#Spiral Winding Machine

[anghimalaaynasapuso]

GYM CRUSH SIMON

sfw + nsfw. unsafe sex. womb fucking. no condom.

you never planned on becoming a late-night gym rat. it just …happened. like most things in your life, it started with good intentions and spiraled into something you weren’t entirely in control of.

you’d made a new year’s resolution to get in shape— because health, discipline, all that crap— and, in a moment of overzealous optimism, you splurged on a gym membership. a pricey one, to add. the kind that made your bank account cry, which meant quitting wasn’t an option.

there was only one problem. you were busy. between classes, assignments, and the absolute joke that was your sleep schedule, the only time you could consistently work out was well past normal human hours.

at first, the idea of hitting the gym at midnight felt… weird. like stepping into a parallel universe where only insomniacs and questionable life choices existed. but then you considered the alternative— going during peak hours and getting judged for your piss-poor form, or worse, waiting in line for machines behind a dude who was live-streaming his workout.

midnight schedule it was.

it grew on you eventually. the routine became second nature. drag yourself in after class, half-asleep, toss your bag into a locker, and start on the treadmill to wake yourself up. a slow warm-up, music blasting through your headphones, then a mostly half-hearted attempt at strength training.

the people who showed up at this hour were predictable. a few other students— dead-eyed, running on caffeine fumes. a handful of older folks, the dedicated ones who treated the gym like a sacred temple.

and then there was him.

tall. broad. built like something out of a military recruitment ad.

the first time you noticed him, you’d nearly tripped on the treadmill. one second, you were zoning out, staring at the clock, and the next— there he was. buzz cut barely visible beneath the hood of his sweatshirt, arms thick with muscle, veins running down his forearms in stark lines. tattoos peeked from under his sleeves, black ink tracing the ridges of his skin.

(the combat boots were what threw you off. who the hell wore combat boots to the gym?)

he moved through his workout with terrifying

efficiency. no wasted movements, no unnecessary pauses. heavyweights. circuits. the kind of training that looked more like preparation for war than casual fitness. he never looked winded either. no gasping for breath, no pausing to rest, just relentless, controlled effort.

you developed a— not a crush— an appreciation for him. admiration. respect. that was it. not the way his hoodie stretched across his shoulders when he adjusted his grip on the barbell. not the way his jaw clenched in concentration. not the way his fingers wrapped around the weights with an ease that made you feel woefully inadequate.

“it’s a crush,” your friend announced one evening, stabbing a straw into his juice box.

you scoffed, flipping through your notes. “it’s not.”

“it is. i’m fit too, but i don’t see you staring at me like you wanna lick salt off my abs.”

you made a disgusted noise. “jesus, shut up.”

he grinned, tipping his juice box back dramatically. “i’m just saying. the fact that you haven’t even talked to him and yet know his entire workout routine is very-"

“i do not know his entire workout routine.”

your friend raised a brow.

you sighed. “…he does back and legs on tuesdays.”

his brow lifted higher.

“…and arms on thursdays.”

silence.

“right.”

“shut up.”

you’d considered talking to him. maybe asking for tips or making some awkward joke about his frankly ridiculous choice of gym footwear. but he didn’t exactly radiate approachable.

the man looked like he’d rather be waterboarded than engage in small talk.

and you? you weren’t some plucky rom-com protagonist who could charm the brooding loner into friendship with a dazzling smile and sheer force of personality. so, you kept your distance. which was fine. totally fine.

What the hell would you even say? “hey, nice pecs, can I bury my face between them?” he’d call the police on you.

so, you stayed quiet..

until the night you made the monumentally stupid decision to start lifting weights.

in your defense, it wasn’t entirely your idea. you were perfectly content with your usual treadmill-and-machines routine. but then your friend had to go and mock you.

“you’re paying for a full gym membership,” he said, flicking a fry at your forehead, “and you’re not even using the weight room?”

“i use it,” you protested.

“you walk through it.”

okay, fine. he had a point. which was how you ended up here, standing in front of a barbell, mentally preparing yourself to lift it like you were about to perform brain surgery.

you’d done your research— watched some youtube tutorials, read some articles. you knew the basics. foot placement. core engagement. not arching your back like a possessed demon.

you took a deep breath, squared your stance, wrapped your hands around the bar, and— nothing.

the bar didn’t budge.

you frowned, adjusted your grip. another deep breath. still nothing.

okay. you could do this. just, more force. maybe a little momentum. you planted your feet, sucked in a breath, and heaved—

"y’need a spotter?"

you startle so hard you nearly fall backward, breath catching as you whip around. close— he’s close, and jesus, he’s even bigger up close. broad shoulders, thick arms crossed over his chest, pale eyes flicking between you and the barbell like he’s already making peace with witnessing an injury. his hoodie is pulled up like always, shadows cutting sharp over the edges of his jaw, but there’s something vaguely unimpressed about his expression. braced for disaster.

you swallow. "uh."

his brow lifts, expectant, as if this is some kind of trick question. "that a yes or a no?"

"i-" your brain short-circuits. every ounce of confidence you had a second ago shrivels up and dies. "i totally got this."

he exhales sharply, something between a scoff and a sigh. he shifts his weight, one foot bracing slightly forward. "sure you do.

your face heats. you turn back to the barbell, fingers tightening around the metal, and pull. it lifts— barely. your arms burn, hands already sweating, but you’re stubborn. you have it. almost.

"you’re about to smash your fucking face in," he mutters.

you falter— just for a second— but that’s all it takes. your grip slips, the weight tilting. shit, shit, shit!

he moves fast. faster than you expect. before you can even panic properly, his hands brace yours, steadying the bar with zero effort. he’s strong, fingers wrapping over yours for a brief moment before smoothly guiding the weight back onto the rack like it weighs nothing. you stumble back, arms trembling from the strain, but he doesn’t step away yet, just watches you catch your breath.

"right," he says after a beat, stepping back. "now that you’ve definitely got it, mind if i give you some actual pointers?"

you blink up at him, still processing the fact that you almost died, and this guy just saved your life like it was nothing. "you train people?"

"no. just rather not watch someone crush their skull in." which is… fair, you suppose.

you wipe your sweaty palms on your leggings, trying not to look as embarrassed as you feel. "okay. please. teach me."

you and simon— you learn his name by the third day!— slowly fall into a routine, much to his chagrin. he hadn’t expected offering to help you not splatter brain matter across the gym floor would lead to... this. a persistent presence. a shadow in his periphery.

he doesn’t know how it happened, how you managed to wedge yourself into the one place he thought was untouchable, but somehow, you did. and now, you’re there. always. not in an overbearing way. you don’t talk his ear off or force yourself on him. if anything, you’re surprisingly easy to be around. and worse— comfortable. which is fucking dangerous.

a routine starts forming. he hadn’t expected that offering to help you not crush your own skull under a barbell would lead to… this. hadn’t expected that you’d still be here, three days later, four, a week, waving at him when he walks in, bright-eyed and warm despite the ungodly hour. he tries to keep you at arm’s length, really, he does.

but you’re not loud. you don’t force yourself on him. you don’t pry or try to push past his walls— you just exist, alongside him, like it’s a natural thing in the world. you ask him questions, ease him into conversations so seamlessly that sometimes he doesn’t even notice he’s talking until he’s already halfway into answering.

"you ever listen to anything in those headphones?"

he glances at you, then down at his battered over-ear set, blinking like he’d forgotten they were even on. "sometimes."

you hum, stepping up to adjust your weights. "what kinda music?

he hesitates. "depends."

"on?"

"the day."

you narrow your eyes. "that’s not an answer."

"sure it is."

you mutter something under your breath about how “everyone in this gym is allergic to giving a straight answer,” but drop it— he notices that about you. you ask, but you never push. never press. you’re content with whatever he gives, and somehow that makes him want to give you more.

it’s little things at first. small details. he learns that you hate most protein juices but drink it anyway, that you run cold so you always wear a hoodie even when you’re sweating through it, that you hate country music and give him a long, horrified look when you learn that he doesn’t. ("not all of it," he defends, rolling his eyes. "some of it’s alright." you just shake your head at him like he’s beyond saving.)

you learn things too. that his tattoos are actually a full sleeve ("when’d you get these?" "over time." "wow, thanks, that clears so much up."), that he has an endless supply of grey hoodies and sweatpants that he refuses to explain.

"you ever heard of color?" you ask, plucking at his sleeve, and he swats your hand away. "practical," he grunts. "s’not a fuckin’ fashion show."

and then— of course— you fixate on the boots. the combat boots. “okay, but why?” you prod, nudging the toe of his boot with yours. “you know you can wear actual gym shoes, right?”

he gives you a flat look, expression unreadable under the shadow of his hood. “they’re my only pair.”

you freeze. your face twists, and there’s this flicker of genuine horror in your eyes that throws him completely off guard. “simon... are you... homeless?” your voice drops to a whisper, hesitant, like you’re afraid to even ask. his brain short-circuits. he smacks you lightly over the head, more shocked than anything.

"what the fuck- no, i'm not homeless, jesus."

you rub the spot with a pout, still eyeing him like you're not completely convinced. “well, i don’t know,” you mumble.

“you wear the same thing every day, never see you with a bag or a wallet or-”

“drop it.”

“-you don’t even buy pre-workout, simon, who does that-”

“drop it.”

some days, he comes into the gym in a mood. the kind where his head is full of static, his skin prickling with the restless need to exhaust himself into oblivion. those are the days he doesn’t want to talk. doesn’t want to be seen. and you— you notice. you don’t come up to him, don’t pester him or try to joke around like normal. instead, you just stand off to the side, watching him with this soft, wide-eyed expression like some kind of kicked puppy.

it’s unbearable.

like an itch under his skin that won’t go away. it eats at him, gnaws at the edges of his concentration, and before he can help it, he’s groaning and gesturing you over with a sharp flick of his fingers. “for fuck’s sake, just get over here already.”

you grin like you’ve won something, practically bouncing on the balls of your feet as you jog over, and he regrets it immediately.

you bring him coffee sometimes. at first, he doesn’t know how to react. he just stares at it when you shove the cup into his hands, blinking down at the little scribbled name on the side like it’s some kind of foreign object. he doesn’t even like sugary coffee, but he drinks it anyway.

the next day, guilt eats at him, so he shoves a protein shake into your hands, unwilling to meet your eyes. "s’only fair."

you squint at it, shake the bottle, listening to the liquid inside slosh around. “what’s in it?”

he scoffs. "fuckin’ cyanide."

you take an exaggerated sniff before grinning. “smells like peanut butter.”

his eye twitches. “just drink it.”

and then, somehow, that becomes a thing, too. a habit. every other day, one of you brings the other something— coffee, protein shakes, the occasional energy drink when you can tell he’s running on fumes.

one night, the gym is nearly empty. just the hum of air conditioning, the occasional clink of metal, the low buzz of some forgotten playlist over the speakers. the late hour has driven most people out, leaving only you and simon.

you’re exhausted, arms shaking, muscles burning with that deep, satisfying ache, but you’re pushing for one more rep. just one.

simon stands behind you, watching through the mirror. arms crossed, weight shifted slightly forward. tracking every movement, every shift in your stance, the way your hands tighten around the bar.

"you're on fumes," he mutters, but steps closer anyway, close enough that the heat of him presses against your back.

you roll your shoulders, shake out your wrists. “i got it.”

he exhales sharp through his nose, scoff and sigh rolled into one, but he doesn’t argue. just moves in, bracketing your sides, his presence steadying.

"alright," he murmurs, watching as you adjust your grip.

you brace yourself, pull, and the weight barely moves. your arms burn immediately, tendons screaming under the strain. your grip shifts, fingers trembling, slipping—

his hands are there. firm and certain, sliding just beneath yours, adjusting your hold without taking over. his chest nearly against your back, his breath warm against the top of your head.

"fix that grip, sweetheart."

you do, fingers locking down harder, shoulders bracing. he doesn’t let go, not fully, his palms ghosting over your forearms, steadying you just enough.

"lock it out," he says, quiet but insistent. his hands shift, one flattening against your stomach, the other hovering at your ribs, like he can feel where the tension is pulling wrong, where you need to engage. "push through. i’ve got you."

your breath stutters, something curling low in your stomach, and you force everything into that last pull, dragging the bar up, arms shaking, until you finally lock it out.

his fingers press in, just briefly, a quick squeeze at your ribs. "good."

you hold it for a second before guiding the weight back down, slow and controlled. the second it racks, your body gives, arms dead, shoulders screaming.

you stumble, just a little, and his hands are already there, catching at your waist. warm. solid. fingers pressing in just enough to steady you. they linger, just a second too long.

and then— "good girl."

barely above a murmur, just breath and heat against your skin, but it slams through you all the same.

your stomach tightens. your pulse jumps. you freeze.

you turn, still breathless, muscles trembling from exertion.

and he’s right there. solid. massive. crowding you. broad chest rising and falling, sweat clinging to the fabric stretched over muscle. too close, heat rolling off him, sinking into your skin, and making your stomach twist. up close, he’s all sharp lines and thick muscle, biceps flexing slightly as he rolls his shoulders back, tilting his head down to look at you.

"don’t-" your voice breaks. you swallow hard. "don’t do that."

simon’s brow lifts, lazy. "don’t do what, sweetheart?"

your fingers twitch at your sides. you gesture vaguely, heat curling up your spine. "that. the- the praise."

his mouth quirks, amusement flickering at the edges. "what, telling you you’re doing good?"

"yes."

he makes a sound low in his throat. "why? thought you liked it."

you try to start a defense, but he steps closer, and fuck, there’s nowhere to go.

"you did so good," he murmurs. his hand lifts, brushing over the curve of your waist. "pushed yourself real hard. took every single rep like a good girl."

your breath catches and oh, does he catch on to that.

"you like hearing that, don’t you?" his fingers curl, pressing into your hip. "knowing i’m right there, watching you, making sure you finish strong."

low, warm, approving—

"bet that’s why you pushed so hard," he continues, like he’s musing to himself. "just to hear me say it. just to make me proud."

simon’s eyes flicker to the vein in your neck. his other hand lifts, brushing a damp strand of hair away from your face, slow, almost tender.

"say it, sweetheart," he murmurs. "let me take care of you.”

“please.”

the rest of the gym is a blur. you don’t even register leaving, don’t remember how you end up outside, only that simon’s hand is wrapped tight around your wrist, dragging you through the parking lot with a single-minded purpose. the concrete expanse is empty except for simon’s truck parked just underneath a street lamp.

simon hauls you into the backseat, the door slamming shut behind him. the truck rocks with the force of it, windows already fogging, the stale scent of leather and the last remnants of his cologne in the air. the streetlights outside cast a dim glow that cuts through the darkness in thin streaks, glinting off the sweat at his temples.

his hands are on you before you can think. rough, impatient. he grabs your hips, yanks you into his lap, drags you down until you crash against him. the heat of him burns through every layer between you.

his hips roll up.

you jolt, hands flying to his shoulders, gripping tight as the thick shape of him grinds against your clit. even through the fabric, you feel everything— the ridges, the weight, the solid pressure slotting perfectly against you.

he does it again.

your breath catches, legs tensing where they straddle his thighs. you try to move, to adjust, but his hands flex, fingers digging in, keeping you pinned where he wants you.

"shh," simon hushes, arm against your skin, grip tightening as he forces you down harder, thighs flexing beneath you. "let me feel you."

his hips drag against you and you react before your brain can catch up, instinct driving you forward, grinding down, chasing the pressure.

his breath stutters, shoulders tensing as he watches you move. the friction grows slicker, hotter, the damp fabric sticking between you.

you glance down— and then you see it. his sweats, darkened, soaked where you grind against him, your arousal leaking through, making a mess of him.

"fuck-"

he exhales sharply, hands shifting, one palm smoothing down your thigh before gripping, pulling you into him.

"that’s it." he’s almost slurring his words now, his hips rolling up to meet yours. "so fuckin’ wet..."

your nails bite into his arms, your body working without thought, hips rolling, pressing down harder. the truck shifts with every movement, the worn leather seat creaking beneath you.

"fuck, baby." his lips brush your jaw. "so messy. feel that?"

you nod frantically and his cock jumps at your eagerness.

his patience snaps.

one moment you’re grinding down against him, chasing the delicious friction, and the next you're scrambling for purchase as he lifts you.

simon shoves his sweats down, and his cock springs free, slapping up against his stomach. it's thick. throbbing. the flushed tip leaking pre, smearing along the ridges of his abs, catching in the dim of the streetlights.

he’s big. not just in length— though fuck, he’s long enough to make your stomach clench— but thick, too. veins run along the shaft, disappearing beneath the flushed, ruddy skin. the head is a deep, aching red, fat and swollen, leaking so much it dribbles down, streaking along his cock, mixing with the slick mess you’ve already made on him.

the weight of him makes his cock hang low even as it twitches, pulsing with the rush of blood. it looks almost angry, the veins along the base throbbing, his whole cock flexing with each slow pump of his fist as he strokes himself, spreading the mess of precum along his length.

simon watches your expression shift, pleased. "knew you’d like that.”

he's teasing but you barely hear it. your eyes stay locked on him, pulse hammering as you take in the sheer size, the stretch you’re about to take—

he shifts his grip, one arm wrapped around your waist, the other around his cock. your hips twitch, instinct making you reach for him, trying to press forward, but he holds you back, squeezes to get your attention.

"look at that..” simon presses the head of his cock against your stomach, dragging it up, smearing wet along your skin. "gonna take all this, yeah? let me stretch that little cunt open?"

"yes- yes, please-"

"fuck." his breath shudders, his hold on you tightening. "greedy thing."

he yanks you forward, spreads your legs wider, fits himself between your thighs, grinds his cock through your slit.

the first press makes you jolt, your whole body twitching, a choked sound slipping from your throat. he groans, gripping your waist, shoving you down, rubbing your swollen clit against the head, dragging himself through your slick over and over again.

"desperate," he muses, almost cruel. "thought you could take me just like that?"

you try to answer, try to say something, but your brain doesn't work, body too busy chasing relief, hips jerking, cunt aching, a mess of whimpers spilling from your lips.

his cock is heavy against your stomach, his tip leaving a damp streak along your skin as he drags it upward. the grip he has on your waist is firm, fingers pressing deep into your flesh, keeping you still, making sure you see exactly how much of him is about to disappear inside you.

“look at that,” he murmurs, lilted by something dark and pleased. “gonna fit all this inside, yeah? stretch that little cunt open real nice for me?”

your breath shudders in your throat. the weight of him, the sheer size, sends a pulse of heat through you, thighs trembling where he holds them apart. he presses his cock higher, smearing himself over your navel, dragging slow just to watch the way your stomach flexes beneath him.

simon's fingers tighten at your hips, anchoring you in place. his eyes flick up, locking onto yours. “still want it?”

you can’t nod fast enough, hands fisting in the hard muscle of his shoulders, your pulse drumming against your ribs. “yes-”

he huffs a quiet laugh before shaking his head. then he moves, his hands shifting to your waistband. simon doesn’t take his time, doesn’t tease— just yanks your shorts down in one rough motion, shoving them past your thighs, tossing them aside like they’re nothing.

your panties are soaked through, the thin fabric clinging to your skin, darker where arousal has seeped into it. his gaze drops, and he groans, fingers flexing against your thighs.

his eyes practically shine as he reaches down, hooking two fingers into the waistband, pulling the fabric to the side instead of taking it off completely. “how long have you been sittin’ here all wet for me, huh?”

then, without warning, he lifts his cock and slaps it against your cunt. the obscene sound echoes between you.

you jolt, a sharp gasp catching in your throat. the weight of him presses down, drags over your swollen folds, smearing your slick along the length of him, leaving him just as messy as you.

simon's breath hitches, jaw going tight for a moment before he grins. “feel that?” he rocks his hips, slow and deliberate, the ridge of his head catching against your clit with every motion. “soaked for me. filthy girl.”

he keeps at it, rutting through your folds, dragging his cock against you in long, teasing glides. every lazy roll of his hips spreads more wetness between you, slick growing messier, needier, your arousal coating every inch of him.

his voice drops lower, almost awed. “you always this wet?”

you shake your head. you're not even sure why you're this wet. it’s obscene, every slow slide of him making a sticky, wet sound, the kind that makes your face burn with embarrassment.

his grip on your thighs tightens. he presses against you harder, lets his cock drag through the mess, smearing it everywhere, making it worse.

“just for me then?” he asks, watching the way his cock glistens, slick with everything you’ve given him. “i kind of like that.”

he lines himself up, pressing the thick, leaking tip against your aching entrance. he lets it catch there for a second, teasing, before dragging it up one last time, rubbing against your clit, watching you twitch beneath him.

then he settles back down, pressing again, the heavy weight of him poised to sink inside.

his eyes flick back to yours. “gonna let me in now, yeah?”

the first push is a mistake. he realizes it the second you tense up, sucking in a sharp breath, thighs trembling where they’re spread over his lap. his cock barely breaches you— just the tip, barely an inch— and your body locks up, refusing to take more.

simon grits his teeth, hands firm on your waist, trying to ease you down, but you’re too tight, squeezing around him like you’re trying to push him out. the head of his cock throbs where it’s barely inside you, thick and unyielding, stretching you too much, too fast.

he exhales through his nose, slow and measured, and tries again. rocks his hips, nudging deeper, letting you feel the weight of him pressing in. but you whimper, body trembling, nails biting into his skin. your walls clench down hard, resisting, and—

he stops. groans, and drops his head back against the seat.

"jesus christ." his palm drags over his face. "knew you were tight, but- fuck. you’re not gonna take me like this."

your face burns. your throat aches. frustration coils hot in your chest. "i’m sorry-"

"oh, sweetheart." simon's hands slide up your back, rough palms smoothing over your skin before he leans back, head tilting, eyes flicking over you. half amused, half exasperated. "you apologizing for having a cunt this tight?"

you sniffle, shifting in his lap, arousal sticky between your thighs. "but i wanted to-"

"you will." his voice is steady, calm, but his grip on your hips tightens. "just gotta take my time, yeah? don’t want you cryin’ when i finally get this cock in you."

you sniff again, blinking up at him, vision blurred, lips parted. "too late."

he huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "fuckin’ hell."

then his hands are moving again, trailing lower, fingers slipping between your slick folds, pressing in slow.

you jolt at the touch, a sharp, wrecked little sound catching in your throat. simon groans, watching the way you twitch in his lap.

"fuck, baby. so sensitive. all worked up and nowhere to put it, huh?"

you nod, heat crawling up your neck, hips jerking as he rubs slow, lazy circles over your clit. his fingers are thick, rough, dragging through the mess between your thighs, teasing, pressing just enough to make your breath stutter.

"s’not fair," you mumble.

"life’s not fair, sweetheart." his fingers press in again, pushing deeper. one first, stretching you open, curling inside. then another. then a third. his other hand stays on your thigh, keeping you spread, holding you open so he can watch the way you take him.

"gotta get you nice and open." his voice low and warm. "don’t want you breakin’ on me just yet."

you whimper, rocking into his hand, clenching down around his fingers. your clit throbs under his thumb, swollen and aching, every slow grind of his palm sending another shudder through you.

"shh. just let me do this for you, yeah?"

you do. trembling, gasping, grinding down, taking everything he gives until you’re loose, slick, ready.

when he pulls his fingers out, you whine, walls fluttering around nothing.

then his cock is back, pressing against your entrance, thick and hot, teasing for only a moment before he pushes in—

you take him.

the stretch is unbearable. every inch forces you open, slow and deliberate, the thick drag of him pressing deeper than anything ever has. your breath stutters, body shaking, thighs trembling where they rest over his.

"fuck, sweetheart," he groans, voice tight, hands gripping your hips, keeping you still, keeping you from pulling away. "you feel that? squeezing me so fuckin’ tight."

you do. every ridge, every vein, the slow, impossible push of him splitting you open, inch by inch, pressing deep— then he stops.

breath stuttering, you blink at him, dazed, confused, still so empty. "w-why-"

"baby," his voice is almost pained. "m’pressing right up against your cervix. can’t go any deeper."

but it’s not enough. you whimper, hips twitching, shifting to take more, to sink lower. "but i still feel empty, si.."

his jaw clenches, fingers digging into your thighs, trying to keep you still, stopping you from punching a fucking hole through your guts. "jesus, sweetheart. you don’t know what you’re askin."

"please," you breathe, eyes glassy, desperate. "si, please, want all of you-"

he groans, head dropping back against the seat, restraint hanging by a thread. "fuck."

then his grip tightens, and before you can say another word, he forces you down the rest of the way.

"oh-oh my god-" your whole body shakes, a strangled moan ripping from your throat as the thick head of his cock breaches your cervix, slipping into your womb, stuffing you full.

simon grunts, the squeeze of you making his vision blur for a second. "jesus fuckin’ christ."

the moment he bottoms out, your walls clamp down, fluttering, pulsing around him— the pleasure snaps without warning, white-hot, rolling through you all at once.

"fuck- fuck, baby." he curses, the squeeze of your cunt almost painful. his half-lidded eyes are trained on where the two of you connect, the way you gush around him, soaking his cock. "just from takin’ me all the way? filthy fuckin’ thing-"

he huffs a rough laugh, fingers flexing against your hips, appreciating the extra slick easing the way. "makes it easier, at least," he mutters, then starts to move.

it’s slow at first— just enough to let you feel it, to make you ache through the thick drag of him pulling back, just enough to let you whimper at the sheer pressure of his cock pressing against every swollen, overstimulated inch of your cunt.

but you’re already gone.

your lashes flutter, your lips part around soft, wrecked little sounds, your hips twitching even though he’s holding you down, even though you’re already stuffed so fucking full.

"look at you," he murmurs, dragging a palm up your belly, pressing down right where he’s so deep, groaning when he feels the outline of himself inside you. "fuckin’ cock-drunk already, sweetheart?"

you sob, thighs squeezing around his waist, hands grasping at him, trying to find something to hold onto as your hips jerk, rolling forward mindlessly, instinct driving you to take more, take everything.

he groans, gripping your jaw, tilting your face up so he can see all of it.

"can’t even talk, can you? too fuckin’ dumb to think straight."

"s-simon-"

"what, love? too far gone already?"

his smirk is wicked, his grip tight as he presses his hips up, spearing you open all over again.

you scream, body jerking, back arching, thighs trembling around him. "ohh- oh fuck-"

"there we go." his voice is full of praise, full of something dark and indulgent. "there’s my good girl."

he sets a slow rhythm, dragging his cock out until only the thick head is inside you before slamming all the way back in, spearing you open, making sure you feel it, making sure you take every inch.

"bloody hell," he mutterd, feeling the way your walls squeeze him, the way you shudder, the way you drip around him, slick gushing, soaking his cock, ruining his seats.

"listen to that, sweetheart," he groans, shifting his grip, spreading his knees just a little wider to pin you in place. "fuckin’ mess you’re makin."

he glances down, eyes nearly rolling at the sight— your cunt stretched wide around him, slick dripping down to his balls, pooling beneath you.

"christ, love." he has to gasp for breath. "fuckin’ leaking all over me- ruinin’ my fuckin’ truck-"

"s-simon-" you lose your train of thought, babbling incomprehensible strings of words.

"can't think?" simon's grin sharpens. "good. don’t need you thinkin."

then he fucks you properly.

[cady181]

rubber hose with spiralled layer extrusion machine with winding machine ...

[xxsyluslittlecrowxx]

𝐁𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐒𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐬

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟏 — 𝐌𝐞𝐧𝐝

[ 𝐒𝐲𝐥𝐮𝐬 𝐱 𝐙𝐚𝐲𝐧𝐞 ]

𝐚/𝐧 : To the anon who infected me with this brainrot — thank you. You gave me the excuse I didn’t know I needed to spiral into unhinged Sylus/Zayne territory and honestly? I regret nothing.

I know this won’t be everyone’s cup of venom, and guess what? I don’t care. I had the most fucking fun writing this. The tension? The filth? The power-play in a hospital of all places? I blacked out and woke up with a smirk and open wounds.

This is indulgent, messy, and exactly how I wanted it to be.

To the rest of you who get it — welcome to the descent. 🖤

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 : When Sylus stumbles into the hospital, bloodied and half-feral, the last person he expects to find waiting is Zayne—calm, cold, and far too composed. But beneath the antiseptic lights and tension-laced stitching, something unspoken begins to crack. A rivalry forged in fire gives way to something darker, deeper… needier. And when the night finally stills, their restraint does not.

Enemies don’t always stay enemies—especially when desire tastes like blood and victory comes in moans.

𝐜𝐰/𝐭𝐰 : blood and injury, a brief hospital setting, explicit sexual content between two male characters (Sylus x Zayne, SnowCrow), rough sex, biting, mild dominance dynamics, and themes of emotional repression. NSFW

𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐢𝐜 : angel - slowed // velours

𝐀𝐫𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐎𝐮𝐫 𝐎𝐰𝐧 : [ Press Here! ]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐓𝐀𝐋 𝐋𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐒.

It breathes in pain, exhales panic. The walls tremble with the weight of suffering—hallways pulsate with noise, machines bleating like dying animals, voices clashing like metal on metal. Somewhere, someone is sobbing. The sound slices through sterile air with the precision of shattered glass.

Sylus moves through it untouched.

Blood paints him—slick, warm, insistent. It clings to his leather like it belongs there, seeping through to the muscle beneath, fusing with him. His boots strike the polished floor in steady, wet percussion, leaving behind a trail he doesn’t bother concealing.

He doesn’t slow.

He doesn’t speak.

A nurse sees him first—her eyes widen, mouth parting around a gasp or a warning or a question, none of which matter. She steps into his path, clipboard clutched like a shield against the storm she senses too late.

He crashes through her like wind through brittle glass.

Another makes the mistake of reaching for him near the triage desk. He shoulders her aside without pause, a statue in motion, merciless and monolithic.

Their voices follow, desperate and distant.

“Sir, wait—”

“You’re bleeding—!”

“Security—!”

He keeps going.

Pain gnaws at his ribs—sharp, insistent—but it’s a whisper compared to the mission that devours him from the inside out.

Ahead, the elevator blinks. Its numbers crawl down at a glacial pace.

Too slow.

Too fucking slow.

He doesn’t think—he veers, pivoting toward the stairwell like a creature redirected by instinct alone. His blood-slick hand slams against the door’s push bar, and it groans open under his weight.

Then he runs.

Boots drum down the concrete steps like war, each impact sending fire lancing through his side. He doesn’t falter. He can’t. Not now.

Adrenaline screams beneath his skin. Rage—hotter, purer—follows in its wake.

The landings blur. Floors melt into one another—white lights, grey walls, the stench of disinfectant and dread. None of it registers. None of it matters.

Administrative wing. End of the hall. Last door on the right.

The thought pulls him forward like gravity—dark, absolute, inescapable. Something waits for him at the end of this path. Something inevitable.

He bursts through the stairwell door, shoulder first. The executive floor yawns open—pristine, glistening, wrong. Too quiet. Too clean. An illusion of order wrapped over rot.

His blood hits the tiles like scripture.

A secretary half-rises from her desk. Her face distorts—horror, confusion, fear. She opens her mouth.

Sylus looks at her.

She sits back down.

Good.

His wound screams now, louder with every breath, but he silences it. He has to.

He doesn’t stop until he’s at the end of the corridor, until the carved wood of the office door stands before him like a final trial.

Until he’s close enough to feel it—that heartbeat pulsing steady and slow on the other side, like a metronome, like a dare.

Zayne.

Sylus presses a blood-wet palm flat against the door.

He doesn’t knock.

He never does.

The door gives under his palm, swinging open with a low, reluctant groan.

The air inside is different. Cleaner. Colder.

Sylus crosses the threshold without hesitation, dragging streaks of crimson across the sterile floor. Behind him, the heavy door thuds shut, sealing the world out like the lid of a tomb.

Zayne is already standing. No coat. No gloves. Sleeves rolled back, throat bare, the razor line of his jaw catching the light like a blade.

For a stretched, brutal moment, neither man speaks.

Sylus feels it—the weight of that gaze, glacial and unblinking, raking over every torn, blood-slick edge of him. He meets it head-on, jaw locked, a silent refusal to flinch.

Zayne’s expression doesn’t waver. No frown. No widening of the eyes. Only calculation. Only that familiar, lethal patience that strips a man down to the bone.

The silence between them crackles, louder than the chaos Sylus left bleeding behind him.

He takes another step forward, deliberate, blood dripping from his fingertips to splatter on the immaculate tile. The room presses against him—too bright, too clean—as if the walls themselves are trying to scrub the violence from his skin.

He lets them try. He does not yield.

Zayne leans back against the edge of his desk, arms folding loosely across his chest, posture crafted with casual disinterest.

A lie.

Sylus sees it—the slight clench of his jaw, the betraying flicker of a pulse at his throat.

It would be easier if one of them spoke. If they named the thing that strangled the air between them, heavy and hungry and vicious.

Neither does.

Sylus tilts his head in a lazy, almost mocking angle. Blood slides down his wrist, tracing over his knuckles before kissing the floor.

Zayne’s eyes follow the movement, clinical, sharp.

Still, he says nothing.

Still, he doesn't move.

They stay there—locked in the kind of quiet only men like them can survive—made of defiance, of pride, of something darker and uglier festering beneath the surface. Both unwilling to yield. Both already bleeding from it.

The metallic tang of blood thickens at the back of Sylus’s throat. He smiles anyway—a slow, jagged thing, all teeth and no mercy.

Zayne’s lips part slightly, the ghost of a word forming, then dying.

Instead, he straightens to his full height, uncrossing his arms with a patience that could kill a man.

He turns to the tray of surgical tools laid out with clinical precision. His movements are steady, practiced, cold.

Another lie.

Sylus watches every motion—the way Zayne’s fingers curl, precise and impersonal—though Sylus knows there is nothing impersonal about this.

Not tonight.

Zayne lifts a pair of sterile scissors from the tray, the metal flashing wickedly under the overhead lights.

When his voice finally cuts through the thick silence, it slices clean to the bone.

“Take the jacket off.”

No question. No hesitation. No kindness.

Just command—sharp and undeniable.

Sylus’s grin widens, slow and feral, sharp enough to bleed.

This was going to be fun.

He shrugs the jacket off one shoulder.

Not quickly. Not efficiently.

Deliberately. With precision masquerading as compliance. Each motion a provocation sheathed in silk.

The leather clings for a moment—blood acting as glue—then peels away with a soft, viscous sound. The lining is stained deep red, like meat flayed from bone. Beneath, the muscle gleams where blood has smeared and dried, slick over the sharp terrain of his bicep, the curve of his ribs.

He keeps his eyes locked on Zayne.

Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t wince.

Lets the silence stretch between them like barbed wire, taut and trembling.

The other sleeve slips free with slow defiance, dragging across tense forearms until the ruined jacket hangs from his fingers—dripping, warm, still humming with violence.

He drops it.

It lands at his feet with a wet slap, blood blooming beneath it like something obscene and living.

Zayne doesn’t look down.

He’s too busy watching Sylus.

Not merely watching—studying, the way a marksman watches for the exact breath before a body breaks. His arms hang loose now, no longer folded. His fingers twitch once, subtly, betraying restraint. As though they ache to move. As though they’re waiting for permission neither of them will give.

Sylus draws in a slow breath through his nose.

Lets the moment breathe with him.

The silence of the hospital folds in—clinical, cold, pretending not to notice the electricity crawling up its walls.

Then Sylus reaches for the hem of his shirt. Torn. Soaked. Clinging like a lover that doesn’t know when to let go.

He grips the fabric with both hands and pulls. Inch by inch, it peels upward, exposing flesh mapped with bruises, scrapes, half-healed chaos. The cut along his side snags the cloth, forces a sharp hiss through his teeth.

Still, he keeps going. Still, he doesn’t look away.

The shirt comes off in one final rip—discarded without ceremony, a blood-soaked flag of war flung at Zayne’s feet.

Now bare to the waist, Sylus stands still.

Wounded. Unbothered. Unapologetic.

There’s blood dried in the hollow of his throat. Sweat slicks the small of his back. Scars catch the light like secrets.

He is beautiful in his ruin. Defiant in his vulnerability.

Zayne says nothing.

But the tension in his jaw speaks volumes.

He steps forward. Slowly. Deliberately. Scissors in one gloved hand—controlled, precise, surgical. Not trembling. Not urgent. But not untouched, either.

Sylus sees it.

In the flicker of his gaze. In the mouth drawn too tight. In the way Zayne’s eyes pause just a second too long over the curve of a rib, the ghost of a scar.

Zayne lifts the blade.

Holds it near Sylus’s skin.

Doesn’t touch. Not yet.

When he speaks, the word lands low, rough-edged, soaked in command.

“Sit.”

Just one word. One drop of control dropped into a room full of gasoline.

Sylus doesn’t obey. Not immediately.

He smiles first—wider now. All teeth, all understanding. The kind of smile that threatens and invites in the same breath.

Then, slowly, like he's offering charity to a starving man, he lowers himself into the chair.

Not obedient. Not submissive. Just choosing, for now, to allow.

Zayne moves without speaking.

He sets the scissors aside with methodical care, the faint clink of metal barely audible over the hum of fluorescent lights, too bright, too sterile. The tray beside him is a battlefield of precision: gauze, antiseptic, needle, thread—all clean, all sharp, all lies.

Nothing about this feels clean.

He tears open a swab, soaks it in antiseptic. The smell strikes first—chemical, brutal, a memory of every failure written into the bloodstream.

Sylus doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t brace. Just spreads his knees a fraction wider and leans back, silent, waiting.

Zayne steps between his legs.

No permission asked. None needed.

The first press of soaked cotton lands just beneath Sylus’s collarbone.

It burns.

Not from the wound.

From the hand that holds it—steady, clinical, too careful by half.

Zayne doesn’t look at him. His gaze stays fixed, surgical. Or pretends to be. As if Sylus is nothing but meat and blood and damage to be stitched back together. As if this isn't a different kind of dissection.

The swab moves in slow, precise circles, tracing bruises like they mean something. Like he’s reading a map only he understands.

The room thickens with it.

Not pain. Not blood. Something worse.

The lack of it—no slips, no gasps, no mistakes.

Zayne is too careful. Zayne, who isn't supposed to care.

And yet— —the fingers in the gloves tremble, just once, just enough, the smallest rebellion against the mask he wears.

Sylus notices. Of course he notices.

Zayne switches to a fresh swab, the next drag of alcohol biting down Sylus’s ribs. The motion forces proximity—his face close enough that Sylus can feel the ghost of breath over his skin, accidental or not.

Sylus tilts his head, lazy, predatory. Watches from beneath half-lidded eyes.

Zayne doesn’t react.

Or tries not to.

Another swab. Another pass. Each one slower than the last.

There’s a gash along Sylus’s side—shallow, ugly, insistent. Zayne presses gauze to it, firm, unkind. His other hand braces Sylus’s hip, gloved fingers pressing down too tightly, gripping too long.

Sylus breathes through his nose. Endures it.

No wince. No break.

When Zayne pulls away, Sylus shifts.

Barely.

But it’s enough—enough that the inside of his thigh drags against Zayne’s leg.

Contact. Friction. Intention.

Zayne freezes.

Just for a breath.

Then he moves—careful, controlled—reaching for the needle already threaded, already waiting.

His voice, when it finally cracks the silence, is quieter now. Not softer.

“Hold still.”

No please. No kindness. Just another command, brittle at the edges.

Sylus’s lips part. His tongue flicks against the inside of his cheek— —not a smile. Not this time.

Only the ghost of something darker, meaner, hungrier.

He doesn't move.

But the stillness is a lie.

Because they both know—

—hands always start shaking eventually.

The needle bites into flesh.

Sharp. Clean. Unapologetic.

Sylus doesn’t flinch.

No hiss, no grunt—only the steady, deliberate rise and fall of his chest, breath anchored low like a weight dropped into deep water.

Zayne’s hand moves with mechanical precision—push, pull, knot, cut—the rhythm of a man carving distance into something already too close.

Each stitch is perfect. Small. Precise. Surgically cruel.

But perfection never holds.

By the fourth puncture, the tremor starts.

Subtle at first—a tightening around Zayne’s fingers, a twitch at the wrist.

The needle hovers a fraction too long against torn skin, hesitation bleeding into the room.

Sylus feels it.

Feels everything.

His gaze drops—not to the wound, not to the blood—but to Zayne’s mouth. The clenched line of his jaw. The muscles in his throat working against the weight of restraint.

The next stitch sinks deeper than necessary.

Not an accident.

A message.

Sylus exhales, slow and deep, the breath ghosting against Zayne’s forearm where it cages him close. The contact is incidental. Harmless.

Weaponized.

Zayne’s fingers tighten on the needle, the thread drawn taut enough to hum with tension.

Sylus shifts, deliberate—muscle flexing beneath gloved hands, a sinuous reminder of everything Zayne is touching, everything he’s trying so hard to treat like just another body broken open by violence.

The next stitch drags.

Not smooth. Not clean.

Zayne makes a sound—small, unguarded, almost a breath—but Sylus catches it. Tastes it. Tucks it away like a trophy.

He tilts his head, lets his voice spill out low and poisoned, a blade wrapped in silk.

"You're losing your touch."

The words slip into the room like smoke through cracks, seeping into marrow.

Zayne doesn't answer.

He doesn't have to.

The thread pulls harder. The needle punctures deeper. His hand presses firmer against Sylus’s side, pinning him under the thin excuse of stability.

But they both know better.

It isn’t the wound Zayne’s trying to steady.

It’s himself.

Sylus’s mouth curves—not into a grin, not this time—but into something colder.

Hungrier.

Challenge, sharpened to a lethal edge.

When Zayne leans in to set the next stitch, Sylus moves—barely—a calculated tilt of the head that brushes their faces together.

Skin against skin. A whisper of violence. A prayer of desecration.

Zayne freezes.

The needle hangs suspended, half-threaded.

For a single, suspended heartbeat, the room holds its breath with them.

Sylus inhales the sharp, chemical tang of antiseptic, but underneath it, something richer coils—salt, blood, heat, the feral stench of fury barely contained.

Zayne pulls back.

Sharp. Controlled.

Barely.

The suture snaps tight under a brutal final tug, knotting the last line of blood shut with a surgeon’s precision and a fighter’s violence.

Finished.

At least on the surface.

The needle drops into the tray with a clatter, metallic and final, too loud for the suffocating quiet.

Zayne peels one of off his gloves next, slow, methodical, his fingers flexing like a man reminding himself of every inch of skin he hasn't yet surrendered.

Yet.

Sylus leans back in the chair, shirtless, bloodied, smiling the way only men who have already won do.

And maybe he has.

Because Zayne’s hands are no longer steady.

And Sylus—

—Sylus isn’t done pushing.

Sylus watches everything.

The way Zayne breathes through his nose. The way his spine locks rigid. The way restraint leaks out of him molecule by molecule, a slow, irreversible hemorrhage no amount of professionalism can suture shut.

Good.

Sylus shifts—barely—but the sound of his boot scraping the floor splits the quiet like a crack in porcelain.

A warning. A dare.

Then, with blood-slicked fingers, he lifts a hand and wraps it around Zayne’s wrist.

Not tight. Not rough.

Just enough to feel the hammering pulse beneath fragile skin.

For one suspended second, Zayne doesn’t move. Doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t even breathe.

Sylus tilts his head, the movement lazy, almost cruel, and lets his voice slip free in a low murmur.

“You’re shaking.”

Not a question. An accusation. An invitation.

Zayne’s jaw ticks hard enough to crack bone.

Still, he says nothing.

Coward.

Sylus tightens his grip, just slightly, thumb brushing the frantic beat fluttering against tendons and bone. The betrayal Zayne can’t hide. The confession he can’t choke down.

Sylus leans in—not touching, not bridging the chasm fully—but close enough that his words could bleed straight into Zayne’s bloodstream.

“It’s not the blood that’s getting to you, is it Doctor?”

He watches the swallow hitch Zayne’s throat. Watches the sharp flare of his nostrils. Watches him break, molecule by molecule.

Zayne’s free hand curls into a tighter fist, knuckles whitening under the strain.

Sylus smiles, slow and deliberate.

Predator wearing the skin of patience.

“You want to ruin something, don’t you?”

A whisper. A blade drawn slow across a throat. A mockery crafted over years of bruised silences and things left unsaid.

“Me.” “Yourself.”

Both truths rot between them, sweet and sickening.

Zayne wrenches his wrist free.

Not violently. Not with rage.

With the kind of restraint that bleeds—measured, agonizing, a choice that costs something vital and irreplaceable.

He takes a step back.

Breathing harder now, like the air itself is razors.

Sylus stays seated.

Legs spread, blood drying in ugly constellations across his ribs, wearing destruction like a throne.

Looking, in that moment, like the only goddamn thing in the whole clinical, fluorescent world worth burning for.

And Zayne— Zayne looks at him like he knows it.

They hang there, suspended on the wire of everything they cannot say. Everything that would kill them if spoken.

Sylus tilts his chin up, delivering the final blow in a voice carved from iron and temptation.

"Tell me no."

A beat.

A breath.

"Go on."

Daring him.

Daring him to pretend there’s still a world where either of them can walk away untouched.

Zayne doesn’t answer.

Because there’s no point lying anymore.

Zayne moves.

Fast. Final.

His hand clamps around Sylus’s throat, fingers biting into battered skin, palm pinning him to the chair like a verdict handed down without trial.

The force is controlled—barely. Enough to catch Sylus’s breath, not enough to leave bruises.

Not yet.

Sylus doesn’t fight it. Doesn’t lift a hand. Doesn’t so much as flinch.

He only looks up.

Eyes molten, merciless. Mouth curved in a ghost of a smirk—something too ancient, too ruthless, to be called human.

A dare. A promise. A loaded gun cocked and waiting.

Zayne’s grip tightens, knuckles flashing white under the strain.

His body crowds into Sylus’s space, pressing him back against the hard frame of the chair, pinning him there like a specimen under glass. Every muscle in him vibrates with the effort it takes not to crush, not to consume, not to end this the way every instinct is screaming for.

Sylus tilts his chin higher into the hold, offering up his throat like a king surrendering a crown he never intended to relinquish.

The world beyond the office dies. No footsteps. No voices. No alarms.

Only breathing—strained, brutal—and the cold, relentless tremor crawling up Zayne’s arms.

He leans closer.

Until their foreheads almost touch. Until he can taste defiance thick on Sylus’s skin, salt and heat and inevitability.

Still, Sylus does not blink. Does not speak. Does not yield.

His pulse thrums steady against Zayne’s palm—a taunt, a siren's call, a noose tightening in reverse.

The bastard is enjoying this.

And Zayne—

Zayne is coming undone one heartbeat at a time.

His other hand fists in the back of Sylus’s hair, yanking his head back farther, exposing the ruin of his throat to brutal scrutiny.

A sound rips out of Zayne—low, raw, almost a snarl—the ghost of something feral clawing its way up from the place where he keeps his control buried.

His chest drags rough and ragged against Sylus’s bare skin, a friction that feels more like a confession than any words could ever be.

Sylus lets him.

Lets him see it all—the open wounds, the bruises, the smudged fingerprints of other wars.

None of it mattered.

None of it touched him like this. Only Zayne. Only now.

The chair groans under the strain, Sylus’s shoulders digging into the plastic, his legs spread wide, shameless, relaxed in a way that weaponizes the posture into something obscene.

The look he gives Zayne—half-lidded, mocking, starving—says everything he refuses to utter aloud.

Is this it? Is this all you’ve got?

Zayne’s fingers tighten, riding the bleeding edge between domination and destruction.

And Sylus—

Sylus just smiles.

Wider. Crueler. Knowing.

Because he knows. He’s always known.

Zayne will fall first.

And Sylus will make sure it hurts when he does.

Zayne snaps.

Not with fists. Not with shattered glass.

Something colder. Sharper. Surgical.

His hand tightens once—bruising, warning—before he drives Sylus back against the chair with a jerk hard enough to rattle the frame.

The impact slams through Sylus’s spine—a brutal reminder of leverage, of how easily control could shift hands if he let it.

He doesn’t.

He only laughs.

Low. Dangerous. A sound scraped from the bottom of a broken chest.

Zayne’s palm stays locked at his throat, the other hand twisting tighter into his hair, dragging his head back, leaving his mouth half-parted, his body arched under the pressure.

"Say it," Zayne grits out, voice worn down to something ragged and feral.

His breath scorches across Sylus’s skin, hot and seething, pulled from a mouth stretched too tight to be anything but furious.

Sylus’s lips part— Not in surrender.

In provocation.

"Say what, doc?"

Mockery, pure and venomous, poured straight into the wound.

Zayne’s fingers twitch, his control fraying at the seams.

Sylus feels it—the tremor of rage trembling through every corded muscle straining not to break him apart.

But he doesn’t flinch.

Doesn’t yield.

He leans into it—spine grinding harder against the chair, the violence fed into his bones like communion.

Zayne yanks his head back another inch, brutal, stretching the cords of his neck taut, making breath itself a conscious, costly thing.

"Say what you came here for," Zayne snarls. "Say why you dragged your half-dead ass through my hospital."

Sylus’s heart beats slow and steady against the hand trying—and failing—to master it.

He could lie. Could pretend it was proximity, necessity, survival.

But they are too deep now. Too ruined for anything less than the truth.

Sylus drags his tongue across the inside of his cheek, tasting the iron of blood and something meaner lodged between his teeth.

His gaze never leaves Zayne’s.

Not once.

"Came to see if you'd finally break."

A heartbeat. A breath.

Then a whisper, soft and devastating—

"Guess I didn’t have to try that hard."

The words crack the air between them.

Zayne’s snarl is silent, carved into the brutal line of his jaw, the burning fury in his eyes, the death grip bruising Sylus’s throat.

The chair groans under the strain, the screws biting into the frame like they, too, are barely holding together.

Sylus lets it happen.

Lets the pressure bleed through him.

Lets the bruises form.

Lets the moment devour the last scraps of reason between them.

Zayne’s face is so close Sylus can see the fine tremors tracing his mouth.

Can feel every brutal inhale clawing past the wreckage of self-control.

One push from ruin. One word from collapse.

Zayne leans in, mouth brushing dangerously close to Sylus’s ear.

The breath that strikes Sylus’s skin is a furnace blast—hot, wrecked, soaked in promises that should never leave the mind, let alone the mouth.

“One more word,” Zayne rasps, voice broken beyond repair, “and I’ll make you beg.”

Not a threat. A vow.

Sylus’s pulse kicks hard, hammering against the fingers bruising his collarbone.

He could break it here. Now.

One word, one push, and Zayne would shatter.

Instead, he chooses cruelty dressed in silk.

Sylus tilts his head—just enough—until his lips ghost the shell of Zayne’s ear, the barest scrape of contact, the kind that makes breathing a forgotten concept.

His whisper threads velvet and venom into a single, devastating breath.

"Good boy."

Two words.

Soft enough to wound. Sharp enough to destroy.

The reaction is instant.

Zayne jerks back, fury slashing across his features, hands locking down like vices—

—and Sylus moves faster.

His own hand lashes up, seizing the back of Zayne’s neck, fingers threading into the sweat-damp short hair, yanking him down with brutal, merciless force.

No warning. No hesitation. No mercy.

Their mouths crash together in a collision of teeth and violence.

The impact shudders through both of them— violent, graceless, inevitable.

Not a kiss. Not anything so civilized.

An assault. A confession. A dragging out of need from the wreckage they’ve both been pretending didn’t exist.

Zayne fists the meat of Sylus’s side, dragging him higher into the brutal contact, answering violence with violence, hunger with hunger, breathing into the hollow of Sylus’s mouth like he could drown them both before he’d ever let go.

Neither gives ground. Neither yields.

This isn’t surrender.

This is war.

And they’ve both already lost.

Zayne deepens the kiss with a brutal drag of teeth, biting Sylus’s lower lip hard enough to draw blood.

Sylus answers with a vicious sound ripped from the depths of his chest—half-laughter, half-snarl, pure violence dressed in heat.

Their hands grapple for dominance—Zayne shoving, Sylus pulling—until there’s no clear boundary left between them. Only heat, only violence, only the shared ruin of blood and sweat slicking every frantic clash of mouths.

Sylus arches under the onslaught, body snapping taut against Zayne’s weight, every nerve lit up like a battlefield.

This isn’t gentle.

It isn’t careful.

It never could be.

Zayne seizes a fistful of Sylus’s hair, wrenching his head to the side, dragging his mouth along the sharp line of his jaw, teeth scraping a brutal path toward the vulnerable skin just beneath his ear.

He bites there— savage. Claiming. Final.

Sylus gasps against him—a broken, guttural sound—hips canting up in a sharp, desperate grind that leaves no room for pretense.

Zayne answers by slamming him harder against the chair, one hand locking around Sylus’s hip, fingers digging into bruised flesh like he means to leave fingerprints stitched into bone.

The chair groans under their fury, its frame shrieking with every shove, every desperate collision of bodies driven by something far older and darker than want.

Sylus retaliates—nails raking down Zayne’s back through the thin barrier of his shirt—not enough to tear, but enough to mark. Enough to brand.

Zayne's mouth crushes back to Sylus’s—devouring, punishing— a raw collision of teeth and tongue that tastes of blood, rage, and something black and bottomless neither of them dare name.

Their breathing shatters, breaking apart in harsh, ragged gasps, filling the room with the sound of collapse.

Zayne braces one knee between Sylus’s legs, forcing him open wider, grounding him in place, crushing any last delusion of escape between bruised thighs and battered pride.

Sylus takes it.

Takes all of it.

And smiles against Zayne’s mouth like he planned this ruin from the very start.

The kiss twists crueler, angrier—every drag of Zayne’s mouth a curse, every clash of teeth a confession they cannot bury deep enough to silence.

When Zayne finally tears away, ripping the kiss apart with a savage snap of teeth, a thin string of blood smears between them—Sylus’s lip torn open, the red glistening like a war-banner across his mouth.

They freeze there.

Locked. Breathing hard. Hands still fisted in ruined clothes and broken skin.

There’s nothing left to pretend.

Not anymore.

Zayne’s hand remains clamped around Sylus’s throat, thumb dragging a slow, possessive stroke across the bruised column of his neck—half reverence, half claim.

Sylus swallows against the pressure—slow, deliberate—his gaze gleaming with something filthy and victorious.

Sylus lifts a hand.

Slow enough to taunt.

Not to shove Zayne away. Not to fight.

To command.

His fingers brush along the sharp edge of Zayne’s jaw—featherlight, a mockery of tenderness.

He feels it—the tension thrumming beneath skin, the tremor buried deep in muscle and bone.

Good.

Without a word, Sylus presses down.

Down. Guiding. Demanding.

Zayne resists—for half a breath. One strained heartbeat of pride.

Then he sinks to his knees like gravity itself answers to Sylus alone.

The sight is obscene.

Zayne kneeling there— shoulders rigid, fists curled against the cold floor like he could anchor himself against inevitability.

Sylus tilts his head, studying him like something expensive he’s deciding whether to ruin.

Then he spreads his legs wider.

The chair creaks under the slow, deliberate shift of weight, leather whining against blood-slicked skin.

Sylus’s fingers tangle in Zayne’s hair, dragging short strands through his grip with deliberate cruelty.

"Open me up," Sylus says, voice low, wrecked, soaked in sin.

Not a plea.

A command. A sentence.

Zayne looks up through his lashes—eyes blackened with rage, wreckage, worship—and Sylus watches the war rage behind them.

Pride. Fury. Reverence.

All bleeding into something far too raw to name.

Slowly, Zayne’s hands rise.

Unsteady.

Unbuttoning. Unzipping. Dragging down the ruined waistband just enough to bare sharp hipbones and the thick, hard line of Sylus straining against bruised, bloodied skin.

Sylus hums low in his throat—a dark vibration rippling across the fresh bruises blooming along his neck.

His thumb brushes Zayne’s cheekbone—almost tender, almost cruel.

"That's it," he murmurs, a threadbare mercy stitched into the violence.

"Be a good boy for me."

Zayne’s breath stutters against his thigh—hot, broken, wrecked.

Sylus tightens his grip in his hair, tilting his face up, forcing him to hold his gaze.

"You're going to open that pretty mouth," Sylus breathes, thumb stroking the corner of Zayne’s lips, "and take everything I give you."

Zayne doesn’t move.

Doesn’t flinch.

He just breathes—shallow, frantic—caught between defiance and the desperate inevitability of submission.

Sylus smiles then.

Slow. Poisonous.

The kind of smile that promises two things: Ruin. And mercy.

Both.

"You want it," he whispers, voice scraping the last vestiges of restraint from the air, "same way you wanted to break me."

He spreads his legs wider—an invitation, a command, a final noose.

Another silent dare.

Another sentence written into skin.

Zayne’s hands clench against Sylus’s thighs—white-knuckled, trembling—but he doesn’t pull away.

Not anymore.

He’s already kneeling. Already gone.

Already home.

And Sylus—

Sylus plans to make sure he never forgets it.

Sylus shifts in the chair, spreading wider, dragging Zayne closer with nothing but the lazy pull of fingers curled deeper into his hair.

Zayne’s breath stutters against Sylus’s exposed skin—hot, uneven, wrecked.

Sylus watches.

Watches the way pride collapses under the gravity of need. Watches the flicker in Zayne’s lashes, the tremble in his fists clenched against Sylus’s thighs like lifelines.

"Go on," Sylus murmurs— a velvet-draped blade. "Be good for me."

The command slices the thick silence clean open.

Zayne obeys.

He leans in.

His mouth brushes the sensitive crease of Sylus’s hip with a reverence that borders on the sacrilegious. His tongue follows—tracing bruised flesh, tasting blood, sweat, salt.

Ruin.

Sylus’s head falls back, a low, broken exhale ripped straight from his chest. His grip tightens in Zayne’s hair—enough to remind him of the leash wound invisible around his throat.

"Fuck—look at you," Sylus hisses, glancing down, gaze locking on Zayne’s wrecked, dark eyes. "On your knees for me."

Zayne answers with nothing but a needy, fractured sound vibrating into Sylus’s skin, his mouth trailing lower, lips drawing a path with aching deliberation.

When his lips close around the head of Sylus’s cock, Sylus’s whole body shudders—not from pain. From the effort it takes not to come apart.

Heat envelopes him—wet, tight, devastating.

His knuckles whiten in Zayne’s hair, anchoring him to the moment, the sensation, the worship.

Zayne moves slow at first—languid, deliberate—mouth dragging inch by inch, pupils blown wide with something filthy and fragile.

Sylus can’t look away.

The sight of him—beautiful, broken, hungry—chokes the air from the room.

He rolls his hips forward, shallow but commanding, deeper into the slick heat of Zayne’s mouth.

Zayne takes it.

Stretches. Chokes. Endures.

His hands bruise into Sylus’s thighs, clutching tight enough to leave marks, enough to say I won’t let go until you make me.

Every gag, every wet, obscene sound fans the fire into something relentless.

Sylus brushes a thumb over the hollow of Zayne’s cheek— feeling the stretch. The effort. The surrender.

"That’s it," he breathes, voice dragging like velvet through gravel, hips rolling harder. "Good fucking boy."

Zayne moans around him, the sound reverberating up Sylus’s spine like a prayer that ends in collapse.

Sylus thrusts deeper—punishing, reverent—his other hand cupping Zayne’s jaw, forcing it wider, forcing him to take it all.

Zayne’s eyes glass over, tears beading in the corners as his throat struggles around each brutal thrust.

Sylus knows he’s cruel.

Knows he should stop.

But he won’t.

He can’t.

Not when Zayne kneels like this.

Not when he offers himself up like something sacred. Something holy and ruined and his.

Sylus fucks harder, the chair rattling beneath them, the frame groaning like it, too, is near collapse.

His climax hits like a blade.

Sudden. Inevitable. Merciless.

He grips Zayne’s jaw, forces his gaze upward.

Look. Look at who’s breaking you.

Their eyes lock.

And Sylus snaps.

He comes down Zayne’s throat with a hoarse, wrecked sound, hips stuttering, fingers gripping so tight Zayne’s scalp screams in protest.

Zayne takes all of it.

Swallows it—messy, greedy, grateful.

Only when Sylus pulls back, breath ragged, does he release the hold on Zayne’s hair.

Zayne stays there. Kneeling. Mouth wrecked. Throat working around the aftertaste of surrender.

Sylus watches him—still sprawled in the chair, still bleeding, still owning every inch of the man knelt before him.

"Good fucking boy," he mutters again, thumb dragging across Zayne’s ruined mouth.

Zayne leans into the touch like he was made for it.

And maybe—

Maybe he was.

Zayne lifts his hand, wiping the corner of his mouth with the back of his wrist.

The smear of red left behind looks deliberate. Almost elegant. Like art rendered in aftermath.

He doesn’t look at Sylus when he speaks, voice husky but controlled.

“You’ve made your point.”

Then he rises.

Pushes off the floor with a composure too careful to be real.

His knees crack as he straightens—the sound loud in the thick, ruined silence.

He smooths the wrinkles from his slacks like a man trying to stitch himself back into dignity.

Sylus says nothing.

Doesn’t move. Just watches.

Zayne’s hands brush dust—blood, sweat, the last fragments of pride—from his thighs with surgical precision. Like he can erase what just happened if he’s careful enough. Like it didn’t touch something vital.

He turns without waiting for a response. Walks to his desk.

Measured. Unhurried.

His spine is too straight. Every step bleeding tension he pretends isn’t there.

He reaches for something—paperwork, a folder, maybe just the illusion of barrier.

But behind him—

The chair creaks.

Soft. Subtle. Predatory.

Sylus rises.

Fluid as breath. Quiet as regret.

Zayne doesn’t notice.

Not until Sylus is there. Close. Too close.

Heat bleeds between them as Sylus presses in—chest to back, hips aligned, breath ghosting over the curve of Zayne’s neck.

Not touching with force. Touching with intention.

Zayne goes rigid. Hands hovering above the desk. Spine pulled taut like a bowstring ready to break.

Sylus leans in.

His mouth brushes the shell of Zayne’s ear, his voice a whisper made of ash and ruin.

“We’re not done.”

The words burn into skin like a brand.

A pause. A beat.

Then Sylus’s hand slides forward.

Slow. Precise.

Fingers settling at Zayne’s hip. Thumb stroking the waistband of his slacks. Grip flexing just enough to promise—

Not mercy. Not escape. More.

Zayne doesn’t move.

Doesn’t speak.

But his breathing stutters—the only betrayal in a silence stitched from control.

Sylus smiles against his neck.

“Not even close.”

Sylus lets the silence stretch. Tight. Taut. Intentional.

Then he dips lower.

His lips graze the shell of Zayne’s ear, tongue flicking out once—just enough to taste the salt pooled there.

“You want me to stop,” he murmurs, voice spun from silk and shadow. “Say the word.”

He already knows Zayne won’t.

His hand moves with that same cruel patience he’s always carried—sliding down the flat plane of Zayne’s abdomen, past the crisp edge of his shirt, to the belt that holds everything together.

One tug.

The buckle gives with a sharp, metallic click—a sound that slices through the sterile hush of the office like a verdict.

Zayne’s head tips back. Slow. Deliberate.

It lands heavy against Sylus’s shoulder.

His eyes close. His breath stutters—too shallow, too fast for a man who prides himself on composure.

Sylus presses a single kiss to the hinge of his jaw. Just once. Like punctuation. Like a signature.

Then his hands are moving again— palming the heat beneath Zayne’s slacks. Hard. Hot. Barely restrained.

“Fuck,” Sylus breathes, voice rough with approval. “You're already aching for it, aren’t you?”

His thumb drags along the shape of Zayne’s cock through the fabric—slow strokes, precise pressure. Just enough. Never more.

Zayne grips the edge of the desk in both hands—knuckles bone-white, head still tipped back, mouth open like he’s halfway between a moan and a prayer.

Sylus unzips him—knuckles grazing skin, dragging the fabric down just enough to free him.

Zayne’s cock springs free—flushed, straining, glistening under the fluorescent lights like something profane made sacred.

Sylus wraps a hand around the base—tight, possessive—and begins to stroke.

Slow. Intentional. Designed to ruin.

Zayne makes a sound—guttural, wordless—hips twitching helplessly against the rhythm.

Sylus chuckles. Low. Wicked. Quiet as a curse.

The sound vibrates into Zayne’s spine.

“That’s it,” he murmurs at his ear. “Let me feel how close you are.”

Zayne gasps when Sylus’s thumb rolls over the head—slick and merciless. His fingers dig into the desk now, carving truth into woodgrain.

Sylus works him—long, firm pulls from base to tip, each stroke calibrated just shy of too much.

His other arm winds around Zayne’s waist, anchoring them together—no space, no escape.

Every twitch. Every curse. Every stuttering breath—

Sylus feels it all.

Zayne’s body jolts with each pass of his hand, the sound of slick skin obscene in the quiet, building toward something furious and unstoppable.

“Say it,” Sylus breathes, lips dragging down the curve of Zayne’s throat. “Say whose hands make you fall apart like this.”

Zayne tries— tries to swallow it, to grit his teeth against the truth clawing up his throat.

Fails.

His voice breaks open.

“Sylus—”

One word. Not a plea. Not a command.

A confession.

Sylus strokes faster now—unforgiving, punishing. His grip slick, tight, brutal in its focus. Zayne’s thighs tremble, hips chasing every drag of that hand, breath disintegrating into short, frantic gasps.

But just when the edge rises— just when the heat crests and tips toward the fall—

Sylus stops.

Freezes.

Fingers locked around the base, tight, merciless.

Zayne chokes on a groan, his forehead crashing to the desk, breath ragged, arms trembling under the weight of restraint and denial.

Sylus kisses his ear. Soft. Final. A sentence more than a touch.

“Not yet.”

Sylus steps back—just enough.

Just enough to make Zayne groan—low, wrecked, frustration breaking through his composure like wildfire through brittle bones.

Zayne’s hips twitch where he’s bent over the desk, cock flushed and dripping, thighs trembling from the brutal ache of denial.

Sylus palms the curve of his ass—both hands now—

squeezing hard enough to bruise before dragging him back, tilting his hips, arranging him not for convenience—

but for claim.

How he wants. How he’s earned.

Zayne doesn’t resist.

He just presses his cheek to the wood, breath fogging the surface, hands splayed wide—surrender made flesh.

Sylus drags his cock along the cleft of Zayne’s ass— slow, heavy— smearing the mess of earlier teasing along sweat-slicked skin.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice rough with smoke and steel. “Ready to be fucked open and begging for it.”

Zayne huffs a broken breath, a whimper curling into something that might be a laugh.

“So fucking full of yourself.”

Sylus grins—sharp, unrepentant—coating himself in the slick still leaking from Zayne’s last unfinished fall.

“And you're still bent over this desk with your cock dripping,” he growls, lining up behind him. “So who’s winning, doc?”

Zayne opens his mouth— but whatever he meant to say dies the second Sylus pushes in.

Not a thrust. A claim.

Slow. Relentless.

Zayne’s mouth parts in a silent gasp, one hand clawing the desk, the other bracing his weight as Sylus sinks in deeper—

inch by inch, control by control, breath by breath.

“Shit—fuck,” Zayne groans, hips jerking back, a collision of plea and instinct. “God—just move.”

Sylus does.

Not fast. Not hard.

Just deep.

A single, devastating pull out—then back in.

A rhythm of purpose. Of punishment. Of possession.

Zayne shudders with it, spine arching, every stroke dragging over the spot that makes him see stars behind his clenched eyes.

Sylus leans in, chest to back, mouth right at his ear.

“You feel that?” “That stretch? That ache?”

His teeth scrape along the edge of Zayne’s jaw.

“That’s mine.”

Zayne’s fingers claw at the desk, knuckles pale, the sound of skin on skin rising around them—wet, sharp, relentless.

“Say it,” Sylus growls, hips snapping forward. “Say who ruins you like this.”

Zayne shudders.

His voice breaks.

“You—fuck, Sylus—you do.”

Sylus licks a slow line up the back of his throat, then bites—not to draw blood.

To mark.

“Good boy.”

And the praise—

hits harder than any thrust.

Zayne moans, louder now, legs trembling beneath him, his whole body stretched thin by the weight of every second he’s not allowed to fall apart.

Sylus keeps him there— on the edge, at the altar, in the fire.

Drawing it out.

Making him feel every inch he’s not yet allowed to have.

“You’ll take what I give you,” Sylus whispers into sweat-drenched skin, “And you’ll thank me for every second I keep you wanting.”

Zayne’s head drops.

Another choked noise tears free—raw, pleading—as Sylus grinds deep again, every movement slow, devastating, possessive.

Zayne’s voice is gone.

Wrecked.

“Please—fuck, Sylus—let me—let me come—”

Sylus doesn’t stop.

Doesn’t yield.

Not yet.

He buries himself to the hilt, heat flooding between them, breath spilling against Zayne’s neck.

And then—

“Not until I say.”

Zayne groans—low, wrecked— as Sylus grinds in deep and holds there, the stillness sharp, brutal, a pressure that makes sweat bead at the back of his neck.

He shifts—hips twitching, seeking friction, any rhythm at all— desperate.

Sylus gives him nothing.

Just leans in. Breath curling over the back of Zayne’s neck like smoke.

“So greedy,” he murmurs, voice slow, sharp. “Where’d that control of yours go?”

Zayne hisses, knuckles white where they clutch the edge of the desk. His cock—flushed, leaking, untouched—throbs helplessly.

Sylus watches it.

Watches the way hunger pulses through him—blinding, base, intoxicating.

Still buried to the hilt, he pulls back just enough to make Zayne whine—then slams back in. One brutal thrust. One full-body shiver.

“Say you want it.”

Zayne gasps, the words tumbling from his mouth in pieces.

“I want it—fuck, Sylus, please—”

Sylus grins.

Feral. Cruel. Victorious.

And then—finally—he gives in.

His hand wraps around Zayne’s cock—hot, slick, punishing—stroking him in perfect, merciless rhythm to the roll of his hips.

Zayne arches off the desk with a strangled moan, caught in the no man’s land between retreat and collapse.

Sylus fucks into him deeper, harder—every thrust timed with the savage drag of his fist, wringing Zayne toward the edge in tidal waves.

“You feel that?” Sylus growls against his neck. “That’s me. No one else. Only me.”

Zayne nods blindly—eyes shut, lips parted, the truth already wrung from his bones.

“God—Sylus—I’m close—I can’t—”

Sylus curls around him—one arm banding across his chest, the other still stroking— and pulls him upright in a single, brutal motion.

Off the desk. Into his arms. Never breaking pace. Never letting go.

Zayne’s head falls back against Sylus’s shoulder, mouth open, gasping like he can’t draw breath without him.

Sylus bites down at his throat—hard—then kisses the mark like an apology.

His hand works faster now. Slick. Brutal. Beautiful. Every pass a promise, every thrust a possession.

Zayne jerks in his arms—hips chasing the rhythm, legs barely holding—ruined.

"Let go," Sylus breathes, voice raw. "Come for me."

Zayne’s body goes taut—bowstring tight—and then he breaks.

“Sylus—fuck—!”

He comes hard, spilling across Sylus’s hand, trembling, breath caught in a chest that no longer knows how to steady itself.

Sylus doesn’t stop.

Keeps driving into him, faster now, chasing his own end with violent, desperate thrusts.

The room fills with the sound of slick skin, shattered breath, and the heat of something far too big to name.

Zayne slumps in his arms—boneless, trembling, wrecked. Head buried in the curve of Sylus’s neck. Lips brushing skin with every gasping inhale.

And that— that— is what undoes him.

Sylus drives in one final time, groaning into Zayne’s hair as he comes, hips stuttering, hands clenching Zayne’s waist like he could carve permanence into bone.

It tears through him—raw, blinding.

And all he can feel is this:

Zayne. Broken. Breathing. His.

They stay like that. Locked. Burning. Every nerve thrumming with what they didn’t say.

Sweat. Come. Silence.

Zayne’s lips part—just enough to let one word fall out.

“Fuck.”

Sylus kisses the side of his throat.

Low. Final. Irrevocable.

“You’re mine.”

— © 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓 𝐛𝐲 𝐒𝐲𝐥𝐮𝐬 𝐋𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐂𝐫𝐨𝐰

[pricesgirl]

Mary Janes - headcanons

.˳·˖✶𓆩𓁺𓆪✶˖·˳.☁︎

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵

pre relationship

Jinx loved winding Y/N up, especially when it came to her precious, meticulously organized notes. She’d scribble crude doodles over the margins, sometimes even between Y/N’s perfect lines of text. Y/N’s skin would burn, and of course that only made Jinx do it more.

Y/N kept a literal clipboard—like, a real, physical clipboard—where she documented every single time Jinx pissed her off. We’re talking dates, times, categorized offenses, and passive-aggressive annotations in red pen. “Disrupted lecture with unsolicited kazoo solo,” “Graffiti in locker again (phallus-shaped??),” “Stole highlighter, replaced with crayon.”

Jinx had a habit of stealing Y/N’s favorite pens—not out of necessity, but pure, unfiltered spite. She knew Y/N would spiral, tearing through her bag like a woman possessed over her precious 0.38 Pilot G-2s.

It started with silent theft. Then escalated. Soon, Y/N started finding ransom notes tucked neatly into her notebooks: “If you ever want to see your gel pen again, meet me behind the vending machines. Come alone.” One time, Jinx even taped a note to her desk that read: “He misses you.” —with a single black G-2 dangling from a noose made of floss.

Jinx once slightly rearranged all of Y/N’s meticulously color-coded folders—blue tabs where the yellow ones should be, highlighters swapped just enough to sow chaos. It was surgical. Precise. Cruel.

Y/N noticed immediately. Of course she did. She didn’t sleep until every single tab was back in place. She even double-checked the ink flow in her pens. Twice. The next morning, there was a sticky note on her desk. “ur cute when you meltdown <3” In glitter gel pen. Y/N almost set her whole binder on fire.

All those graffiti hearts and messy scrawls splattered across Y/N’s locker? Lowkey love notes in disguise. Jinx would never admit it—not out loud—but half the time, they weren’t even insults. Just inside jokes, twisted quotes from books she knew Y/N liked, little phrases she’d overheard her say and pretended not to care about.

Y/N once rewrote an entire group lab report after Jinx, of course, decided to draw a massive dick in the margins. It wasn’t even subtle. Full-on masterpiece. Y/N, seething but in her quiet, meticulous way, submitted both versions to the professor with a passive-aggressive note: "Please disregard the vandalism. Some of us take this seriously."

Jinx once accidentally spilled acid on Y/N’s lab project. Y/N retaliated by submitting a formal complaint to the science department. Jinx then broke into the chem room at night and rearranged everything. The teacher blamed Y/N for it.

They’d glare across the room, roll their eyes whenever the other spoke, purposefully bump shoulders in the hallway. Everyone thought they were one more insult away from an all-out brawl. The sexual tension was vile.

Y/N accidentally tripped Jinx in the hallway once—after finding “Y/N is a giant nerd <3” scratched into the bathroom stall. Jinx retaliated by putting googly eyes on everything in Y/N’s locker. Even the apples. (apples ofc she is a teachers pet after all)

Y/N hated how aware she was of Jinx’s presence. How loud her laugh was. How her socks never matched. How her eyeliner smudged just right. She definitely didn’t sneak glances in class. That’d be ridiculous.

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵

early relationship

Y/N secretly keeps track of all the weird things Jinx does—like the times she stares at her reflection in the cafeteria window like she’s plotting world domination or when she argues with a teacher just to watch their face turn red. Y/N doesn’t mean to. She just... likes knowing what she’s up to.

Jinx starts sharing her earbuds casually, but Y/N flinches the first few times, not because she doesn’t want to—because she wants to too much. Sitting close, knees touching, music low, pretending it’s no big deal while both their hearts are screaming.

Now Jinx's doodles are hearts stabbed with arrows, tiny cartoons of Y/N blushing, or stick figures holding hands. Y/N acts annoyed, but she quietly starts collecting them in the back of her binder.

Jinx starts leaving her stuff behind. A hoodie here, a beanie there. At first, Y/N folds them up and gives them back. Then she keeps them. Then she starts wearing them. Jinx nearly passes out the first time she sees Y/N in her oversized jacket.

Y/N starts cleaning Jinx’s room every time she’s over. Jinx makes fun of her for it… while watching her with the most pathetically fond smile. She lets her do it. Pretends she hates it. Loves it.

Y/N threatens to go full academic weapon on anyone who calls Jinx crazy. Jinx brushes it off with a laugh but clutches that memory like it’s gold.

Jinx starts carrying gum 'cause Y/N doesn’t like the taste of smoke (She acts like it’s for herself, spoiler alert it's not)

Jinx one time hands over a USB drive labeled “music for nerds who pretend not to like me.” Y/N burns her a CD in return, painfully curated with care, and includes a handwritten tracklist. Jinx listens to it every night before bed.

Jinx teaches Y/N how to play one of her favorite video games Y/N is terrible at it (to start with). Jinx is so smug about it—until Y/N stays up all night practicing in secret and finally beats her. Jinx demands a rematch. Y/N kisses her senseless.

Jinx brings her weird little offerings. A bottlecap shaped like a heart. A sticker that says “Certified geek.” A leaf that looks like it has freckles. Y/N saves every single one in a shoebox under her bed and labels it: Jinx’s chaos treasure pile.

Y/N learns how to do Jinx’s eyeliner. Very carefully. Very gently. Jinx fidgets at first, but the intimacy of it makes her go quiet, soft. Y/N’s hands tremble just a little, but the lines come out sharp. Perfect. Jinx won’t let anyone else touch her face after that.

Y/N starts carrying hand sanitizer Jinx likes the smell of. It’s this ridiculous artificial cherry scent that Y/N would never pick for herself—but Jinx once said it “smells like stolen candy and bad decisions.” And now Y/N keeps it clipped to her bag. Jinx notices. She always notices.

Jinx starts humming Y/N’s favorite study songs when she’s anxious. Not full singing—just little hums, off-tune and rough around the edges. But Y/N hears it from across the room and it grounds her. Every time.

The first time they share an umbrella, Jinx lets Y/N take all the coverage. Her shoulder gets soaked, her hair plastered to her forehead, but she keeps her hand steady. Y/N notices halfway through and tries to shift it, but Jinx just shrugs. “I like storms.”

Jinx marks the ceiling above Y/N’s bed with a tiny dot of glowing paint (like those glow in the dark starts but kinds personalised) so even in the dark, even when they’re apart, there’s one little point of light for Y/N to look at and feel like someone’s with her.

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵

college years

After all of Y/N’s early classes—no matter how early—Jinx is always waiting outside the lecture hall. She’s propped against the wall, hoodie half-zipped, headphones in (shitty wired ones on their last leg), holding a cup of coffee.

Jinx draws on Y/N’s wrists when she’s anxious. Little stars, eyes, crooked hearts. She uses one of Y/N’s fine-tip pens, whispering dumb commentary as she sketches. “This one’s a battle scar. From surviving Intro to Macroeconomics.”

Jinx paints a constellation mural on the ceiling of their shared dorm room. She claims it’s random. (It’s not). It’s the night sky from the night at the party, the night Y/N took the joint from Jinx for the first time.

“It’s not that bad.” She doesn’t say anything. She’s just staring at the joint like it might bite her. But I see it. I see the hesitation, the way her fingers twitch like she wants to take it, just to see what it feels like. I blow out a puff of smoke, letting it hang between us. “You’re curious, aren’t you?” I almost dare her to say no. (Remember this :3)

They keep a shared folder on Google Drive labeled “Defcon Love” It has playlists, memes, research notes, and one single doc that just says “we’re gonna be okay.” Y/N added that during finals. Jinx never deleted it.

Jinx steals Y/N’s scarves. Constantly. Even when it’s not cold. Wears them like sashes or belts or headbands. Y/N starts pretending she doesn’t notice, just so she can lean in and gently tug them back.

Jinx collects old band tees, and Y/N secretly loves wearing them. Sometimes Y/N borrows one of Jinx’s oversized, faded band shirts, and Jinx will make a show of being “offended” that Y/N’s wearing it. In reality, she adores seeing Y/N in her clothes, the fact that Y/N doesn’t even care about the band but still wears it with pride.

“What do you think?” Y/N asks, trying to suppress the smile tugging at her lips. “What the hell are you doing wearing that?” Jinx says, pushing herself up on her elbows. “That’s my shirt. Not a fashion statement.” Y/N raises an eyebrow, crossing her arms over her chest. “I like it. It’s comfy. Don’t you have like, five more of these anyway?” Jinx snorts, rolling her eyes. “Yeah, well, I’ve got a deep personal connection to every single one of them, okay? They’re not just... shirts.”

They have late-night karaoke sessions in their dorm room. Sometimes it’s just them and a cheap microphone, singing off-key to cheesy songs. Y/N laughs too hard at how badly they’re singing, but Jinx just stares at her like she’s the most beautiful thing in the room. “Sing louder,” Jinx demands, and Y/N always does.

They have a favorite spot on campus—a quiet corner in the library or a bench under a cherry blossom tree—and it’s theirs.

Jinx buys a ridiculously massive plush shark for their bed, and it’s there just to annoy Y/N (who secretly loves it and ends up snuggling with it when Jinx isn’t around).

They make sandwiches together in their dorm kitchen at night. It’s never anything fancy, just whatever’s left in the fridge, but Jinx has this way of making it feel special. She’ll always add a little extra something—an extra slice of cheese or a dash of hot sauce—and then look at Y/N, grinning like she just won the Nobel Prize in Sandwich Making.

Jinx demands chaotic movie nights, and Y/N is just along for the ride (begrudgingly, lovingly) Movie night is sacred.

Jinx will kick open their dorm door like she’s storming a castle, armed with snacks that should honestly be illegal together. “Tonight’s feature,” she announces, eyes wild, “is a documentary about competitive cheese rolling and a zombie shark rom-com. Double feature. Let’s rot our brains, baby.” Y/N doesn’t get a say. She never does. She sighs, mutters something about “cinematic integrity,” and curls up beside Jinx anyway. She’ll complain the entire time and still stay for the credits.

Late at night, they'll sit on the edge of the bed, with nothing but the glow of Y/N’s desk lamp illuminating the room. Jinx talks about her wild ideas for the future, while Y/N listens quietly, fingers tracing the edge of her coffee mug. Y/N’s heart aches in the best way. No matter where they’re going, she knows she’ll go with Jinx. (they're soulmates fr)

Y/N is all about her carefully planned self-care routines—bath bombs, herbal salts, a candle lit just so, maybe a book propped up on a towel nearby. It's her quiet, sacred time to unwind after a day of overstimulation and deadlines.

One night, Y/N's mid-soak, totally zoned out, and Jinx flings the door open (with absolutely no shame), tosses in a rubber duck she picked up at a gas station, and chirps, "You rang, milady?"—already stripping like she absolutely belongs in this scenario. (She does) At first, Y/N groans, rolls her eyes, muttering something about “boundaries,” but then Jinx sits on the edge of the tub, fingers combing through Y/N’s wet hair with surprising gentleness, her voice soft and teasing: “You smell like a lavender-scented nerd.”

Y/N scoffs under her breath, but her face is already flushed—not from the heat. “You’re insufferable,” she says, voice quieter than before. Jinx doesn’t reply. She just tilts her head, leans in that extra inch like she’s testing gravity. Like she’s not quite sure who’s gonna move first. And then—Y/N does. It’s slow, warm, barely more than a brush at first. But Jinx chases it with another, then another, her lips curved like she’s been waiting for this exact moment. (She has)

Y/N helps Jinx dye her hair—and it becomes their little ritual Jinx insists she can do it herself, like she always has. But Y/N is already pulling on gloves, laying out old towels and sectioning Jinx’s hair with careful fingers. There's blue dye smeared across her knuckles, streaking her wrists, and Jinx won't stop grinning at how serious Y/N looks about it. "You’re acting like it’s brain surgery," Jinx teases, legs swinging off the edge of the sink.

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domestic/married life

Y/N leaves notes on the fridge that say things like “Don’t forget your keys today <3” or “Remember to breathe.” Jinx leaves ones that say “stole your juice lol xoxo” or just a doodle of a raccoon in a trench coat.

Jinx talks in her sleep. Y/N answers. It started as a weird joke. Jinx would mumble nonsense in her sleep, and Y/N would respond like they were having a full-on conversation. It became a tradition. Now, even half-asleep, Y/N will murmur a dry "That’s not how gravity works, love" when Jinx mumbles about rocket boots and cat gods.

Jinx never sits on the couch like a normal person. It’s either upside down, sideways, hanging off the edge, or sprawled across Y/N like a cat. If Y/N’s reading, Jinx is curled around her like she’s part of the furniture.

Y/N cooks. Jinx taste-tests (and steals bites). Jinx is always hovering behind her, arms around her waist, chin on her shoulder, whispering “Is it ready yet?” even when it’s not even in the oven.

Their fights are short-lived and soft (like yk chap 12 where they barely could be apart for a day). They’re both stubborn in their own ways, but neither can stay mad for long. Y/N needs space when she’s upset—Jinx needs closeness. They meet halfway: Jinx gives Y/N a few minutes, then shows up with a quiet apology and a silly drawing or a coffee. Y/N always forgives her with a kiss to the forehead.

Rainy days are their favorite. Y/N lights candles and reads by the window. Jinx pulls her into a big blanket cocoon on the couch, playing old movies or doodling in a sketchbook. They stay like that for hours, legs tangled, the world feeling so small and safe.

Their periods sync up, and it’s a disaster. They don't realize at first—just find themselves bickering over everything, craving junk food at the same time, and getting irrationally emotional. Y/N tries to push through the cramps; Jinx dramatically sprawls across her. "You’re impossible." "Yeah, you love it. Now scoot closer."

Jinx impulsively adopts Beans first—a scrappy, chaotic little orange tabby she finds at an adoption event. She names him Beans immediately because "he’s shaped like a bean, look at him, toots. He’s literally a bean." Y/N tries to argue for a more "normal" name but secretly finds it endearing.

A few weeks later, Y/N adopts Nova—a sleek black cat with huge eyes and a quiet, observant demeanor. Nova is calm, elegant, and a little spooky, which Y/N adores.

Beans is absolute chaos, climbing on every surface, knocking over Jinx’s paint supplies, getting his paws in Y/N’s textbooks. Nova is stoic and patient, often seen silently judging Beans’ antics from a safe distance. (reminiscent of a certain pair :3)

There’s an entire shared photo album on their phones labeled “The Beans & Nova Saga.” It’s filled with chaotic pictures—Beans with socks on his head, Nova staring judgmentally at an unfinished art project, and both cats curled up together when they think no one’s watching. (the babies omg)

They have lazy Sunday mornings filled with pancakes and kissing. Jinx of course burns the first few pancakes. Y/N pretends to be mad, but kisses her flour-dusted nose anyway.

They fall asleep holding hands every night. Even when they’re exhausted. Even if Jinx is passed out halfway across the bed, her hand somehow still finds Y/N’s under the blankets.

Jinx starts a tiny garden for Y/N. She has no idea what she’s doing and most of the plants are crooked as hell, but she plants a whole section of wildflowers "because they reminded me of you. Kinda messy. Kinda perfect."

Y/N keeps a scrapbook of all their milestones. Shit like ticket stubs. Old keys. Restaurant napkins with doodles. She hides it under their bed, but Jinx finds it one night and cries quietly into Y/N’s shoulder.

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵

authors note: hiii, so i've never actually written headcanons before so i have no idea if these are shit or not but they were so fun to do (and yes there will be a part two for the nfsw ones) :3

and tysm to the lovely @dreamyraincloud for helping me conjure some ideas <3

[lxxiezz]

I want to see Sonic scared.

You're evil.. I love it.

I'm gonna make it Sonic shitting his pants OVER reader, if you want him generally scared then please have me know!

Sonic x mobian!reader (It's not really specified but i see that more fitting)

Sonic was never one to get scared easily. Sure, sometimes he can get startled when caught off-guard.. but that's not the point! Sonic portrays himself like the brave hero he is, always fighting for what's right. Yet it all changes when he sees you getting striked down by one of Eggman's whacky concoction he created to destroy Sonic.

But how did you wind up in that situation? Let's run it back, no?

It was a calm afternoon as usual everyone was doing their own thing, until they get notified that Eggman is yet again, up to no good. Sonic and his partner - you, were the first ones to arrive, fighting side by side through the array of robots, the rest of the team soon arrived aswell, but they all got seperated, including you, from Sonic. You defeated the enemies with a bit of struggle, but nothing too terrible, until you spot that blue blur being attacked a bigger, seemingly stronger killer machine, he was taking it head on so he couldn't notice a random blast of what it seems like a laser beam, heading straight at him.

If someone asked you what were you thinking, you would'nt be able to answer that yourself, since you weren't thinking at all, in that moment everything seemed to slow, as you jumped over an enemy and flung yourself in Sonic's direction, taking the blow instead of him, you could hear him yell out your name before everything went dark.

Sonic has never felt panicked, or scared. But for the first time ever.. when he sees you sprawled on the ground motionless, it all washed over him in one huge wave, he notifies the others to get out of there and grabs you and runs at a inhumane speed away from all the danger and stops once he's a safe distance away. "(Name)!! (Name)!!"

He'd call out, shaking your body by your shoulders, but you remained unresponsive. He felt real panic and fear for the first time ever. It was horrible. Tails soon flew over an took you away to patch you up. Your condition was critical. It took hours of whatever it is that they were doing to get you fixed up, and when he saw you again.. bedridden and unconsious. He didn't feel relieved, not yet. He was terrified for your wellbeing.

Panic was going through his system in waves, just when he thinks everything's okay he'd spiral back into the same thing.

It was only 2 days later when you finally woke up, Sonic was by your side holding your gloved hand and staring out into the abyss. When he felt your hand twitch his green eyes snapped to look at your face, your eyebrows furrowed as you opened your eyes, letting out a little grunt as you slowly tried recollecting the past events. You didn't have enough time to wake before you feel a certain hedgehog jump on top of you and hold you in an embrace. "Ack- ow- Sonic!" You yelped at the pain in your torso, looking down at the hedgehog as he hurriedly backed off to not hurt you "(Name), (Name).., i was so worried!" He'd exclaim, looking at you.

"I'm fine Sonic, I'm okay now."

You reassured, holding out your hand to caress his cheek. You saw the worry and fear in his green irises finally wash away. You were okay.

Ok so this turned out way different than i initially thought it would but oh well. I'm too tired to think thoughts right now anyways.. Hope yal like this!

[satorusugurugurl]

It’s Alive!

Summary: After losing you beloved husband You seek out the help of the renowned doctor; Satoru Frankenstein, to bring him back, With some upgraded ‘equipment’!

Pairing: Kenjaku!Geto Suguru x AFAB!Reader

Warning: Frankenstein themes, language, size kink, monster sex, unprotected sex, cream pies, ( it’s monster sex—kinda)

Word Count: 2.1K

A/N: Kinktober day Twenty-Six: Frankenstein! I kind of struggled with this one I had like three versions going. But this one was The one I was most happy with.

He was cold. Too cold.

Your eyes watered as you remembered how your husband Suguru’s remains were rolled past yours on a cold steel table a week ago. A white sheet shielding your eyes from the irrevocable damage done to his body. This felt wrong on so many levels. But you needed him; you couldn’t lose him.

That’s what brought you to this old rickety castle, hoping Dr. Satoru Frankenstein could get your beloved husband back to life. He, of course, agreed, with no cost either, all because he was eager to test his new equipment. It almost seemed too good to be true.

“Missus.” A deep, smooth voice drew you out of your spiraling anxiety. “Missus, it’s time.” You turned to look at the young man before you. A black arrow tattoo crossed the bridge of his nose, while two additional arrows went down his cheeks, one under each eye.

“Choso.” You greeted, fingers gripping the front of your gown. “I-I’m ready.”

He led you up the stairs to the tower. You gripped the railing, climbing higher and higher until Choso opened the door to Satoru’s lab. Lightning flashed, machines hummed, and Satoru ran around his lab, round black goggles shielding his eyes from the flashing machines and whirling wind from the open hatch in the ceiling. His prestigious white hair and lab coat whirled around as he glanced toward you and his assistant.

“Ah! Mrs. Geto, Choso, hurry, it's almost time!”

Choso nodded, ushering you to the side before rushing to help Satoru. Your eyes fixed on the clothes body they were lifting into the opened hatch—your beloved husband. You clasped your hands together, bottom lip quivering, as you prayed for this to work, for him to be okay.

Lightning flashed, and thunder roared as Satoru jumped down from the stairs he was on, rushing towards a wall of valves and electronic machines. “On my word, Choso!” He shouted as his assistant ran to the room's other side, grabbing a lever. Satoru’s attention was transfixed on the flashing lightning strikes in the dark skies above. He was focused like the mad scientist he was. “Steady—steady!” A giant lightning bolt striped the mechanical structure. He had set up outside the tower on the roof. “Now!!”

Choso flipped the lever, and as he did, electricity sparked, flowing down towards the table. You screamed, covering your eyes and ears as the machines cried out screaming. Gojo laughed maniacally as the sparks continued to spark until they died down. It was only then that Gojo lifted his goggles before grinning.

“Choso! Bring him down!”

You felt a swell of anxiety as Choso began lowering the table, and you rushed forward, watching as the form underneath it began to twitch. You swallowed, watching as Satoru rushed forward, yanking the sheet off of your husband. Stitches ran along his forehead and different body parts that had been stitched back together. As your eyes roamed over his body, he suddenly blinked. One violet eye, one brown, stared up at Satoru before darting towards you.

“Oh!” You gasped, placing your hand over your chest with wide eyes. “Suguru?”

Your husband slowly sat up, looking down at his hands before his attention focused on you. You stared at one another in shock and hope. Your breathing hitched as you stepped forward, gently, taking him much larger on your own. Your husband looked puzzled at the gesture for the briefest moments before his fingers curled, clasping your hand and his.

“It’s alive,” Satoru announced to Choso. “It’s alive! It’s alive!” He laughed madly as Suguru pulled your hand up to his mouth, pressing a kiss against it.

“O-Oh Suguru!” You chirped out as your relief and joy overflowed like a fountain.

Suguru kicked the rest of the sheet off before standing before you. His frame is much larger than you remembered it before. He towered over you with a sly smirk before cupping your cheek. You learned into it, fighting a sob as Satoru cleared his throat.

“I have made several improvements to your husband. Please take the time to get reacquainted with him.”

Without another word, the two men left you and your husband alone. You listen until the door shuts behind them, and when it does, you finally allow yourself to look up at Suguru. He smiled fondly before lifting you by the hips and carrying you to the nearest wall.

“Suguru?” You swallowed, staring up at his tall, muscular form. “Darling, what are you—“ you gasped, recoiling as he bunched your skirts up, lifting it to your hips. “O-Oh!”

“Wife~” he cooed, growling as he towered over you. His large muscles pulsed as he leaned down next to your ear. “You’re so small~ I can easily lift you.” You gasped as he ran his hands down, groping your thighs as he forced you to wrap them around his waist. “So cute~ so small, I’ll protect you.”

And you knew he meant every single word he said. Because you wanted him to protect you, he was tall, muscular, and strong. Your body shivered against his thick form, making you drip with need as he reached his hands up, tugging your lacy undergarments to the side. You couldn’t remember the last time you were so aroused; Suguru always had that effect on you. But his newer, stronger form made you even wetter.

“Suguru~!” You cried out, wrapping your arms around his neck, pulling him down to your mouth, kissing him with a force so strong it almost knocked the wind out of his lungs.

He kissed you back, snarling as he did. He wasted no time as he reached down, stroking himself with three quick pumps before he pressed the head of his cock against your entrance. His cock was larger than you remembered causing you to hiss out in slight discomfort that slowly eased into pure pleasure. This must have been the additional upgrade Satoru had been talking about. Suguru paused momentarily, allowing you to adjust, his body as stiff and rigid as a rock.

“Are you okay?” He whispered against your lips, his two different-colored eyes examining your face.

“Yes~ I missed you so much, Sugu!” You shot out, kissing him eagerly as he continued pushing inside of you. You moaned, burying your face in the inside of his neck as he stretched your inner walls out like you had never been stretched before. He rested his stitched forehead against your shoulder, dark hair tickling your heated skin as he completely bottomed out inside of you. You never thought being fucked with such a big cock would feel good. But it felt so fucking so good, fuck it just felt so right, like he was meant to be inside of you despite the size difference.

When your body finally adjusted to the size, you pulled your head away just as he did. You lost yourself in his eyes, panting softly as you panted softly as he began rocking his hips. The head of his cock brushed right against your g-spot, drawing out a shaky breath from you as you dug your nails into his back. Suguru hissed against your skin, leaning back to plant kisses along your sensitive neck. Each roll and rock he pushed into you had his cock moving deeper inside of you. Until the head of it brushed against your cervix. The sensation was almost electrifying, making you arch off the wall.

“Fuck, fuck, holy fuck!” His grip on your hips tightened as he began pounding into you. You grabbed a handful of black silky locks, pulling at it.

“Princess,” he roared, “you’re so wet and tight for me.” His finger dug into your flesh, making you rock them faster. “You have no idea how fucking good you feel.” Suguru mewled as his cock throbbed deep within you.

The coil deep within you began to tighten; you were growing close to your release. Suguru grunted and growled in your ear, his cock sliding in and out of your slickened folds as he thrust his hips up, nearly causing the wall behind you to crack. One robust and large arm held you in place while his free hand reached up, gently choking you. His huge fingers squeezed around your delicate neck as he let out an animalistic sound as you rocked your hips against his faster and harder.

“Haah! Suguru!” You gasped, your erect nipples rubbing against his bare stitched skin. “Nngh fuck yes!.”

“Princess, I-I’m gonna cum, fuck, I’m so close.”

“M-Me too!”

He didn’t need to be told a second time; his thrusts became erratic as he cut off your airway just a bit. That left you desperate. Your eyes rolled back as you continued moving, trying to push each other over the edge, and everything continued to build until you both came simultaneously. Your body stilled as Sugurue growled as his cum came out in ropes painting your walls. Your pussy clenched tightly around him, cumming harder than you had ever come before. You both stayed there gasping and panting roughly until the waves of pleasure died down. You grinned as he leaned back to look at you; his cheeks were faintly flushed as he smiled back. The two of you leaned in for another kiss, only to jump as someone bangs on the door.

You blinked, looking at the door, and several people came running in with torches and pitchforks. But they—weren't people, they were vegetables? The fuck? They yelled and screamed, not seeming to care that Suguru was balls deep inside of you. Your husband didn’t even mind them as he stared at you.

“Princess?” Your vision began to fade as Suguru called out your name several times. “Hey, wake up.” When you blinked again, you found Suguru’s violet eyes on you. “Hey, sleepy head, we're home.”

He was wearing all black, bolts sticking out of his neck. Stitches had been drawn across his forehead, smeared here and there. Huh, you glanced around before looking down at yourself. You were in a white dress and could feel the sticky, tacky face paint on you.

Oh yeah, you went to Satoru’s Halloween party. You had too many shots, and getting home was a bit of a blur. But your tall, large husband was anything but blurry. He was all muscle and kind. He agreed to be the DD for you both so you could have a fun time! And you had a fun time but were craving a different kind of fun now.

“Mmm, I had the craziest dream.” You yawned as Suguru unbuckled your seatbelt before carefully scooping you into his large arms. “You were Frankenstine’s monster, and we had hot monster sex.”

Your husband gave you a judgmental look with a laugh before shaking his head as he carried you inside. “Hot monster sex?” He shook his head. “So that’s why you were moaning and squirming the whole ride home. Because I was fucking you as a monster?”

“I was not!”

“Yes, you were, Little Monster Fucker; I bet when you get into the room, those panties are gonna be soaked.”

You pouted, crossing your arms over your chest. “They are not.” You stuck your bottom lip out. “And I’m not a monster fucker!” Suguru gave you an incredulous look.

“Says the person who dreamt of me as a reanimated man fucking her.”

You open your mouth to babble, shut it as a thought, and roam over your mind. “Wait, does that count as necrophilia?” Your husband stopped dead in his tracks, turning his head slowly to stare down at you.

“You know what, I was gonna fuck your brains out against the wall, but that was the least sexiest thing you could’ve said.”

“Wait! Please fuck me. I’m sorry!”

Suguru rolled his eyes. “Only because you said please, you little necrophiliac.” You grimaced, shaking your head in disgust.

“Eww, no, I would much rather be a monster fucker.” You sighed dramatically, going slightly slack in his arms. “Oooh, please, Mr. Monster, don’t do the nastiest things to meet Daddy!”

“Oh my god,” Suguru laughed softly, shaking his head as he carried you into the bedroom. “I want you to remember this moment when I get you a T-shirt that says: ‘Proud Monster Fucker’ on it for Christmas.”

“It’s better than ‘Proud Necrophiliac’!”

Sugar dropped you on the bed, sighing deeply. “Stop saying that damn word.” He turned his jeans down, freeing his monster-sized thick hard cock out, rubbing the tip over your bottom lip. “And put your mouth to better usage.” You grinned slowly, taking his thick, monster-like length into your mouth. Maybe you were a monster fucker, but you were proud to be one for him!

Forever Tag List:

@darkstarlight82 @pandoness @nealeart @simp-plague @sugurubabe @chilichopsticks @reap3erslov3 @wil10wthetree @msniks @lana18918 @draculemon

Kinktober Tag List:

@candy-s72

[ru8yx]

Secret lady Crown Prince Eshawr x reader? I don’t mind what kind of format you put it in.

CROWN PRINCE ESHAWR X READER!!

From the moment of her birth, her life had been predestined as a plaything for her family, and they bestowed upon her a name as sweet as the gentlest flowers and as passionately fiery as the wind.

As the first daughter of the Duke, every aspect of her future had been meticulously planned, shaped by the heavy weight of the family's expectations and ambitions.

Fate had woven a path she had little choice but to follow, each step leading her deeper into the intricate web of the ducal machinations.

Their destinies intertwined like a bittersweet thread, woven by the intricate hand of fate. The Crown Prince, with golden locks that danced in the sunlight and eyes the hue of molten gold, was her predestined match, chosen to be her future husband.

Under the watchful gaze of their families, she too was caught in the trap, as they bowed in introduction, their lives now inexorably linked by the constraints of their assigned roles. Like flies entrapped in a spider's web, their path forward was laid out before them, with no escape in sight.

She had endured a lifetime of lessons, honed to be the perfect future Empress, leaving no room for errors.

Her every waking moment was spent striving for flawlessness under the relentless scrutiny of demanding nobility. Everywhere she went, their greedy eyes tracked her every move, waiting to pounce at the slightest imperfection.

Despite the suffocating weight of expectations and the omnipresent gaze, she stood tall, unyielding in her regal bearing. She would always bear the title of Crown Princess, a symbol of both her lineage and the burden of her role in the tumultuous world of imperial politics.

Eshawr, the beloved Crown Prince, was exalted as the very life force of the empire, lavished with praise for simply existing.

To her, however, he was much more than that—he was her devoted husband, whose playful banter and steadfast presence provided both comfort and joy.

Despite the looming threat of his family's curse, which claimed the lives of partners of the royal family in tragic manners, Eshawr remained vigilant, standing guard through numerous sleepless nights to protect the one whom he had sworn to spend his life with.

Fate, though relentless, couldn’t dampen the love that burned within their entwined hearts.

The nobles painted a vivid picture of their love, likening it to a fairytale, with the princess embodying grace and beauty while the prince was the dashing savior protecting her from the ills of the world.

However, beneath the surface, cracks began to form, threatening to shatter the perfect facade. Problems emerged, revealing that nothing in life was ever truly flawless, reminding them that even the most enchanting fairytales could have unexpected twists and turns in the narrative of their love story.

She was known for her iron grip, unwavering and stoic, allowing no weakness or emotion to sully her image as the Crown Princess.

The nickname "Iron Grip Rose" had been bestowed upon her, symbolizing her unwavering strength and resilience.

She had endured countless trials without ever letting on the pain and suffering that gnawed at her from within. However, the tragic death of her beloved husband, the Crown Prince, left her broken and vulnerable, shattering the impenetrable façade she had nurtured so fiercely.

Plagued by the torment of losing her beloved husband, the woman spiraled into madness, descending deeper into despair with each passing day.

She refused to eat or drink, her body becoming frail and her once radiant eyes turning lifeless and dull. Driven to the brink, she pulled at her hair, howling like a wounded beast, feeling the weight of isolation and desolation, her heart shattered beyond repair.

The absence of her husband had torn away the light that illuminated her world, leaving only the suffocating darkness to consume her.

The whispers of the maids echoed in the grand halls, lamenting the transformation of the once-beloved princess into a tormented wraith.

They spoke of how sorrow had drained her vibrancy, how she appeared so lifeless and pain-stricken, murmuring unintelligible words as she rocked back and forth.

And all the while, her gaze remained fixated on a portrait of her and her beloved late husband, a time when they radiated in power and beauty, before fate wrenched his life away.

The descent into insanity reached its pinnacle as she vented her anguish on her surroundings, smashing even the most fragile of vases and leaving her hand bloodied from the shattered shards.

As tears streamed down her face, she saw her deceased husband before her, his teasing smile still haunting her. In her delusion, he beckoned to her from the balcony, his tall figure standing against the backdrop of the sky.

In a moment of desperation and despair, she gripped her dress and lunged toward him, only to be met with a fatal fall from her chamber’s window

❝ they say, if you stand underneath the balcony of princess [name] you could still hear her cries and screams of pain❞

HII THX SO MUCH FOR REQUESTING 🫶hope u enjoyed , (hope its not badly written ) and no happiness 💕🎀

[kiemiu]

𝓒𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝓞𝐔𝐑: 𝓘 𝓖𝐨𝐭 𝓨𝐨𝐮

pairing kang sae-byeok x fem!reader | wc: 2.1k

summary -> having to comfort cheol after a particularly scary scene in a movie, his sister not answering her phone resorting to you caring for him. warnings -> the suggestion of cheating.

( beneath the quiet masterlist )

9:44PM

𝐏𝐔𝐋𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐎 the orphanage, your mood had been remiss, arriving halfway through the movie. The drive from the Café a great distance, not doing you any favors with the added on traffic that had been nothing less than merciless. On any other day it wouldn't have bothered you to miss the beginning of a movie as much but tonight was different. For weeks upon end the children had begged, and pleaded with all their might to convince your mother to screen a particular film—an adaptation of an old folk tale, one you had been curious of since first seeing the previews even though it was aimed towards kids. Missing even a second of it stung more than you'd like to admit, almost feeling childish for the small pout that made home on your face because of it.

Without wasting another moment, you bolted out of the car and bolted towards the "movie room" which in reality was just a second living room, refurbished to look as such with an added projector and a small popcorn machine. Quickly, you slung your bag off of your shoulder, dropping it onto the front bench while kicking your shoes off before quietly tip-toeing towards the kitchen to make yourself a snack, knowing that the children themselves had already conducted something beforehand, always making their own special little treats for nights like this.

Slipping into the room as quietly as possible, throwing a gentle wave at the children who noticed you while simultaneously holding your finger to your lips to make sure they didn't alert the others, the last thing you wanted was to face the chaos of whispers and giggles from other children interrupting the movie, knowing just how rowdy they got over the smallest distractions.

Settling into a corner towards the back, you tried to focus on the screen, forcing your mind to catch up with the story. It had started out innocently enough—a group of friends exploring an area they shouldn't have been with added on lighthearted banter. Until the movie suddenly took a darker turn, something that was supposed to be lighthearted and fun with an occasional scare or two, spiraled into something chilling and borderline sinister, leaving everyone quiet. The room thick with tension.

Out of instinct you couldn't help but glance over towards Cheol, who sat stiffly on a worn floor cushion in front of you, his small hands clenched tightly into fists, nails digging into his palms with great strength. His doe eyes suddenly wide, and filled with tears as he remained frozen in his spot, eyes fixed on the screen as if he couldn't move an inch, the tremble of his body noticeable as he took rapid shallow breaths.

“Cheol?” you quietly whispered, concern laced in your voice as you leaned down closer to him. He didn’t respond, it was almost as if he couldn't. You watched as his mouth was slightly agape, his lips quivering before a soft shaky sob escaped him. A few kids turned towards him at the noise, some faces laced with concern while others snickered to their friends.

Without hesitation you lifted yourself from the couch, moving quietly but swiftly to where Cheol sat frozen in place. You crouched down to his level before gently wrapping an arm around him, quietly guiding him out of the room so you wouldn't draw anymore attention to yourselves, murmuring soft reassurances to him on your way out. You led him outside to the back porch, the freezing night air greeting you both with an occasional gust of wind.

Once outside, you crouched back down to his eye level, brushing a few stray hairs that stuck to his tear-stricken face. “Cheol," you quietly start off, your voice no louder than a whisper. "Are you okay? It's just a movie, I promise.” you quietly soothed, your thumb brushing away his tears. But as if your reassurances had no affect on him, Cheol's sobs grew louder, his hands that were balled into fists holding the bunched up fabric of his shorts suddenly shot up, hooking around your neck as he buried himself into your shoulder, his body heaving and shuddering as sobs continued to wrack out of him.

His small frame trembled wildly in your arms, each gasp of air cutting straight into your heart. “I-I want my sister,” he choked out between sobs, his voice thin and broken, laced with a despair that nearly brought tears to your eyes.

Without a second thought, you held him closer to your frame. “Okay, okay." you murmured softly, keeping your voice steady. "I'll go grab the house phone and we'll give her a call, okay?” you reassured. You brought him inside and guided him to sit by the door before untangling yourself from his grip. Quickly, you hurry towards the hall closet and grab a spare blanket, draping it over his form before saying "I'll be right back, will you be okay while I go back into the movie room for a second?" and even as his cries subsided into quiet sniffles with the occasional sob, he nodded, holding the wrapped blanket around himself even tighter as you bolted towards the movie room.

You tip-toed back into the room, slipping inside as quietly as you could. The glow of the projector filled the space and casted shadows over the walls and all of the children's dazed faces. Walking over to your mom who had been fighting a losing battle with sleep in her arm chair, her head lolling off to the side before shooting back up, only to repeat the movement again and again. Reaching her side, you tap her arm gently, before gently clasping both of your hands together in a pleading motion. "Please, please, I need your phone." you quietly whisper. With furrowed eyebrows and blurred vision she mumbles out a gruff "Why?"

"Um, Cheol really needs to talk to his sister. Please, it's urgent." You admit quietly, your hands flying around in a gesture of urgency. Your tone softened but the desperation clear with the slight crack in your voice. With an annoyed sigh, she waved you off. Mumbling out a barely coherent sentence "Her-mm-m-phone number—mm-fridge."

Shooting off of the floor, you quietly tip-toe out of the room and hurried towards the kitchen. As you pass the back door your eyes landed on Cheol. He sat slumped on the floor, his back on the glass pane of the back door, the blanket still wrapped tightly around him as his shoulders still shook with cries. The sight making you quicken your pace.

Reaching the fridge, your eyes quickly scan the fridge covered in magnets and pictures until you find a list of phone numbers. Your finger trailing down found the list of numbers on the fridge, until you see 'Kang Sae-Byeok'. You whisper her name under your breath, repeating her number like a mantra, leaving your lips in a whisper as you type it into the orphanages landline, in your head praying that she picks up.

The dial tone droned on—one second, then three, then six, then ten until you're met with the sound of the hollow monotonous tone of an automated message. A frustrated sigh leaving your lips, before you unknowingly start to nibble on the nail of your, a nervous habit you struggled to shake.

The beep signaling to leave a voicemail made my discouraged slouched position stand up straight, "Uh, Sae-Byeok, Hi. So, It—um was movie night tonight here and the movie we watched really scared Cheol and he's asking for you. Please, if you have the time to swing by to talk to him, I'd really appreciate it, He's really upset and could use your help. But—um I guess you're busy right now, so, just come by whenever you get this. Annnnd, Oh! This is Kim Y/n, Calling off of the orphanages home phone, if—uh, if you didn't know. ahem, okay bye." Hanging the phone up, you bring both of your hands to cover your face, your eyebrows pinching in embarrassment as you slowly shook your head. "What the fuck was that about?" you quietly murmur to yourself before making your way towards Cheol, a hesitance in the way you walked. "How am I going to tell Cheol?" you ask yourself, your frown deepening at the thought as you traded back to his figure.

He was still curled under the blankets, his cheeks a soft rosy color, slightly damp from the onslaught of tears that had come to a stop from his now bloodshot eyes. You sat yourself next to him, bringing your legs to your chest and resting your chin on your knees.

“I'm sorry, Cheol. I couldn’t reach her,” You quietly admitted. “But I’m here, okay? You’re not alone.”

He didn’t respond right away. The silence stretched out between you two, heavy, and thick with no movement. The whistling sound of wind being heard from the glass back door along with the muffled noise from the movie filled the silence.

After a long pause, he leaned into you again, resting his head on your side without a word. Your heart swelled at the amount of trust he had in you, a fragile thing you dared not to take for granted. Wrapping an arm around him once more, and leaning your head on the back door, the feeling of the cold glass soothing the heat that radiated off of your scalp. You whispered to him quiet reassurances, a hand rubbing up and down his arm to soothe him and slowly, his jagged breathing steadied, and his sniffles subsided.

Feeling his form slump further into yours gave you the signal that he was fast asleep. Slowly unraveling his figure from beside yours, you hook your arms under his legs and behind his back, lifting him up bridal style to carry him back to his bed.

Slipping out of the house as quietly as you could, leaving with a tight farewell to your mother and a wave to the kids, the weight of the evening still pressing hard on you even on the drive back home with the windows down. Your thoughts tangled with the same persistent questions: Where was Sae-Byeok? Why hadn't she answered or called back? Was she safe? You knew she was strong but the silence on the other end of the line felt deafening which worried you. The questions buzzed in your mind, a storm of uncertainty you couldn’t seem to escape.

Before you could fall too far down the rabbit hole, your phone buzzed on the passenger seat, David's name and his face taking over the screen, a sigh leaving you as you threw your head back against your headrest. Eyes remaining on the road as you grab your phone and answer it. A small “Hi.” leaving your lips, even you couldn't hide the strain in your voice.

“Hey, sexy.” His voice was cheerful, sultry, a stark contrast to the knot of exhaustion that sat in your chest. “I can’t wait to see you tomorrow. It’s been too long without having you in my arms." he comments, a soft sigh escaping his lips. You pretended to not hear the muffled chatter of a female voice in the background, giggling and mocking his words to which he replied with a quiet laugh himself and a quiet "shh."

“Yeah,” You replied, forcing some enthusiasm into your tone although it still sounded flat. “Me too.” you added, but even you could hear the exhaustion mixed with irritation bleeding through your words.

There was a pause, then a faint edge to his voice. “You—don’t really sound excited.” a dry chuckle escaping his lips, something he did when he was annoyed, which he was a lot.

“No, I am! Really, I Promise” You followed up quickly, trying your hardest to convince him as well as yourself, but it still wasn’t enough.

“Well, I guess I’ll just have to make up for your lack of enthusiasm, hm?” he sneered, his tone tight and laced with something sharp. “Anyway, you sound tired. I’ll let you get back to… yknow whatever it is you’re doing. Hopefully you're in a better mood tomorrow, yeah?" His farewell sounding more like a threat. Not a hope for you to feel better but more of a you will.

The line went dead before you could respond leaving you to stare at the road ahead, your phone tossed to the side as a scoff escaped you. His words replaying in your mind. Backhanded and dismissive, they left a sour taste in your mouth, rolling down the window to let cool air brush through your hair.

Fuck David.

' 𝒕𝒂𝒈𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 ' 📷 : @miabcuzz @twicesuuui @kissyslut @kritkalhit @st4rcs @dumbbellxo @theforestchoseme3 @wlvlurvsfimmia @genshinenjoyer @theweirdanimation @ch-3-rry @nenukkjhj @giaqnn @crack240 @pookalicious-hq @laurenkenss @sheinhamood @pooksterrr @bbynai @diorzs @beaaluv @colorfulkittenperfection @yourl0caltrash @kidicaruslover911 @sherryuki-callmeyuki @i0nic02 @knfthxv @mina-has-been-here @monroesturnns

[sweetmage]

V Infodump time!🎉

Since I was encouraged the other day and I'm trying to get braver about sharing OC stuff, here's some V lore 😊 I'll list ten!:

1.) His full name is Valerie Francis Eugene Lamport. He despises basically every part of his name (especially the first 3) so he's V and V only... except to those few who knew him as a child and call him Val!

2.) He's transfem nonbinary but it takes him a long time to come this realization.

3.) He is mixed race! (Latino and white, though he doesn't know his father and doesn't speak to his mother so he's not sure of the exact ethnicity)

4.) His mother was an addict who only showed him affection when she was high and left him alone for days on end so he was primarily raised by Michael and Elisabeth Pitchford, two sibling diner owners where he often walked to for a free meal when he was left alone. The two of them had been adopted to a white corpo family from the Philippines and Ethiopia respectively, used as accessories until they were too old to be cute things to show off to colleagues, and then we're promptly discarded to fend for themselves. They grew a strong attachment to V due to empsthizing with his circumstances.

5.) In the sun ending he plays in a band called Bradbury&Buran, named for the cross street where he died and was reborn several times over in the little Esoterica shop and clinic there. He plays guitar and sings, though their lead singer is actually the Chromaticore woman who he helped in a gig (she wanted out of bad contracts that forced her to spend her every waking moment maintaing the character her managers set up for her for advertising purposes) and became friends with. I named her Parvaneh. They are constantly arguing but it's just enrichment for them!

6.) He wasn't very well liked by Nibbles until he separated from Johnny after which point she became super affectionate. He has deduced that she simply didn't like Johnny (though from a writer perspective its also very possible that she just sensed how lonely he was and decided to be nicer).

7.) He purchased his first apartment at 15. It's the same one he moves back into after the montage with Jackie.

8.) In the sun ending AU V deals heavily with psychosis. He is schizoaffective in every timeline, but in that one it's compounded by a series of very intense medical crisis (losing an arm and a hand to infection, no longer being able to swallow solid foods, several emergency surgeries, etc.), a very stressful work life, and a cyberware and drug addiction. He needs full time care to ensure that he's taking care of himself and has the support he needs to avoid spiraling.

8.) He's a very picky eater and mostly only likes cheap food. Buck-a-slice, room temperature street vendor hot dogs, and vending machine burritos are the main things he'll eat and enjoy. He also really likes synth-ketchup and will put it all over basically anything or squirt it straight in his mouth from the bottle (much to the dismay of anyone forced to witness this.)

9.) He is a very skilled netrunner! I haven't gotten many chances to explore this in my fics (he lost his cyberware usage in the tower ending, after all). He is mostly illiterate, but being able to program and hack through thoughts, feeling, and intentions makes it completely accessible to him. He feels very comfortable in the net and still gets giddy about it like he's still a kid with his first deck.

10.) He is a notoriously horrendous driver (he also frequently drives while high) and anyone who knows him wouldn't dare get in a car with him and makes him park down the street so if he winds up ramming into a building (again) they're not the ones paying the bill.

[starlightvld]

Bait & Switch, pt. 3

<< Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3 // Part 4 >>

Based on "I wasn't in that tunnel."

Call of Duty, implied soapghost // CW: angst, hurt no comfort (yet), suicidal ideation, violent thoughts of self harm, MWIII spoilers

---

Everything is wrong — the dead bodies surrounding him, the strange hiss in his ear, the hateful expression on Ghost's face as he describes all the things Soap doesn't remember. 

All the ways he's hurt the people he loves the most.

No wonder Ghost is treating him like he's the enemy. It's because he is.

He sits back on his heels and stares at the blue sky he thought he'd never see again. The smell of death and human waste wafts through the broken-out glass of his helmet and sends him back to his hole in the ground where he would sit in a gut-churning mixture of mold, blood, and his own shit for the days and sometimes weeks between the ice cold spray-downs just before Makarov paid him a visit.

He's dizzy. Exhausted. Horrified.

And the inescapable hiss from his helmet makes him want to stab out his ear drums. The violence of the visceral thought sends a shiver down his spine.

Years.

Ghost said he's been trying to kill the 141 for years — months upon months of being nothing more than a mindless machine, a puppet for Makarov to pull the strings and make him dance. The implications of the broken out glass and the hissing are clear. Can he even trust himself not to turn again if he takes too big of a whiff of whatever is pumping out of his helmet?

He holds his breath. The longer he doesn't breathe, the more the world goes hazy. Vicious pain slices through his temples, and his lungs convulse, sucking in huge gulps of air. His vision blackens at the edges, the compulsion for violence rising higher—

Wind buffets his face, and the blackness clears away.

He supposes that answers that question.

He tries again to remove the helmet, but it seems to be sealed to his tactical vest — a vest that doesn't have any straps to loosen that he can see. Panic bubbles in his chest, and he struggles harder, desperate to remove the thing that tethers him to Makarov. The thing that made him kill for him.

"Stop," Ghost orders, the harsh tone grating like shards of glass over Soap's skin.

He stops, though the panic still simmers in his chest and tries to leak through his mouth as a whine. He can't bring himself to look at Ghost. Can't stomach that hateful look in his eyes.

Soap thought he'd never break. Thought he'd die before ever betraying his dearest friends and family.

Apparently, he was wrong.

What is left for him now if those he loves can't trust him? If he can't trust himself?

The memory of Ghost's scarred hands trailing over his bare chest jerks him from his spiraling thoughts, and he bites back a groan of frustration at his own coping methods, especially when the subject of his thoughts is sitting right in front of him, hating him.

During the time he remembers with Makarov, Soap used the phantom sensation of Ghost's hands on his skin as a distraction from the pain and torture Makarov put him through, telling himself he could one day feel those hands again if he just held on for another day. Back then, he believed without a doubt that Ghost would love him no matter what Makarov did to him.

Now Ghost won't even let him get close enough to touch.

He wishes he'd stopped fighting when Makarov first showed him that video, when the first wave of realization and despair rolled over him that no one was coming. Maybe he could've willed himself to die and saved the 141 at lot of pain and possible death—

Dread hits him like a sledgehammer straight to his chest.

"Price and Gaz... they're alive, right?" Soap croaks through a parched throat. "I didn't... I didn't hurt them, did I?"

"Hurt, yes. Kill, no... though not for lack of tryin'," Ghost growls.

It's the barest kind of relief, like a hot breeze on an even hotter day. 

As if he can bend nature to reflect his thoughts, the wind blows the fetid smell of some kind of industrial waste their direction. Soap grimaces at trading one foul smell for another. The chopper blades cutting through air grow louder, like an axe on a swinging pendulum, coming closer to cutting off his access to Ghost with every swing.

He's not stupid. Once he gets on that helo, he'll be indefinitely detained and probably never see Ghost again. He'll be lucky if Price and Gaz come to see him at all. The thought burns his throat like bile.

"I'm sorry," he whispers to the sky. "I don't remember. Please... please don't hate me."

Emotion builds in his chest like a bomb waiting to blow. All he wants is to be held. To feel a bit of the kindness and human connection he's been missing for so long. But he doesn't know who he is anymore. He feels like Soap, though clearly he hasn't been Soap for a very long time.

"If Makarov could make a man look and act like you once, he could do it again," Ghost rasps. "How do you expect me to... to..."

Ghost trails off, and Soap dares to glance up. He finds Ghost's eyes have mellowed into hesitant distrust, which is an improvement from blind hatred, but after imagining a warm welcome for so long, it's still a slap in the face.

He doesn't blame Ghost, though. He hates himself, too.

And he's right. It kills Soap to admit it, but he's right. It's possible that whatever Makarov did to the man he sent back from Siberia with the 141 has been done to him, too. It's possible that everything he's ever known or thought about himself is a fabrication built on Makarov's lies.

The rhythmic thrum of the helo gets louder. Bubbling panic turns into a cold stone in his gut. 

Even if he is the original Soap, he let himself get caught — wasn't good enough or strong enough to either avoid capture or escape later on. He's a failure in every sense of the word.

"Ye should probably just kill me now," Soap says, though he barely recognizes the strangely detached monotone falling from his lips. "I don't remember anything, and I'm only a danger to ye."

"I'm not... I'm not gonna kill you." Ghost's gaze sharpens. "Not unless you make me."

"Nae," he says in the same monotone. "Wouldnae do tha' to ye. At least... this version of me wouldn't."

He doesn't have a gun. If the amount of bodies surrounding them is any indication, he likely ran out of ammo and threw the gun aside in his pursuit of Ghost. The knife he dropped earlier, though... 

The blade glints in his peripheral vision, a siren song of potential relief. 

Ghost is hurt. He probably wouldn't be able to stop Soap before he could reach for it and stab himself in the eye...

Ghost might still try to stop him, though, and could hurt himself in the process. Soap can't risk that.

Or maybe he just can't stomach the idea of dying knowing Ghost did nothing to prevent it.

The helo glides over the closest warehouse, sending dust and debris flying. Ghost waves to catch the pilot's attention, and it descends, hovering as close to them as it can get and less than a foot from the ground. Soap reaches over to help Ghost up—

Ghost smacks him away again. Soap can barely hear him over the sound of the helo, but it's clear as a bell in his mind all the same. That growl. That hateful tone of voice.

His chest cracks open. The knife gleams in the sunlight.

"Let's go!" Ghost yells over the noise as he reaches the aircraft and grasping medic hands pull him inside.

And even now, after everything, Soap is helpless against following Ghost's orders. He pulls himself into the helo, leaving his last hope for a swift death glinting on the pavement. A medic slams the door shut with a finality that makes him shudder.

The medical staff are already stripping Ghost's gear to get at the wound. Soap moves toward the back of the helo to get out of the way, the sense of detachment growing stronger and the stone in his gut heavier as the helo rises into the air.

He's traded one prison for another, one torture chamber for another. He's seen too much during his time in the military to hope that the government won't treat him just like Makarov did — strap him to a chair until they're satisfied they've bled him dry.

And he's seen too much hate in Ghost's eyes to hope that his one-time lover will save him.

Not that he deserves to be saved...

The medical officer in charge comes at Ghost with a syringe likely full of a local anesthetic, but Ghost catches his arm and points at Soap. "I can wait. Sedate him first," he orders.

Shock clear in his expression, the officer looks between the two of them and opens his mouth, no doubt to protest. Soap beats him to it.

"Do it. Please."

The idea of sedation is a welcome one. His despair is too potent to take much more of the distrust bleeding from Ghost's mask-shadowed eyes. 

The medical officer shakes his head but does as he's ordered, setting side the syringe for Ghost to prepare a different one while his subordinates clean and stitch up Ghost's injury. A raised bag of blood hangs on the ceiling, already draining into Ghost's body to replace what he's lost. It must have been a lot for him to need a transfusion so immediately. Soap bites his lip, a thread of worry weaving through the numbness.

Was he the one that shot Ghost in the first place? It kills him that he doesn't even know.

The officer pulls off as much of Soap's outer gear as he can — the tac vest is a mystery to him, too, apparently — and eventually cuts off the arm of Soap's shirt to get at his bare skin.

The prick of a needle and the cold slide of drugs into his system sends him spiraling.

He remembers the sensation. A crack opens in his mind, and memories slip through — a thousand jabs to the neck followed by the paralyzing cold intruding in his blood stream.

And as much as he dreads that distrustful look in Ghost's eyes, for the length of time it takes the sedative to take effect, he keeps his gaze fixed on Ghost... if only to remind himself of where he is and who he's with.

Ghost is here.

Not Makarov, but Ghost.

Perhaps it's the drugs. Perhaps it's his own mind playing tricks on him. But as he slips under, he swears he sees a flash of longing replace the distrust in Ghost's eyes.

He clings to it as oblivion sweeps him away.

<< Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3 // Part 4 >>

[morcez]

Vending Machine

Itadori x reader drabble

genre: fluffy fluff

Your day was already going shit. The weather was terrible; the sky was so dark that you couldn't tell it was a day, and rain combined with wind caused shivers all over your body. Of course, you forgot your jacket at home, having to endure the harsh weather through the thin cloth of your shirt. You spot a vending machine selling your favorite snack. You approach dingy the vending machine and see that your favorite snack is at a low price, maybe one thing will go right today. You feed the vending machine your money, Watching the spiral spin, and it stops once your snack is about to drop. Of course, this happens to you

“Shit. shit. shit,” you say kicking the vending machine. 

From a different point of view, you look insane. No matter how hard you, kick, hit, and slam the vending machine it won't budge. During your battle with the old vending machine, a slightly muscular arm slams the vending machine. Not only has the snack you purchased fallen but also most of the other snacks in the vending machine have fallen as well. You look up to see a cute boy with a lighthearted smile on his face.

“Guess I used too much force,” he says nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. He bends down and grabs a couple of snacks for himself. 

“Well, enjoy!” he says walking away.

A small “thank you” leaves your mouth. You were too astonished to make conversation with the handsome strong man.

At least something that day went well. 

AN: This is actually so bad. I wasn't gonna post it but I felt like I needed to post something.

[perlen-gold]

A MelkorxMairon story

An Angbang fic!

inspired by saintstars

(link to AO3)

“Come.”

They call me Great Death, the Constrainer. Black Foe of the World, Master of Lies. They say I am merciless and proud, atrocious, barbarous, brutal and ruthless, abominable and terrible to behold, wicked and vicious. They are not wrong.

 “Come,” I whispered, my voice a phantom of its earth-cracking thunder tracing across his heated stone-skin.

I imagined him adorned lightly. Onyx-black, ink-soft lace balming his skin. A hue of jewelry, the rings he so liked, fragrant with flawless gold.

Lose, the scarlet-crimsoned whisper of his hair, embroidering the tickling shadows about him, breathing with a faint, warm glow, lose, unbound, free.

Instead, iron and steel. Rather, I felt it was the blunt taste of metal humming beneath my fingertips., winter-gray and silver-cool.

Never had I hissed at the melody of cutting cold as he, freezing snow and whirling ice. Now, as I envisioned him in soft-light fiber and warmth-glowing fabric, I nearly did.

Instead, I touched upon the spiral shell of Mairon’s armor, inch by inch.

Enough work.

I almost say it.

I feel Mairon tense the moment the words soar upon my tongue. I think his bruises, sprains and scars, so carefully withheld beneath his armor, coil.

My own injuries are throbbing as the mountain’s heart pulsates.

On the tip of my tongue I finger two different syllables, then. I taste them, long and probing. They are not familiar between my lips.

Instead, I murmur, “Come.”

Then try, taste, whisper.

“Please.”

As I stroke the sounds, I feel the remnant scars of my wounds squirm and stretch.

Enough work. I had said those words before quite differently.

He had been absorbed in a long list of parchment, winding and dry, just like now, after an endless day of meetings and councils.

War is an ever-hungry machine that constantly must be fed and patted and attended to. Not I but Mairon is its master who keeps it ever roiling and toiling. Its needs are both endless and unending.

There are weaponries to be forged, armor to be hammered. Hosts of Orcs to be commanded, captains to be instructed, recruits to be trained.

Expedient though they are, Orcs make poor comrades in arms. Constantly squabbling, perpetually fighting each other for position or food or simply the lack of distraction or wit, they are ill-made for cooperation and it takes more than a whip to tame them. Fear might control them but it takes more to make them efficient, Mairon often says.

And efficient he makes them. Orcs and goblins have a natural aptitude for battle, their fighting is simple and crude nonetheless, Mairon often also sighed, and the imbeciles end up killing each other before they even learn how to swing an axe in an accurate arch.

Then there is food and rations to be retrieved and organized, routs to scout and news from spies and traitors to be collected and molded into benefits and advantages.

I knew all of this because Mairon had told me, complained to me of these things more often than I wished and, what was worse by far, even made me listen till I was fed up and bored beyond even my unyielding power. Oh, there was relentlessness in him that heeded neither my ostentatious disregard nor my sour mood whenever he pestered me with these trifles. I might have escaped, oh yes, but he would serve me thrice the tales of battlements in need of improvement, insufficient food resources and incompetent Orc armorers designing poorer battering rams when I hungered for the naked sheen of his skin.

I have always thought Mairon mercilessly vindictive beyond even my desire for revenge.

“Your army, my lord, needs attention”, he would say lilting as skittering pearls and with a tone so quizzacious I might seize his throat eventually which would make him laugh and brush the sweetest gasp against my ear.

Once, I sank my teeth into the tender rose-petal softness of his beautiful neck and he moaned softly into me while he enumerated all the little repairs needed for some dispensable outpost in such a shuddering, smile-curving little voice that I, smeared with his gold-liquor blood, considered biting off his tongue. It made his heedless smile curve even wickeder.

There had been always only one way to silence the brazen little creature.

And for a while he writhed and arched beneath me, trembling, mouth and body sealed, only to continue his speech in the fire-gilded afterglow of our bodies, his throbbing flame-heat and shivering legs still around me.

Oh, even my fell cruelty, which I thrust into him, could not match his own.

This time, however, it was different.

I say war is a machine but, in truth, Mairon is the machine that is war.

Like the rings he so loves for their boundless, immaculate symmetry, none of his designs or schemes knew either end or beginning and it was these endless, tedious things in his fingers around which they always snaked like wild adders eternally, perpetually.

And Mairon is just as endless and snaking.

There is no detail to escape his lidless mind’s gaze. No mosaic stone unset, no jigsaw piece uncontemplated. Every piece my and his spies gathered glides between his sizzling fingertips.

Not a single piece of floating ash is unknown to him. No trifling squabble crumbled under his high boots unseen, no minor sentiment of unrest skittered across his path without his notice. He weaves a single-minded Orc’s gripe into his hair when he rises in the crisp morning, he holds an outpost’s trivial failings in his grasp when setting the chisel in his forge and he slides a letter intercepted over his skin when he undresses in the evening.

I call him my little flame, and it delights his curving dagger smile, for he is neither little nor single-tipped flame.

My troops, on the other hand, my Balrocs and generals and captains and Orcs call him the lidless, sleepless, all-seeing eye. I might be the god they serve but one single gush of wind loosening a lone scarlet-gilded, fire-whipping strand of Mairon’s hair sends them scudding and scurrying as ants.

I did not, or barely, notice at first.

So consumed was I that it was only an irksomeness in the beginning before it grated at my attention, more and more.

Always there had been a piece of something on Mairon’s mind, a roll of parchment in his long-fingered hands, a whispered request in his well-shaped ear, another meticulously drawn map, another scouting route worked out, another keen-eyes report at his sharp-angled elbow.

It was as though catching an industrious spider weaving double the nets or spotting the arctic fox growing twice the pristine fur.

And yet.

I say I heeded not the change, at first. Yet, in truth there was something vexing me outside the range of my vision, like a buzzing fly my dragons cannot see yet not quite bait either.

When then, at long last, it woke me out of my razor-riven raptness, it was like a silent shiver running through the earth meeting a mountain, a cresting wave crashing against a sheer cliff of rock after building for weeks.

Ah, I had not known it had been there.

Suddenly, however, my ire raged clear and raw.

“Enough!”

Ah.

My skin prickling as the stagnant air before a storm.

My voice, having sundered heavens and cleaved continents, a lightning bolt lit.

Plans and maps, plans and schemes, schemes, schemes and plans! I had been surge-swelling with them like a river breaking its bed.

My captains and leaders, Orcs and goblins, their heads snapped around to my seat as if I had broken their necks. However, I was no longer seated. Why had I come to this counsel at all, dark creatures in my service startling and groveling? Mairon had stopped dragging me there long ago and I rarely obliged him when he did.

I did not take notice whether it was letter parchment or outline scroll I tore from Mairon’s hands. A shattering on the onyx black floor, I felt myself towering, looming with my mounting rage.

In the breathing space between us, him and me, my body was sparking at the edges.

Never had I, quite unlike Mairon, endeavored to control my wrath, unlike him who could mask the brightest blaze of anger like ash covers the still-glowing embers within.

Instead, I felt my shape rise and my all-seeing vision expand, fraying at the edges, burn with it.

Whatever it was that I tore from him crumbled into smoke and electric sparks under my hands.

And still he would not look at me.

Ah, there it was, the hilt and pike of my sudden temper which I was fingering like my warhammer, Mairon’s steady gaze still, still, still fastened on what he had been reading an instant before, parchment and scrolls and lesser creatures and, oh, everything without even once in weeks upon weeks and months uncounted looking up at me who was his master.

The fortress around us, the raven-black stone floor beneath our feet shivered with a ringing tremor.

I thought ages to pass but, in sooth, Mairon stared at the quivering remnants of what I had just ripped from his hands much longer while my rage sloshed and billowed into vastness.

Then, his gaze flared into mine.

It was as though a ray of morning light hit me, clear and spear-piercing.

His gold-crystal eyes were aflame as a crisp winter’s dawn. This was the only warning I was given.

I saw his transformation only in shreds ere Mairon lashed himself upon me, flame-gleaming fur and blaze-white teeth.

My wrath was sharp enough to wrap us both and Mairon’s teeth even sharper.

Fire cannot consume the mountain but it can sweep across, melt, mold and scar it beyond recognition.

Ah, and scar each other we did in our conflagration.

If any dark creature, Balrog or maggot Orc had been present, they must have fled for no insect lingers to watch whether slashing rains or whipping winds may triumph over the storm.

Had we been lesser beings, we might have easily slain each other.

Instead, the stone-blind walls around us gasped as we fought and parts of Utumno well-nigh collapsed under our rage.

When at last we both sank against opposite walls, the torches shook under our breaths as grass before the scythe.

My anger, however, fled as swiftly as it had come and his surely must have to.

The air tasted of stale smoke and departing thunder.

As we huffed, I expected him to limp toward me. Even lean against me, his inferno fury and my cosmic wilderness abated and washed away by the great tide of our fighting, leaving as brine-raw and satisfied enough to huff and touch each other’s wounds with well-practiced fingers softly and tender lips. I would have licked his wounds, and more, and his lips could have kissed mine till we shook from a different kind of fury and another quake came upon Utumno ere an unsimilar fatigue settled between us, and then we would have finally tended to each other’s injuries in a more lasting way.

What rags of his fine-woven garment had withstood his skin-changing were torn to shreds by me and fell from his bare skin.

Yes. I expected his sly smile dripping mockingly from his slyer lips.

Though rare, it had no been our first fight, after all.

As our breaths pooled in the empty counsel room, I saw Mairon rise to his staggering legs.

Instead, however, he left as abruptly as he had flared, limping.

He strode from my hall, naked, gold licking beneath the glowing soles of his feet, the hue of fire-lit blood in his whipping hair and gleaming skin the only cover to veil his lithe shape.

A single Orc stumbled from behind an onyx-carved column.

It stared.

And stared.

And stared.

And stared.

“Please”

The sounds touch queerly between my lips.

I feel my eyes, one of crystal-frozen ice and one of molten-moving magma, close against the silence of his shadow-hewn chambers.

There has been neither council nor meeting.

We have not talked since.

Mairon moves not.

My vision is obscured by the dusk of my own eyes.

The dancing darkness within me notwithstanding, I know his eyes, perusing the endless lines on the rustling scroll in his slender hands tenaciously, to have stopped, poised, on one spot alone.

Slowly.

Slowly my scarred hands begin to move.

Gradually, I touch upon what has been shaped unerringly by him. Layer by layer. Piece by piece.

I remember not undoing his or any other armor ever before. Haltingly, my fingers find few gold clasps sleeping beneath.

Iron plate and greave slither ceaselessly against each other, harness and chestplate.

I have never tasted, brushed my tongue against this creation among so many of his, immaculate in its deadly beauty as everything he invents.

But what my scorched hands find is not beauty alone.

Inch for inch, I let my scabbed finger pads slide over smooth plates of metal, one after another. Perfectly round circles of twisting iron, dark as night, black as a midnight’s dream. Slender-long gauntlets gliding sleekly against each other without the slightest hitch.

Polished, my charred fingertips find the glossy plates against his stomach.  

Not a nook or cranny on the metal stretching across the small of his back; neither scratch nor scrape beneath my quiet palms straying along his waist, down his iron-veiled flanks.

No plate hugging his legs, no piece of armor whispering, pressing against his thighs ever requires a drop of slick oil. I can feel it underneath my tingling hands. Not one part of metal will ever rub against its brothers nor bear mark or squeak. Like snake scales rising against each other’s fall.

As I wander him, a thought strikes me like a smiling fish in the presence of the diving king-fisher. That even Aulë himself would envy this. It is coiling perfection lured to making. It is usage spelled into fascination.

Another thought strikes my pricking skin, then. It is not what he has worn before.

My realization is another spell woven by the king fisher. When has Mairon created this new armor? It must have taken him an age of life to master it into being.

When did he do it? Where had I been?

But, of course, no beauty for Mairon without purpose.

I think, even Aulë will envy this.

It may be a day, it may be an age eternal till I draw his body against mine. Bare skin to skin.

Under my hands his armor is coming undone like a mountain peak, year by year, age by age.

I allow my gaze to fall on the graceful line of his neck then, note the lustrous strand of fire-lit hair that coiles around it. The smooth heel of his hand, aligned to the scroll, the tips hidden behind the faded yellow. The sharp angle of his left elbow, the serpentine line of his muscled back. The svelte shape of his ear, the cutting line of his jaw. All this, I merely graze with my gaze, light as raven feathers before I let the knuckles on the back of my fingers follow my eyes’ hushed trail.

Beneath, slashes and lacerations like gouges half-knitted, purple bruises and blood-cusped strains, half-healed.

Wroth and savage had been my violence, vicious and cruel his own.

I expect his skin, his body to be fire scolding, a blaze like a hurricane. My touch, however, evanesces upon contact with it as though one wraith reaches for another.

Somethings tugs at me then, strange-shaped and eternally coined.

He does not stir, does not move.

Still, his fire has not blazed my scarred skin. And still, Mairon’s voice of melting steel has not spoken to me.

I might pry into his mind, of course. What futility. Mairon has never given anything he did not offer first.

Last is his hair, bound tightly, wrought infinitely to the lovely shape of his neck. It is not in my nature to hesitate, not once, and like softest silk each flaming strand loosens between my stroking, combing fingers.

At last, my time is come to speak.

My eyes still veiled by the endless darkness of my own lashes, against the warm fall of his hair I lay my lips.

“Precious.” Murmurs. “It is enough.” Whispers, straight and firm. “Even you have an end to your flames. Even you must rest.” Murmers and whispers from my lips.

My darkness, a fortress. ”Even you must not be consumed by one thing alone in this world.”

Mairon stirs not. And yet, I feel it in the jolt of rigid muscles against my naked skin like a bow-string springing back.

I catch the thought he aims albeit he aims it not at me. It is the first time I hear his golden voice ever since I returned.

It is like laughter, only viler.

You are one to talk.

Around his naked waist and chest my hold tightens. In anticipation, perhaps, of another attack, wondering idly what other beastly form he might use, I look forward to whatever claws and teeth he will sink into me this time with a kind of grim satisfaction.

I palpate that almost-thought  of his idly, turn it around in my silent-grown mind seeking out its facets and angles.

His skin is cool silver light upon the parched flesh of my fingers despite the honed flames it shields within.

No beauty for Mairon without a purpose.

There.

Ah.

Here, at last. A morsel of truth.

Slowly. Gradually, I begin to comprehend. And yet, still, I understand not.

Long is the silence stretching between us, infinite as the darkened night sky, dull as the lessened moon shredded in wispy mists.

Slowly. Slowly, my arms’ force increases. Slowly, the hold of my embrace tightens.

Slowly, I force Mairon’s body around. Force him to turn. This is what I do and this is what I try.

Ah. Many are the minds and brains fooled by his appearance. He might shroud his viper shape in a robe of splendid cloth but I have seen the bare stretch of his arms and shoulders bent over the forge, his back straight and straining. The ones he seduces think him fair and beautiful alone, yet I have heard Orc sword masters threaten their fosterlings with Lord Mairon’s lust for challenge. His legs apart, sinews and muscles aglow in the sheen of the furnace. He would not even have to lift the hilt of his sword. Among the recruits, his physical strength is a legend told at night fire watches.

And with all his strength he is fighting me now, ah, what resistance against the strain of my arms around his back and sides, against my will to bind him to me, force his body around to face mine.

Vaguely, I am wondering once more if he will transform again, now, in this instant, to raise the amount of bristle and teeth and claws he can punish me with or if he will simply sink and dig his gilded nails and incandescent teeth into my flesh as he is.

Neither of us is speaking.

But this. This is more a fight of wills rather than a battle of physical force, and this once, this once in our eons of time, my will prevails over his.

I can feel him straining as his ember-honed cheek comes to rest upon my beating pulse. It is like holding a candle to my chest.

I feel the touch of his breath as warm as sun-lit honey on my chest, flecks of gold in it.

All at once, I am unable to remember. This. The wisp of his fiery hair. The width of his smooth brow. The length of his body, flush against mine. Unable. Unable to remember the last time I felt his gold-leaping warmth seep into my storm-cloud skin.

My injuries matter not. Their circling pain is forgotten like morning mists fracturing at the break of dawn. We move not and do not speak. However, this once, I will not let him escape.

Puzzled yet I am. Pondering. Wondering. I, Melkor, confess I fail to grasp his ire fully.

Would he envy another craftsman thus? Ah, I think not. Too proud Mairon is of his own prowess, too confident, too brilliant in his own skill.

Would he resent thus what he deems utter folly? He has stood and endured far greater whims of mine.

I know the fight to have seeped out of him, now. There is only the pooling of warmth, small huffs against my skin.

I am closing my eyes to darkness and stillness again.

Long is the silence stretching between us.

“Do with them as you please.”

At first, Mairon does not move.

Then, against the total blackness of my eyelids, I can see him stir. Rise. His head tilting back. His fire-honed gaze, at last, upon my face.

My hand opens for him.

They cannot burn me any more than their luminous light already has.

As I open my eyes, despite myself, my gaze falls upon them as splashing water from the sky.

Even before my eyelids lift, I know their lovely glow shedding light over my maimed, scorch-darkened hands. I know not whether Mairon’s eyes follow the lust of my eyes, become drawn and ensnared as mine. If not, I can neither examine it nor him.

Even now I cannot part my gaze with them.

If the moon had been carved into thirds in the bejeweled night, none of it, though born from that same radiance, would have glistered like any of them!

One sun-lit and citrine-hued, bright as sun-filled water. Vivid as the very heart of the earth the other, a thousand rubies aflame. The last, a brilliant, ever-shining, ever-pure, dazzling white.

Even now I am mesmerized at the luminosity of the first light, percolated through the incinerated cage of my fingeres.

Even Mairon’s light of fire-drunk gold almost dulled beside them. Almost.

This, maybe, is what makes me realize the flash of Mairon’s hand toward the blinding light.

All of a sudden, through the luminous splendor and breath-taking, sky-rendering incandescence, fear jolts through me like a thunder-spear.

No, I am no stranger to pain, not even to dread, the loathsome spider be cursed and all her descendants, but never has terror such as this seized at my hammering pulse.

The yell, the roar aimed at Mairon ignites in my throat as volcanoes erupt with spilling fire.

Almost as soon as it builds, I huff out a breath of absurd emptiness. Mairon’s supple fingers have gripped the resplendent silmarils long before my anger rushes in. Beneath his skin, like strands of his own hair, silk shimmers between him and the precious jewels.

Of course.

My chest almost tears with swallowed, frayed laughter.

Whatever rules Mairon’s black-sooted heart, greed is not a part of it.

His fiery gaze is thrumming into mine, the long-lashed gold of his eyes never once wavering to the wonders aglow between our hands. I imagine his wrist flick and a burst of radiant light clattering across the onyx floor.

Mairon’s voice is quenched iron, spitting with cooling water, “I shall cast them into the darkest sea, the deepest pit and highest sky.”

The fury of this world grows between us, gathers in the thunder lightning and earth-shading clouds, a fell music of drums and clangs.

It is arduous at first, cruelly laborious, to wretch my craving stare from them.

I can see Mairon’s eyes follow the length of my glance, the direction of my lusting breath.

They are magnificent in their effulgence, entrancing in their beauty, enrapturing in their unfathomable luster.

Long has the silence stretched between us.

Silently, I speak.

So you shall.

Mairon does blink. Now. Once. An eternity. Twice.

Finally, ultimately, I can see his gold-glittering eyes flicker toward the luminescent jewels in his hand, his gaze falling, cast down.

“I shall forge a crown fit for them and you, my lord,” he murmurs, lowly.

No love for the sea, the earth, the skies?, I think

“They are to be set in a crown by my hands already.” I speak aloud.

There it is, the sneer.

“It is like calling the elven child hoarding heaps of sand an architect.” Mairon returns, slyly as a minx.

Insolent creature, I think, letting the words flutter soft as lashes against his smile-honing lips.

“Not tonight,” I hum, drawing him closer still, pressing against his curving lips, “Tonight you are mine.”

I think, tonight I am yours alone.

Mairon’s limber shoulders rise as he lifts his hands to lay them along my face, his willowy fingers astir, roaming through my hair where there are caught the colors of the night and the light of fading stars. The light in his eyes is enough to blind and scar the whole world and everything that comes after.

They say I am merciless and proud, cruel and pitiless, tyrannical and spiteful, enviously, greedily, recklessly selfish beyond imagination. They call me Master of Lies, Great Death, Black Foe of the World. I feel giddy with delight when I think of it. It is all true.

Let them not see what else I am.

He, whom they call Sauron, whispers into my ear, his arched fingers woven into my shadow hair, his graceful limbs, the length of his pressing body pouring sun-lit heat into mine of melting ice and frozen stone, the smiling cheek of his lips thawing against my ear.

“You have yet to say ‘please’, my lord.”

[jameswebb-discoveries]

Behold NGC 2283, a barred spiral galaxy 45 million light-years away captured by James Webb Telescope

The James Webb Space Telescope has done it again! Today, NASA/ESA/CSA released Webb’s latest mesmerizing image—a breathtaking view of the barred spiral galaxy NGC 2283, located 45 million light-years away in the constellation Canis Major. This cosmic marvel, captured using Webb’s Near-Infrared Camera (NIRCam) and Mid-Infrared Instrument (MIRI), showcases the galaxy’s intricate structure, star-forming regions, and the life cycle of stars in dazzling detail.

A Glimpse into the Heart of NGC 2283

Barred spiral galaxies like NGC 2283 have a central bar of stars, acting as a cosmic highway that channels gas into the galaxy’s core, fueling star formation. Webb’s infrared eyes reveal the delicate interplay between stars, gas, and dust, bringing into focus the glowing knots of gas where new stars are being born. These dense pockets of hydrogen, ignited by stellar nurseries, illuminate the graceful spiral arms winding around the core.

The Power of Infrared Imaging

Webb observed NGC 2283 for 17 minutes, collecting data across six different infrared filters. These filters allow astronomers to peer through cosmic dust and uncover hidden details. The image reveals:

Brilliant star clusters scattered throughout the spiral arms

Polycyclic aromatic hydrocarbons (PAHs), sooty molecules that help astronomers trace cosmic chemistry

Interstellar gas clouds heated by young, massive stars

Foreground stars from our Milky Way, their diffraction spikes adding to the celestial display

A Galaxy Shaped by Stellar Explosions

NGC 2283 is no stranger to cosmic fireworks. Just over two years ago, astronomers witnessed a stellar explosion in this very galaxy. The supernova, SN 2023AXU, was a Type II supernova—the violent death of a massive star at least eight times the mass of our Sun. These spectacular explosions enrich the galaxy with elements like oxygen and sodium, seeding the next generation of stars and continuing the grand cosmic cycle.

Part of a Larger Cosmic Survey

This image is part of an ambitious Webb program (#3707) aimed at studying the intricate relationships between stars, gas, and dust in 55 nearby star-forming galaxies. By observing these galactic ecosystems, astronomers hope to unravel the mysteries of star formation and galaxy evolution, giving us deeper insights into our own Milky Way’s origins.

A Cosmic Time Machine

As we marvel at this new glimpse of NGC 2283, we are reminded that every light-year Webb’s gaze traverses is a journey back in time. This image captures NGC 2283 as it was 45 million years ago—when early primates roamed Earth and our planet was undergoing climatic shifts. Through Webb’s lens, we witness history written in the language of starlight.

Stay tuned for more stunning discoveries as Webb continues to unlock the universe’s deepest secrets. What do you see in this cosmic portrait? Share your thoughts in the comments! Visit www.jameswebbdiscovery.com for the latest discoveries.

[1800-page-not-found]

Being drunk and complaining how you think your bf/gf is prettier than you (genshin men+women x fem reader) PART 3

ITS THE HARBINGERSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

Not doing scaramouche cuz i already did in part 2

Dottore, Columbina, Sandrone x reader (seperate)

TW: implied unhealthy relationship (for dottore bc that man does not treat anyone like a human being, i have mixed feelings about that guy), and id like to state that i do NOT support toxic relationships.

Making another part for the other harbingers bc im really sleepy rn and I just wanna give you guys something because I havent posted in a long time.

The next part contains Pantalone, Tartaglia, Arlecchino x reader (seperate)

Maybe i'll do Signora, Pierro, and Capatino? but Capatino wears a mask??? wtv lol

Please note that you may not like "[name]"s personality, as it may differ from yours.

You had met Zandik when he was a scholar at the Akademiya, before he was expelled for his crimes and immoral acts. Fortunately, unlike the last girl who had fancied him, Sohreh, he did not mutilate your body, because somehow in that rather small and close to non existing heart of his, was you.

But unfortunately, you could not escape his unhinged mindset. You relied too much on the Akasha System. When he did get expelled, you followed with him. After all, thats what the Akasha showed which was best for you. Hundreds of years went by, and he became a powerful harbinger. He still gave you freedom, to some extent. So how did you wind up at his office, crying and drunk?

"Zandik" You cried.

You were ultimately weak in the mind due to your heavy dependency that Dottore had created for you. He smiled as you cried into his shoulder, dampening his clothes.

"Yes dear? What happened for you to come crying to me?" He was your white knight.

You quickly learned that somehow, dottore would always save you, relieving you of your agony. Like he did with the ruin machines when they found Sohreh's body.

"O-one of your clones said you didn't love me and you had another woman…" you hiccup in between your words.

"My dear, do not fret, there are no other women in my life besides you. Why would I require someone else? Those clones can be quite troublesome, and not all of them are friendly. I apologize for their behavior." He soothed you, patting your back. 'Yes, yes...let it all out,' he thought. His clones were doing well, their original sole purpose was to create insecurities and confusion in your mind.

"But-But, I'm not even that pretty, even you're prettier than me! Theres plenty of women who are better than me-what if you dont love me one day?" You mumble, your head still lying on his shoulder.

"Darling, I have to say, I am surprised by your irrational behavior. My affection for you is undeniable, and the fact that you would suggest otherwise is quite hurtful..." Your eyes widened.

Oh, how could you hurt him like that?! After everything he's done for you?...

"No-no! I'm sorry I didn't mean to hurt you, I-"

"Do you trust me [name]?" He cuts you off.

"Huh? Of course I do!"

"Good, now please can we move on? If we continue to talk about this, my heart will ache even more." He starts to make an expression that he knows will make you feel guilty. You've really fallen deeper into the rabbit hole now.

--------

Columbina had saved you at your lowest, and you had devoted your every fiber of yourself to her. You decided to get stronger, your sole motivation being paying back your benefactor. Well, that was until the angel-like harbinger said you could pay her back by forming a relationship with her.

You did start off as friends, but that slowly spiraled into a more intimate relationship. You promised to be there for her whenever and wherever, but really, does the harbinger who's ranked third really need protecting?... I mean, you're so much weaker than her, how can you protect her when she's in danger?

That thought slowly grew in your mind-you can't help but just let it all out when drunk on the fine vodka Columbina had brought back for you and her to enjoy...until well, you drank the whole bottle.

You stared at the empty bottle in your hand that once held the highest quality of vodka.

"[name], my dear, what's on your mind?" Columbina spoke softly, her voice sounding like a lovely melody in your ears.

"Mmmm...I don't wanna bother youuu..." You dragged out your words, slurring your speech.

Columbina stood up from the couch and took the bottle out from your hands and gently placed it on the glass coffee table, making a small 'kling' sound. She sat back down and held your hands, which were rather cold so she decided to warm them up.

It was strange how she always kept her eyes closed, but no matter what always aware of her surroundings. This only increased your insecurity, after all, only one with great strength could do such things...and you couldn't.

"[name]." She let go of your hands and placed hers on your cheek, and kissed you softly. "Your thoughts will never be a bother all right? I'll always be there to protect you and be by your side." She smiled at you warmly.

You started to cry, the alcohol heightening your emotions. "That's-that's the thing!" You let out a sob, wiping your tears. "I-I don't want to just rely on you, I want you to rely on me too! But, I'm so much weaker than you and, and you excel in everything! You're smart, strong, independent, and so, so much prettier than me and everyone, you deserve so much better than me I-" Your rant was cut short when Columbina kissed you again softly.

"Oh, [name], I never knew you felt this way, I want you to know that I rely on you every single day, there is not a single moment where I don't rely on you. I know you probably don't believe it, but you make me feel so happy. I don't care if you think that I outshine you, because in my eyes you're the most beautiful and amazing person in the entirety of Teyvat. You're perfect in my eyes just the way you are, and no one else can take that spot." Her voice really soothed you, and as she spoke, you stopped crying.

"R-really? You mean it?..." You sniffled, wiping your tears off your face.

"Yes, now please, there's no need to cry anymore alright?" she kissed your forehead and held you in a warm embrace on the couch.

"Mhm…alright, thank you, I love you…" You rubbed your eyes, tired from crying and fell asleep in Columbina's arms.

Once you were sound asleep, Columbina picked you up, carrying you in her arms bridal style and set you gently on the bed, making sure you're comfortable before crawling into the bed and cuddling with you.

The next day, you woke up, eyes puffy and not a single memory of last night. When you asked your lover, she just giggled and walked away, leaving you confused.

--------

Sandrone was an interesting character. When you first met, you had actually died. Well more like on the verge of death. Somehow, for some reason, she had saved you, as she had basically turned you into part automaton.

You were supposedly her 'puppet', but, puppets don't act this human. You were crazy for confessing your love to her, the harbinger who was known for only caring about her own works, and having a god awful personality to come with it.

Well, fortunately for you, you did count as one of her works, so perhaps that was the reason why she accepted your confession and you two started being in a relationship?...you still couldn't wrap your mind about this, you were really happy to say the least.

Today, you had practically begged her to come with you to have a picnic and stargaze. She was being quite stubborn. But of course, she couldn't outmatch your own stubbornness and you, thus she gave in.

You were so excited, yet here you were, sitting on the blanket, extremely drunk. You smiled at her, all giggly and bubbly as you wrapped yourself around her arm, hugging her.

Sandrone sighed and frowned, she stopped her work just for this? I mean, it was you... (She'd never admit to loving spending time with you, she's gotta keep her reputation up... but everyone knows, even you, that she has an extremely soft spot for you (and only you.))

"[name]...quit staring at me like that!" sandrone flicked your forehead, earning an 'owwww' from you.

After recovering from the ferocious attack, you laughed and smiled. "But you're just sooooo pretty! I can't keep my eyes off you, the prettiest girl in Teyvat!"

You lowered your voice to a whisper "I think you're prettier than me, all the other harbingers, and the Tsaritsa- Ow!"

She slapped the back of your head. "I will not allow you to speak of her majesty the Tsaritsa like that, [name]!"

She crossed her arms and turned her head away from you, looking angry.

Although, her words seemed to contradict her statement just now. She spoke quietly under her breath, "plus, youre the most prettiest girl in Teyvat, [name]..."

You perked up, perhaps having heightened senses was a good thing. "I heard that!" You shouted and smiled. "You really think that-"

"W-what?! No! You must be imagining things!" She yelled back at you. "Damn it, I shouldn't have heightened your sense of hearing too! Ugh!"

All you did was laugh teasingly at her frustration and embarrassment getting caught being nice, specifically to you. Until you blacked out from the alcohol. That reallllllllyyyy freaked her out, as she frantically carried you back home. (Well, the only reason she showed her 'nicer' side was really due to the only witness being her modified automaton.)

You had slept for a whole day before waking up at noon, with a god awful hangover, causing you to throw up.

(Sandrone ordered one of her machines to take care of you in secret and report to her every hour about your status.)

[inkedinfusions]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐤𝐞𝐲 | eren jaeger chapter 5

⊱𖣂⊰ | In which you fall into a fictional world with the key to Pandora's box.

── ★ ˙ ̟ . 🗝 .ᐟ.ᐟ masterlist

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𝟎𝟓 | 𝐧𝐞𝐠𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

chapter word count: 3.1 k

content warnings: mild dissociation, blanket warnings

a/n: So! Chapters may be more spaced out from now on. I've got six halfway written and seven and eight outlined, but I'm swamped in schoolwork rn, so the updates will have to take a backseat. I swear I wont abandon this though, I already got way too attached to it. Anyway, I offer you this plot-continuing chapter. I hope it answers some of your questions and leaves you with some more.

Thanks for reading!

𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐖𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐔𝐏 𝐓𝐇𝐄 next day with a bitter taste on your tongue. You lay unmoving, in a similar way to your first morning. The only difference is, there is nothing in your mind. No anxieties, no thoughts, no nothing. The you two weeks ago would be embarrassed, but now you just feel numb. 

You vaguely remember snapshots of yesterday, although you still can't recall specific sounds or sensations. Everything —the past, present, and future— is stuck in a haze. Even nature seems to be aware of this, as you can’t hear the soft coos of birds outside your window, or the rustling of leaves as wind passes through them. 

Time ticks by, and the shadows in your room morph as the sun traces its revolution in the sky. They get longer, fuzzier, and they move around the space as if chasing some unobtainable treasure. 

You can relate, you think.

Your fingers reach out to them, before your hand falls limply to the floor. You graze the wooden floor with the tips of your fingers, the coldness to the touch diverging with the warm blankets. When they collide with something solid below your bed, you sigh, closing your eyes. 

You stand up and kneel before it, gently taking the small box you had stashed under there. The latch clicks when you open it, and your old clothes, the ones from home, greet you. You run your hands across the cushy fabric, softened after many trips to the washing machine. 

A chuckle spills from your lips at the sight. If you’d known you'd be whisked away when dressing up that morning, you would have chosen something comfier, maybe more nondescript. It turns into a sob when you bring it towards your face and you discover that it barely smells of home anymore. 

Unlike yesterday, no tears begin to fall from your puffy eyes. You are too tired to spiral again, your tear ducts too dry to spill over. You simply stay on your knees, caressing the fabrics over and over again. 

Your door creaks open, and Zeke’s head pops in, zeroing on you. 

“Hey, kid,” he says after a beat. “How are you feeling?”

You pay him no mind, not even turning to look at him. His boots fall heavily to the floor as he walks towards you, and it is only when he kneels next to you that you shift your gaze to him. You swallow, nothing coming out of your mouth as you open it to answer.

“...Hungry,” you finally croak.

He nods, helping you up. 

“I’d say breakfast is ready, but it's way past time for lunch,” he jokes, his smile slowly disappearing when you don't respond. 

Zeke looks down at the box in your arms, noting its presence. He hesitates for a moment, and delicately takes it from you to place it on your desk. You let him, watching as he closes the box, but leaves the latch open.

He guides you downstairs, where a steaming bowl of something is waiting for you in the kitchen. 

You robotically take the cutlery and begin eating, scooping up spoonfuls of thick soup. The warmth returns the color to your skin, and your complexion begins to look less gray. Your thoughts start to flow once more, and you eat with newfound energy.

“Didn’t you have a meeting today?” you ask softly, putting down your empty bowl. 

“I got off early.”

He shrugs, like it's no big deal that the War Chief got off early on a meeting about a developing war. You look at him, skeptical, and you're tempted to once again start over analyzing his actions. Your attempt falls flat with his explanation, though. 

“You were sick, kid,” he says, as if it is the most obvious thing in the world. “I couldn’t leave you alone all day.”

You want to cry again, You turn his statement, tone, words, everything, over and over, trying to find a second, secret motive for it. The sincerity with which he delivers his answer comes up against everything, and you, for the first time, believe him wholeheartedly. 

You look down, furiously blinking away a new wave of tears. You're not quite sure why they threaten to fall; it could be the residue emotions from yesterday, your conflicted feelings about your world, or Zeke’s genuine confession. Maybe you don't want to know. 

Silence settles over the room again, only this time it’s reassuring, not constricting. Zeke doesn’t ask about the stray tears that you fail to contain, instead choosing to return to his lunch. You’re grateful you don't have to offer an explanation, knowing still that he would listen to you if you wanted to give him one. 

Zeke takes your plate after he finishes his, making a beeline towards the sink. You let the sound of flowing water fill the atmosphere, while you contemplate the day before you. As you glance out the window, you notice that the sun is already past halfway through the sky, streaking it with stripes of gold and orange. 

Your cheek rests on your palm, and you trace over the lines of the wooden table with your other hand. Maybe you could work on your written vocabulary. 

You hum, as you think about the book you are one third through decoding. You don’t like the prospect of being alone in your room, but there are limited options as to what you can do now. 

A thud interrupts your musings, and you tilt your head up to see what Zeke had dropped at the table. Your breath hitches when a white baseball rolls over to you. 

“Want to play?” Zeke asks. 

You tentatively grasp the object in your hands, bringing it from one palm to the other. To anyone else, this offer would be seen as what it plainly was; an invitation to play catch. To you, however, it reads like an olive branch. Zeke was offering you the one part of his past he looked back fondly to. 

“...Yeah.”

Only three people had interacted both with the ball and with Zeke in the original series. Ksaver, his mentor; Colt, his successor; and Eren, his brother. A new category opened up in the list– you, his ward. 

The white baseball flies through the breeze, parting the air around it with a whizz. You catch it in the leather glove in your hand, before grabbing it and lightly throwing it back to Zeke. He stands across a small patch of grass behind the house, the space being deemed as the current ballpark.

You had been at it for some time, and both pink and purple joined the array of colors above. Baseball was never a thing that popped into your head as a pastime, school work and other hobbies taking the priority of your free time. 

It is, however, great to keep your mind occupied. The mindless duality of throwing and catching –as well as the repetitive nature of it– gives you something easy to do, with no risk of overthinking the action. 

On the other hand, you needed to be sharp to catch the ball and then measure how much energy you would push into it. This helped you concentrate on it, instead of letting it blend in with your environment. 

The cool wind blows across your neck’s nape, bringing some relief in the afternoon sun. Your mind is too occupied with the game to linger on your breakdown yesterday, and you let your emotions flow through you, catching them and releasing them just like the ball. 

Emotions are a fickle thing. They are the reason for the titans, for the connections between people, for the conflicts that ruled the world. They are the very thing that drove the story, and the very thing that ended it. Feelings are as impulsive as they are irrational. And so, on an impulse, you take a very, very, rash decision. 

“I want to go to Paradis,” you say, throwing the ball back at him. 

Zeke freezes as the weight of your statement settles in. The ball lays still in his baseball glove and he makes no move to toss it in your direction. After a beat, Zeke speaks up. 

“You want to go to Paradis…?”

You nod, swallowing 

He throws the ball back, and it lands in your glove with a thump. 

“Is there a reason you’ve decided to tell me this?”

“I know the timeline of your plan.” Your heartbeat quickens and you look down. “This isn't where I’m meant to be, and I- '' you hesitate for a moment, hoping the vulnerability of your request aids you in its acceptance. “I want to go home. As soon as I can.”

The ball flies again towards Zeke. You throw it with more force than normal, and your downturned gaze means you don't see exactly where you toss it, going off purely of muscle reflex. 

And still, you hear the telling thump that indicates that Zeke has caught it. 

“And what exactly do you plan to do?” he asks. “The timeline can’t move up, no matter how much we wish it to.”

In a sense, Zeke is right. The original plan went like it went simply because of the time it took to bring Paradis’ technology somewhat close to that of the rest of the world. And that is without mentioning the allies that would be introduced later on. The Azumabitos and the Tyburs all had their role to play, if things continue on as they were fated to. 

And if things continued like they were fated to, and you still found yourself with no way home, then at least you'd be spared of the rumbling. You don't want to take your chances with the rest of the Eldians and Marleyans at Fort Salta. 

“I can help you,” you offer. It is a Hail Mary, one you aren’t sure Zeke believes a hundred percent. “Besides, the other Volunteers will be there too, won't they? Yelena can keep an eye on me for all I care.”

You catch the ball as it is flung to you, tossing it once, twice up in the air before pitching it to Zeke. 

“I know you have no reason to trust me on this. But all I want is to go home.” 

Zeke examines the sphere in his glove, and you know he is considering your offer. You suppose the proposal is tempting; you are a wildcard that could, at the very least, be a thorn on the road to achieve his goal. And yet, you could also make it easier.

“If I did decide to send you,” he starts slowly, “–and it’s not definite, just a hypothetical– I need to know that we are on the same page. About everything.”

You nod. The imaginary page in question had been scribbled all over with the details discussing the small-scale version of the Rumbling as well as the (not so) fun bonus of the sterilization plan. Half truths with a dose of lies; that’s how you and Zeke operated with each other. Now, he was asking for honesty. 

“I want out the moment you enter the paths.”

“And you're well within your right to demand so,” Zeke concedes. “After all, there's nothing more tragic than being dragged into a fight that is not one’s own.”

Fight. 

You could very well be fighting not only other people, but fate itself. Has this already been decided? You want to argue that no, that your presence here was a new variable, that you could argue with Eren that this was proof that the future could change. 

And if you failed… then maybe at least you could have the small comfort that you tried. And you would be in Paradis, unaffected by the Rumbling.  

“Okay,” you breathe out, catching once more the ball Zeke throws at you. 

A small lifetime ago Tom Ksaver and Zeke Jaeger stood in the very same positions you both stand in now, the mentee becoming the mentor, the new apprentice once again having more answers than the teacher. The euthanasia plan comes to light anew, along with the name of Zeke’s old mentor. 

“So. Ksaver’s plan?”

Thump

“Just how far does that story cover?”

Thump

You shrug, drawing back your arm with the glove. “It's just snapshots. I couldn’t tell you his favorite color, for example.”

Thump

“Fascinating,” Zeke responds. “Do you know how it came to be?”

Thump

“Something about not being born equals no misery?”

The ball flies off to Zeke, who keeps it. He turns it in his palm, throwing it up in the air and catching it again. His eyes trace the path the ball takes above his outstretched hand, and you see how his gaze turns reminiscent, his words heavy and his sentences anchoring to the reality Ksaver presented to him a little over a decade ago.

“All of our grief, all our suffering, it has no place in this world. It exists in us, perpetuated by the fear we instill in the people. And so, if we had never existed in the first place, neither would our torment nor the fright titans cause.”

You nod, your gaze a tad distant, as the ball soars towards you. 

Tom Ksaver had been enthralled when Zeke had proposed the eradication of all Eldians, via the elimination of their ability to reproduce. Both men were governed by their trauma, its invisible hands molding the clay of their stories. 

Ksaver’s dead wife and son pushed him to seek a grandiose way to end his life. He looked for the son who never got the chance to grow up in Zeke, and was comforted when their views intersected. He died with Zeke as his successor in titan, research, and objectives.

Zeke’s trauma had defined his goals. Always going against what Grisha had traced in his future, and yet still being so cosmically intertwined with the man. He had gained solace when he believed he had found someone similar in his younger brother. 

Through the same circular glasses, their point of view was equally clouded by their experiences. 

“I am… very sorry it had to come to this.”

Zeke shrugs. “It's not your responsibility to apologize, kid. You weren’t even born into this world–how could you possibly bear its burden?”

You suppose he is right. Zeke’s point of view hung on the divine burden the sins of their forefathers had placed at their backs, and you, without a drop of Eldian blood in your veins to damn you, were guiltless before the slaughter. 

You double up on the commendation for his cause, hoping to secure a ticket to Paradis Island among the Volunteers.

“Still. I find it honorable how you chose to shoulder this responsibility.”

The statement deals in half truths. 

You truly are in awe of Zeke’s determination and conviction in his own plan, regardless of the abhorrent nature of it. But he doesn’t need to know of your disagreement, just of your admiration. 

You swear you see his eyes get misty before he turns his head to the side, effectively blocking you from confirming it. Soft coos in the trees rise in nature’s harmony, and you watch as Zeke adjusts his glasses, discreetly wiping away stray teardrops before they become apparent. 

You and Zeke talk well into dusk, only retiring inside when the sun dips beneath the horizon, giving way to the first stars in the sky. No agreement is reached, and Zeke skitters around the subject for the remainder of the conversation. 

The fire crackles beneath the stove as Zeke whips together a small dinner, and the smell of toasted bread fills the kitchen’s air.

“ –and I’m just saying,” you continue with your side of the argument, “who do you think your brother would have an easier time trusting? A bunch of adults who he views as enemies? Or someone his age, who can pose as a victim from Marley?” 

“That’s true,” Zeke acknowledges, most likely remembering the single time they met, along with Reiner’s account. “He is rather… brash.”

You don’t tell him that it was Eren who originally sought out Yelena, to then pretrend to be on board with Zeke’s plan. Trust was a minor detail in the equation, and Eren simply relied on his future memories and carefully built facade to get him through. In the end, he didn’t need to trust them, just manipulate them enough so they could be useful.

“So I can go? Please?”

“Eat your dinner.”

“But-”

“You were sick yesterday, eat your dinner.”

Like a moody teenager, you huff at Zeke’s reply, shoveling a slice of bread into your mouth. The jam in it was delicious, but you weren't about to compliment the cooking of the chef when the chef in question was being a jerk and avoiding the topic. 

“Whatever,” you mumble between bites. 

One would think you were arguing about some party you didn't have permission to go to, or some unjust punishment caused by failing grades. Certainly not a world-altering conspiracy and a trip to the dubbed Devil’s Island. 

Zeke stands up with a sigh, and you look at him questioningly as he walks out the kitchen. Damn, you think. Had your pleading finally annoyed him into an early bedtime?

You don't wait alone for long, though, and Zeke once again enters the kitchen after the sound of rummaging in the adjacent room ceases. His hands hold a sheet of paper and a pencil, you notice, as he walks towards you.

The chair Zeke pulls screeches against the floor, and he sits down next to you. A pencil and paper are placed in front of you, the writing utensil rolling towards your hand. You take it before it falls, and your eyes dart between the paper and Zeke. 

There, in scribbled writing, lies another twenty six symbol alphabet, different from the Marleyan one you’ve been learning. The unfamiliar runes stare back at you, and you tilt your head with furrowed brows, trying to decipher the meaning of Zeke’s offering. 

“What is this?” you ask, pointing at the sheet with the pencil in your hand. 

“The Eldian alphabet,” Zeke answers. 

Your eyes widen, and your gaze flits between them both. 

“Wait. So I'm…?”

“Yes.” Zeke nods as he takes a seat again. “I’ll have to talk to Yelena, rework some points of the plan. But you are going to Paradis.”

Your sudden hug catches Zeke by surprise, and you squeeze him tightly, wanting to transmit the depths of your gratitude. Finally, finally some of your anxieties about your fate in this world will be quelled.

“Thank you,” you mumble against his shoulder. 

“Of course.” He pats your back comfortingly. “And you better not slack off on Marleyan either, Gabi told me you still struggle with fluent reading.”

The sentimental atmosphere shatters. That snitch. 

“Give me a break, old man, I started learning it only a few weeks ago.”

“Sure.”

You pull away from the hug, rolling your eyes at his comments. Zeke chuckles, and his gray eyes find yours again.

“I’ll get you home, kid. I promise.”

taglist: @dressycobra7 @xngelsau @bloodchapell @i-think-im-adorable13

ask or comment to be added!

[saints-helen]

So you guys know how I headcanon cross to have some form of psychosis/delusions?

.....

Yeah so that's fun!

:3

Anyway, a cutesy thing to feed the crepic machine.

:3

Enjoy!~

(inspired by that One Post by @howlsofbloodhounds on tiktok (idk if they posted it on Tumblr-) where kolor play this little "game" where color helps killer determine what's real and what isn't)

"He's watching us right now?" Cross murmurs into the dark, so sure he is of being answered, that he doesn't even look at the body resting against his shoulder to check if it's awake.

"False." Comes the quiet response, so sure, yet so tired, as if answering the incessant Why? Why? Why? Questions of some- toddler.

Cross may as well be a toddler, with the stupid questions he keeps on asking.

"He's-" he takes a deep breath "he's listening, then." His voice is quiet, and so is Epic's

"False."

Again.

He takes another deep breath, shakier this time.

He always gets like this at night, all- all paranoid and anxious, like a nervous dog stuck in its crate, when all the sounds of the night get disturbing.

"....

"He's coming back."

"False."

Again, they play this stupid game, and again, Epic indulges him, spoils him, would indulge him in eating leaf gold and caviar every day if he asked, and Cross, selfish, selfish disgustingly paranoid Cross, keeps asking.

"....

"Is he here?"

"Nope. False, not here."

A longer answer this time, he lets out a breath.

He doesn't get those too often, not at this hour at least, when his heart is supposed to be winding down instead of winding up.

Winding up...

Is that a word?

*Was* that a word?

He finds he can't quite remember right now.

"Winding up is an actual term that people use."

A pause.

He's caught him off guard.

".... True?"

He sounds hesitant, he's hesitant, and that's never a good thing, because if Epic is hesitant about anything, at this time, even about something as innocuous as a term, then what can Cross trust right now to keep him from spiraling?

"True." It comes a bit more sure. Actually, Far more sure, firm, as if he were making sure of an equation in his head, and Cross had made him doubt himself.

Stupid, stupid Cross with his stupid, stupid delusions.

"It's a word." He says, seeming satisfied with himself, and with that satisfaction decides to Reward himself, pulling himself closer to Cross and nuzzling against his shoulder, letting out a breath that was so very content.

It's nice, he supposes, they both run a bit cold, but Cross a little warmer on good days, though Epic Does say if he eats more he'll run like a heater, which he supposes Does sound nice, especially when Epic is out and all he has for his company are just his clothes and a blanket.

...

Cross still doubts it though, it's physically impossible to run like a heater, at least for a skeleton monster.

...

He's thinking too literally, where was he again? Oh, right.

His stupid fucking paranoia.

"You love me." He asks, and Epic lets out an amused huff against him, pulling even closer.

"True. That's correct, my guy, it's the most right thing you've said all day." And before Cross can apologise for wasting his time, he continues:

"Although, i Do like hearing you talk.. so don't worry too much about it."

..Hm.

How can he always just..

...

"Can i-" he cuts off "if-" again, and Epic taps a soft, steady rhythm against his arm, the rhythm of a heartbeat, the rhythm of proper Breathing;

'calm down'

So he tries.

"If- if i were to-" fucking dammit, mouth doesn't work right and neither does his head, fucking Wonderful-

"Can-"

Just get it Out it's not the first damn time you asked you-

"He's not gonna- do anything? If i- if i- Stay, with you, he won't-" a pathetic pause "he's not going to- make me regret it."

He says, instead of the utterly childish "he's not gonna hurt me again is he?" That was Begging to push itself out of his mouth.

Epic seems to understand, however, as after a few seconds of thinking about his words, he answers.

"True," he says, "that's correct, he's not gonna do anything to you because of it, because he can't do anything to you anymore, because he's gone, because he's dead." He explains, word for word like he's teaching a kindergartener, about something as silly and easy to understand as how plants work.

First, they sprout from a seed, then, they spring up and up and up, then, they soak up the sun, then, they drink water from underground or- whatever, then, they absorb nutrients from the soil - and, of course, dear stupid fucking child, all these three steps happen at the same fucking Time you stupid fucking- and then, they grow leaves, and then, they grow flowers, and then, those flowers get pollinated, and then, those flowers make seeds, and then, the seeds get planted one way or another, and then, the cycle continues.

Step by step Epic explains his answers, and step by step patiently tells Cross what definitely counts as common sense to literally every other single person in the entire multiverse.

Because Cross has a fucked up head, and his fucked up head makes it so that he needs things explained to him slowly, and his fucked up head also makes it so that he needs reassurance about his stupid fucking- about his father potentially watching him and listening to him and planning to punish him in the middle of the night, because, of course, Cross's paranoia gets in the way of sleeping, because, of course, Cross gets in the way of sleeping.

"I'm going to be okay." He says, and gets a good answer.

"True. That's correct." And he can feel Epic smiling against him, so maybe everything isn't too bad.