#And I utterly decimated him | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

xxsyluslittlecrowxx · 16 days ago

Note

Sending Zayne frisky pictures during work hours

Meeting him that night in a suggestive attire

Teasing him till he breaks

= no walking for atleast a day

And, I, thank you

𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐒

— 𝒁𝒂𝒚𝒏𝒆

𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐃 the day with monastic precision—06:00 for procedures, 09:30 for lab analysis, 13:00 for final reports. The same sequence, adhered to without deviation, like liturgy. It gave shape to the silence. It excused his isolation. There was comfort in that—though he would never call it comfort aloud. It was discipline. Sterile gloves. Bloodied instruments scoured of memory. Silence. Always, silence.

And yet—

The message arrived precisely when the world was still.

He had just closed a file. His left hand lay quiet at the desk’s edge; a pen balanced between two fingers with surgical stillness. Then—vibration. A small sound, almost apologetic. Not urgent.

Her name.

That was all. A notification. A message. Nothing unusual. It might’ve been a follow-up question. A misplaced decimal. A joke. She had a way of doing that—disarming him, sliding into his thoughts with a kind of blithe intimacy, as if she had always belonged there.

He picked up the phone.

And at once, his breath faltered.

The image was not explicit. No, that was precisely the horror of it. Had it been vulgar, obscene—something he could discard with the sterile detachment of a surgeon—he would’ve felt nothing. But this? This was intentional. It was artful. A composition.

Her robe, half-fallen. Black lace visible beneath. Fingers at the knot. Lips parted. No face, not fully—but the mouth was enough. The expression there unmoored him more than any nudity could have.

He locked the phone. Too fast. As if caught. But there was no one. Only the hum of fluorescents and the sudden, suffocating thickness of air.

For a moment, he stood there—utterly still.

The pen had fallen. He hadn’t noticed. It lay near his foot like a desecrated instrument—dropped in a surgical theater, now unclean, now unworthy.

He peeled off his gloves and turned to the sink.

He did not need to wash his hands.

But he did.

Habit, he told himself. Reflex. Precision.

Lies.

The water ran for sixty-four seconds. He counted each one. Numbers steadied him, sometimes. The cold helped more. It shocked the system, drove the blood inward. His hands moved methodically—palms, backs, between the fingers, under the nails, up to the wrists—until the skin grew tight and flushed and borderline raw.

Still, she remained.

Not the image—he had closed the phone. But something in her lingered. Not in the eyes, but behind them. Not on the screen, but beneath his skin. She had entered him like a fever: slow, elegant, unannounced.

That robe. That fabric. That implication. That invitation.

A performance, yes. It had to be. Calculated.

And yet it felt—punitive.

As if he were being punished for something he had not yet admitted wanting.

He returned to his desk, sat, and stared at nothing.

Time passed. Minutes, maybe more. The edges of the room grew porous.

He imagined her wherever she was—still warm from taking the photograph. Did she check to see when he’d opened it? Did she wait? Did she wonder if he would reply? Did she hope?

He unlocked the phone.

Once. Just once, to confirm. To verify that he hadn’t hallucinated the severity of it.

It was worse.

He did not move.

He did not speak.

He did not touch himself.

But he was drowning in her.

It wasn’t lust—not merely. No, lust would have been easier. Familiar. Physiological. But this… this was sacrament spoiled. A reverence that strangled, holy and profane. The kind that ruins men—not with sin, but with devotion.

Zayne did not believe in possession. Not in the romantic sense. People were not things. Emotions were not facts. Love was a biochemical distortion. Lust, a reflexive betrayal of reason. He had built his mind like a fortress atop these principles—brick by brick, evidence by evidence. Rationality. Discipline. Observable data.

And yet—

The thought of another man seeing her like this—her robe falling open line scripture undone, her mouth slack with suggestion—sickened him. Not out of jealousy. No. That would imply entitlement. He knew she wasn’t his.

But it would be… wasteful.

A desecration.

A crime against something he did not yet have language for.

She was—

No.

He could not name what she was to him.

He feared what it would mean if he could.

He stood abruptly. The chair shrieked against the tile. The sound was too loud, too human. He paced. Once. Twice. The door loomed, a threshold he could not justify crossing. Where would he go? Where could he possibly leave her behind?

She was inside him now.

And burning.

Another message arrived.

He did not move.

The screen glowed in the periphery, a silent commandment. He knew what it was. Knew it would not save him. Still, the light held a gravity—like confession. Like damnation.

He could ignore it. Pretend. Resume the script of the man he was before.

Instead, he tapped the screen.

And exhaled through clenched teeth.

She was standing now. Or half-standing—angled toward a mirror. The robe was gone. In its place, red lace clung to her hips like capillaries, veins blooming over skin. Her back arched just so, her head tilted. And on her shoulder—something blurred. A smear. Lipstick. Or a bite.

He gripped the counter’s edge until his knuckles paled.

It wasn’t lust.

It wasn’t even want.

It was reverence—terrible and holy. The kind of reverence that destroys. The kind that drips from Psalms and The Book of Job. The kind that made desert prophets wail beneath the stars and tear their garments in the face of God.

She had become an altar. And he—her heretic.

The thought struck him not with awe, but with shame.

Because he had known. He had always known. From the moment she first crossed the sterile threshold of his lab—unannounced, unafraid—something had shifted in him. Something tectonic. She was not simply beautiful. She was consecrated—and he had let her linger too long in the corridors of his restraint.

Now her image had become scripture.

And he was no longer a scientist, but a man unraveling at the feet of his own hypocrisy.

His fingers hovered above the keys.

A message bloomed in his mind:

My office. 8PM.

Simple. Clinical. Commanding.

But it rang like blasphemy in the stillness. To write it would be to cross a line—one he had drawn in blood and vowed never to breach. Not out of cowardice, but devotion. The kind of twisted, reverent denial that made monks tremble in their cells. The kind that gnawed holes into the soul.

No.

He could not write it.

To speak desire was to own it. To own it was to name it.

And once named, it would not be contained.

So instead—

He turned the phone over, face-down, as if shunning an idol.

He stood, methodically. Walked to the sink.

And washed his hands. Again.

Not for cleanliness.

Not even for control.

But because the ritual was the only thing left of him that still obeyed.

He loathed the warmth in his palms.

The water had long since cooled, yet still he scrubbed them together beneath the faucet, as if friction might cauterize the part of him that had responded—eagerly, hungrily, stupidly—to the sight of her. It wasn’t shame, not exactly. It was something darker. A recognition of sickness, as though desire itself were contamination and he’d breached his own sterile protocol.

He shut off the water, but lingered. Staring. As if the faucet might offer judgment. Or absolution.

Then the towel. Too rough. Too violent. He dried his hands with the force of a man punishing himself, and the fabric tore slightly at the edge. His grip again. Excessive. Undisciplined. He discarded it into the bin and returned to his desk, each step clipped with the weight of self-reproach.

The phone remained face-down. The screen black. Like an eye deliberately shut against sin.

He wouldn’t check it again.

He wouldn’t.

A knock broke the silence.

Zayne didn’t answer.

He didn’t have to.

The door opened, uninvited—as it always did when Elias was involved.

“Still here?” Elias stepped inside, balancing two files in one hand, a tablet in the other. His tone was light, unaware. “Not even a coffee break. Do you ever stop?”

Zayne said nothing. Not out of cruelty—though it might have seemed that way—but because speaking required breath. And breath might summon scent. And scent might bring her back. He was convinced her perfume still haunted the air, like a spirit refusing exorcism.

“Right,” Elias muttered, unbothered. “I’ll make it quick.”

He crossed the room and laid the files on the desk. Zayne didn’t look at them. Couldn’t. His eyes were fixed on the phone—face-down, inert, yet radiating like an unholy relic.

It wasn’t a device anymore. It was a presence.

Not mechanical.

Not digital.

Something worse.

Organic.

Pulsing with implication.

“So,” Elias tried again, undeterred. “You doing anything tonight?”

A dozen answers flared in Zayne’s mind. All of them inappropriate. All of them true.

I’m planning to self-destruct. I’m planning to dissolve twenty years of control in the wake of a photograph. I’m planning to abandon the man I was for the promise of something I shouldn’t even want.

Instead, he rasped, “No.”

Even that single syllable felt like betrayal—spoken past a throat tight with disuse.

Elias looked at him more closely. “You okay?”

Zayne looked up.

Mistake.

Because at that precise moment, the phone vibrated again.

A brief pause. Short. Surgical. Inescapable.

He didn’t need to turn it over.

He knew.

“Another emergency?” Elias asked, half-laughing.

Zayne’s voice barely made it out. “No.”

“Well,” Elias exhaled, missing the weight entirely, “some of us are heading out later. You should come. You’ve looked like death all week.”

Zayne inhaled. Slow. Controlled. “I prefer solitude.”

“Yeah. Clearly.”

And then Elias was gone.

The door closed behind him, swinging like the last breath of something dying.

He did not move.

He let the silence settle again—let it congeal around him like a second skin, one that no longer fit. His hands remained still, his spine locked, but inside, everything was spiraling. Decay disguised as discipline. Reverence masquerading as restraint.

Then, slowly—inevitably—he reached for the phone.

Face-up now.

The light struck him like judgment.

He opened it.

And what stared back was not cruelty.

It was not vulgarity.

It was revelation.

She was lying down this time. Somewhere soft. Somewhere unseen. Her hair unbound—he’d never seen it like that before—and it spilled across the frame like silk undone. Light caressed her in places no light had the right to touch. Her thighs. Her stomach. Her breasts—bare now, the lace pushed aside, forgotten.

Her fingers rested between her legs.

Not crude.

Not obscene.

Intentional.

It was art. In its way. But it was also more.

A confession.

A provocation.

A dare and a liturgy all at once.

Something twisted in his chest.

Not a flutter. Not arousal. No—something deeper. A contraction. As if guilt had a physical shape and it had begun to devour him from within.

There was no longer space for denial.

This was not an accident.

Not a flirtation.

Not innocence.

It was orchestration.

She wanted him undone.

And what horrified him most—what sank teeth into the hollow of his stomach and turned slowly, like a ritual blade—was that a part of him wanted her to succeed.

He closed the image.

Then opened it again.

Longer, this time.

He told himself it was analysis. Confirmation. A study of composition.

He lied.

He knew better.

He could hear his own voice—cold, clinical, merciless—echoing in the recesses of his mind:

This is beneath you. You are not ruled by this.

But the image remained. And with it came memories he had not consciously summoned—like blood seeping through a gauze dressing long believed secure.

The pitch of her voice when she said his name—always softer than it should have been. The peculiar weight of her gaze when it lingered too long on his hands. And the smallest thing—the one that undid him the most—was that she always remembered. Every word. Every insignificant thing he’d ever said to her.

No one did that.

Not with him.

Zayne stood.

His entire body felt wrong.

The blood in his veins moved too fast.

His spine was too rigid, his breath too shallow—as if he had been occupying this form without permission and it had finally begun to reject him.

He paced. Not for relief. Not for order.

He didn’t count the steps this time.

There was nothing left to measure.

The lab behind the glass wall glowed with quiet sterility—unchanged, untouched—but it might as well have been another planet. He was no longer part of that world. That man. That silence.

He had crossed a threshold. A sacred line now blurred by heat.

He’d exiled himself the moment he opened the second message.

He could message her now.

He could summon her—

with a line, a time, a place.

He could lock the door behind her, speak in absolutes, claim her as if desire were proof enough.

He could pretend this descent was deliberate.

But he didn’t.

Because doing it would make it real.

Would transform the ache into action, the want into history.

And if it became real, then there would be no undoing.

No unseeing.

No forgetting.

No return to the cold safety of indifference.

Zayne—rational, clinical Zayne—had always relied on the possibility of erasure.

So instead, he sat.

And let the image devour him in silence.

Not as indulgence.

Not as pleasure.

But as punishment.

He stood. Then sat again. Then rose—

as though his own body had grown foreign, ungovernable.

As though stillness itself had turned against him.

The chair groaned in protest. He ignored it.

Paced the narrow span of the office like a prisoner retracing the same four steps—except this cell had no bars, only thoughts. No guards, only the self. And he, the most merciless warden of all.

Once.

Twice.

His fingers grazed the edge of a bookshelf, paused briefly at a drawer handle, then moved on. He was not touching objects—he was testing the world, searching for weight. But everything felt distant. Unmoored. Functionless.

Even the room seemed altered now.

As though someone had shifted it in his absence.

Not visibly—no. But fundamentally.

As if the space itself had turned on him in some slight, cruel way he couldn’t name.

He crossed to the window.

Of course there was no view. Just the sterile corridor beyond the reinforced glass-fluorescent lighting, shadows that moved like ghosts of routine. Reflections. Echoes. His own outline, faint and pale, stared back at him with too much knowing in the eyes.

His mouth was set in that same neutral line he wore before patients, before colleagues—impassive, unreadable. But his eyes….

He turned away.

He could not bear the sight of himself.

He opened a file on the desk. Reflexive. A patient’s chart—nothing urgent. He scanned the text, sought solace in numbers, margins, diagnosis. He had annotated it earlier that day. His own handwriting blinked back at him, unfamiliar.

But the figures lost their shape. The characters bled.

She returned—not in the data, but behind it. Beneath it. Her form slid between the lines, her legs replaced vital signs, the slope of her neck inserted itself into white space. Even the ink seemed to carry the impression of her skin.

He shut the folder. Too fast. Too violently.

The paper crinkled under the force of it.

He exhaled—slowly, deliberately—like a man attempting to bleed poison from his lungs.

It’s just arousal, said the rational voice in him.

The physician. The empiricist.

But it wasn’t.

It was longing, and it had metastasized. Not into want, but into need.

Not for her body—at least, not only—but for her presence. Her attention. Her voice when it dipped in pitch. Her gaze when it lingered too long.

Absurd.

Undignified.

Unacceptable.

And yet, undeniable.

He no longer craved her skin. He craved her awareness—the way she remembered things he said that even he had forgotten. The way she looked at him as if he were still human, not just useful.

It was not attraction. It was not obsession.

It was the beginning of a disease.

He sat again.

Not from fatigue—he was far past the luxury of tiredness—but because there was nowhere left to stand that didn’t feel exposed. The room no longer accepted him. It watched him now, complicit and unkind.

His hands moved to his tie. Without thinking. The knot loosened slowly, reluctantly, as if its unraveling might relieve the pressure beneath his sternum. The air hit his throat sharp, medicinal—too cold.

He glanced at the clock.

No—not the clock.

The phone.

It hadn’t buzzed again. Not once.

That should have brought relief.

Instead, it felt like absence—raw and echoing.

Like a presence withdrawn.

A silence that accused.

Had she grown bored of the game?

Had she sent that last image, and then—simply moved on? Gone back to her life? Her evening? Her mirror?

Was someone else seeing her like that now?

The thought struck him like a blunt instrument—no blood, just bruising.

A slow, spreading sickness in the chest.

He nearly stood again.

Instead, he forced himself down, fingers digging into the armrest like anchors.

It didn’t matter.

It shouldn’t matter.

But it did.

He stared at the device.

Daring it to light up.

Dreading what would happen if it did.

Time no longer moved in sequence. It expanded. Warped.

He could not tell whether minutes or hours had passed.

It might still be afternoon.

It might be near midnight.

The light in the office was always the same—artificial, unfeeling.

So was the air.

So was the silence.

So was he—

or had been, until today.

He let his head fall back against the chair.

The ceiling stared down—blank, uncaring, the color of anesthesia. He could have been anywhere. In a morgue. In a chapel. Inside a dream.

The moment stretched.

Not a pause, but a void.

Then, unbidden, he remembered Elias. The offer. The bar.

Zayne rarely drank. Two, maybe three times a year. Alcohol dulled his thinking, made his mind heavy. Sluggish. But tonight—

Tonight he already felt impaired.

Hollowed. Humming with something he didn’t know how to hold.

And there was logic—cold, brutal logic—in sedating a wound before it turned septic.

The thought arrived like a prescription:

Leave the building.

Say yes.

Sit in a room full of noise and let other people’s voices drown out the one in your head.

He wouldn’t have to speak.

Only listen.

Only forget.

ANd if he drank—just enough—maybe he would sleep.

And maybe—if sleep took pity—

he wouldn’t dream of her.

He leaned forward.

Elbows on knees.

Eyes locked on the phone.

It didn’t ring.

It didn’t buzz.

It didn’t move.

Neither did he.

The stillness returned—but it no longer soothed.

It had calcified into something hostile. A vacuum that amplified the smallest things: the tick of his own pulse in his throat, the electrical hum threading through the walls, the dryness crawling across his tongue like dust.

And beneath it all—her.

Not the image.

Not anymore.

She had transcended the screen.

What she had sent him was not a photograph. It was a threshold.

And he had crossed it—

unwilling,

uninvited,

but entirely unable to look away.

He imagined her fingers parting the lace—

but not for a camera.

For him.

No performance. No angle curated for effect.

Just her. Unedited. At ease in her ruinous power.

The kind of intimacy that didn’t demand witness, only presence. A gesture not made to provoke, but because it felt good to do so. As if she were bored with subtlety now—done with the elegance of implication.

He saw her look at him through lowered lashes, amusement curled at the corner of her mouth. A soft laugh—not unkind—when his hands hovered, reverent, just short of contact.

Not posed.

Not choreographed—

just lazy, instinctual, indulgent.

He would touch her—

God, he would—but not in desperation.

In detail.

His hands would move like confession, slow and deliberate.

He would begin at her wrist, press his mouth there first—as if to repent.

Then upward.

Each inch of her arm a gospel to be read in flesh.

His fingers would find the fragile architecture of her hips, splay there with measured reverence. No grabbing. No claiming.

Only worship.

His thumb would brush that place where skin turned—

softest,

warmest.

The point of surrender. The place where breathing changed.

He would ask her—quietly, without accusation—

if she knew what she had done to him.

And when she smiled, he would kiss her like punishment.

Not violently.

Not cruelly.

But with a kind of relentless devotion—

the kind that pressed too long, too deep,

Until even pleasure began to ache.

Until reverence became unbearable.

He wanted her trembling.

Not from fear, but from restraint.

From the exquisite pain of being denied what she already ached to receive.

He wanted to make her wait.

Make her feel the weight of what she’d done.

Not because he was cruel.

But because she had undone him first.

ANd fairness had to mean something.

His mind betrayed him further.

He saw her mouth open against his neck, felt the pause—the sacred, breathless space before sound escaped her throat.

Her body tensed beneath his—not in resistance, but in surrender.

A tightening that begged for release.

That told him she trusted him enough to break.

And in the moment before he gave in—

before he pushed into her with all the ruin she had earned—

he would say something he hadn’t said aloud in years.

Not an endearment.

Not a promise.

Just her name.

Only her name.

His hands curled around the armrests.

He hadn’t realized how hard he was gripping until the fabric groaned beneath his fingers—tense, strained, as though the chair itself were trying to resist him.

He wanted to bury himself in her.

To forget who he had been before she touched him—without touching him at all.

He wanted to erase the space between their bodies until there was nothing left to deny.

His eyes burned.

And then—without warning—he stood.

Violently. Absolutely.

Both palms slammed down on the desk, a thunderclap in the quiet.

The sound ricocheted off the walls, louder than any alarm.

His breath was ragged.

His posture undone.

His tie hung half-loosened at his chest like a mark of defeat.

He couldn’t stay here.

He needed to move.

To leave the room, the building, himself.

He reached for his coat. The fabric felt foreign—cold, stiff.

He dragged it over his shoulders with frantic urgency, the sleeves bunching, resisting. He yanked them straight, uncaring. Next came the scarf—creased, tangled, irrelevant.

It didn’t matter.

Nothing fit right.

Nothing softened the pressure building beneath his ribs.

He just needed barriers.

Cloth. Movement.

Distance.

Anything to armor himself against this heat that wasn’t physical.

He crossed the room in long, agitated strides, shoulders hunched like a man pursued.

His reflection caught him in the window—

briefly.

Enough.

Pale. Hollow-eyed.

Mouth clenching against something unspeakable.

He looked away.

The door opened with a shove, hard enough to echo.

The hallway outside was too bright—obscenely bright. The kind of light that revealed things best left bruised.

He walked anyway.

The elevator waited at the end of the corridor.

It’s light glowed steady above the closed door—silent, expectant.

It looked like a mouth. A mechanical throat ready to swallow.

Maybe that was what he wanted.

To disappear into motion.

To be pressed between strangers, noise, anything.

To be drowned in the anonymity of other bodies.

To forget the shape of her skin and the sound he imagined she would make when—

No.

He pressed the call button harder than necessary.

The panel lit. The gears behind the wall groaned to life.

And Zayne stood there—

breathing like a man who’d just escaped a burning room.

The elevator didn’t come.

He stood motionless beneath its steady, indifferent light, jaw clenched, breath caught somewhere between chest and throat. He didn’t press the button again—what would be the point? Even that motion felt laughable now. As if action could atone for thought. As if descending one floor might deliver him from himself.

The air was wrong. Too clean. Too still.

Every breath scraped against the back of his throat, as though filtered through gauze. The corridor hummed faintly with electricity—but beneath it, something else vibrated. Something internal.

A low, gnawing heat.

He felt it beneath his collar. In the hollows of his palms.

Between his legs, where logic had lost jurisdiction.

He hadn’t looked at the phone again. He didn’t have to.

The image was fused to memory now—a neurological brand.

Her bare body reclined, so deliberately unaware of mercy.

He hissed between his teeth—sharp, involuntary.

Then turned.

Slammed a palm against the wall.

Leaned into it, hard enough to jar his shoulder.

It didn’t help.

Nothing helped.

He tried to count his breath, tried to impose rhythm, control—but it wasn’t breath anymore.

It was need.

It was humiliation.

It was rage masquerading as restraint.

“Pathetic,” he muttered, a breathless sneer. “You’ve dissected neural tissue under pressure, and this is what ruins you?”

The words came like vomit.

Bitter, involuntary.

They sickened him.

His forehead pressed against the cold plaster.

He could feel his pulse in his temple—erratic, defiant.

As if his own body had tried of obedience and now moved on its own terms.

The world narrowed into raw sensation:

the dampness gathering at the nape of his neck,

the sting coiled behind his eyes,

the bite of clenched teeth barely holding back—

what?

A cry? A confession? A fall?

He wanted to rip her from his mind.

Not because he hated her.

Because he didn’t.

He wanted her in ways that had no language.

No anatomy.

No cure.

There was no clinical explanation for this kind of ache.

No scan that could chart it.

No sedative strong enough to blunt it.

And the thought—

God, the knowledge—

that she wanted him too?

It didn’t thrill him.

It hollowed him.

He swallowed the sound rising in his throat. It hovered between a groan and a prayer.

She had sent herself to him in pieces—image by image, suggestion by suggestion—until her presence no longer lived in photographs, but inside him.

She was no longer a thought.

She was a condition.

A fever.

A state of being.

He didn’t know where she ended and he began anymore.

He shut his eyes.

Then—

a sound behind him.

Soft. Measured. Clicking.

He froze.

No.

No. No, not now. Not like this—

The sound came again.

Deliberate. Rhythmic.

Heels.

Each step unhurried.

Not mechanical, not rushed.

Intimate.

The air thickened. Grew heavy, as if sound itself displaced the oxygen.

He didn’t turn.

He couldn’t.

Not yet.

The steps drew closer.

One.

Then another.

Measured like a ritual.

Unhurried as a heartbeat beneath silk.

His body locked.

Every muscle drawn tight, every breath withheld like it might break him.

Spine rigid, hands still planted against the wall.

Was he hallucinating?

Had his mind—already scorched, already unraveling—finally abandoned logic?

No.

He turned.

And the world ended, gently.

She walked toward him with the kind of composure that made madness seem holy.

A trench coat belted at the waist. Loose.

The fabric moved with her—fluid, sinless, damning.

From the slit at its side, her leg emerged, then disappeared again.

A rhythm that mocked modesty.

her skin glowed under the corridor’s sterile light.

Her expression—

unreadable.

His hands fell to his sides.

The floor tilted beneath him—

or maybe it was just his blood abandoning reason.

The air thinned. Gravity stuttered.

He couldn’t look away.

Not from the way her hips moved—graceful, damning.

Not from the place where the coat parted with every step, revealing flash after flash of skin like a secret told in stutters.

Not from her eyes—

that unbearable alchemy of innocence and audacity.

As if she had always known.

That he would come undone the moment he saw her.

That she had planned for it.

Her hips swayed.

The coat parted.

Her eyes held him there.

His knees almost gave.

Not in some romantic, tragic metaphor.

In truth.

His body faltered under the weight of her—

not her form, but her knowing.

The way she moved with intention. The way she looked at him like he was already hers.

Like she could take him apart without ever touching him.

He kept himself upright through force alone—

jaw locked, breath dragged through nose like discipline could save him.

Like a man seconds from collapse.

A sound escaped him.

Raw.

Involuntary.

Low in his throat—closer to a groan than a word.

Almost a prayer.

Almost a moan.

He didn’t even care.

He didn’t know what he was anymore.

Not a doctor.

Not a scientist.

Not the man who once measured everything in proof and principle.

Just a man—

bare, wordless, trembling—

reduced to one silent, devastating plea:

Touch me.

Let me touch you.

Just once.

Let me worship what I was never allowed to want.

But he said nothing.

Because nothing he could offer—no word, no gesture—

would be equal to this.

So he stood.

Trembling.

Waiting.

As she moved—unhurried, unstoppable—

toward the point of no return.

She drew nearer.

He wanted to speak. Truly, he did.

A protest. A warning. A plea.

Anything to wedge between this moment and its consequence.

But the words—so many, urgent and inexact—clotted in his throat like stones.

He opened his mouth.

Nothing came.

Only air.

Thin. Unsatisfying.

His hand moved.

Just a tremor at first. A small, shameful spasm near the wrist.

But it betrayed him more than any cry could have.

A man in control didn’t shake.

A man in control didn’t falter.

Her gaze caught it instantly.

Of course it did.

She stopped just in front of him.

Close.

But not touching.

No—never that. She didn’t need to.

Proximity was its own form of possession.

She looked up at him—unapologetic, unhurried.

Her eyes held no urgency. No shame.

There wasn’t even cruelty in her expression.

It was almost passive.

Almost.

But at the corner of her mouth, something shifted—

a shadow of amusement, subtle as breath.

Not mocking.

Not cold.

Something gentler.

More maddening.

She was enjoying this.

Not sadistically. Not with malice.

But with the patience of someone who understood exactly how men broke—and had chosen, gently, not to intervene.

She watched him come undone like one watches a fever run its course—not willing it, but allowing it.

Knowing it would break something.

But not caring what.

Zayne swallowed. Loudly.

It felt like dragging gravel through his throat.

His fingers twitched again. Both hands this time.

He wanted—

God, what did he want?

To drag her against him?

To fall to his knees?

To beg her to leave before he did something he could never take back?

His heart pounded—not fast, but hard.

Each beat landed like a drum struck by purpose.

War drums. Warning signs.

His vision blurred—not from heat or emotion, but from the sheer overload of sensation.

And still—

she said nothing.

That silence—hers—was unbearable.

Because it was full of knowledge.

She knew.

She knew what she’d done to him.

And worse—she knew he wouldn’t stop her.

The scent of her—warmth, skin, faint perfume—reached him like an affliction.

Subtle. Precise. Unrelenting.

It slipped into his lungs and made a home.

His throat worked. He tried again.

“I—”

But it died there.

What could he say?

I can’t.

You shouldn’t.

Please.

Useless.

His shoulders stiffened in shame.

But his eyes—traitorous, starving—remained locked on the small space between the lapels of her coat.

Just there.

A breath of skin.

The soft valley he knew, from memory now, led to lace and ruin.

The faintest smile deepened on her lips.

She hadn’t moved. Not an inch.

Not even a shift of weight.

And yet—

the entire hallway felt tilted toward her.

As if gravity itself had been rewritten.

That was when he understood.

With the brutal clarity of a man falling:

This wasn’t a whim.

Not a game.

Not even a test.

It was mercy.

In her language.

A quiet offering.

A chance to surrender before he shattered.

And still—

he did not move.

Not because he lacked the will, but because he had already offered it.

He simply stood there.

Trembling.

Held captive in the silence she had made sacred.

Waiting for her to decide whether he was worth the fall.

She tilted her head.

Barely.

But it broke the stillness like a whisper in a cathedral.

And then she spoke.

“Did you get my messages?”

The words were soft. Almost playful.

But tucked between syllables was something far more dangerous—a blade wrapped in velvet.

He flinched.

As if struck.

The elevator behind him chimed.

Sterile.

Emotionless.

Perfectly timed.

Perfectly cruel.

He didn’t turn.

Didn’t move.

His breath hitched—

then held.

She hadn’t stepped closer.

She didn’t have to.

The silence between the crackled now—alive.

Charged

Like something pulled too tight.

He looked down.

Her leg—bare where the coat parted.

Light grazing along the line of her thigh, revealing everything and nothing.

No tights.

No stockings.

No pretense.

She had arrived like a secret.

Not offered—meant to be discovered.

His eyes climbed slowly.

He didn’t blink.

Didn’t rush.

Each second felt like an offering, a moment suspended in something larger than choice.

And it undid him more than anything that had come before.

The muscle in his jaw twitched.

His fingers curled faintly, as if remembering what it felt like to hold nothing.

Then—without a word—she reached for the belt at her coat.

And pulled.

Just enough.

The fabric loosened. Shifted.

What lay beneath wasn’t vulgar.

Wasn’t loud.

It was intentional.

Burgundy lace.

Bare skin.

Soft shadows that invited and condemned in equal measure.

She didn’t reveal everything.

She didn’t need to.

He saw only what she allowed—and yet, in his mind, he traced the rest with the precision of a man who had studied her in dreams.

And something inside him—

snapped.

Not in rage.

Not in lust.

In relief.

His body moved before though could stop it.

No hesitation.

No stutter.

Only gravity, finally obeyed.

He stepped forward—not staggering, not rushed, but with the finality of a man who knew there would be no turning back.

One arm curled around her shoulders.

The other pressed firmly at the small of her back—anchoring her. Anchoring himself.

And then—

his mouth was on hers.

The kiss wasn’t soft.

It wasn’t careful.

It was starvation—

the mouth of a man who had survived restraint, only to discover that discipline had always been a slow kind of death.

He kissed her like she was air after drowning, heat after frost, absolution after sin.

She tasted like the only way out—

from the silence,

from the waiting,

from the nightmare he’d never woken from.

She yielded without surprise.

As though this had always been the ending.

As though his restraint had only ever been a curtain waiting to be drawn.

Her hand rose to his chest—fingers curling into the fabric of his coat—but he didn’t let her linger.

He turned.

Guided her back.

The elevator doors had already begun to close.

He caught them with one hand—forceful, unnecessary—and pulled them open like a man reclaiming something he’d been punished for wanting.

They stepped inside.

The light overhead flickered once, as if even the system knew this moment wasn’t meant to be observed.

The second the doors sealed, he lost what little remained of his restraint.

His hands seized her waist—possessive, not gentle—and he turned sharply, pressing her into the cold steel of the elevator wall.

Not thoughtfully. Not carefully.

With suppressed violence.

Not to harm.

To hold.

To tether himself to something solid before he fractured into vapor.

Her gasp bloomed against his cheek as her back hit metal.

He drank it in like a man starved of grace.

His hands moved—frantic, reverent.

He palmed her ribs, her stomach, the delicate underside of her breast through the lace.

The fabric was thin.

Too thin.

He hated it.

Wanted it gone.

But more than that—

He wanted to feel her through it.

To make her shiver beneath the barrier.

To know he could make her arch—not with skin, not with friction—but just from fingertips and will.

She leaned into him—arms sliding around neck, fingers threading into his hair with a trembling kind of care.

She tugged once.

He nearly lost his fitting.

His mouth found hers again—

but this time, it wasn’t a kiss.

It was a confession.

He kissed her like a man begging for mercy he knew wouldn’t come.

Tongue tangled with hers, breath caught between teeth, groans swallowed into heat.

There was no rhythm. No choreography.

Only want—

ugly and unfiltered.

He broke away—breathing hard, hoarse, wrecked.

Her eyes were already heavy-lidded.

Cheeks flushed.

Chest rising beneath the open coat like she’d been running for miles.

Zayne lowered his mouth to her throat—and bit.

Not cruel.

Not deep.

But sharp enough to leave something behind.

A mark.

A warning.

A memory.

Something she’d feel later and think of him.

His right hand slid down her thigh—fingers wrapping, firm, reverent.

He lifted. She let him.

Her leg curled around his hip, bare skin brushing the rough fabric of his slacks.

He was already hard.

Already aching.

And the pressure of her—right there, so close, so ready—

made his head spin.

Her head fell back—a soft thud against the elevator wall, exposing the vulnerable line of her throat.

He stared at it—pale, perfect, impossibly delicate.

And then kissed it—not with hunger, but with the kind of urgency reserved for last rites.

Not lust.

Not control.

Devotion.

Her coat slipped open—fully, finally.

And there she was.

Not in parts.

Not in suggestion.

Not in memory.

But whole.

No lens. No barrier.

Just her.

His breath caught.

All words abandoned him.

He said nothing.

Couldn’t.

He buried his face in her shoulder, inhaling the warm scent of her skin like it could steady the tremors in his hands.

It didn’t.

Nothing calmed.

Nothing could.

Her fingers slipped beneath his coat—dragged lightly down the back of his neck.

Nails grazing skin.

He shuddered.

It didn’t feel like seduction.

It felt like being claimed.

He kissed her again.

And again.

Each one rougher.

Each one slower.

Each one worse than the last.

They weren’t about pleasure anymore.

They were about surrender.

Each kiss another nail in the coffin of the man he had once pretended to be.

Her lips were swollen now.

Her thighs tightened around him—bare, trembling, unbearably warm.

He could feel her—not just body, but permission.

Every part of him wanted to tear the space between them into nothing. To sink into her until he forgot what it was to be alone.

But he didn’t.

Not yet.

He held her tighter.

Not to take.

To remember.

This moment.

This body.

This surrender.

Because after this—

after her—

he would never go back.

His mouth hovered near her ear, breath unsteady—words clawing their way up his throat before he could tame them.

“You wore this for me,” he rasped, voice raw—gravel dragged through reverence. “This little thing under your coat… do I’d see it and lose my fucking mind?”

She didn’t answer.

She couldn’t.

Her fingers clutched the lapels of his coat like a lifeline.

Knuckles white.

Chest rising too fast against his.

He laughed—low, bitter.

Not mocking.

Punished.

“You wanted me to snap, didn’t you?” His lips brushed her jaw. “You wanted to know what I’d look like when I finally stopped pretending.”

She whimpered—soft, breathless—and it undid something low and deep in his spine.

“You like being watched?” he murmured, lips dragging down the column of her throat. “Standing in front of that mirror… touching yourself…”

His mouth brushed her skin.

“Knowing I’d see it. Knowing I wouldn’t be able to forget.”

He pulled back—just long enough to spin her beneath his grip.

She gasped as her body turned, coat slipping from her shoulders like a veil in slow motion.

Her spine met his chest.

Her palms struck the elevator wall—a muffled slap of flesh against steel.

Bracing herself.

He pressed into her from behind—chest to her back, hips grinding slow and deliberate between her thighs. Cruel in rhythm. Worshipful in intent.

Her breath caught.

She tilted her head to the side—automatically. Wordlessly.

Exposing her throat like it belonged to him.

He nuzzled once—then bit. Not hard.

But deep enough to hear her moan.

“That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?” he whispered, voice thick with grit and fire. “One look at you and I knew.”

His hand dragged slowly down her side, fingertips skating over ribs, waist, hip.

“You wore that lace, stood in front of that mirror, sent me that picture—just to end up here.”

His fingers dipped, teasing the curve of her thigh.

“To be bent over. Held like this. While I ruin you.”

He nudged her legs apart with his knee—deliberate. Decisive.

She didn’t resist.

Didn’t hesitate.

His breath ghosted across her ear.

“Good girl,” he breathed. “Keep them open.”

His hand slid upward—slow, unmerciful—along the inside of her thigh.

The skin there burned.

Velvet and heat and want.

She gasped when he reached her center—slick, soaked, shameless.

Zayne groaned—

deep and guttural.

The sound vibrated against her spine.

“Fuck—so wet,” he whispered against her shoulder. “You’ve been like this all day, haven’t you?”

She nodded—barely.

He watched the motion of her cheek against the wall, her lip caught between her teeth.

“I should make you say it,” he muttered, his fingers teasing slow, punishing circles just shy of where she needed him. “Make you admit how much you need me.”

She arched—pushing back against him, hips desperate, thighs trembling.

He smiled against her skin.

Slow. Dark. Inevitable.

“No patience,” he murmured. “Good. I don’t have any left either.”

And then—

he slid one finger inside her.

Deep. Slow.

Deliberate.

until he was buried.

She cried out—muffled, desperate, beautiful.

His breath faltered.

A curse broke beneath it.

Her warmth—it was obscene. Unholy. Alive.

She clenched around his finger like she already knew how to hold him when he fucked her.

He curled his finger—once.

She shuddered so violently he had to catch her—one arm braced across her stomach, anchoring her to him.

His mouth pressed to her neck.

“You feel like sin,” he groaned. “And I don’t give a fuck if it damns me.”

She was melting.

Bent forward, hands braced against the wall, body trembling with every slow, deliberate thrust of his fingers.

Zayne couldn’t look away.

Everytime he pushed inside her, her hips jolted. Her breath caught. Her thighs clenched.

And fuck—the heat of her, the way she tightened around him like she knew he belonged there—it made his cock twitch so violently he nearly gasped.

He pressed his chest harder into her back, mouth at her ear.

“That’s it,” he breathed. “Let me feel all of you.”

Her answer was a broken maon—

half-swallowed.

Pleading.

He slid his hand higher, fingers curling again—deeper this time.

Her knees buckled.

“Fuck, you’re perfect like this,” he whispered, his voice shredded at the edges. “So wet for me. So fucking tight.”

She whimpered when he twisted his wrist—just right—pressing against the spot that made her body jerk forward like he’d struck a chord.

His other hand moved to her breast, cupping it roughly. Thumb dragging across the peak until it responded—until it peaked against the lace.

She cried out—sharp, breathless, shattering.

He groaned, deep in his chest.

A sound that trembled out of him like pressure escaping a crack in stone.

His cock throbbed—hot, slick, restrained.

He was soaked—leaking for her, so hard he could feel every beat of his pulse in the shaft.

“You don’t even know what you do to me,” he growled into her hair. “I’ve been hard since you sent that first fucking picture.”

His breath hitched. “There hasn’t been a second since that I could think straight. Could barely see straight.”

She arched.

Her legs trembled.

“You close?” he asked,

voice a rasp,

teeth grazing her shoulder.

“Yeah? You’re gonna come just from my fingers, aren’t you?”

She nodded—desperate, trying to grind back against his hand, chasing the edge he held just out of reach.

He smirked—dark, reverent, ruined.

“Such a good girl,” he murmured. “Taking it so well. Fucking dripping for me.”

He pinched her nipple—a tug, just enough.

She nearly collapsed.

“I’m gonna eat this pussy after,” he whispered, the words so low they barely existed.

“When you’re shaking…when you’re overstimmed—face down, ass up—I’m gonna spread you open with my tongue and keep going until you’re crying.”

Her whole body locked.

He pushed deeper, twisting his fingers just right—once.

She wailed.

The sound split from her chest—

cut off and strangled at the throat.

“Not yet,” he hissed, his breath shaking against her skin.

“You don’t come yet. You wait.”

She moaned—high, needy, broken.

But she obeyed.

He leaned into her fully, panting against her neck, his cock throbbing—painful now, slick inside his soaked boxers.

He was losing it.

Every inch of him flushed and trembling, the pressure unbearable. His own arousal smeared hot against the inside of his slacks.

He was going to snap.

He knew it.

If she clenched around him again, he’d come untouched.

But he didn’t stop.

Not yet.

because he needed her to break first.

She was breaking apart.

Every muscle in her back tensed beneath his chest, her breath reduced to shattering whimpers.

He felt her thighs twitch around his hand—desperate. Aching. Lost.

Her cunt clenched around his fingers, tight, greedy, rhythmic—each pulse a plea.

Zayne could barely stand.

He was seconds from coming—without friction. Without mercy. Just from the sound of her falling apart on his hand.

Still, he didn’t let her come.

Not yet.

Not until she earned it.

“You gonna fall apart for me, baby?” he rasped into her hair, his voice nothing but heat and grit. “Gonna soak my fucking hand?”

She whimpered, nodded—

hips rocking helplessly back into his hand.

“You want it so bad, don’t you?” His fingers curled deep and slow.

She cried out—louder this time.

“Feel that?” he growled. “That’s how deep I’m gonna fuck you. I’m not gonna stop. You’ll be shaking, crying, begging me to slow down—and I won’t. Not until I feel you come all over my cock—just like this.”

She gasped, legs threatening to give.

His palm never stopped—fingers stroking through the slick obscene heat of her, pressure building perfectly.

“You gonna cream for me, sweetheart?” he groaned, voice breaking against her ear. “Right here in the elevator, huh?”

His hand flexed.

His breath stuttered.

“You want to be my filthy little mess?”

She nodded—frantic, wild, one hand lifting from the wall to claw at his wrist.

Begging, wordless.

Zayne closed his eyes.

Her body was vibrating with the force of her need.

He kissed her neck—once.

A vow sealed in skin.

Then he whispered it,

low and final,

the only benediction she needed.

“Come for me.”

The words were still on his tongue when it happened.

PING.

The sound sliced through the moment like a scalpel.

He froze.

So did she.

The elevator doors began to open behind them—

bright light, footsteps, motion, reality.

Her body clenched—tighter than before—but still held,

suspended on the edge.

Zayne didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

The world had just walked in on his damnation.

And she—

trembling, soaked, panting—

was still waiting for his permission.

#zayne lads #doctor zayne #zayne love and deepspace #lads zayne #l&ds zayne #zayne x reader #love and deepspace zayne #love and deepspace #lnds zayne #lads #zayne smut #zayne fanfic #zayne fanfiction #smut writing #smut fanfiction #smut

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cultven · 8 months ago

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hii i love reading yor fics sososo much T_T<333

I'd like to request a fic where Logan dreams that he hurts the reader, almost killing them. The reader notices that he's having a nightmare and wakes him up, he's disoriented and in panic, but when he realized what just happened he is incredibly relieved to see that reader is ok and alive. Maybe he even breaks down and cries, which really shocks the reader cuz they arent used to seeing Logan like this 🥺 Then the reader comforts him and takes care of him until he's back asleep.

As It Should Be

Wolverine X Reader

Content: Comfort, crying, poor Logan cannot catch a break, but you're there to dig him out of his sadness hole, he loves you a lot, lots of fluff while comforting him

Word Count: 1.39k

Warnings: Some graphic violence during the nightmare segment

a/n: Thank you for the kind words! This one honestly got a little graphic in terms of gore, but nothing too bad, so hopefully that’s ok! This was fun to write, enjoy!

No. What had he done?

Logan stood in a pile of debris and rubble, his white tank top and jeans now caked in blood that wasn’t his. Claws refusing to retract, Logan felt utterly hopeless against his own body. His actions weren’t his own as he trudged towards the only person left alive; you. You were scared, that much was clear by your facial expression and hasty movements to crawl backward away from the mutant.

“Logan… this isn’t you, please.” You plead, eyes darting around the scene to find help, anyone that is still alive or conscious. All you could take in was the decimated mansion and the mauled corpses of your loved ones. What had taken over Logan? Why did he destroy the very things he risked his life for countless times?

As Logan looked into your frightened eyes his heart clenched, knowing what was coming next. He just wishes he could stop it. Watching himself tear through his other family hurt like hell, but having to watch you die he didn’t think he could bear it. You were his entire world, the only thing that could ground him when he fell down the pits of self-destruction. He would forever kill himself before harming you. But this version of himself had other plans.

He trudged over, claws glistening in the light of fire around them. “No, no no no…” You chant, still trying to escape the man but your legs are rendered useless due to your paralyzing fear. With one swift movement, Logan begins to tear through flesh and muscle, watching in horror as his hands mutilate his love against his will. You could do nothing but lay there, screaming in pain, your mutant ability keeping you alive for longer than you wanted to be. Logan wished he was the one being gutted. In a way, he was. Anyone else, anyone but you deserved his wrath.

Tears clung tightly to his eyes as his hand retracted from your body, lining up for the final shot to the head. As the blade commences its soar towards your skull, Logan jolts up from a lying position and hastily takes in his surroundings. It was dark, he was under a blanket of sorts, and oh, he was in your bedroom. Had it only been a nightmare? No, it was far too cruel and realistic to have been. Even Logan’s mind wasn’t so callous to make him live through such a horror. So then, it must have been real? Logan begins to hyperventilate, raising his hands to eye level. His claws were away, and his rough skin was clean of blood. But, as he blinked, grotesque images flashed through his mind. Sick crimson blood, your blood, begins to stain his hands, drying in a disgusting reddish-brown. He immediately jumped out of bed, went into the ensuite bathroom, and scrubbed his hands raw.

“No, no no no.” He chanted under his breath as he tried to scrape off the non-existent material. The cold water was not enough to ground him back to reality, Logan eventually gave up and put him back to the skin, sliding down towards the floor to cradle his head in his hands. Thanks to the sound of the water running in the bathroom and Logan’s hard footsteps, you eventually stir awake. At first, nothing seemed wrong, maybe he just had to use the bathroom. But after the sound of continuous water for five minutes you grew increasingly concerned. Deciding to confront the man you carefully walk up to the bathroom door and gently knock three times, not to startle him during whatever he’s doing.

“Lo?” It was only one syllable, but your sweet voice saying his nickname out loud was enough to send Logan scrambling. The door eagerly burst open, and when it did the sight you were met with shocked your heart. There was Logan on the ground, clearly disheveled, eyes bloodshot and teary. “Oh baby, what happened?” You coo, going to take a step forward but immediately retreating seeing Logan flinch.

“You’re- you’re real, right?” Logan tentatively asks, sounding scared. Of course, you were real, why wouldn’t you be?”

“Yes, love.” You stay put in your place. You didn’t want to upset him further.

“No… I ripped you apart. You died by my hands.” You resist the urge to outwardly exclaim how ridiculous he sounded before realizing he more than likely had a nightmare. Logan was prone to bad dreams, but none ever shook him quite as much as this. The only good thing that came out of the consistent night terrors was that you now knew how to soothe him in times like these.

“I’m right here my love. I’m not hurt. See? I’m perfectly okay.” Your voice stays calm and soothing, not wanting to startle him further. “Touch my hand. Feel my skin. I am right here.” Usually, the sensation of touch grounded him from this distressed state, but this time he seemed hesitant to even look in your direction.

“I can’t. I might hurt you again.” Logan looked so small and it broke you. He was huddled into himself, still looking at you untrusting. The thought of himself harming you any further plagued his mind, twisting his stomach and making him want to vomit. You were his world, his everything. He curses his body for the immortality that was bestowed upon him because if anything happens to you he wants to follow right behind.

Realizing you may seem intimidating due to the fact you’re standing tall over his curled-up body you lower yourself and sit criss-cross applesauce across from him. Putting your hand out in between your two bodies you silently sit there, waiting for Logan to take this at his own pace. After a few minutes, Logan seems calm enough to touch your hand. Fingertips only brush at first, then a loose handhold, then a firm grasp on each other. Before either of you knew it you were fully embracing, Logan nuzzling his head into your neck. He needed to take you in every sense, to prove this was real. His nose took in your intoxicating perfume, his hands gripped your curves, his ears heard your soft breaths release from your mouth, and when he pulled back his eyes took in the sight of you. You were as stunning as always even with your messy hair and tired eyes. You were real, you were here, and you were his.

Seeing as your boyfriend has calmed down you decided to relocate to a more comfortable area. “Let’s get off this gross floor, okay love? Let’s go to bed.” You whisper, carefully tugging him along to your shared bed. Once you two got settled down you were instantly back in his strong arms, protecting you from the rest of the world. You thought all was said and done for the night until Logan spoke up.

“You were so scared. I made you scared.” He hated seeing you that way. It hurt him. What hurt worse was that he was the cause of it. He now understands it wasn’t real, but your expression was so gut-wrenching he couldn’t shake it off.

“Logan I know you would never hurt me on purpose.” You reassured him. “Except maybe when you squeeze me to death with your bear hugs.” Logan chuckled a little bit, your humor always lightens the mood. You lay in silence for a bit, almost dozing off until you hear a voice next to you.

“Thank you for dealing with me.” You smile, leaning over and kissing the man gingerly on the cheek.

“It’s what I signed up for my love. Besides, you could never be a bother to me.” He smiles back, a rare sight to anyone but yourself. “I love you, Logan.”

“I love you too.” With that resignation you two cuddle, arms and legs entangled with one another’s. Eventually, Logan is lulled back to sleep while listening to the steady beat of your heart. Instead of another nightmare, he is met with a blissful dream of the two of you living together on a mountain, away from all the violence and harm the world holds. Just as it should be.

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avocado-writing · 8 months ago

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Omg i love your poly Deadpool and Wolverine fics !! I especially love that reader is totally a sunshine ! Could you do any fic with them and that trope ? 😍

vague sequel to this

Your bad day has been utterly forgotten.

It’s not incredibly hard for them to cheer you up, Logan and Wade have learned. You’re so rarely sad that it’s hardly an issue anyway, but all they really need to do is redirect your energy into something else. A distraction to take your mind off of whatever’s gotten under your skin.

There’s a little carnival that’s set up near the apartment. One of those ones which is constantly on the move, overcharges for everything, and is exactly the kind of place you love. So it was a no-brainer to take you there for the evening.

Logan bought you a necklace made of hard candies, Wade took you on all the rollercoasters which were definitely not safe but you screamed with joy while riding. You’d insisted all three of you squeezed into a boat through the tunnel of love, and they’d come out the other side with your lipstick all over their faces, you smugly sandwiched between them.

And through the evening you’ve been fucking jubilant. Your laughter rolls like thunder, but the kind which means a storm is going to clear out the oppressive atmosphere of a muggy day. A sweet, loud kind of laughter which peals from your very soul. Wade and Logan catch each other’s eye as you absolutely decimate a stick of neon blue cotton candy: they’ve done well.

The three of you are preparing to go home when something catches your eye, slowing you to a stop as you stare. It’s a prize booth - the kind where you have to knock over a tower of tin cans to win. Hanging from the rafters are huge plushies of your favourite animal.

“C’mon baby, you know these games are rigged,” Logan sighs, aware he’s marching into a losing battle. You lick the sugar off of your fingers and dump the wooden stick into a garbage bin, eyes wide in the fluorescent lights of the bumper cars nearby.

“Aww… but they’re so cute…” you sigh, looking really disappointed.

Well, neither of them are ones to let that happen, so Logan and Wade find themselves speaking in unison when they say: “I’ll win you one.”

They exchange a look and you grin. Oh. This has become a challenge, and both are too stubborn to back down. Together they step up to the counter, each slamming five dollars down and making the poor teenager manning the booth jump.

“Uh, okay, you have two balls and need to knock the whole tower—”

The teen doesn’t even get a chance to finish their explanation before Logan has launched one of the pathetic beanbags at the cans with such force that it crumples a couple of them in half. They’re cleared off completely in one hit. The attendant can only gawp as he smugly points to one of the huge plushies which is dutifully fetched. You let out a little woop of joy as he passes it into your arms, giving Wade a look which says beat that.

Wade hums, throwing the beanbag up and down in his hand, testing its weight.

“Okay, well, not all of us are barbarians who need to use brute strength to compensate for our advanced age. It’s all about the finesse, pookie.”

Wade angles his throw so it bounces off the side wall, clearing all of the cans but one. Logan lets out a smug huff. Wade frowns.

“Hey, look, is that Spiderman doing full-frontal nudity?” he says, pointing into the distance, distracting the teen with one hand while he whips out a knife with the other and skewers the can to the back of the booth.

“Prize please!” he says when they turn back, turning pale at the sight of what’s been done to their game. They pass him another plushie from the roof with shaking hands, and Wade presents it to you with a flourish.

“That was cheating,” Logan states as the three of you walk away.

“Uh, I cleared the cans, old man. No cheating about it.”

“You had a second ball to throw,” you point out, and Wade pauses.

“Do you want the toy or not, sweetcheeks?”

And that is how you find yourself more stuffed animal than human, waddling out of the carnival with a huge smile and arms full of polyester. The whole thing is sort of ridiculous but, honestly, if you’re smiling? Logan and Wade can agree it’s totally worth it.

taglist: @falsewordz @malfoys-demigod @belilwen @mildly-salted @tvwebs @childeslegstrap @getmeoutofhell @s1eep-o @just-a-beatlemaniac69 @yrthr @momopad @sugarplumz100 @captainjinkx @madspads @acrosstheunivcrse @yeethaw13 @na-is-salty @florduarte @hunterispunk @starfleetteddybear

#my writing #james logan howlett x reader #logan howlett x reader #logan x reader #wolverine x reader #x men x reader #logan howlett imagine #marvel x reader #marvel imagine #marvel fanfiction #mcu fanfiction #mcu imagine #wolverine fanfiction #mcu fandom #Deadpool x reader #wade wilson x reader

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todomochi-uwu · 28 days ago

Text

him. (1/?) | P. D. A & R. Z

Pairing(s): Portgas D. Ace x reader; Roronoa Zoro x reader Genre: Smut, Angst Warnings: This content is for a mature audience Synopsis: "It was Ace. It was always Ace." Author's notes: Let's see if this pulls me out of the fucking block once and for all. And yes, this is purely and utterly self-indulgent.

Masterlist

If you enjoy my work, please consider buying me a coffee ☕

You couldn´t remember a time in your life when your heart didn’t belong to Luffy’s older brother, Ace. After the stereotypically meet-cute where he saved you from a bunch of bullies on the playground,

“Leave her alone, you idiot!” He said pushing the leader to the ground, who was pulling on your hair, while you begged him to stop. “If I catch any of you bothering her again, I’ll beat the shit out of you.” Ace, always great with words —at least enough to scare your abusers (he also happened to be an older kid).

“Are you okay?” He extended his hand and gave you his signature smile. Right there, your destiny was sealed. You had been sentenced to spend your next years in this world completely and irrevocably in love with your childhood saviour.

After this event, you attached yourself to his hip, quickly getting to know his brothers and friends and becoming a part of the group. Luffy, Zoro, Nami, Sanji, and Usopp, who were the same age as you, were quick to open their hearts to you and offer unconditional friendship, but though you loved them immensely, Ace was always the biggest and brightest star in your heart.

He was always there for you, either to help with homework,

“I’m going to be completely honest with you Y/n, I have no clue as to how to divide decimals.”

“Huh? But you learnt this a couple of years ago, didn’t you?”

“Dear, do I look like a math guy to you?”

With life problems,

“My mom is such an asshole; she won’t stop treating me like I’m a child. I can take care of myself.”

“I’m sure it's hard for her to see you grow up, love. Besides, you are asking her to stay in a cabin with a bunch of guys.”

“Nami will be there!”

“Still.”

Or some other... more complicated problems.

“I can’t go to college being a virgin Ace, everyone will make fun of me.”

“Babe, no one will even care, trust me.” He rubbed your back in circles.

"That's easy for you to say, you fuck everything that moves.” You punched his arm. It hurt a bit to say, you wouldn’t lie, but it was what it was.

“Y/n don’t worry... wait, no I don’t! Where do you even get that?!”

“Sabo always complains of how loud you are.” A small giggle escaped your lips.

“Fucking... I don’t fuck everything that moves, yeah, I have some experience, but I’m not a man-whore.” He scratched the back of his head, blushing.

You sighed, throwing yourself back on the bed. “Maybe I should just get it over with, maybe date someone briefly...”, you threw a pillow into your face, “or ask one of the guys, or whatever, Sanji might say yes.”

“Hey, okay you don’t need to stress yourself about it. You being a virgin doesn’t mean anything, it’s just a social concept, you know?” Pushing the pillow away from your face, “but it’s still a new experience, and it should be with someone who’ll love you and respect you.”

“Sanji is a bit much, but I think...”

“Don’t fuck one of your best friends, Y/n.”

“But he loves me and respects me, he’s weird about it, but...”

“You are really set on this, are you?”

Shrugging your shoulders, you nodded, “I just want to take the pressure off, you know? I want the full college experience, without having to limit myself.”

He sighed, his ears slowly turning bright red, “Okay, well, if it’s that important to you,” he turned his face away, “I can help you with that.” He whispered.

Holy shit. Your eyes opened wide, and your mouth dried up. You couldn’t believe what you were hearing —of course, you had thought about it, more times than you cared to admit, but you never thought it would be a possibility. You had quickly realized that Ace always thought of you as a smaller sister, taking care of you as such; never noticing, or acknowledging, your feelings for him.

“I want this to be a good experience for you, —as good as it can be. So, if you want, and feel comfortable, I will,” his cheeks more and more tinted, “be your first time.”

That’s how Ace had completely ruined you for other men, he made the experience as complete and pleasant as it could be. He took you out on a date, took you to your favourite café, remembered your usual order; took a stroll around the park, holding your hand, and making you laugh all the while; finally, to taking you back to his flat.

“You can back out at any point, love. Just say the word, tap me twice, hell even punch me if you need it, and I will stop right away.”

You simply nodded in response, too nervous to speak.

He caressed your arms and hands, trying to appease your poor mind. He kissed you softly, tracing small figures in the back of your head with his fingertips, his movements moving south, reaching your waist and ending their path at your thighs.

“May I take your clothes off, gorgeous?”

You pushed off one of the straps of your dress, now eager to continue. He stopped you.

“Let me do it.”

You had almost forgotten it. As much of a virgin as you may be, you wanted to be prepared, so, you had dragged Nami to the mall, in search of the right lingerie set. One who would make you feel confident enough in your skin (and one that wasn’t a fucking enigma to put on). At first, she was confused, why did you need lingerie? Last she knew you weren’t dating anyone. Was it just for you? Half the time you were wearing sweatpants and a dirty sweatshirt you stole from Usopp.

“Nami, please just help me.” You grabbed a black set with a pantie line that was almost non-existent, “whose fucking pussy fits in this?”

"I mean, you are not supposed to go out in this, it will take you more time to put it on than for the guy to take it off." She stared at you, "Y/n, why are we even buying lingerie?”

You turned bright red, “umm...”

“Are you seeing someone? Is Zoro? Sanji? Oh god, please tell me it's not Sanji.”

“No, no, it’s not them, and I’m not exactly seeing him." You pulled and hung back different clothes, not daring to look at her, it was until you pulled an orange and black set, “what do you think about this one?”

“What do you...?” She turned to see it, the confusion in her face quickly being replaced with shock, “Holy shit, are you fucking Ace?!” She yelled.

“Shh! Nami, what the fuck?! I don’t need the entire mall to find out.”

“How? Since when? I mean, we all know you’ve always had a crush on him, but...”

“He offered to take my virginity.”

“What?!”

After a brief and whispered-yelled explanation, you filled her in. She looked unsure about your decision, but at the end of the day, it was Ace, and she trusted him as much as you did (also, she isn’t blind, even if she isn’t into guys she could admit how hot he is).

“I think he’ll love that on you.”

His eyes were glued to the cloth that adorned your chest, following the flower pattern with his fingers. He gulped, feeling his sanity slip away. He had to get his shit together.

“Do you like it?” Not daring to look him in the eyes.

“Did you get this for me?”

You nodded shyly.

"I love it."

His hands were soft against your skin, his lips kissing and sucking every single inch of your being; the words he would whisper in your ear made your knees grow weak. The way his fingers reached places yours never could, his tongue enveloping your bundle of nerves introducing you to a new world of sensations, his teeth marked the skin around your nipples making you throw your head back in ecstasy. You would beg for the next step, bucking up your hips against his, but he decided to be a tease about it.

“I’m not sure you are ready for my cock, princess.”

His dirty talk sent waves down your core, making you whine, "Please, Ace."

“Mm...” He hummed against your skin, “How much do you want it?”

“Ace, please, please make love to me.”

That seemed to ground him a bit, "Okay, my love."

He tapped the tip of his dick against your clit a couple of times, then dragged it up and down your entrance, “Tell me if hurts, okay?” And like that, he pushed himself inch by inch.

Your mouth opened, letting out small moans and gasps, the sensation quite foreign to you, he was quite bigger than your fingers, stretching you out in a way you'd never been before. “Oh my god.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, just give me a second, please don’t move.” Completely overwhelmed.

“Of course.” He stilled himself, lowering his face to place small kisses on the valley of your breasts and neck.

After a couple of minutes, you allowed him to continue. He started with small, almost fearful thrusts, closely watching every single change in your expression, until you threw your head back and moaned along, “There, right there! Don’t stop!”

With renewed confidence, his hips moved more securely, bulling that spot inside of you, “There, baby? Does it feel good?”

“Yes! Oh god, Ace!” Your nails scratched down his back.

“Fuck babe, you are driving me crazy.”

His moans filled your ears, you didn’t know someone could sound so heavenly. His hands gripped the plush flesh of your hips so tightly and possessive you were sure it would leave marks, but you didn’t care, he could mark all he wanted, you were his. He pushed himself off you, not stopping his pace, "You look so fucking beautiful”, his kisses were messy and desperate.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him even closer, eyes at the back of your skull, and your mouth unable to pronounce anything but his name. His eyes closed, mouth letting out whines and whimpers in the form of your name, his pelvis pushing against your clit.

His tip kept bullying your cervix, making you clench even tighter around his length, Ace knew he wouldn’t last much longer, but he had to make you cum first. He needed it.

“Common, baby. Give it to me, cum around my cock, please." His pace became quicker and rougher, and his thumb drew circles on your clit, “I need to feel you cumming around me, please give it to me.”

Hearing him beg for you was your last straw, the knot in your belly bursting and sending your entire body and mind into complete ecstasy, “Ace!”

Your walls contracted against his cock, pushing him over the edge, “Fuck, Y/n!” His essence filling the condom, he silently wished it was inside you instead.

You pushed your forearms against your face, covering your face while trying to regain your breath, you could feel the throbbing of your legs' muscles and the shivers running down your spine.

“Love? Are you okay?” He pushed away the arm covering you, “Y/n is everything alright?”

You giggled and nodded. You were happy.

He giggled right back, “Good. Let me clean you up, then we can cuddle.”

Oh, you and your poor heart.

A week after you were at Nami’s house, celebrating your weekend before you were off to college. You made your way through the crowd, in search of any of your friends, how the hell did Nami know so many people? Thankfully, you quickly spotted Usopp and Luffy downing shots in the kitchen bar.

“Slow down boys, or you’ll have a massive hangover tomorrow.”

“Loosen up, Y/n. We are in college now, have some fun. Here.” Usopp passed you a cup, no idea what kind of alcohol or mix was inside it, "Chug it.”

Well, if he insists.

Half an hour later you were screaming the lyrics of a song you barely recognized at the top of your lungs, leaning against Luffy while he shoved his mouth with snacks. Nami had finally found you, dragging Sanji and Zoro with her.

“I have been looking for you all over the place, come on!” She grabbed your hand, now taking you and your drink buddies into another room.

All of you were tipsy, well a bit more than that, but managed to sit in a circle on the floor. Nami opened a bottle of tequila and poured it into the small red cups, “we need to toast to us making it to college.”

“We got wasted back when we received our acceptance letters, we couldn’t stop throwing up the next day, don’t you remember?” Zoro groaned.

“Yeah, yeah, but now the day is almost there, a lot has happened since, hasn’t it Y/n?”

“Shut up, Nami.” The blush on your cheeks wasn’t from the alcohol in your veins.

“What happened, Y/n?” Luffy said, tilting his head in curiosity. Of course, that was the one time he would catch onto something.

“Nothing important, Luff don't worry about it.”

Nami let out a drunk laugh, “Oh no, it wasn’t just important, it was massive.”

“Nami!” You shoved her playfully.

“Okay, what’s going on? What’s with all the secrecy?” Sanji said exasperated.

Your best friend grabbed and shook you by the shoulders, "Our girl here, is officially the second member in our crew to lose her virginity."

“Nami!”

“What?!” Sanji’s eyes almost shot out of his head, “When? Where? How? With whom? How could you, Y/n?!”

“Last week.” Nami continued. “With Ace.”

The crew went crazy, asking you a thousand questions, screaming around and laughing like hyenas. You were bombarded with questions by Sanji and Nami, while Luffy made a grossed-out expression, not wanting to know so much about his brother. None of you seemed to notice how one crew member had checked out of the conversation and stepped out onto the balcony.

He didn’t want to admit it, but his heart had fallen and cracked into the ground. His hands gripped the railing tightly, trying to control the knot that had formed in his throat.

Of course, it was Ace. It was always Ace.

“Are you okay, man?” He heard Usopp opening the door behind him.

“It’s whatever.”

"I'm sorry, Zoro." He patted him on the back, "I still don’t think you should give up on it. I believe you guys should be together.”

The green-haired man looked at the sky, his chest aching, "yeah well, she believes she should be with Ace.”

#one piece #one piece x reader #one piece smut #one piece angst #one piece fanfiction #one piece zoro #one piece ace #portgas d ace #portgas ace smut #portgas ace x reader #portgas d ace x reader #portgas ace angst #roronoa zoro #zoro smut #zoro x reader #zoro angst

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daylighted · 3 months ago

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ㅤㅤ ㅤa birthday like this ─ dean winchester.

baby sister!winchester oc & dean winchester, called bug. or, the only one to remember her big brother's birthday.

not a series! exists purely for writing ideas i get that cannot fit an x reader plotline. dean is 22, bug is 6. bug will gradually age in each possible coming part.

warnings. pure fluff! dean's birthday has the baby fever so high. there's, like, background angst, but it's nothing too bad<3

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dean winchester decided that morning that he was not celebrating his birthday today. it'd been an idea long in the inner workings of his brain, mostly because there was no reason to celebrate it, on his end.

sam was away on a high school trip. john wouldn't be home for weeks, dean figured, so he signed the return slip in his place to at least grant his little brother that simple sense of normalcy. and bug was only starting to figure out that she was a person, let alone know what days were important compared to other days.

john was notorious for forgetting birthdays. he'd had a little girl when dean was sixteen and brought her home and seemed to forget that she even existed, most of the time.

the idea was cemented the morning of january 24th, when he woke up to his cellphone ringing on the bedside table next to him. for a moment, he really thought that his dad was calling to tell him happy birthday. for a moment, he was almost struck speechless.

but all john said on the other side of the line was a location, and a general debriefing of a case, before not-so-politely telling him to get on it.

dean was not disappointed, because he hadn't been expecting anything. but he was irritated. it was a prime example of the fact that he was only at home right now because someone needed to watch over bug, and it certainly wasn't going to be her father, who slipped away at the first chance he got. conveniently, dean was not told what to do with bug, so long as he took his father's orders and got shit done.

he slipped out of bed, a hand ruffling through his sleep mussed mop. through his gapped door, he could already hear bug singing to herself, and the sound of something getting scribbled on. of course he was set to have to clean crayon off of the walls on his birthday.

he changes out of his pajamas quickly and into a variation of his everyday wardrobe, and sighs heavily as he pushes open his bedroom door, bracing himself for the worst.

to dean's surprise, there was no mess. just a little girl sitting at the small kitchen table, hair more mussed than his was, still wearing the cowboy hat pajamas she loved so dearly. a piece of paper was in front of her, one that was being utterly decimated by the scribbles of a red crayon.

"hey, baby bug," dean sighs, his lips pulling into a tight smile, "hate to interrupt your riveting morning, but dad's got us goin' on the road tonight."

"on the road?" she asks, her head tilting to the side. still, her eyes don't leave the paper, her eyebrows furrowed as she focuses so heavily on the scribblings.

dean huffs out a laugh. "tell me about it."

bug is quiet for a second, the only sound in the room being the rough etches of her crayon against the paper. he realizes very quickly that if he wants to be in the car and to georgia before sundown, he's going to have to take matters into his own hands and get his baby sister moving.

his footsteps echo on the hardwood of the apartment's floor as he approaches, clapping his hands together a couple of times to gather bug's attention. his arms slip under hers as he yanks her out of the dinning chair. bug's fist crumples her paper to grab it as she's yanked, already stringing out unintelligible noises that he assumes are little kid curses.

"i know, i know," he says, tucking her to his chest with one arm as he carries her into what was once her and sam's shared room, but has now become hers alone. "but i wanna beat the sunset, and we can't do that if we're coloring all day."

bug's head tilts again. she looks so much like dean, sometimes. she's only his sister half-biologically, but there's so much of him and sam in her that he forgets it often. sam's little smile when she's amused, dean's nose scrunch when she's pissy. her nose is extremely scrunched up right now.

"can i bring my picture?" she asks as he rifles through the mess that was her room. at one point, a low point, he got tired of being her primary caregiver and let it get to this point. toys everywhere, sam's clothes littering the floor, her clothes in his dressers, her favorite dresses in her toy box...

he'd clean it up eventually, he promises himself every day. but rarely did he get time for himself or time at all to try, and most nights anyways, he had bug in his bed, an arm secured around her. there was no way he was going to run the risk of nearly losing her like he had with sam so long ago, when she was too little to know that possibility even existed.

dean helps her get properly dressed, running a brush through the tangly knots of her hair, before he answers. "promise not to color all over baby?"

the smile in the mirror's reflection was often the one thing that kept him from losing his mind. no, bug was not something he asked for, especially not to play father over her, but he could never be mad at her for that. "i promise."

"then sure," he says with a little shrug, grabbing a little sparkly ponytail from the top of the dresser and looping it through her hair, "only bring like, six colors, though. so we know if you lost 'em."

"my favorite ones?"

dean shrugs again, giving her ponytail a little tug before leaning down to scoop her up again. "you bring your favorite ones, i'll make sure we don't leave 'em anywhere, yeah? extra special crayon patrol duty."

packing for these on-the-spot trips had become routine at this point. bug had gotten used to it, too, by now, even unceremoniously declaring herself on snack duty, which meant dean was eating strawberry banana puffs and sipping apple juice for the duration of the drive. he handled the scarier stuff; the weapons, the toiletries, and diapers, before she'd grown up and no longer needed them.

it gives him pause for a second, when he's loading her into her carseat in the back, at how big she's gotten. does their dad even know that bug is nearly at his waist now? that she can argue dean in circles?

he doubts it. their dad didn't even remember his oldest's birthday, after all.

dean studies the map and the route while bug scribbles more in the background, still humming to herself. he's certain it's a baby medley of metallica songs, as certain as he is that this trip is going to take past sunset, regardless.

he scrubs a hand over his face and tries, really tries, to keep the irritation at a minimum. it was never bug's fault, but he wished sometimes that he didn't have to drag her into all of this, and so young, too.

the drive is strenuous; back roads melting into back roads, driving through small towns of people who also don't know it's his birthday. at least they have an excuse.

"dean!" bug screeches over the rock music, and when he glances in the rearview mirror, he meets her bright-eyed expression. "blue or purple?"

dean's mouth scrunches up as he thinks, an expression that bug mimics in the reflection back at him. his heart warms. "both."

"i can't do that!"

dean scoffs. "baby bug, you can do anything. you could make the freakin' sky green, if y'wanted."

he's guessing at this point, unsure of what she was even coloring back there. he hadn't gotten a glance at it back in the apartment, and definitely couldn't see anything but a mass of blurry colors from the rearview mirror.

"there is no sky." said as if dean was supposed to know the inner workings of his baby sister's brain. "it is a flower."

"blue petals, purple petals. easy."

one more glance in the mirror, and he watches as bug's expression shifts in realization. catches the start of an approving nod. of course he knew what he was talking about; who did anyone think taught her how to color within the lines?

it's always peaceful, somehow, on these long drives. bug keeps him company, which he actually appreciates. the silence might have ruined him if he kept subjecting himself to it. he remembers a time when she used to wake up from every car nap wailing, and he'd have to pull over and soothe her to sleep or handfeed her strawberry banana puffs. now, she was pretty much a little human, and he still couldn't believe it.

not his daughter, but he loved her like one, he thought. dean only wished that their father did, too.

the diner he pulls into is a little rundown, but he knows from experience that these are the best ones. hole in the walls of small towns that don't get the luxury of keeping them secret. he finds them all.

it's not even ten seconds after they're seated that bug cuts in, interrupting the waitress's rehearsed lines. "it's his birthday."

dean actually falters, stuttering over the stern words about politeness and whatever else you're supposed to teach to kids to not let them turn into his father.

the waitress's eyebrows raise, a little smile curling on her mouth. "that so?" she taps her pen on the pad of paper in her fingers before she looks over at dean. he doesn't like this. there was some sort of communication in that look on her face and on bug's that he was not getting. "want a milkshake?"

"no," dean starts, his lips pulled tight, his throat tight, everything a bit more intense now, for some reason, couldn't understand why.

at the same time, bug says, "yes."

the waitress winks and stalks off before he can do a thing about it. "baby bug." his voice is stern, but not as stern as he wants it to be.

bug sits up straighter in her seat, tilting her chin up in a way that indicated he was about to have his ass handed to him. "why don't you want a milkshake?"

the truth was that he didn't want a birthday, but he couldn't explain his pessimism to a toddler, so he says, "because big kids want something stronger than milkshakes."

"two milkshakes?"

his eyes close for a second. alcohol is probably not a good thing to teach toddlers about, either. "i didn't even think you knew today was my birthday," he says instead, nudging her little hand over the tabletop.

a look of pure befuddlement crosses over bug's expression. "i know birthdays."

the picture that she'd been working on all day makes an appearance on the table. he knew she'd been clutching something in her hand when he carried her into the diner, but hadn't been very focused on what she was doing. it'd been a long day, long drive. it was probably a crayon she'd lose and they'd have to come back in for before they continued driving. extra special crayon patrol duty and all.

it's edges are crumpled from her little fist gripping it so tightly, and the fold of it is jagged, but there in front of him is a card. the front of it is entirely made up of red hearts, only little bits of white paper peeking between them.

dean's eyes flick between her and the card a couple of times, his jaw loosing and closing and opening again. "you've been making this for me? all day?"

"it is very special." bug adjusts on her side of the booth, balanced on her knees as she leans across to the center of the table to open it. "look."

on one side is a giant purple and blue flower. purple petals scattered between blue petals, and a clear mix of blue and purple for the stem, layered atop each other. on the other side, in big letters, some backwards, some uppercase and some lowercase, is happy birthday dean!!!!!

dean feels a little like a baby himself, with the way his breath hitches. he can't cry over a birthday card. how pathetic would that make him?

"the back is not done." she slides the card closer to dean, urging him to take it, nose scrunching up in that familiar contempt. "you said we have to come n' eat."

dean takes it from her, flipping it over to see what had her so twisted up. his eyes actually do well up, then, at the sight of a big stick figure drawn in blue and purple, and a littler one next to it, holding its hand, in blue, purple, and pink. the dress on the littler one, as she said, was not done. neither was the green sky.

"thank you," he says, his voice a little more breathless than he wanted it to be, a lot more choked up than he expected. "m'gonna keep this forever, y'know."

bug doesn't even look fazed at the fact that he was damn near crying over a handmade birthday card. in fact, she looks downright smug, wearing sam's dimpled smile. "y'better. i worked really hard."

"yeah, baby bug. it shows."

the waitress slides a milkshake in front of dean, and a littler one in front of bug. then she turns without another word to go to the back of house again. dean's a little too raw to care that they hadn't even ordered yet, plucking the cherry off the top of the whipped cream and chewing on it to keep from thinking too hard.

bug's chugged half of her milkshake by the time the waitress comes back, a slice of pie on a little plate with a lit candle in its center. "it's not much, but..." she trails off, glancing between bug and dean with a little smile, "i figured this was a very big deal."

bug nods furiously, still not having stopped drinking her pink milkshake. the sugar rush was going to be impossible when they reached the hotel, but with how light dean was feeling, he might end up jumping on the bed with her.

"make a wish!" bug huffs, her little leg kicking out at dean's knee beneath the table.

dean stares down at the cherry pie, the whipped cream hiding the candle's base in it's foam. what did you wish for when things never tended to go right?

in his pocket, dean's phone buzzes. he blinks once, blinks twice, before answering. "sam?"

"hey!" sam's voice is like a soothing distraction to the ache in his chest. he figured the field trip would take up most of sam's attention, hadn't been expecting any sort of phone call or word from him until he came home. he'd had a lifetime of doubts that kept him from believing that anyone could consider him. "happy birthday, dean."

his heart falters in his chest again. dean smiles before he can stop himself. "thanks, sammy," he says, his voice still rough on the edges, "wanna talk to bug?"

bug's already reaching across the table to steal the phone, and as she does, dean considers the candlelit pie again. he listens to sam's muffled voice from the other side of the booth, and bug's excited recounting of her birthday card making, and he knows what to wish for.

another birthday like this, dean thinks, as the flame dissipates into smoke.

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notes, cried writing this thank u for asking. this was one of those shower ideas that wouldn't go away, so... wrote it! anything for my birthday baby.

tags. @titsout4jackles @moonstruksandco @starzify @ultravi0lence14 @itzavahere @sagegreen17 @bruceewayne @jays-bonnie-on-the-side @deansbeer @blushpinkdoll @warpedless @sabrinasopposite @k-slla @deansbite @foolinthera1n @honeyryewhiskey @angelblqde @whyyouegg @bluemerakis @fallbhind @florchids @figthoughts @beausling @chevroletdean @mccartneyqp @bluestrd @sthefferrete @rubyvhs @tortureddarkstar @aileenunfiltered @frosttbitessam @theosaurous

#dahlia's ☆ journal #sibling!reader #baby sibling!reader #dean winchester #dean winchester one shot #dean winchester drabble #supernatural #spn #supernatural one shot #spn one shot #supernatural drabble #spn drabble #happy birthday dean winchester!#i don't remember who made this divider #but if u know #pls let a girl know

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demon-country · 5 months ago

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The fact that I have already seen a good number of people complaining about how mean Stolas was supposedly being to Blitz in his song and thinking that he legitimately believes that Bliz is a wretched little worm that he owns is just. Utterly baffling. I'm genuinely unsure how anyone could miss the fact that it was an act. It was all a ruse he threw together on the fly in an effort to protect Blitz, wherein he pretended to be a big, bad, masterclass manipulator who was just using Blitz as his pawn.

For anyone who doubts it, here's the truth straight from the song writer's mouth:

This is literally the same exact ploy he pulled in Truth Seekers. He came in at the last minute and put on a big show to convince the people threatening Blitz and the rest of I.M.P that he was a big, scary demon who was so much more powerful than them (which he is) and practically owned them as his minions used to carry out his evil deeds (which he doesn't).

Though, perhaps I shouldn't be too surprised, since pretty much everyone I've seen talk about that scene fails to realize that that and his "who dares threaten my impish little plaything?" and "what's the matter, demon hunter? Never seen a real demon before?" comments were nothing but an act and he didn't actually believe any of it, too.

In Mastermind, he was trying to make sure that all of the blame would be put on himself, so that, as shown above, they would give Blitz the same treatment the others got when Blitz claimed they had nothing to do with it and were just following his orders.

In Truth Seekers, he was trying to intimidate the humans and make them so scared he wouldn't need to resort to violence to stop them. Why else would he put on that whole horror movie display and announce himself and his relationship with Blitz at all, if his entire goal was anything other than to incapacitate them with fear? If all he wanted was to get I.M.P out, he could have quickly and easily killed them without saying a word. Calling Blitz his plaything and saying that he was a real demon served to a) establish that he was the kind of person who had playthings, because that's the kind of cruel, domineering creature that most humans expect demons to be, and b) further intimidate them by implying that he was exponentially more powerful than the demons who just decimated their whole entire team.

He didn't mean any of it either time (except for when he called Blitz an idiot, maybe); those weren't things he actually believed. Why would he legitimately think of Blitz as his plaything and someone he owns when in both cases it was far enough in the timeline that he was already in love with Blitz and wanted a real, genuine romantic relationship with him and not just the fleeting taste of one he got while restrained by the full moon deal?

Those were classist/racist things to say, of course, and that was the point. That was language he deliberately used because it fit the persona he was using to appear villainous. Where he went wrong the first time and how his actual internalized racism came into play was in how he didn't for even one single second think about how those statements would look to the members of I.M.P, because he'd never once had to think about the fact they must get those kinds of demeaning comments all the time and had no way of knowing that he was faking. Calling them "little creatures" while he was scolding them probably wasn't part of the act though, and he didn't realize that it was classist/racist to say those things at all, regardless of intent, so he never apologized or reassured them that he didn't actually believe Blitz was his plaything or that they weren't real demons.

But with the power of hindsight and a more omniscient view of the characters that we get later on, it's so clear to see that all of these comments were only said as part of his theatrical portrayals of a villain, rather than things he truly believes, because he doesn't talk like that after Ozzie's when he realized just how much he had unintentionally been hurting Blitz. Don't fall for his ruse, guys, especially not when it's as blatantly obvious as it was in Mastermind.

#helluva boss #stolas goetia #blitzo #text post #meta #my post #helluva boss spoilers #one day I'll be free of all these extremely bad faith takes #one day #but today is clearly not that day

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creetch · 17 days ago

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I'm going to compile every piece of evidence I currently have here that points to Phainon eventually becoming the Lord Ravager The Sun Devourer, destroyer of stars.

This post delves into discussion of leaks, so if that's something you'd like to avoid then please don't click the read more

Okay if you're here then you're fine with leaks - SO we've already had leaks telling us that Phainon is an Emanator of Destruction, along with this we've had leaks that tell us Cyrene is an Emanator too, but she's actually ABOVE the caliber of a normal Emanator - currently named by leakers as a Throne Level Emenator. Interesting position for a supposed dead child to hold, isn't it?

At current, we don't know exactly what that means, however I'm going to take a stab in the dark and presume this means she can closely use the powers of the actual Aeon. If this is the case, I believe she is the 'thirteenth titan', the individual where everyone else originates from, as I believe the only people on Amphoreus who are not simulations are Phainon, The Flame Reaver and Cyrene herself - the creator of Amphoreus: the simulation that imprisons the Lord Ravager The Sun Devourer.

I'm also going to take a guess and presume she is an Emanator of Remembrance. Considering Mem, I feel that's pretty likely. Going on from this, we know as of this patch that a Lord Ravager is on Amphoreus, a piece of information that admittedly made me lose my mind:

We already have some pretty compelling evidence, in my opinion, that Amphoreus is a simulation.

The bugs we can collect fade away into text emoticons when we find them, as well as The Black Tide itself looking a lot like a corrupted video game and the fact it can only be seen through the mirrors in the Garden of Recollection. It is a planet Akivili never visited, because it's no longer a planet.

The stars around Amphoreus were snuffed out long ago, and the planet was utterly decimated.

But moreso than that, Irontomb is a Lord Ravager sent to planets with high technology in order to turn their own technology against itself to weaken it, and he's coming to Amphoreus shortly.

Amphoreus is FAR more technologically advanced from what it looks like on the outside, which would definitely be the case for a sophisticated Simulation upheld by a Throne Emenator.

With that out of the way, we know that Phainon is an Emenator of Destruction, we know that there is a Lord Ravager on Amphoreus, and we know Irontomb is on his way to destroy it.

My conclusion is Flame Reaver is the Lord Ravager The Sun Devourer that Phainon becomes and Cyrene is an Emenator of Remembrance who is keeping him trapped in a loop to 1) delay the destruction of other planets via keeping him captive and 2) figure out what exactly led to his becoming a Lord Ravager to hopefully undo it so he can be released from this prison without the threat of plunging the cosmos into further darkness.

Flame Reaver, as an enemy, has this description

This fits the description for The Sun Devourer

Who also has THESE voice lines during battle

Castorice's trailer shows us the fates of the Chrysos Heirs as well as Phainon himself, standing like Nanook, golden blood running down his face, being the last survivor.

The Flame Reaver is potentially a collection of memories of the Lord Ravager The Sun Devourer who exists as an almost virus in the simulation because these memories have had to be removed FROM Phainon in order to make him loop through multiple cycles of the simulation whilst being unaware of his doom. This explains why he is called a PART of Phainon of the first cycle, rather than Phainon of the First Cycle himself. He's a portion of his memories.

Meanwhile, Phainon himself is The Sun Devourer prior to becoming an Emenator of Destruction with those memories of what happens AFTER having been removed and extracted by Cyrene, unaware of the doomed ending he cannot escape, those awful memories now living on as a Mematic Entity, confused and filled with a desire for destruction, through The Flame Reaver, a virus and a variable that never existed during the first cycle.

The Sun Devourer became such after all of the Chrysos Heirs died and Phainon was the last one standing, driven mad by grief, sorrow, guilt, and an understanding that the prophecy was always a lie. Ultimately the desire for Destruction that poured out due to that pain destroyed the stars around Amphoreus, plunged it into Evernight, and led to the total annihilation of the planet which now exists solely as a prison simulation to try to prevent this Lord Ravager from continuing to smother the stars

#hsr theory #hsr spoilers #Phainon #The Flame Reaver #Flame Reaver #hsr

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somerandomdudelmao · 2 years ago

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Okay okay hear me out.

We all know that Donnie was devastated to discover what happened to his brothers. But in light of the most recent update, new meaning has been added to the panels of him watching their deaths' play out.

Look at him here. At first glance, it simply seemed that Donnie was grieving the loss of his brothers. "We lost. They're all gone. My dumb dumb brothers sacrificed themselves. I'm alone."

BUT after today's update, we realize that NOOO he's not just regretting that they're gone, he's BLAMING HIMSELF. Not only is he sad, he feels GUILT.

Looking back, his face clearly says, "I could have stopped it. I could have saved them. I failed. This is my fault."

"If I had been with you, the outcome might have been better." What hurts is that Don is RIGHT. He WAS the keystone of the resistance. Everything does indeed fall apart soon after he's gone (hence the episode name). It's a cruel, ironic twist on Survivor's Guilt-- because in that timeline he didn't survive. He was gone. And he blames himself for being gone.

We often talk about Future Leo's guilt over the apocalypse, but Future Donnie's guilt is not to be taken lightly. It actually makes a LOT of sense for him to blame himself for his family's deaths. We know that all dear Donton has ever wanted is validation for his tech, and his tech is his way of expressing to his family that he loves them. Ergo, all Donnie wants is to make tech to protect his family to Show Them That He Loves Them.

This is probably why he opened up to Raph, all but admitting his guilt over the less-than-perfect security system: it was like saying he and his love failed to protect them for long.

The character analysis deepens~

Here (and throughout all of The Little Things, really) we see him taking steps to make sure his brothers (and the resistance) will be taken care of. Delegating everything, even The Little Things (ah HA) all to ensure that all he does for them (to prove his love, of course) continues to happen.

Even here, when Donnie has been hanging onto life for so long that the Kraang are shocked he's still alive, Donnie wants to help. He could not "sit here and listen to them get killed," because he is Donatello, and he loves his family. Cass, you said it yourself: Violence is his love language. Rushing into battle, decimating the Kraang, saving his family. Because he may be dying, he may be clinging to life by a few threads, but he is Hamato Donatello and he loves his family.

But in the end, that's what he does. In the end, he DOES sit there and watch them get killed. Watches with his very own tech. One. By. One. They. Die. And deep down, Donnie thinks that if he would have been there, he could have found a way to make a generator NOT from Raph's heart. That he could have supported Mikey enough to keep him from disintegrating. That he could have protected Leo in those final, self sacrificial moments.

Donatello blames himself for not being there for his brothers. He blames himself for his tech not being flawless enough. He blames himself for dying on them.

Which is why he won't rest until they're ALL back home.

He is Mr. "I Can Fix This", so of COURSE he's going to fix this.

And afterwards, when his family is SAFE and HOME and TOGETHER he's going to apologize for "letting them die" and he's FINALLY going to get some SENSE knocked into his OWN dumb dumb brain (probably by Dr. Delicate Touch). His brothers love him because he's DONNIE. I cannot WAIT for the moment when they make him realize that they didn't miss his tech, they missed HIM. He's gonna realize just how utterly loved he is and I'm so excited for you, Cass, to show us that moment.

(I apologize; this got out of hand quickly, but the analysis has been bouncing around my head all day and I NEEDED to share it)

OH THIS IS ONE GREAT ANALYSIS RIGHT HERE

#I kinda..want to make a tag for these...#like #hm #cas analysis #yes I'm so unbelievably good at naming

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sepublic · 1 year ago

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The Forbidden Five each have a uniquely-shaped hat, so we can tell that Nokt is the one who will break Lloyd’s sword. And he’d better, no offense to Lloyd, because we did not spend an entire ten episodes revolving around freeing the Forbidden Five and hyping them up as world-ending threats (ten episodes used to be the length of an entire season!!!) just for our only properly-displayed member to be made an immediate fool out of.

They better make up for this in P2 by having Nokt live up to the hype. I wanna see him utterly decimate in the Tournament of Sources and make Ras look like a punk who just got lucky. I want to see Lloyd get the beating of his life and have his sword broken right in front of him, allowing Nokt to move upwards and setting up another protagonist to defeat him. I want Cinder’s beatdowns to look G-rated compared to Nokt’s.

#ninjago #Nokt #ninjago dragons rising #forbidden five

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pinkusmaximus · 8 months ago

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I absolutely love your Wade and Logan protecting their partner post 😍 How do you feel about their partner can't help but scold both of them while crying? You know that they have their healing factors but it doesn't mean you want them to literally shield you with their bodies! Your body is fine but your heart hurts! You even try to make both of them promise to never do that again 🥺 but both of them admitted that they would do it again in a heartbeat 😤 Please tell me your thoughts if you don't mind!

Well, you already know the problem, anon. Of course they’d do it again.

And I’m sorry, this won’t be as pretty as you’d hoped. It never is with them.

Despite the fact that it left you housed in a birdcage made of ribs glistening with blood, gristle hanging off each bone like scraps of fabric clinging to old curtain rods in a long abandoned house. A peek of Logan’s heart pulsated through the holes in his chest— this wasn’t what you’d meant when you’d asked him to show you how he felt inside.

Saliva tinged pink with hemoglobin slipped from Wade’s wrinkled lips, deep red settled in the cracked skin. The only thing keeping them upright was the way their hands desperately clung to one another’s arms, bruises blossoming under Wade’s fingertips and Logan’s claws sunk into Wade’s shoulders, settled deep beneath the scapula. There was no breathing besides your own, just deep, wet rattling— unsettled that your ears registered the sound from their gaping chests, not their mouths.

Utterly tranquilized, eyes so wide it felt like your eyelids were stuck to the sockets, you felt a deep sense of helplessness as you realized they’d be stuck like around you that until their bodies repaired themselves enough to move again. Sure, they could typically keep moving through the worst of torment, but when it was every inch of your body used as a sponge for- god, you could barely remember what had even happened, your memory suddenly blinking out- and maybe they weren’t even still for that long? Maybe the seconds were passing like minutes, like hours, because suddenly the sound of a sick shlick alerts you to Logan retracting his claws from the meat of Wade’s shoulders, dropping from kneeling to sitting on his calves, head slumped against the back of your neck.

Just as quickly, Wade collapses into your front, his head lolled into the crook of your shoulder and arms at your sides, a hand managing to grasp weakly for Logan’s fingers. Your face feels wet and hot, covered in tears that drag through the blood and offal. You find your arms raising without telling them to, bringing them to Wade’s sides in a faltering embrace.

“Thank you,” your vacillating voice chokes, thank you, because how could you say anything else? You couldn’t leave them. They needed as long with you as possible with your fragile, short life. You needed as long with them as you could manage, too.

The organic, gristling sound of flesh mending itself, cartilage reattaching to bone, fascia connecting to muscle, fills your ears as Logan places a weak hand on your hip. His breath hot and fetid against the back of your neck, the smell of rapidly repairing soft tissue indescribable. Not that it mattered. The pulp of their decimated bodies was threading itself back together, little by little, cell by aching cell, as you held each other in a vulnerable, frighteningly feeble embrace. How could you feel anything less than grateful? Afraid, yes, queasy, qualmish, absolutely— but every atom of your entirety trembled with thankfulness.

This was something beyond love, what you three had. Something transcending any kind of devotion comprehensible or able to be upheld by man.

#yep that’s me you may be wondering how I got myself in this situation #deadpool and wolverine #deadpool #deadpool 3 #deadpool x wolverine #deadpool x reader #deadclaws #poolverine #peanutbub #wolverine #wolverine x reader #wade wilson #logan howlett #wade wilson x reader #logan howlett x reader

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litmot-archived · 7 months ago

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Modus Operandi

Alex x Reader

Alex is doing terrible after the breakup.

Warnings: references to depression and suicidal ideation

When you walked out, you took a part of his heart with you. Not a part, that would imply that there was something left in the gaping, aching void in his chest.

Alex supposed there had to be. If you had had the grace to tear out his heart entirely, there would remain nothing to hurt, but he did. The burning in his chest spread all the way to his throat, pressing down, choking him until he could no longer see properly through blurry vision, and the feeling of utter desolation threatened to swallow him whole.

He hurt. Every breath was painful, every glance around the apartment and the empty spots where your things had been before you left — before you left him — felt like a stab to his heart that tore its decimated remains apart more and more.

You had slammed the door, leaving him sitting alone in the kitchen. A haze seemed to surround him, blocking reality from truly sinking in. He had expected you to come back any moment — “Alex, this is stupid. Come on, we have been together for two years, I know you. Let’s— let’s try to work this out, yeah?” — but you never did, and those words never left your lips. Instead, you shot him one last pained look through the tears that gathered in your eyes before the anger prevailed and you threw your key onto the kitchen table.

The evening turned to night, and as the realization that you were not coming back sunk in, Alex found himself slipping. You were gone. He had nothing now, nothing but his work. The overwhelming feeling of loneliness as he looked at your key choked him up, tears springing to his eyes as the illusion finally broke and he sobbed his heart out, his chest spasming painfully.

You were gone. You had left. And the thought that hurt most was that he did not even have it in himself to try and stop you.

Alex was shattered, spiraling into this feeling of nothingness, into regret until he felt utterly untethered from the world, wandering through life with his lifeline cut.

How he wound up on Kayson’s doorstep he had no idea, but as his friend opened the door and his eyes widened at the sorry, pitifully sobbing mess he was, Alex was suddenly glad that he had found his way to him as he gathered him in his arms and ushered him inside. He did not need to utter a word, Kayson seemingly understanding the situation from a glance at him alone. Alex was glad for that, taking the steaming cup of tea with a small nod of thanks and nibbling at a cookie Kayson urged him to try.

He carefully avoided telling Alex that he had baked them that day with the love of his life.

This shared night, with Alex curled up on the couch, tears still leaking from his eyes while a distraught Kayson tried cheering him up turned out to be the last time the two of them met for a long while.

Come morning, when his tears had dried and the overwhelming hurt in his chest felt a little more bearable as he got used to its burning, Alex went straight back to work. There was nothing else he could do. Checking his emails and messages, he accepted every commission, beginning his work on what would be an exhausting schedule, clouding his mind with enough photography that thinking became a task and he collapsed into bed at night utterly spent and rose in the morning just as tired.

It worked. Work was the best way to keep the pain at bay, and he would rather face the issues of overworking himself into an early grave than face the root of the feeling that drove him to it. He could not stand thinking about you.

Remembering what he once had — what he had lost and now missed tore him to pieces. It made his eyes water, remembering your warm body curled around him in bed, your sleepy smile in the morning, finding you pouring over papers in the kitchen while dinner cooked on the stove, seeing your eyes light up when you found another one of his weaknesses, your playful grin as you teased him about it relentlessly.

He missed your scent. He missed your presence. He missed your company on the lonely, dreary night when everything looked a little too dark. He missed your company on the bright, sunny days when he returned home with news of a new prestigious project that he was excited to work on.

You were gone, and he felt your absence terribly. The apartment was a constant reminder of who was no longer there. It made him want to sob once your pillow lost your scent. It made him want to tear out what remained of his heart when he found one of the stick-it notes you had written him once, the simple words ‘I love you, eat lunch!’ cutting deeper than he had thought possible. It made him want to disappear, sink into nothingness knowing his life only consisted of work, knowing he had pushed away everything else.

It made him want to die, knowing he had been going through the motions for half a year, waiting for a phone call that slipped further and further away with every passing day.

His work did not suffer despite the breakup, and he could find at least some pride in that. Alex lost count of how many commissions he had done. How often he had gone to a photo shoot, how often he had toiled the night away editing the pictures he got out in the early hours of the morning to whoever had wanted them.

He was continuously praised for his rigorous work ethic. People marveled at the breakneck speed with which he completed his work. He felt like he was drowning, and the only way not to sink was by speeding through work, moving from one to the other in the blink of an eye to keep himself afloat.

The photo shoot in the park had nearly been his breaking point.

He had tried looking at it through a professional lens. It was a scenery like any other. It was a setting like any other. It was a model like any other. And when that had not been enough to steady his hands and keep his eyes from watering and smearing the colors he needed to see clearly, he had tried thinking of it as a dream. A vision of what could have been, a manifestation of his imagination. Somehow that had been worse, and as his lower lip wobbled, he knew he could not keep it together anymore.

Editing these pictures was hell. He kept breaking into tears, sobbing at his desk for half a night without getting anything done and he felt horrible in the morning, dragging himself to his next photo shoot with bloodshot eyes.

He felt faint. There was a distinct pounding in his head that made it hard to concentrate and as he fixed the details on the large table filled with food he was tasked to capture, the thought suddenly struck him that he could not remember when he had last bothered to make himself something nice.

When was the last time he had made himself a home-cooked meal? Hell, when was the last time he had eaten more than crackers or a few slices of fruit while he edited?

He sighed, wondering how he had managed to get caught up on the same person still half a year later. He had not seen you in half a year, he had not heard your voice in six months. It should not hurt as much anymore. He should not miss you constantly anymore!

Especially not when you seemed to be doing fine. Pictures were an illusion, he knew that better than most, but on the ones you posted — with the new mug you had bought or the beautiful sunset behind you — he could not help but notice how your eyes sparkled. You were doing fine. Perhaps it could be better, but you were fine.

Meanwhile, he was still a wreck, filling his life with work and holding himself afloat with meager, superficial success in the world of photography to keep himself from collapsing into dust.

Maybe it was time to move on. Maybe he needed to let go of you, send you the remaining things in the apartment, move somewhere new, and try again. Passing up the job offer in New York seemed like a mistake now, but he knew he could not have lived with himself if he had accepted.

‘If you change your mind, I’m sure we could find a spot for you, Alex.’

Perhaps he should get back to them, see if they needed him after all. New York was like a dream come true, and while it would be lonely, he supposed anything was better than the way he felt now. He would reach out, he decided. Tomorrow. He would.

His phone rang suddenly, and his heart stopped when he saw the caller's name. His hands shook as he reached out for it, taking a deep shaky breath and exhaling it slowly before picking up.

“Hello?”

#sakuverse #zsakuva #alex zsakuva #alex x reader #alex

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tyheartsthragg · 4 days ago

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Devoted

chapter 2 of thragg x reader

note: so sorry it took so long, it's been a very busy month, and honestly i didn't expect so much support thank yall so much (ఠ్ఠ ˓̭ ఠ్ఠ)!! i swear i'll start to try to upload quicker, and longer chapters are on arrival i can promise you that! slow burn, yk? anyways. thank you guys so much once again!

word count: 1317

It's been seven days since Thragg lost his dignity not just as a man, but also as a Viltrumite. Was that a total exaggeration? Maybe. But that also didn’t change the fact that it was a pretty embarrassing moment for him. Perhaps it was the combination of having to rebuild his empire after it was decimated along with the fact that he was rejected by a creature that was much below his status. Or maybe, maybe, Thragg’s confidence was smaller than he thought, who cares? He feels shitty.

Thragg laid in the disgusting bed.

The interaction remained fresh in his mind, a constant in his daily dose of thoughts. Being a Viltrumite and the emperor of such, what he wanted was law. Creatures would succumb under the reign of his demands in fear of their lives and the rest of their species. One small disagreement could lead to the complete annihilation of their society as a whole, everyone feared them intrinsically. It's always been that way. And though Thragg has been denied before, those who did never had the opportunity to live to tell. He supposed a large part of his shock was due to the fact that an insipid bug had the insolence of rejecting him in such a humiliating way and he was entirely helpless to it. Her grating voice rang across his ears like an annoying bug, buzzing and persistent in his head.

Thragg scoffed, his lips contouring into a grunt as his eyes narrowed down at her. “I am participating in an activity that’s known as flirting here. Is that not normal behavior for you humans?” Judging by her bewildered expression–he must’ve gotten wrong.

The woman stared blankly at him, lips curling with distaste. “What are you talking about…” her lips parted to add something, but a sudden beep came from the device wrapped around her wrist, catching her attention. The red light beeping illuminates her face, beeping rapidly before it finally seized. Fixing him with a final glare, her feet rose off the crumbled pavement and straightened out, disappearing into the clouded skies without a word.

Humiliating. Utterly humiliating. He pinches the bridge of his nose in annoyance at the memory, carved into his brain as a daily reminder.

He pushes himself off the dirtied cot beneath him–supposedly a bed–and rises to his feet. How does one go from ruling an entire empire of the most feared species, end up in such a dump such as this? He could be on his own planet with his kin, thriving and being shown respect. The creatures on this planet have no idea what that meant. They are filthy, deluded, and insufferable to be around. Each human that showed the slightest hint of arrogance made him want to end their pathetic existence in a flash. Yet, he can’t. He couldn’t afford blowing his cover. Not for him, and not for his people. If only he wasn’t obliged to remain here.

No use in sulking all day. He needed cash, it became apparent in his time here that money is a mandatory need.

He reaches for the rusted doorknob, swinging open the door, hinges creaking at the movement. The warm, afternoon sun quickly fills into the room, his eyes squinting as he adjusts to its light and walking forward, slamming the broken door shut behind him. Glancing down at the crumbled paper in his hand, eyes narrowed as he read the hand-written address on the sheet. That woman who interviewed him a week ago suggested this place, a look of sorrow as she told him about it. Securely tucking the paper into his pocket, he steps forward onto the cracked sidewalk. Orange mixed with light pink hues cover the skies, the sun dipping beyond the horizon with a gentle warm breeze in the air.

Flying would be ideal—but that would just bring unnecessary attention to him. Reporters, journalists, they capture everything. A person couldn’t do anything abnormal without it being published, privacy almost seems nonexistent here.

Sound of cars driving past, shoes scuffing against the pavement as they walked, and children’s laughter in the distance filling the warm air as the minutes blur. It wasn’t far—just downtown, smushed between other tall buildings. Thragg stares at the number engraved into the wood, matching the address written down. He opens the glass doors, and is instantly greeted with an inviting, comforting atmosphere in the small coffee shop. Classical jazz music humming gently in the background, the aroma of freshly roasted nuts and fresh pastries, and a short line of people in front of the counter.

Thragg tugs the paper out from his pocket, its edges ripped and crumbled, a frown falling on his face. As long as they can read what’s on it, that’s all that mattered. It's supposed to be a resume, since each… ‘employer’ he has met always questioned why he didn’t have one. After asking (threatening) one of them, they explained what it meant. It seemed pointless and more complicated, still he wrote it, jotting down his name and age–which had to be realistic, so he went with thirty-six–and finally, his work experiences. None.

The line moves up, customers leaving with steaming coffees in their hands, and he’s next. His eyes wander around the café, pastries and sweets displayed in the small window with drawings decorating the glass. He must’ve not been paying attention because a small gasp pierced his ears, causing him to return his awareness to the task at hand. As soon as he turned his head, the woman behind the counter has a strange expression plastered on her face as she met his eyes, “It’s you.”

Thragg immediately recognizes the woman once his eyes lie on her. The one who rejected him. He can’t even get a word out before she begins to speak, her eyebrows furrowing with irritation. “Are you stalking me or something?” she accused, causing a worker’s eyes to widen slightly and turn to them. “Was my silence not obvious enough for you?” The worker’s eyes flick between the two, approaches beside her, and whispers; ‘are you alright?’ She took a moment to respond, then shook her head, causing him to shrug and leave without protest.

Thragg’s jaw tightens at her words and how blatant she was being, his fingers curling around the thin sheet of paper. He ignores his growing irritation, deciding to go with more of a… civil approach. He understood that on Earth his kind of approach was less than ideal, but to still hold a grudge? It happened a week ago, holding grudges for that long is considered a weakness. “…No.” he began, placing the paper firmly on the counter. “I am seeking an opportunity to contribute my skills.”

“Oh.” she blinked a few times, her hardened expression beginning to soften with surprise. She takes the sheet and observes it with slanted eyes, eyes following the vague writing, then fully brings her attention back onto him. “Interesting resume,” she said gently, and went silent for a second, like she didn’t want to continue. Forcing a polite smile, she sharply inhales, speaking once again, “Your employer is seated at the table on the right. Good luck with your interview, sir.” Her tone is much more professional, any lingering anger for him vanished. Gesturing her hand to the right, a man sits at the isolated table in the corner with a cup and tablet in front of him, illuminating his aged features.

Thragg returns his gaze back to her, words on the tip of his tongue, but none leave him. Grasping the sheet on the counter, he walks away and approaches the senior seated at the table. The man’s eyes widened as they fixed onto Thragg, his glasses drooping down his nose slightly. He clears his throat and pushes them up, peeling his gaze away from him. “Thragg, correct? My name is Steve, please, take a seat.”

note: thragg working at a coffee shop and wearing normal clothing? something i can't picture in my head... anyways, sorry for another short chap </3! ao3 vers--> Devoted - remheartsawa - Invincible (Image Comics) [Archive of Our Own]

#invincible #thragg x reader #grand regent thragg #invincible thragg

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c-h4nn · 1 month ago

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Hi ! I was wondering something that you’ve might’ve already answered but I’m new to your blog, why don’t you ship Mizrak and orlox? As someone who’s middle eastern I’ve always assumed mizrak was some sort of middle eastern Christian that moved to France bc of imperialism. (I assumed he was Palestinian or Lebanese/ any of the Levantine area). I love how you draw orlox and his lover!! Also if you’re not comfortable with this pls don’t respond!

I don't like mizrox for a mix of personal, historical, and canon reasons. I'll break each one down as succinctly as I can below!

I am from a tribe with a long and hostile period of contact with Spanish Catholic conquistadors and settlers. There's a couple hundred years there. Refer to don Juan de Oñate's mission to colonize and convert New Mexico, the Pueblo Revolt, the entirety of the Spanish period of the Navajo Wars, Spanish scorched earth campaigns and slave raids, and Massacre Cave. I am also descended from a Hwéeldi (Long Walk) survivor, as many Diné are. Hwéeldi was a continuation of the Navajo Wars and was meant to fragment, relocate, assimilate, and exterminate my tribe. I am further a grandchild of Catholic residential school survivors. As a result of those schools, no one in my immediate family speaks Diné bizaad or practices our traditions. You can see why I'm not fond of Christianity, especially Catholicism.

The colonization of the U.S. Southwest was an extension of Spain's conquest of Central America. This is what Olrox would have endured. He would have seen these Spanish Catholic conquistadors bring European-born diseases and decimate the Indigenous population. Across the Americas, around 90% of all Indigenous people were killed, owing mostly to disease. He would have seen the collapse of the Aztec empire and Tenōchtitlan, his home, at the hands of Cortés, and how it was looted and buried under a cathedral and Spanish monuments. He would have seen the implementation of the encomienda system, which aimed to convert and subdue the Indigenous peoples, killing thousands upon thousands and crushing Indigenous traditions. Did you know that in the Maya area, due to a libricide enacted by Spanish Catholic priests, only four Maya codices remain? This doesn't even touch on the similar destruction that settler-colonialism and Christianity left on the rest of North America, which Olrox also would have witnessed. I could go on for ages. Nothing could ever, ever summarize how utterly devastating the colonization of the Americas was in the name of God, Gold, and Glory.

And then for Mizrak to spit the same genocidal rhetoric at Olrox that he has undeniably heard for nearly 300 years? When the gears of colonization turn on the dehumanization, eradication, and erasure of Indigenous peoples, for Mizrak to say "You're an animal which lost its soul centuries ago"? For him to blame savagery for the genocide of Olrox's people and the death of his past lover? For the writers and for Mizrak to make Olrox into a villainous seducer (the snake tempting the forbidden fruit) when Indigenous people have long been cruelly stereotyped to be sexually promiscuous and dangerous to Christian purity? For Mizrak to uphold Christianity and preach it in the face of an Indigenous man who lost everything to it, who dared to open up about this haunted past, believing Mizrak to be a good enough man and Christian to understand?

I regrettably don't know enough of Middle Eastern history to contextualize Mizrak's own character better, nor has the show really given the fans much to work with. But regardless of Mizrak's background, he is Christian, and he uses his religion and a colonial perspective against Olrox, who has already been resisting this for centuries. I'm weary of "Olrox can fix him!" or "It's Mizrak's religious trauma! Let them be happy!" or any other variation where Olrox is a tool to help Mizrak reconcile with his sexuality and religion. We get an interesting Indigenous character whose story could easily stand alone, and he instead becomes a platform for the Christian man.

So, I'd much rather think about Olrox and his past lover!

#if you have recs for books abt middle eastern history send em my way I love learning #i also have book recs for Indigenous history #olrox #mizrak #mizrox #castlevania #castlevania nocturne #olrox castlevania #mizrak castlevania

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whalesforhands · 2 months ago

Text

endings never have meaning

(LATE) HBD GETO SUGURU 2025

read this first for context: continued from this

Geto Suguru doesn’t want anything to be real anymore.

“Please—“ A heavyweight, chainlike feel entangles with your conscience, your arms weighed down as you fall to your knees, cracked nails clawing at the dirt beneath you, tears and blood and vile despair as you begged to resurface, throat barely squeezing out those final words with your lifeless eyes that keep leaking anguish, your existence slowly getting wiped.

“Kill me.”

Was it bad that all he wants to do is to tear his heart out?

The sickening crack of bones popping back into place, your arms and legs doing a dance of stiff repair as dark red envelops your being, a bubble of pure black being summoned underneath you to support and help aid your broken body to be standing back up once more on your feet.

Disgusting.

“Ahh, so hard to keep under wraps, aren’t you?” Your fingers drum against your own forehead, a tentative click of your tongue as you crack your own neck back in place, the snapping of your own limbs to fix malformed body parts making Suguru’s stomach retch and his throat dry—

“What a bother you are, Geto Suguru.” It’s not your voice. It’s not you. That’s what he has to chant to himself as his eyes waver and his lips tremble.

It’s not you.

“It’s the first time I’ve ever had a body react so strongly like that,” Your smile is so off, so pretty and so utterly disgusting. “But I suppose there’s a first time for everything…”

“Suguru.” It’s lilted with saccharinely sweet lies, poisoning your tongue with words that you never got to speak again.

It’s not you.

“I don’t appreciate the way you say my name.” Geto Suguru has to tighten his chest, has to remember that he could barely feel his hands anymore because of the way he had gripped Playful Cloud so tight.

“Nor the fact that you’ve stolen that.” There’s swirls of black surrounding the man as cursed spirit after cursed spirit gets summoned, abandoning all forms of holding back as the area gets steeped in black— In the nothingness that was Geto Suguru’s rage.

“My, oh my.” A chuckle as you draw a staff, your eyes shining with intrigue and amusement as you laugh. “I can’t believe you still can’t recognise me, Suguru~ Isn’t this homecoming a little too rough?”

It’s then that he finally resolves to himself that he should be the only one to kill you— To be the one that saves you from this plight.

It’s the least he could do for you… Right?

——

The box remains decimated, smoke and debris a mere nuisance in the backdrop as he stands up, dusting his clothes and gritting his teeth.

He shouldn’t be here. He should’ve never been here. A miscalculation on his end, a mistake on his part— Nothing has ever worked out for him. Fate has never been kind to him. Regardless;

Gojo Satoru has been unsealed.

His bones pop as he stretches, standing tall and proud and everything that he was. Yet, the knowledge of your body being puppeteered around sickened him to his very core, made his stomach churn and his heart unsteady.

You didn’t deserve that.

It’s his fault. It’s his fault, so let him take the blame. He hopes that you’re up there, hopes that you’re watching so that you can douse him in the shame that he deserves.

This world truly doesn’t deserve you.

So he finds Suguru. Geto Suguru who was bruised, battered and looked like he had went through hell. His clothes ripped and tattered, his hair a mess that looked like it would take ages to clean as he kneeled down upon the floor.

Just what happened here?

“Suguru.” Clasping of hands on shoulders and quiet, yet firm words. “Why’d you not heal yourself?”

Blue eyes narrow in confusion. His question left hanging in the air, and the stillness of it making something unsettling stir from within.

Sapphires and amethysts are beautiful. Their crystalline appearance that clash against each other merely looked like a glimmer of a night sky. Yet, this time it was only shrouded in a tormented distress, a collision caused by something that’s been ignored for too long.

“Do you…” It starts off like a shaky breath in. “Think that I would ever be forgiven?” And it ends like a plea.

Confusing.

“What are ya even going on about?” It makes him doubt himself, just for a moment, just for a second.

Gojo Satoru was sure news of ‘your’ sighting would’ve gotten around by now, even when he spent time sealed; trapped.

And Geto Suguru stayed silent. There’s no going back from here, no begging for forgiveness or salvation, no certain way forward.

An energy so familiar, so bittersweet and teeth-grinding and horrible envelops those special Six Eyes of his, yet, it finds no trace of a living human.

“What do you desire, Geto Suguru?” Your voice felt like a cut of a knife as you blocked yet another attack, cursed energy flowing out in powerful waves that was far too familiar as bubble after bubble shatters.

“A little housewife? Oh~ Maybe you would’ve preferred if I had acted just like her for a little bit for you.” You place a hand against your heart, laughing a little too freely that it nauseates him to his very core.

“Oh, Suguru! Do you want to go see the sea together?”

“Shut up.” That thing doesn’t deserve your voice, doesn’t deserve your words, doesn’t deserve your precious, precious memories.

“Tell me,” Your grin was just so sickening. “What is it that you want, Geto Suguru?” Another dodge as you leap back, creating distance that separated you from dirt and grime of the dilapidated debris— From him.

“I can offer it to you.”

No trace of you.

“I had to do it.” Hopeless, worthless tears. An excuse that held no weight. “I…” He doesn’t know if he can ever hold his head up high ever again, doesn’t know if this was the best turnout he could’ve gotten.

“S-Suguru—“ There’s tears in your eyes as you looked towards your friend, your lips swollen and your hand fanning your mouth in efforts to cool it down. “It’sh twoo hot…!”

“I told you to wait a bit first.” It’s said with a chuckle, with an amused laugh. “You wouldn’t have burnt your tongue if you had shared my cold soba with me.”

“But if I shared it with you, we would’ve eaten way too quickly…” There’s even a cute pout as you sulk, your chopsticks lightly clattering to the table.

“I want to spend as much time with you as possible.”

It’s disgusting. Disgusting how it possessed your memories, mimicked your words. Disgusting how it reminded him of you no matter what.

“Why? Was that too much for even you, Cursed Spirit User?” There’s even a hum in your voice as ‘you’ lay defeated on the ground, a hand wrapped tight around your neck as you remained still, as if unaffected by the way ‘you’ would soon meet your end.

He doesn’t have any mercy left to spare a reply.

“This body never would’ve won against you, anyway.” A weak chuckle as your airways are choked, windpipe slowly getting crushed.

“I’m sure of it— Only you 2 would be sick enough to kill even this poor body.”

Because there was no mistake for it, no other way to describe the floating chains around you, your empty eyes and your passive stance as you gently floated in place, awaiting a command as if you were under a trance.

A curse.

Yet, Gojo Satoru knew it meant nothing. Curses can’t feel, curses can’t react— Especially if they were absorbed by and under the command of the Cursed Spirit Manipulator himself.

Was this an act of mercy? A twisted act of love? It’s said that grief had no boundaries, that sorrow and anguish could only be repressed and never truly given up.

“We can stay together like this, can’t we?” A hoarse croon as his hold comes up to cover your own, like sliding ice upon a blade as you continued to stand unmoving, unreceiving of the affection as you stayed passive and unresponsive to be where you were.

“We’ll be together again… Just us.”

(“I missed you.”)

“Your desk has been empty for so long, but I kept it the same.”

(“Don’t hate me.”)

“Shoko would be happy to see you, you know?”

(“She— She’ll forgive me, won’t she?”)

“I hope you don’t mind if your room is a little dusty after all this time, though.”

No. Don’t talk like you were coming back. Don’t treat that cursed spirit as if it was really you, don’t pretend that everything was—

There’s an emptiness in the deep amaranth that Gojo Satoru was so used to. A void so unfulfilled and sad and utterly despaired that even the Heavens nor the Earth could even begin to comprehend.

Perhaps it was the way Geto Suguru’s voice trembled so softly, perhaps it was the way ‘you’ used a tattered sleeve to gently dabble at the tears upon the broken man’s face.

It was maybe because of that that Gojo Satoru thought; maybe, just maybe— It wouldn’t hurt. It wouldn’t hurt to act, to play along just for now.

It wouldn’t hurt to pretend that everything was okay.

What good is a corpse if it was unresponsive? What good was putting off the cremation of your body? What good was anything after your passing?

Gojo Satoru didn’t want to think. There’s no denying it, no other ways about it. It’s okay. He’ll take care of it, he’ll handle it no matter what it was that you wanted.

Because you cursed them in the end, after all. On this dawn that began to extend its rays out to this twisted world, in this place sweltering with an air that felt too heavy.

“We should go see the sunrise together one day.” There’s wind in your hair, a glimmer in your eye. The night air licks at your skin as you let out a breath, your voice so soft against this starry sky.

“What’s so good about that? Never seen a sun before?” Satoru huffs, elbows propped up against the ledge as he watches you from the corner of his eye.

“I think you’d like it.”

And he only raises a brow, questioning and honestly… Kind of weirded out. Who would even suggest that to someone like him?

“Mm…” An innocent smile as your hair begins to softly flutter in the wind. “Just a hunch?”

#jjk x reader #gojo satoru x reader #satosugu x reader #geto suguru x reader #dyf au #gojo x reader #geto x reader

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