#Maybe like muscle pain but on/near the surface?

[fantasy-costco]

Y'all get heightened skin sensitivity when your sick or am I the weird one here

[spatialwave]

“𝓪 𝓰𝓱𝓸𝓾𝓵’𝓼 𝓱𝓮𝓵𝓹𝓮𝓻”

pairing: cooper howard/the ghoul x fem!reader word count: 1k summary: you’d proven to cooper that you were a tough young thing, a vault dweller with a bit of edge—and a thing for mean-mannered ghouls. you were quick to indulge in being his plaything. warnings: mdni! smut, dom!cooper, sub!reader, rough, degrading, withholding/edging, cooper is mean i’m not sorry! notes: these are getting too good ya’ll hehe, i hope you like it! this scene was inspired by @ghoulphile and their amazing cooper writings! please go check out their blog! 🧡

when you first met cooper howard you had been doused in confusion, why the hell were you attracted to this… thing? not a human, but too handsome and sentient to be labelled as lowly as a ‘creature’. he couldn’t be wrangled into the likes of mutated animals, but you hadn’t met a ghoul before, so you didn’t know what to make of him. nor could you understand the way you’d grown slick between the thighs by only looking at him.

fascination struck when he settled striking eyes on you—soon forcing you along to seek out the information you’d gained through your years as a vault dweller.

and it’s not like you fit anywhere else anyway, even your vault allowed you to make way for the surface without an attempt to hold you back from your curiosity— you were stuck with nothing. not even a bottle of water to your name. so, if it meant having to suck up to a bounty hunting ghoul and beg for your life to stay afloat, then you could manage. you hadn’t any ounce of shame or pride, you were a prisoner to the wastelands.

a lover to a damned, 200-year old ghoul.

your face was shoved against the sandy floorboards of an old, battered saloon—destroyed and flimsy. one harsh rad storm and it would collapse into a corpse of a building that once held a proud number of guests before the war.

“cooper, fuck—“ you groaned, pain mixed with pleasure as your cunt burned.

the ghoul had stripped you completely, your vault jumpsuit tossed behind the broken bar, boots across the room and pip boy a few inches from your face. he left your naked body exposed to the cold night air, easy for him to ravage and indulge.

this was a constant repetition in your life now, when cooper was having a stressful day he took it out on you. the first time was near-frightening, thinking that he might end up snapping you in half while fucking you with his revolver shoved into your mouth like a deathly, make-shift gag.

you loved it—it was fucking disgusting, and you craved it like a lowly whore, a term of endearment that came so lovingly from the ghoul.

“quiet down,” he hissed, gloved hand landing harshly against your ass so a loud smack echoed through the dilapidated building, “i’ll shove your panties in your mouth if you keep this up, whore.”

his cock was buried deep into your pussy, swollen and aching around his hardened length that pushed against the ring of your cervix. the fleshy muscle shooting pain through your hips and thighs with each thrust, uncaring if it was painful. large hands massaged the globes of your ass, covered in reddened marks and bruises that would make sitting down hard—it was rare you had that privilege, though. cooper had made sure you two were always on the move.

“maybe i want that, cowboy,” you giggled sloppily, fucked so dumb you could hardly think as you looked over your shoulder at the ghoul, his hazel eyes piercing into yours just under the brim of his hat. you hated that he kept himself mostly clothed during these rendezvous.

cooper groaned, eyes narrowing as his left hand kept your wrists pinned against your back—face rubbing raw against the floor every time his cock slid through your wet walls. he’d been the biggest you’d ever taken, not like you had much experience.

“you love talkin’ with that filthy, cocksucking mouth of yours, don’t you?” cooper groaned, hands tightening around your wrists as his hips snapped sharply against your ass.

to make sure your needs were taken care of, you bit hard onto your bottom lip to muffle any sounds that may escape your throat. it was difficult when his cock stretched you thin, rubbing raw inside you as tears gathered in your eyes and all you wanted to do was scream his name until your voice cracked and the dry, dusty air stung your throat. you clenched tight around his cock, hardly able to keep yourself up on your knees, and he could feel how close you were to collapsing.

“not yet, darlin’,” cooper mumbled, his free hand latching to your hip and pulling you back to your knees when you’d nearly collapsed. then, the same hand slipped around your hips, so his bare fingers rubbed at your swollen clit that had been neglected.

“coop—“ you whimpered, eyes daring to shut tight as he pounded into you mercilessly, barely hanging onto reality as you had begun to see stars while your eyes rolled back.

he fed off your soft mewls of pleasure as you tried so hard to keep quiet, a smirk tainting his lips as he watched with excited eyes and a newfound sense of vigor.

“you gonna’ cum on my cock, lil’ helper?” he whispered, leaning forward so his clothed chest pressed against your back and locked wrists, “say it and i’ll think about lettin’ you,” he huffed, voice coarse as his warm breath tickled the shell of your ear and his finger pulled away from your clit—pulling you away from the edge you’d nearly fell over.

“i’m gonna’ cum on your cock,” you slurred—whining desperately for more, “can i, cooper? please, i’ve been good,” you pleaded, forcing your eyes to focus so you could look at him. you’d been fighting off the coil of heat tightening in your lower gut, waiting so patiently for your lover to say yes like the darling love you were.

you bit back a gurgled moan, eyes shutting tight as he allowed a few, long seconds to pass before his finger rubbed tight, fast circles on the sensitive bud, “go on then,” he breathed low, lips parted as he waited for your release.

all it took was for you to relax your body, then the pleasure soared through you like an explosive. cooper pulled himself upright and let go of your wrists so you could cover your mouth with your delicate fingers—moaning a saliva-filled mess into your hand while you came. every thrust sent your head swirling, sending your body into flames as his radiated body took one final snap of his hips before he spilled deep inside and felt the stress of the day vanish into thin air.

you were certainly this ghoul’s helper.

[tadpolesonalgae]

Messy Breakups and Messier Bedsheets

Cassian x reader

For Day 5 of @acotar-omegaverse-week — Mating Bites: Chomp Chomp <3

a/n: Blame Escapism by Raye for this one

warnings: biting; smut; angst; some fluff

synopsis: When Cassian notices a fracture in your and Azriel’s relationship, he can’t help the hope that sparks. And when—almost a year later—his brother comes for him for relationship help, yet again he can’t help giving advice to his own benefit. Splitting you apart for good.

word count: 4,917

——————————————————————————————————————————————

“…what?”

The world is coming down around you, debris and shrapnel raining down from fire-filled skies, clouds of ash billowing far above, stinging your eyes as bile burns your throat.

In front of you Azriel sits with his eyes lowered and his throat rolls before looking back. “I’m sorry for hurting you.” Lies. “But you’re strong. You’ll manage.” Lies. “I know you are.” Lies.

“You’re just saying that… Tell me what’s wrong.” Your voice comes out inappropriately calm, nowhere near matching the raging tempest that’s cleaving through your heart, slowly but surely splitting it into tiny pieces, stretching the muscle until it’s unbinding from itself, cramping and aching from the pain.

A muscle works in his jaw, forcing himself to watch as heat wets your eyes. “I don’t love you anymore.”

“You don’t mean that.” Your throat tightens. It’s painful to swallow. “This is coming out of nowhere. Things have been rough maybe, but…” You shake your head, a tear dripping from below your chin down onto the satin of your dress. “It hasn’t been that bad, has it?”

“It’s not bad,” he tries, looking at you imploringly. “But it’s not-…” Azriel breaks off, casting his gaze elsewhere as he searches for the words. Hazel eyes find you again, “You deserve better-”

“Don’t.” Your voice breaks, the fractures growing deeper as they find your surface, cleaving apart in spite of your attempts to keep yourself together. “Don’t- Don’t use that excuse. I love you.”

Pain glimmers in his eyes before it’s pushed away with a hard blink of his lids. “You deserve someone who loves you back.”

————

One Hour Earlier

“I don’t know what to do,” Azriel confesses.

His right hand is resting on his head, scarred fingers threaded through black hair. His left hand is loosely grasping a small glass of heavily diluted whiskey. If he’s really going to do this, he needs to be entirely sober.

Cassian shoves his weight back into the chair besides Azriel, throwing his boots up on the table and crossing them at the ankle. “Cheer up. These things happen,” Cassian assures, wings knocking twice with Azriel’s in a sign of comfort.

“Falling out of love with someone you thought you were going to marry?” Azriel murmurs, head still hung, staring at the tinge of liquor in his crystal glass. Beside him Cassian stiffens, leather rustling as he folds his arms over his chest, “And how long have you been…out of love with her?”

Large, leathery wings lift and fall in a shrug, the male not looking up.

Cassian’s jaw works, watching his brother closely. The general can see he’s hurting, but…

“Can you pretend?” He asks.

Azriel pauses, then sits upright for the first time since Cassian’s been in the kitchen. “What?”

“Can you fake it?” Cassian repeats. “Can you convince her you still love her?” Azriel shakes his head, glancing back to his watery whiskey. “She’d see right through it.”

“Sounds like you have your answer then.”

Hazel meets hazel, Azriel’s brows narrowed over defensive irises. “It’s not that simple. I still…” He releases a heavy sigh, one that deflates his entire chest, slumping back into the chair. “I’m not blind, Cassian. She’s the best I’ll ever have.”

“So you’ll drag her down with you?”

Cassian’s features are sternly set when Azriel turns his head to stare at his brother. Azriel’s jaw works, molars grinding together before he tears his eyes away to return to the diluted glass. “I can get better,” he murmurs, but they’re just words.

“You don’t just get better, Az.” The Spymaster doesn’t want to listen. “Are you going to make her wait until you’re ready and stable? Until you’ve found a way to make time for her?”

“I make time for her,’’ Azriel counters, his tone low and sharp.

“Mhmm. When did you last take her out?”

“Last week.”

“And before that?”

“Will you get off my back?” Azriel snarls, his hand slamming down on the table top. “This is as good as it’s going to get for me, Cass. She is the best I’ll ever have.”

“And what about her, huh? Are you the best for her?”

Azriel narrows his eyes. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

Cassian swallows, realising he misspoke. But he’s said it now.

Cassian’s jaw works, looking away once before returning to an icy gaze, “Do you think you’re good for her?” A beat passes.

“Where’s this coming from, Cass?”

“Stop deflecting.” There’s ice in his voice and fire in his eyes. “Do you think you’re good for her?”

Silence.

The General exhales lightly but his body remains tightly locked. “Not being good for her doesn’t make you bad, Az. You’re just…maybe not the best pairing.”

“I’m trying.” He grits out.

“It’s not good enough, Az.” Cassian murmurs. “Let her go.”

————

The kohl is so thick you can almost see it bunching in your lashes, forming heavy clumps that obscure minuscule parts of your vision but you don’t care. You want to forget him. Want to tear him from your memory and regurgitate his tender touches into the Sidra to be washed away, but the thought of leaving any of him behind causes your heart to split. Moving his things out, one toothbrush in the bathroom, no tea-stained mugs in your cupboard, no waking up in the early hours of the morning when your body senses his presence despite his complete silent.

Sleeping in a bed triple your size. Sleeping without the sturdy presence of heat at your back. Sleeping without the weight of a wing draped over your side like an extra cover.

The glass hits the wooden table of the bar, ice clinking against the crystal encasing it, having not been allowed the time to chill or dilute the liquor before it was flung to the back of your throat. They’re expensive little drinks, and though you’re hurting you can’t quite bring yourself to put them on Azriel’s tab. It’s not his fault he stopped loving you.

A small bowl of salted biscuits is pushed your way, and you look up to find the bartender offering you a sympathetic look. Your lower lip wobbles but you offer a grateful nod of your head, nibbling the edge of one to at least absorb some of the alcohol in your stomach. He offers a brief smile, then he’s whisking himself away to the other end of the bar, called by someone else who’s probably having a much better evening than you are.

You startle when a rough palm cups your shoulder, patting twice before a large, male body slides into place besides you. Hazel eyes, looming figure, Illyrian wings.

“You look miserable,” Cassian muses, bracing his forearms on the table top. Your tongue pokes at the inside of your cheek, jaw working. “Did Azriel ask you to come?”

“Azriel?” He asks, catching the bartender’s eye, succinctly ordering a drink. “Did something happen?” You release a derisive scoff, standing abruptly from your chair and grabbing your purse. “Fuck off, Cassian.”

The General’s broad palm wraps carefully around your upper arm, and you spin around seething, only to be met with an apologetic expression on his sincere features. “I’m sorry,” he eases, “I wanted to see if you were okay. Alright?” You try to jerk out of his hold but alphas have always been stronger than omegas, and he’d be a powerhouse even without that aiding him. He gives you an imploring look, urging you to speak with him before slowly releasing his hold on you, allowing you to leave if you want.

Your jaw works, clutching your purse tight as if debating smacking it across his shoulder for trying to lie to you. But, “so you know? That he broke up with me?” Cassian nods his head, and you swallow harshly. The lighting and music, the sweat and pheromones…it’s getting a bit much for your state. “Do you know why?” You ask, slowly sliding back into your seat, cradling the bowl of crackers to your chest. He makes a vague shrugging gesture in response and you grit your teeth. “If you know something, tell me.”

“What reason did he give you?” Cassian asks, making a hurt sound when you harshly swat his hand away from your crackers—perhaps with a little more force than you should have. Your throat rolls, watching with interest as the bartender delivers Cassian’s drink—something you don’t recognise but it has a leaf in. You turn back to your salted biscuits. “He said he doesn’t love me anymore.”

Silence hangs between you, stringed instruments plucking away in the background, the jingling tap of a tambourine making infrequent appearances along with the fluttering tune of a flute.

“So…you came here?” You shoot him a simmering glare and he exposes his palms in earnest. “It just doesn’t seem like your type of scene,” he reasons. “Drinking, staying out late, dancing…? Sure, but not when you’re-”

“Hating everything and everyone?” You suggest dryly, not looking at him.

“Alone.”

You huff sharply. “Thanks.”

“I didn’t mean it like that. But why are you here? Wouldn’t you rather be with someone right now?”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” You seethe, standing so suddenly the stool screeches back. “Just fuck off, Cassian. Take your little report and scamper back to Azriel.”

Then you’re striding for the exit, the night air cold and stark against your somewhat dewy skin. Footsteps follow after you but you barrel ahead, heels clicking relentlessly over the slick cobbles. You know he’s trailing you when he doesn’t catch up—with his height it would take little effort to match you, especially with the added encumbrance of your heels. It’s only when you reach your door that he approaches you again, probably trying to give you some time to cool off.

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” Cassian starts with while you’re fitting your keys into the door, kicking off your heels as soon as you’re inside, tossing your purse onto the entry table. The front door clicks shut behind you, but he’s quietly followed you inside. “Just tell me if you’re okay…if you’ll be okay tonight.”

You spin around on bare feet, “Do I look okay to you?” Tears had escaped on the way back and you’re certain the kohl will have smudged by now. Even without the tear stains charcoaled in it would be easy to tell you’re a mess. “Do I look fine, Cassian?”

Without your heels on he’s much taller. Especially between the narrow walls and low ceiling of your hallway.

“We were together for five years. And he ends it all in one night. Out of nowhere.” Your chest rises and falls rapidly, skin heating with the rush of blood from adrenalised sadness. “Of course I’m not fucking okay.”

“I know it’s difficult, but don’t you think it might be better this way? For both of you?”

“How could it be better?” You spit. “I loved him. I still-” You cut yourself off, lip wobbling as more tears spill and you have to hide your face. “You weren’t compatible,” Cassian says softly, boots appearing at the top of your vision, your head hung. “Lifestyle, routine, free time…” Calloused palms tentatively skim across your shoulders, before they’re wrapping around your back, pulling you closer. “You can’t force love, sweetheart.” His palms rub up and down your spine. “I’m sorry.”

His touch feels good…warm. The broad strength of him securely wrapping you up, encompassing your body. Keeping you stable and secure within his hold.

You allow your arms to wrap around his back, fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt. His scent is familiar as it invades your senses, inhaled into your lungs and sweeping throughout your bloodstream. Perhaps it’s just instinct—because he’s an alpha, and you’re an omega searching for company—but he’s soothing. Calming the erratic beat of miserable thoughts, the firm strokes of his palm over your back letting warmth reenter to your body, some of the darkness skittering away, ice thawing and melting.

You push deeper into him, treasuring the comfort. How good it feels to have some kind of company that’s listening and caring. Just the physical presence of someone. The comfort of a strong, male body. The heft of his well-muscled arms and the self-contained power that’s confined to his body. The scent that alerts you to his secondary sex as an alpha. Like Azriel. Big, Strong, and Illyrian.

“Sweetheart?”

Cassian’s voice draws you from your thoughts but you keep your face pressed to his chest, arms wrapped around his waist. After a beat his palm moves to the crown of your head, stroking gently. “You’re probably tired and worn out by now,” he tells you in a soft tone you haven’t heard before. “We can speak in the morning. Why don’t you get some rest for the night?”

Almost instinctively your grip tightens on him, keeping him from potentially pulling away. The fabric of your dress is pretty sheer, and you aren’t wearing a bra… He won’t be bothered by it, you’re sure.

You breathe his scent deeper into your lungs, sighing. It could be Azriel you’re holding. Could be Azriel who has his arms wrapped around you. Your fingers graze higher out of habit, brushing the base of his wings how you once did for Az whenever he was on edge. Just a light touch would be soothing, tender and intimate. Instead it has Cassian’s breath hitching, muscle going taut beneath your hold.

“Sweetheart?” Azriel would be calling you pretty thing. Azriel would be cupping your cheek and tilting your jaw to nose at your neck. Azriel doesn’t want you anymore.

You pull back enough to look up at him, tender hazel eyes watching warily, his hands having paused their strokes. Your lips part.

Cassian swallows, palms settling on your shoulders. “Bedtime?”

Instinct is urging you. You’re used to having an alpha to fall back on at the end of the day. Used to crawling into bed to nestle against an alpha’s side. Used to feeling an alpha’s teeth scratching against your throat.

Azriel used to bite deep.

Your fingers tighten in the back of Cassian’s shirt, and you’re pushing closer to him, gripping him tighter and dragging on the fabric as if it’ll pull him lower. The General blinks, taking a step back but you go with him, keeping him within your hold. You incline your chin to look at him directly and his hands lift from your body, the thick column of his throat rolling as a faint heat colours his cheeks. You push up onto your tiptoes…if you were wearing your heels this would be easier.

“What are you doing?” He asks. He’s breathless and his temperature is rising. You can hear the quickened beat of his pulse. See the dilation of his pupils. You lick your lips. “Lean down,” you murmur, staring at him intently. Cassian swallows again and you swear you gain a deeper awareness of his scent. The heat and strength of him. How he would feel on top of you, keeping you to his body, hidden away from the hurt of the world.

“What for?” He asks, less than a murmur. Softer than a whisper. “Come here and find out,” you reply. When he remains still a seed of frustration takes root in your chest, and you step forward, watching him intently for a beat more before you’re laying the bare fronts of your feet atop the hard curve of his boots.

Hazel eyes widen marginally as you gain those extra inches, hands moving from his back to lace over his shoulders, all done so painfully slowly. Fingers slide up his nape, tangling in the dark, clean hair he keeps tied back. You arch and stretch, body straining with feline grace as you reach for him, inclining your chin as you exert pressure to pull him down. His eyes glaze, and then a familiarly broad palm is sliding around the curve of your spine, reaching all the way around until he’s clasping your hip from behind. His other hand cups your ribs, sliding to lift up between your shoulder blades.

“Kiss me,” you whisper.

A huff of breath fans across your lips, then his body is wrapping around you, laced with strain, muscles tense as fingers tremble up the knuckles of your spine. Hot lips meet your own and his hold incrementally tightens on you, squeezing your hip, lifting to your waist, squeezing harder. It’s perfect—warm and safe and familiar. You trust him, you know him. It’s going to be okay tonight.

You pull away, keeping your body flush to his and your eyes lock. Both of you are flushed, heat radiating and swelling between you, then he’s stepping forward as if to kiss you again. You lose your footing, having been balanced on the tips of his boots, and you half-stumble, half-crash into the wall, knocking your purse from the side table. Cassian’s mouth descends over your own, the hand on your ribs snacking up to cup the side of your neck where a set of bite marks lie, thumb skimming across your jaw as his lips repeatedly push against your own, teeth nipping at your lower lip and tugging.

Cassian’s tongue flickers out, swiping across your lip once before dipping into your mouth, tilting your head for a better angle and a moan bubbles up from somewhere in your chest. A sound almost like a deep groan rises in response and you feel as your body begins to instinctively melt beneath the touch of an alpha. A familiar syrup liquefying in your veins, turning you favourable soft and deliciously pliable.

You pull away again, hormones and lust addling your mind. All you can think about is you have an alpha again. He’s big, and strong, and hungry for you. And you aren’t far from your bed.

“Follow me,” you breathe, before wrapping you hand partially around his wrist, tugging him with you as you swiftly ascend the staircase, dragging him firmly down the hallway and shoving open your bedroom door. Cassian seems to be just as on board with this as you are because as soon as that door clicks shut hands are biting into your hips and spinning you around, pushing you up against that very same door and kissing you with starving ferocity. Palms slide over the curve of your ass, squeezing your thighs and handling you up his body while his mouth is still attached to yours. Your legs lock instinctively around his hips, spine curving to press the swell of your breasts into the hard muscles of his chest, cupping his jaw between your hands as you kiss him back, nails scraping through his hair, pulling locks from their bindings.

You grip onto him tighter when he pulls you away from the door, walking you over to the bed and dropping you into the plush mattress. The scent of the sheets puffs up, filling your lungs, infusing the air around you and- It’s Azriel. Beneath the cleaner, and your own scent, he’s there. Still clinging to the fibres of your sheets and emotion, emotion ugly and furious, vicious and ravenous for pain rears, searching, searching, for-

“Take that dress off.” The order rips you from your thoughts, and your hands are gripping the hem of the skirting, pulling up, up, up over your thighs, your hips, your waist, your breasts. Your hair is a mess by the time it’s off but you’re left in a mismatching set of underwear but Cassian’s looking at you like you’re wrapped in fine silk or black lace and thoughts of any other male, of any other alpha swiftly melt away.

“Take your clothes off,” you breathe, carefully moving back on the bed. He obeys, fingers making swift work of the ties holding the slats together, shucking the shirt off and tossing it to the floor. “Trousers, too,” you demand breathlessly, settling comfortable in the collection of pillows at the head of the bed. Cassian growls but works free the ties of his leathers, tugging them from his legs then following you up onto the mattress.

“Any more orders you want to give me?” He growls, pupils dilated, his arms caging you in as they land either side of you. “Kiss me,” you demand, “kiss me right n-mmph!” His mouth crashes down and you spine arches up into him as his calloused palm rasps up your stomach, pushing one strap of your bra down your shoulder. Teeth and tongue and lips swirl and flurry, biting and nipping and licking while your knees part beneath him.

Two pinpoints in your neck ache, spiking with a needling pain and a light sweat breaks across your skin as you instinctively crane your neck to direct him. He follows without complaint, trailing small nips and licks down your jaw, down the length of your throat, sucking and biting at spots he finds pleasing. A low growl resounds in his chest, heavy and strained but you don’t have time to think about what might be causing such a territorial noise.

“Cassian,” you pant, legs curving around his hips. You lightly lift yourself from the bed and he’s hard, so hard against your clothed sex, hard and ready and you need him right now. You buck against him eagerly, aching to feel him, to really feel him in whatever way you can. He takes his cue seamlessly, pulling away to drag your underwear from your body while you unclasp your bra, both items of clothing hurled somewhere onto your floor.

Cassian’s palm wraps around your ankle and the next thing you know he’s throwing your leg over his shoulder and lowering himself between your legs. You cry out when he licks his way up your centre, groaning like it’s as pleasurable for him as it is for you and this—this is what you need. The orgasm follows quickly enough for how riled you are but he’s still not inside and you need him to be inside. Need him in every way you can, to banish something from your body and memory and skin.

“Tell me if it hurts,” Cassian orders you, his skin hot and flush and his pupils wide and full. “Sweetheart?”

“I’ll tell,” you repeat, not acknowledging his words. Just the name. Sweetheart.

It sounds good.

“Arms around me,” he instructs gruffly and you follow his command, arms lifting up and around his shoulders, fingers playing with the small hairs at the nape of his neck. His head glides through you easily, coating himself in the slippery wetness that’s been worked up between your thighs, his tip bumping your clit before dragging almost teasingly down to your entrance. You whine, tilting your hips upward in attempt to have him enter but he holds firm.

Hazel eyes find yours and your heartbeat stutters. “Are you sure about this?” He whispers atop your mouth, “You want to do this?”

“Yes. I’m certain.”

“With me? You’re sure you want to-”

“Anyone would do. Now please, Cassian,” you beg, cupping his cheeks between your palms. You can scent his arousal, the scent of an alpha and gods does it feel good to be wrapped in him. So good you miss the flicker of pain in his hazel eyes. They dance away once before returning to you, but anguish is overridden by emotion as he pushes his hips forward.

Your mouth parts and he likes that you look at him, that you let him see the pleasure he’s giving you as he fills you up. His heart is pounding and he can feel you around him. It’s messy, the situation you’ve found yourself in, pinned beneath the weight of your ex-lover’s brother, the General of the Night Court’s armies, and…Cassian. He’s Cassian.

“Say it again,” you pant, cradling his head in your hands, “Call me your sweetheart.” Cassian’s hips buck but he obeys. “Sweetheart.”

“Again. Move. Again.” He draws his hips back then pushes in again, sliding deeper than before, inching himself further and further into your wet heat, cursing as he goes. “Fuck, sweetheart. You’re perfect.” You moan at the praise, beginning to feel weightless. He repeats the motion, beginning to set a pace. It’s slow, and deep, and he’s touching spots you like despite having never searched for them before.

“Cassian,” you call, likening the flavour of his name on your tongue. “Cassian…” His cock rubs against that spot and you feel that itch beginning to rise. You tilt your head to the side, wanting him to wipe away those marks in your throat. It’s considered foul, whorish, to be bitten by anyone other than…a mate. Your eyes shut tight with pain. You’d thought he’d be…

“Eyes open sweetheart,” Cassian breathes, “You’re here with me.”

You follow his order. “I’m here with you,” you repeat.

“You’re feelin’ good?”

“Feeling so good, Cass.”

“Then that’s all I can ask for.” His hips find yours again, thrusts slowing to a precise drag, sliding in and out with aim and intention. “My perfect sweetheart.”

You need comfort. Need his presence. Need him to feel permanent.

Cassian stiffens as you bare your throat, chin tipping to the side to make room for him.

“Bite me.” Along your throat lie two scar marks, discoloured and narrow, but he knows who they must belong to.

“I can’t.”

You blink, turning your head to look up at him. “What?”

“I’m not biting you.”

Your lips part in confusion. “I want you to, Cassian. It’s my choice.”

“And I’m choosing not to bite you.” He shakes his head. “Not like this.”

Your eyes narrow. “Then like what?”

“With a mate.”

You flush, and all at once the situation dawns on you with fresh clarity. A wound bathed in salt and medicinal alcohol. “Bite me.”

“No.”

You stare up at him helplessly, nails digging into the muscles of his back, his wings flaring above the both of you, blacking out the ceiling and the scene is so familiar it physically hurts. “Cassian please. I’m asking you to. Bite me.”

“I’m not biting you.”

Tears well in your eyes. “Am I ruined, Cassian?”

Cassian freezes, staring down at you with widened eyes. Then he manages to shake his head. “You’re not ruined.” He shakes his head again, as if he can’t understand the question. “You’re-” But he cuts himself off before he can finish.

Your lower lip wobbles, breathing becoming irregular and shallow, stuttering inhales passing between your lips. Your hands slide away from the nape of his neck. “I want to stop.”

“You want…?”

“Stop.”

Cassian stares down at you, feeling your touch recede. Feeling you pull away. He pulls away too, easing out of you. “Sweetheart?” He tries, but—

“I’m not your sweetheart.”

His heart fractures, and he pulls back more. He shakes his head. “I’m sorry.” Fingers run through his hair—you’d taken it down at some point and now it’s free and tickling the tops of his shoulders. “I shouldn’t have…fuck, I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. I wanted it.”

“But I should have-”

“Cassian stop. Just stop. I chose this. Stop trying to-” You give a harsh sigh, a mix of pain and frustration and it tugs on his already stretched-thin heart strings. You’re sitting upright, knees curled to your chest with your back to the headboard. “I chose this…”

He watches, lost for words. Is there anything he can even say in this position? Is there any sequence of words, of actions to help you feel better. To wrap you in the warmth and affection he so desperately wants to give you. His throat rolls. “I don’t want to leave you tonight.”

You shoot him a cold look. “I don’t want to have sex.”

“I’m not looking for sex,” he replies softly. “I want to make sure you’re okay.”

Cassian tries to hold himself together as your eyes run over him analytically, weighing your options, making your decisions. Will you deem him enough?

“You’re fine without…?” You hedge, still watching him with an edge of frost. He forces the corners of his lips to curve, to put a gentle expression on his face, “How long have we been friends?” You don’t smile like he’d hoped, but some of that ice thaws. Then you nod your head, a vulnerable glint in your eyes, “I’d like for you to stay.” Cassian thinks he’s misheard at first, but then you continue. “I…thank you,” you whisper, looking away from him. Wiping a tear from your cheek. “I’m sorry for making this so messy.”

You swallow thickly, then manage to meet his gaze again. “Would you mind just lying with me? Just for the night, and you can go first thing in the morning. I’d just-”

“I’ll stay with you,” he reassures, and there’s just something about his tone that makes you believe him wholeheartedly. He’s going to stay, and he won’t mind. You aren’t being a pain.

You’re not going to cry.

You nod your head, pushing back the sheets with your feet and pulling back the duvet for him.

His heat is a welcomed bonus of his company, and while a small distance is kept between your bodies you keep close to him. You can face this mess in the morning, and he’ll still be by your side when the sun rises.

You just know it.

But you’ve been wrong before.

——————————————————————————————————————————————

general taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020 @mali22 @slut4acotar @sfhsgrad-blog @needylilgal022 @hannzoaks @hnyclover @skyesayshi @nyotamalfoy @decomposing-writer @soph1644 @lilah-asteria @nighttimemoonlover @mrsjna

[mockerycrow]

Hiya!!! I'm the anon who asked about fics with biting Ghost!! I didn't get the notification that you answered my ask so I'll be asking like this, and to answer the question: sub!Ghost heehee 😋

NEED IT (Sub!Ghost x GN!Reader)

ghost masterlist — ghost pic here

summary; ghost has been too wound up recently and you’re tired of it.

a/n; tbhh i’m not too satisfied with this :( wish i wrote it better!!!!

[WARNINGS; Sub!Ghost, pet names, dirty talk, biting + hickeys, brat taming elements, implied discovery of pain kink. Simon doesn’t talk much :(]

THERE WAS AN itch underneath the surface of Simon’s skin and he couldn't figure out what it was for the life of him. He spent the entire day all wound up and unusually short with everyone. It’s true, he isn’t the nicest person to begin with, but he sure as hell isn’t too unnecessarily rude. Simon is usually more laid back than how he was behaving; he’s usually making puns and jokes, sometimes at other people's expense, but nothing too serious. 

It’s like he was stuck lecturing recruits with how tense his shoulders are, the way there’s way too much venom in his tone. Even when you bothered him about his sudden change in attitude, Simon didn’t have an answer for you. You could tell even he himself didn’t know. Simon felt like there was an uncomfortable energy running through his veins, stabbing his muscles and the nape of his neck. Every few hours for him, Simon felt like it was intensifying—so his reactions got worse.

You were very fed up with him by the end of the day; if something was pissing him off, he had the complete authority to do something about it. 

And so do you.

Simon groans as your hand pushes on his bare chest to keep him down on the bed, pushing him into the sheets. You’re straddling his hips, his jacket and shirt tossed somewhere, leaving him in his camo pants and with his balaclava on, but it’s bunched up at the bridge of his nose, exposing his neck and his jaw. His lips are parted as he looks up with you with a slight scrunch in his eyebrows, a need in his dark eyes that you can’t quite place, his pupils blown out. His hands rest on your outer thighs.

You lean down and you press your lips to his jaw and trail down, ripping a rumbling noise from his chest which develops into a shocked gasp when you sink your teeth into the area where his shoulder meets his neck. “Fuck—“ Simon hisses, one of his hands grabbing at the back of your shirt near the base of your spine. Pain sinks deep into his muscle and shocks his system for a moment, which quickly develops into a hot sensation as you turn from biting to sucking. “Haah—what—“ Simon manages to push out, his legs twitching underneath you. 

You don’t usually bite him; maybe a hickey or two, some licking but you’ve never bit him like this. You press your hips down onto his, drawing a choked noise out of his throat as you trail up to his throat and you suck a harsh hickey into his skin, your teeth nicking him. Simon’s tongue comes out to lick his lips, instinctually tipping his chin upwards to allow you complete access to his neck. Hot arousal pool in his stomach, spreading like runny honey through his hips and down his legs. Your hand grabs his jaw and moves his head the way you want, and he lets you.

Simon’s eyes flutter closed as you press harsh kisses and nips to his skin, ripping out a few loudish noises from his throat as you take your time, enjoying the way he’s twitching underneath you. You suck a harsh hickey to Simon’s collarbone. He inhales sharply; he’s never felt this sensitive to this kind of stuff before, but something about the way you’re leaving your mark on his skin is making his face flush hot. His hands trail under your shirt to grab at your waist, craving that skin to skin contact. You tsk, snapping Simon back to reality, his eyes opening. “Greedy,” You chide as you sit up.

Simon’s eyes lock with yours as your hands play with his belt for a moment, which sucks all of the air out of his lungs. You grin at his reactions; there’s something different about the both of you right now, and Simon shivers at the way your eyes flicker to his chest. Simon calls your name under his breath but before he can question what you want, you lean down and you press your tongue against one of his nipples and you drag, ripping a groan out of him before you begin to suck a hickey right next to his nipple. You feel Simon’s hips jump from the sensation, his hands twitching—trying to be good for you, trying to stay still. Simon wants to be good but fuck, the itch under his skin is ramping him up again.

He gasps when you sink your teeth into the meat of his pec and—the itch subsides for a second, the pain of your teeth shooting up his spine in the best way possible. Simon’s hands shift down to your hips and he squeezes, his breath hitching once you pull away from his pec. Your eyes roam his chest and Simon damn near wants to cover up from how hungry you look, Jesus Christ—

“All compliant now, aren’t you?” You coo, looking down at him. Simon’s eyebrow twitches in confusion and he goes to open his mouth to reply, but a “haah” leaves his lips when your hand wraps around the column of his throat. He melts into the mattress when your fingers press into the sensitive marks you’ve left against the sides of his throat, a full body shiver leaving him. “So sensitive, too..” You comment, watching the way his body just completely relaxes under your touch. 

Simon turns his head away with a breath, feeling the embarrassed heat creep up his neck to his face. “Fuck off.” He hisses, his throat vibrating under your hand and his Adam’s apple bobbing for a moment. You laugh in return and you squeeze the sides of his throat, causing Simon to close his eyes for a moment and it draws out a strained gasp from him. “You need a fuckin’ attitude adjustment. You’ve needed one all day, huh?” You sneer, using your grip on his throat to turn his head back towards facing you. “Look at me.”

Simon’s eyelids flutter open, his eyes staring back at yours. Your gaze is so invasive, searching for any sign of disobedience. “Maybe you need a reminder of where you belong, Simon.” His lips part to ask you what you mean—like he always does, he already knows he belongs under you—but you get to him first. You press a harsh kiss against his lips, biting at his lower lip until it’s swollen and you only pull away when his lips are slick with saliva. Your hand moves from his throat to his chest like before, allowing you to trail hot, wet kisses down his neck, over his collarbone, and to his chest. “Shit—“ Simon grunts as you sink your teeth into his other pec, sucking a dark hickey into the skin, causing a hot wave to flash over him.

Simon’s sure his skin is covered in your mark now—it’s only been a few minutes and he can already feel a delicious ache settling—and he doesn’t expect you to scoot back on his thighs and to undo his belt to his camo pants. His heart stutters in his chest right before you unbutton and unzip his pants. You swing yourself off of Simon’s thighs for a moment, tapping his leg. He’s already doing it as you murmur, “Hips up, sweetheart.” You tug his pants and underwear down, his cock twitching against his stomach; hard and aching, the tip leaking ever so slightly. Simon’s trying so hard to keep his eyes on you, he knows that is what you want—but it’s so hard when you look at him like he’s something you want to consume whole.

“Stop.” He whispers, catching your attention immediately. Simon’s looking away and his hands are grabbing at the sheets nervously. Big ol’ Ghost, cocky Lieutenant Simon Ghost Riley is nervous. “What was that, baby?” You ask, pausing. You could’ve sworn he said stop—it isn’t your safeword, but the way he said it concerns you—and you don’t want to push if that’s the case, if he truly wants to stop. Simon clears his throat and it’s clear he’s struggling, so you give him a moment. “You keep looking at me like you wanna eat me.” Simon says with a breathy laugh, managing to make eye contact with you. Your shoulders relax at the realization that he doesn’t want to stop, that you haven’t pushed his boundaries. You chuckle and you move between his legs, placing your hands on his knees and you slowly move them up his bare thighs, causing him to shiver. “Oh, you have no idea.”

You bend over and you press kisses against his stomach, causing the muscle underneath to flex and tense. You get to his thighs, your hand wrapping around his cock. “I’m gonna make sure you think and feel me every step you take, darling. Gonna make you sore and think of me for days.” Simon goes to respond but like the many times before, you interrupt him by sinking your teeth into the meat of his thigh, causing him to gasp. Simon knows you aren’t going to stop until his hips and thighs are aching with hickeys and bite marks—your hickeys and bite marks. Simon doesn’t complain when you suck dark and harsh hickeys into his v-line, nor when you scratch angry red lines into his skin to get him to shut up.

[adrift-in-thyme]

@kikker-oma happy belated birthday!!! Sorry it took so long for me to finish this! But I hope it proves worth the wait <333 (Also I hope you don’t mind some whump)

CW for blood and injury, vomiting, a panic attack, and a cave-in (be careful if you’re claustrophobic)

————————————-

In the wake of the explosion, Sky feels nothing. There is a high-pitched ring in his ears, spots in his vision, warm, sticky blood trickling from his nose. But no pain.

Until there is.

It hits like a claymore, cleaving through the half-consciousness he has clung to thus far. And the next thing he knows, he’s jerking upward, gasping. Only, he can’t sit upright at all.

His mind screams the panicked order, his muscles attempt it, but a weak, agonizing twitch is all he manages. Something is holding him down, something massive and heavy. His chest struggles to rise beneath its constant compression.

Sky blinks again, squinting past the tiny eruptions of light and the dust that floats, thick and suffocating in the air around him. There is nothing much to see in the endless darkness. But he can make out jagged shapes, blocky forms, the outlines of sand-covered objects.

Caging him in. Holding him down.

He’s pinned, he realizes with a streak of mind-numbing terror. And suddenly, what little air he had managed to drag in turns to nothing at all. He gasps, eyes blowing wide, as he thrashes.

Or attempts to. All he manages is to bring on a fresh onslaught of dizzying agony. It strikes through to his very bones, sending sharp pricks of static dancing before his eyes and crawling up the back of his head. And for a split second, everything goes a striking shade of black.

Then, he’s breaching the surface once more, too soon, much too soon, skyrocketing back into a world of pain and suffocation.

Sky coughs, choking on blood and tears. He has never really considered himself claustrophobic, but this experience might just change that assumption. Of all the ways to die…

But you’re not, he berates himself. You’re not dead yet, so think, think. Figure out a way to survive.

He can’t reach his pouch. The rubble piled beside him makes certain of that. It presses against him, crushing his side and tugging at the hem of his sailcloth. But if he can move it just a bit…

Trembling hands press to its jagged surface. With a sharp intake of breath, Sky steels himself and pushes.

Something shifts and for a split second, Sky dares to hope that maybe, just maybe he can get free. But then, the rubble on his lower half crawls sideways with the rest. And Sky screams.

The nauseating numbness that had begun to take root vanishes, replaced with the absolute agony that splits through his legs. He turns his head to the side and chokes up bile.

That one moment seems to last forever, pain dancing along his body endlessly. He lies there, limp and gasping, gazing at the blurred splotches his vision has been reduced to. And the waves wash over him, stealing the air from his lungs and turning his thoughts into incomprehensible things.

Needles streak up his neck, bringing with them unnatural heat. His eyelids flutter, eyes preparing to roll back in his head and plunge him back into the painless deep.

“Sky!”

A hand finds his, desperate in the way it grasps at him. Sky inhales sharply, jolting back into some semblance of awareness.

He had thought no other heroes were near the blast. He had thought they were all clear of the area. So, why…

Wait.

Memories crash back into his mind like waves on the sea. Memories of a building crumbling behind him and a boy by his side, running, running away from the collapse, away from certain death. Memories of the fiery knowledge that had situated itself firmly in Sky’s gut, the knowledge that he must protect him, protect the hero who came after him.

Protect the hero who was the first to feel the brunt of his failures, no matter the cost.

His hands fly out on instinct to shove the small figure in front of him through the doorway. Echoes of a terrified voice in his mind as he leaps, meaning to follow, wanting to.

Only for darkness to catch him before he can.

Four. Sky’s breath hitches, a sob of relief and agony catching in his throat. Four is here with him. Four is alive.

And he came back.

“Sky, can you hear me?”

The Skyloftian focuses all his strength. Weakly, he squeezes Four’s hand. The smithy blows out an audible sigh of relief.

“Thank the goddesses. We’re gonna get you free, okay? We just need a minute. If we move anything now…”

Though he trails off, the words left unspoken weigh on the Skyloftian even more heavily than the rubble. He drags in a thin gasp, swallowing against the growing lump in his throat.

“But I need you to stay awake until we can get you out,” Four continues, forcing a lighter tone into his voice. “Can you do that?”

“Yes,” is what Sky means to say. “Hurts,” is the croaked cry that comes out.

Four’s grip tightens. “I know, Sky. I’m-I’m sorry.”

Sky closes his eyes. The darkness there is safer, more comfortable than the dusky dimness floating around him.

“Not your fa-fault.”

“You shouldn’t have pushed me.” The voice is grim and drenched in guilt. Though it aims to sound accusatory, Sky feels that it hardly meets the mark. “‘There was time. We could’ve both gotten out. We could’ve…”

“K-kept you safe.” It is hardly a croak. The word burns in his throat. “Smithy…I w-wanted to…”

He drags his eyes open, stares into the expanse of floating nothingness. He still can’t breathe.

“It’s the least I…could do.”

Four is silent for a long moment. Then, his fingers constrict just slightly. Their warmth is welcome in a world of cold darkness.

“You’re going to get out of there, Sky,” he murmurs and there is something in his tone that Sky cannot identify. Maybe he could if he wasn’t so tired. Far more than usual in fact. This exhaustion drags him down like a leaden weight, pulling at the remaining scraps of consciousness.

“Just hold on,” the smithy says, and Sky pushes back against the endless deep.

Hold on.

He can do that. He can…

“T-tell me about y-your Hyrule,” he croaks.

And Four does. The smithy has many secrets, perhaps, even as much as the old man, and yet, he tells him. Of his grandfather, of Dot, of his home and his world and the tiny creatures known as Minish.

Sky clings to every word that tells him more about the hero who followed after him and the land he fought to protect. He clings to the sound of his voice, the warmth of his fingers, the painting he paints of his life…until his brothers come.

And then, finally, finally, the world is opening back up and the sunlight is streaming in and he can drag in thin gasps of fresh air and…and Four is right there, still holding his hand but gazing down at him now. Concern gleams in his multicolored irises.

Sky offers him a weak smile. “‘M okay now, smithy,” he murmurs, every word agony. “T-thanks for…for staying.”

Four’s face splits into a grin. A teary one, but an expression of joy nonetheless. “I’ll always stay. It’s the least I can do for the person who paved the way.”

There is respect in those words, Sky realizes dimly. Respect and something else…A connection, perhaps, that is stronger even than their bond of brotherhood.

He deserves neither.

But as he lets his eyes slip shut, as the voices of his family swell around him and arms lift him with a gentleness that belies their strength…he is glad to know about their place in the timeline. He understands the look in Time’s eye a little better now, when he gazes upon Twilight.

He is proud of his successor too.

[crow2222]

You. You should totally write or smth abt Darry being unable to swim well, or at all, so he just grabs on to something with a white knuckled grip every time he's near semi-deep water lmao. Pls it'd be funny-

get this man outta the water asap.

WC; 1,206

The sky looked like it was lit ablaze; the setting sun letting off the last of it's light for the day, filtering through the leaves of trees, but managing to blind Darry as he stood at the edge of the lake.

"It's still a little warm if you get in now!"

Sodapop's smile showed off all his bright white teeth, a fair competitor to the sunlight that had been shining on them all day.

Darry had an excuse at first, as all the guys did stupid tricks and flips into the water, he was grilling the sausages and patties to fill the ravenous teenager's stomachs. Every each one of them could eat a horse if left without a cook, like Darry. He wasn't even that good of a cook- he'd under cooked and burnt more food than he could count on his finger, but it was all eaten away. Even if it meant being sick.

But as time went by, and the meal was eaten (their burgers were soaked, they wasted no time going from the lake to the food and grabbed at the buns before their hands could even dry first.), and everyone piled back into the water, expecting Darry to follow right in.

He'd never been a fan of the water.

Too many risks, too little reward. He could splash around in the bath if truly he wanted that, but he didn't. Besides the bath was uncomfortably small for his build, so he'd grown to like showers more.

His feet stayed planted on the slippery rock, any sudden move would've had him flying down towards the water; and it got pretty deep pretty quick too!

He'd never been a fan of the water, because he couldn't swim.

Never learned, had no use for it in Oklahoma. Maybe almost everyone knows how to swim except for him, and maybe it did bug him some, but gosh, by then he had two jobs keeping him busy all day, and no time to hangout by the local pool with the gang. That's what he told them. It wasn't necessarily a lie, he would be home before they had a chance to get their feet wet, but all his muscles ached and he had better things to do than swim aimlessly. If he could, that is.

"Darrryy" Sodapop groaned, "Jump in already. If you stay up there any longer I'd be inclined to call you a pussycat!"

The man narrowed his eyes at his little brother, ready to come up with a smart remark before he felt the cold hands on his back for a split second-

then he was in the air,

and landed in the water, with a painful belly flop.

Water filled his ears, and he couldn't open his eyes in the water. It was all dark, and he felt no ground under his feet. Was he upside down? He couldn't tell.

Darry hadn't had a chance to breathe before being pushed in the water, so he was quickly panicking about needing to take a breath. He was going to drown. He can't swim. He's about to die.

Something grabbed him, and he foolishly wondered if it was death itself that had come down to reap his soul.

He wasn't about to go down without a fight, or a chance to survive, so he thrashed around his arms wildly, hoping that maybe he'd swim up to the surface doing so.

He grabbed at it- whatever it was- and pushed himself up with all the strength he could muster, accidentally holding onto the soft arm with full grip. He didn't notice, his focus was on getting above the water.

And he did exactly that.

Darry had both his hands on the person as his head finally reached the cold air. He coughed out water he accidentally let in his mouth, and then he gasped and gasped, his panic being more than clear as he tried to suck in as much air as he could, worried he was about to go under again.

But then he gently lowered his legs in the water, and he felt the muddy ground.

Then he tested opening his eyes, blinking away any water that still hung onto his eyelashes.

"Are you okay?" Two-bit's face was all screwed up weird as he stared at Darry, who was still holding onto him for dear life, even if he had floor underneath him now.

The older man was shaking, he couldn't stop himself. He thought he was about to die seconds ago! "I can't swim." He blurted out, his voice was garbled; his throat was sore from his harsh coughs and gasps.

Two led Darry out of the water, helping him push up the rocks when he physically couldn't by himself. It was like his body used up all it's energy when he panicked in the water; and he collapsed sideways on the wet rocks the moment he felt far enough from the water.

"Dally, that wasn't fucking funny." Someone spat out, but Darry didn't see who, nor did he care. He kept his focus on the way the air went in and out his lungs as he felt the cold envelope his body, being no help to his intense shivers from the shock.

Warmth. Suddenly he felt a warm hand rub his back, and heard a quiet voice telling him to slow down his breathing. He didn't think he was breathing fast, but tried his best to follow it's instructions.

He just wanted to cook some burgers.

When he felt calm enough to do so, he opened his eyes again, and was met with a variety of faces looking back at him.

Sodapop, a frown that somehow etched worry into each crevice in his face.

Two-bit, confusion visible by his furrowed brows and searching eyes.

Dallas, who looked away the moment Darry met his gaze, who looked uncomfortable, and guilty.

Steve, desperately holding back a grin that he hid horribly with a frown, mimicking his best friend's.

Johnny, who's big black eyes bore into Darry's pale blue ones, unspoken questions in them.

There was a face missing, and that's when he laid on his back and saw Ponyboy, who had been the one behind him previously.

"Darry.. you can't swim?"

Ponyboy tucked a blanket above his shoulders- a blanket he didn't realize was covering him in the first place.

Heat rushed to his entire face as he took in what had happened. He got pushed in the water, he flailed about wildly once he was in, couldn't push his body out the water alone, then was left spluttering and panting. And they all watched it happen. God he'd never live it down.

He closed his eyes again, shaking his head as a no. He waited for the burst of laughter to come from the group, his muscles tensing for it. Yet, nothing happened.

"Gee, you could've told us. We woulda taught you how to." Steve was the brave soul who spoke up, seemingly speaking the thoughts of the whole group as murmurs of agreement filled Darry's ears.

His brothers helped him sit up, even with the blanket he couldn't stop shaking. It was all too humiliating, yet none of them seemed to pay it any mind.

It wasn't long until everyone piled back into the car, half wet and shivering, but laughing together about anything but Darry's wild panic from earlier.

...

And let's just say Dallas found his own way back home that day.

[credince--writes]

Medic reader teasing König while patching up his face by straddling his legs?

Like can you imagine M!R just holding him by the chin and saying “Stay still for me now” as they’re about to disinfect a scrape on his cheek. “Good boy..” he’s just sitting there flustered and red as a tomato

Hands Pt. 3

Prompt:

Medic!Reader teasing König while patching up his face by straddling his legs.

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - AO3

Konig x Fem!Reader

You'd heard that it had been a pretty bad mission.

Enough was apparent from the frantic back and forth of stitches, gauze, bandages, and the push of your finger against a syringe in someone's arm, administering pain medication.

These were the run-of-the-mill operations though, it wasn't anything you weren't expecting.

In a way, it was calming. The methodical movements- maybe even every once and a while a quiet reassurance to a loopy medicated soldier as they started to rest their eyes.

Switching out your gloves for what felt like the hundredth time, one of the nurses tapped your shoulder. Turning your head expectantly, nearly peeved at the intrusion you were met with the color-drained face of the nurse shakily explaining 'someone had specially requested you.'

So, finishing up quickly and standing, you walked out into the hallway to be met with something you weren't expecting.

You hadn't really seen him in his tactical gear before.

You didn't know it was possible for him to look so much larger.

Konig stood in the hallway looming like a demon eyes snapping onto your figure as you stepped out to greet him, only to fall silent in near awe at him, duality on display.

There was blood splattered up his sleeves and against his vest, and you knew from the upward direction of the splatter that there was no way in hell it was his.

Your feet felt like they were cemented to the linoleum tile floors- as if the hallway started lengthening as you stared at him.

You couldn't help but feel the cold, slimy tendrils of fear slither up your spine and constrict your throat.

"Konig." You finally spoke, breaking the thick silence.

He'd stood, staring down at you even down the hallway. He nodded in affirmation of hearing your greeting before walking toward you.

The sound of his boots against the floor made the tendril tighten- as if you couldn't breathe. Closing your eyes, you sucked in a breath before exhaling sharply and reaching out (to your own surprise) and grabbing hold of his upper arm as he crossed the threshold of arms reach.

"Where are you hurt?" You asked, your eyebrows turning in slight worry.

He doesn't respond, just staring down at you with glinting eyes of something you hadn't seen before.

"Uh-" You cut yourself off before grabbing him by his forearm, gripping around his wrist and trying to avoid the blood still wet on his gloves. Leading him forward and stuffing him into an empty exam stall and shutting the curtain with him inside, washing your hands once more, and marching in.

He was still standing, stiff as a board when you walked in.

"Sit." You said.

He immediately sat down on the bed.

You sighed, approaching him and starting to work him through his layers of gear as he sat- unhelpfully- in silence. Working the gloves off of his hands and dropped them onto the small metal table, shucking his vest off and slapping it down onto the cold metal surface as well.

"Tell me where you're hurt." You said eyes tilted downward searching over the large expanse of his thigh trying to find any tears in his clothing- any signs of this blood being his.

"Under..." He said, not allowing any more words as he finally spoke. His hands lifted onto his thighs and gripped the muscle anxiously squeezing.

You looked up, trying to decipher what he meant once it all clicked, "Oh," you leaned forward, reaching to grab the bottom hem of his mask and pull it up.

Under the hood, he'd wear a simple black Balaklava- but staring you could see the wet trail of blood and the cut spearing open the dark fabric against his cheek.

Hesitantly, you pulled off his secondary mask as if you were stripping him down to nothing in front of you.

Sure, you'd seen him without his mask before- you were his doctor after all. But it felt so raw- so intimate.

Pulling off his mask while he was covered with the blood of his enemies.

You set to work, setting his nose into place and carefully stitching in the gash at the corner of his nose- mending the flesh together in small, exact knots.

You'd zoned out, constantly readjusting and moving to get the best angle. Propping your knee up and nearly crawling into his lap as you worked- trying your best to do the best- not hurting him but insuring the stitching was done well.

Your hand reached up, cupping the side of his face gently as you run a pad of alcohol over the a on his chin. Instinctually, he flinched, even if it was minor.

"Stay still for me now." You hushed, moving over and subsequently throwing your leg over his own, lifting your body up and leaning forward carefully cleaning the cut on his cheek. He stayed still, almost as if he was a statue as he sat tense under your hold.

"Good boy..." You murmured, before snapping your mouth shut and eyes widening at your words. Hopping down off of him and quickly working to clean up. You glanced back at him, frantically, giving him one more once-over before shooing him out of the room and returning back to the rest of the awaiting patients sitting in medical.

All with a burning shame- or giddiness on your cheeks.

[misscinnamonroll16]

This is what my blog has become, just brozone and trolls. Have a fanfic. this is part one of Please for God's sake, rest

Normality had fallen over the band of brozone. Hanging out and catching up. Ever since coming back to Pop Village, Clay, Floyd and John Dory were all staying in Rhonda until they finished moving all of Branchs survival supplies and such out of the rooms that he had made for them. That's what they were currently doing, moving the boxes of stuff. John Dory went to lift a box of stone spear heads, he got part way up when his back gave out. John let out a yell and fell to his knees, dropping the box. The other bros came rushing in to see what was wrong. They saw John Dory knelt down on the floor, shaking slightly. "John, you ok buddy?" Bruce asked, slowly reaching his hand towards his brother to check on him. "Please don't touch me right now." John said quietly while gritting his teeth. They could hear the pain in John's voice. Bruce sat next to John Dory, placing his hand next to JD's in case he wanted the comfort. "JD, what happened? Are you ok?" Clay asked as he sat down near John as well. Branch and Floyd looked on, concerned and wanting to help. "I finally blew out my back." John mumbled grumpily. At first none of them caught what he had said, so they asked him to repeat it. "I blew out my back, ok?!" John said, frustrated. "Oh John." Bruce said softly, gently placing his hand on JD's back. John let out a little yelp, his hair flaring out like he had been electrocuted, Bruce removed his hand immediately. "John Dory, I understand that you don't wanna be touched right now but it can't be good for your back to stay in the position you're in. Let us help you get to bed or at least the couch." Floyd suggested, gently taking John's hand, ready to help him when he needed it. "Nah, I'm good. I should be fine in a little while." John Dory responded, shifting so he was fully laying on his stomach. "I'll go get Dr. Moonbloom." Branch said, exasperated as he walked out the door and to the elevator. Branch took the elevator to the surface in search of the doctor.

Branch returned with Dr. Moonbloom, explaining the situation the best he could. Dr. Moonbloom examined John, giving him a routine check up before getting to the root of his problem. The doctor pulled out a portable x-ray machine (cartoon logic) and further examined John Dory's back. "Well, I have good news and bad news. The good news is I finally get to try out my new sedative. The bad news is he's going to have to be on bed rest for at least a month, maybe more. He pulled the muscles in his lower back pretty badly." Dr. Moonbloom said, excited to use the new sedative. "But wouldn't moving his cause him more pain and hurt his back even more." Clay asked as the doctor readied her syringe with the sedative. "That's what the sedative is for. It's going to take away all his pain for a few hours and make him feel pretty good. As for moving him, I brought my portable gurney. That way moving him won't hurt his back even more." The doctor said, pulling a portable cloth gurney out of her bag (again cartoon logic). Dr. Moonbloom stuck John with the needle, injecting him with the sedative. After a few minutes, she instructed them to move him on to the gurney. A little apprehensive at first, Clay and Bruce started to move John Dory. They moved John Dory to the nearest bed, by that point he had started to doze off. Dr. Moonbloom handed Branch a prescription for pain killers and instructions on how often he can take them and side effects and such before heading off. The brothers looked at John Dory, he was barely awake and singing some intelligible tune. "Are we sure he's gonna be ok?" Floyd asked, just as worried as the rest of them. "I'm sure he'll be fine. Dr. Moonbloom is a very good doctor. But I think her sedative might be a little strong." Branch said as he set the pain killers on the nightstand.

The brothers decided to take turns watching over John Dory, making sure he doesn't need anything when the sedative wears off. Bruce goes first watching John, looking at him in a similar way to when they were little. The way he'd look at JD before bouncing on him to wake him up on Christmas morning or on one of their birthdays. Bruce got up from the chair he sat in next to the bed and reached over to remove John's goggles. They slipped off with ease. As Bruce removed John Dory's jacket, he was reminded of when they were younger and John would help Clay and Floyd take off their jackets after playing in the snow or rain. John Dory would always take theirs off first then his own, Bruce was simply returning the favor all these years later. He unbuckled John's fingerless glove and tucked it into one of the pockets on his jacket, taking note of the tan lines on his hand. His brother almost looked naked without all that on him, Bruce couldn't remember ever seeing John Dory without those silly goggles. Bruce chuckled to himself as he made himself comfortable in the chair and pulled a book out of his hair. The book was an old trollings book that he managed to find, he had read to his kids last night, remembering when their grandma had read it to them when they were little ones. "Guess I forgot to put it back in the kids' bookcase." Bruce said quietly to himself before deciding to read the story aloud to his sleeping brother.

[insanitybl00m]

Tales From Under The Wisteria Tree

Chapter 7 - Don't go near the water

When Missa woke up he noticed that it was still early hours of light. He didn’t want to wake Philza but if he could go get them fresh water from the stream he mentioned last night…

That would be helpful. And after everything Phil did for him he really wanted to do something nice in return. Even if it was just getting them fresh water. So he got up and grabbed their canteens. 

Yesterday Phil made his way west to the stream, so Missa would go west to find the same stream. Right? He sighed. He never was the best at navigation. 

Probably an hour later he stumbled upon the inlet. Where the stream he was looking for rushed into a loch. Or was it a lake? Missa was never good at telling the difference. But he filled up their canteens with the fresh water pouring into the lake.

When Missa looked up he was face to face with a horse. Not Cielo. If you could call her a horse since she was technically a unicorn.

No. This horse had a shimmery blue-black coat. Probably a magical horse. Missa was enthralled with its seemingly glowing eyes. 

“Hi there. Aren’t you pretty?”

It neighed. Showing off it’s mane a little. 

“Are you a water spirit? A water nymph maybe?”

No response, just the glowing eyes shining a bit brighter. But that was probably Missa’s imagination.

“Is there anything you want? I left my oats back at camp but otherwise I’d offer you some.” The horse bowed down, almost encouraging Missa to ride it. “Do you want–” A neigh, seemingly encouraging it. “Okay…” Missa sat on the horse’s back. It took off, straight into the river. What the hell was happening? He tried to get off to swim to the surface but he was stuck. He was stuck. Oh no. The horse was magical.

It was a Kelpie.

Phil woke up with a start. His chest was throbbing. Almost pulsing with pain. 

Missa.

He looked to his left. Gone. Fuck.

“Missa!” He yelled. Nothing. No response. All his stuff was still there, he couldn’t have gone far. Where would he have gone?

The stream? It was the only thing he could think of. He tried to make sure there was nothing else off with camp. Where was his water? He needed water. Missa must have gone to the stream to fill up their water. That was the only reason both their water and Missa would be missing. He needed to go.

So he transformed into a crow. His wings still stung with the harsh pain of pulled muscles but he continued flying, faster, faster. 

When he transformed back he noticed the canteens, water spilling out onto the ground. No Missa. “Missa!”

Again no response. His chest felt like a thousand stabbing knives. Magic. Magic was what was hurting Missa. 

Water. Water spirits. There must be water spirits in this water. He looked down. A serpent whipped its tail in his face. And so he dived into the water. A serpent-like horse bared its sharp teeth. 

Kelpie. Of course it was. Missa was the kindest soul he knew, of course a Kelpie would trick him.

“Let him be.” Stabbing pain again. His charm wouldn’t keep Missa safe for much longer. 

NO

Well. Phil should have assumed that would be the answer. He had no weapon. Everything was back at camp. He had to get Missa off the kelpie. Kelpies wouldn’t just let their prey go so easily. He spotted a shard of glass at the bottom of the river. Humans polluting the wild might just aid him for once.

He threw the shard of glass as hard as possible at the Kelpie. It stabbed it right in the eye, giving Phil enough time to grab Missa while the Kelpie was distracted. 

He swam as fast as possible up to the surface. Missa would live but how would he get the water out of his lungs? That would kill him right? He really should have learned more about how to save a human’s life. They were so easily killable, how was he supposed to know how to save a human from countless deaths? Luckily the charm he put on Missa yesterday would be enough. 

Human lungs were in the chest like fae’s, so if Phil was to push on his chest then maybe it would force the water out? 

He was rapidly trying to figure out how to get the water out of Missa’s lungs when all of a sudden he heard sputtering. Coughing. Missa was coughing up the water. 

Holy shit. Missa was safe.

He was safe.

Before he realized what he was doing he was kissing Missa. His anxiety rushed away as he felt Missa breathe before pulling him into another kiss.

Something happened. He fell unconscious in the water. And when he woke up he was on the surface. He took a gasp of air before soft lips were pressed against his. Desperate. He opened his eyes and saw Phil. Philza was kissing him. 

Philza was kissing him like he had nearly died, which I guess was true. He tried to sit up and Phil pulled away. That wasn’t happening. Missa pulled him back, continuing the kiss. 

A neigh distracted the two of them. Phil was ready to fight. Missa stared up at Cielo.

“Oh uh hi!”

Blood red poured over a deep blue flooded Missa’s brain.

“It will never stop being weird to see emotions, but is something wrong?”

More red. Phil had pulled himself off Missa and leaned against a tree.

“Danger?” A nod from the unicorn. “We’re fine. Trust me, Phil saved me.”

Green, sour green, mixed with the sweetness of a touch of pink. A mint green almost. Almost like…

“Concern? You’re concerned for me.”

“You’re getting better at reading her emotions.” Phil said, his voice was rough.

“I’m ok, Cielo. I promise you.” Missa stood up and reached out to pet her. He didn’t really notice Phil standing up behind him. 

So when Cielo nudged him hard enough to make him trip backwards he was not expecting to fall into Phil’s arms.

“Got you.” 

Despite the fact they were literally making out before Cielo showed up Missa’s face went red. If unicorns could laugh Cielo would be laughing. Instead it was just a neigh that mimicked a laughing sound. 

“Our clothes are soaking wet.” Missa said. Changing the subject when he was embarrassed was a habit of his.

“That does happen when you try to befriend a Kelpie.” Cielo whinnied and disappeared on the spot. “Huh, that’s weird. Did she say anything to you?”

“Nope, she must hate kelpies.”

“I do too, especially considering one tried to fucking kill you!” Missa looked away and scooped up the canteens. “Missa…”

“It’s fine.”

“I’m sorry I yelled, but I was terrified when I woke up and you were just gone. I could feel that something was wrong.”

“I was just trying to get us fresh water, do something simple to make up for the fact that you washed my hair yesterday.”

“I did it because I wanted to, not because I wanted something in return. Wisteria. I—“

“It was just meant to be something nice.”

“I know. I just want you to know that anything I do for you is never with any expectations of something in return.”

“We should probably get back to camp.”

Missa was silent the whole walk back. Man, Phil messed up. “Can you talk to me please?”

“Hi. Sorry. I was thinking.”

“You want to hear stories about my kids?”

“You have kids?”

“I never told you? I thought I did. I could have sworn I told you when you were telling me about your son.”

“I don’t remember that.”

“Oh. Well I have two kids. My son is probably about seven—“

“Probably?” Missa seemed horrified.

“He doesn’t really care about his birthday, if he did I’d start celebrating it the second he suggested it.”

“Oh, I guess that’s different.”

“My daughter is six. She really loves celebrating her birthday on the other hand. But she really only celebrates it for the gifts.” 

“You have a daughter as well? How do you manage?”

“Well my son is studying abroad right now so that makes it a bit easier for me.”

“Oh, but what about your daughter?”

“She’s staying with her godmother for a bit. She’s a witch and my daughter loves her garden. She’s always helping her grow flowers.”

“You know a witch?”

“She helped me out ages ago, got myself stuck in a situation with some creatures of the fae. She was nearby getting something for a potion she needed, got me to safety and we’ve been friends ever since.”

“Wow, I didn’t know witches were still around. I thought fae stopped blessing humans with magic after the war.”

“Fae still bless humans with magic. But to be a witch you have to be raised with magic infused in your blood from a young age, most new witches are still kids. And most older witches are gone. She’s the only living witch from before the war that I know.”

“Wow.” Missa paused as they were standing in the middle of their camp. “Should we pack up camp?”

“If you don’t mind then maybe we should stay here, our clothes are going to need to dry.”

Spending a whole day at camp with Phil. Oh boy. This was different. Phil was sketching something, leaning against a rock and letting his wings spread across it. He had changed to dry clothes but he said that he needed to wait for his wings to fully dry before putting on a shirt again. Which left Missa trying his hardest not to stare as he pretended to read the book on fae that Phil had left him.

Eventually Phil got up and made his way over to Missa. “What are you doing pretty boy?”

“Reading.”

“Mhm.” He said, almost with a knowing laugh. “What’s one thing you learned about nymphs then?” Missa looked down, oh. The page on nymphs was open. Well obviously he had been reading it right? 

“Their life force is tied to an element, like dryads and trees.”

Phil sat down next to Missa. “Yep.” He leaned his head on Missa’s shoulder. “You didn’t read, did you?”

Missa sighed. “I didn’t.” 

“Distracted by something?” Stars above, Phil was a shameless flirt. 

“No.”

“You’re a bad liar, you know that right?” He said with a laugh, leaning back so that he was spread out on the ground next to Missa.

He huffed before turning around to look at Phil. “You’re all grumpy.”

“I’m tired. Despite the fact I literally just woke up.”

“Yeah but you nearly drowned, that would make anyone tired.”

“I’m fine. I made a mistake again but it won’t happen again. I’m too trusting and it won’t happen again. I’m going to be stronger.”

“What do you mean M-Wisteria?”

“I wasn’t strong enough, I’ll be stronger.” Missa repeated the phrase in his brain, over and over.

“What makes you think you aren’t strong enough?” Phil had sat up and he took Missa’s hands into his own.

“I couldn’t fight off the Kelpie, I trusted it without a second thought. Without you I’d be dead at the bottom of the river. Actually scratch that I’d be dead in the dragon cave. I’m meant to be going on this elaborate quest but I’m really just doing nothing and you’re saving me every single time.”

“Oh Wisteria.” Phil pulled Missa into a tight hug. Missa wasn’t crying. He promised he’d be stronger. He had to be stronger. “You are so, so strong. You don’t need to change anything. Kelpies are notoriously good at tricking people and they aim for ones with pure souls. They aim for those who won’t doubt their intentions.”

“You keep telling me my soul is so pure but that’s bullshit. I’ve killed people phil. Hundreds. Not all by my own hand but nonetheless. I’ve killed people.”

“There’s a difference between killing people with malicious intent and killing those out of necessity.”

“People died.”

“And you lived. You kept those you loved safe, even the universe can’t fault you for that. It’s noble. And this quest? You’re risking your life to save your son. You doubt yourself but everyone around you can see that you are full of good. You are good.” Missa was officially crying at this point.

“Oh darling.” Phil murmured. He placed a light kiss on Missa's head. “It’s alright.” He couldn’t stop himself from crying a little bit too.

“Why are you crying?” Missa asked when he heard Phil sniffle. 

“God this is so cliche but seeing you sad makes me sad.”

“Clingy.” Missa muttered as he adjusted so he was still wrapped in Phil’s arms. 

“You should get some rest.”

“I’m not moving.” 

“Never said you had to, just that you should close your eyes and try to sleep.” 

“But then you’ll be stuck while I nap.”

“And get to hold you the whole time? Sounds great to me.”

“Of course you’d say that.” Phil kissed the top of his head again.

“Just sleep. When you wake up you’ll feel better.” Missa sighed but Phil could swear that he drifted to sleep in minutes. 

When Missa woke up he was groggy. He was warm though a soft blanket had been wrapped around him. Wait, those were wings. All the more reason to just go back to sleep.

“I know you’re awake Wisteria.”

“No I’m not.” Phil laughed. 

“Ok then, I’ll just go back to admiring you then.”

“Stop.” Missa hid his face in Phil’s shoulder. 

“So you are awake?”

“Yes idiot.” Phil started peppering him with little kisses.

Missa giggled and lightly shoved him away. He heard ruffling from a bush nearby. “What was that?”

“Probably a squirrel or something. Maybe Cielo.”

“No, I'd know if it was Cielo.”

Then like a blur a humanoid popped out of the bush. She pulled leaves out of her jet black hair before beaming at the pair. 

“Hi Papa Phil! Is he my new Apa?”

Papa. 

New Apa. 

WHAT?

[syeren]

NEW YEAR, NEW ME.

summary — after the both of you decided to break off your relationship, geto lays alone in his apartment, reminiscing over, over, and over about you.

tags — angst

His finger shakily tapped along his knee as he braced himself for the nth time. A call. A stupid. Fucking. Call. Geto gulped down a lump in his throat as he heard a voice on the other end.

“… Hello?”

“Is this… I mean— I’ve been trying to reach you, haven’t you received my calls?”

“Oh, no sorry. I think you have the wrong number.”

“I… See, yeah… Yeah, I should’ve judged by the voice.”

“No worries! I think I’ve seen your number floating around frequently during the past week, I didn’t pick up though. Genuinely, I thought it was another spam call—“

“Ah, I’m sorry for troubling you. I’ll end the call now, have a nice day.”

“You too—“

Beep. Beep. Beep.

A clammy hand dragged down his dehydrated skin, his long lashes poking out through the gaps left open by lazy fingers. A deep rumble from a sigh vibrated in his throat, then echoed around his humid studio apartment… Drenched in nauseating vanilla musk cologne, and thick smoke billowed from a half-lit cigarette. In the corner of his apartment was a Vinyl player, playing Chet Baker softly as he thought.

“… Fuckin’ hell.”

He slowly got up from his hunched position against the wall, pushing some weight off of the surface to compensate the weakened muscles he had left. He had no courage or stamina to even reach the front door if anyone wanted to check up on him, perhaps he had been too optimistic about that mere thought.

He stumbled in his apartment, toppling over heaps of garbage and empty liquor bottles, a loud statement of his pain. As he neared his unkept bed, he plopped onto his flat, tear-stained mattress. The quiet rumble of traffic outside his apartment window was his alarm clock, while the occasional chatter from his next-door neighbours were his source of entertainment. Amongst those were the occasional pops of fireworks going off in the distance, ahh yes, the welcoming of the new year.

Another year, he thought, to wake up and go through his schedule on autopilot. It was rinse and repeat, at this point. His body clock already stopped working after countless nights of insomnia, and he spent that time thinking… Again. Another day, another year.

The record continued to play, aiding the descent into his brain once more. It had been a long time since he last seen you, heard your voice, felt you in his arms— Hell, the fact he couldn’t reach you anymore was already driving him insane. What drove you away? Perhaps it was his lack of understanding towards you, maybe it was the fact he stuck his nose into his own stuff and never had the light of day just to talk— Properly, that time. However, it may be the certain situation that he was burying himself into, the over-thinking. Did you get tired of it? Were you too exhausted to put up with it?

He wanted to understand. Those countless nights he spent just pondering over his own pessimism and confusion, it was enough for him already. He turned his dreary body around, planting his face against the pillow and shutting his eyes. He nestled into the illusion of comfort, but the true beauty of peace is long gone.

The intoxicating vanilla and musk clung to his bedsheets, doused in the saltiness of tears and a hint of fresh pine. He hadn’t taken a shower yet, a proper bath didn’t even pop into one of his hundreds of thoughts running in his brain until now; thus, he opted to submerge himself in his racks of cologne and perfume for the meantime. His eyes darted sideways, tilting his head to the darkness the night sky blanketed him with. Another sigh left his lips.

“… Did I not love them enough?” his voice broke through like a scratchy record, hoarse and unpleasant. A broken record of anxiety and negativity. “Did I love them too much?”

He laid there on top of his bed, drifting off into a dreamless sleep. Sleep sounds good, real good. To simply release those relaxing chemicals into your brain, signalling it to shut down. He wished he could that to his thoughts all day but, he holds on to something he can’t achieve— The notion to meet you once more. As the time passed, he felt his body sinking deeper into his mattress and—

Ring. Ring. Ring.

A groan bursted out as he lazily reached over to his bedside table, grabbing his phone and putting it to his ear. He knew that he would get another mouthful of false-positive comments from his buds, and he sucked in a breath once pressing ‘answer.’

“Satoru, I already—”

“Geto?”

The familiar chime sound, it was the type of bell that twinkles and flutters; much like a Furin in a soft Summer breeze. It wasn’t anything like the Church bell noise that Satoru’s voice gave off, resounding, rich, yet clanging to his ears. His eyes shot open as he clambered to sit up in his bed, crossing his legs as he tried to gather his scatterplot of thoughts.

“Hey,” he managed to croak out, albeit with a loud voice crack. “I didn’t… Expect you to call me.”

“Satoru told me I should check in with you, so that’s why,” your voice sounded like you were smiling through your words. He swore he could picture you smiling. “This is my new number, you can save it if you would like.”

“Ah, I wouldn’t want to disturb you, however.”

“No, no! You wouldn’t. Well, I just wanted to check in.”

“Okay, okay… No promises on being convinced,” he added, chuckling awkwardly as he cleared his throat into his fist.

“Alright. Well, I’m gonna hang up now, okay? Stay safe, Geto.”

“Mhm, you too. Thanks— For checking in, I mean.”

“No worries, bye!”

“Goodbye.”

Beep. Beep. Beep.

He immediately threw his phone down to his side as cold sweat profusely beaded around his temples. Black, messy locks draped over his eyes, and his gaze shot down at the mattress beneath him. Slowly, he leaned back against the wall once more, staring at the phone that connected you and him together. Even if it were brief.

All the times he called you, wanted to talk to you, hear that voice… Yet he wussed out, only managing to blurt out a quick ‘thanks for checking in.’ He wanted to profess his adoration, his emotions he held deep within his heart but once he finally got the chance to tell you, it didn’t meet to his expectations. Strings of profanities left his lips, muttering out into the silence of his own home.

Just as the clock renewed itself on that plastic display, he too, decided for that change. The unfamiliarity of the numbers twinkled in his eyes, and surely this would be a sign of hope. To pick himself up and just start anew— Well, once he figures out how to fix up his living quarters, that is.

The distant popping and cheers echoed from his complex and outside, and once Geto looked over at the clock, it was 12:00 AM sharp. A painful chuckle left his lips as his head craned back to rest against the surface. A new year, huh? It was ironic, how cheerful and abundant the atmosphere was throughout the building and the city, yet here he was wallowing in nothing but the repetitive Chet Baker record he had on. He reached in his pocket, grabbing the same pack of Camel he had and popping a cigarette up. Pressing the stick between his lips and lighting the butt, he inhaled deeply and blew out a thick cloud of smoke. The Turkish blend scattered through the air, filling the room with hazy puffs.

Another day, another year. Maybe this one will treat him better.

_______________

an; happy new year! :3 LOL i didn’t think i would make an angst for the new year, but i’ll infuse all my good energy into this post so it won’t affect ur upcoming blessings <3 creds to saltinesaltine1

[stargirlsmooch]

Naughty Boy

bucky barnes x fem!reader

the good boy trilogy - part 2

after bucky angers you for not following your orders, he knows he has to receive his punishment. but when he misbehaves again, it gets so much worse. very smutty! 18+ 2.1k words

The book covers were soft in your hands, rhythmically thumping on the shelves as you put them away. You had started your shift ten minutes ago, Bucky knew you always worked a Sunday, so it was only a matter of time until that front door opened and your sweet man came in. 

As the little bell above the door jingled, warning you that someone had entered the store, you turned around to face him- stood there with his muscled shoulders encased in an adorable white sweater and blue jeans wrapping around his strong thighs. So pretty.

You still couldn’t believe he was your soldier. 

“Hi.” He said, to which you raised an eyebrow and turned back around to continue your work.

Last night, after Bucky had orgasmed (without permission) so hard that he almost passed out, you made him stay on the phone with you until he got cleaned up and into bed. He followed all your instructions accordingly, acting like such a good boy and hoping that you would forget about his punishment- you never did. And it started now.

The silent treatment. 

Bucky hated anything to do with you ignoring him, so you couldn’t resist using that to your advantage. Almost immediately after your back was facing him, you felt his front pressed against you. 

“Y/n, please.” He said, placing his strong hands on your hips. Y/n? Who the fuck does this boy think he is? 

Without realising it, Bucky had just made his punishment twice as bad as you had originally planned. What you had in mind before he had the nerve to refer to you by your name, and not your title, could be described as “mild”. Now, you had the incentive to make it downright painful.

Before: maybe an hour or two of no talking from you, and then when he really couldn’t take it, you would've kissed him, told him that everything was okay and then taken him home and let him put his cock in his Mommy’s ass just like he was so desperate to do the night before.

Now? There was no way his dick was coming anywhere near you. He would be lucky if he even got to touch it today.

The anger was very clearly simmering just below your surface, Bucky could see the beginnings of fury breaking out across your beautiful face- your pink-painted lips were pressed into a harsh line and your eyes had darkened dangerously.

“No. No, Mommy. I’m sorry, Mommy.” He whimpered, digging his fingers into the supple skin of your hips in hopes of keeping you there, but instead, you wandered off to the back of the store to grab more stock, leaving him to trail after you like a lost puppy.

The steps of his leather boots didn’t stop until you had reached the storage room, where no customers were allowed, so you promptly turned and placed your hand on his broad chest and gently shoved him so he kept out. Speaking of puppies, the pout on his face was so laughable, he looked like you’d just kicked his (or in his case, his kitten). 

But you would never do that because Alpine was adorable and you were basically her mother.

Little tears of frustration pricked at the corners of Bucky’s eyes and his bottom lip quivered, your baby Bucky had always been a little crybaby, sniffling whenever his Mommy told him to stop stroking his cock. 

He couldn’t handle punishment very well, you were just realising- this was the first time he was in trouble, so of course, he wasn’t used to facing his consequences. In the midst of finally getting his girl, he’d totally forgotten about his place in the pecking order- Mommy was on top, you do what she says.

Being a soft domme meant you didn’t dole out punishment whenever you felt like it, but when your baby deserved it, he was going to suffer. You loved putting naughty boys in their place- watching them slowly go dumb as they lost control and succumbed to you.

If it was any other man, you might’ve enjoyed the tears, but this was your sweet boy- Bucky. Your love. You couldn’t just stand there and do nothing whilst he worried himself up into a frenzy.

So, stepping out of the store room, you walked right up to your gorgeous man and gently used your thumbs to wash away the tears that were running down his cheeks.

“Sweet boy, there’s no need to cry.”

Bucky shook his head and the tears fell even harder, “So sorry, Mommy. Please don’t ignore me.” 

“Mommy’s sorry too, baby. I shouldn’t have ignored you, should I?” You whispered to him, pressing your lips to his tenderly- your first kiss. 

Wrapping your hands around his neck, Bucky wrapped his around your back, pulling you close until your entire body was flat against his chest. Your mouths moved perfectly in sync like you had kissed a million times before. 

His lips were soft against yours, and he tasted so sweet that you just couldn’t get enough. You broke away briefly, tipping your head back and sticking your tongue out. He understood what you wanted, and with no hesitation spat right into your mouth before diving back in for another kiss.

You swallowed hastily, moaning at the taste as Bucky slipped his tongue into your mouth, where you sucked on it feverishly- you just couldn’t get enough of him.

Just as the makeout got sloppier and sexier and mindnumbing, you pulled away, leaving Bucky with another adorable pout on his handsome face. He tried to resume it, wanting his Mommy’s kisses back so badly, but you put your hands on his pics to keep him at bay. 

“I don’t think so, Mr. Do you wanna know what me and you are gonna do today?” 

He nodded his head, which received another stern eyebrow raise from you- Mommy deserved the utmost respect, and that meant Bucky gave you his words.

“Sorry. Yes, Mommy.”

“Good boy,” You said, lovingly wiping at his tear-stained cheeks again. “I’m gonna close up the shop early, and then we are gonna head back to Mommy’s house where we’re gonna talk about your punishment. Understand?” 

His head dropped at the mention of his punishment. For a second there, caught up in your kisses, he himself had completely forgotten about his misbehaviour- thinking that the both of you just had a night of love-making ahead. But, no.

“Yes, Mommy.” 

“Good. Let me grab my keys and we can head home.” 

By the time the front door had slammed behind you, Bucky was practically shaking with fear. He didn’t know why, it wasn’t like you were going to hurt him- it was just the fact that he didn’t want to be reminded of your disappointment. That’s what scared him. 

“Come with me, baby.” You said as you grabbed his hand and let him to your bedroom. Bucky’s voice and moans had echoed off these walls a thousand times through the safety of your laptop’s speaker, and yet he had never stepped foot inside it.

Your bed was against the opposite wall, a white wooden headboard overlooking your soft pink duvet, pillows piled up in an organised heap on the mattress. It looks so cute, Bucky thought as he sat down on the edge. 

You couldn’t help but smile as you watched him stroking the floral covers around him and flopping back onto the soft bed. “Sit against the headboard for me, baby.”

Bucky shuffled back obediently, sitting back with his legs parted and his hands in his lap. His jumper bunched up around his tummy and you were so desperate for him to take it off, so desperate to see those tattoos in 3D. I wanna lick them.

Opening the trunk at the foot of your bed, you pulled out the essentials: handcuffs, a vibrator and your favourite dildo. Your sweet boy’s eyes subsequently widened when he saw all the objects hit the bed in their delightful glittery glory.

“Naked for me please, sweetheart.” You asked, standing up to your full height and facing him. He was bare within seconds, and when he was ready, that glorious cock standing ready for you, you started to strip as well.

With your focus on undressing, you didn’t have time to view his spectacular body in the depth you dreamed of, just a quick glance at those luscious muscles and those dark tattoos before you met his eyes again. 

Bucky gulped as he watched your coat fall to the floor, and then your shirt, and then your jeans, and then your bra and your panties and then suddenly you were completely undressed. Nothing but a simple gold chain around your neck and a few rings on your fingers.

“Do you remember what Mommy asked you last night, my baby?” You asked, picking up the dildo and placing the tip into your mouth as you waited for him to work up the brains to reply. 

“Yes. Mommy asked if I wanted to… If I wanted to fuck her pussy or her ass.” He replied, pausing in the middle out of embarrassment, not wanting to say the dirty words. You giggled at his innocence. 

Even though he was a cam boy (and 40 years old), you knew Winter hadn’t been with many women. He was quiet and subdued and really only conversed with those that he really needed to. Safe to say that the sex he had had so far in his life was vanilla. And although there was nothing wrong with that, you know he craved more. 

“That’s right, honey. Which hole is it gonna be?” The tip of your dildo was now resting on your soft lips- the truth was, he wasn’t going to be fucking any holes tonight, but he would surely get to watch as you fucked yourself. 

“Your ass, please.” He whispered, his eyes fixated on the way your lips kissed the dildo.

As you climbed onto the bed, sitting opposite Bucky, you could feel your cream leaking out of you and coating your inner thighs. You had never been so excited about sex before. Sure, you’d been with your fair share of guys during college but this was different- feelings were involved with Bucky. And although he wasn’t going to be inside of you today, it still felt special that you were showing him all of yourself. 

Your thighs were closed as you took your seat between his, you turned and grabbed the handcuffs, swiftly locking them around his wrists and attaching them to the headboard. He whined when he realised what was about to happen, and the fact that he could do nothing about it. 

When you sat back, the thick dildo sitting on your tummy and your hands behind you, holding your weight, you started to slowly open your legs. Bucky’s eyes were immediately drawn to the movement, watching your thighs break apart until all he could see was your perfect pussy on display for him.

You could feel your wetness pooling under you, your puffy clit throbbing with every second that Bucky stared. The cream leaking from your hole looked so delicious, all he wanted to do was lean forward and take it all up on his tongue, but the restraints stopped him. 

Grabbing the dildo, you slid the tip through your folds, whining at the feeling of the tip bumping against your clit on its journey to your asshole. Bucky was hungry for your pussy, but when he saw your other hole, so tight and inviting- he became starving. 

He whimpered when he saw you suck on your fingers, readying them. You slipped them inside your ass slowly, moaning at the sensation. You were so desperate to be filled up that you spat on the dildo too- you couldn’t wait any longer. 

The moans you made drove Bucky insane, he whimpered and whined and begged to be the one to fuck you. But you just kept going, kept pumping your tight hole full of cock over and over again until you came, more cream gushing out of your pussy. 

Those adorable tears streamed down Bucky’s face once you stopped.

“No, Mommy. I wanted to make you cum.” He sobbed, pulling harshly against the cuffs as you recovered from your orgasm. 

As you got up onto wobbly knees, Bucky gave a sigh of relief. You uncuffed him as fast as you could and slumped into his lap, letting him take your weight. He shifted you around until you were both in a comfortable position and proceeded to bury his crying face in your neck. 

Giving him an endearing kiss on the cheek, you said…

“Naughty boys don’t deserve their Mommy’s cum.” 

[rainintheevening]

31. “Don’t worry about me.” for Steve and Bucky! <3

Been awhile since I did one of these. Feel really rusty. Here, beloved, have a late birthday present.

WWII. Here be angst. Open ending.

31. "Don't worry about me."

Snow battered against the other side of the glass, cold puffs of air coming sharply in at the corners of the sash. Beneath Bucky's fingers the windowsill started to creak, and he hastily let go.

He held himself quite still, hardly daring to breathe, staring blankly out at the storm. A jagged lump sat in the back of his throat, aching, raw.

He wanted to cry, to shout, he wanted to punch something, he wanted to take everyone of those HYDRA agents and beat their brains in. Right now, he could do it and he wouldn't even blink.

From behind him came a soft rustle, a murmur, "Buck?"

The wave of hot rage stilled, retreated, leaving only cold fear to pool in his chest. He turned quickly, strode two steps to the bedside. Sank to his knees.

"I'm right here, Steve. Right here."

He reached to press his cold fingers against Steve’s warm cheek. Too warm? He wasn't sure. He didn't know anymore.

He used to be able to tell Steve’s temperature within five degrees by touch alone. Now, it was all different, Steve was different, and that was supposed to be good! That difference was supposed to save him! And now... now nothing could.

Steve’s one working eye cracked open, a dark slit.

"Bucky?"

Bucky leaned forward, into the line of view of that single eye, and it widened enough for him to glimpse that warm blue. "Hey, pal. You hangin' in there?"

"Buck."

One corner of Steve’s mouth twitched, and then his eye closed, and he seemed to fall a little, fingers slipping on an icy ledge above a dark canyon with no bottom.

Something in Bucky's stomach lurched after him, but there was nothing for Bucky to grab.

Steve’s hands lay quite still at his sides. His chest rose and fell, erratic and slow.

Bucky had wiped away all the blood he could, taking the enormous risk of lighting a fire to melt water and heat the tiny, one-room cabin. He'd used up every bandage he could, and torn up his own shirt and undershirt for more. He'd dribbled a little cool water into Steve’s mouth, but his friend had turned his head away.

Now he brushed his thumb lightly over Steve's dry lips, bit his own together hard. How long did they have? An hour? Probably more, seeing how Steve had survived this long.

He stayed kneeling by Steve’s side, touching his brother's face, the bandages that covered where a large portion of his skull should have been. Rested his hand on the muscled chest that had replaced the thin one. Let his hand fall to grip Steve’s, and linked their fingers.

Should he leave, hike out into the snowstorm on the off chance some of the others might still be near? They'd been scattered by the ambush, and he wasn't even sure who had made it out of that death trap alive. Perhaps none of them had.

He glanced down to where he had applied the tourniquets, one above the ankle, the other high up on Steve's thigh.

Should he have done that—tried to stem the bleeding? Maybe it would have been more merciful not to, to make it go quick, to end this. Wouldn't it? Even now, he still had his revolver. He knew exactly where to put bullets, how to make it fast.

Bucky gulped back a wave of nausea. No, hell no! He couldn't, he couldn't, no matter how 'merciful' it might be. He'd spent well over a decade preserving Steve’s life, how could he stop now?

What would Steve want? Was he suffering? He didn’t seem to be in pain. Did he know how horrific his injuries were? Did he know he was dying?

"Buck."

He lifted his head sharply, blinked back hot tears. Steve’s eye was still closed.

"Yeah, I'm here, Steve." He pressed a wet kiss to the back of Steve’s hand.

There was no answer.

The only thing Steve had said since he first surfaced to consciousness was Bucky's name, like a reflex, as enduring and un-erasable as breathing or pulse.

Cold, exhausted, broken in his spirit in a way he had never been before, Bucky slumped against the bed, cutching Steve’s hand against his chest, and gave himself up to tears.

How would he live without Steve? How could the world even continue to turn without that warm, shining light of Steve’s presence in it? All those times before, when Steve had wandered off the edge, had nearly been pulled under, and Bucky had begged him to come back, had fought off Death itself with a stick. He'd come to think Steve was always going to make it, always going to recover.

"Please, God, please!" he choked out between sobs.

He'd prayed for Steve before, and Steve had always made it through the night. He'd prayed sometimes, in the early days of his torture after Azzano, begging Someone to come and save him. And someone had.

"He needs to live. He's so good, he's my friend, he deserves to live."

But what was the point now? Steve had literally had his brains blown out, he'd lost big chunks of his legs, he had shrapnel in his stomach. There was no medicine, no doctor that could put Steve back together now.

"I don't want to kill him, I can't!" Bucky choked out. "I'm sorry, Steve, I'm sorry, I can't. I couldn't live with that."

He caught his breath, swallowed back a sob, and lifted his wet face. A glance at the chair by the fireplace, where his revolver lay.

He had more than one bullet.

"Bucky."

He whipped his head around to glance at Steve, hot shame pouring over him.

How could he think that? Steve would be so disappointed, he'd be horrified.

Steve’s hand twitched a little in Bucky's, and Bucky cleared his throat before he spoke.

"Yeah, I'm here, pal. With you. To the end–" He couldn't finish.

Time ceased to carry it's old meanings, there was only the space between breaths, the whisper of his name that got quieter with each reiteration.

At some point he got up to pile more wood on the fire, and stand, staring at the revolver for too long.

"Buck?"

He could barely hear it, but he turned away, moved back to the bed. This time he moved around it, and gingerly sat on the dusty mattress, stripped off his coat, shivered slightly as the air hit his bare skin.

Carefully he stretched out beside Steve, turned toward his friend, pressing close, trying to be tender, to be gentle, as he spread his coat over both of them. He pressed his face into Steve’s shoulder, so big now.

"Listen, Steve, listen to me. Please. I'm here, and I'll stay until you don't need me anymore, that's a promise."

The tears had passed, and he could say this steadily now, dry-eyed.

"You can go. Okay? Go whenever you're ready. I know Aunt Sarah would love to see you again, and your dad. I know they're both so proud of you. Not half as proud as I am, but still really proud."

"Buck."

It was barely a breath.

All that enhanced body that had saved Steve’s life so many times in this crazy war, and now it meant he died slow, fighting a losing battle to fix itself, to mend parts that were no longer there.

"Don't worry about me," Bucky whispered, mouth close to Steve's ear. "I'll be fine. You can go, okay? Don't worry about me."

A long silence.

He smelled sweat and blood and smoke. A cold draught curled under the coat, but Steve was still warm against his chest and side. The fire crackled quietly, somewhere the roof was leaking in a steady drip-drip-drip-drip.

"Buuuuck."

Long, drawn out on a sigh, but oddly warm, an aching suggestion of a smile edging it with love.

Bucky didn't lift his head, he just closed his eyes, and held Steve as close as he could.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm here. I'm with you to the end of the line."

Snow pattered quietly against the glass, piling up on the outer sill.

[delimeful]

you can’t go back (7)

warnings: depression mention, injury mention, misunderstandings, arguing, lmk if i missed any

-

His eyes had been open for a while now, and yet Virgil still wasn’t entirely sure he’d actually woken up.

He’d found himself sleeping deeper the longer he’d been stuck on this planet, and while part of him was worried about the possible detrimental effects of being dropped in a new atmosphere, most of him knew it was because there was no point in being on guard.

Even if he kept his rest cycles light and easily disturbed, all he was doing was waking himself up enough to remember that nearly all his defenses had been forcibly lowered.

There was also the fact that waking violently often made his aux limbs automatically strain against their restraints in a way that sent twinges of almost-pain down his spine.

After the first time he’d jerked awake to a Human’s gentle jostle and nearly pulled a muscle, Roman and Logan had taken to opening the barn door loudly— much louder than he knew they could open it— to alert him if he was sleeping, which he usually was. It was what he spent most of his time doing, at this point.

He still didn’t understand where he stood with the Humans.

On the surface of the coin, he was definitely still a captive, and they’d grown no closer to understanding his attempts at communicating, though admittedly he might have had more success in imitating their own syllables if he hadn’t been stubbornly sticking to Guard-tongue this entire time.

On the underside, however, he hadn’t been harmed or even threatened since Logan had persuaded Roman to give up on the ‘yell angry nonsense at the alien who doesn’t speak your language’ method of interrogation, and lately the Humans seemed almost… delicate, in how they handled him.

Despite the language barrier, Logan seemed committed to making sure Virgil more-or-less understood what each test would entail. Roman, who was often recruited into the demonstration, was surprisingly enthusiastic about playing the test subject role, even if half of his exaggerated expressions were near indecipherable. Frankly, Virgil was just quietly grateful the victim role was Roman, who had complained pitifully at length about a splinter, rather than Logan, who had significantly less visible pain displays.

(Virgil had once watched him grab the wrong end of a scalpel while he was occupied peering into one of their more fiddly science instruments, and the extent of his reaction had been a slight jolt, and then a few seconds spent staring blankly at his bleeding hand.)

Really, a shocking amount of their time during tests was dedicated to not freaking him out, made extra impressive by the fact that freaking out was one of Virgil’s strongest and most frequently used skills.

It was… confusing. Virgil’s Lator implant had grasped most of the words and sentence structure rules required for basic communication, but Roman and Logan never actually spoke about the reasoning behind their care. It seemed almost like an understood fact between them, which made Virgil think it was either a scheme established out of his hearing or a cultural rule so obvious that it went unmentioned.

Or maybe the Deathworlders who’d stumbled upon him were the only pair of Humans on the planet who weren’t vicious predators, and they happened to prioritize relatively ethical science over their own gain and/or violent revenge.

Except no, that was never how Virgil’s life worked. He’d scoffed at the idea the moment it sparked in his mind, dismissing it out of hand.

Now, seated unbound next to a Human and being taught the best way to pet Patch, who was alive and entirely unharmed, he was starting to reconsider.

The Human had come into the barn quietly, unaccompanied by either of the two Humans Virgil knew probably wouldn’t murder him on sight, and he’d realized only a moment after waking that he should definitely be growling or flashing his fangs, doing something to make himself look too scary to attack. At the very least, he needed a more defensive stance.

Except— Patch was there, looking up at him with big dark eyes. Patch was alive.

So instead, Virgil had bodily put himself between Patch and the stranger. Apparently, he was actually completely willing to get in a deathmatch with a Human if it meant not watching this furry little creature get hurt right in front of him.

Except the Human didn’t want to hurt Patch, was apparently safe enough for Patch to waltz right up and receive attention as though it was her due.

As it turned out— after a brief and terrifying mishap where Virgil looked up to find that uncanny Human expression of delight way too close— the Human didn’t want to hurt Virgil, either.

The Human had given him the words he needed to hear, which also happened to be the ones that he’d wanted to say.

His aux legs were free now, stretching and flexing tenderly in the air behind him. His wrists were still uncuffed, had been so for long enough that his wounds were entirely scabbed over. His hands were unbound, the fresh air cool against his underskin.

For the first time since he’d seen Roman’s brother in that cell, he was free.

He should already be running.

Next to him, the Human demonstrated how to delicately brush a finger up and down the little stretch of velvety fur above Patch’s nose, prompting the loudest rumbly pleased noise yet.

Virgil reached out and mimicked the motion.

The “kitty” was still settled firmly on his folded legs. Until there was an active threat, it was too risky to displace her. She might start making those petulant little upset noises.

“Yeah, just like that!” the Human encouraged, and no wonder Patch had deemed them an ally, with that open friendliness paired with unmistakable Deathworlder resilience.

(He’d seen the way they’d instinctively tracked his aux limbs with wariness, understanding that Virgil could hurt them, and yet they hadn’t attacked. They’d believed him, when he echoed their earlier words. Raised on a planet where every unknown could be a lethal threat, and they had decided to trust him.)

Honestly, Virgil kind of wanted the guy as an ally, at this point.

He paused, considering.

The Human’s gaze flickered over to him as soon as he’d lifted his hand, but despite their attentiveness, they didn’t shy away at all when he reached out, angling his fingertips up so only the pads of them would make contact.

Oh, this fur was a significantly different texture.

“Are you— Are you petting me?” the Human asked, voice noticeably rising in pitch.

Virgil hurriedly withdrew his hand, with an automatic chirp-chirp-click of concerned inquiry. He hadn’t thought Humans would be hurt by simple touch, but if he was wrong…

“No, no,” the Human’s shoulders were shaking slightly, their lips twitching up at the edges, “it’s okay! I just wasn’t expecting it, that’s all.”

They tousled their own hair in demonstration, much more thoroughly than Virgil’s careful pats, and then looked back at him, blinking expectantly.

Virgil cast a glance between them and Patch, wondering exactly how many species on this planet had perfected that expression.

When he’d thought of Earth as a planet full of physical contact, he’d been envisioning brutal takedowns and punishing blows, not this.

And yet, here he sat, patting the human again anyways.

They continued to speak, a good percentage of the words translating properly, but it didn’t seem to be about anything in particular. Virgil let his eyes wander, wondering at which point Humans usually introduced themselves. His own introduction was supposed to come after, both in terms of him being a Second and a lower social status(being both a visitor to the planet and a hostage(?)) but so far, zero out of three Humans had properly declared themselves. Maybe it was a cultural thing?

Out of pure habit, he flicked his second set of eyelids down, scanning back and forth for a routine check of their surroundings. It was the sort of thing he did regularly while hanging out with Janus, a simple method to ease some of his more irrational fears of danger.

This time, with the sight of two Human-sized smears of heat barreling in their direction, he felt far from soothed.

He was on his feet between one moment and the next, aux limbs poised high around him as Patch trotted a few steps away and began agitatedly cleaning her face with one paw.

The Human seemed much more concerned at the movement, jerking back in surprise so hard that they nearly toppled over entirely. “Woah! Are you okay?”

Virgil muttered a distracted confirmation in Guard-tongue, hurriedly reaching down and pulling them to their feet. They cooperated, which was good because although Chelcerae were on the larger side, they were also lightweight. Humans, on the other hand, were dense.

He didn’t need to take a second look at the barn to plan their next move; he’d been looking at the same four walls long enough to have any possible exits memorized. The window panels had all been closed and latched from the outside. The back doors were much the same. The front entry doors of the barn were slightly ajar, but that was exactly where Roman and Logan would enter.

There was no time. The only option was to stand his ground and fight, taking advantage of the Humans' urge to keep him in one piece. If he could keep their attention on him, he’d be able to create an opening for Patch and her Human to slip away.

Not that he had the words to explain any of that to them.

Hands still on the Human’s shoulders, he started to maneuver them towards the side wall without the table, hoping to capitalize on the Humans’ lack of 360 vision.

Three steps in, the barn doors were shoved open with a loud bang.

Virgil’s plates flushed a bottomless black as his mind reset, all higher thought set to the side as protect became the main objective.

He immediately yanked Patch’s Human close, chest-to-back so that both of them could track their opponents, and wound an arm around their front as a makeshift shield, ensuring that his claws were on full display. Thankfully, the Human was short enough that he could properly bare his fangs over their shoulder, and so he cracked his guardplate open without hesitation and let out a low, rattling hiss as bright venom flooded his mouth, a warning as distinct as the sun above.

Roman and Logan stopped dead, arrested by the sight of his aux legs flexed to their fullest length, the pointed ends angled directly at them. It no longer mattered how fast Humans were. Not when Virgil only had to twitch to send a lethal amount of spring-loaded force directly at an attacker.

“Release him!” Roman demanded, his face gone slightly grey.

Virgil couldn’t remember what emotional response that color shift signalled, but it didn’t matter. He wasn’t going to hand over Patch’s Human, not when the other two were sure to be furious with them for sneaking in and freeing him.

Two against one would be a poor matchup no matter what, and the odds were worsened by the fact that Patch’s Human wasn’t nearly as tall as Roman or Logan.

Virgil was more than willing to play substitute Second for the guy, they’d earned that much and more, but he wasn’t a fair match for a Deathworlder on a good day. Today wasn’t a good day. In fact, today happened to be the latest in a truly impressive string of bad days.

“I said, let him go!” Roman snapped, edging forward a step.

Virgil snarled, the sound coming out deep and clear without the guardplate muffling it, and retreated a step back despite himself.

He couldn’t afford to show weakness, to get boxed in, but he’d centered Patch’s Human in front of him, an automatic urge to have him solidly under the protective halo of his aux limbs.

Unfortunately, that left the Human closer to their opponents than Virgil, meaning that offensive maneuvers were too risky. Virgil already regretted not tucking the guy behind his back, instead. He wasn’t usually the plan guy, okay?

“Wait, guys—,” Patch’s Human started, only to be cut off by Logan moving forward as well, eyes cold and assessing.

“There’s no solution to be found by taking Patton hostage. The moment you move to hurt him,” another step forward, “you will have given up every bit of your leverage, and you’ll still be trapped. Don’t be foolish.”

There was something off about the words, parts of the sentence not lining up, and Virgil’s rumbling growl grew louder as he scuttled back another step, struggling to process what little his Lator implant had retained.

“Surrender our friend now, or face the consequences,” Roman added, the pitch of his voice dropping back to that low, simmering anger he’d worn while asking about his brother. “There’s not a force on this planet or any other that can save you if you hurt him.”

Wait, there was something in there, something wrong— but Roman slid his next step along the dirt, bringing him just out of striking range, and Virgil’s panic ramped up further.

He feinted sharply with his aux limbs, but the Humans didn’t even flinch, their gazes locked on Patch’s Human. They were both still edging closer with each moment his attention switched between them, slowly but surely cornering him back against the far wall. Once they had him pinned, one would lunge forward to draw the focus of his attack, and the other would rip Patch’s Human away to be punished.

No. He wasn’t going to let that happen.

Back to Plan A, even if the chances of success were much lower without the chaotic element of surprise.

His grip on Patch’s Human began to loosen, his legs bending in preparation to shoot forwards, his sensor lids flicking back as he mentally readied himself for the insane task of trying to keep the two Humans occupied in a fight for as long as he could.

The Humans could see his tension and responded in kind, shoulders lifting and eyes narrowing as the air in the room grew thick with anticipation.

“Guys!” the Human in his arms half-shouted, making Virgil full-body twitch in surprise. “Would everybody please calm down a little?!”

There was a beat of blank silence, and then Roman was the one to open his mouth.

“Patton, you’re being held hostage by an antagonistic alien attacker!” he protested, releasing his coiled up predator posture to gesture with both arms.

It took Virgil a moment to absorb the words, his head still following every motion warily.

Wait, what? Had he heard that right? Was his implant even working?

There was a gentle tap on the back of his hand, the flexed one that was still hovering protectively over Patton’s(?) torso.

“Hey, kiddo?” he started, which had been used enough that Virgil knew it meant him, even though the form of address was coming through the translator as ‘small young one’ (affectionate). “Take a few deep breaths, okay? Everything’s alright, I promise.”

He didn’t really understand the request— nobody used their upper lungs while brawling, and his lower ridgelungs weren’t consciously controlled enough to alter his air intake pattern— but the requesting tone to the Human’s voice was enough to make him drag his primary eyes down to look at him, waiting for elaboration. Was there a plan after all?

“You just got a little startled, huh?” The question seemed to be rhetorical, and Patton patted the back of his hand in a gesture that seemed well-intentioned but meant nothing to him. “Well, you don’t have to be afraid. I know these two knuckleheads, and they aren’t going to hurt me or you.”

If the other two had been waiting for the perfect moment to ambush him, now would be it, because he couldn’t help the way his entire head tilted to face Patton, guardplate shifting back and forth the slightest amount in the most blatant expression of doubt he had. A downright quizzical croon bubbled up in his throat to accompany the look.

“I won’t let them hurt you,” Patton corrected firmly, and Virgil was pretty sure at this point that Humans didn’t have anywhere near the same social hierarchy pair structure that Chelcerae did, but he recognized the steady resolution of a First in that voice nonetheless.

He didn’t bother hiding his reluctance as he slowly released his grip on the Human. He'd always been atrociously bad at taking orders like this, even from his actual First. Patton took a small step forward, looking now at the other Humans, and Virgil pointedly kept his fangs out and venom-flushed.

Roman looked gobsmacked, and Logan’s stare had returned to its usual all-consuming intensity as it flicked between him and Patton.

“They… understood you?” he asked, nearly vibrating with energy. “We’ve been trying to work out the basics of a language structure for weeks, how—?”

Patton’s hands had settled firmly on his hips, his stance pointed enough to definitely signify something loud and clear in Human body language. “Nuh-uh, don’t try to change the subject. I found a whole alien tied up like a pretzel in this barn, we are not playing twenty questions until you two explain why you thought that was a good idea.”

Both of the other Humans looked apprehensive, now.

“They attacked me!” Roman tried with righteous indignation. “And during our first encounter, they almost murdered Lady Macbeth!”

Patton turned enough to look down at Virgil’s feet, and everyone else followed suit, revealing that even in the chaos, Patch had still somehow found a moment to reclaim her favorite perch directly on his feet.

She was bundled up into a resting pose, the one Patton had called a ‘loaf’, and her eyes were half closed in near-sleep. She barely even blinked at all the eyes on her.

In the ensuing silence, her purr was extremely audible.

Patton turned back to Roman, whose face was now looking less grey and more red.

“You didn’t see the mouse toy they skewered,” he muttered mutinously. “And! The Logan they almost-skewered!”

“The bindings weren’t intended to harm them,” Logan added, pushing the bridge of his glasses up a bit. “It was a precautionary safety measure to prevent injury. They really did prove to be actively hostile for our first few interactions, and no initial attempts at communication were successful.”

Patton didn’t seem convinced. “And were these attempts before or after you tied them up?”

Uncharacteristically, Logan looked away.

“They were already handcuffed when we found them,” Roman mumbled, and then, stronger: “They could know where Remus is. We couldn’t just let them go, not when it could mean I’ll never— never see my brother again.”

Even from behind him, Virgil could see the way Patton softened slightly.

“If someone’s in trouble, you help them, you don’t make it worse,” he replied, the sharpness slowly fading from his voice. “I know that you were scared for Remus, Ro. But I bet they were pretty scared, too.”

Roman looked down, because apparently Humans only followed galactic etiquette rules about avoiding direct eye contact when they were experiencing unfortunate emotions.

After a moment, he firmed his shoulders and looked back up, meeting Virgil’s gaze directly for the half-second before he automatically averted it. Luckily, Humans couldn’t track the dark-on-dark of his iris movement very well.

“I’m sorry for frightening you,” Roman said, speaking directly and unmistakably to Virgil. “Pat’s right, we went about this all wrong. I think I already knew from the moment you freaked out about your legs, I just… didn’t know what to do about it without getting skewered, I guess.”

Logan cleared his throat. “It was my idea to restrain their legs. Logically, I thought the concept was sound, but I clearly underestimated both how many nerve endings were attached to them and the psychological effect the action would have. If I’d understood sooner… well. The point is, I apologize as well.”

Virgil felt his sensor eyelids slide slowly over his eyes in blank astonishment. He’d once watched these same two Humans argue all the way to sunset over the best way to arrange the stacks of papers on their table.

And now they were apologizing. To him.

Maybe his Lator implant really was busted.

His guardplate shuttered closed, and when that didn’t manage to convey his dumbfounded silence well enough, he leaned to the side slightly so that Patton was between him and their imploring stares.

What else was he supposed to do?! He had managed two words of Human language semi-comprehensively, and neither of them were particularly useful for this situation.

“I’m so proud of you guys,” Patton enthused, once again securing his position as Best Human by breaking the silence. “I’m sure they’ll say sorry for trying to stab you once they have the right words for it!”

Wait, he had to apologize for pre-emptive defensive stabbing? What kind of Deathworld was this?

“… Um,” Roman replied, sounding just as dubious. “Pat, I’m not entirely sure they can speak in a way we’ll be able to understand.”

Patton tilted his head, an inquiring lilt to his words. “They talked to me, though?”

Virgil wasn’t sure that him mangling the words Patton had said only a few moments before qualified as talking, but the news sent the other two Humans into a frenzy of shocked excitement anyhow.

He blatantly ignored the resulting request for him to talk again. His guardplate was staying firmly in place for at least the rest of the suncycle, his lungs still clenching slightly at the memory of trying to return Patton’s smile earlier.

Patton patted his hand again. “I think they’re shy,” he offered. “Having their teeth visible seemed to make them nervous.”

Logan hummed. “Perhaps the language we’ve been hearing through their… organic mask is easier to form, or more culturally acceptable.”

That mostly depended on which hemisphere of his home planet one was from, but the Human was pretty close. Virgil was impressed.

“So, we have to wait? Or it might not happen again at all?” Roman visibly deflated, his posture sagging miserably. “The only reason I got us all into this mess in the first place was to find Remus, and I still don’t even know if they’ve ever seen him!”

Virgil couldn’t help the telling way his aux limbs flexed in and out, and was abruptly grateful that none of the Humans had gotten that far in interpreting his body language.

The addition of Logan had changed the focus of the Humans’ interest in him, moving from brute force interrogation to trying to understand him well enough to communicate. The tests were so abstract that he’d almost forgotten the origin of Roman’s interest in him.

He still cringed away from the idea of being the one to deliver the news that his clutchmate was definitely far out of reach by now, and probably in the process of being sold into some terrible fate, if he hadn’t been already.

However… If he himself had the chance to learn about Janus, to know for sure what his First had done upon finding Virgil missing and a Human on board as cargo, to find out whether or not he was safe…

He would take it. Of course he would take it. The only thing more painful than knowing was the uncertainty of not knowing.

Besides, Patton probably wouldn’t let Roman bite the head off the messenger.

One distinct step forward (after making sure his feet were cat-free, of course) was enough to draw their eyes to him, and he ignored the reflexive urge to darken his plates as he slowly, painstakingly bobbed his chin up and down. The sensation of his plates scraping edges at the unnatural movement made him grimace slightly, but he was fairly confident that the end result had looked like a nod.

“Yes?” Patton hesitantly translated. “Yes what, buddy?”

He pointed at Roman, who stiffened up with wide eyes.

“Are you— is… is this about Remus?” He sounded a little warbly with emotion already.

Virgil managed another grinding nod, and then gave up and simply ‘nodded’ his closed fist up and down.

“You have seen him?” Another faux-nod, and Roman’s face did something weird and alarming that Virgil had no hope of interpreting. “Where? When? What happened to him, is he okay?”

A completely predictable response, one that Virgil had no way to coherently reply to. His aux limbs pedaled in the air for a moment as he considered his options, and then the answer hit him, so obvious it was embarrassing he hadn’t thought of it immediately.

The Humans trailed after him curiously as he approached the table covered in science equipment. The box shoved into one corner was easy enough to open now that his hands were un-mitted, and he lifted his helmet out triumphantly.

The internal audio system was beyond repair, ripped out first by Virgil’s own teeth and then practically dissected by Logan, but that didn’t matter. The Humans had technology that could record and play audio, and the translator chip plugged inside the helmet was still untouched.

This was their key to two-way communication.

All he needed was some tools, some time, and a really big battery.

[holly-fixation]

Another Special Trait

Summary: Sephiroth's wing appears while he's in Wutai. Though his Second Class friends helped him control it, it always had a mind of its own. He knew Hojo would find it one day. It was only a matter of time. 

A prequel to Another Part to Hurt

…

His whole life, he knew he was special. His whole life, he knew he was different from the rest, his silver hair and reptilian eyes never allowing him escape from that truth. 

His whole life, the same nightmare haunted him. 

He wished, he prayed, the dream was exactly the same each time, but he knew all too well how it adapted. The scenario never played out the same way twice, no loop to continuously circle through. The tall monster with large tentacles and claws chased him in a sky with a mirror of water reflecting the clouds. Sometimes it was night. It made more sense when it was night, the creature dark and obscured. Sometimes it was day, blue sky and white clouds clashing against the obscured monster. Its red eye always pierced through clearly.

The first time, he dodge its tentacles to the left. When the nightmare began a later night, he attempted the same strategy and barely splashed back to his feet as he tripped from its near grab. Each night it evolved, growing more details and more skill. He knew he needed to keep this up forever. He knew its success delt death.

Well, he assumed.

It learned enough. Or maybe it decided tonight was finally the night it would claim victory. He never had anywhere to run. This night, it wrapped one of its many tentacles around his ankle the moment he tried to sprint. First one ankle. Then both. Then he found himself upside down, dangling from the indestructible limbs like an apple on a tree. His kicks and strikes did not faze the creature in the slightest. He braced for impact, expecting to be slammed like a ragdoll at the whims of this malevolent force. This was it. This was the end of his life.

But instead of pain, instead of colliding with the infinite water, another of its many dark tentacles pushed against his back. He tried to stop whatever it was doing, tried to break free, but it silently slithered another around his knees as it turned and laid him on a bed of the active limbs, the pile beneath him slithering like worms in wet dirt. He hated it. He hated its soft touch. He jerked his body in any direction to escape. 

The rounded tip of a tendril slowly touched his shoulder blade. It held him firmly, not painfully, as it traced circles along his back, both with the tentacles he always ran away from and the claws he always feared. He thrashed in its grip but it didn’t tighten or harm him, in fact he could barely harm himself. Its hold adapted to every one of his movements, never allowing even the force of his own strength to impact him. It only petted his back, its red eyes never moving, never blinking.

He watched its silhouette against the starry night sky, the blue legs of the galaxy the only solace he found in this repeated hell. He found his gaze pulled to the creature, and the last thing he saw were two perfect silver wings extending from its back.

He awoke to the imploding pressure in his back and his own muffled cry against his bedroll. Thousands of daggers ripped through his back and the undeniable smell of blood filled the tent. The wound stung, extending far past his own body yet somehow…being a part of it. 

The teen forced his reptilian eyes open, constricting his pain as he was always taught to do, his seething pants slamming through his teeth. He came face to face with…

…what the hell did that creature do to him? 

This isn’t a dream.

Shiny black feathers dripping blood protruded from his back, layers upon layers, with joints and muscles almost visible through the soaked exterior. In his surprise, the mass moved, the tip at the end curling behind him in animalistic fear. 

He grabbed it but flinched instantly. It hurt. It hurt? …Oh no. Oh no no no no no. Every childish instinct leaped to the surface. To hide, to cower, to cry, to run. He forced his breath to regulate as terror threatened to claim his mind from a simple worry: 

What will Hojo do to him if he sees this?

That small thought sealed his resolve. He needed to either control this limb or run to the front. If he could win this war on his own then maybe, just maybe, he can convince the President that he doesn't need his yearly check ups with Hojo and his wing will never be discovered. 

Front. 

That's right. In his panic and disorientation, he didn't think about the troops and comrades sleeping just beyond the fabric of his barely sizable tent. He listened carefully. No soldier except for those on active watch moved a muscle. Watches and patrols were currently on opposite sides of camp, each too far to notice his muffled pain and the crimson splatter on the walls in the darkness. 

He needed to clean the latter. He used the water he had on hand and a single thin blanket as a cleaning rag. Silently he thanked the gods for his insomnia. If he awoke at dawn, he wouldn’t have time to complete any plan without drawing attention. Once his task was complete, he would attempt to rest again. If this wing remained by first light, he would make good on his promise to himself.

* * * 

After a dreamless sleep, the wing disappeared. He could almost convince himself it was only a part of his nightmares, but the tear through his sweater and the remaining smears of thin blood and bone around the tent denied him the satisfaction. He found himself thanking the gods once again, but this time for the limited personal space within this foreign wilderness. 

Thus a new cycle began: battle, the nightmare, the wing, unsatisfying sleep, retracted wing. He did not allow his anxiety to impact his performance. However, he did force himself to spend less time with his comrades, especially at night. Well, mainly the two Second Classes that claimed to desire friendship with him. He believed their intentions were true, but taking unnecessary chances may be the final straw to keeping this new secret under wraps. 

After a particularly spectacular victory, Sephiroth allowed himself to relax by the bonfire for just a bit later than usual. Though unable to participate, or at least he felt he was unable to participate, his comrades’ joy always brought the tiniest sliver of joy to himself as well. Conversations had finally shifted from the battle itself to the personal lives of the soldiers, sharing stories from their homes. 

Home.

…He should head to bed. 

“And where, pray tell, do you think you’re going, Sephiroth?” The theatrical voice interrupted his ascent. 

“To turn in for the night,” He answered simply, but before he reached his full height, a pair of hands on his shoulders loosely held him back down. He found himself completely allowing it. 

“Before we get the chance to celebrate?”

“If I hear one more word of that fortress, I’m at risk of falling asleep right here.”

He gave a melodious chuckle. “A war hero not one for war stories?” The soldier plopped himself down next to the First. “I must say, you are far more interesting than anyone gives you credit for.”

“Genesis,” a stern voice called and the boy with shoulder length, dark hair appeared with a glare. “Let him be. It’s been a long day for all of us.”

“Oh hush, Angeal. The long day is exactly why I’m doing this now.”

“To exploit and bother our leader after an exhausting mission?”

“To learn what he’s all about.”

“What you see is all there is,” Sephiroth explained simply. 

“But I want to get to know the real Sephiroth. Not whatever those magazines spit out or imaginary stories of what you’re capable of.”

“Real Sephiroth,” he repeated under his breath as Angeal intercepted. 

“You have my full permission to smack him if he’s being dishonorable.”

His silver brows knotted. 

“And you have my full permission to tell Angeal where he can stick it.”

Sephiroth didn’t know what ‘it’ was or where ‘it’ was supposed to go.

The taller teen shoved the redhead in the shoulder before taking a seat next to them. It seemed to be a game when Genesis hit back just a bit harder.

“How about you choose a topic of conversation because apparently my way of handling this will get me dishonorably discharged. How dare I, a soldier working under your rank, attempt to speak to you in a friendly manner.

Heavy silver shoulders shrugged. “I have nothing to talk about.”

“There’s always something to talk about. We have all night.”

Angeal muttered, “If you like the sound of your own voice, maybe…”

“What was that?”

“What do you two usually talk about?” Sephiroth found himself asking. 

“Oh you know, the usual. Home, memories, family.”

He swallowed thickly. “Of course...”

“Speaking of which, I hope you don’t mind me asking,” all of a sudden Sephiroth was face to face with the redheaded Second, “but which of your parents had those eyes? I’m just so curious. I’ve never seen them anywhere else. Are they from the Northern Continent? I've never been.”

The silver soldier’s expression was stone. A painful pause passed through them, and Genesis actively sat in an attempt to back down. 

“I apologize. You don’t have to answer.”

“I never knew my parents.”

Angeal glared. 

Genesis looked down, the smallest ‘sorry’ leaving his lips. 

“...Can you see in the dark?” 

Both sets of eyes landed on the black haired Second. The confusion completely threw the First off.

“You know. Like a cat.”

“My eyes are not feline.”

“Okay but do they dilate like a cat’s?” All of a sudden Genesis was chipper again. 

“My eyes are not feline.”

“Maybe you are. You have those cat-like reflexes, that’s for sure,” Angeal joked, a light smack to the shoulder finally getting a small smirk out of the Silver Soldier.

He should be offended, but he found their comments just a tad amusing. “I think I would know if I was part animal.”

“What about catnip? Have you ever tried catnip?”

“Not… to my knowledge. What is catnip?”

“It’s an herb that makes cats act weird but they love it,” Angeal explained. “It also grows like a weed and it's impossible to get rid of.”

“We should get you catnip tea!”

“What do you think will happen if I take it?”

“Best case scenario, your eyes get all wide and derpy.”

“‘Derpy’?”

Both Second’s couldn’t hide their laughter. The word coming out of their superior’s mouth was absolutely hilarious to them and foreign to him.

Slowly, Sephiroth laughed too.

* * * 

The nightmare changed the day after his wing bloomed, and tonight followed the same new pattern. Instead of the ground beneath his feet, he was trapped in the creature’s grasp on a bed of its many slithering limbs. His wing was always out, always being cleaned and fussed over. It wasn’t painful anymore, and his terror was muffled by his confusion. 

The creature’s trunk, torso, still hung above him, now accented with metal wings shimmering in the light of the moon and only the moon. It never became day again. The stars and their patterns remained a constant solace in this horror. He knew once his wing was clean, he would wake again to a tent full of black feathers to stuff into his blanket before dawn.

Dawn.

The faint light of the sun sank his heart as it reflected off his perfect black wing. Soldiers roused from their bedrolls. Patrols changed shifts. Scouts returned with new intel. And he was trapped in this tent with a wing. Even if he forced himself asleep, there was no guarantee his wing would disappear in such a short time. 

He could escape. If he ran out of camp before being seen, he could take out any enemy forces that laid eyes on him. No one would know. No one would tell Hojo. No one would question him about another unique difference in his appearance.

Two knocks on the entrance to his tent told him otherwise. 

“Sephiroth, we have new info and are ready to report,” came Angeal’s voice.

Right. During their conversation at the bonfire, they joked about being up all night. They had the midnight shift. “In a moment.”

“Understood.”

But they didn’t understand. Neither shadow allowed light in. “Stand clear of the door.”

“But it’s a tent-” came Genesis’s expected counter.

“Stand clear, Second.” He hated the tone of his own voice, of who it reminded him of.

They both shrugged and gestured to each other silently before finally stepping away.

Now or never. He readied his blade as he slowly unzipped the entrance. The moment he spotted one of their uniforms, he shot past like a bullet, speeding out of the camp and into the wilderness.

“What the hell was that?!” He heard Genesis yell as his rapid heartbeat slowly submerged their voices and footsteps.

“It had Sephiroth!” Angeal announced, and all other conversation was too far and too muffled to understand.

The teen wove through the endless trees like a hawk. At times, his feet didn’t hit the ground. He didn’t want to think about what that meant. If he was lucky, there might be a cave or a lake to hide in until his soldiers passed. They might return to camp, begin a search party, while he’d find a squad of Wutaian troops to take down so it didn’t look like he abandoned his post. 

“Sephiroth!”

How far did he need to run?

“Sephiroth-! Ow!”

That reaction sounded more like discipline than an attack. Angeal probably smacked Genesis for shouting in enemy territory. Wait. Enemy territory. They just returned from a scouting mission. If they ran into anyone-

The telltale singing of blades releasing from their sheaths suddenly smothered him. The clashing of metal threatened both reprieve and ultimatum. The Seconds weren’t knocked out. They could handle this. They could handle an ambush- wait, how far were they from camp? More troops were behind them, right? Other soldiers saw them run, right? 

Who was he kidding? He knew the answers well. Too many enemies on enemy land, and too few soldiers exhausted from their late shift. He prayed they would prove him wrong. Six enemies. Two allies. It was possible. It was possible even for their skill. Improbable but possible.

Metallic clanging and shimmers of spells shot through the air as each side battled with everything they had. But Wutai had enough.

“Get off me!” Genesis’s voice met Sephiroth first as his feet moved before his mind did.

“Let him go!” Angeal roared but soon the battle ceased, and neither Second shouted in victory.

“Take them back to the fortress. They’re valuable enough. If they cause too much trouble though, kill them and send their heads to President Shinra.”

The Silver Soldier shot into action before his mind or body accepted the consequences. He flew through the forest- yes flew- arcing and wisping passed trees without a single toe touching the ground. His blade sliced through the neck of the warrior dragging his friends along. Like clockwork, despite their taunts and threats, the remaining Wutians fell victim to the metal piercing their heart and lungs, their bodies thrown as projectiles to knock the next man standing to the ground.

Sephiroth froze as the last corpse crashed into a pool of blood and dirt in front of the two Seconds, the air so silent the descent of his black feathers scraped the cold wind. He wanted to hide as they hesitantly stood, as they watched him carefully.

“...thank you,” Angeal spoke softly, trying to approach slowly.

“Sephiroth, what the hell hap-?”

“Go back to base and speak nothing of this.” 

“Sephi-”

“That's an order.” He dashed off, hoping against hope they would listen to him. 

They, in fact, did not listen to him. Though with much greater caution, the Seconds tracked him down. A ring of fire surrounded him twenty feet in every direction. He could launch over the obstacle easily, but he couldn't allow the smoke to draw attention. 

Sephiroth stopped, checking his materia but knowing he had nothing to quench or choke the flames. “Put it out…” His words came without thought or filter.

“Sephiroth, we just want to talk-”

“I said put it out,” he cut Angeal off.

“Only if you swear not to run off again!”

“I’ll stay right here if you put it out now!”

A green orb in Genesis’s sword glowed emerald, activating precise tunnels of wind that snuffed out all flames and sparks without a single chance of spreading the fire.

Sephiroth never faced them, his wing curled tightly and trembling. He was silent, his sword unwavering in his hand. True to his word, he remained.

“...does it hurt?” They asked him kindly.

…what?

“Are you alright?”

“...I am in no physical pain.” His stilted response came only to silence them.

“What the hell happened to you though?! Did it just appear overnight?” Genesis questioned in absolute confusion.

A sigh left his lips. “I’ve had it for nearly a week now.

“How did no one notice?”

“It…appears and goes away at night. Usually.”

Angeal’s brow raised.

“I go to sleep at night. It appears when I wake up in the middle of the night. I go back to sleep. It disappears by morning.” He shook his head. “I didn’t wake up last night… and it was too late this morning.” Now their silence burned him. He wanted to run again, another thought leaving his mouth without his consent. “Am I a monster…?” What was happening to him? Was this wing destroying his control? His entire life, he thought about every decision he ever made and now he’s revealing things he never wanted in the open.

“You’re not a monster.”

“Most people would be jealous of a wing like that. You can fly. Honestly, I’d love one if I got the chance.”

“Genesis, not now.”

“You don’t want this,” The silver teen countered, a lone reptilian eye glaring through the feathers.

“Sorry. Sorry…” He scratched the back of his neck. 

Angeal turned his attention back to the winged man before him. “You’ve managed to get rid of it before?”

“I said it goes away.”

“And it’s consistent?”

“Yes. I told you already-”

“Then we can make it happen again.”

Sephiroth finally turned to them, his sword still at the ready and his face still emotionless, but his wing relaxed, softening and still. 

With Angeal’s aid, the Silver Soldier managed a mindful state of calm, lowering his heart rate well below that of his waking rhythm. Enough slow breaths and enough time led to the wing wrapping around him and dissipating into a billow of shadows and loose feathers.

The relief on his face was undeniable. A moment of bliss flowed through them before he focused on his back.

It was still there, lying in wait, ready to break at a single tip of the scale, a single scratch, a snap or influx in emotion.

“Alright, here’s what we’re going to do,” Genesis spoke up. “When we return, we will check in your tent first thing every morning without fail.”

Sephiroth opened his mouth to protest, but found himself falling silent anyway.

“Angeal will help you get rid of your wing if you need to, and I’ll distract anyone who attempts to speak with you until then. Okay?”

He nodded.

“Good. Now you have to promise me one thing.”

Both silver and black brows knotted. 

“Make sure Hojo never sees it.”

Inhuman eyes fell. “...I’ll try.”

“Also can I make one request?”

“Genesis,” came Angeal’s parental tone.

“Oh come on, just let me ask.”

“What do you want?”

Genesis smirked in victory as Angeal frowned. “Can I touch your wing?”

His expression fell flat.

“What?! I’m not gonna do it without your consent! It just looks so soft and fluffy and I want to see if it really is.”

“That’s like asking to touch my hair.”

Genesis scratched your head. “Yeah, that’s fair… My friend, the fates are cruel…”

“...I’ll allow it.”

Angeal face palmed. The redhead jumped in victory.

“Really!?”

“Yes. I see no reason not to. It’s… different. It feels different, and I want to test a few things.”

“I’m happy to help!”

“But if you do, you must stay in my tent until the wing disappears.”

“Uh…”

“And enter before it appears.”

“Um…”

“I don’t need anyone catching a glimpse of it after today.”

“Sephiroth, that’s gonna look weird,” Genesis finally spoke up.

“Hm? Why?”

“A lower class hanging out with an upper class in their private tent at night is going to get people’s attention.”

“...I don’t understand the problem.”

The rustling of leaves was the only sound through them for a moment before both Genesis and even Angeal smirked with small shakes of their heads. 

“You still have so much to learn.”

Sephiroth glanced down a bit, but when he felt their reassuring hands on his shoulders, he smirked too. 

True to their words, they followed the plan exactly. To his surprise, the touches to his wing didn’t bother him like touches to his skin, though the act was never repeated after allowing Genesis the simple test. For a few weeks, Angeal aided him in hiding the limb. As the war turned in their favor, it seemed they finally regulated the unruly wing. But just when Sephiroth allowed himself hope, he received the letter of return to Midgar with a checkup scheduled with Doctor Hojo.

.

.

.

.

.

Thanks for reading!

Author’s note: A prequel from a fic I wrote over a year ago? It’s more likely than you’d think!

[imkazz]

happy birthday giyuu!!! have some angst, have some fluff!

link to ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/53172199/chapters/135767104

Giyuu readied his sword into a position he often found himself in.

From dawn until he had to return to patrol, Giyuu slaved away at becoming stronger. Faster. Better. Maybe then he would deserve his rank. Make Sabito’s sacrifice worth it.

With a huffing Breath, Giyuu focused on the bamboo stick in front of him. The servants in the Water Estate behind him had begun to start making breakfast, the family who’d tended to the grounds for generations chatting with each other as they went along their routine.

Sweat dripped down his brow as Giyuu’s calf muscle spasmed, the soles of his feet searing with pain. His eyes locked on, uncaring towards all the thinly sliced pieces scattered around the Water Estate's training grounds.

There was supposed to be nothing showing. His body, still as the surface of water. Everything invisible, though under the surface, a raging storm of currents would be about. His sword barely scratching the peace on the water, yet cutting down anything below the calm waves.

Total Concentration Breathing.

Water Breathing.

Eleventh Form.

Dead Calm.

Bring his katana around. Faster than Sabito's, back when they were young and naive towards the true cruelties of demons. Back when their biggest concerns were the callauses forming on their small hands and going to visit the seaside when they were older.

He was an ocean. That was what Urokodaki-san told him. Keep a calm impression, but below, the churning waters would not be able to be stopped, drowning anything he wanted and ripping it all apart viciously.

Deep Breaths, Giyuu reminded himself.

Why was it so hard to breathe?

His ears rang as stars danced behind his eyelids. Giyuu loosened his grip on his katana, the sword falling to the ground. He clutched at his chest through the fabrics of his kimono, mouth choking for air while his hands grasped at dirt.

Hm. His fingers felt tingly. Was that normal? Giyuu's head was spinning, a raggedy breath strung out from his lungs, quietly exhaled.

Something made it past his muffled hearing. Was it shouting? Giyuu couldn't hear himself think.

"He doesn't have a pulse!" Giyuu's eyes shut. Then, it felt like he was being crushed at the depths of the sea.

The Water Hashira's consciousness returned for a glimpse as his eyes peeped open. Shinazugawa sneered, looking down at Giyuu through long lashes. "Tch. Not so high and mighty anymore, huh Tomioka?" 

"Mnnnf." Giyuu groaned, reaching out blindly and managing to grab the Wind Hashira's open uniform. With an almost stunned step, the man shook it off and continued his trek to the Butterfly Mansion.

The newest hashira had been passing near the Water Estate on his way to a long-term mission, when one of the servants had run to him sobbing that their master had died.

Quick inspection, however, found that Tomioka Giyuu actually had a heartbeat. A sluggish one, but enough so that Sanemi would pick up his colleague in a princess carry to transport to their organization's hospital.

Sanemi sighed, looking down at Tomioka's serene face. Damn, they were only seventeen.

Late afternoon sun shone to Giyuu's eyelids, making the Water Hashira wake.

Laying down, Giyuu slowly blinked his eyes as the sun cast right into them. Where was he? What just happened? When the Water Hashira gathered his thoughts, he immediately recognized the location.

The Butterfly Mansion.

Giyuu scrambled out of the uncomfortable bed, springs squeaking as his bare feet his the cold wood floors. Stumbling forwards, Giyuu caught himself on the wall and leaned heavily on it as his vision spun and blacked out and became too bright. With a small, shy groan, Giyuu clutched at his head. 

Damn it. He messed up the Eleventh Form. The ringing in his ears subsided, yet the floor was still shaking as Giyuu unscrewed his facial expression.

He had to get out.

Giyuu’s fingers trembled as they struggled to open the window, gritting his teeth as he steadied his legs. Why wouldn’t the window open? It usually did, in the Butterfly Mansion.

“What’s going on?” Giyuu felt himself freeze as a boisterous voice echoed from the doorway. Slowly turning, the Sound Hashira leaned languidly against the frame, shock evident on his face. Footsteps came closer as Giyuu remained standing beside the window, caught in the act. 

“Tomioka-san?” Kochou’s mouth dropped open. “Are you trying to leave through the window?”

“What the fuck.” Shinazugawa murmured, as Giyuu felt his face burn.

“This isn’t the first time.” Another huffy voice came from the hallway, making the hashira turn. There stood the Flower Hashira’s younger sister, Shinobu. She carried a load of laundry against her hip with her uniform sleeves rolled up. “He’s escaped his rooms as soon as he wakes up, what, five times? I just put him into this room where the windows don’t open.”

They turned back to Giyuu, who felt himself heat up even more. The hashira did not need to know that.

"Well then," Himejima huffed, "I suppose we must keep an eye on Tomioka."

"I mean, a window escapade? And multiple? Flamboyant!" Uzui made a gesture with his hand. "Didn't know that you had it in you, Tomioka!"

Giyuu opened and shut his mouth. What was he supposed to say? They would all make fun of him, for sure. A grown man trying to escape a hospital room via window? Pure comedy. Gods, Giyuu was so stupid.

Then, they'd all be looking after him as if he was just a small child. Something not to be trusted, something unreliable. That was what the Stone Hashira said. To keep him trapped inside white walls, keep his voice locked away.

Giyuu already did that to himself, though.

"Look, your heart basically stopped. Where the fuck did you think you were going?" Shinazugawa spat.

"It is very dangerous!" Kochou huffed and nodded in a serious facade, before switching right back into a nervous expression. "Stop standing, Tomioka-san, go back to bed!"

Before Giyuu could start to protest, Uzui had held him up underneath the arms while Himejima untucked the bed. The two huge hashira forced Giyuu right back under the covers.

"Here, my wives can make you a flashy meal!" Uzui ruffled Giyuu's hair, to which the Water Hashira flinched to. Uzui stopped, looking down towards his bedridden colleague.

"His head must be in terrible pain," Kochou explained, "when the heart stops, even for such a short amount of time, the head takes the worst impact."

"We must pray for your health, Tomioka." Himejima continued. "Who knows the reason your heart stopped in the first place."

Giyuu mumbled something. Shinazugawa snapped. "Oi, say it louder! Not everyone can read minds!"

"It was on purpose." Giyuu cleared his throat to get at least the Wind Hashira to hear. All the hashira slowly turned to look at their quieter coworker.

"...you can do it too?" Uzui's response made the other three only more horrified.

"The hell is wrong with you two freaks?!" Shinazugawa yelled.

"You can't be saying anything, marechi." Himejima replied.

"Neither can you, Himejima-san." Kochou said in a singsong voice, before directing her attention to the patient in bed. "Why would you try and stop your heart from beating?"

"Not stop it," Giyuu corrected, "slow it down."

Silence filled the room. Giyuu fidgeted with the edge of the blanket. All eyes were on him. Judging him.

"Why would you think to do that?" Himejima finally asked.

"Water Breathing," Giyuu answered, "I'm creating a new form."

"I thought that Water Breathing was the oldest style," Shinazugawa blinked, "Thunder and Wind following. Nobody's succeeded in making a whole new form to such an old technique."

"I know." Giyuu swallowed. How much more talking would he have to do? The sooner the hashira left, the quicker he would find his shoes and sneak out the door instead of the window.

"I think you shouldn't do it anymore." Kochou huffed. "Why would you even slow down your own heartrate for a form of Breathing Style?!"

They watched as the Flower Hashira left the room. Uzui turned back to the rest of them. "So, escaping through windows. You know how to pick locks?"

"No," Giyuu replied.

"Yes," Shinazugawa answered at the same time. They all looked at the newest hashira, who shot a dirty look before snapping his head away.

"How would you get out then, Tomioka?" Himejima wondered. 

"I can force the window open." Giyuu microscopically shrugged. "I try not to damage it permanently, though."

Uzui cackled, patting Giyuu on the back with surprising gentleness, shooting a goofy grin at the seventeen year old. "Well, I'll be back with the trio and some good food! Don't force open the window just yet, Tomioka!"

Shinazugawa started rubbing his nape in an almost embarrassed manner. "I mean, this might not be much, but whenever one of my lil siblings or I would get sick, my mom used to make us some hachimitsu-lemon tea. No sneaking off just yet."

Giyuu blinked as the albino also left the room. He glanced over at the last hashira left in the room. 

"I will be meditating here, Tomioka. Please stay put, we would not want to lose a valuable hashira such as yourself." Himejima sighed, lowering himself to the ground. 

Giyuu flinched. Himejima didn't seem to know what he was saying. Maybe he said that to all the placeholder hashira, before they died. That made more sense.

Giyuu remained tense underneath the covers for another period of time, while the rest of the world moved around. What was he supposed to do? He was too afraid to move, with Himejima in the room. Kochou's fluttery voice could be heard outside, talking to Shinazugawa.

The door burst open. Himejima looked up from his praying while Giyuu jumped. In the doorway stood the Wind and Flower Hashira, both with cups in their hands.

"Here. Drink." Shinazugawa held out the steaming cup of tea to Giyuu, mouth twisted into a disgruntled grimace yet eyes watchjng caeefully to see how Giyuu reacted.

Reaching out, Giyuu remained mindful of the heat as he took a sip. After tasting it for a second and swallowing, Giyuu looked back to the new hashira.

"Did you just squeeze the lemon?" Giyuu asked. "It's very refreshing."

"They had some in the kitchen, so..." Shinazugawa shrugged nonchalantly. "You'd better get better soon, I'm not covering your patrol area!"

Giyuu glanced back down at the mug of tea. "Of course, Shinazugawa."

"Hmph!" Shinazugawa rolled his eyes, plopping down onto the bed. Giyuu's eyes widened a fraction before shuffling over to make room for the Wind Hashira.

"Now, my turn." Kochou looked at Giyuu sympathetically. "I'm sorry, I don't have something as good as Shinazugawa-san."

Looking into it, Giyuu was met with a putrid scent and murky waters. Medication. Placing Shinazugawa's cup on the side table, Giyuu took the medicine and downed it in one gulp. He quickly went back for the tea to rinse it out.

"The life of this band of hashiras has returned!" Giyuu flinched as the four Uzui's entered, loud and cheerful. Shinazugawa hissed as Uzui flicked his forehead, and the three women instantly went to coddling the bedridden one or chatting with Kochou.

"Here, eat this!" One of the wives, Giyuu thought it would be Suma or the one with the longer name, offered a riceball. "It's plain! Good for your stomach, light but nutritional!"

"Suma, he almost died!" The one Giyuu definitely recognized as Makio slapped Suma's head. "Give him some damn space!"

Giyuu couldn't manage to get a word in. Uzui shouted over his two bickering wives as he collapsed to the ground next to Giyuu's bed, resting his head near Giyuu's knees. "Girls, calm it! He has a headache."

"Don't forget brain damage." Shinobu added from the doorway before sauntering off.

"Anyways," Kochou brought back attention to herself, the doctor in the room. "I'd like to watch over you for a week or so at the bare minimum, and for you to not use that new form ever again!"

Giyuu couldn't answer the woman. He needed Dead Calm. A tribute to Sabito, blocking any attack coming from ang direction without even seeming so. Looking at Kochou's worried expression, a similar person came to mind.

Tsutako-nee always gave that kind of sad look to their parents, when they'd become so bedridden that they couldn't raise their heads. Kaa-san wouldn't be able to drink water and tou-san's horrid breathing would haunt their small house until the man died some months later.

Giyuu had nightmares about that. He never wanted to become like that.

"He usually escapes within the first hour of waking up," Shinobu told her sister, "he's stayed here, dully concious, for four hours."

"We could have an affect in him!" Kanae gasped. "He enjoys our company so much that he's willing to stay!"

"Or it's too awkward for him to leave." Shinobu pointed out. "And crowded, too. Did all five of them fall asleep on him? He might be a hashira, but nobody can get out of that unnoticed."

"Well, it's very sweet." Kanae sniffed. "We might finally get him to open up. Tomioka-san's been very reclusive when it comes to his fellow hashira."

Back in the room, Giyuu felt his eyes droop closed.

its still 11:40pm where i am!!! its still his day!! i will try to write the rest of the oneshots counting down, ive had a very busy two weeks

[fieldofdaisiies]

Oooooh I love your angry az fics. Could you please do another one?? Maybe one thats not about another male though? :)

thank you so much <33 hope you like it!!

Azriel x Reader | Guilty?

type: angsty  warnings: curse words word count: 1125

*all rights reserved*

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Veiled in shadows and darkness Azriel stepped out of the kitchen into the corridor. His face was blank yet sinister and cold. The pure Illyrian power, only tamed by his siphons, stretched out like a dark cloud. Something —rage or fury— glistened in his eyes when he only barely parted his lips to speak.

"So?" he breathed, his voice icy cold.

You toed off your boots and showed him an irritated smile. Was he angry with you? Unease sank its claws into your chest.

"So? What is up?" you queried, nearing your mate. You pouted your lip, not understanding his sudden fury. That morning everything had been fine—you had cuddled, kissed and ate breakfast. Later you had left for work. Azriel had been in an exceptionally good mood that morning so you really didn’t understand the change now.

When you wanted to place your hands on his he pushed them away.

"Feeling guilty or so?"

Irritation coated your insides, confusing spreading out and making unease settle into your gut.

"About what?"

Azriel’s face revealed nothing but anger and sadness, the bitter taste of disappointment reaching you through the bond.

"You really don’t know?”

Azriel’s nostrils flared and he let a cold chuckle escape his lips.

You shook your head no, your nose crinkling. "No, Azriel, I do not. Are you mad with me?”

Azriel bit down on his lower lip and averted his gaze. He harrumphed and shook his head. “I am not mad. I am fucking disappointed. And apperently the lady does not even know what she has forgotten.”

You thoughts went wild. It wasn’t his birthday. It wasn’t your anniversary either — you would have never forgotten such things. What else could—

“Oh gods, I am so sorry. I forgot. I had so much work to do for—“ “Yes, for the High Lord and Lady. Obviously your work is your priority and not your mate,” Azriel snapped, a vein popping up on his forehead. 

“Az, I am so sorry—“ “Don’t Az me!” 

Azriel turned his face away from you, his demeanor so icy cold it made your body tremble. 

You reached for his arm, fingers curling around his biceps. His muscles tensed under your palm, his shadows slowly starting to wrap around your hand.

“A—“

“Why does it seem like everyone is more important to you than me?” he blurted out. His lashes had dampened, his jaw was tense.

Gods, his pain reached you and made your burn from the inside. You had never felt such pain. It tore at your heart that Azriel thought he wasn’t your priority. He was your everything and you hated yourself so much for neglecting him in the past days. You had just wanted to do a good job, you worked so very hard and had obviously forgotten how much Azriel valued time with you. 

“Azriel,” you pleaded, searching his gaze. “You know there is no one else who is more important to me. I am so sorry for neglecting you. I didn’t realise that—

“That you have a mate?” Azriel spat, his anger rising to the surface again. I knew that deep down he was no really angry, rather terribly disappointed and also scared. Scared that there could be something that would one day be more important than him. That he could lose you to. 

“That is bullshit!” you now said louder, wanting to convince him that he was your priority. Always. 

“I just don’t get it. How could you forget about me? How could you forget dinner? We have booked this table weeks ago.” “Yes, and that is just why I forgot. We booked it weeks ago. I am so sorry, I did not have it on my agenda anymore. I can cook us something now and we can eat—“ “I don’t fucking want to eat now. I wanted to go for dinner with you. I wanted to take my mate out for dinner.” “And I am sorry. I am sorry I forgot. This happens. This can happen. It is not like you are always here. You are also gone for weeks and do you think I like that?” you blurted out and knew it cut deep. Azriel hated going away from you for longer. But he after all was the spymaster of the High Lord and sometimes had to go to the continent or other courts in Prythian. You always assured him that it was fine, that it did not matter to you. Obviously you did not like it that much that he was gone so often but on the other hand you knew that it was his job and so you of course understood. 

“You said that it was fine,” Azriel breathed, his brows lying in furrows. He dropped his gaze to the ground and swallowed thickly. 

“Do you no longer want to be with me? Is that it? Is it over between us? Or did you want to pay me back for not being that much in the past month?” You threw your hands up in despair. “No, Azriel! Of course not. And of course I still want to be with you.” You smacked your hand onto your forehead and shook your head. “I really simply forgot and that is it. There was no further bad thought behind it. I forgot that is it and I am truly sorry for it.”

“Are you though?”

It was then that the smell of liquor reached you—sweet yet rich and spicy.

“You*re drunk,” you stated, matter-of-fact.

Azriel rolled his eyes, shame slowly creeping over his face. 2Had to do something while you were gone.”

You closed the gap between the two of you, pulling Azriel’s arms around your body and curling your own around his strong torso. “I am so sorry for forgetting. I truly am. Please don’t be mad with me. I will make it up. But please,” —tipping your head back you searched his gaze and locked it with his once found— “don’t drink and then behave like that.” Azriel slowly dipped his chin and inhaled deeply. “Sorry,” the shadowsinger breathed, sounding like a lost little boy. He knew you hated it when he drunk, but somehow you couldn’t blame him that night. You shouldn’t have forgotten your date.

“I will tell Feyre and Rhys that I won’t work that much in the future. I also want to be with you more." You kissed Azriel’s chest and he finally squeezed you to his body, letting his scent and his warmth wrap around you.

“Now, my love, red or blue?” 

You grinned up at him when Azriel furrowed his brows. “What?” “Lingerie. I want to make it up for you properly. Red or blue, now?” “Blue. Definitely blue!”

tags: @juulle987 @marimorena06 @danikasthings @younxii @nightcourtwritings @mrofontaine @lunalilyf @whor-3-crux @tired-all-the-time @anni-was-here @ummmmmwat @azbracadabra @j-pendragonx @hollyismentallyillhelp @famousbasementpainter @bsenpai @lena-davina @red-highlady @thesugatoyourtae @azrielsbitxh