ve never tried so hard to get someone to tell me ’m pretty before. it’s so stupid. ❞ embarrassing, really. she mutters the words, and their meaning is as clear as it is obscured. one hand raises to wipe at the streaks of black under big, brown eyes, though the tears continue to spill forth. ❝       my keys… ❞ she murmurs again ( and her house key, her work fob, the list goes on. )

     fingertips touch to his chest, causing him to look down. there are black streaks across his gray t-shirt, like hasty calligraphy – spelling out the woeful story of a jilted lover. he sees the ink streaking down pale cheeks: the metamorphosis of mascara. mascara that ivory wore because she wanted misty to tell her she looked pretty. you know what…john TRIED to withhold his frustration, tried to be calming rather than inciting, but this is such BULLSHIT. misty is using ivy like she used ashley, and she’s oblivious ( or – even worse – indifferent ) to the effect is has on them. the psychologist is right: all misty does is TAKE, and he’s so SICK AND TIRED of watching her drag other people into her misery.

    ❝ sit down, okay? ❞ he manages to say without ill temper tinging his tone; he gestures to the couch, lightly placing a hand on her arm. ❝ i’ll find your keys. ❞ and have a talk with your shitty girlfriend. 

    john takes the steps two at a time. his movements are practiced and make little noise on the temperamental staircase. they continue through the hall and into his sister’s bedroom, where he forgoes knocking because fuck you, misty. the lights are off, but he flicks them on – illuminating his bedraggled sister in the same manner as a raccoon caught rummaging in the trash. mascara streaks and makeup smudges are duplicated on equally pale features; she looks just as hurt as ivory, and, for a moment, he wants to pull his hair out. unlike the younger woman, though, she uncurls from where she lay atop the bed, cradling a hand against her chest.

    ❝ what do you want, john? ❞ she spits out, rotten and soured. 

    ❝ what do i want? what the fuck do you want, you actual fucking toad?! ❞ he retorts. any intention of finding the car keys first drowns in the aggravation that overwhelms him. the door drifts closed behind him, but it does not shut.

    ❝ excuse me? ❞

    ❝ what is your fucking problem, misty? ❞ john hisses. ❝ i’m sitting on the couch when your girlfriend comes downstairs crying. and it’s ‘cause you– you– treat her like crap when no one is looking. you fucking–– ignore her, and i don’t know how you think that’s okay. it’s not. you’re– you’re using her! and you don’t even give a damn. ❞ he sucks in a short breath. ❝ you know what? you’re just angry, because it’s not the way you want it. nothing else matters, right? no one else matters but YOU. ❞

    oh. no lies, no rationalizations – the raw, appalling TRUTH. ripped right out of her chest and thrown back in her face like acid into an open wound. it burns so badly she goes COLD.

    ❝ you see this? ❞ john gestures to the stains on his t-shirt; she hadn’t noticed them. ❝ she wore makeup tonight ‘cause she wanted you to tell her she looked pretty. like– what the fuck, misty? do you not tell her that she looks pretty? ❞ the question is not rhetorical, but he doesn’t allow her a single breath to answer it. ❝ you found the perfect girl, and you’re taking a big, messy shit all over her. i don’t know. maybe you want everyone to hate you, then i guess i should say well done. ❞  

    john takes a moment to breathe, running a hand through unkempt hair. ❝ and the fucked up thing is somehow she doesn’t hate you! she–– god. ❞ tipped into exasperation, both hands drag down his face – eyes squeezed shut. ❝ she just wants you to give a damn, and it’s so sad… ❞

    the house creaks; it GROANS underneath the tension. there is something squirming and shuddering within, and misty realizes when she tries to speak that her throat is empty. she hears her heart pounding, feels it trying to break out of its confines. hands reach for the nearest…thing and find the comforter. the fabric rips along a decorative seam, because destroying is the only thing she can think to do to calm herself. her watery eyes remain wide-open and fixed on john; she’s SHAKING.

    moving toward the bed does not move her stare, and john reaches for the backpack he knows belongs to ivory. ❝ are her keys in here? ❞ 

    ❝ i don’t know. ❞ 

    john feels around the outside of the bag, shakes it to see if he can hear them jingling, then opens the zipper. underneath clothing, a worn-out book, and a loose toothbrush, he finds the keychain. and his sister has found the stuffing within her comforter and is stiffly ripping it out. ❝ misty?❞ he looks at her again. 

    ❝ she said i should date ashley. ❞

    ❝ okay… ❞

    tufts of bedding fall onto the floor; the seam rips further down the comforter. john watches tears drip passively down her cheeks while waiting for words to split the silence. ❝ i don’t want to date him, ❞ she whispers, as if afraid to say it aloud.

    ❝ i know, ❞ he murmurs. ❝ but you’re not gonna be dating anyone if you don’t get your shit together. ❞

    that causes misty to turn, and her eyes look startling like those of her ‘girlfriend’ – though there is a characteristic undertone of offense. ❝ what am i supposed to say? she refuses to listen to me. ❞

    ❝ you could start by saying sorry. ❞

    misty scoffs.

    although appearing calm, john is anything but. a hand lashes out and heaves misty onto her feet. startled by the sudden disruption, she wobbles, and the offense in her watered down eyes divides into surprise. ❝ quit being a dick, misty. ❞

    ❝ what am i meant to apologize for when she’s the one throwing a tantrum? ❞ 

    ❝ oh, you are fucking impossible! ❞ john huffs, and he realizes thereafter that his words are an echo of ivy’s. throwing back her arm, he turns away – once again running a hand through his hair. ❝ i am trying to help you, you useless sack of bricks! ❞ 

    ❝ i never asked for your help. ❞ arms cross over her chest and set the foundation for a foul mood – full of indignation and refused responsibility. john knows too much. or, rather, he sees too much – of both of them, because he’s teasing apart the ambiguous line between what is real and what is fake. and neither of them know what is and what isn’t anymore, despite how misty wants to think the separation remains clear. confrontation of a reality otherwise sows FEAR.

    ❝ oh, fuck you. ❞  

    ❝ fuck you. ❞ 

    ❝ is she even important to you? ❞ ( misty blinks, and something in her face reduces to a simmer. ) ❝ honestly. is this relationship even important to you? ❞ 

    more than you know. the acknowledgement presses on a weak point and punctures her facade with a single prick, deflating all animosity within. shoulders draw in as her defensive stance tightens into an attempt at self-comfort. with arms wrapped around her midsection, her vicious stare sinks to the floor. 

    ❝ is it? ❞

    ❝ yes, ❞ misty whispers.

    ❝ then fucking act like it. ❞ 

    just like that, she begins to cry again. soft, choked cries turned into the palm of one hand. everything HURTS, and she wants to crawl back under the covers ( well, what’s left of them anyway ) and expel every emotion until sleep takes away her consciousness. but there is a hand on her forearm, tugging – shifting to her shoulders and pushing her across the room. out into the hallway, where it is dark and quiet and ivory awaits downstairs. she can hear the soft jingle of her keys in john’s pocket. 

    for fear of waking anyone else, misty tamps down pathetic tears. there are so many – too many – thoughts droning in her mind, and forming them into words feels futile; nothing she says will be coherent. nothing she says will be meaningful to her ‘girlfriend’. 

    they descend into the foyer, then move through the living room, the dining room – until finally coming upon ivory in the kitchen. ❝ i have your keys and your bag. ❞ john places them on the counter. ❝ but i think you two need to talk– ❞ looking sternly at his sister, who peeks up at him like a shameful puppy, ❝ –actually talk. ❞    

[choerrypuffs]

i wish you would write a fic in which it continues off from hey angle and yn absentmindedly calls jaemin donghyuck 😌 or maybe she digs the egg instructions out from the trash and puts it back on her fridge but one day she notices it’s gone and jaemin apologizes and says he threw it away because he ripped it accidentally or something and will reprint it for you or teach you how to make eggs 🤧 we love angst in this household

i am honored that the goddess of writing herself has visited my humble blog and bestowed upon me the honor to write some drabbles for her 🧎🏻‍♀️🧎🏻‍♀️🧎🏻‍♀️

please note that this is an alternate ending to my haechan fic oh my angel! read it here 💕

matches burn after the other, pages turn and stick to each other, wages earned and lessons learned, but i’m right where you left me.

It was a moment of weakness. 

They were just dumb printed wikiHow instructions on how to fry a sunny side up egg. 

It was just a dumb plate of eggs and bacon that looked like a smiley face. 

Donghyuck was just a dumb celestial being that barreled his way into your life for a couple days before disappearing and leaving an absolute trail of destruction in his wake. 

Yet you’re kneeling, opening the lid to your trash can, and fishing out that dumb piece of paper. 

Just another piece of him that you can’t seem to make yourself let go. 

The instructions are crumpled since you had angrily ripped them off your fridge and balled them up before tossing them in your trash, so you carefully smooth out the paper on your thigh.

He used my expensive color ink too.

And against your better judgment, you hang the instructions back on your fridge—hoping that they’ll repair the jagged, sharp, and uneven chasm that Donghyuck left behind in your life.

When in reality, all it really does is serve as a painful reminder of what felt like him sharpening every feather on his wings and using them to hollow out your heart. 

.

.

.

You notice it immediately when you walk into the kitchen, as if there was an infinite black hole in the middle of your fridge. 

The instructions, which had been on your fridge for the past week, are gone. Everything suddenly looks so out of place; the magnets float around on the door aimlessly, deprived of their centerpiece. 

Na Jaemin, your best friend and not-yet-boyfriend, is cooking. When he glances up and sees you, he beams so brightly that it almost makes you forget about everything else. 

But it isn’t so bright that it outshines the glow of Donghyuck’s wings. 

“Morning!” Jaemin says cheerfully, ever the morning person. “I made breakfast. Don’t forget we have early rehearsal in an hour.”

That’s right. You’re a ballerina, a trait that used to define you as a person before Donghyuck. Nowadays, you just go through the motions as if you were one of those porcelain ballerinas in a music box. 

You muster up a smile for Jaemin before sitting down at the table. He sets down a plate of eggs, scrambled and no bacon, in front of you. 

You’re not sure if you want to laugh or scream or cry. It’s like God, or maybe even Donghyuck himself, is playing a sick joke. As if he hasn’t dealt such a cruel blow to you already. 

“By the way,” you start, trying to keep your voice from trembling. “Do you know what happened to those instructions that I had up on the fridge?” 

Jaemin pauses, trying to remember, because it’s something seemingly so insignificant that even he, who pays attention to every little detail when it comes to you, can’t recall off the top of his head. 

But it’s not insignificant to you, and you hate Donghyuck for it. You hate him because hate is the only emotion that is stronger than love.

“Oh, right,” he finally answers, “I opened the fridge door this morning, and it just fell off, so I just threw it away since it was all wrinkled and it had some kind of stain on it. Sorry, I didn’t know you needed them. I haven’t taken the trash out yet, I can get it for you.” 

Jaemin looks so guilty that you start to feel guilty yourself. 

“I don’t need them,” you lie, “not anymore.” 

“Are you sure?” he asks—because he’s kind. Jaemin is kind and caring and sweet, and you know he’ll be good to you for the rest of your life. 

So why, why do you keep thinking of him?

“Yes,” you choke out. 

“What were they for anyways?” 

“Sunny side up eggs.”

“You could’ve just asked me,” Jaemin laughs, and it’s a wonderful laugh—like a warm spring breeze. 

But you long for snowfall on Christmas.

send me a summary of a fic you wish i would write!

[inkedtae]

a lover’s howl ⇾ kth. [M]

⟶ inspired by Howl’s Moving Castle and part of The Ghibli Series

⌁ pairing; howl!taehyung x reader (f.)

⌁ genre/rating; studio ghibli au, howl’s moving castle au, smut, a dash of fluff, a bit of angst, 18+

⌁ summary; an unforsaken spell blesses you with his presence again

⌁ word count; 4.1k

⌁ warnings; howl!taehyung, blonde!taehyung, bigdicc!taehyung, dom!taehyung, sub!reader, unprotected sex, rough sex, praise kink, dirty talk, oral (f. receiving), fingering, body worshipping, basically a moving amount of filth~ 

⚘ happy birthday juno ♡ (@onherwings​)~ 

⚘ a huge thanks to my beta readers, @kkulmoon​, @nottodayjjk​ and @uhgood-dooghu​, for taking the time to read this over and fix it up for me. it means a lot and i don’t think i will ever be able to thank you enough. also a special thanks @yeoldontknow​ for letting me talk at her, giving me ideas and always supporting me. I owe this fic being finished on time to you. 

The rumble of the train trembles the walls of your workshop. Black fumes cloud the moonlight. Your candles flicker atop your desk, threatening to diminish and leave you sewing in the dark. Weaving feathers in and out of a black hat, you’re too preoccupied with thoughts of him to be fazed by the sound. He writes often, enclosing a black feather with every letter, but doesn’t visit as much. You’re not sure what of this “important business” is so dangerous that you can’t come along as well. You have survived much worse, witnessed his near death and helped him rebuild his castle afterall. And though you told yourself countless times that there’s no good dwelling on the past, you can’t seem to stop wondering what exactly changed his mind. 

A prick of your thumb stings you out of your thoughts. In a jolt, you drop the needle and hat to shoot out of your seat with a hiss. You lick the wound before it bleeds then press your fingertip upon it. You hope the pressure subsides the wound long enough for you to fetch a bandage from the first aid kit. 

Now, where did Taehyung say it was? Something about a library... or was it a living room? You make your way up to the attic, hoping he did in fact mention the library. All you can really remember from that conversation was how handsome he looked in that pink coat you stitched up for him. It just frames his broad shoulder so well only to narrow around his thin waist. And then there was that knowing look in his eyes that told you he knew just how much you weren’t listening at all. 

“Baby,” he had whispered, cupping your chin. “Are you listening?” And once you had found the mental capacity to resist the urge to kiss him and slowly nod, he had smirked and repeated, “The kit is in-”

The library flickers to life when you enter. Dust settles upon every inch and you begin to wonder why he had forbade you from entering before as you scan the shelves for the kit. Leather bound books and tightly rolled scrolls reside on every surface. Trinkets of his journey clutter around as well. You had thought you talked to him about the importance of organization, but it seems that he prefers this mess best. 

Your attention settles on the desk, sitting in front of a large window. Presuming it’s probably in one of the desk drawers, you make your way over with the intention of rifling through them and nothing more. You’ve learned from past experience that it’s best to never tinker with his things. However, once you stand before it, a red, leather bound book catches your eye. The imprinted title is written in an unreadable script and seems to be floating off the cover. How could that dance off the surface like that? Against your better judgement, curiosity hovers your fingers over the font.

Slamming open, the book flips and flicks through various pages only to suddenly stop. Rose coloured font apperates into view in that unreadable script again. You furrow your brows, attempting to read it anyways, until the strokes of ink shift around the pages. They rearrange themselves into a script you can decipher. 

A Lover’s Howl. 

Yearning of heart and 

Tethers of soul.

I wish to end my misery

And the distance apart

Together unruly and-

The tremors of the train erupt every wall of the attic, pulling you out of your thoughts. Startled, you glance out the window to find that it is not the train at all you owe this rukkus to, but the upset clouds. Flashes of lightning burn the sky alight as rain beats down the busy street. 

You turn back to the desk and shut the book. That’s enough snooping for a night. You still have that first aid kit to find. Rummage through the drawers, you finally find a little tin of bandages under a box of rose and emerald ink pots. Teeth between the thin paper, you rip open the little bandage and wrap it around your thumb. However, it seems like once one wound is taken care of, another flames. 

Aching, your heart sits heavy in your chest. You take a deep breath, hands too shaky to return the kit back beneath the ink pots. The action seems to push the numb pain to your gut. A little whimper escapes you. You lean on the edge of the desk, inhaling sharply. You’re still breathing, you try to remind yourself. And that should be a comforting fact if your pussy didn’t begin aching as well. With a shaky gasp, you press your thighs together and wonder why the thought of being bent over this very desk seems to be unfathomably appealing right now. 

Your fingers hover over the pearl buttons of your dress; it suddenly seems awfully tight in this hot room. Wait- when did the room get so ho- “Agh,” you whine as another pang of pain makes you needier. 

The newfound heat suffocates skin, hands moving fast to push that blue dress off your shoulders. It doesn’t hit the ground before you start to discard your bra and panties as well. Still, your body burns with a desire to be overtaken. It’s as if you’ve been edged all day, left half finished and ready to finally unravel. Desperate to feel just that, you slide a hand down to your aching pussy. It clenches emptily, yearning for Taehyung's huge cock. God, it’s been too long since he last stretched you out. Nothing can ever quite compare to his size, your fingers and vibrator a weak excuse for anything besides clitoral pleasure.

Rubbing at your clit, you try to soothe the craving for him now. However, the pain only seems to intensify. It’s as if your body knows it’s not your own hand you crave, but Taehyung’s. And where is he now to graze your folds between his fingers and tease with little praises? You can just see him peeking up from between your legs, tongue poking out of his lips and breath fanning over your heat. And you’d push yourself up into him. So, he’d smirk and chuckle, and tell you to be patient or he won’t do anything at all. You can even hear him now, taunting at your desperate, half-naked state in the very section of the house he told you to never enter. 

“What did I say about looking through my things?” 

Hand cupping your heat, your attention snaps to the door. Taehyung leans against the doorframe, the candlelight sculpting his features sharply. His name leaves you in a whisper as you begin to wonder how desperate you are to have resorted to hallucinations? Maybe you should really call him if your mind’s gone this far. But, as you attempt to move around the desk, another shot of pain holds you back. You gasp a quiet cry and harshly rub circles around your clit. 

Concern colours Taehyung’s features. “Sweetheart,” he calls, rushing over to you. You’re about to pride your mind on such a vivid and accurate imagination when you feel his large hands settle on your arms. Soft and cold, he holds you tight and guides your hunched over frame onto the desk. Shrugging his coat off, he drapes it over your shoulders and asks, “What’ve you done to yourself?” 

“You’re here?” 

“I’m here,” he smiles. 

A breathless chuckle bubbles out of you as your hands wrap around his neck. Your arousal slicked hands stain his shirt, but he doesn’t seem to mind, pulling you into a tighter hug. “You shouldn’t have come in here,” he mutters between peppering little kisses in the crook of your neck. 

His vanilla cedar scent coddles your heart and aches your bones. You whimper into his shoulder at how quickly the pain intensifies from a single whiff. Taehyung pulls half an inch away, concerned and confused. With his forehead resting against yours, he licks his lips and you can’t think of a better use for that tongue if not to lick at your pussy. The pain shoots at you again just as your thoughts become interesting. You swallow your whimpers as he brushes your hair out of your face.

His gaze falls to your bare chest before lingering around your pussy. Suddenly aware of your nakedness, you shyly press your thighs together. Every inch of you just wants to beg him for his cock already, no matter if you're bent on his desk or pressed against the window. You just need him on you, in you, touching every part of you. 

The courage to ask for what you want finally presents itself when he shifts his gaze to something behind you. You sneak a glance over your shoulder to find that open book. A little sigh escapes him and he returns his attention to you with a little smirk. “You missed me this much,” he teases, caressing your cheek, “that you just had to cast a mating spell, hmm?” 

Is that what that was? You weren’t even sure you could read it before it rearranged. You’re about to apologize when the pain cinches your words in your throat. Doubling over, you rest your head against his shoulder and whine, “Ah, Tae!” 

He wraps his arms around you, further engulfing you in his scent and you don’t think you can take much more of this. Whatever this mating spell is, you’re sure it’s not supposed to be tearing you apart. Clutching on the collar of his shirt, you mumble, “I need you, Tae. I need your mouth and fingers and- I just need you so bad.” 

You wish you can say you hate the way his eyes glisten with power. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he knew exactly how you were feeling and was just waiting for you to say it. He’s told you before that the sight of you so needy always awakes something dark within him. He loves to watch you whine and quiver. 

His hold on your face tightens as his fingers dig into your skin. You swallow thickly, another whine escaping from the mere thought of those fingers deep in you. He licks his lips before asking, “What do you need me to do so bad, sweetheart?” 

He trails his fingers down your neck, past your collarbone and the valley of your breasts; waiting, watching. When all you can muster is his name in a little mewl, he whispers, peppermint breath fanning over your face, “Do you want to start on your knees?” 

“Anything,” you gasp, tugging on his shirt. You just need him close, need him now. “We can do it anyway you want, just please fuck me already.” 

Surprise alights his eyes for a moment. Never have you spoken this crassly, without his cock already deep in you that is. He chuckles, on the verge of teasing you about it when another pained whimper escapes you. Taehyung settles his large hands on your thighs. Leaning in, he brushes his nose against yours then places a soft kiss upon the corner of your lips. “I know it hurts, sweetheart, but I can’t do much if you don’t tell me exactly what you want.” 

You pause for a moment, wondering how much clearer you could be. Usually, a declaration to be riled is enough to set him off. You’re never the one guiding him as he always insists on guiding you. He says it's because he loves how obedient you suddenly become when his dick is involved. And though you have tried to fight him on it in the past, there’s not much you can deny now. So, you bite back a whine until you have enough strength to order just above a whisper, “I need your mouth, Tae. You’re fingers too. Honestly, anything will do just as long as you're tasting me.” 

He bites back a chuckle as he lowers himself to his knees. Spreading your legs, he urges you to lean back a bit. The gesture pushes a variety of books and pens to the floor. Neither of you can be too bothered, however, with his face inches away from your pussy. 

Holding your gaze, Taehyung dives in. You expect him to lick a long strip up your pussy to start, as he always does, only to have him suction his lips around your clit. Either way, you’re sure the pain withers away. A relieved gasp echoes in the small room as you throw your head back. You can barely even feel the previous ache when he releases your clit to lap up your wetness. All you can focus on is how you missed his warm tongue. 

“Oh fuck, just like that,” you moan, eyes fluttering shut. Your hips roll up to meet his tongue, body craving more of him. 

“Keep talking to me, baby,” he mutters around a mouthful of pussy. “How fast do you want it?”

You run a hand through his hair and hold on tight. “Fast!” Taehyung groans against you, making your heart flutter enough for you to forget what more you wanted to say. Until a small ache pokes at your gut again. With a whine, you reply, “I need your fingers. I need you to shove them in me and lick me and make me cum. Fuck, Tae, just please make me cum.” 

Taehyung circles two fingers around your tight, little hole, muttering, “About time you remembered your manners.” 

Not much strength lives in you to tell him that you’ll remember your manners when he finally lets you come along with him to whatever “important business” that’s taken him this long. And even if you could speak, all you can really think about is how you missed his fucking fingers. So long and slender, they slide into you so far and curl just right.The pain dissipates and you throw your head back with a loud moan. You’re not sure what this spell was, but you’re thankful for it if it means bringing Taehyung back home. 

You attempt to ride his face again only to have him remove his lips. He smirks up at you, amused gaze peeking through his blonde bangs. His fingers quicken and bash just where you need them.

“Taehyung,” you sigh. Voice breathless, strained with the return of that painful, greedy desire to unravel, you whine, “I need your mouth.” 

He chuckles. You shudder. Has he been gone so long that you’ve genuinely forgotten just how much you adored that laugh? You’ve never been able to process the duality of it, the cheerful tone sounding so deep and dark.

“And what do you want me to do about that?” 

Oh, right. The spell. It only seems to let him follow your orders. You make a mental note to tease him about it later, the gnawing ache of your gut begging to be eased. Still, under your breath, you mumble, “Must I hold your hand through this?”

Taehyung clenches his jaw. His eyes blink cold, hard and darken into vexation. If he could, he’d smack your pussy, bend you over for a spanking only to edge you thrice before finally letting you cum. At least, that’s what he did the last time you talked back. Instead, he resorts to glares and little reminders to “behave” since “the spell will break before the night is over.” 

You shiver with every moan as you sit up. A few more scrolls roll to the ground from the shift of your position, but you pay them no mind. As the thunder roars beyond the little library, you cup Taehyung’s wet smeared chin and guide him back onto his feet. 

“All I can ever think about,” you start, attempting to speak through your moans, “is all the time lost not getting fucked in that moving castle.” 

“It’s d-”

“Dangerous,” you finish. “More dangerous than a mating spell? Than this stupid libr- fuck, I think I’m close.” You fall forward to rest your head against his shoulders. Taehyung scoffs and you don’t need to glance at his handsome face to know he’s smirking. You can hear it. 

Hand shooting to his wrist, you stop his fingers mid-thrust. The spell’s pain lingers around your pussy, tightening your walls around him. It threatens its return as your orgasm slowly disappears. He whispers your name, but you only meet his gaze when you’ve bitten every needy whine back long enough to say, “I just want you to fuck me like you want me.” 

“What makes you think I don’t want you?”

A little whine slips past your lips. Taehyung’s expression softens and he shifts in place, likely feeling helpless when you don’t allow him to ease the ache. “You left, Tae,” you sigh. “You left me here. I want you to fuck me like you never did. I want you to replace your fingers with your cock and touch me like you love me.”

Taehyung pauses. “You think I don’t love you?” 

Though the answer is on the tip of your tongue, you know better than to tell him it now. Taehyung is no fun to fuck when he’s genuinealy upset. And if you are going to be rid of this unforsaken curse, you know that you’ll need to keep the rest of your thoughts to yourself. So you let go of his wrist and the spell compels his actions once more. 

Taehyung removes his fingers then rids himself of his clothes. You can’t seem to keep your hands from wandering over his chest and clutching onto his shoulders. He smiles at you and, though it’s small, that smile of his makes you wonder if perhaps you’ve ruined the entire mood and now he’ll only fuck you because he wants simply to help. 

Then he seizes your hips. You’re pulled forward until the length of his cock presses between your folds. He strokes his nose along your cheek, wet lips whispering, “I think the real issue is how you have trouble following orders.” Rolling his hips against yours, Taehyung groans into the crook of your neck. “It looks like I have to show you how it’s done.” 

You lose your fingers in his hair, clutching onto his bicep with your other hand. You missed how much he loved to tease. Lips biting into your collarbone, Taehyung reaches a hand between your bodies to align himself. A gentle push in and you’re exchanging praises. He’s definitely been gone too long if you’ve forgotten just how big he is. His mere tip stretches you enough to lose all words, incoherent affirmations taking their place instead. Eyes rolling back, you thrust up to try meeting his hips halfway, but Taehyung grounds you in place. 

A specific speed never left your lips and you just now realized that fast is in fact Taehyung’s default setting when it comes to fucking you into submission. All the pain you thought was returning feels as though it never arrived at all. You’re about to tell him to thrust harder when he clutches onto your neck. 

He stares into your desperate eyes, his own looking needier than usual - a fact he has never enjoyed admitting. “Do you know how many times I almost used this fucking spell?” he hisses as his thrusts become harsher. “Every night, I stare at that fucking page and think about how pretty you’d look when you’re full of my cock.” He growls a curse under his breath. The hand around your neck tightens just to let go. As it trails down your body to cup one of your bouncing breasts, he groans, “You look even more beautiful when you’re desperate for it. Did you know that?”

You let out a shaky moan. Hands sweaty, you try to maintain your grip on his shoulders as he plays with your body like a passtime. He thumbs your nipple, gazing down at how you arch your back and push yourself further against him. Breathless from the sheer sight, he picks up his pace. The desk scratches at the floor with every thrust. Your moans drown its sharp creaks as Taehyung buries his face between your breasts. Licking and biting, he feasts on you like he never left, like he does this every night and still can’t believe he has you. 

Cradling his head closer, you feel that once painful ache in your gut tighten, twist and slowly begin to beg for a chance to release. And you know he can feel you inching closer as well, little praises pouring out of him between his appreciation of your chest. 

“That’s my girl,” he rasps. “Taking my cock so well.” 

True, you’re annoyed it took a fucking spell to bring him back, but you’d be lying if his insistence of you being such a good girl didn’t just replace all your anger with affection. “Taehyung!” you cry. 

You’re about to ask for permission when you recall the fickle detail that you are the one calling the shots this time. Even still, you try to subside your urge to cum long enough to ask, “I-it’s okay to cum, right?” 

Taehyung laughs against your skin. He trails quick kisses back up to your lips, only to mutter moments later, much to your constant whining, “You don’t need to ask this time, sweetheart.” 

Like being doused with cold water, you allow yourself to come undone. Fingers digging into his skin, eyes rolling back, you scream out his name over and over again with the rhythm of his hips. Every new thrust adds to the quaking of your body. It breaks in your voice as you cry out for him. 

“Does that feel better?” he teases, voice husky and strained. If that isn’t enough indication that he’s close, the little twitch of his cock gives it away. “Is my dick enough or do you want me to cum too?” 

Nails imprinting into his skin, you try to meet his gaze. “If you don’t cum in me right now,” you start, breathless and desperate, “I swear I’ll cry.” 

Taehyung nudges his nose against yours before pressing his lips to yours. He lets you swallow all his moans as he pulls you close by your ass and holds you tight. Then, he bites your lip and fills you until you’re stuffed with more than just his giant cock.

A few more rushed kisses and sloppy thrusts are offered before Taehyung ceases all movement. He rests his head on your shoulder, fingers still sunk into the curves of your ass. Sweaty, heaving exhaustion overwhelms your senses. Pussy pulsing, you find that the longer Taehyung remains in you, the more twinges of that pain return. You know you should tell him that, only you’re worried that he’d go the moment he pulls out. He has served the purpose of the spell after all. 

Taehyung stands straighter now that his breath has returned to him. He shifts his hands from your ass to your hips and gently pulls out. A hiss escapes him. You feel empty all over again. 

Crossing your legs, you softly push his hands off your hips. It might just be best to make this easier on both of you, you wonder, and give him a chance to go. Maybe that way it won’t feel as though he’s abandoning you. 

“I guess you have to get back then,” you say as you hop off the desk. 

You both know he can sense your discomfort. “I can stay for a little while.”

Grabbing your dress off the ground, you ignore the emotion in his words. “Lucky me,” you mutter, turning back to find him inches away. 

Eyes locked, Taehyung maintains his sincerity. He tentatively wraps his arms around your waist and, when you don’t interject, presses you against his chest. “I’m- I-” he stutters for a moment before the words come together once more. “I thought leaving alone would be the safest. I didn’t think it would take this long.”

You shake your head. He’s missing the point. It shouldn’t take a spell to compel him to return. He shouldn’t have left you alone. “It shouldn’t matter how long it takes. I should always be there.” 

Taehyung falls silent. Guilt flashes in his eyes as he reverts them to the floor. Swallowing thickly, he meets your gaze again to mutter, “I just can’t risk losing you again.” 

“Then don’t leave me alone,” you whisper. 

Taehyung pulls you into a warm hug. A tearful apology is mumbled into your shoulder. You’re not very interested in it though. All you want is him; with or without a lover’s howl. 

note; please do not leave hate towards me or any other readers. please do not copy, repost, or translate any of my work without my permission.

[babyboibucky]

Project V: Pierced

Pairing: College!Bucky x Fem!Reader

Summary: Bucky convinces you to get matching nipple piercings.

Word Count: 1.9k

Warnings: Smut, unprotected sex, mention of oral, piercing pain lmfao, these two being dumbasses as usual

A/N: Maaaaaaaan, seeing Seb with them piercings really hyped me up to write shit lmfao

Project V Masterlist ||  MAIN MASTERLIST

“Let’s get matching something.”

Bucky proposed as he lounged on your bed, his notes against his chest. You just got out of the shower, a towel wrapped around your chest with water droplets dripping from your neck down to your cleavage. You saw how Bucky’s eyes followed the droplets until it disappeared into your towel.

“Matching what?” You asked and started applying lotion all over your body.

Bucky’s ears turned red as he watched your hands slide up from your calf up to your thighs, the hem of your towel riding up a bit to expose your skin beneath. You snapped your fingers right in his face and made a face, “My eyes are up here, why the fuck are you so horny all the time?” you complained.

“You’re in a fucking towel and I can literally see your pussy from here. Of course I’m gonna feel horny!” he defended. “Anyway, matching something. What do you think?” Bucky asked again, turning to his side as he watched you continue with your post-shower routine.

You shrugged, “How about bracelets? Rings?” you suggested as you slipped on your underwear.

“Too basic.” Bucky said.

“Matching tats?” you asked and then gasped when an idea struck you. “Get a tattoo of my pussy and I’ll have your dick inked on my butt cheek.”

Bucky deadpanned at you, “Are you for real?” he asked. “Also, I don’t want matching tattoos. It’s too common. And Steve and Sam got matching tattoos. We gotta stand out ‘cause we’re not just regular best friends.” he explained, finally sitting up on your bed.

You were now clad in a loose shirt and skipped on the shorts. Turning around to face Bucky, you placed your hands on your hips. “You’re just jealous that Steve decided to get matching tats with Sam and not you.” you teased and sat down next Bucky on your bed.

Bucky rolled his eyes, “Whatever.” he dismissed and thought about what else the both of you can get.

You were combing your hair when Bucky found himself staring at your tits, noticing your pebbled nipples straining through the thin fabric of your shirt.

And then had a eureka moment.

“Let’s get our nips pierced!”

-

“Can I still back out?” you asked, tugging Bucky’s hand as the both of you entered the tattoo parlor.

You refused to get your nipples pierced, you clearly remembered shooting that idea down as soon as Bucky suggested it. But Bucky, Bucky, Bucky...he had a way with his words and his tongue that made you cry out yes to his suggestion.

Fucking Bucky and his talent at cunnilingus. If that man tried to convince you to help him hide a dead body by eating you out, you would’ve started digging a grave as soon as he was done with you.

He was that good at it.

“Pussy.” Bucky teased.

“Using ‘pussy’ as an insult doesn’t make any sense because this pussy can take a pounding. You should know that better than anyone.” you spat back with a scowl.

Bucky frowned at you, “Okay, fine. I take that back. But no one’s backing out. C’mon, we’d be the coolest BFFs in town with these piercings.” he insisted.

You were about to retort back but was immediately cut off when a guy called both your names, confirming the appointment that was made a week ago. Bucky took your hand and pulled you with him further into the parlor, leaving you with no choice but to give in.

“Alright, so nipple piercings huh?” the guy asked. “Are we gonna do both...or?”

You raised your hand, “What’s the aftercare like?” you went straight to the point.

“Oh well, just don’t touch it for as long as you can. It takes about 6 months to a full year for it to completely heal. Wear a cotton bra or skip on it if possible. Try not to tug at the piercings so when doing the nasty, try not to include the nipples.” he explained so casually.

You turned to Bucky, “When doing the nasty, try not to include the nipples. You sure about this, Buck?” you asked, knowing how much Bucky loved playing with your tits during sex.

Bucky swallowed, “For how long should we avoid the nipple play?” he asked shamelessly.

“Couple of months to a full year.”

“Fuck!” Bucky hissed, ignoring how the piercer burst out laughing at his disappointment.

“So what? We still gonna do this or?” you asked.

Bucky pondered for a couple of seconds before letting out a sigh, “I really want us to be the coolest BFFs out there.”

-

The both of you decided to show off the piercings back at the dorm, wanting it to be a moment of surprise. The Uber ride was quiet for some reason, tension thick in the air.

“You screamed like a bitch back there.” you said, finally breaking the silence.

Bucky looked offended when he snapped his head towards you, “My pain tolerance is low, okay?” he excused. “And it really did hurt. At least I didn’t whimper like a whore.” he said.

It was true though, you did whimper like a whore getting fucked by three dicks all at once. You always thought you tolerated pain pretty well, getting a Brazilian was a regular thing for you and it never made you flinch. Nipple piercings though? Jesus fucking christ, you couldn’t even explain how much it fucking hurt.

You laughed sarcastically at Bucky’s rebuttal, “Better than screaming as if you were being pegged with no prep.”

As soon as you arrived at Bucky’s dorm, he scrambled to lock the door in hopes of Steve not coming home any time soon. He’d already seen you wearing Bucky’s boxers, he doesn’t need to see the both of you showing off your newly pierced nipples at each other.

“Okay. You ready?” Bucky asked as he stood in front of you.

“On three.” you said before starting off the countdown.

As soon as the countdown was over, Bucky reached for his shirt from behind, removing it at the same time you removed yours, followed by the thin bralette you wore underneath.

“Oh my god, we actually did it.” you snorted, looking closely at the ball closure ring that Bucky went for.

“Shit, I didn’t know you got straight barbells on yours.” Bucky asked, his eyes glued on your slightly red nipples. “Fuck, your tits look so good with piercings.” he grunted breathlessly.

You licked your lips and groaned at the confession you were about to make, “Look, I’m gonna be honest. I’m so fucking turned on right now.”

Bucky groaned, “Me too. Jesus, I thought I was gay because I got an erection when the dude pierced my first nipple. I mean, he was pretty handsome too.”

“I’m sure we can fuck but we just have to avoid the nips so just hit me from the back.” you said and quickly shimmied off your pants together with your panties.

Bucky rushed to remove his and went over to his bed, kneeling behind as you positioned yourself on all fours. You got so wet at the thought of Bucky’s nipples having piercings that you didn’t need that much foreplay to get ready. Bucky slid his fingers along your folds, gathering more wetness from your entrance before smearing it.

“Fuck, just get on with it!” you moaned and gripped the bedsheets tightly.

Bucky jerked his cock a couple of times before finally sliding easily into your cunt. He choked on his moan at the feeling of your velvety walls clenching around his hard cock. He had been hard too on the way home, no wonder there was tension in that Uber ride.

“Go fast and hard, I’m not gonna last.” you urged, pushing your ass back to meet Bucky’s thrusts.

Placing a hand on your neck and the other on your waist, Bucky fucked you the way you wanted. Thank goodness you started taking pills because Bucky didn’t have the patience to even put a condom on. He felt like he was going to nut as soon as his eyes landed on your pierced nipples, so perky and still swollen.

“Oh shit, fuck. I’m so fucking horny.” Bucky said, his jaw tensing as he watched your ass bounce every time he slammed back inside of you.

A couple more thrusts and your entire body trembled, a soft moan slipping past your lips when you came hard. Even without being touched, your nipples felt sensitive because of the piercings, the sensation only adding to your pleasure when you reached your orgasm.

“Shit, fuck. I gotta see those tits bounce. I can’t cum without seeing them.” Bucky said and pulled out to gently turn you around.

Now on your back with your legs spread open, Bucky slipped inside and continued to fuck you. His hands gripped the pillow beneath your head for leverage as he jackhammered you onto the bed, your hands finding purchase on his broad shoulders as you felt another orgasm approach you.

You lifted your head up to meet Bucky’s lips in a kiss, moaning into his mouth when you felt the tip of his cock kiss your cervix. Your vision blacked out momentarily when you came for the second time. Just as when you regained your senses, Bucky got lost in his own orgasm that he completely forgot about the piercings. He grabbed your left breast and pinched your nipple, your scream joining his loud moan when he came.

“Fucking hell, Bucky!” you cried out, the pain too much to bear that you also didn’t notice that your hand clawed at Bucky’s right pec with your middle finger getting caught in his piercing, accidentally ripping it out in the process.

“Motherfucker!”

-

“What the hell happened? Are you both okay?!” Steve worriedly asked as soon as he arrived at the ER of a nearby hospital.

Upon getting Bucky’s voicemail about rushing to the hospital, Steve panicked and went there as soon as he could. He had been Bucky’s emergency contact for a long time now and he was used to receiving calls from police stations due to how often Bucky got himself in trouble, especially when drunk. But Bucky calling, sounding like he was in immense pain, telling him that he needed to go to the hospital?

It was the first time it ever happened so it was understandable for Steve to panic like a husband who got a call informing him that his wife was going into labor.

You and Bucky exchanged glances, faces red from embarrassment before nodding.

“We’re good.” you curtly responded, scratching your neck.

“What happened?” Steve asked again, brows furrowing as he looked at you and Bucky alternately.

You nudged Bucky’s ribs with your elbow, widening your eyes at him as you urged him to do the explaining.

“We uh...werippedouteachothersnipplepiercings.” he murmured to himself.

Steve frowned, “I didn’t catch a word that you said.”

“We ripped out each other’s piercings by accident.” you repeated, clearly and slowly this time.

“Did your earlobes get ripped off or what?” Steve asked, taking a closer look at both your ears.

Confusion washed over his face when he noticed that your ear piercings were still intact and that Bucky didn’t even have his ears pierced. Steve straightened up and crossed his arms over his chest, looking at the both of you like a reprimanding father.

“What did the two of you do this time?”

A nurse stepped into the scene and offered Steve a kind smile before turning to you and Bucky, handing over a prescription.

“Make sure to follow the instructions when applying the ointment and both your nipples should heal properly.” she explained before walking out.

“Nipples?!” Steve gasped out.

Bucky sighed but shrugged in response, “At least we’re the coolest BFFs out there with matching nipple piercings.”

-

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