#but I am trying hard not to Punish the Body For Its Failures

[whentherewerebicycles]

.

[gingerhastoomanyobsessions]

Christmas Carol Bone To Pick (Pun Intended): Yet To Come isn’t malicious. A lot of adaptations seem to portray it as actively wanting to kill Scrooge or make him miserable for misery’s sake, when…no!!!! All of the ghosts have Scrooge’s “reclamation” in mind. Yet To Come is scary, sure, but it’s for a “tough love” reason— really bringing Scrooge eye to eye with the consequences.

It’s interesting to note that Scrooge’s failure to realize that the people of the future are talking about him isn’t just out of denial, it’s optimism. He assumes that future!scrooge has changed his ways and is not at the Exchange because he was off doing good: “He looked about…for his own image; but another man stood in his accustomed corner…It gave him little surprise, however, for he had been revolving in his mind a change of life, and thought and hoped he saw his new-born resolutions carried out in this.” Yet To Come has to show him that it’s not going to be that easy.

During their journey, Yet To Come seems…sympathetic, almost, even when it’s making him watch scenes that are really hard to take. It “paused a moment, as observing his condition, and giving him time to recover” when he was too shaky to walk on. Scrooge notices it observing him and his reactions when they go from scene to scene, which freaks him out, but it seems to be trying to gauge how he’s doing to determine what scene he needs to see next. When it tries to reveal the truth to him by asking him to view his own dead body, he tells it that he’s too afraid to look, so the spirit moves along and chooses the more indirect tombstone method. When Scrooge breaks down upon seeing it, the spirit is affected: “the kind hand trembled” upon pointing to the stone.

Yet To Come strikes me as a profoundly alien entity that is trying its best to communicate with a fragile mortal, balancing the tightrope act of “not enough information to be truthful” with “breaking Scrooge’s brain”. It’s not cruel, per se, it’s just honest, and sometimes the truth is a hard pill to swallow. If we take it to be death, or an embodiment thereof, then we can read that death isn’t malicious, it’s simply inevitable. Scrooge is going to die eventually whether he changes or not; the thing that scares him most is that the Bad Future has him dying before he makes that change, leaving only wreckage in his wake. Scrooge recognizes that this fate isn’t a punishment, but a caution— “why show me this if I am past all hope?” etc etc.

Yet To Come is a warning, but it’s a well-intentioned one. It’s honest, brutally so, but not cruel for cruelty’s sake. Which makes adaptations that show it as malicious or even trying to kill Scrooge very frustrating.

[animebw]

Short Reflection: Onimai (I Am Now Your Sister!)

I’ve been trying to put into words why Mushoku Tensei is so infuriating to me for a while. You think it’d be easy, right? All I have to say (and indeed, what I have said in the past) is “this show wastes so much gorgeous animation and obvious talent on a pedophile protagonist who’s never punished for his actions” and everyone with a functioning brain would understand why they need to avoid this show like it’s the scarlet rot in Elden Ring. And yet that doesn’t quite capture the whole of it. That simple explanation doesn’t offer an explanation for just how deep and personal my fixation with Mushoku Tensei has been since its airing. I’ve watched plenty of bad anime and tossed them into the memory hole, but something about this one refuses to stop pestering me. It demands my attention even when I wish I could just forget it ever existed, like a splinter constantly pricking the back of my mind. And despite my best efforts, I’ve been unable to understand or explain what about this particular bad show makes it impossible for me to stop thinking about it.

So if there’s one thing I can thank Onimai for, it’s that it finally helped me realize why.

Sure, on the surface, these two shows don’t have that much in common. They’re both produced by studio Bind, both lavishly animated to a frankly absurd degree, both about adult men being zapped into a new child body for a second chance at life, and both clearly aiming to conquer the lolicon share of the market. But one’s an ostensibly epic fantasy while the other is a pastel-vomit cute girls gender-bender extravaganza. You wouldn’t think there’d be many comparison points to be made here. And yet, these two shows are similar. In fact, I’d argue that at heart, Mushoku Tensei and Onimai are essentially the same story, just filtered through different prisms of genre. And it’s in recognizing those similarities that I was finally able to unlock the reason behind my visceral fascination with Mushoku Tensei, and why this studio’s brand of storytelling leaves me so, so angry.

See, both Rudeus and Mahiro, in their past lives, were losers. And not just any losers, no; they were full on hikkikomori shut-in failures who retreated into extreme otakudom and porn addiction to cope with not being able to understand the world. They’re the embodiment of the saddest, most pathetic depths a person can sink to, the worst case scenario for so many socially-deficient anime fans who come to this medium to escape reality. But in their respective rebirths, Rudeus and Mahiro are suddenly given a chance to live their lives over- and this time, to do it right. Unbound from the failures of their past lives, either by leaving their gender behind or leaving the familiar world entirely, they’re given a clean slate to try, stumble, try again, and struggle their way to achieve the fulfillment and self-actualization they were unable to accomplish before. At heart, Mushoku Tensei and Onimai are both stories about taking the lowest form of human scum, offering them a do-over button, and watching them work through their issues until they’re able to embrace their new life and be a functional human being at last.

It’s not hard to see the appeal of that story. The idea that even the worst, most hopeless person imaginable can turn things around and become a well-rounded person is one of the most inspiring philosophies to live your life by. And I fully understand why those messages resonated so much with people. Hell, I’ll even admit that some moments in MT- Rudeus’ reconciliation with Paul, his hopelessness spiral in the final episode- were so moving that I genuinely felt something for the guy in spite of myself. Bind’s animators aren’t just exceptionally talented at making things move on screen, they make full use of the medium of animation to convey their stories with some of the strongest, most emotionally potent cinematic storytelling in this entire damn medium. They take these stories of broken people trying to be better and imbue them with the kind of artistry that makes them sink into your very soul. You feel the weight of Rudeus stepping over the threshold. You feel the importance of Mahiru coming to terms with her new identity. At their best, these shows will make you believe in humanity’s capacity for change like nothing else can.

At least until the moment passes and it gets back to being horny for twelve-year-olds.

And that’s the smoking gun. That’s the reason Mushoku Tensei and Onimai are both such agonizing experiences. Because in these incredibly affecting stories of personal betterment, these expertly told stories of people overcoming their worst selves and becoming fully realized people, they’re never forced to outgrow their pedophilia. Or rather, the audience of otaku who see themselves in these shows and use them as inspiration to improve their lives are never forced to. Because no matter how much these characters grow or change, the shows they’re attached to still find time to put pre-teen girls in various states of eroticization for the audience to enjoy. No matter how these shows challenges their audiences to see the worst parts of themselves and work on being better, they never portray being sexually attracted to children as something you need to leave behind. Studio Bind sells a fantasy where you can turn your poor situation around and live a worthwhile life without sacrificing your desire to beat off to twelve-year-olds. Don’t worry, it seems to say. We won’t really force you to confront the reasons why society shut you out.

In other words, both Mushoku Tensei and Onimai send a message that says: “You can become a better person without actually fixing the worst parts of yourself.” And because of how fucking good Bind is at preaching that message, the anime community bought it hook, line and sinker. It’s almost impressive; finally, we have an omega universe KyoAni to balance out the cosmic scales. Never before have I seen such incredible talent and artistry so consistently put to such evil use. But allow me to burst the bubble for everyone taken in; this studio is lying to you. These shows are lying to you. If you want to become a better person, you cannot hold onto your worst impulses like this. You cannot treat the darkest parts of yourself as an acceptable hanger-on. You need to be better than these shows believe you can be. Because the second you accept the half-measures they’re offering as a win state, you’ve already lost the battle.

Also, don’t beat off to twelve-year olds.

Can’t believe I even need to spell that out.

Look, just like Mushoku Tensei, there are moments in Onimai that really soar. The comedy is fun when it works, the animation is infectiously lively, and whenever it decides to take Mahiro’s journey seriously, it’s unironically powerful stuff. But also just like Mushoku Tensei, there’s no way to buy into the strengths of Onimai without accepting a constant stream of sexed-up prebubescent fetish shots (greatly ramped up from the manga, I’ve been told). And there’s just too much good anime these days for this to be forgivable. Countless shows big and small have proved you don’t need to cater to the worst of humanity to craft something truly special. There’s no need to suffer through this slop when countless shows are doing way more without subjecting you to this agony at the same time. So until Bind learns how to weave its magic without dunking it in dogshit along the way, they will only ever be a stain on an industry with far too many stains already. For now, though, I can only give Onimai a score of:

3/10

Welcome to the end of Winter 2023. Expect my seasonal reflection in a week or two!

[requiemforimmortals]

I am at war with my body

have been my whole life

tshirts and shorts in swimming pools

avoiding that scene if I could

food a pleasure and a pain

overeating

under eating

eating disorder

crying in a car instead of clothes shopping

staring at a donut as if it would poison me

eating it anyway

how do I care for a vessel

that has always been my biggest downfall

failure

not trying hard enough

just eat healthier

its not that hard

workout and mean it

actually trying

to seeing results

seeing happiness

not hating a mirror

gaining it all back

depression and hate

harder than before

crying while working out

heart just too sore

break a mirror cry some more

eating disorder

eating disorder

trying not to hate myself for being human

trying not to punish myself for joy

what even is joy

nothing relating to my body

that’s for damn sure

eating disorder

eating disorder

K.M. Rose

[djino04]

Touchstarved-OmegaVerse serie

For the first day of FEBUWHUMP 2023 (@febuwhump ) . The theme is touchstarved

POV Saul

For some reason, Rosalind decided to send Andreas on a diplomatic mission to Eraklyon for two weeks. That's a long time two weeks, it's even longer when you're an omega and the alpha who usually helps you is gone. I think the headmistress did this to punish us/me for the failure last time, I can't see any other explanation. Because any sane person doesn't put the word "diplomatic" and Andreas in the same sentence. But you may say, Rosalind is far from being sane.

So I act as if nothing had happened, while the pain invades my body day after day. This doesn't stop me from giving my classes to the specialists, nor from fighting against Dane to supposedly do a demonstration, but I also take the opportunity to put him in his place. This kid really needs to come down a bit. He's gotten a little too big of a head since Rosalind decided he'd be useful to her. So sure, he's good, but he'd be even better if he practiced instead of strutting his stuff. I feel like I'm seeing Andreas again at times. Except that Andreas trained at night and had private lessons since he was a child, which is not the case for Dane. He needs to understand that he still needs to improve. I'd like to avoid him learning that lesson by getting killed. 

Anyway, all that to say, I'm carrying on as usual, or at least trying to. The first week was pretty easy, but then the first symptoms came. First, a headache came on and it refuses to let go no matter what medication I take. Then my stomach decided that it would refuse some of the food I would try to swallow. And now my bones are starting to hurt. I know the next step will be shaking and dizziness before I am unable to stand up. At first, I was hopeful that the more serious symptoms would not present themselves until Andreas returned, but that illusion did not last long.

I hate being an omega... And I hate Andreas for making me promise not to take omitrix. If I could have swallowed the drug, everything would be fine, I would be sound asleep in my bed, instead of being kept awake by increasingly unmanageable pain. I have rarely had to suffer from the lack of alpha thanks to Farah and I wonder if this is a bad thing after all. Maybe it would be easier if I were used to the pain or maybe the symptoms would take longer to come on. It's hard to say and I wonder if there are any studies or anything about it. I realize how little I know about omegas. I refused to learn too much because I didn't want to be an omega. I still don't want to be one, either. It's so much easier to be an alpha... 

A sharp pain stabs my stomach and I can't hold back a groan. I try to breathe through it and curl up on my side, waiting for it to pass. If I listened to my instincts, I would spend the remaining four days before Andreas returns, in this position in my bed. But I refuse to give Rosalind that pleasure so tomorrow morning I'll get up and go to class as usual, no matter how much it hurts.

************************

When my alarm goes off, I wince as the noise makes my headache worse. I have no desire to move because I know that any movement will only increase the pain I feel. I feel like all the fairies in the school have decided to use their power on me tonight and will do it again the second I get out of bed. 

Yet, I have no choice, I have to do it. So I gather my courage and lean on my arms to straighten up. This simple movement makes me dizzy and I fight to keep the contents of my stomach in its place. But I refuse to simply let myself fall back into the pillows. The first class starts in an hour, I know it's going to take me a long time to get ready so I have to get up now.

After almost 45 minutes of struggle, I am ready. I see my reflection in front of the mirror and I can hardly recognize my face. It's pale, with huge dark circles under my bloodshot eyes. I feel like I've aged 10 years in one night.  No student is going to be able to miss the fact that I am sick. As long as they don't understand the source of my illness, I'm fine with that. The fact that I'm an omega is becoming less and less of a secret, but I hope I can keep it that way for a while longer. I don't know what's in store for me when the truth comes out, but it won't be good for me, that much I know.

I look at the time. I have 15 minutes left to make the trip to the training ground. I glance out the window and almost groan when I see how far it is to the castle. This daily commute seems so long today. I am so tired and it would be so easy to finally decide not to go. I'm not going to be much use during training but that would mean letting Rosalind win again. She has far too many wins under her belt for me to let her have this one willingly. I'll go to class until I can't get out of bed. That's why I finish getting ready by putting on my shoes. I start to grab my sword when there is a knock on my door. I'm having a little trouble guessing who it might be by the time, but I guess I'll find out soon enough: 

"Come in."

To my amazement, it's Sky who walks through the door. He frowns as he closes it behind him. I guess it doesn't take a genius to know something is wrong with me. But his presence here before class is quite disturbing, which is why I ask him: 

"Sky, what are you doing here? Is everything okay?"

He doesn't answer me verbally, but he walks towards me with a purposeful step and I quickly find myself with his arms around me for a hug. Relief immediately washes over me as the pain immediately begins to recede. This does not prevent me from worrying about the reason of this impromptu hug. That's why I ask Sky: 

"To what do I owe the honor of this hug?"

I hear Sky's response, even though her face is buried in my shoulder: 

"Andreas texted me to tell me to give you a hug since you are apparently incapable of asking for help. Those are his words, not mine, but I pretty much agree with him."

I blow my nose, amused. I in turn hug him to me. We shared hugs throughout Sky's childhood, but he's grown up and those moments are rare now. I will cherish this moment even if it didn't act like medicine for me. Especially since I thought I would never be able to do it again after I was sent to prison and even afterwards because of the anger my son felt towards me. But things have changed now and this hug shows it. I also have another feeling that comes over me that I can't describe, the thought that Andreas is watching over me, even though he is far away. I can't even get mad at him for stepping in without asking me. On the other hand, I know I owe Sky an explanation, so I give it to him: 

"I didn't come to see you because it's not your place to deal with this kind of thing."

I feel him shake his head before he replies: 

"Yes it is, that's what pack members do, they help each other and they are there for each other. We are part of the same pack, Saul, and I can help you. I should have known what was wrong even without Andreas' message. I noticed this weekend that you weren't 100% but I didn't want to bother you with questions. There is so much going on with Rosalind right now, I didn't even think about what Andreas' absence meant for you.  You've been suffering when I could have helped you a few days ago, if only I had understood."

I tighten my grip on the back of his neck before replying: 

"Hey, hey. Stop that, right now, okay? You didn't do anything wrong, I kept it from you. But I thank you for coming to me when Andreas told you about it. Despite what you say, you didn't have to help me." 

I know that he is surely not convinced and besides he confirms it by asking me gently: 

"Promise me to ask me to help him next time."

I need to stop making promises to Andreas and Sky.  But I know my son won't let me out of this room until I do, so I comply: 

"I promise you. I will come to you if the same situation happens again."

That seems to be enough for him because he doesn't add anything else. And for once, my promise gives me some leeway. There's no way I'm going to intrude on Sky's life because of my omega status. I'll have to find some other solution than omitrix to make myself independent from him or Andreas. I don't know where I stand with the latter. Does he help me only because he has to? Or is he doing it because he wants to? When in doubt, I have to look for something else that gives him the freedom to leave whenever he wants. I hope he doesn't because I appreciate having him back in my life, but neither he nor Sky deserve to have an omega as a burden. There has to be another way, I just have to find it. 

But that's a thought for later. For now, I'm enjoying the moment. The pain is slowly diminishing and in a few hours it will be a distant memory. There are 12 minutes left before the start of class, I have plenty of time to enjoy having my son against me for the first time in many months, before I have to head to the training field. 

[p-o-t-g]

I feel like throwing up i feel like throwing up so much gross my body the thing inside of me is gross i hate it i hate it so much i hate it i need it to be gone i can’t live with this, there is no way i can live with this. So gross so bad i don’t want to feel it its so bad i need to get everything out from my body i hate it i hate it i don’t know what to do i don’t know why is this happening but its too much its just not going anywhere its gross i can feel it its still here still inside of me its so bad so gross i need to get this out from myself my chest is much more heavy now and i don’t want to breathe i don’t want to see, hear, talk, walk, woke up... Overwhelming so overwhelming so much a lot of emotion a lot of overwheming emotion so much thing so much for me, not anyone else but everyone everything is so much. I don’t want to talk i need to be alone, not that it will make me better but this is so hard so hard i am tired i fucking tried i have tried i tried my absolute fucking best but still nothing, still same, same maybe worse, so bad. I cant do anything its almost impossible i don’t want to do fucking anything im exhausted its al so gross i want to cut every piece of me and dissapaer because it hurts so bad so bad i cant even describe how disgusting it is how disgust myself almost all the time and now its unbearable. I can’t do anything, i don’t want to do anything, it already came back it fucking here even though i thought i was better i thought i was better ghosts but but ii wasn’t at all or even if i am not anymore. Nothing, there is nothing left in me but disgust.  All the time, all the time when i look at myslef, when i don’t, when i think about myself, nothing but the urge to kill myself and dissapear. I am sorry, i am sorry but i don’t know how am i supposed to keep myself alive. I don’t know how am i gonna go through this month. Or this day, or even maybe this seconds now. Always, i always want to cut myself again and again, more and more, over and over until there is nothing left of me. Everything gross i am gross, my everything is. Every time the feeling inside of me to cut middle of my chest and be gone for ever. For, ever. I just, there is not even a littlest will to be better or anything. My mind hurtsü my chest hurts, my leg hurts, my scars hurts, my stomach hurts, my heart hurts, i hurt from myself. So much so fucking much so much it never gets better i dont feel like it will get better my mind now is like a locked door and there is no way to use it again. No ghosts, no, no, no, no no no please no please i can’t try again i am so tired i don’t want to try again nothing worth to live nothing worth to try now. I know it does not make sense and i shouldn’t talk about any of this but i don’t want to eat any damn thing, i don’t want to see myself, i don’t want to talk with anyone beacuse it disgust me so much that i almost sure that i will throw up at some point because they... Oh they are so much different than me. So much and my hand can’t even write why because it cause my mind to crash. Its so bad i have no idea what am i suppose to do. I want to kill myself. I want to make everyone hate me so much and then kill myself. And whatever happens next, i will deserve it. No ghosts nothing make sense anymore, nothing important anymore, nothing nothing nothing make sense nothing is for me in this world i deserve nothing here all i deserve is my own torture all i deserve is being myself i need to fucking live with myself and this is my torture, this is my hell and this is what i deserve, this is my punishment. I am the punishment, my mind is my punishment, my body is a gift to destroy by me so i can finall get what i deserve. Everything falling apart i can’t think straight at all. I am not able to think i don’t even deserve to think and i don’t deserve to talk, even. I don’t deserve him, i don’t deserve her, i don’t deserve any of them. I don’t deserve any one of them and not because im not succesfull and failure but i am the torture itself. I need to torture myself not the others. Not the others ghosts you know best i shoudln’t torture anyone but me. I need to hurt anyone but me. Everyone deserve happiness, but not me. Not me and somehow the only one who get everything is me and the ones who deserve gets nothing. Or maybe, they do. They are doing it. They do get better, they ARE better. And they will be better because they deserve to be better, not me, i am not like them. I was never like them. I will never be like them. I always will be the same person. My reasons to be alive, they are not enough, not at all because i do have A LOT reasons. My friends, my family, my boyfriend and maybe the possibility of involve a theatre. This is more than enough, at least it sound like it is. It should be but, i don’t think, i should be here. I just, i am so tired, so disgust with myself in a point that cannot keep myself together. I hate every fucking thing about myself. I hate most when i see they doing things they are trying they are doing it when i see them trying and doing better. I am so happy for them but the feeling of disgustion with myself makes the happines dissapear. So much. So much bad feelings inside of me  that shouldn’t be shared with another. My body, my legs, my stomach, my face, my hair, my shoulders a lot, my hands, my words, my reactions. Myself.myslef.

I hate myself.

I hate 

everything about me.

I can’t live with this much anger inside of me.

I cannot be friend to anyone.

I shouldn’t be friend with anyone.

So tired. 

I am so tired. So fucking tired.

I just want this to end.

Because

i dont know how much longer i can keep going like this. I really dont know and i would already dead if i wouldn’t know that my friends and boyfriend will be so worse even though this is what i deserve, they don’t. I just. Doing my job.

Torture myself.

Protect others from myself.

The torture is not enough ghosts, i need more.

Because i don’t belive i deserve the happines anymore, i don’t have the right to want something good for myself but if i had, if i had the right to want something for myself.

I would just want everyone to be gone or a way to not show them my disgusting self.

But i don’t think, i can do that anymore.

I don’t think i can wish or want anything for myself since i wasted EVERY opportunity and EVERYTHING that given to me again AND again.

I disappointed everyone.

Sorry, everyone.

I am so sorry.

I didn’t want to do any of these.

im sorry

[yoondles]

Unholy - P.JM

Devil! P.JM x Reader

Summary: The Devil doesn’t ask for repentance, he punishes those who fail to repent.

Themes: A few religious hints here and there but it’s just porn without plot

Word Count: 5k, edited if you close your eyes

Inspo: nothing but ᵗʰᵉ ʰᵒˡʸ ᵇᶦᵇˡᵉ jk

Warnings: Degradation (he calls you a whore), huge dick like hUge, fingering, oral (m receiving), bondage, unprotected seggs, rough seggs?, teasing/edging, creampie, mature language, mentions of murder, drug dealing, and Jimin is a 🤏 cunty.

A yawn. It was what had woken you up, it was ironic however, the person who yawned must’ve pulled something from his muscles that he had to yell loudly. His bones cracked as your eyes opened, lashes fluttering as you sneaked a glance towards his direction. He cocked one of his eyebrows up, giving you a look that he was indeed better than you. You tried your best to move around, only to find out that you were held locked against the mattress.

The chains repeatedly moved against the wooden frame of the large bed. Your legs were locked up, but most importantly, you were naked. Cheeks tinted a pink hue as your observed the entirety of the room, your heart was pounding against your chest as you tried to cover yourself. Your eyes avoided his, gazing at the dark hues of red that scattered around the room.

The cold air did nothing but remind you of your current form, knees quivering as your nipples went hard from the cool breeze. Breath halting as you felt the man beside you breath against your neck. “Where am I?” You dared to ask, after all, your mouth had not been forced shut, might as well put it to use.

“Ah, the pure innocence humans have when they’ve finally reached my domain.” He muttered, his shoes clacking against the tile of the room. Pushing his tongue in his cheek as he fixed his coat, gently placing it behind the chair as he dragged it lazily in front of you. “You’re in hell, darling!” He exclaimed, eyes turning bright as he met your terrified eyes, pearly white teeth glowing brightly in enthusiasm. “No, seriously, where the fuck am I?”

“Well, aren’t you a crude little brat?”

“This is fantastic, you little grievances just keep on getting cocky,” He was annoyed, licking his lips as he gazed at the corner of the room, as if he were trying to calm himself down. He pushed his hair back, cracking his neck before gently placing both of his hands in his hips. A derisive gaze lingered on your body as he eyed your entirety.

The silver from his ears glowed brightly under the light that illuminated the room, his prominent cheek bones were highlighted, his plump lips were slightly open as he finally moved to meet your eyes. “Having the time of your life, aren’t you?” You wondered how long you’ve been staring at him, nitpicking, trying hard to find a flaw in his image. His mood was quick to change as he leaned forward, hands reaching your neck before enclosing it in a inhumane grasp, limiting the oxygen that flowed within you. “Always so fragile.” He muttered under his breath, watching the way your veins would appear.

You choked out a breath. You coughed out as his hands began travelling south, touching the area around your hard nipples but being careful to the point that he doesn’t allow himself to touch them. “Get your hands off of me, freak!” You yelled, the sound of metal rattling blasting the entire room.

He seemed unfazed. “You’re a feisty little bitch for someone who’s supposed to be punished, very ill-mannered if I may add. I’ll talk to God about this design flaw,” he was shaking his head as he grabbed a small notebook from his coat pocket, alongside a pen, writing down his observations as he muttered against his lips. “What?” You yelled once again, chains rattling loudly as you did your best to run away from this lunatic. “God, as in G, O, D. Father of almighty, creator of heaven and earth, do you want me to continue reciting the Apostles’ Creed?”

“Stop playing around, just — let’s get this over with, I want to go home.” He was confused, completely taken aback by your sudden submission, closing your eyes as if you were waiting for something to happen. Thunder rumbled from the outside, as the ground slightly shook. “Completely lost will to live, shows lack of loyalty...” the sound his pen made against the grain of the paper brought you back to reality, you couldn’t help but laugh at how much he took this seriously. Sure, it was one thing to live in your fantasy, but to write things as if this were reality? What type of weed did he smoke to get this high?

You let out a yelp as his fingers hit your exposed cunt, wincing as he shifted the pen back to its’ original position, closing the notebook with his pen inside. “May I remind you, you’re in hell, darling. You don’t get to boss me around, most importantly, you don’t get to push me into listening to your orders.”

The tone of his voice never faltered, “you’ve been quite a naughty little bitch out there, criminal records going quite far. You’re going to love it here, maybe you’d roam around as a middle class woman, especially with that reputation.” You shut your mouth, pulling once more as you tried your best to break free. No one knew about your criminal records, no one knew that you did illegal work. So who the hell was he, coming out here and telling you about this? You suppose he was a man of power, or maybe the police had finally caught you, you had no idea. “Normally I’d approve of it, you know, living your own life. However, you brought this hellhole, quite literally, so many souls. Imagine having to get in a queue to enter hell. All the drug dealing, corruption of innocent souls, let’s not forget about the old woman you forced your subordinates to run over.”

“H-how?”

“I rule hell! For someone who’s been living a life as lavish as yours, you’re quite dumb.”

His fingers were tracing small circles in your stomach, pinching it every once in a while as you moved your hips trying to avoid his warm hands. “So, you’re Satan?” He pulled his hand away, rolling his eyes. “Of course, that’s what you would say...” he pushed his slick hair back situating himself in the chair near your bed. “Whichever you prefer, however, the lilt the name Jimin has is something I’m quite fond of.”

It was distracting trying to listen to him as his fingers slapped your cunt once more, forcing you to hold your breath. You tried your best to limit your reactions, trying to not feed into his ego as you were already held captive and bound. Whether he was lying or not, you had to at least play safely around him. His hands travelled towards your thighs, quietly observing the way you would react. The way you would shiver every moment he inched up closer to your weeping vulva. “You’re such fragile creatures, y/n.” Closing your eyes as you felt him inch closer, his breath fanned over your clavicle. “Fragile enough to be tempted by the devil himself, aren’t we?” You whispered in his ear, breath shaking as his skin came in contact with yours. He let out a laugh, hands flying towards your needy breasts as he drew lines with his finger. “That’s a common misconception, darling.”

His eyes failed to meet yours as he continued to harvest reactions and small almost undetectable movements from your body. He was left in awe with the way you responded, shivers ran up and down your spine, breath hitching, the small goosebumps that formed, you were intriguing. “The devil doesn’t tempt you. You imbeciles try so hard to find someone to accuse of your haughty little actions. May I remind you, you’re in control.”

“Well, not right now.” His dark eyes held fire within them as he found yours, gaze burning holes in your body as you finally stopped resisting. There was something about the way he talked, the way he felt so close to you, the way he focused on you and you alone. You felt something from deep within you combust.

“You do everything just to avoid responsibility for your own actions, tell me, y/n. How does it feel to become powerless now that you’re here?” You closed your eyes tight, toes curling as one of his fingers found your clit. His voice dropping octaves as he rolled the pads of his fingers against the wet bundle of nerves. Your eyes rolled back as your limbs rattled the chains in protest.

“Is there a flush of regret? Maybe a hint of happiness because you’re a masochist? Tell me,” you shook your head, still refusing to fall into his hands as he moved faster. Failure to elicit sound lead to a sudden halt in his movements, a whine would emanate from your lips, before he started to move his fingers once more. A sexual punishment where you never reach the peak, a mixture of annoyance, pleasure and humiliation bubbled inside you.

“Your mouth shuts itself off, doesn’t it?” Fingers moving lower, and lower, and lower, finally penetrating your hole as your lips parted. Slick coating it before accepting it with the warmth of your unexplored cavern, he let out a sigh out of satisfaction. You were clueless, you had no idea when you had become this wet, but you were thankful for the penetration. Sighing, you pushed yourself towards his finger as you tried to reach for more, to push him even further inside you. “Oh my,” he was amused, laughing at the humiliating actions you made just to feel more of him.

“Humans tend to break so easily. This time around, I’d be honoured to tell you that maybe I did tempt you. But all I did was fuel the sexual drive you had, nothing more.” You tried to shut him off, your hips grinding harder against the single finger deep within you. Moaning ever so silently, desperate to climax on your own. He remained motionless, doing nothing to help you. You were eager to feel the knot inside your stomach unravel before him. “I wish you’d see how pathetic you look, y/n.” Still you didn’t stop, tears rimmed your eyes as you tried to chase something far away from you. You felt yourself moving closer to the edge, the lack of stimulation from both your clit and your insides had been nothing but excruciating.

Despite the many whines you let loose, he still wouldn’t budge. He left you fending for yourself as the rough spot from within you begged for any form of contact. His fingers were deep enough, but due to the restraints you weren’t able to angle yourself to the perfect position. Hence, his fingers danced around the spot, never touching it. Absentmindedly pushed yourself, you never reached what you had been searching for. The corners of your eyes were starting to fill up with tears due to the pent up frustration that’s been keeping you grounded. Jimin watched in amusement, one of his eyebrows perked upwards as he let his smile loose.

“I c-can’t.” Your elbows were shaking, using them as leverage in order to get into the angle you needed in order to push yourself. In the end, you were nothing but a puddle of your own arousal and sweat. “Please, just— move,” your words were nothing but a whisper, but he heard your pleas. After all, the Devil was always listening.

“Let’s get things straight, y/n. I’m not here to ask you for repentance, you’re beyond that point. You’re here for punishment, not for pleasure.” The tears finally managed to escape your eyes, crying as you did your best to get off. However, with your lack of mobility plus his unforgiving form of punishment, you grew more impatient and far more frustrated. “Please, please, please...” you begged, pleas growing far more silent as seconds passed by. He huffed, pulling has hand away as you uncontrollably shook your head in protest. He grabbed a handkerchief, wiping his finger diligently. “Begging won’t do anything, darling. The devil never settles for bare minimum.”

Maybe it was the touch he cared to give you earlier, maybe it was how the wind carressed your bare figure, you didn’t know which one it was that put you in this situation. You normally had a lot of self control, why were you fallinng apart? The warmth from within you slowly crawling out of your skin in forms of tiny little droplets of precipitation, your breathing came in small gasps, neck craning as you followed the man claiming to be the devil himself. “You want this to be over, just so you could go home... Normally, that would mean I’d finish my business with you, blah, blah, blah... But I’ll need something a little more straightforward. Something I could take as a green flag.” his pearly white teeth appeared right in front of you, smiling in a mocking way. “I’ve got all eternity y/n.” he crossed his legs as he sat down the chair. Opening a bottle of wine, and pouring himself a generous glass.

Thunder rumbled from the outside, and once again the floor shook. Jimin was amused with the way you moved in the bed. Your eyes calculating possible escape routes, as they glossed over the entire room. The sound of the chains echoed in the empty room, repeatedly yanking on them in a small attempt to at least get them off of you. Letting out a huff the moment you realised that this was getting you nowhere. Your little hole was twitching from the cold air that surrounded the entire area, reaching your nipples making them hard once again. Hearing him drink the glass of wine he poured himself had driven you over the edge, somehow, it managed to reflect something so carnal.

You whined in frustration, it was obvious enough that at least one of your worries needed to be eased. “I’ll need words, I’d never hear the end of it if you don’t consent.” Raising your brows up in curiosity, the devil took a step, rising above you with the wine glass directly on top of you. “God might get pissed at me, circumstances like that... Honestly, if his disciples made me look so bad in their little book, I might as well play the part.” He shrugged, talking to himself as he inhaled the scent of the alcoholic beverage. His mere presence tempting you as your vulva weeped for more, shivering against the cold gust of air, in the midst of talking to you, he accidentally tipped over the glass, spilling a little bit on your stomach.

The liquid was enough to send a jolt running through your body. “Goodness me,” he muttered as he grabbed a piece of cloth from his coat pocket. Wiping it down, moving towards the direction of your cunt, wiping a little bit of the wetness off. You whimpered unintentionally, “you were messing the sheets.” he scrunched his nose towards your direction. You tried your best to close your legs, chains producing more noise, before you finally gave in. “Please, use me. I need you.” It happened quickly, Jimin’s ears were trained and hadn’t missed a best. He raised his brows, glass long forgotten, setting it aside. “A little louder please,” a tone danced with his voice, as if the excitement finally had erupted from within him. “Use me as you will, please.” It wasdegrading, but it was worth it when you felt him squeezing in two of his delicate fingers. Pushing past your walls, finally gaining the courage to breach further and dwell deeper inside of you.

You arched your back, the desperation had finally reached you. “Fuck me,” you silently whispered, his palm hitting your tiny bundle of nerves, as he continued to pound his fingers against you. “Look at your little cunt,” he was astonished, the way your tight walls enveloped his fingers, it would restrict him from spreading his fingers apart. “You must have a sinful mind, I’ve barely done anything to you, and yet, here you are.” His eyes widened as he smiled, a small ember flame growing larger, reflecting his heightened need for sexual attention. He was getting far more excited as he felt your walls grow wetter, and even tighter. He could feel your orgasm coming, the way your short gasps would erupt from your mouth, how your stomach moved in an attempt to ease the knot you feel inside of you, the way your legs shaked, with the noise of your restraints moving against the bed posts. “Faster,” and yet, you howled for more. He tore his gaze away from your dripping vulva, observing the way your face would contort.

The way your mouth was left agape, how small lines appeared from beside your eyes as you shut them tightly, how your neck tilted, exposing flesh he’s desperate to mark. And so, you came undone. The pleasure rippled from your core, reverberating throughout the expanse of your body. Your legs quivered in a desperate attempt to close your legs.

He let you ride your high, finally, pulling his fingers away. “Open wide, y/n. I’m teaching you how you must clean up after yourself.” He laughed at his own comment, happily obliging you opened up for his fingers. Sucking off remnants of your arousal, not minding the salty taste of your release, indulging. “For a human in hell, you’re quite decent. You know how to follow orders,” he pulled his fingers away with a pop, being the diligent man he was, he cleaned his fingers with the same handkerchief he used earlier. Discarding the fabric, letting it flop in the table.

“Such a pretty little figure. A shame humans had gotten their hands on you,” he bit his plump lips, walking slowly from one side to another as he watched your naked figure. Presented in a way so delicately, so small, and yet your eyes burned with a far cry from innocence. He could break you, have you begging for his dick all night long, but he too had limits. Just with how tight his pants felt, he knew at least by the next few hours he needed to be inside of you. Your lustful gaze never left his figure, the scent that erupted from your sex had been too intoxicating that even the finest wine couldn’t compete. You were far too precious to be laying down here, all prepped up just for him and no one else.

The area below you slowly sunk down, informing you that someone had occupied the empty space. The heat that emanated from his body was noticeable, but it was nothing unusual. The pads of his fingers danced around your face, holding your jaw tightly as he forced you to look up to him. You held your breath as you waited for his next move. His hand trailed downwards, finally giving your soft mounds the attention that they deserved. Perky nipples greeting him once more, flicking his finger against one of them just so he could hear your moans once again. Giving the other a harsh slap, quickly turning in a shade of red due to the sensitivity of your skin. “How should I have my way with you, y/n?” Although he addressed you, you were certain he’d been talking to himself as he experimented with your body.

Hands moving south as he drew circles on your stomach, your cunt managed to produce more wetness, making it look like an appetite underneath the single lightbulb from the room. Leaning down as he gave the area just above your pussy a small quick peck, before inhaling your scent. Closing his eyes as he tried his best to imprint the unique smell only you could make. “You’re a fucking sin, y/n. You’re the embodiment of everything unholy,” he found the area between your legs the most enticing to him. For the first time tonight, he let himself have you. He let himself fall under your temptations.

You felt butterflies, the juices you released finally had purpose. No longer discarding the liquid you brewed for him. Maybe it was the validation that he, too, wanted you, the humiliation that even the devil didn’t want to have a piece of you was beginning to eat you away. One quick flick of his tongue was enough to erase any harsh feelings. His lips wrapped around your clit as your mouth did their best to put emphasis on the two syllables that represented his name.

Just as quick as it had happened, he was pulling away. Slowly prying the buttons open to his shirt, coat long discarded in the ground as he gave you an exclusive show. The way his biceps would flex in front of you. His chest moving along with his harsh breathing. Never missing the way his shoulders would move, and how the veins would protrude as he discarded his clothing. Soon followed his belt, the latch hooking against the chain, making it pull on your leg slightly, reminding you how bare you were in front of him. Gently pulling the zipper down as his huge dick finally showed itself. Sporting a few tattoos here and there, as he threw the last of his garments somewhere across the room. You bit your lips, as you unconsciously moaned just when you take in everything presented to you. Your breathing grew far more harsh.

You took in his entire figure. His dick long enough to go past his belly button, thick enough to make his hands look very small. His tip was glistening with precum, tiny droplets that glowed, licking your lips as all you could do was fantasise about drinking him all up. You didn’t really expect that he’d be merciless with you, but when you felt his presence right above you, and his tip just below your lips. You opened your mouth greedily, moving your head forward, eager to finally have him down your throat. “Well aren’t you a good little bitch,” he muttered under his breath as he held your hair with a makeshift ponytail. Pulling onto it as he moved forward. “Open wider, darling. You and I both know I’m not gonna fit,” chuckling as he continued to instruct you.

He held your head in place as you opened your mouth as wide as you can, slowly he entered you. Your teeth barely missed his length, experimenting as you moved your tongue below his shaft, loving the way you could easily make him moan. He was sensitive. “Good grief,”

He pulled back out, your greedy lips encasing him in, just as his tip was about to leave your mouth. Your mouth was left agape as your eyes followed the direction of his tip, finally close enough just so you could kiss it, licking a stripe as you tasted his precum. Sighing out of satisfaction as you bobbed your head even further down. He was barely halfway in when you felt him hit the back of your throat. “You’re greedy aren’t you?” He pushed himself even further down, making your body jolt due to the sudden movement. “Avid little mouth sucking me just back in, you’ve barely prepared yourself and yet here you are, sucking my cock like a fucking whore, letting me hit your throat.” You tried to nod, however the obvious intrusion didn’t allow you.

Your tears welled up, as you tried your best to make him proud of you. “Shit,” he cursed under his breath as he felt your tight throat constricting around him. Quickly he was pulling away, your lips had remnants of his precum, mixed with your own saliva as you held your mouth open for him to inspect. Your eyes shed tears due to how deep he went inside of you. Lashes turning heavy as droplets of tears continued to house themselves there. You were breathing heavily. “The devil isn’t usually rewarding, but I’ll make an exception for you.” Another shift in your positions as he stood up. Proudly walking around with a body sculpted by the greatest sculptors, his back muscles to tight, his sweat doing him justice making every single part of him far more contoured, emphasising every movement he made as he was finally setting himself in between your legs.

You pulled onto your chains, as you desperately wanted to hold onto him. His hair was barely covering his eyes as he watched you in amusement, his dick in hand as he positioned it against your cunt. “Let me touch you please, Jimin.” You winced at your own voice, rough and coarse as it reminded you of the previous events. You rattled the chains even louder this time, you could feel the underside of his dick grazing your cunt, making you moan as he reached forward freeing both of your hands. You were quick enough to hold onto his neck, “this doesn’t seem like I’m punishing you, I’m just drinking you in at this point, y/n.” You shut him up with a kiss, letting him taste himself. You were too distracted to even notice him positioning himself, and with one quick piston of his hips, he went balls deep inside you.

You broke the kiss apart, the devil looking at you with a smirk in his lips as he gave you no choice but to willingly accept all of his harsh thrusts. You were desperately searching your head for anything coherent to say, but you were knocked out of words. Thrusting harshly as all you could do was moan just below him, yelling his name every once in a while as you felt him hit a familiar spot deep within you, legs shaking as you did your best to keep up with his pace. He held your hips in place, as he continued to pound inside you like a savage. The occasional grunts that left his mouth would continue to echo in your head, giving you fuel to push yourself harder.

“A cunt like yours deserves to be in hell. You’re a freak, y/n.” His deep voice growled against your ear, his gruff voice bringing you back to earth. You felt your sanity drift away from you due to the deep and harsh stroked. Dick carving its’ way through far deeper, able to hit the entrance of your cervix, you were almost certain he’d be marking it as his territory too due to the repeated blows his dick gave.

“God, Jimin,” you muttered upon reaching your second orgasm for tonight. Your breath hitched, toes curling alongside the rise of your body against the soft sheets. He only pushed in deeper and harder, emphasising his presence. “We’re still calling onto him aren’t we?” He moved his hips far harsher this time, hitting your spot. Your vision turned white from the feeling of overstimulation, as if the first orgasm never really stopped, you felt yourself forming another knot from within your stomach. “You pathetic little brat, you should be calling onto me, not him. Tell me, is he the one making you feel this way?” His words were hard to understand as each one of them were emphasised by a harsh roll of his hips, balls smacking, managing to graze your clit with his own skin, as his dick carved itself inside of you. “N-no,” you tried to be obedient, but it was hard when all you felt was the way he was marking you as his territory. “Then who is, y/n? Tell me,” a dark chuckle escaped his plump lips as he bit himself, watching you from below him with hooded eyes.

“Fucking answer me!” He growled, choking you while he continuously pounded inside of you. “Y-you are, Jimin. Fuck!” Colours danced in your eyes, closing them shut due to too much pleasure. As if he wasn’t deep enough, he pushed even further. As if asking your cervix for entrance, acceptance, manhood pounding against it’s doors as you let out a pained moan. Not once did you ever expect you’d be having a dick this big. “That’s right, you’re all mine. Aren’t you?” His hands grew a little more tighter, yelling out your response with a hoarse voice. “I’ll make sure anyone who dares to fuck you next knows,”

“Carving the shape of my dick in your velvet walls,” he was inhuman, yes he was far from being a human. The way he still continued to pound you whilst speaking without a single stutter, how he’s held out his own release even after having his dick sucked. “You like that don’t you?” Encapsulated in your own little bubble as you desperately reached for more oxygen, all you could do was nod at him. “You’re my personal fucking slave, y/n.” With each words he pushed himself deeper, grinding on your g-spot repeatedly, the pleasure was unlike what you’ve felt before. It was pure, something that only the devil could make you feel.

“And I don’t like sharing.” A kiss in your forehead was all that you got before he finally came undone. Alongside the knot you’ve been holding onto for a while, your juices mixed. You felt him pull out, followed by a trail of your mixed essence. He tilted his head in amusement, using one of his fingers to feel the creamy substance that erupted from your vulva. “You did well. I’m quite surprised, you’re a special little bitch, y/n.” Too tired to even form a coherent response you closed your eyes and looked away from him. His words began to sound more fuzzy in your head, the sound of the shower filling in the silence.

A gentle touch on your forehead woke you up, it was his lips kissing you goodbye. “I’m afraid I’ll have to go,” he pulled his slacks back up, buttoning up his shirt, concealing the tattoos and hiding his heavenly body. “To where?” Your voice would almost sound pitiful, he carded his fingers through your hair before standing up and wearing his coat. “Doing God’s work, I suppose.” He grabbed the comforter before encasing you in, your sore legs finally able to close themselves as the sound of his leather shoes hitting the wooden floors slowly dissipated. “I’ll do my best to meet you soon. Please, do enjoy your stay in Hell.”

© Yoondles 2021, All Rights Reserved

[sekceesimps]

Dying Light (a yandere Zhongli x reader oneshot)

summary: Zhongli comes to claim his darling after she fails to fulfill her end of the contract 

a/n I wish I could say this was requested but I love this man too much. Writing this one had me feeling some kind of way… Hope you all enjoy and leave some requests (pls do yandere Genshin 🤧 smh)! 

Sincerely Coffee

His dark hair shines vividly in the solemn moonlight. Amber eyes radiant, like the purest of diamonds, and fixated right on you. You stand before him and try to subtly shrink away under his piercing gaze. The candles in the room flicker from some gusts of wind coming in. Zhongli seems stiff and at attention, but at the same time far away, lost in thought. Your light and unconscious movement backwards out of fear, unnoticed by you, immediately snapped the archon’s thoughts back to you. 

A ghost of a smile begins to dance its way onto his handsome face, a stark difference to the dangerous threats he had whispered into your ear just moments ago. The light gave him an eerie appearance. 

���Darling Y/N, I’m afraid that you didn’t uphold your end of the bargain,” he frowned and cocked his head mockingly. You step backwards some more until your back hits the wall of the funeral parlor. He has a predatory gaze now as he steps forward and pins a hand on the surface next to your head. He leans forward to further take in your panic. It brought him distress to see that you weren’t comfortable around him. 

“I’m sure you were a good girl and read the fine print. Surely you must be aware that at the end of our contract, if it was that you couldn’t fulfill your end of the deal, then you must join the greatest contract of all time with me?” he continues and runs another hand hand teasingly down your jaw. 

“Perhaps you could entertain me and tell me what that greatest contract is?” you ask hesitantly. Beginning to feel the gravity of the situation as you notice the way the archon caresses you and looks at you with eyes filled with a dangerous sort of adoration. 

“Oh Y/N, you’ve been bad, I thought you understood everything when you signed. I mean marriage of course,” he answered gleefully, eyes sparkling with affection and excitement at your shocked expression. 

Yes, just when did this feeling for you begin, he had pondered to himself. There was no mistaking that these emotions he felt for you were love. He was sure that you also loved him, so why did you look so afraid? He would show you again how perfect the two of you are. 

- - - 

Zhongli is not one to break his word. He is the archon of contracts after all. When you had approached him, as Rex Lapis, a few months ago he had decided to learn much more about you.  

You were an interesting mortal and had almost immediately caught the God’s attention. The geo archon had taken to shying away from the affairs of humans over the last hundred years or two. However he tended to make exceptions for interesting people with even more interesting requests. 

“I’d like to ask for some help,” your melodic voice said, breaking the silence in Rex Lapis’s abode. “If that means signing into a contract with you, then I accept,”

He appeared near you in an instant, “Even if that means not getting the best deal?” he asks, startling you slightly. 

“Yes,” you breathe out lightly. 

“Hmm, you’ve caught my interest,” he responds, putting a hand to his chin, as if he was thinking long and hard about a potential deal with you, “do go on with what you need my help for” he finishes. Of course, he already knew what you needed. He had been watching you for quite a while, but he loved hearing your voice and being near you for once. 

“I need to find someone and I can’t do it by myself. Could you please lend me your strength and assistance as I look for this person” you practically begged him. Oh how he wanted to hear your begging in a different context. It was taking everything within him to not tug you by your hair and bring you to his side forever by force. He knew that you probably wouldn’t appreciate that and he still had to do his job and draft a contract. That is when the idea had struck him to skillfully find a way to keep you with him forever. 

“Very well, let us start writing up a contract then,” he pronounces with a tone of disinterest, secretly preening with joy on the inside. You perk up and smile largely at him, it brought him satisfaction knowing that he made you feel like that. 

“Alright that should be everything,” he finishes and removes his quill from the scroll. “I will come to you whenever you need help, all you must do is call out my name. As for my benefit, all you need to do is find this person you hold dear and that will be enough for me. You have the next 70 days to complete this, of course there will be a punishment if you can’t fulfill your end. However I have the most faith in your skills.” you nod at him in confirmation as you take the pen from him and leave a scrawling signature on the paper. A glowing binding tying you to the archon, prompting you to blush at how close the two of you were now. “Don’t disappoint me, Y/N'' he whispered and let you leave his abode with a smile. The first step in his plan to make you his was finished. Time to wait for your inevitable failure. 

Now he wasn’t going to actively make you fail, he still was true to his job and bound himself to you so that you could call him for help. He would still assist you as well. However, he agreed to what you wanted because he knew the task itself was impossible. This brother you were looking for was long gone for sure, he made sure of that before he signed on to your contract. He couldn’t wait for when the two of you would finally be spending the next few weeks together. 

 Zhongli was smart about the way he conducted himself around you. He was careful not to give you any hints of his true intentions. Sometimes though there would be foolish people who pushed him. Whenever he saw you talking with, brushing arms with, or giving attention to others, the archon would be fuming. Of course, he would let it simmer, playing for the long game instead. It never failed to make him angry and anxious that these insignificant mortals thought they had a change with his future wife, it caused him to let out a tsch in annoyance. 

The two of you had wonderful moments in your quest. Your ability to work well together in battle allowed for quick defeats of random hilichurls on the journey. Truly your skills were something he admired and loved about you. 

The first night you left a parting goodnight kiss on his cheek was what made him truly believe in life again. Your warm lips against his skin ignited a flame within him that he didn’t know he yearned to have lit.  It began to become a sort of tradition between you two for the next months. 

 His favorite moment with you by far was when the two of you had been drinking and you allowed him to come into your bed. Now, not in THAT way. You didn’t like how he had been sleeping on the ground whenever you spent the night in a tavern so you told him to just sleep in the bed with you. It had been an awkward fit at first due to his taller frame. His long limbs were cramped painfully so you let him wrap his arms carefully around your body. Both of you take in and are intoxicated by the other’s warmth. He could get used to the way you faced him and nuzzled your face into his neck. He had fallen asleep and had the most wonderful rest for the first time in a while. 

After the two of you woke up and cuddled in the morning, “Should the day ever come where we are not together, you will continue to shine like gold in my memories” he had smiled and gently taken your hand into his own as he brushed his lips softly against your knuckles. His words and soft actions prompting a light blush across your face. 

He didn’t know how much longer he could wait for you. Every moment he was with you, but not truly in the way he desired wound him up more and more. He knew he would snap very soon. 

- - - 

You tremble against the cold breeze and his warm touch as he leans closer to you and captures your warm lips with his own in a passionate kiss. His hands traveling down further onto your flushed skin. 

Now that you were his in an unbreakable bond, he finally felt at ease. With you, Zhongli felt at home for the first time in thousands of years. He would protect you from any and all threats. If it meant keeping you safe with him, then he would tear apart all of Teyvat. After all, you belonged to this archon now. 

As the sun begins to rise, you notice the dying light within the parlor, fading candles leaving behind a darker atmosphere. A perfect metaphor you think, if he kept touching you like this then you knew that your own resolve would also die out, completely accepting the ownership that he had over you. 

Zhongli notices your wandering gaze before he takes your face between his slender fingers and forces you to look up at him. “Perhaps you’ve forgotten how much you mean to me. Let me remind you,” he announces as he lifts you up and brings you towards his room. Indeed, he would be spending the next few hours reminding you of his love, before you embark on the next chapter of your lives together, courtesy of his subclause turning you into an adeptus in addition to being his wife forever more. He had all the time in the world to get you to comply and love him as dearly as he loves you.

a/n why am I so in love with this man 🧎‍♀️

[kim-poce]

Sidekick 12 - Get out

A short one, just my confused little baby disobeying orders.

Freya and Brutus a forbidden to see Zen for the time being, (they are also healing from their punishment)

CW: mention of branding, mention of abandonment, fear of future abandonment, mention of human trafficking, mention of torture, mention of an anxiety attack, low self-esteem.

Sidekick - Masterlist

Part 1 | Previous | Next

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Branding. Zen’s mind was a mess as he hid under the blankets trying to clear his mind, to think something else, to feel safe, but he wasn’t able to, he had nothing else to think about, and he was alone, the duo hadn’t come in several days already, ever since the day they talked about hero, and Zen kind of missed them… in a weird way, he didn’t want to be alone.

It was weird, resting, not having tasks or deadlines, he never had time to rest back with the team, he wasn’t supposed to be this lazy, the free time here wasn’t all that good either, it made Zen think, how long will he be locked up? What is Rose’s real goal? Will Rose use him against Hero? When will they burn him?

Zen thought for a long time about this, Rose said he wasn’t branded yet, which means they will, and the duo reacted so naturally like it was not a new thing, they both knew what Rose was talking about, this was the most terrifying part.

Zen went over everything he knows about Rose and her team, they said branding, not torture, it is too specific, also Zen was already tortured, it has to mean something different, maybe… Zen shivered, maybe it could be human trafficking.

He never heard anything about Rose being involved with such a thing, but again, she is a villain, a dangerous one on top of that, and the Hero League doesn’t have much info about her in the first place.

And she said I’m hers. Zen thought, he said that and locked him up, like a thing, a true belonging, the idea of belonging to her wasn’t so scary, even if she does brand him…, Zen swallowed hard thinking about this, but even so, he can take the pain, he can, he will be good so she doesn’t have to hurt him again, he can take it because she was nice to him like no one ever was.

But I am useless, Zen whined, that was the biggest problem, there is nothing good about keeping him, he can’t do anything right, he is a burden, and Rose will get tired of him at some point, everyone does, he isn’t worth anyone’s time, just the team had patience enough to handle him.

And after she gets tired of him, then what? What if Rose is truly evolved with human traffic? The thought is already scary on its own but what if she… sells him? No one can be as kind as Rose, and Zen doesn’t want to belong to anyone but Rose, only her.

“You have a pretty face, you can use it if you give up on being a hero”, Zen shivered, recalling Hero’s words, he got up and entered the bedroom bathroom to look at himself in the mirror.

He has long silver hair, a rare color, and an even more rare pair of blood-like red eyes, his face was what people would call pretty, cute even, he knew what kind of things people would do to him, he would probably be expensive, he thought, one more reason to sell me, but maybe he isn’t worth so much, all he has in a pretty face and his body has already many scars, the proofs that I am a failure.

Zen doesn’t want the brand, he wants Rose, is that the only way to stay with her? There must be another way, a way to stay with her forever, without the risk to been abandoned again, again, as the team did.

Zen shook his head, he won’t figure anything out thinking like that, he would just have an anxiety attack and annoy Rose, Zen had to figure out what is going on, what will happen to him. Maybe he should get out of the room? he was forbidden to do so, he knew, Rose would get so mad, maybe she would be angry enough to punish him.

But he can’t keep on not knowing, he’ll try to do it fast, it was his job as a sidekick, enter, get the info, get out, except that he can’t “get out”, he has to get the info before getting caught, there is no safe option and it was scary, it was so scary, but what if they are truly planning to sell him? What if he really became a slave?

The fear of getting sold was greater than the fear of Rose’s punishments, I can take it, he thought with himself before opening the bedroom’s door, I can take it.

========

If you liked it please reblog.

Taglist: @cupcakes-and-pain, @whump-blog, @wolfeyedwitch, @canigetanamenforbritney, @notyouradveragefarmgal

[lillotte17]

Tomorrow

Got hooked watching Word of Honor and Zhou Zishu's Sad Face Journeys in episodes 33-34 came for my life, so I wrote a little scene set after the whole Heroes Conference Thing. ...And then Wen KeXing showed up and just...*gestures vaguely* I don't know what happened here. XD

~

Zhou Zishu sits quietly beside the bed, watching Wen KeXing's sleeping face with an ache in his chest that has nothing to do with his failing body, and everything to do with the fact that he is about to die.

When his shidi had made a miraculous reappearance at the Heroes Conference, his first reaction was gut-wrenching surprise. It felt as though the ground had suddenly dissolved beneath his feet. His heart leaping so high in his throat that he forgot how to breathe. Dizzy with the overwhelming rush of joy and confusion. Uncertain whether to laugh or cry.

But once the shock had subsided, the anger had been hot on its heels. And he wanted to be mad about it. Wanted to take Wen KeXing by the shoulders and shake him so hard that his teeth rattled around in his skull. Wanted to scream and sob and rail against the now inevitably fast-burning candle of his fate. At the unfairness of losing his life just as he had found something worth living for again. Someoneworth living for. For a few moments, the fury had burned so brightly in him he thought it might be enough to kill him then and there. That the fire between his lungs would simply burst his chest open and engulf everything around them in a sea of red.

But when they had caught each other’s gaze, he had seen the apology roiling in Wen KeXing’s dark eyes, raw and miserable, even without a word being said. The apology, and the fear. That same fear Zishu had seen flicker across his face every time he had tried to coax him into confessing that he was from Ghost Valley. The same fear he had seen in him the night Wen KeXing had snuck out of the Four Seasons Manor to intercept Ye BaiYi and tried to prevent him from reveling his identity. And yet again, when Han Ying had died, and he had nearly killed himself in a blind panic trying to fix it somehow. The fear whispered that death was preferable to his hatred. That his blade would be kinder than his revulsion. That Wen KeXing would sacrifice anything to avoid being abandoned once again.

Zhou Zishu was helpless in the face of it; as he always seems to be. The look that passed between them had been fast and fleeting, there and gone again with barely a blink, but it was enough to douse the flames of his anger with a tide of chilling and fathomless grief. The rest of the Heroes Conference passed before him in a daze. Vengeance, and justice, and pride. Wen KeXing blazing in the brightest and truest version of himself for all to see. Dazzling and mesmerizing and impossible to look away from. He does not know if he has ever loved him more, even as he felt his heart slowly sinking down into the pit of his stomach. The numbness of acceptance settling into his bones.

There will be no escape from death, this time.

He had been quiet on the way back to Jing BeiYuan’s Manor. Quiet enough to worry both Wen KeXing and ChengLing, who always seems to see more than he understands. He had listened to their reasons and excuses, and he had done his best to reassure them afterwards, but his own words sound hollow in his ears. The best he could do was to get Lao Wen hopelessly drunk, and pray that it made him less intuitive. The suffusion of elation and hope in the air had nearly been enough to choke him, though. He did not want to rob them of it, but he found he could take part in it either, no matter how much he wanted to. He could not bring himself to celebrate a future he can no longer share with them.

Zhou Zishu understands Wen KeXing. He understands that he is just as abysmal at properly conveying affection as he is himself, if not more so. The man only knows how to protect people he cares for by either sending them away from him or drowning them both in blood. It is how he had managed to survive all those years surrounded by madness and chaos and death. Zishu had done much the same, while he was working in the capital. Hiding all of their softer places far away from where the light could reach them. Playful banter has always passed easily between them, but tenderness is heavier, and vulnerabilities almost impossible to speak aloud. They are both trying to do better, struggling to pull their own humanity back into their hands where it can be shared freely, but Wen KeXing’s hurts are older and deeper. His path back to the world of the living inevitably more winding and complex. He still has not mastered the art of articulating his fears and concerns.

Zhou Zishu’s health was tenuous even before he had been kidnapped and tortured. As much as he hated to admit it, he had been in no fit state to fight an angry mob. Wen KeXing hid the truth from him because he knew that he would chafe at being told to stay out of harm’s way; that they would have argued about it until he was either allowed to participate in the scheme or he was spitting blood and passing out on the floor. Zishu cannot even say that this assessment of his character was a bad one, but it still stung to be kept in the dark, and the hurt was lingering. And yet, however deep the barb of this secret may have landed, however misplaced the caution may or may not have been, he knows without a shred of doubt that Wen KeXing’s deception was born of love, and he can hardly hold that against him.

Especially not now.

Wen KeXing turns his head slightly, mumbling something that sounds suspiciously like an extremely slurred version of his name. His expression is smooth and peaceful, his hair a dark fan across the bed behind him. The rosy glow of happiness and alcohol still pinking the apples of his cheeks.

Zishu smiles despite himself. It is much easier to find traces of the little boy his master had planned to take for his second disciple when he looks like this; safe and sleeping and completely at ease for the first time in who knows how long. He wishes he could recall those few precious days they had spent together as children with more clarity, but the memory of it is like a silk brocade left to sit too long in the sunshine, its delicate patterns fading as the colors wash away in a flood of light. Zhou Zishu had been too young to fully comprehend the weight of death when his master had returned from his trip to collect the Wen family without his shidi or his parents in tow. That his master had been sad about it was enough to impact him, but in the grand scheme of things, the wounds to his own heart had been minimal.

What would have happened if they had kept looking for Zhen Yan, he wonders. If he and Wen KeXing had grown up together as best friends and martial brothers and soulmates? Would their master have found a way to soothe Zhen Yan’s rage before it consumed him? Would Zhou Zishu have made the same mistakes with the Window of Heaven if Wen KeXing had been at his side? Perhaps they could have saved each other before things had reached the place they were now. Or perhaps Wen KeXing would have died under Zhou Zishu’s leadership with the rest of their sect, and his failures would have tasted that much more bitter.

He sighs quietly. There is no sense dwelling on things he cannot change. He had been a child, and just as powerless to save Wen KeXing from his fate as the boy himself had been. Feeling guilty about it was meaningless at this point. It was enough to have him here and now. Enough that they had had any time together at all. Enough that Wen KeXing had fallen off of that cliff and somehow still managed to walk back to him.

It has to be enough, because it is all they have. All they can have. Even if he wants more.

“Ah Xu?”

The voice is thick with sleep, but marginally less inebriated than before.

“Mn,” Zhou Zishu hums in acknowledgement, his gaze shifting slightly to watch Wen KeXing blink himself back into wakefulness.

“You didn’t go to bed?” he asks, bleary and swaying slightly as he attempts to sit up.

“There is someone in my bed.” Zishu points out archly.

Wen KeXing looks murderous for a few seconds until he realizes that the person in question is, in fact, himself. When the clouds break, his expression immediately shifts to one of insufferable satisfaction. He leans precariously off the side of the bed, robes and hair both hopelessly askew.

“I am always willing to share everything I have with Ah Xu,” he declares with feigned sweetness.

“How kind of Philanthropist Wen to make a present of what he stole from me,” Zhou Zishu snorts, “Your generosity knows no bounds.”

“Ah Xu!” Wen KeXing objects. “How is it stealing when you gave it to me freely? You think I would come to your bedroom with the intention of sleeping?”

“I’m sure I don’t know anything about your intentions.” The reply is given with a smirk, but his eyes dart away from him. “You asked me to drink with you, but the jar you brought was empty. Besides, I am thinking about giving it up. I have been told that it is bad for my health.”

“Aiya, first Ah Xu accuses me of being a thief, and now he tells me such scandalous falsehoods!” Wen KeXing shakes his head, attempting to seem wounded despite the grin on his face. “I already accepted your punishment earlier, there is no reason to be cruel.”

“Who is a liar here?” Zhou Zishu inquires laughingly, gesturing back and forth between them. “Which one of us is the most scandalous?”

“It’s me, it’s me,” Wen KeXing acknowledges, his head bobbing up and down in agreement, “But Ah Xu, you cannot expect me to ever believe that you would willingly give up drinking good wine with me? And as for not understanding my intentions, well…I believe that even less.”

“Was your intention to make sure I could not get any sleep?”

Wen KeXing only smiles at him widely.

“…I regret asking such a question,” Zhou Zishu chuckles, reaching out to lightly slap the side of Wen KeXing’s face in both fondness and chastisement. “Ask a shameless man a question and you are sure to get a shameless reply.”

Wen KeXing grabs hold of his hand before he can pull it away, leaning into it with a sigh.

“What is so shameless about it at this point?” he wonders, something soft and shining igniting within his gaze. “Living together. Dying together. Watching as our hair turns gray with old age. We’ve already promised to share these things, haven’t we? Why give me your bed when we could share that, too?”

Zhou Zishu takes a long look at him. At the dark hair spilling across his shoulder in disarray. The front of his robes just rumpled enough to expose the elegant line of his throat as well as part of his collar bones. The flush of his cheeks and the promise burning in his eyes.

He cannot deny that he wants it. Even knowing it might make things more painful later on. He wants to be selfish. He wants to be greedy while he still can. While he can still hear Lao Wen calling for him and feel his skin beneath his hands. His sense of taste and smell have gone already, but can still see him, and that could be enough. More than enough.

But will it be enough for Wen KeXing?

This is the last thing they have to give each other. The last pieces of themselves they have been holding back. Mostly because there simply had not been time for it amidst the chaos swirling around them. It always seemed as though either their lives were in danger or one of them was injured. Up until now, even Zishu had been optimistic enough to assume they would have time for it later, though. Time to use physical intimacy as an almost second meeting. To learn how they need each other in the quiet and the dark. To learn the ways they can be gentle, and the ways they can be fierce. To burn each other up in desperation and desire.

It seems too heartless to have it be a farewell instead.

Zhou Zishu lets out a long breath.

“…Not when you are drunk,” he says quietly.

Wen KeXing blinks at him in astonishment, eyes blown wide and round as saucers, clearly expecting a flat-out rejection.

A moment later, the blankets have been hastily flung aside, and he is staggering off of the bed has fast as he can. Which, as it turns out, is not very fast at all. Zhou Zishu easily catches him with one arm, lightly pushing him back into a seated position.

“Lao Wen, where do you think you are going?” he laughs.

“I need to sober up,” Wen KeXing explains, looking so serious about it that Zhou Zishu cannot help but reach out and pinch his cheek. Lao Wen slaps his hand away, his expression mulish.

“Don’t pout,” Zishu scolds, still chuckling, “It is too late to be staggering around someone else’s house. With my luck, you would drown yourself in the fish pond, and then BeiYuan and Wu Xi would be terribly put out.”

“But Ah Xu, if you won’t let me leave, and you won’t share the bed, just what do you want me to do?” Lao Wen complains. “Even if you don’t want to have sex, you should at least lay down and rest properly. I want you to get well as soon as possible.”

Zhou Zishu’s mouth stiffens slightly.

“I know.”

Wen KeXing’s brow furrows in concern. He reaches out a hand, long fingers hovering just above his heart, when Zhou Zishu catches them tightly in his own. He is not certain if Lao Wen could glean the truth about his condition from his pulse while still tipsy, but he is not about to run that risk tonight.

“Are the nails bothering you again?” Wen KeXing asks, doleful this time.

“No.”

It is not a lie.

“Then come to bed,” Lao Wen cajoles, using their joined hands to tug him closer, “I promise not to molest you unless you ask me to.”

Zhou Zishu makes a sound of grumbling disbelief, but still allows himself to be pulled down next to Wen KeXing. The bed is big enough for two, but only just. Lao Wen retrieves the formerly discarded blankets from whatever corner he had toss them and bundles them up together like two caterpillars in a single cocoon. His face is close beside him on the pillow, warm breath fanning the side of his neck. An arm drapes loosely about Zishu’s waist, and he turns his head slightly, intending to shoot a warning glare in the other man’s direction.

This is a mistake.

Wen KeXing’s eyes are dark and intense in the moonlight, half closed with either sleep or desire, it is hard to say. His lips part slightly as Zhou Zishu turns to him, and the hand draped around his waist clutches faintly at his robes as if on instinct. Both of them seem to have forgotten how to breathe.

“…Ah Xu, you can kiss me, if you like,” Lao Wen whispers finally, so soft it almost seems like a dream.

“What makes you think I want to kiss you?” he means it to sound teasing, but it comes out in almost a sigh.

“Because I want to kiss you,” Lao Wen replies matter-of-factly.

“I never thought of you as a pillar of self-restraint,” Zhou Zishu huffs.

“I promised to be a gentleman.”

Zishu closes his eyes and lets out a deep, soul-rattling sigh. He is almost glad he cannot smell the oils Wen KeXing uses in his hair or the trace of alcohol on his lips. The proximity is staggering enough all on its own.

“…It would not stop with a kiss,” he admits aloud to both of them.

He does not open his eyes again, but he can feel Wen KeXing’s body tremble slightly as he laughs, and that is almost as bad.

“Ah Xu, I would hardly complain,” he replies, testing his luck by shifting close enough so that their foreheads are lightly touching. “But you want to rest, and I want you rested, so it is no great loss, either way. You will still be here with me tomorrow, after all. There is no need to rush these things. Sometimes, a slow spring is sweeter.”

“Yes,” Zhou Zishu manages to reply around the lump lodged in his throat, “I will still be here tomorrow.”

[kickingitwithkirk]

I’m Not Clean

Paring: Alpha!Sam Winchester x Omega!Reader

Word Count: 1948

Warnings: A/B/O, angst, verbal fighting, cursing, cheating, oral sex, p/v sex

A/N: for @jawritter​​​​ #jensmakemecrychallange

A/N II: Set between mid season six-starts after Death puts Sam’s soul back-ending before the last Trial in season eight. Told from Sam’s POV alternating between present and past memories/ events. Some altering of events to fit story line. Prompt in Bold.

*no beta, all mistakes are mine.

~~I’m Not Clean I’m Not Clean I’m Not Clean~~ 

I chant this mantra over and over to myself. 

I was drunk before leaving, roaring out of the garage in Baby, leaving the stench of burning rubber and exhaust in my wake.

We’ve had some hell raising fights over the years. This one tonight the vilest we have ever had, saying the most unforgiving things to each other because you broke our agreement.

What we said...our knowledge of each other’s weakest points to abuse, verbally cutting into each other in the deepest manner, inflicting as much carnage as possible. 

The only other person in the universe who knows how to hit me that hard is my brother. Man, how we’ve done that dance too, over and over yet somehow always finding our way back to each other.

My brother tried to intervene, to stop us from saying the things we can never take back or forgive. It felt as if he was taking your side, I went after him as well. 

I feel the need to punish myself for all the pain I have caused. I am always creating pain, torching those I love. 

I found her at the dive bar, a few days out from her heat.

She is my punishment.

We go to a nearby dump. I close the door and she's already on her knees, my jeans zippers down, pulling me out and starts licking up the underside of my cock, making gagging noises trying to deepthroat me. My head thunks against the door and all I can think is that she’s not you.

~~I’m Not Clean I’m Not Clean I’m Not Clean~~

I remember like it was yesterday. We ended up at Bobby’s after cleaning out a vamp nest two states over. 

Grabbing our duffels we didn’t rock, paper, scissors over who got the spare bed, my brother just face plants on the couch, unconscious before I’m even at the foot of the staircase.

I wearily make my way upstairs not bothering to shower in spite of how bad I smell, too exhausted to care. I toed off my boots and socks, throwing my blood encrusted shirt and jeans in the corner, collapsing face down on the bed, landing on top of something under the covers.

Why am I staring at the ceiling?

My brother barrel's in, woken by the sound of my body hitting the floor, stopping in the doorway with his gun drawn looking for what attacked me...this confused look crossed his face as the scent of fear flooded the room.

I sit up gazing over the bed as you huddle in the corner looking scared to death. My brother puts his gun back in his waistband, hands up with his on display to show he’s no threat. 

I slowly got to my feet and came around the bed towards you. You shrink even further in the corner, pulling into yourself as tight as you can, hiding behind your arms and drawn up knees.

I stop and sit down trying to not appear threatening and speak softly to you.

“I’m sorry I scared you, we’re friends of Bobby’s. He didn’t tell us you were here. We’re not going to hurt you.”

You're so still, all I can see is your beautiful eyes moving between us, the only movement you are able to do. 

My brother gives a small smile before going back downstairs to the couch, giving you space to calm down. I stay on the floor, my back propped against the bed talking. 

It’s a one sided conversation but that’s ok. 

Bobby’s back just after daybreak found us still in the same positions on the floor asleep. 

“Balls!” 

You spring from the corner and bury yourself in his arms. Seeing that Bobby has you I grab my stuff and head for a shower. My brothers just came out from taking his. I strip and climb in turning on the water. 

Fucker used all the hot water.

~~I’m Not Clean I’m Not Clean I’m Not Clean~~

I don’t want to be touching her now, or her touching me, my self loathing rising like the bile in my throat but my body has a mind of its own tonight as my brain turns off given into my Alpha.

I grab her hair, yanking her off my dick with an audible pop, saliva and precome running down her chin, adding another stain to the discolored rug. I pull her up, tossing her onto the bed before dragging her back to the edge, the barely there skirt rides up out of the way as I lave my tongue up her uncovered thighs, swirling it through her dripping folds. Roughly inserting several fingers into her tight cunt I start sucking on her clit as she grabs my hair soaking my face with her slick as she cums.

~~I’m Not Clean I’m Not Clean I’m Not Clean~~

The smell of coffee calls to my still fuzzy brain as I staggered downstairs to the kitchen. My brother and Bobby are at the table talking. As I pour a cup you walk in from the porch. 

I turn towards you, finally able to scent you without the terror that clouded the room last night. 

Are you a classic beauty? No, but you beguile me. 

I’m enamored with your beautiful eyes, recalling the way they never left mine last night. You’re taller than I expected, curvaceous, not delicate like others I have been with.

As you hold my gaze I remember the verbal platitudes, reading the drivel, even watched some of the bathetic romance movies but they could never fully articulate this feeling. It de-queues through me, permeates my soul.

My brother relentlessly teases that I am having a chick-flick moment.

~~I’m Not Clean I’m Not Clean I’m Not Clean~~

She wobbly moves onto her hands and knees, I climb on the bed behind her and ram my engorged cock into her sodden cunt as far as she can take me mindlessly pounding. I wrap my hand around her throat, squeezing enough to stop the incoherent noises escaping from her mouth that grate against me. 

~~I’m Not Clean I’m Not Clean I’m Not Clean~~

We ended up staying at Bobby’s for a couple of weeks, it was quiet and I wasn’t in any hurry to leave you.

Bobby explained to us how you ended up here over a bottle of whiskey late one night.

Jo found you bruised and bleeding, huddled in the door jam out back of Harvelle's Roadhouse. You had been injured by your pack for defying them. Ellen of course took you in. 

The pack came looking for you, trailing your scent to the bar. Ellen’s shotgun and don’t fuck with me attitude convinced them you had left but she knew it wasn’t safe for you to stay, your pack would be watching. 

Smuggling you out of the bar proved harder than anyone thought. There were multiple hand offs among hunters traveling along the way, finally delivering you to Bobby Singer's home days later.

For the first time in your life, you were safe.

We took our time getting to know each other, I had to work harder than I ever have with anyone before to gain your trust.

After my brother and I caught a case, I would call you every day and matter the time, you answered. We would talk for hours, share what we had been doing that day, finding our mutual interests in a variety of subjects coming to light. 

My brother would yell for me to get off the damn phone, I was keeping him awake, even though I’m sitting outside the motel room.

Then things got out of control.

Castiel broke the wall and died. Leviathans were anyone and everywhere, finally imitating us.

We became America’s Most Wanted. Bobby sent us to a man named Frank who owned him a big favor and made us disappear. 

We found Bobby’s burned down house and almost got killed ourselves.

Then Bobby showed up at the hospital to break us out, informing me you were safe, hidden at a long forgotten hunters cabin.

We managed to stay in contact, I needed that, to know you were staying safe before being able to sleep at night.

The first fight happened in the hospital, blaming us for losing Bobby. 

Then Dick and Purgatory.

And a lost year.

~~I’m Not Clean I’m Not Clean I’m Not Clean~~

I pulled out of her relieved my knot had finally deflated enough to release me. Collapsing onto my back I fling my arm over my eyes disgusted with myself as she’s curling into my side literally purring.

I’ve repeatedly used her...in this bed of sin I created...I’ve lost control...not the first time.

~~I’m Not Clean I’m Not Clean I’m Not Clean~~

It’s never quiet for long in our lives. Castiel mysteriously returns and Kevin Tran sort of deciphers the demon tablet, how through three trials we can close the Gates of Hell and seal away so much evil if we survive the First Trial- kill a Hell hound. 

While on another case we met our grandfather Henry Winchester of The Men of Letters and inherit the key to the Bunker. We have a home of sorts and I finally have a safe place for you, for us to be together. A few months after moving in, before the Second Trial-rescuing a innocent from Hell, and your heat, I made a decision that saddened both of us but with our lives was necessary and allowed me finally to make you mine forever.

Right before finding out about the Third Trial I found the test hidden in a drawer and my diminishing mind bounces between being petrified and elated. I sat there downing a bottle of whiskey from my brother's copious stash waiting for your return and upon seeing you all the alcohol in my degenerating body gave me permission to release my pent up fury and paranoia, ending in that cheap room with her.

~~I’m Not Clean I’m Not Clean I’m Not Clean~~

I made my way back to the Bunker to find my brother sitting in the War Room waiting on me. He wrinkled his nose at the stench of her all over me but said nothing as I handed over the car keys pocketing them. His eyes shifted to a chair and I apprehensively sat down awaiting the bombardment he would unleash. He remains quiet as he turns the open laptop towards me. I blink a few times to focus on the screen, reading the online article from a national news agency about the contraceptive failure. I’m in disbelief when he slides your phone in front of me and plays the voicemail from your doctor.

I get up swaying from a nonexistent breeze slowly walking the halls till I’m standing outside our bedroom door. I can scent your sadness from outside the closed door causing me to freeze holding the knob, unable to summon up the courage to turn it when it disappears from my hand finding you instead. You move allowing me to enter, shutting the door as I sit on the edge of the bed before crossing over, moving to stand directly in front of me. I don’t know how you can do that with the smell of every wrong I’ve done clinging to my skin polluting us. 

I feel your hands cradling my face softly telling me Grown men don't cry as your fingers track the tears coursing uninhibitedly down my cheeks.

I completely collapse wrapping my arms around your waist resting my forehead against the special place where our pup is, undeserving of your love that’s purifying me in ways the trials never will.

tagging: SPN @donnaintx​​​​

Sam/Jared @idreamofplaid​​​​

[playernumberv]

Returnal may be the best game I’ll probably end up leaving unfinished

But wait, I hear my imaginary audience ask - if a game is that good, how and why would I possibly leave it unfinished? And indeed, when I leave a game unfinished, it’s usually because I don’t have much good to say about it, and no longer deem it worthy of my time. I left Assassin’s Creed Valhalla unfinished after 30 hours in it, for example, because it just kept dragging on and on and on and I just got incredibly bored. That’s not the case with Returnal at all. 

In what has been for me a relatively lull year in games (with nothing having reached my personal standard for being a GOTY contender yet), Returnal has been the most compelling and fascinating title I’ve played. It is just utterly stellar. I love how intriguing the sci-fi psychological horror/thriller setting is, and while sparse, the little narrative there is compels me to want to find out more about Atropos and Selene. The third-person shooter combat is visceral and fluid, and is a mad rush of pure adrenaline and exhilaration that is complemented by an overwhelming smorgasbord of eye-melting visual effects. Audio design can only be described as majestic, with thunderous combat soundtracks that catalyze the already sky-high intensity of the game’s combat, and the deafening roar of enemy cries truly tear right into you, making you feel as if you were truly confronted by terrifying alien monstrosities. Level design and art design are similarly masterful, creating an alien world that genuinely feels alive and horrifying. And have I mentioned how indescribably good the dualsense implementation is? You can feel the pitter-patter of raindrops; you can feel the kinetic rush of dashing; you can feel the recoil of gunfire. If Astro’s Playroom was a technical demonstration of what the dualsense could be capable of, Returnal is an applied demonstration of how the dualsense can truly elevate gaming experiences. Every aspect of this game comes together and just oozes an unprecedented level of quality in the level of immersion it achieves - it bombards you with near-endless bursts of visual, auditory, as well as sensory feedback, and in so doing creates a truly next-gen gaming experience that feels extremely immersive. Short of VR experiences, I daresay no other game has ever come close to such an immaculate level of immersion, so much so that can say unironically that the game actually makes me feel like I’m stranded on an alien world.

Again I hear my imaginary audience ask - this makes no damn sense, if Returnal is as magnificent as I claim it to be, why would I leave it unfinished?

And to that, my answer is this: Returnal is simply far too punishing and inaccessible. For a working adult who—I’m ashamed to say, despite my immense love of games—isn’t especially skilled at gaming and who has relatively limited time and energy for gaming, Returnal simply demands far too much. It’s utterly soul-crushing. To begin with, I am not a fan of the repetitiveness of roguelikes, and even a roguelike as polished and well-designed as Hades did not especially impress me, as I mentioned in my earlier review of it. Yet Hades’ roguelike is, ironically enough, heavenly compared to the genuine hellishness of Returnal’s roguelike, where permanent upgrades are extremely scarce to the point of being nearly non-existent. Virtually everything resets with each death. Your weapons: gone, reduced to ashes. Your suit upgrades, health upgrades, all gone. And that may have been fine were the game itself not nail-bitingly hard—it’s not uncommon at all to have to spend an hour or even more on preparation, only for one small mistake to be severely punished before you even manage to reach the boss, and to have to restart from zero all over again. Furthermore, as is standard of the roguelike genre, there is a fair bit of randomness—and so how successful each run is may in part be determined by whether you luck out on obtaining the desired suit upgrades or your desired weapon. This randomness further compounds the amount of time that needs to be spent on preparing, failing, being unlucky, and trying all over again. That may have been fine once in a while, but repeat this cycle enough times, and Returnal becomes a miserable punishment. It’s utterly soul-crushing to have to waste hours on preparation, only to fail and have all the preparation completely reduced to nothing. And this isn’t even accounting for how gruellingly tough the boss fights can be. Returnal makes you squander hours upon hours—it severely punishes failure, to the point where its rewards, majestic though they are, become overshadowed by its punishment.

Yes, yes, I can already hear a portion of my imaginary audience chanting. ‘GIT GUD’, they say, and I don’t deny at all that I am not good at Returnal. But I am certain that there are other gamers, who like me, do not play games to be punished, challenged, and pushed to our limits—we play games for entertainment, for relaxation, and for escapism from the stresses and difficulties of the real world, something that may be especially important in the broken, pandemic-stricken world we live in currently. Returnal is the utter opposite of relaxation, and if a (mostly) healthy, able-bodied person like me finds it inaccessible, I imagine it to be even more so for a huge proportion of others out there. To be fair, I hesitate to call any of this a ‘flaw’ on the part of Returnal, and I do understand the sentiments of the ‘git gud’ crowd—there’s a strong charm to Returnal’s unflinching adherence to its vision, and its insistence on having an identity of relentlessness and challenge is in its own way very respectable and charismatic. I also do understand the immense elation and satisfaction of surmounting a seemingly-impossible challenge—beating the bosses of the first and second biomes of Returnal filled me with a raw euphoria no game has given me in ages. In part, having no recourse towards an easier way out is part of this charm. Knowing that one cannot simply choose an easier option, for there is none, truly does magnify the immense satisfaction of conquering a challenge.

With all that being said, I cannot help but think that sacrificing a small part of that charisma and charm in the noble pursuit of accessibility is a worthy cost. This need not even involve sacrificing the roguelike genre in favour of a more generic third-person action-adventure style of gameplay—although admittedly, given my general disdain for roguelikes, this would probably have been a better fit for me. I do have to say that the roguelike genre is perfect for Returnal. Its central narrative theme of being stranded on an alien planet where the main character returns by death—wait, wrong series—provides perfect ludonarrative harmony when melded with the roguelike genre, and this harmonious complementation between game-play and narrative is truly brilliant. Even maintaining its roguelike genre, I sincerely believe that Returnal could have been made to be substantially more accessible and less punishing, and to shift the mechanics away from randomness and towards granting more player control. Having difficulty options provide a convenient way to accomplish this, but I do believe the roguelike itself could also learn a number of lessons from Hades. For example, even maintaining its present difficulty levels, a larger number of permanent upgrades would go an incredibly long way in making Returnal’s roguelike far more meaningful and palatable. More forms of permanent suit or health upgrades, as well as more permanent weapons—being stuck with only a pistol at the start of every run is extremely unwelcome—would be immensely appreciable as well. Implementing these changes would indeed compromise some of Returnal’s unflinching and unrelenting vision. But would it not be a worthy trade-off if a greater number of people can experience the utter majesty of what Housemarque has accomplished here in terms of audio design, game design, art design, and narrative?

I truly am impressed by Returnal, and when awards season comes by at the end of the year, I think it unquestionably deserves every accolade it will almost surely obtain, be it in audio, narrative, or gameplay. It is the best game I’ve played this entire year so far, and even as I type this, I feel a rush of sheer awe at just how unbelievably excellent Returnal is. Unfortunately, my affections for Returnal feel unrequited. My circumstances and my relative incompetence as a gamer make it near-impossible for me to ever experience in full all that Returnal has to offer, despite my great desire to be able to. So, it seems, despite my deep affections for Returnal, I may never finish it, and I will think back to this years later with deep regret, wishing that I were in more suitable circumstances, wishing that I were a better gamer, and wishing that Returnal could have been more accessible. Alas, these wishes were not to be.

[themagicmistress]

Heere’s an excerpt from the first draft of ‘Flowers, Soft Beneath My Heels.’ Scrapped most of it, but I liked this scene! Soo, here it is

~

Rumblecusp is a nice place. The sky is clear and has been most of the days they’ve been here. The air is still and windless save the light breezes that simply ruffle the tree leaves.

Despite the relative peace of the environment, which on any other day would be idyllic, her view of the town is one of slight chaos, and in a different way than it had been last night. People are angry, stone-faced and yelling at each other, faces darkened with rage. Yelling is fine. She has a feeling they’re just doing it to do something instead of nothing in their situation. Some, however, wander through the village with lost faces, looking pleadingly up at the sky as if for answers. It has none to give them, she knows. The Moonweaver has said her piece.

But Yasha’s not looking for trouble, or any of the previous followers of the not-god. She peers curiously around the village, trying to call back to mind the location Anola had told her to go looking for.

She has to knock on a few doors and then awkwardly backtrack as she’s met with more than one tear-streaked face until Yasha finds an older man with a long wispy beard and weary black eyes.

“No alcohol here,” he says roughly and goes to slam the door. She wedges her toe between it and the frame before he can. His eyebrows fly nearly to his hairline. “Of course,” says the man she really hopes is Kresh, “I could always reconsider.”

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Yasha reassures and he leans back from her a bit. “I’m not going to hurt you,” She says more insistently and Kresh nods quickly. She stifles a sigh. “Look, I’m just looking to buy something nice for a friend and Anola said you were the person to go to.”

The pressure on her foot lessens and the door swings open. “Oh,” his face is sheepish, “Something sweet, right?”

“Yes,” Yasha tells him. Her heels ache and her heart’s still hopping a half-beat too fast from the earlier scare. She wants to be safe beneath the protection of the dome, her friends breathing warm beside her.

The candies are twenty-five gold, a bit more than mainland prices, but well worth it.

She sticks her head into the dome and there’s a second of relief as she sees them all sitting next to each other, not having moved an inch. 

“Jester?” Yasha makes sure her voice is quiet with Beau leaning against Caleb’s shoulder, the two of them having dozed off. “Can I talk to you?”

Jester looks up from underneath Fjord’s arm, who doesn’t appear to notice his own slow attempts to pull her closer. “Sure, what do you want?”

She hesitates. “Just about stuff. Stuff that happened today.” The cleric’s face falls and for a second Yasha feels bad but she didn’t want Nott or the others to bug the tiefling about the candies.

“Oh. Coming.”

They don’t go far from the dome, Jester’s steps short and hurried. She’s also reluctant to go far, to stray more than she needs to.

Yasha pulls out the small sack out and hands it to her. “Here. I thought you’d like these and I also thought you’d prefer to not share, so… here I am giving them to you away from the others.”

The moment Jester figures out what the rock-like amber stones are, her face lights up. “Yasha!” she gasps, and her face breaks into a grin, “You didn’t have to do this.”

“Well, I know you’ve been under a lot of pressure lately, and tonight was a lot. So.” She rubs the back of her neck. “You deserve it.” 

Jester pops one into her mouth and groans and her stomach does a split-second drop as she thinks oh-no-I-messed-up before she realizes it’s a happy noise.

“These are so good!” Jester shoves the bag back into her hands, “They’re really sweet and sorta crunchy at the same time. Holy cow, I can’t believe you got these here, Yasha, because when we leave I’m never gonna be able to get them again.” Her words are a little garbled with the candy in her mouth, but then she gives a pointed look to the bag. “What are you waiting for, are you going to eat one already or not?”

“They’re for you,” she refutes.

“Yeah, but I want you to have one, so eat it,” she tells her flatly. Yasha eats the candy. 

It’s a little caramelly and it melts in her mouth, with tiny hints of vanilla, all flavours she only knows because of Jester. It spreads in her teeth, sticky but pleasing, and in the center is a hard middle she discovers is a nut as she grinds it between her molars.

The tiefling’s fingers are deft, plucking candy after candy from the bag. They don’t shake and her friend’s demeanor remains unbothered by the night’s events.

What had her face looked like, fingers clenched around green robes, eyes teary toward liquid moonlight? She can only see what Jester shows her now. Someone delighted, maybe a little too delighted, by a simple gift of confectionery. Yasha only knows how she felt, watching a friend drift into the sky, glittering with chains like early morning dew on spiderwebs. Her pulse drumming in her ears, a war drum, teeth clenched, sword clenched, and useless.

Would that she could fell a god for her friend, but Yasha has never been able to claim herself saviour.

“Wanna ‘nother?” Jester offers, face curious now. She swallows. “How are you, Yasha?”

She blinks, taken aback. “I’m fine. Jester, are you okay? That’s— that was a lot up there.”

The answer is immediate. “I’m—” Jester stops. Frowns. “I’m fine too. You don’t need to worry about me, Yasha. I got what I wanted, didn’t I?”

That’s one way of looking at it. She got what she wanted, so all the other stuff, herself gone forever, separated from her friends, the Traveler, didn’t matter. A rationalization, driven by necessity, like the kind Yasha made in battle. Help Beau before she’s impaled on those spikes below her instead of helping Fjord, it’s fine Caduceus is right there next to him, and don’t waste any effort on that last guy Caleb’s about to torch. A different kind of survival, the kind where you swath your hurts in anything that makes it stop just so that the raw and aching parts of you can shrivel and die inside your chest. Whether that means smiles or bloody fists.

“I don’t think you wanted this,” she says softly. “Things suck. And they’re going to keep being like that.”

Jester’s lips press together very tightly. She doesn’t look at her. Yasha has never thought of any of her friends as delicate, but now, she thinks that’s the problem. They’re strong. All of them. Strong enough to fight false gods and save villages and reverse death. Strong enough to face horrors most would never dream, and then lose. Someday, she fears they’ll go charging in somewhere they shouldn’t, into a chamber of laughing mouths, swallowing her whole. A clouded night and a clear moon leaving them devastated beneath it, one less to their number.

Not tonight. But it was close enough that her mind instinctively shies away from it.

“You ever think that maybe you put too-high expectations on someone without knowing it,” Jester says, breaking the silence. She tugs at the sleeves of her high-priestess outfit, “And then they try to live up to what you want them to be, but they can’t and then it goes wrong and you know that when it does it’s because of you and kind of really your fault? Like you were the one to set them up for failure in the first place?” It all comes out in a rush, her voice wobbling on the edge of tears as she rambles. “D’you ever feel like that, Yasha?”

There’s a tumultuous set to the lines of her mouth, pulled back into a grimace, too stiff for smiling, too desperate for frowning. What do you say to something like that and how can she say it with Jester looking at her like she knows the answer to her question, the plea she’s making. How do I make it right?

She licks her lips, still sticky-sweet.

“You know it wasn’t your fault, right?”

“I know,” she whispers. And then, softly, an admission of guilt, “but I would have left you guys. I would have.” Jester chuckles. “How did this happen? I didn’t mean— I mean, how did I even make him a god?”

Yasha doesn’t know anymore than she does how to make Jester feel better now. To reassure her this wasn’t her fault, at its core, none of it. “I don’t know.”

“No. That’s alright.” No words have ever sounded so small.

She thinks of Zuala. She’s always thinking, at least a little, about Zuala, but right now she thinks of her pulling them up the side of a hill, a little ways away from the tribe, about the way her fingers had fit neatly between Yasha’s own and how the last thing she remembers before leaving Xhorhas is the sound of thunder.

“You ever think,” Yasha repeats slowly, “people choose to leave because of you? Or not you personally, but because of your decisions, the choices you make. And when you think back, you realize if you had done something different, they might not have chosen to leave at all?” Jester listens in rapt silence and then her mouth opens into a horrified little ‘o’ and Yasha forges on. “And then, if they’re going to leave, should I just go first so I don’t have to watch them do it?”

“Yasha, we’re not going to leave you,” Jester says, almost demanding, voice cracking with the remnants of tears swallowed back.

“No, I know. But I’ve always left you guys,” She says, the night cold against the back of her throat. “And today, you almost left us. You weren’t going to come back from that. We would have gone to get you, but would you have tried to come back to us?”

“Of course!”

“Even if it meant leaving behind the Traveler?” Yasha asks, “Even if it meant letting him take his punishment?”

Jester bites her lower lip and Yasha watches as a brief conflict plays out across her body, fists clenching and unclenching. “That’s not a fair question. I can’t answer that.” She says it like an apology.

Yasha takes a breath and accepts it. She expects nothing less from her, the girl who painted flowers in her room, who stakes her whole self on what she would do for her friends.

She can taste iron and bitter wind like dread in her mouth. “That’s okay. Just— just don’t leave in the first place. We would be sad without you. I’m not even sure what we would do. Probably just mope around all day. Get nothing done.” There’s a ring of truth to the words that hit too close to home to be even remotely funny.

Then, there are arms around her, enveloping and warm. “I’m not going anywhere.” The words are muffled against her chest, likely to hide the quiet sound of rasping around more tears.

“Don’t leave,” Yasha says.

“Do you think,” Jester asks, “ having to ask all these questions is worth it because at least now I have more family to keep worrying about?”

There used to be a hollow in her heart, one that now purrs in some kind of satisfaction and she allows it it’s victory. “Yeah. In a weird way, I’m kind of glad to have someone to leave.” The arms grow tighter around her and Yasha squeezes back comfortingly. “I don’t want to, don’t get me wrong, but if I didn’t have anyone to leave,” She hesitates, “I’d just be running away. If I leave, I know someone will miss me. I would exist in my absence.”

“I would miss you. Beau would definitely.” Jester pulls back, the rim of her eyes a little darker than before.

Her lips curve into a smile without her prompting, though she can’t quite bring herself to care. ““I have no plans to go anywhere unless it’s where the rest of you are all headed.”

“Good.”

The cleric is stiller, and though she hadn’t seemed outright distraught in the dome earlier, now she seems steadier. A port in the storm rather than the raging waves themselves, standing firm instead crashing out and into herself over and over.

“Does asking these questions help you usually?”

Jester shows the nearly-empty velvet bag of candy to Yasha who notices she has to almost unclench her fingers from their stiff position around it. “Not nearly as much as the candies.”

“You think,” she echoes in a mimicry of their earlier conversation, “you’re ready to head back?”

“Yeah. Yasha?” Jester asks, tucking away the little bag.

“Thank you.”

“You’re important to me,” Yasha tells her and finds a little more joy in the soft smile that graces Jester’s mouth as she does. “Thank you for staying.”

She keeps her eyes on her friend’s back, her steps not quite the light skip they are usually, but lighter now. A part of her wishes she could take their group and bundle them away from the world, cruel and unfair to the best of them. Another part looks at the sea line, just barely visible over the tips of forest trees, and wonders how long into the night she would have to trek to make it there before the others wake. If Yasha squints, she can see a tiny light somewhere between the waves. A lighthouse on the shore, maybe, or a star touching down where the horizon meets the sea.

Ahead of her, Jester runs her fingers through the little velvet bag Yasha had given her over and over again like she can’t help but remind herself of the gift. A smile still rests on her lips.

[alittlebitmaybe]

with a fated touch

For @sugar-and-spice-witcher-bingo

Prompt: reunion

Pairing: Geralt/Yennefer

Rating: E

Warnings: None

Additional Tags: PWP, Canon-Typical Mind Reading, Inappropriate Use of Magic, Cunnilingus, Facefucking/riding, Light D/S dynamics, Dirty Talk, Mild Praise Kink

Summary: (2.6k)

“Presumptuous,” she murmurs, running her forefinger over his bottom lip.

“Sorry,” Geralt says, not sounding so at all. His tongue comes out briefly to meet her touch. “I’ve missed this. You.”

Or: The first time they meet after the dragon hunt, Yennefer puts Geralt on his knees.

Read more on AO3 or below the cut!

Geralt’s hands slide up her thigh, pushing her dress higher, and gooseflesh erupts over her skin when cool air hits it. His other hand brushes her hair back from her shoulder while his mouth moves along the line of her collarbone, desperate open-mouthed kisses a counterpoint to the burn of his stubble as it drags against her.

He’s beginning to harden against her stomach. She fists her fingers through his loose hair, lets her nails scrape his scalp. He groans as she pulls him back.

“Are we doing this?” she asks him. He tries to lean in again, unfocused and helpless, but she channels chaos to hold him in place. “Geralt. Answer me.”

“Yen,” he says, gruff. She withholds a shiver. “I am trying to do this. If you’ll let me continue.”

His hand, without permit, continues its journey up her leg. She allows this for an inch, two, his thumb brushing the hem of her smallclothes, before reaching out with her magic and halting that too. His palm spans the width of her thigh—he looms over her—yet she can control him with a spell, a touch, a word. It never fails to send a thrill through her. He has no real power over her. He wants to be hers. He craves it.

“Don’t you want it?” he asks. That thumb sweeps back and forth at the crease of her hip, though it can move no higher. His other hand has settled around the back of her neck, tilting her up to meet his gaze. A wall of lust smashes into her from his thoughts, impossible to ignore. He projects it at her nevertheless. It rushes through her, slips hot down her spine. She could block it, but she doesn’t.

“Yes,” she breathes. “Always.” A betrayal, perhaps—she shouldn’t want him, it’s not real. But it’s not in her nature to deprive herself. Not when images are pushing into her mind, memories, fantasies, spreading the heat through her belly.

Geralt must know she’s attuned to him, because he says, “How do you want it?” An image of him on his back, her on top. Using him. “Like this?” Yennefer perched on her vanity with him before her, both of them fully clothed. “Or this?” Both of them on their sides on the bed, him curled behind her, her leg held high to make room for him. “I’m full of ideas. Say the word.”

“Presumptuous,” she murmurs, running her forefinger over his bottom lip.

“Sorry,” he says, not sounding so at all. His tongue comes out briefly to meet her touch. “I’ve missed this. You.”

All at once she releases the magical restraints and yanks his mouth down to her own, kissing him with the same urgent passion that had driven them together all the way back in Rinde. She wants to mount him above her mantle. To sink her teeth in and rip him open. She does away with kindness—she hates him for what he’s done to her. For her own failure to resist him. For the longing that radiates from him under the lust. He has yearned for her. He tells her this with his mind, with the way he yields control of the kiss to her without a second’s hesitation, with the way he presses them together sternum-to-stomach as though even a hint of space between them is too far. More than yearning, he thinks, and she realizes she has been pushing her own thoughts back to him unintentionally.

“Enough,” she says in the gasp separating one kiss from the next. He steals another peck before awaiting her judgment. He is hot all over, so close, his breath, his chest, his straining cock. She’s doing this to him. It’s all for her, and she’s weak. She wants him again like she’s had him before. Like no one has ever—

She stops that seed of thought before it can grow wild. She says, “Undress me.”

It takes only a moment for him to pick out the knot of her corset and loosen the lacing. The straps of her dress droop down her shoulders.

“Anything else?” he asks, a faint smirk crossing his bitten lips. Too lucid. She’s going to undo him.

Yen smiles back despite herself. “You’ll put yourself to good use. On your knees, Witcher.”

He kisses the corner of her mouth one last time, lingering, and says, “As m’lady wishes.”

Her retort is lost somewhere in her throat when he begins tracing a slow path down her body with hands and mouth, following the dress as he guides it down. Gods, he knows how to touch her—knows where to bite to send sparks up her spine, knows that her right breast is much more sensitive than the left, knows that fingertips swept down her side will toe the line between enticing and ticklish. Her dress puddles to the ground at last when he lowers himself to kneeling and puts his teeth to her hipbone, lightly, before nuzzling at the rise of her belly.

Only her smallclothes are left now. “Well? Finish the job,” she orders, voice thin and higher-pitched but thankfully even. He hooks two fingers in the waistband, tugs, and leaves her bare. She steps out of the pile of clothing, kicking it to the side.

He looks up at her with widened pupils, trusting. Her Geralt. For he is hers, isn’t he? He treats her as if she’s the answer he’s always sought; she knows he’d do anything she wanted at the barest suggestion. She’s tested those limits, and not even the godsforsaken unicorn shook him. Is that truly him, or simply the wish? How can she ever know?

Not the time. Not with him waiting on the floor where she’d put him, and her naked in the drafty air.

“Light the fire,” she tells him.

He forms Igni at the dying hearth, which catches in a blaze. She spreads her legs, runs her fingers over the backs of his scarred hands to urge them under the curve of her ass.

“Brace me,” she says, and his grip tightens to take her weight. “You’re not to let go.”

He stares up at her, taking her commands in stride, patient even though he’s still untouched. Even though he must smell her arousal. In his position even an unenhanced man would be able to tell how slick she’s gotten.

The stream of his thoughts continues to flow thick with want but otherwise remains calm and steady. She’d like to see how long he can wait before the current turns turbulent. How long he can await instruction without moving a muscle, and all the while she gets wetter until her cunt threatens to drip on the rug.

Geralt’s chin bumps the inside of her thigh. “You’re testing me,” he rumbles.

“Yes, quite,” replies Yennefer. To up the ante, she reaches down and circles her clit slowly. When she presses harder, she moans softly at the relief. He watches the movement, jaw tensing, before flicking his gaze back to her face.

“Is this a punishment?”

“Perhaps.” Her breath hitches and she fights to keep still as she teases herself, just this side of not what she really needs. She aches to get it but can’t give in yet. “What do you want, Geralt? Do you want to taste me?”

He nods.

“Speak when you’re spoken to.”

“Yes,” he says. “Please.”

“Good boy, remembering your manners.” She rocks into her touch just a little, slipping two fingers inside herself before she removes her hand. “Open up.” When he obediently parts his lips, she withdraws her fingers and places them on his tongue, pressing down. “Clean them for me, Witcher, and maybe you can have more.”

He groans as he sucks the wetness from her skin, his eyes dropping shut as if he could get drunk on her. She gathers another fistful of his hair, cards it back out of his face. Holds it tight.

She sends him a question. What would you do for me?

Geralt shifts on the floor, his breeches taut over his cock and thighs when he leans back on his heels. A damp spot spreads near his waistband—already, the needy bastard. She’s barely begun.

What would you let me do to you?

It takes a few moments and even then a flurry of vivid images is his only answer. She takes them to mean Everything.

Her fingers leave his mouth with a pop, and she cups his cheek, tugging on his hair. He chases after them—so easy. So easy to have him like this, but only for her. Only with her does he stop checking his blind spots. Gods, she could burst from the disappointment of living in a reality that would keep her from him. Of a destiny that would force them together.

“Yen,” he starts, voice like gravel. “Here? Wouldn’t you rather we—”

“Don’t presume to know what I would rather,” she snaps, and grips him under the chin. “We do this my way or no way at all.”

He quirks an eyebrow but doesn’t argue.

She says, “I’ll tell you what I would rather. I’d rather come on your face and then leave you here as a toy for my personal use. I could immobilize you, but I wouldn’t have to. You’d stay right here on your knees until I told you otherwise. Tell me you would.”

“I would,” he rasps.

“I’d leave you hard and unsatisfied, drooling with how much you want it. Like a dog for a bone. I’d go over to my bed and get a full night of peaceful sleep, and you would have to stay here and hope I’d come back in the morning to take mercy on you.”

“Yen, fuck.”

“Should I, Geralt? Do you deserve my mercy?”

Reaching out with her magic, trailing it over his nipples and down his abdomen under his clothes, she finally wraps it around the base of his cock. He inhales sharply but does not reply.

She leans more fully into his support, spreads her legs as wide as she can manage to open herself to him.

“Don’t take all night,” she says, releasing his chin and urging him forward by the back of the head.

He buries his nose into dark hair, lips kissing along her vulva and the crease of her thighs. Building anticipation that doesn’t need to be built. She’s already clenching around nothing from his proximity, from the way she can feel his hips pushing against the tight hold of her magic for some semblance of friction. At last he goes where she wants him, licking broadly up her cunt. She bites her lip as he flicks his tongue over her clit. Swears when he sucks, and lifts herself towards the wet heat of his mouth.

His fingers flex and dig into her the skin of her ass. If he had his way, she knows he’d have them inside her by now. He loves to rub over that spot that makes her eyes roll back while he works her clit with his mouth, bringing her to ruin inside and out. One time he had lain her out and made her come over and over again on his mouth and fingers until she could no longer tell how many hours had passed. Gods, she’d nearly screamed for him that day. She had let him get her there. She’d wanted to.

Without the use of his fingers, Geralt makes do. His mind simmers with frustration and determination and need.

Yen eases the phantom touch up his shaft as he licks down toward her entrance, and his teeth catch against her on his gasp. She can’t quiet the whine that tumbles out of her throat. “You like that, don’t you?” He makes his way back to her clit, circles it with just the right pressure. “You like—oh—you like feeling my magic on your cock. I bet you want more. I bet you’d beg for it after long enough, with my taste on your lips and nothing in return.”

He pulls her tighter to his face, and she yanks on his hair to make him groan. At the same time, she forms the magic into a fist around him. It begins stroking him at a moderate pace, not how he wants it, quick and hard and now, but enough to keep him on the edge of desperate. It squeezes around the head how she’s seen him do to himself—how she has done to him—and he pauses his work to pant harshly against her skin.

When he stops, so does the magic. He growls.

“Now you know the rules,” Yen says breathlessly. “I come, then you come. Not before.”

“Fucking—” he curses quietly, hips rutting uselessly into the stilled touch. He settles for biting down on her inner thigh. Her legs tremble.

With renewed vigor he licks into her once more, doing away with technique and strategy. He centers his energy on her clit, clearly not aiming for anything other than to make her fall apart above him—her shoulders curve in and her mouth falls open on a cry.

“Yes, like that. Good boy,” she tells him again when he lets off enough for her to find the words. “Can you do that while I ride you? Hold still for me?”

He makes eye contact with her, irises nearly swallowed by pupil. Nods.

“Perfect,” she whispers, and grinds her cunt into his face.

He meets her rhythm with some guiding from the hand still in his hair, alternating his flicks from his tongue with firm suction that shoots sparks through her nerves. By the gods, she’s not going to last long. He knows her too well, knows how to put himself where she needs him most. The higher he sends her the more of her weight he must support, until it’s nearly only him holding her up to his mouth while she shakes and fucks herself on him with rolling hips.

The magic on his cock speeds as she ascends; she can feel the tension climbing through his muscles with the effort to hold back. A flick of her wrist sends the touch to engulf him as if he is sunk deep in a warm throat. He moans, and one of his hands slaps against her ass.

“Careful, just—almost—”

She thrusts forward and he sucks hard and she comes, convulsing in his grip, keeping him there by his hair while he works her through it. Until he must be running out of air, even with the mutations, and his eyelids flutter with the effort. The throat around him tightens, swallows.

Yen says, chest heaving, “Go on, Geralt. You can come now.”

He does, his forehead pressed snug into the soft give of her stomach, breathing her name so quiet that she might not hear it.

She combs her fingers through his hair and stands fully on her own, though her legs are still weak and her spine aches. The pins in her hair are poking at her scalp, so she pulls them out and tosses them on the vanity on her way to the bed, stepping over the discarded dress. It can be hung in the wardrobe in the morning.

Yennefer has one knee on the mattress before she realizes Geralt is still where she left him on the rug by the fire, gazing after her with a question in his eyes, like she might actually leave him there in his soaking breeches to be used at her whim.

Maybe next time.

She throws back the blankets and pats the space beside her. “Are you joining me or not, Witcher?”

He grins.

[prurientpuddlejumper]

A Lipless Face That I Want to Marry, Ch. 10

<- Chapter 9 | Chapter 11 ->

Summary: Can things ever be fixed between you and Frederick?

4,109 words

As you turned to leave, the door opened suddenly and struck you on the rump, nearly sending you sprawling on the hard laminated floor.

“Oh! Excuse me,” said the startled nurse, who, upon seeing who you were, greeted you loudly and deliberately by name. “Here to see Frederick?” she asked, holding the door wide open for you while klaxons blared up and down the corridors of your mind and your anxiety banged pots and pans together.

It didn’t matter what you answered at that point. Frederick was staring straight at you.

The nurse patiently held the door until you nodded politely and entered. Then she let it shut behind you, and you and Frederick were alone.

The room was silent except for the hum and beep of machinery. The air between you was still, but felt laced with invisible barbed wire, as if crossing the distance to his bedside was a treacherous task to be undertaken with extreme caution, and not just a handful of feet you could close in two strides. You scuffed your heel against the floor and cleared your throat. Neither of you wanted to speak first.

“Hi.”

“It is good to see you,” Frederick said, following your stiff tone.

“Is it?” you replied too quickly, too much frustration slipping into your voice by accident. Your heart skipped several beats at the thought that it might be true—that he was glad to see you. The possibility gave you hope. “It’s good to see you, too,” you said.

“I doubt that,” he said dryly. “I am hardly a sight for sore eyes.”

Your lips pressed together, unable to believe he had the nerve to be self-deprecating as you came to extend an olive branch, when the entire fight was about his appearance! “Shut up. Idiot.” The snap to your tone was undercut by a low waver in its pitch.

“A pleasure to hear the delicate birdsong of your voice.”

“Asshole.” Your shoulders shook with laughter at the familiar banter: his words dripping with playful condescension, but without the cutting edge of cruelty that had seeped into them recently. He was so charming when he was like this. You wanted him to be yours again—to be exchanging little barbs with him forever. Talking to him felt so familiar, but standing in front of the door with a field of invisible wires between you and the bed, unsure if this would be the last time, the heaving of your shoulders broke into a sob. You wiped your eyes, hoping he hadn’t noticed.

His eyes watched you with unwavering focus, though it was difficult to tell what emotion he was feeling.

“So, what’s this?” You risked a step closer to nod at the new material fitted tightly over his head and hands. It hadn’t been there when you last saw him, but you managed to hide the sting in your voice that you were out of the loop with his treatment, and asked with genuine curiosity.

“Pressure garments,” he answered just as factually. “To reduce scarring. Now that my skin has healed enough to tolerate wearing them, I have been instructed not to remove them longer than an hour per day.” His eyes rolled in annoyance. “I shall be looking into more fashionable alternatives as soon as possible, of course. I feel as though I am wearing a gimp suit made of women’s shapewear.”

You bit back another laugh, because that was exactly what it looked like he was wearing, and if you laughed again, you would definitely break down crying.

“I see you started physical therapy...” Your small-talk was growing strained. The distance between your bodies too wide. “...since I’ve been gone.”

He flinched at the word “gone,” as if you’d simply been away on vacation and not coarsely thrown out and told not to come back. All the anger he’d stuffed down like a knot in his diaphragm had long since loosened and been replaced by guilt, and the realization of his own failure.

“I… have missed you,” he said slowly, his longing for you overtaking his stubborn pride. His already-exhausted arm reached out to you, as far it physically could. It was pitifully narrow and trembling with the effort of extending. His arms used to be surprisingly thick and strong for a priggish man his size, but after nearly two months of laying in the same position and being metabolized by his own body as it healed itself, they were skeletal. And your heart lurched at the sight.

It no longer mattered if the distance was trapped with barbed wire or planted with hidden minefields. Your thin façade of indifference crumbled, and you threw yourself at the side of his bed, head falling onto the mattress under his gesturing hand just as tears began to flow. His arm sagged, drained of energy, to rest in your hair.

“I missed… you too… dummy...” you choked out between sobs. “Why did you… why did you….” You couldn’t manage to form the question around the lump in your throat, losing yourself in shaking. His gloved fingers moved in your hair, almost stroking it, though the movements were too weak and stilted. But he was trying, and you knew he was trying, and that made it feel better than any time he’d ever stroked your hair before.

His fingers paused their motion, and you wondered if he was about to confirm your fears and tell you to leave again. That he missed you, but it really was over. 

His chest rose and fell with a deep, preparatory breath. Then he whispered, slow and hoarse, “I should never have pushed you away. I was afraid you would never speak to me again.” He glanced surreptitiously at your finger. His eyesight was blurry and poor at close distance, especially with tears swimming in his vision, but he did not see a trace of the gold band he told you to pawn.

Peeling your wet face off the sheets, you gently grasped his hand in both of yours and pressed your lips to his fingers. “No, I should never have left like that. I’m sorry I took so long to come back. What you’re going through… it’s normal to be angry. You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“I never said I was sorry,” he said, teeth clicking together in a slight underbite, as if he were trying to press his lips into a bored slant. You stopped kissing his hand and narrowed your eyes at him. He looked a bit shocked at his own mouth’s behavior when all he wanted to do was be overwhelmed by your forgiveness, his watery eyes widening in fear of your reaction. The next terrified, but genuine, words out of him were, “I am. I am sorry.”

“You could have called me.”

“I know.”

“I knew you wouldn’t,” you cocked your head with a half-smiling expression lost somewhere between pleased with how well you understood his quirks and annoyed. An hour ago, you would have said annoyed. Right now, you were leaning toward the former.

“Then you were mistaken. I did call. You did not answer,” said shortly, flipping the blame to you.

“When?”

“A moment ago.”

“Really?” You groaned, pulling your phone out of your pocket and showing him the black screen. “It’s off. Hospital rules.”

A huff of laughter hissed through his teeth. He was about to give up all hope of reconciliation when you did not answer his call, but it was because you were here. It was incredible how quickly a day could turn around. “Pam told me not to read into it going to voicemail...”

Pam. That nurse. You must have made a very obvious face, and Frederick must have seen it as broad as daylight, because a creeping smirk pulled at his cheeks, making his permanent grimace even wider, his eyes narrowed deviously.

“Are you jealous?”

“No!”

“You ought to be,” he insinuated. “She was wonderful after my ordeal with Abel Gideon. I tried to tempt her to come work for me, know you. But she is a stubborn woman. She likes helping people, and apparently a hospital incarcerating the criminally insane does not qualify. She has been... shall we say, supportive, since you abandoned me.”

“It isn’t fair to rub salt in my wounds when I can’t punish you for your insolence,” you grumbled, gently grasping his hand in both of yours and pressing your lips to his fingers. His brow darted upward under the mask with keen interest at the prospect of punishment.

The flirtation was mainly performative—he was far from well enough for any kind of sexual performance, and even the idea of it, at this point, made his gut squirm uncomfortably—but he enjoyed the playful innuendo. The bit of swagger and pretend-confidence. It set you at ease and put on a smile on your lips that he adored.

This was another part of your relationship that had been missing while Frederick was recovering. The sinful little promises in a glance, a dare in the tone of your voice. Things had been considerably less romantic lately, but suddenly it was like he was seeing everything as it used to be, all of the wonderful, exciting, sensual moments he had callously given up. He had shattered that old life. This moment of nostalgia that would soon be over. And suddenly, his flirtatious brow sank back to its usual place, and he became sullen and still.

“I wish that… I could take it all back. That we could return to the way we were before.”

You hesitated. This would be when you would normally have squeezed his hand or crawled into bed beside him, but you still were not sure how much physical contact he could take, and you desperately did not want to hurt him. You risked leaning so your upper body was resting halfway on the bed, and you could cuddle as close as you could without really touching. You looked him deeply in the eye, hoping, with a pinprick of pain, that he would not turn sour and accuse you of staring again. 

“I know things will be different now, but you’re getting better. It’s hard to see the progress because you’re here every day, but I’ve been gone two weeks, and all of a sudden your skin is healed enough to wear this… this Spanx ski mask, and you’re doing PT. Things won’t be the same, but they’ll be good again soon.”

“Between us,” he pressed the meaning you had not taken. “Things between us cannot simply return to normal. What are we to one another now? Ex-fiancés? I wish it were possible to go back to before I ended our relationship.” His voice was thick and mournful, eyes cast low, like he was giving a eulogy.

“Why can’t we?”

Frederick was taken aback by that. It was so obvious, anyone who had not been raised by wolves like you apparently had should understand it implicitly. “One cannot break off an engagement and simply take it back.”

“Why?”

“Because!” he cried, as if that in itself was an explanation. “I have failed you, hurt you. Proven my lack of commitment. One may glue a shattered glass back into the approximate shape of a glass, but it will always have sharp edges and missing pieces. It will leak. Its surface will be marred with cracks. When one has shattered a glass, it is easier to throw it away.”

“That is the saddest thing I have ever heard, Frederick. And you have clearly never heard of kintsugi,” you said. Frederick looked confused, and you briefly considered telling him to just fucking google it when he could hold a smartphone again, but just sighed and quickly explained, “It’s the Japanese philosophy of repairing pottery with gold so it becomes more beautiful and precious the more it’s damaged. It’s an overused cliché for recovery, but it’s way better than your morbid fucking glass—and need I remind you we are not dishware.”

Frederick stared, unable to come up with words for once in his life. You sat up. The hard plastic chair—your old frenemy—had been pushed out of the way in the corner of the room. You dragged it to the side of the bed so you could sit and hold Frederick’s elastic-gloved hand, and get out of the awkward crouch you had been in.

Soft and uncertain, afraid of the answer, you gathered the courage to ask, “Do you want me to be here? Do I just make things worse?”

“You are all that makes my days bearable,” he croaked. “If your presence worsens my mood, it is only in seeing your brightness dimmed on my account. But I am selfish. I would gladly drag you down only to have you by my side as I drown.”

“Then you do want to take it back? The breakup?” you asked, head swimming with hope. “You want to un-break up.”

“I do, but—”

“Good! So do I. It’s done,” you said, laughing through tears. “That’s all there is to it.”

A tear fell from Frederick’s green eye, and another pooled dangerously close to spilling on the lower lid of the sightless blue one. “It cannot be that easy.” It could not be so easy getting the love of his life back. His head trembled side to side, and you could tell he was about to protest.

“We are not fragile dishware.” You squeezed his hand gently. “We can decide to be whole again, and it will happen. I don’t care if there are supposed to be rules—if I’m supposed to feel betrayed and never trust you again. I don’t care. I am of the opinion that you should do whatever you feel like doing, and all I want is to live in your house, and steal your snacks. I want to sleep beside you every night, in our bed, and argue with you over stupid little things every day. I want you to push my buttons and rile me up, and help me relax and make me try new things. I want to make you feel safe. And I want to fuck you senseless. So if I want to, and you want to, then why don’t we?”

Frederick’s breaths were coming out erratically, and it was all you could do not to scoop him up in a full-body hug. “You will also have to stand my bitterness and abuse,” he added cynically. “You left that out.”

“No,” you leaned in close to the bump of his ear under the tight fabric. “Another great thing about not being pottery is that we can change when something isn’t working. We’re going to find some better way for you to cope than taking it out on me, because that sucks.” You leaned back with a satisfied grin, “But I don’t mind if you’re a pain in the ass sometimes—that’s the man I fell in love with. I love you, Frederick. Just love me, too, and it will be alright.”

“Just like that?” he asked, a challenge his tone, despite the hoarseness of held-back tears in his timbre.

“Just like that.”

“Should I not be in the proverbial dog house?”

“Frederick, you’re already in the literal hospital; no point making you sleep on the figurative couch.”

“The couch would be a marked improvement,” he admitted.

“Well, not just like that,” you said, sitting up from the side of the bed and putting your weight back in the chair. “There is one thing to do before we can be engaged again.” You dabbed the corners of your eyes and sniffed deeply to clear any remaining nasal drip. Frederick watched you anxiously as you reached into your bag to grab something. You pulled out a small, square, black velvet box and opened it, displaying its contents. Inside was a gold ring matching yours, but more ornate, with a few more diamond embellishments, and attached to a gold chain.

“What is this?” Frederick whispered.

“The ring. The one the EMTs had to cut off of you. I took it to the jeweler and had it soldered back together. It’s on a chain so you can wear it until your hands are healed enough.” His heart fluttered as you dropped to one knee beside the bed and held the box aloft. “Frederick Chilton, will you marry me?”

He welled with emotion, and for a few moments—long enough for your knee on the hard floor to begin to pinch—the only sounds he could make were hitched breathing as he fought not to cry. “Damn you!” he cursed through wet eyes, “Asking that when I cannot kiss you or hold you to me...”

“Your answer?”

“And what if I never walk again? What if this is life, forever?”

“Then I love you, and I want to be with you.”

“It is not enough!” he shouted, practically snarling with vicious intent, but not toward you. Wood burns because it has the proper stuff in it, and a man becomes famous because he has the proper stuff in him. You do not have the proper stuff, Frederick. He remembered Hannibal’s words to him the day before the Dragon burned him. It was so easy for Dr. Lecter to strike surgically at the deepest and oldest wounds. Now he was even less than he was that day.

“You are enough, Frederick,” your soft voice insisted, still holding up the ring and looking at him like your heart might break. “You’ve always been enough. You always will be. Please, marry me?”

“I am not an idiot,” he grumbled, light shining softly in his eyes. “Of course I will marry you.”

The truth was, he was still conflicted. As you smiled and wept and clasped the delicate gold chain around his neck, putting your own back on your finger, he thought of so many reasons he was unhealthy for you, so many things he should tell you. But he was selfish, and being with you felt good. It felt like breathing when he’d been deprived of oxygen. And pushing you away had been selfish, too. Maybe you were right, and the only thing that mattered was that he loved you. Because he did. He loved you more than he had ever loved anything.

“I need to touch you,” he whined, desperation in his voice, his arms shifting by helpless inches. “Please touch me?”

“Where can I touch you? How do you want to be touched?” You looked to him for guidance, and he explained the few painful spots with more severe or recent scars. Everywhere else was still tender, but healed enough to tolerate pressure and light caresses.

“I cannot do much in return,” he lamented, “but you may put your arms around me if it pleases you.” With some embarrassment, which would have reddened his cheeks if they were not already red with inflammation and hidden, besides, he added, “… I would… enjoy that.”

You complied readily, with a contented sigh, uttering soft praise and oaths of love as you crawled into the small bed with as much of your body as you could squeeze in beside him. It was a tight fit, but Frederick had fewer wires and tubes coming out of him than before, and every little jostle no longer caused him agonizing pain. His body felt so warm pressed close against yours, and the warmth spread out through your chest, multiplying itself like embers hopping from one dry leaf to the next, soothing every muscle until they were melting off your bones. You wrapped your arm around him and gave him a gentle squeeze, relishing the happy little moan it elicited as Frederick melted into you.

The air in the room was still and quiet except for the hum of machinery. But it was a comfortable, sleepy sort of quiet this time, laced with steady breathing and barely-audible whines as you cuddled into him.

“It’s amazing to be able to touch you again,” you whispered, smoothing your palm up and down his side.

He hummed in agreement, eyes closed. But he frowned at a thought that plagued him even through his dreamy happiness at having you beside him again. “I want more,” he growled, pleading to a higher power. “I am too impatient to wait a year to do such simple things as holding you. Walking.” Frederick’s body trembled. “Touching my skin without it burning is progress worthy of celebration?” he spat in frustration, then took in a long breath and held it to calm down. “My anger is not directed at you, dear. Sorry.”

“I know,” you breathed, tightening your grip around him, and releasing quickly when he gave a sharp hiss. “I hate it, too. I hate waiting,” you commiserated. Your hand skimmed over his chest, careful of the places he had warned you to avoid. It killed you needing to be so cautious when you wanted to climb on top of him and ride him hard into oblivion. But that would be a long way off. So you celebrated every little victory. Each new thing he could do that he couldn’t yesterday.

You kissed down his bandaged side and over his arm. Between his new compression glove and the bandages encasing his elbow, there was a bare patch of exposed skin. It was discolored, still reddened, and scarred, but looked intact. You pressed a kiss to it, warm beneath your lips. He shuddered, and exhaled slowly.

“Can you feel that?” you asked.

“Yes,” he breathed. “I have missed this.”

You wished there was more exposed skin for you to kiss. You glanced at his face. His mouth was uncovered. His mangled lip stubs gave a ghastly impression over his pearly white teeth, though you would never admit to him that you thought so. However gruesome they looked, the only reason you hadn’t kissed them yet was that they were badly injured where they’d been bitten off. It had not been a clean cut in any sense, the uneven tearing and bruising an impediment to the recovery of the wound’s edge. But if his face was fitted with this compression mask, then his mouth must have been healed enough. As you inspected the jagged flesh, you concluded that it was as sound as the skin on his arm.

A strange look came over Frederick, cagey and watery-eyed, and you knew he was holding in the urge to snap at you for staring, terrified of pushing you away again.

“Can I kiss you?” you whispered, lowering your mouth close enough to breathe his air, but waiting for his approval. His pupils blew wide with longing, eyes darting over your lips, and his tongue ran along the inside of his teeth.

“Is that a joke?” he let out a huff of cynical laughter. “You do not need to prove your devotion with these… displays of willingness to do the revolting.”

“It’s not a joke! I want to kiss you.”

“God, you are serious. That paraphilia of yours,” he tutted, teasing you. The sides of his eyes tilted, and he fixed you with a sober, sincere gaze—the deepest he had let you look into his eyes, for fear of being this close to his face, since being maimed. The green one was still that perfect, warm crystalline color of the crest of a wave curling toward Assateague Island. The blinded eye was a pure blue now, as if he had the North Atlantic in one eye and a Caribbean beach in the other. But you couldn’t blame him for not finding the beauty in his injuries, especially when they were still sore. “No,” he said. “I am not ready for that.”

“OK,” you nodded.

His eyes caressed your face lovingly, since he could not do it with his hands. “I would like it if you held me more,” he suggested, voice thick with his desire to feel you. Just not on his mouth. You kissed his wrist once more, slowly, savoring the feel of his skin on your lips, then settled yourself beside him again. You lowered your head onto his shoulder, careful not to put too much weight down, and draped an arm over his chest. Fredrick let out a vulnerable whine as he relaxed, and it nearly burst your heart.

One day, you would kiss him again. One day, you would have everything back. But it would be one day at a time. For now, this—laying beside him in his cramped hospital bed, nearly dozing—was enough.

This was plenty.

• ● • ━━━━━─ ••●•• ─━━━━━ • ● •

Tags:  @beccabarba / @caked-crusader / @itsjustmyfantasyroom / @thatesqcrush / @dianilaws / @permanentlydizzy​ / @mrsrafaelbarba​ / @da-po / @madamsnape921

[tenmillionwhumperflies]

Cloudwalker Series Part 23

Alright, lil bit of fluff, lil bit of angst and a whoooollllleee lotta whump. It’s Avizon’s backstory time, peeps!

Warnings: Abusive woman, beatings, dislocations, blood, hand whump, guilt for hurting someone/ comparing to an abusive/evil character. 

Master-list Here

Approx WC: 2200

Taglist: @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi

When Avizon went downstairs he found Orrien teaching Ihuka how to peel potatoes. He couldn’t help but faintly smile, seeing Ihuka screwing up his face as he concentrated. “Before you say it, I couldn’t sleep so I gave up and started making dinner. Ihuka wanted to help,” Orrien supplied. “He’s doing a good job. We’ve been learning some words and he’s taken quite a shine to Mouse.”

Avizon looked at the metal dragon on Avizon’s ear, which was currently guarding a pea. Avizon smiled, but it wasn’t as forced as he expected it to be. “Horse called Fox and a dragon called Mouse. You’re a creative one, that’s for sure. So, what have we learned then, Ihuka?” “Tay-toe!” Ihuka beamed, showing him the potato he’d finished peeling. “Potato, yes, clever bird,” Avizon chuckled.

“Ummm… knife, pot, bowl,” he pointed to each item. “Fire… hot. d.dangerous?” “Yes, fires are hot and dangerous.” Orrien grinned and pointed to a pan. “And what’s in there?” “Dinner!” he beamed. Orrien and Avizon chuckled. “You’re making quite the chef out of young Ihuka.” Orrien chuckled and collected a bowl of stew for Ihuka. “And I found a way to get him to eat his v-e-g.” “Drowned in gravy and stock?” Avizon guessed. Orrien winked.

It was true, Ihuka would have to start to eat vegetables since he wasn’t getting the greens now he wasn’t in the wild. Avizon wanted to be able to keep him healthy and happy.

Orrien gave him the bowl. “Off with you now, go eat outside.”

“Eat… out...side...” he pointed to the window. “Yes, outside, clever bird.” Ihuka beamed and left. “He’s gone to sit on the step, bless his heart. He’s a good lad, really. It’s nice being able to teach him words.”

Avizon nodded. “I just hope I can undo the damage I’ve done...”

Orrien looked up at him and sighed. “I think you can, with time. He’s bouncing back, but I think he also knows you didn’t mean it. He can see your regret.” “I hope so… I also noticed something… A few days after Ihuka bit me, I began to change. Seeing Blue’s bite, get infected like that… I can’t help but wonder if Ihuka biting me… if it… changed me, helped tilt the scales.”

“Perhaps so.” “And to think that’s what I broke him for...” Avizon mumbled. “All my life I swore I’d never be anything like Halve, but I fear that is what I have become-” Orrien’s mood immediately darkened. “Do not say that name in this home. And you are nothing like that man, or his bitch of a daughter.” Avizon flinched at his sudden change. “I’m sorry. But I almost killed Ihuka, how am I that much better?” “Because you feel guilt. You feel regret. That is why.” Orrien gestured for him to sit and reluctantly, Avizon did so. Orrien sat opposite him.

Avizon sighed. “Is that enough to separate me from that monster?” “Yes. It is. Now please, you need to dismiss those thoughts. You are better than him. Ro loved you, you don’t get to compare yourself to that beast. Where is this coming from, Avizon?”

Avizon found the wooden table beneath him to be the better thing to look at. “I’ve had too much time to think about all the wrong I have done… Seeing how my birds react to me… I… Seeing Blue and Dyan, how they need each other… It has brought up memories. All I can see are the similarities between me and… him.” He looked down at his hand, at the small scar on the top of his hand that the princess had left behind from one of her attacks.

Avizon sighed. “I’m having a difficult day, I suppose.”

“What you went through was by no means easy. You pushed your body to its limit and then so much further. You were lost, yes, but you are also trying to find yourself again, to be better.” Orrien carefully put a hand on his hand. “Is there anything I can do?”

Avizon shook his head. “I think I’ll go for a ride. You should know, our guest, Tashka, is still in the barn, I believe. He has promised to not attack this place again.”

“Good… How is Blue anyway? Did he wake?” “He cracked open his eyes a little, but I left him with Dyan since Dyan was having a hard time too. He practically asked me to punish him and muzzle him but I refused… He thought I was going to take his other horn when he accidentally snarled at me.” Orrien frowned. “Poor bird… With Blue, we never got around to working past his fear of taking off his collar. But Dyan wasn’t threatened by its removal. Perhaps you could get him a weighed necklace, something he can feel, to reassure him on his more vulnerable days, when he feels like he is doing wrong? It is hard for them to adapt at times.”

Avizon nodded slowly. “I will speak to him when he’s calm and see what we can do. He looked about ready to fall asleep when I left him.” Orrien excused himself from the table. “I’d like to pop my head around the door and make sure everything is well. I was meaning to check on Blue anyway. What he went through…  I shouldn’t be long.” Orrien gestured to the pot. “You should eat.” Avizon nodded but he didn’t hear the words he said. He was lost in thought, staring at his scarred hand. He shuddered with the memories, but Orrien had already left. He didn’t need to see this, he didn’t like to have people see his struggling.

And so his mind wandered, and Avizon couldn’t reel it back in. All he could think about was his time at that cursed castle, the pain he’d endured, to all the events that had led him into darkness, and despair…

Several Years ago...

Avizon groaned as he made his way up the many stairs to get to the top of the tower to see Orrien and have his wounds checked over from the day before. Orrien had healed him well, but he needed to keep a close eye on it. Avizon had been unconscious after one of the princesses 'gifts' had left him too close to death. 

It had been a bad stab wound sent in a fit of rage because Avizon hadn't knelt fast enough with his still healing leg injury from several days prior. Nothing he could do was ever enough for that woman or her father. Every failure brought pain which brought more failure. It was a cycle he couldn't escape from but he was running out of blood to give.

He'd only just gotten to the top, panting for breath, when he came face to face with Princess Eriona. He bit back a whimper and bowed. "Your Highness." "Downstairs, now," she hissed. "You didn't make an appearance yesterday."

Because he was unconscious, but that wasn't an answer he could provide. "Yes, your Highness… my sincerest apologies."

With every day that passed the desire to kill that bitch grew, but he was too terrified to ever act upon such thoughts.

Despite struggling all the way up the stairs, he now had to go back down. He politely invited Eriona to go first, but she slapped the back of his head and shoved him towards the stairs. He struggled to keep his balance as he limped down faster than he wanted to. He blinked away tears and bit back a grimace as the spiking pain increased rapidly.

"Hurry up!"

Despite his pain, he did so, his limp growing worse. He was in so much pain but he just couldn't stop. It wasn’t an option, she was already clearly so mad.

"You had the audacity to get my father involved, getting me into trouble for lowering his 'security'. Like you could do anything! You're worthless, pathetic! And one day once father is dead you'll be mine to hurt as I wish!"

She kicked him in the back of the head before he could string together some sort of reply, sending him down half a dozen stairs before he could catch himself. His stomach flipped when he felt something give in his shoulder. He cried out in pain, holding onto it with a strangled sob. He could only guess it had dislocated. He struggled to get up again with three shaky limbs. He choked back a sob. He was sure he'd opened his stab wound too. He clamped his eyes shut.

"Please, mistress," he whimpered, daring to use the other name she liked him to use when they were alone. "I..."

"Get up!" she spat, grabbing him by the hair and yanking up.

Avizon struggled to his feet and had no choice but to keep walking. His body burned with the pain he was in. He cried out as he hobbled, keeping a hand against the wall for support.

"Cry all you want, coward, you will be punished."

Finally, he made it to the bottom of the stairs, snivelling, whimpering, and shaking. He just couldn't take this anymore. He just couldn't live the rest of his life like this. He yearned for the day he could be free from this, from the pain. Ro always told him he didn’t deserve this, but then why did he always suffer so?

Avizon gulped as she forced him on into a storage cupboard. He knew what to expect, and he could only try to defend himself from the beating he received from her. He tried to protect his shoulder and hold on as best he could as he could until her frustration died down. That was all he was to her, a punching bag, a means of gaining satisfaction from hurting others. He was nothing in her eyes. The king wouldn’t correct her either, he just made sure she didn’t kill him. He curled up in the corner and gradually fell down to the ground with each devastating blow to his already broken body.

He screamed when she got him to the ground and started to kick him in the ribs. He wheezed and curled up until finally, finally, she stopped, panting for breath. She reached up into her hair and Avizon braced in advance, turning his head away. There was a sudden pain in his hand and he cried out. Then there was a yanking sensation, and blood flowed freely. Stabbed with her hairpin. He tried to focus on breathing, to get gulps of air past his frozen lungs and broken ribs. He tried not to stare at his hand.

“Do not ignore me next time I call for you,” she glowered. He lay on the floor, battered, broken, and in so much pain he just simply could not move even if he wanted to. His eyes were dull and unseeing. He barely managed to choke out, “Yes, m.mistress...”

She left him alone, to lay on the floor in agony, out of sight of anyone in the castle. He closed his eyes and waited for unconsciousness, for someone to find him. He didn’t care which anymore. This was the life he had almost always lived, and there would be no escape from it…

He didn’t remember falling unconscious, but he woke to the feeling of warmth on his cheek, a hand, and not just anyone. “Open your eyes, my love, please open your eyes… Oh, by the realms… W.what the fuck has she done to you this time?...”

Avizon opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out, only a feeble sob. He forced his eyes open a crack, just enough to see his beautiful green eyes. “R.Ro...”

Ro hushed him gently and kissed his forehead. "I've got you. My father's on his way- stay awake, sweetheart, please stay awake."

Avizon didn't even try to sit up. He couldn't if he wanted to. He was battling with his heavy eyelids, the whispered promise of painlessness. Ro sat down beside him and pulled him into his lap with care. Avizon whimpered as his shoulder moved but he tried to stay quiet for Ro. He wanted the comfort. The pain was so heavy he couldn't breathe.

"Ro?" Orrien called. "In here. I.it's bad," Ro answered.

Avizon saw the tears in his eyes and reached up with a bloody hand to wipe his tears away but thought better of it. His hand was so covered that it would have marked his face. He didn't want to do that to him.

"'m okay," he mumbled instead, even if he felt like anything but.

The first thing Orrien did when he saw him was swear. “She’s getting out of control,” he hissed, kneeling down to assess the injuries. Avizon whimpered and tried to push his hand away from his now clearly bleeding wound. “N.no, master, p.please...”

Orrien gently put his hand on Avizon’s forehead, assessing his temperature. “I’m going to have to inform the king again-”

“No!” Avizon yelped, trying to sit up, but that drew a scream from him. Ro eased him back down as he panted heavily and sweat dripped from his body. “N.no...” “She punished you for it? Dash it all!” Orrien spat, but he quickly dismissed his anger. “Alright… let’s just get you upstairs so I can patch this up. Don’t worry, lad, I’ve got you… sleep.”