#but i have a hand tremor and most of the time i forget i even have tremors

[angelsfat3]

ⓘㅤ 𝐌𝐄𝐑𝐂𝐈𝐅𝐔𝐋. ⠀⠀( 崇拜我的罪恶，先生。)

𝓢ummary “ ✉. In a time when women were burned for using reason and men were supposed to follow the words of God, a demon took possession of a beautiful young man to teach a lost priest, to love.

⠀،،⠀Genre. ’ Sci-fi, drama, religious au.

( 𝒄/𝒘. )───Repression, forbidden fruit(?), teasing, tension.

The confessional was nearly dark, illuminated only by the faint flicker of a candle on the nearby altar. You, the priest, sat on the small bench, trying to steady the tremor in your hands as you heard footsteps approaching.

You knew who it was even before he knelt on the other side of the screen.

“Father [...], the world has always been this way, ever since Adam and Eve tasted the forbidden fruit,” Ni-ki began, his tone not just penitent but laced with something darker, something far more intimate. “We were born with sin inside us… as if it were part of our flesh.”

You knew what his words meant, what he was truly trying to say.

You bit your tongue for a moment, tasting the danger in his confession. You responded carefully, your words measured to avoid suspicion but firm like a warning.

“Sin always lies in wait, Ni-ki,” you said with a calmness that barely masked your own turmoil. “But don’t forget that redemption exists, even for the most tormented hearts.”

What you didn’t say was that those very words had failed you on so many nights when the flesh spoke louder than your faith, when your spirit surrendered to Ni-ki.

From the other side, Ni-ki let out a short, almost imperceptible sigh, but to you, it sounded like a scream.

A heavy silence settled between you. You could feel his breath on the other side of the screen, and you knew he was wrestling with himself. Finally, his voice broke the stillness, trembling and barely audible:

“What if… what if sin doesn’t just lie in wait but calls to me? What if my soul leans toward it, as if I can’t resist?”

Heat rose to your face, and you gripped your knees tightly to maintain your composure. You knew him too well.

You knew he wasn’t just talking about sin in the abstract; he was talking about you, about what you’d shared in those fleeting moments where the world seemed to vanish.

“Ni-ki, sin always waits for us, but our will must be stronger than the call of anything that leads us astray,” you said, your voice steadier than your heart.

It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the whole truth either—not when you yourself had strayed so many times toward him, toward his lips, toward the abyss of his body.

“Well, we are human, and… the flesh is weak, Ni-ki,” you said, the weight of your own words almost unbearable. “But we must not give in. Each time we fall, we drift further from the grace that has been granted to us.”

“And what if my will isn’t enough?” Ni-ki pressed, his breathing growing heavier, as if your words hurt him as much as they hurt you. “What if there’s no hope for those who have already fallen?”

The question struck you like a dagger. You knew he wanted you to tell him yes, that there was hope, that what you shared wasn’t condemned. But you couldn’t say that—not here, not ever.

The confessional turned into an oven, the air so thick it was nearly impossible to breathe. Your hands clenched into fists on your knees as you fought the tremor in your chest.

Finally, you leaned closer to the screen, lowering your voice even further.

“Ni-ki… none of us are worthy, but don’t forget that God’s mercy is infinite. No matter how far you think you’ve fallen, there is always redemption… but only if we are willing to let go of what drags us into the abyss.”

Your words felt hollow, even to you. You knew they spoke of him, of the two of you, of the secret you shared that, if discovered, could condemn you both.

Ni-ki didn’t respond immediately, but the silence that followed wasn’t one of repentance. It was one of restrained desire, of something no prayer or penance could erase.

The silence was unbearable. You could imagine his expression on the other side—the mix of pain and frustration you’d seen so many times in his dark eyes.

“And what about you, Father?” he finally whispered, his voice sharp enough to leave you breathless. “Can you let it go?”

The question hung in the air, both an accusation and a plea. You felt your lips move, but no words came out.

You didn’t have an answer because you knew, despite the guilt eating away at you, despite every moment with him being a reminder of the risk you were taking, you couldn’t imagine a world where you didn’t seek him out.

But you couldn’t say that.

“Pray, Ni-ki,” was all you could manage, your voice breaking at the end. “Pray that we both find the strength we need.”

Finally, you heard his voice again, barely a murmur.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned… and I will sin again.”

A chill ran down your spine. You couldn’t see him, but you knew his eyes were fixed on the screen, searching for yours through the thin barrier.

You closed your eyes and clutched the crucifix hanging from your neck, trying to remember why you had chosen this path.

You heard him stand, his steps retreating slowly, but you didn’t dare to look. You remained there, in the dim light, the unspoken words weighing like chains around your heart.

You knew that when the day ended and the shadows once again blanketed the village, you would seek him out. And that would be your true sin.

The echo of Ni-ki’s footsteps should have faded, but the silence that remained was unsettling, as though something unseen had filled the space.

You stayed seated on the bench of the confessional, your trembling hands clasped tightly in front of you, searching for solace in the words of your own prayer.

Then, a sharp sound shattered the moment. The door on your side of the confessional creaked open. You looked up, your heart stalling for an instant.

Ni-ki stood there, framed in the doorway, his silhouette outlined by the faint glow of the candles. His dark eyes bore into yours—not with the softness or the pain you had grown used to seeing in him.

This time, there was something else, something that made your skin crawl.

He remained silent, his lips slightly parted, as if the words refused to leave. His chest rose and fell with uneven breaths, as though caught between the urge to move forward and the fear of crossing a line from which there was no return.

But what unsettled you most was what you saw in his eyes: a dark void, a need that didn’t seem human.

You didn’t speak. You couldn’t. You were frozen.

You could only stare, paralyzed by the intensity of his presence. He was Ni-ki, and yet he wasn’t. The gentle warmth that always lowered your guard now seemed overshadowed by a darkness that made him look… different. Unreal.

Finally, you drew in a breath, trying to regain your composure.

“Ni-ki, what are you doing?” you asked, though the question came out as little more than a whisper.

He didn’t respond. He stepped into the confessional, and his shadow seemed to stretch, swallowing the space between you. There was no fear in his gaze, but neither was there comfort. It was as though he was about to consume you with his eyes.

“You… look different,” you continued, your hands gripping the edge of the bench to steady yourself. “What is it that you need?”

His reply was barely audible, an echo that seemed to come from some deep corner of his being:

“You.”

Your chest tightened, and the air seemed to abandon you entirely. But there was something in the way he said it—something not like the restrained passion you knew. It was something else, something that chilled you to the bone.

You closed your eyes and began murmuring a prayer, the words spilling from your lips in desperation.

“Our Father, who art in heaven…”

Ni-ki took another step closer, and the heat in the small cabin became suffocating. You could feel his gaze on you, intense and heavy, as if he sought to strip more than just your resolve.

“Hallowed be thy name…” you continued, your hands now trembling uncontrollably. “Deliver us from evil…”

Ni-ki’s voice, softer yet laden with that inhuman intensity, cut through your prayer.

“Do you think that will save you from me?”

Your eyes snapped open, and you saw him so close you could barely breathe.

Ni-ki’s face was mere inches from yours, but his expression was that of someone caught between suffering and ecstasy.

He was real, and he was here to claim you.

Your breaths came shallow, barely enough to keep you conscious as Ni-ki’s gaze pierced through you. His eyes, as dark as the deepest night, glimmered with something you couldn’t name—something that made the air feel heavier, as if reality itself bent to his will.

Ni-ki raised a hand slowly, his fingers brushing the wood of the confessional as though savoring every grain. His voice, low but filled with a power that didn’t seem human, broke the silence.

"You cannot pray against what is already within you, Father."

The words struck like a weight on your chest, stealing the air from your lungs.

This place, sanctified by so many prayers and penances, now felt like a battleground where the sacred and the profane faced each other head-on.

"Ni-ki, you don't know what you're saying," you murmured, though even you doubted your own words. Your voice trembled, unable to hide the fear creeping into your heart.

He tilted his head slightly, his expression almost... curious. His lips curved into a smile that never reached his eyes.

"Don’t I?" he replied, taking another step closer, so near now you could feel his warm breath against your skin. "Or is it you who doesn’t understand what we are?"

The word we echoed in your mind, an unrelenting whisper that refused to fade.

You shook your head, trying to hold onto reality, to what you knew to be true. But even as you did, you felt your conviction crumbling like a sandcastle under an unstoppable wave.

"This isn’t real," you insisted, though the tremor in your voice betrayed your growing despair. "Ni-ki, you... you’re not this."

His smile widened, and a dangerous glint appeared in his eyes, a spark that made you instinctively retreat against the pew.

"Not this?" he asked, almost amused. "Then what am I, Father? The frightened boy who sought comfort in your words? Or the man who has patiently waited for you to stop pretending?"

The intensity of his gaze made you look away, but you couldn’t escape the weight of his presence, which seemed to fill every corner of the confessional. It was as if he were absorbing the light itself, leaving only shadows in his wake.

You tried praying again, your lips moving quickly as you muttered.

"Deliver us from evil, amen. Deliver us from evil..."

But Ni-ki leaned closer, stopping you with a hand that lightly touched your chin, forcing you to meet his eyes. His fingers were warm, but his touch sent a chill down your spine.

"Stop fighting," he whispered, his voice so soft it felt like a caress. "The evil isn’t outside of you, Father. It’s here. With me."

Your heart pounded in your chest, every beat reverberating in your ears as you tried to pull away from him. But you couldn’t.

Not because you lacked the strength, but because something in his gaze held you still, as if you were caught under a spell.

"Ni-ki, please..." you managed to say, though your voice broke into a whisper.

He leaned even closer, his lips just a breath away from yours.

"Please what?" he asked, his tone dripping with a mix of mockery and something darker, something that sent shivers down to your very bones. "Please stop? Or please stay and make me yours?"

The tension was unbearable, and you felt your will falter. Deep down, you knew you were on the brink of something from which there was no return, something that would challenge not just your faith but everything you believed yourself to be.

And then, Ni-ki smiled—that same smile that now seemed to belong to someone—or something—entirely different.

"Choose, Father," he murmured, his voice soft, yet the words thundered in your mind. "But remember... you can’t save us both."

The silence that followed was suffocating, laden with a palpable tension that seemed to freeze the air between you. Ni-ki didn’t look away, his smile cutting into you like a blade.

His hand remained on your chin, holding you with a gentleness that only made the situation more unbearable. You could feel the warmth of his skin, but the touch burned as if marked by something unholy.

"Why do you tremble, Father?" he whispered, leaning even closer. His breath brushed against your lips, and his dark gaze glimmered with a mix of challenge and... delight? "You shouldn’t fear me. After all, you’re the man of God, aren’t you?"

"You cannot pray against what is already within you, Father."

The words struck like a weight on your chest, stealing the air from your lungs.

This place, sanctified by so many prayers and penances, now felt like a battleground where the sacred and the profane faced each other head-on.

"Ni-ki, you don't know what you're saying," you murmured, though even you doubted your own words. Your voice trembled, unable to hide the fear creeping into your heart.

He tilted his head slightly, his expression almost... curious. His lips curved into a smile that never reached his eyes.

"Don’t I?" he replied, taking another step closer, so near now you could feel his warm breath against your skin. "Or is it you who doesn’t understand what we are?"

The word we echoed in your mind, an unrelenting whisper that refused to fade.

You shook your head, trying to hold onto reality, to what you knew to be true. But even as you did, you felt your conviction crumbling like a sandcastle under an unstoppable wave.

"This isn’t real," you insisted, though the tremor in your voice betrayed your growing despair. "Ni-ki, you... you’re not this."

His smile widened, and a dangerous glint appeared in his eyes, a spark that made you instinctively retreat against the pew.

"Not this?" he asked, almost amused. "Then what am I, Father? The frightened boy who sought comfort in your words? Or the man who has patiently waited for you to stop pretending?"

The intensity of his gaze made you look away, but you couldn’t escape the weight of his presence, which seemed to fill every corner of the confessional. It was as if he were absorbing the light itself, leaving only shadows in his wake.

You tried praying again, your lips moving quickly as you muttered.

"Deliver us from evil, amen. Deliver us from evil..."

But Ni-ki leaned closer, stopping you with a hand that lightly touched your chin, forcing you to meet his eyes. His fingers were warm, but his touch sent a chill down your spine.

"Stop fighting," he whispered, his voice so soft it felt like a caress. "The evil isn’t outside of you, Father. It’s here. With me."

Your heart pounded in your chest, every beat reverberating in your ears as you tried to pull away from him. But you couldn’t.

Not because you lacked the strength, but because something in his gaze held you still, as if you were caught under a spell.

"Ni-ki, please..." you managed to say, though your voice broke into a whisper.

He leaned even closer, his lips just a breath away from yours.

"Please what?" he asked, his tone dripping with a mix of mockery and something darker, something that sent shivers down to your very bones. "Please stop? Or please stay and make me yours?"

The tension was unbearable, and you felt your will falter. Deep down, you knew you were on the brink of something from which there was no return, something that would challenge not just your faith but everything you believed yourself to be.

And then, Ni-ki smiled—that same smile that now seemed to belong to someone—or something—entirely different.

"Choose, Father," he murmured, his voice soft, yet the words thundered in your mind. "But remember... you can’t save us both."

The silence that followed was suffocating, laden with a palpable tension that seemed to freeze the air between you. Ni-ki didn’t look away, his smile cutting into you like a blade.

His hand remained on your chin, holding you with a gentleness that only made the situation more unbearable. You could feel the warmth of his skin, but the touch burned as if marked by something unholy.

"Why do you tremble, Father?" he whispered, leaning even closer. His breath brushed against your lips, and his dark gaze glimmered with a mix of challenge and... delight? "You shouldn’t fear me. After all, you’re the man of God, aren’t you?"

You tried to speak, but the words died in your throat. You were paralyzed, caught between the urge to push him away and the unknown abyss his closeness threatened to drag you into. Ni-ki noticed, and his smile widened, malicious and taunting.

"You know," he continued, his voice low and seductive, every word falling over you like drops of venom, "I’ve always wondered if your prayers were as sincere as you claimed. Now I see they’re not. Not when you tremble like this... with me so close."

He released your chin slowly, but he didn’t move away. His hand trailed downward, grazing the collar of your cassock, his fingers toying with the edge of the fabric, as if tempted to tear it away.

His gaze never left yours, and every movement he made was laced with a clear intention: to make you fall.

"Young lamb of God... this has to stop," you finally managed to say, though your voice was barely a whisper. Your words, however, only seemed to amuse him further.

"Stop?" he repeated, tilting his head with feigned confusion. "Why should I? Isn’t this what you wanted with me?"

The audacity in his tone hit you like a punch. You stared at him with a mix of disbelief and horror, but he was unfazed. He took another step closer, closing the distance between you until there was no space left to breathe.

"Don’t say you didn’t want this, Father." His voice dropped lower, a whisper dripping with insinuation. "I’ve seen how you run your fingers over your lips after they brush against mine... Always thinking no one noticed. But I did. I always did."

Your mind filled with fleeting images—of all the times you’d allowed your gaze to linger on him too long, of all the nights you’d battled thoughts that had no place in the life of a priest.

Ni-ki was tearing through every layer of your defenses, exposing you without mercy.

He leaned in until his face was level with yours, his dark eyes glinting with something deeper, something more terrifying.

"Tell me, Father," he asked, his tone mocking, "how many times have you prayed to be freed from me? How many times have you begged your God to strip this ‘sin’ away from you?"

His fingers, playful yet deliberate, trailed down to your chest, brushing against the cross hanging from your neck.

"You know what I think?" he continued, leaning even closer, his lips grazing the skin of your ear. "I think not even He can save you from me."

Your body reacted before your mind did. You pulled away abruptly, rising from the pew and stumbling back a few steps. But even then, the image of Ni-ki standing there with that wicked smile haunted you.

He didn’t move, but his gaze followed you—intense, inescapable.

"Where are you going, Father?" he asked, his tone feigning innocence, though the glint in his eyes betrayed his true game. "To hide behind your office again?"

Desperation overtook you, and you began murmuring a prayer, the words tumbling clumsily from your lips.

“Our Father, who art in Heaven, I beg you for your son...”

Ni-ki laughed—a low, dark sound that echoed through the space like a sinister refrain.

“You really think that will work?” he asked, openly mocking you. “Pray all you want, but you know you can’t resist this. You can’t resist me.”

His confidence, his audacity, cut through you like a twisted blade. You wanted to scream, to cry for help, but there was no one else. No one who could understand what was happening—not even you.

His eyes, dark and searing, were locked on yours. There was something in his gaze you couldn’t fully decipher—something between desperation and defiance, as though he were on the verge of breaking something inside himself... or inside you.

“What will you do now, Father?” he asked, his tone barely a whisper yet powerful enough to drown out the prayers you were trying to recite. “Will you cast me out? Or will you fall to your knees before me, as you’ve done so many times in your mind?”

Your breathing was erratic, your hands trembling as you clung to the rosary like a lifeline.

But Ni-ki offered no reprieve. His face was now just a breath away from yours, and you could feel the warmth of his breath mingling with your own.

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t. Your lips moved without purpose. “Ni-ki, this... this isn’t right,” you managed to say, though your voice was barely audible, a broken echo of your feeble resistance.

He tilted his head, and the smile on his lips softened, though his eyes still burned with an intensity that stripped away every defense you had.

“Not right?” he repeated, his tone laced with mockery but tinged with something deeper, something painfully intimate. “Then look me in the eyes and tell me you don’t want me. Tell me you don’t desire me anymore, and I’ll leave.”

His words pierced you like a knife because you knew you couldn’t say them. Not without lying. Not without betraying the truth you buried deep inside yourself. You tried to look away, but his hand rose, warm and firm, cradling your face with a tenderness that starkly contrasted the storm of emotions he’d unleashed.

“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice deeper, more commanding.

Your heart pounded fiercely, each beat reverberating in your ears like a war drum. The space around you seemed to collapse, until all that existed was him—his face, his eyes, the overwhelming intensity of his presence that engulfed you like a tidal wave.

“Say it,” he whispered, demanding, his thumb grazing your cheek softly as his eyes flicked to your lips. “Say it, and I’ll leave.”

But you didn’t. You couldn’t. Because in that moment, the truth became unbearably clear. Ni-ki wasn’t just your temptation—he was your surrender.

And then it happened.

He leaned in, closing the remaining distance between you in an instant. His lips crashed against yours—firm, insistent, brimming with an intensity that could no longer be ignored.

It was a deep, desperate kiss, laden with everything both of you had suppressed for far too long.

Your mind screamed in protest, reminding you of who you were, where you were, what this meant. But your body—treacherous, rebellious—did not resist. Your lips moved against his, responding with the same desperation, as if you were both drowning, and this was the only air you could share.

The taste of him—somewhere between the bitterness of the forbidden and the sweetness of the inevitable—imprinted itself on you. Your hands, which had initially pushed against him, betrayed you by clutching his shirt, pulling him closer.

His hand on your face slid to the back of your neck, holding you in place, while his body pressed into yours, erasing every inch of space between you.

The world seemed to stop.

The confessional, the church, even the cross hanging above you vanished, eclipsed by the sheer intensity of the moment. This kiss wasn’t just an act of passion; it was a battle—a war between who you were and what he made you feel.

Ni-ki let out a low sound, almost a stifled groan, and his body pressed harder against yours, making it clear this was not a fleeting lapse in judgment. It was a cry, a desperate act born of something deeper than either of you could admit aloud.

When he finally pulled back—barely an inch—the spell broke, leaving you both gasping, your breaths mingling in the charged air. His gaze bore into yours, the darkness in his eyes more intense than ever.

“I knew it,” he murmured, his voice rough, laced with a dangerous satisfaction. “You couldn’t even stop yourself.”

His words left you paralyzed, unable to respond as your thoughts spiraled. But Ni-ki didn’t wait for an answer. With one final look, heavy with unspoken promises, he leaned in again, brushing his lips against yours in a gesture almost tender.

“This isn’t over, love.” he whispered before stepping back slowly, his smile returning with a victorious edge. “This is only the beginning.”

And with those words, he left the confessional, leaving you alone, trapped in a silence that no longer felt sacred, your lips still burning from his touch and your soul staring into the abyss he had opened within you.

The wood clicked softly as you slid the small door shut, sealing yourself off from the rest of the world. The confined space, once a refuge for penitence and absolution, now felt charged with something entirely different. Your breaths came quick and uneven, as though the air itself refused to fill your lungs.

Your mind was chaos.

Images of Ni-ki—his dark gaze, his malicious smile, the heat of his touch, and, most vividly, the memory of his lips on yours and his tongue invading your mouth—were seared into your consciousness like a burning brand.

Every time you tried to push those thoughts away, they came rushing back, stronger, dragging you into the moment you had just shared.

Your hands trembled as you attempted to entwine your fingers with the rosary still hanging around your neck, searching for an anchor, a lifeline to pull you from this inner storm. But instead of solace, you found an insatiable hunger, a need that consumed you from within.

You closed your eyes, leaning your back against the wooden confessional as if the cold surface could extinguish the fire raging beneath your skin. But it didn’t.

The heat coursed through your chest, your throat, every part of you, an unstoppable tide that left no room for reason.

Your hands, which had sought refuge in the rosary, slowly fell, almost as if guided by some force outside your control. They grazed your neck, where the ghost of Ni-ki’s fingers still lingered, before trailing down to your chest, tracing the fabric of your cassock. Your breathing quickened as your fingers pressed lightly against the material, as though trying to erase the weight of his touch—or perhaps summon it again.

Guilt began to rise, but it was quickly drowned out by a wave of desire you couldn’t contain. The echo of Ni-ki’s words resonated in your mind, every syllable a spark that fed the fire within you.

“You can’t escape me.”

A shiver ran through your body at the memory of how he had said it, how his lips had formed those words while his gaze devoured you.

Your hands continued their journey, sliding past your waist, your fingers tracing lines that burned even through the cloth. It was as if the memory of him was etched into every fiber of your being, impossible to tear away.

It was a matter of seconds before you slipped one of your hands inside your pants and underwear, caressing and squeezing your manhood. At that moment you just wanted to break free, as you always did when you were alone in your office or room.

At that moment, the confessional ceased to be a holy place. Its sanctity had been lost the instant you allowed yourself to succumb to the desire Ni-ki had ignited. Your lips, still swollen from the kiss, parted with a soft sigh as your free hand clutched at your cassock, as if the simple gesture could release some of the pressure consuming you.

You leaned forward, pressing your forehead against the wall of the confessional, your ragged breaths filling the small space. It was a struggle, a battle between what you knew was right and what your body craved with terrifying intensity.

“This is a sin...”

You knew it, but the knowledge wasn’t enough to stop you. The weight of your faith, which had always been your guide, now felt like an impossible burden to bear. And deep within your soul, you recognized the truth you had been trying to deny for so long.

You didn’t want to stop.

Your voice escaped in a barely audible whisper, a mixture of plea and despair.

“God, forgive me... for I am being dragged down by Satan’s lust...”

But even as you spoke those words, your hands continued to move, one clutching at the fabric of your cassock while the other traced your body with an intensity you had never allowed yourself before. In that moment, there was no room for regret—only for the raw, overwhelming desire Ni-ki had left behind, like an indelible mark etched into your very being.

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⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ݁⠀⠀،،⠀⠀메모 ! ㅤ⸻ㅤ I know almost nothing about the church or religion itself, so I made up most of the prayers...

+ New stories on the way, I promise. 🙂‍↕️︐⠀📍

⠀𝒊. ⠀─⠀ All credits to @angelsfat3 / @foschiamara⠀𝄒

. . . ₍⠀아이디어 !ㅤ⸻ㅤI'm very short of ideas lately, so feel free to leave me any requests! <⁠(⁠￣⁠︶⁠￣⁠)⁠>⠀₎⠀ ִֶָ

˖⠀⠀ ݁⠀©⠀،،⠀If you liked it you can like, follow me or reblog!!

[chosos-lesbo]

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[lovebugism]

steve request for adjusting back to normality with him after the upside down ends? however much u wanna write 🤭🤍🤍 ur writing is gorgeous btw

ty angel! hope you like it!! — steve helps his agoraphobic gf leave the house for the first time since the world ended (established relationship, hurt/comfort, cw for mentions of agoraphobia | 1.5k)

bug's summer fic fest (⁠ꈍ⁠ᴗ⁠ꈍ⁠)

You sit on the stairwell and tie your shoes, trying desperately to ignore the trembling of your anxious fingers. The thin laces threaten to slip from your tremoring hands as you knot one loop into the other. You couldn’t hide from your worry if you tried.

Steve’s heavy footsteps sound behind you in a steady, even rhythm as he walks down the stairs. You can hear the dull clapping of the boy patting his pockets to ensure his keys and wallet haven’t yet fallen from them. You know he’ll do exactly that another ten times before you step foot out of the house. He’s just as anxious as you are these days.

“Almost ready?” he says, huffing, though a smile is evident in his voice.

You nod to yourself and make careful work of fastening the laces. “Mhm,” you hum.

“Did you make sure to pack those Ants on a Log things? ‘Cause Dustin’ll kill me if we don’t bring ‘em,” Steve frets, for the second or third time that morning. He stills on the step just behind you and crosses a pair of golden arms over his chest. “Because, you know, he’s the only kid in America who actually likes celery.”

You tilt your chin to look up at him, smiling despite the fear pinching your chest. “Everything’s in the basket, Stevie.”

“Including the—”

“Yes, including the drinks. And the sandwiches. It’s all in the fridge,” you finish for him. “And the blanket’s in the car, so… Everything’s ready.”

Steve’s chest deflates with a distant sigh of relief. He’s been so used to doing everything on his own — carrying the load of that burden entirely by himself — that he forgot what it meant to have someone else to lean on.

“God, I’m so in love with you,” he murmurs fondly, mostly to himself, as he bends at the waist to kiss your hair. The plush of his lips brush your temple in a warm touch you lean instinctively into. 

With a wide hand on your shoulder, Steve feels for the first time how tense you are. All rigid, muscles taut, like cradling a rock in his palm. You’ve kept a brave face for him all day, but there’s only so much hiding you can do.

“You’re still okay with this?” he wonders aloud as he stands to full height again. 

His scruffy face is all twisted with concern, but you’re not looking at him to see it. You tie your right sneaker with a pair of graceless hands, where you seem to hold most of your anxiety, and scoff at the silly question. “Am I okay with the… picnic?” you echo.

“Yeah,” Steve shrugs, lips jutted, as he walks past you down the steps. He turns and leans against the railing, trying hard to be casual. “‘Cause, you know, if you weren’t, we could just have it in the backyard or something. Make all the little shits come here.”

It takes you a moment too long to catch his meaning.

Sometimes you forget that you haven’t left the house all year. You’ve fallen into such a routine here, at Steve’s house (which you’ve come to see as your own), that you’ve forgotten there’s a whole world outside of it. A whole world you shut yourself out of after it nearly ended — after it chewed you up and spat you out again.

You tell yourself that you survived. You tell yourself that you lived in spite of the unfavorable odds. But sometimes, when you feel like shards of flesh and bones instead of a real-life human being, you wonder if you’re alive at all.

“I’m good, Steve,” you assure despite the waver in your voice. Your hands fumble with the laces, and you have to start all over again. “It’s just the park, babe. I can make it to the park.”

Steve nods in response, raking an anxious hand through his hair. He swallows down any attempts to remind you that you’ve barely made it out of the garage, let alone to the park.

“Besides, I’m pretty sure it’s a crime to be this pale in the middle of July, anyway,” you joke with a forced laugh. 

The only time you really see the sun is when you’re sitting out on the patio — sipping at your morning coffee or watching Steve languish in the pool. You hardly last more than an hour, though, before a plane rumbles overhead or a car engine thunders too loudly. That’s all it takes for everything to come rushing back to you. The monsters, the soldiers, the blood. Then you lock yourself away all over again.

You hope this time is different.

Steve nods again, always hopeful, if only for your sake.

“Okay. Just… Just making sure, you know?” he trails off, then scrunches his nose. “Should we have a codeword, anyway? Like, for when the kids annoy the shit outta me, and I wanna get the hell outta there?”

You squint to yourself, pretending to ponder the question, as you rise from the stairs. You take a few steps downward until you’re standing just ahead of Steve — a few inches taller than him now. 

“How about… Get me the hell outta here?” you offer with a mischievous glint in your eyes.

A wide, pink grin blossoms on his mouth. “That’s perfect, actually,” Steve muses sarcastically, then meets you halfway when you lean down to kiss him. 

It’s a chaste and very innocuous peck that tastes faintly of Steve’s mouthwash and the peanut butter you licked from the spoon after making Dustin’s Ants on a Log. 

Despite its fleeting nature, you hang onto the simple kiss your entire way through the front door.

The first step out of the house is the hardest. 

You struggle to feel the ground beneath your feet as your mind threatens to wander. Thoughts of death plague your mind despite your attempts to push them away — roaring demogorgons, exploding guns, screaming teenagers. You have to fight the urge to cover your ears when a helicopter whizzes overhead, hidden somewhere in the clouds but sounding much closer than that.  

Steve holds your hand the entire way. “Almost there,” you hear him mumbling beneath the heartbeat woosh, woosh, wooshing in your ears. Your eyes squeeze shut. He leads you to the car and squeezes your hand. “You’re doing amazin’, babe. Just a couple more steps.”

You’re at the car in five seconds flat, though it had felt like five minutes at the time — and took approximately five years off your life. You feel eons better when you’re tucked into the passenger seat of Steve’s 733i. You feel more grounded there — with the tires against the asphalt, and Steve’s hand on your thigh, and the radio cranked all the way up.

You’re still a shaking mess when you get to the park, but the kids are a good enough distraction. 

You opt to busy your anxious hands with the picnic — handing out food, protecting drinks, and ensuring the emptying basket doesn’t blow away. You sit in the shade in the center of Steve’s quilt as leaves rustle in the warm breeze, allowing bits of summer sun to peek through and glitter on your skin. 

You keep a watchful eye on the kids around you as they scatter mindlessly about, making sure no one ventures far enough where you can’t see them. Steve yells at them for it so you don’t have to — shouts at Max and El for getting too close to the tree line while he tosses a ball to Lucas. 

He’s slowly mastering the art of throwing with his left hand. He hasn’t been able to lift his right one over his head since Starcourt. There’s a persistent ache in his shoulder he hasn’t been able to get rid of.

He walks over to you when the distance grows too much to bear, twisting his arm with a screwed-up face as he tries to find the root of the pain. “Whaddaya got for me, sweet thing?” he asks with a lopsided smile.

You reach into the basket beside you and pull out the last sandwich of the bunch, which you kept aside especially for him, wrapped neatly in plastic.

You hiss playfully through your teeth, then squint faux apologetically up at him. “All that’s left is tomato-avocado…” you joke, feigning horror.

Steve’s face twists. “Ugh. Seriously?” he huffs in disappointment.

“No,” you hum in response, smiling as you pass him his favorite sandwich. “Here you go.”

It’s a simple turkey, ham, and bacon number with all the fixings, but he particularly likes how you make it. (You argue that it can’t taste any better than a diner-made sandwich, but Steve always insists otherwise.) 

Your fingers brush when it takes it from you. Steve finds it difficult not to melt for you entirely, and not just because of the sweltering summer heat. 

He’s spent half of his life believing that no one ever gave him a passing thought — or that, at the very least, he was only ever an afterthought. But you remind him every day that he’s so much more than the nothing he often sees himself as. You remind him, through silly picnics and sandwiches made with love, what it means to be truly cared for.

“I love you,” Steve hums quietly, adoration melting in his honey eyes. “You know that?”

You nod once, hiding a smile as you squint one eye from the beaming sun. “I know.”

[makethemhoesmad]

shit you sippin

this took days off of my life to write but at least it’s over 1k words(for the first time ever)

@bueckersstrap was the chosen one

—

some people go to the club for fun. some people go to the club for sex. i needed to forget. get so drunk i didn’t have to think about my piece of shit ex boyfriend and the bitch i walked in on him fucking. i don’t know how many i’d had at this point, but i did know that i was grasped by the hips by an attractive blonde that i thought i knew but couldn’t figure out from where.

“you here for any reason tonight,” she shouts over the music.

“y-yeah i walked in on my boyfriend fucking some other girl,” i say. i try to keep the tremor out

of my voice, staying cool and collected, for the most part. i cock my at her, grinning. she takes my chin into her palm and tilts it up, making me look right into her eyes. my god, her eyes are driving me wild.

“you into girls, baby?”

i shudder at the nickname. collecting myself, i run a finger down her arm while stating, “never thought about it till now, but i just might be.”

“cmon,” she says, tugging my arm. “i’m taking you home with me, baby that alright with you?”

i stare in shock, nodding open-mouthed. she must’ve drank much less than i had, because she leads me out to what i can only guess to be her own car, and after opening the passenger door and helping me inside, she seems to be clear-headed enough to drive.

as she pulls out of the parking lot, i look over and realize who’s car i’m in, and why i recognized her face.

“wait! you’re paige bueckers,” i say, my words slurring together slightly.

“that’s right, baby. basketball fan?” 

i almost can’t answer her, all my remaining focus zoned in on her hand that is now resting on my thigh.

“mhmm,” i mumble. she rubs her thumb in slow circles on the inside of my leg. i let my head thump back against the car seat and close my eyes, only to open them a moment later when the car stops.

paige rushes out of her door to open mine, and i nearly fall flat on the ground when i climb out of the car. she pulls me into her, wrapping an arm around my waist to steady me. i zone out at the action, then trip over a doorframe and realize i’m in her bedroom.

“hey, baby, listen,” she says, sitting me on the bed and rummaging in her closet for something

“you’re, like, really drunk right now, but i really don’t wanna kick you out because i like you. so how ‘bout you put this t-shirt on and we talk about it in the morning?”

i nod, then reach back to try and unzip my dress. i can’t do it. could barely zip it up sober, so there’s no chance i can undo it in my inebriated state. i look up at paige with a pout, hoping that she’ll take pity on me. 

she unzips the dress, then helps me put on the t-shirt she gave me. she sheds her shorts and top, leaving her clad in only a bra and boxers. 

“god, fucking athletes,” i mutter, shamelessly raking my eyes down her body.

“what was that,” she asks, smirking. i turn red and she pulls me onto the bed with her, tucking us both under the covers. i curl my body into her, hiding my face in her chest.

“ ‘s nothing,” i say, the words muffled. she strokes a hand down my back and i whine gratefully, falling asleep almost instantly.

~

i wake up confused, sore, and with a boiling headache. i try to roll over, but find that i’m pinned under someone that, instead of smelling of beer and cheap cologne, smells like mint and aloe. shockingly, despite my headache i have a fairly decent recollection of last night’s events. as i’m realizing this, a few things happen. first, i realize exactly who’s bed i’m in and immediately try to free myself from her grasp out of pure embarrassment. second, the strong arms grasping me pull me down closer into the person they’re attached to. finally, said person nuzzles her nose into my neck, and says,

“how are you even prettier now?”

i push my face into the mattress

“ugh, liar. my fucking head, it hurts so bad. like, so, so bad,” i complain. she tries and fails to stifle her laugh.

“hey ma, i’m not sure if you’ve heard this, but i’ve been told head fixes headaches?” i blush, then realize she isn’t kidding when she pulls the covers off of us. she nestles her face in between my thighs, lifting her chin up to yank my panties down. 

“you okay, baby,” she questions, waiting for approval. i nod weakly, and she dives in, licking a stripe against my pussy.

“oh fuck,” i moan, my fingers curling around the bedsheets. she flicks her tongue at my entrance, causing my eyes to roll back. when she takes my clit into her lips, it’s all i can do to not release right then and there. 

“so good, so perfect,” she breathes while laying sloppy open mouthed kisses on my cunt. i fight to stay alert, but every bone in me wants to sink into oblivion, and when her moan vibrates my core, i do just that. i climax on her tongue, with her name on my lips, and if you had asked me my own damn name in that moment, i probably wouldn’t have been able to tell you. 

“how’s that head feeling, ma?” she asks. i look at her in dead shock.

“fucking gone, babe, how can i get you back? i’ve never, like, done it with girls before.”

she grins wickedly. 

“oh, baby i’ve got an idea.”

~

paige’s idea, it turns out, resulted in us not leaving her bedroom until 2 in the afternoon. when i finally checked my phone, i discovered not one, not two, but three missed calls from my now-ex boyfriend, and about a million texts telling me how sorry he was. i show paige, and she just about growls in frustration.

“lemme call him back,” she protests. i shake my head, turning to face her and letting her capture my lips into a kiss.

“pleease,” she whines against my lips. 

“fine.”

she opens my phone and pulls up the contact now only labeled with a gravestone emoji, and clicks the facetime. he answers almost immediately, to paige showing off our current position on her couch, under a blanket with me tucked into her side.

“stop textin her, bro. she’s mine now.”

he shouts profanities through the phone, but is aggressively cut off by paige kissing the top

of my head and saying, loud enough for him to hear, “it’s okay baby, now you can be with someone that can actually make you cum.”

he doesn’t like that, but i couldn’t care less.

[ellierenae]

SUPER UNIQUE writing ideas for hobbyists and professionals looking for fun, personal projects to get their inspo back

get a fictional pen pal (ask your other writer friends!) and spend time decorating envelopes, picking out a handwriting style, maybe buying a cheap perfume/cologne that smells like your character to really get to know them and feel their presence. if you have hand tremors or bad handwriting like me, you can choose a handwriting font for them and print their letters out!! more examples: save the dates, wedding invitations, birthday cards, party invites, etc.

use old calendars in character (there are many "expired" planners on sale around the end of the year, usually August) personally, i use them to record major life events like first band tours, trips abroad, holidays, birthdays... even trash pickup days and when they forget to roll out the bins!

sketch floor plans this can be on graph paper if you have the know-how when it comes to scaling down, but there are also tons of simple apps that allow you to both create the floor plan a builder would use and add furniture like an interior decorator. some even let you rotate them afterwards and see the furniture and walls burst to life in 3D! you can think of them as the sims but where everything is actually to scale

make an architectural model if you have some scrap cardboard, paper, and glue, you can easily bring the floor plan you just made to life (you'll need practice if you want to get really fancy with it of course! window panes and railings are the gnarliest part for me, haha)

make a playlist as your character maybe the most accessible one on this list, you can make the playlist your character listens to. sometimes this can be fun and surprising, like when my little guy Possum from Violence Without Plot is covered in tattoos and plays punk music on stage but listens to nothing but spa music to wind down between shows

write something your character can see this one is so weird to summarize but what i mean is like... a school essay for your teacher character to grade. cryptic street signs warning about danger by the lake. a memorial plaque beneath a statue. a character's online blog. a few of the cards in a grandmother's recipe box. a business card for a smooth-talking lawyer. things you can write that make everything feel so textured and real

these are all things i do on the daily, and it makes my life as a writer a thousand times more joyful and fulfilling. so have fun, be safe, and don't forget to unplug the hot glue when you're done <3

[paperstorm]

Feels a little like playing a kazoo as the Titanic sinks to share some silly fanfic today but maybe love is actually the most important weapon we have idk. Tags are below a cut, please tag me in your work if you post it, I want to see it 💛 This is a bit from @strandnreyes' and I's upcoming chapter of our Season 5 fic.

-

Carlos hooks a finger under TK’s chin, gently urging him back up so he can place the softest kiss to TK’s lips before guiding them carefully into the shower.

“Shit,” he says, the moment they’re in the stall, and TK follows his gaze southward and bursts into laughter a moment later as he notices they’re both still in their socks, soaking instantly in the spray.

“Ew,” TK giggles, holding Carlos’s forearm for balance as he leans down to peel the wet socks off his feet and toss them through the still-open shower door. They land with a nasty splat on the floor and Carlos laughs with him as he does the same.

Carlos slides the glass door shut. “It’s almost 1am, I think we can be forgiven for forgetting.”

“My head doesn’t have a lot of blood left in it,” TK points out, and Carlos’ eyes glint as he pulls TK back into an embrace under the warm cascade of water. It soaks through TK’s tired muscles as he’s kissed sweetly, and their quickly-hardened cocks bush together in the space between their bodies.

Carlos hums into the kiss, hands sliding down TK’s back and hands cupping his ass, nudging him in closer so their cocks slide upwards, sandwiched between their stomachs and nestled next to each other.

“Love you,” TK whispers, feeling so close to his husband in more ways than physical.

“I love you so much, babe,” Carlos whispers back, foreheads pressed together and sharing moist air in the miniscule space between them.

Arousal pulses slow and warm through TK, feeling every inch of Carlos against him. They sway almost unconsciously, foregoing actually getting clean for the moment in favor of just holding each other. TK meant it, when he’d said Carlos didn’t have to promise him to completely put away his work and his pain and his responsibilities when he comes home, but Carlos has kept the promise anyway and selfishly, TK can’t say he hasn’t enjoyed it. Carlos comes home and his phone goes into the box even as TK reminds him every time that he doesn’t have to, and they’ve spent a fantastic few nights feeling like they’re getting to know each other all over again. TK’s loved every minute of it.

Carlos breaks the embrace only to reach for the shampoo bottle. He lathers a small amount between his palms and then slides his fingers into TK’s hair, strong fingertips massaging his scalp and sending tremors of pleasure all the way down TK’s body. TK holds his husband’s hips, heart beating a little too quick in his chest while Carlos rinses his hair, soapy water sliding down his back and disappearing down the drain.

TK’s cock throbs, a heartbeat in his pelvis, as he takes the bottle from the shelf and treats his husband to the same care. He strokes his fingers through Carlos’ short curls once they’re soapy, turning them so Carlos is closer to the spray and can stand under it while TK stays close to him. Carlos’ content exhale has butterflies in TK’s stomach, as if this is the very first time they’ve bathed each other instead of a number TK’s sure must be in triple digits by now.

Carlos smiles at him, pulling TK back in for another kiss as soon as he’s free of suds. One of them hums; TK can’t be sure who it was but it reverberates between their chests.

“Hey, um,” he begins.

“Yeah?”

TK drags the tip of his nose along Carlos’ cheek. “I know it’s late. But.”

“It’s Saturday tomorrow,” Carlos reminds him, palms pressing to the small of TK’s back. Just the tip of one finger plays along the crease of his ass and the touch, miniscule as it may be, has TK’s pulse jumping. “And you’re working nights.”

“Right.”

“Tell me what you want,” Carlos murmurs.

“‘Member what we talked about the morning of our anniversary?” TK asks. “You just … staying in me? For a while?”

Carlos breathes out between them. He rubs their noses back and forth. “Yeah.”

“I love the feeling of you,” TK says softly. He knows he likely doesn’t need to convince Carlos to give this to him, but he wants to say it anyway. Carlos deserves to know how loved he is. “When you’re right up against me and pressing on all the good spots inside and I can feel your heartbeat. And we’re not two separate people anymore.”

“Baby,” Carlos whispers, sounding overwhelmed.

“Please?”

“Yes, yes, of course. Anything you want. Everything you want.”

“I want you. Always, every bit of you.”

“M’gonna start crying if you don’t stop being so mushy,” Carlos teases, sounding very much like he doesn’t really mean it.

Tagging @theghostofashton @birdclowns @reyesstrand @strandnreyes @cold-blooded-jelly-doughnut

@carlos-in-glasses @actual-sleeping-beauty @thisbuildinghasfeelings @herefortarlos @heartstringduet

@goodways @alrightbuckaroo @lightningboltreader @freneticfloetry

@liminalmemories21 @nancys-braids @whatsintheboxmh @bonheur-cafe

@reasonandfaithinharmony @thebumblecee @never-blooms @lemonlyman-dotcom

@sanjuwrites @orchidscript @jesuisici33 @kiwichaeng @honeybee-taskforce

@fifthrideroftheapocalypse @butchreyes @just-inside-her @firstprince-history-huh @captain-gillian

@tellmegoodbye @anactualcaseofthetruth @ironheartwriter @eclectic-sassycoweyes @ditheringmind

@emsprovisions @irispurpurea @nisbanisba @corsage @chicgeekgirl89

@carlossreaders @ladytessa74

Want to be added or removed from the list? Lmk

[chatsukimi]

ʀᴇɢʀᴇᴛ

featuring: jujutsusorcerer!nanami, curse!reader, angst, breaking up. synopsis: life is too short to hold yourself back. you force a certain uptight sorcerer to learn the hard way. masterlist

nanami likes to think he has no regrets. he tells the students that he'd never had a lover, not one that lasted very long anyway. he tells anyone who asked that he is too busy in his job to date.

too busy to date a normal person outside his job, he means.

in other words, nanami likes to forget he likes a curse.

you're sitting on his couch, folding his shirts fresh from the laundry. "kento-kun!"

nanami likes to think he turns away. likes to think he goes to the kitchen to prepare his dull blade to kill you, but, recently, he's learnt that he's a liar.

you tiptoe over, examining how he runs his knife under tap water to clean off the curse residue. you had reacted better than he thought you would when you learnt he exorcised curses, probably because you were a mediocre curse yourself, not involved in the grand scheme of things.

you peer curiously over his shoulder. "that's your weapon?"

he lifts it up purposefully close to show you, but instead of shrinking away, your hands attach to its sides, gracing the cloth gently.

"woah..."

he stills. when he begins chopping up the vegetables, you're right by his side, helping him cook with rapid skill.

"careful. don't add too much salt in," he says, an uneasy monotone gracing your ears.

he doesn't look at you.

you pause on the salt, staring at him. "is something wrong?"

a flashback zips through his head, of a dying colleague, of a growing curse. mostly holding himself back, nanami lets out a long exhale. he shakes his head.

"no. i'm alright."

the atmosphere is tense under your scrutiny, probably because, for you, he would taste better than any human dish might. truthfully speaking, you only eat his food out of politesse.

'liar,' you whisper into his ear, glaring at him with an infinite amount of human hurt. "don't lie to me."

you know as well as he does.

nanami likes to think his heart doesn't clench when you reach out to hold his hand, your skin that reminiscent of that terrifying rubber feel he's constantly associated with death. you pause when he flinches away.

"nanami?"

kill them. that's your job, it's what you must do. kill them.

he murmurs lowly, "i think it's time for you to leave."

you take a step back. he doesn't move. you wait for him to chase after you while receding from him, two steps at a time.

nanami likes to think he's a serious man. likes to think he knows what's right for him and others at the most important incidences. but strip away the guise of having it all together and he realises what's most human about him is slipping through between his fingers: you.

watching you, nanami cannot think.

he's stalking towards you towards the exit. you've turned your back on him. his heartbeat tremors.

"wait-"

your voice is empty when you respond- is this what he'll remember you by?

"what, nanami?"

would nanami force you to stay? he's always been selfish in keeping you at his place, treasuring the heartfelt words, midnight slow dances, pretending the outside world didn't exist. the world which draws a distinct line between humans and curses. good and evil. but now, now nanami has to choose.

"don't go." he croaks. pathetic.

you stand there, head lowered. "why? what even am i to you?"

curse or human?

the words taste bitter in his mouth, crawling to the tip of his tongue. speak! kento, what are you doing?! speak! and in the ideal world, he says them, right there, held in your molten gaze. those three words would have you rushing back into his arms, ready to start anew. it would read like a fairy-tale.

he would be happy.

yet earth is a hell that confines him. he cannot force himself to take another step forward. you cannot force yourself to take another step back.

this is what would've always happened.

in a split second decision, you put on your shoes.

"forget me, kento," you breathe. let's pretend this never happened. "i know you hate curses getting stronger."

you cross the threshold of his door. the fantasy dissipates.

when he opens the door again, nanami looks down the corridor of his apartment complex and sees no one.

not even the curse of regret.

[strwbi-laces]

Sirius always insists he has a terrible memory. "Really terrible," he'll laugh. "Actually, what was your name again?"

Remus doesn't see it though. Not when Sirius always knows exactly where James left his socks, or what obscure extracurricular Pete's packed into his schedule now. Especially not when he learnt the dates for every full moon in the next fifty years when researching lycanthropy.

"You know, I don't think your memory is as bad as you say Padfoot," he mentions while they're alone in the dorm. Remus doesn't have a clue where James and Pete are but Sirius wouldn't even have to check the map.

"What're you on about? It's literally rubbish."

Remus raises a brow. "You had every single possible quidditch infraction stuck in your brain - before James did!"

"Yeah well," Sirius shrugs. "That's quidditch. It's just for stuff I care about."

Reaching over and grabbing the nearest textbook, History of Magic: Year 3, Remus flips to a random chapter. "Really? You cannot convince be you care about, hmm," he clears his throat and in his poshest, most snooty voice, says "Changes in potion composition during the French occupation of England." No one could care about that. Not even he did and he actually liked History of Magic.

At least the voice made Sirius giggle. "Shut up. History is easy, it's just dates."

"Then what isn't?"

"Uhh, I don't know," Sirius goes quiet more a moment, then laughs again. Though this time it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "See, this is what I mean."

Remus waits while Sirius works his tongue into words.

"I can't really remember much from my childhood. Sometimes my mum will say something, like 'you were such a difficult child, remember when you did so-and-so' and I pull up a complete blank. Merlin that's bad of me, huh? Forgetting how I hurt people."

Sirius' fists ball up in his lap and Remus wants nothing more than to take them between his hands and smooth them out. He settles for shuffling closer and pressing their sides together.

"And I make things up. That feels like a memory thing too. It's not out of thin air but in my head I'll make something my mum said seem a lot worse than it was. Or I'll forget what prompted it so she seems like the bad guy. Usually I'd call her a lying cunt y'know, but even my dad and Reg agree that it's something I do a lot. Making myself the victim."

He's shaking now, Remus can feel his tremors ripping through him as well. "Sorry," Sirius sniffs. "I'm doing it right now-" he tries to say but Remus cuts him off.

"I think," he whispers, taking hold of Sirius' hand in his palm and tracing the heart line with his finger, "that you're a far better person than you give yourself credit for. And maybe your mum is a bit of a lying cunt."

[hayanwulf]

Furs and Feathers

Partially inspired by @mystical-magician's beautiful fic, Tiresome heart.

As soon as Tony finds his workshop couch empty, he panics.

His workshop is The Most Secure place in all of US, if not the entire world, built from the ground-up by himself. He Does Not take security lightly.

And for that reason, whenever he is unable to keep his selkie pelt safely within his senses’ reach, he leaves it in here, disguised as a simple, comfy blanket, under the watchful eyes of FRIDAY.

But FRIDAY wasn’t watching it today, because she was deactivated for an update. An update that will still require another hour before she can be safely rebooted.

Tony was only gone to the Accords Council meeting for three hours. Three hours. And between then and now, his selkie pelt disappeared from its usual place on the couch.

Between then and now, someone stole his pelt.

And he is losing his mind.

He shuffles around the couch, throwing around the pillows haphazardly in the hope that it’s right there, that it simply got buried. He checks the other couch as well, tossing its pillows to the heavens. He doesn’t care wherever they land.

He goes on to check every likely spot in his workshop where he might have left it. Surely, under that desk. Surely, at DUM-E’s station. Surely it’s somewhere in here, he just misplaced it and forgot.

(That’s impossible. He would never forget where he last left it. It’s The One Thing he always has and always will handle with utmost care.)

He keeps looking and looking, ignoring the swirling dread in his gut that keeps getting worse with each passing moment. Because it had got to be somewhere in here. No one could have stolen it. It’s impossible to break in to his workshop, and the only people who have access in here are Tony’s closest family.

So it has to be here. It has to.

(Because he doesn’t know what he’ll do if it isn’t.)

“—ny, Tony!” A hand lands on his shoulder, and Tony jerks away in surprise, hand instinctively flying up to repulsor his assailant even though there’s no armor around his hands.

His assailant — no not assailant, it’s Stephen — raises hands in a placating gesture, one hand reaching to gently hold Tony’s hand which was still held up in an offensive position. Tony deflates, his shoulders sagging, as he realizes there’s no threat.

“I was calling you, you didn’t listen,” Stephen says, reaching Tony’s face with his other hand, and traces a finger at Tony’s temple. His finger comes back with a bead of sweat. “What happened? What are you searching for?”

Tony swallows, and it is only now he realizes his body has cold tremors too. Stephen must feel that against his hands. Or does he? Tony takes a step away from his lover, extricating his hand from Stephen’s. “Nothing,” he huffs, and tries to calm his racing heart. Deep breaths, or something like that. “Nothing.”

Stephen steps forward, apparently not letting him escape as he gently grabs Tony’s hand again. “Well, clearly it’s not ‘nothing’, seeing as you’re searching for it like a PhD student searching for their thesis on the last minute.”

Tony snorts. “Is that what you did, lost your thesis papers and searched for them five minutes before viva?”

“Obviously not, I was well prepared and right in time. Don’t Deflect,” Stephen adds when Tony opens his mouth with another snark right on his tongue. “What did you lose?”

Tony swallows the tightness around his throat. Of course he can’t just tell Stephen that hey babe, surprise, I’m actually a selkie and I have this coat which practically half of my life depends on, because if I lose it I can never turn into a seal again. And now I have lost it.

No. For all that Tony dearly loves Stephen, he still can’t tell him that.

It’s an odd concept. Tony has trusted Stephen with his life. He trusts Stephen’s magic. He trusts this man with all his deepest, darkest secrets.

Well, all but the one, apparently.

One would think that by now, Tony would be ready to tell Stephen. But he can’t. He doesn’t understand why, but he can’t. Perhaps it’s the fear, the fear that had always been there, that never quite went away.

The fear of ending up like his mother.

She had loved Howard with all her heart, and Howard had betrayed her trust by locking away her pelt, coerced her to forever stay with him on the ground and never return to the sea. He had stripped her of her freedom, of her autonomy. He had stripped away a piece of herself.

But Stephen isn’t like that. Tony knows that. He loves Tony and would never do such a thing to Tony.

And yet..

Tony swallows hard as a thought strikes him.

Stephen wouldn’t... would he?

His eyes flicker to the inconspicuous couch, where his pelt was supposed to be, where it always is. Inside the most secure facility to ever exist in the States. A place which only Tony’s closest family have access to.

His closest family.

Would he?

There’s no way Stephen could have found out. Yes, he is a sorcerer. Yes, he has been to dimensions unimaginable and has met creatures beyond comprehension.

But Tony is nothing if not careful. For this one thing in his life, he has always been careful. And his mother had taught him well. She taught him the simple but infallible charm he always uses to disguise his pelt into a blanket, the only piece of magic he always drew comfort from before Stephen was in the picture.

Besides, even if, hypothetically, Stephen really does know and was the one to take Tony’s pelt, why is he not throwing that fact at Tony’s face already? Why isn’t he already dangling Tony’s freedom right in front of his eyes and driving him helpless with the knowledge that there’s nothing that he can do?

Or maybe maybe he wants to have a bit of fun first. Maybe he wants to watch Tony struggle, kick his hands and feet searching for his most important piece of possession. Maybe he wants to watch Tony crumble, slowly and painfully, until he’s nothing but a husk of himself.

..No, no, no!

He shakes his head to dispel the stupid devil’s whispers in his ears, because no. Stephen isn’t sadistic. Stephen isn’t sadistic. He loves Tony.

So he wouldn’t.. He couldn’t have..

Tony feels like he’s already crumbling. Falling apart.

He slides to the floor with his back against something, burying his head on his hands, hunching in on himself as his body shakes from the barely suppressed sobs. Maybe he is crying. He’s not sure anymore.

A trembling hand cups his knee, and he flinches, shrinking further into himself.

“Sweetheart, would you talk to me?” Stephen asks, his voice at its most gentle tone. Then another hand is on Tony, coaxing him to remove his hand from his head. The shaking hand carefully grips under his chin, making him look up.

And there Stephen is, sitting right next to him on the cold tiles, his eyebrows pulled in concern, his beautiful gray eyes fixed entirely on Tony, filled with so much worry and sorrow and love, as though Tony is his entire world.

His hand leaves Tony’s chin to wipe a stray tear off Tony’s cheek. “Tell me, what happened?”

God, how could Tony have ever thought that this man would hurt him in in such a way?

Shame and guilt twist in his gut, and he finds that he can’t look at Stephen’s eyes; eyes that are full of nothing but concern and love for Tony.

He wonders for a minute if he should lie, or make some excuse, but he simply has no one else to turn to. How can he turn away the only person who even wants to be here, wants to deal with the trainwreck of a man that Tony is?

“Have you.. seen the blanket that’s always there?”

Stephen turns to the direction Tony indicates with his hand, and blinks when he sees the couch. “The light chestnut one?” He turns back to Tony. “I just saw Peter huddled in it, in the common room.”

Tony’s brain freezes.

“You.. a blanket?” Stephen furrows his brow, glancing once at the couch, then shakes his head. “I don’t understand what—”

Tony bolts up on his feet and is already rushing out of the workshop before Stephen has finished his sentence. He is vaguely aware of his lover rushing after him with stumbling steps, trying to keep up with his pace as he makes it towards the common room. Maybe he calls after Tony. Tony isn’t sure. All he can hear right now is his own heart beating against the ribcage.

And then here he is in the common room, and there Peter is, sitting bundled inside the ‘blanket’ like a perfect burrito, on a small sofa, looking very content and on the verge of falling asleep.

“Hey Mr. Stark! Hey again Doctor Strange!” The kid chirps happily upon seeing the adults.

Tony closes his eyes and inhales a shuddering breath at the sight of his pelt. It’s safe. It was right here! “Kid, I’ve told you, that blanket doesn’t leave my workshop.”

Peter blinks, and the blanket around his loosens a little. “It’s really comfy.. and it kind of reminds me of you. Sorry! That sounds weird. You can have it back!” His words progressively come out in a rush as he wrestles himself out of it.

Tony huffs, even as his heart warms at the thought that Peter finds so much safety wrapped uder his pelt.

A selkie’s pelt is extremely personal to them. It is a part of their skin, and they do not allow just anyone to touch it. But Tony has never had a problem with letting his kid use it as a blanket.

Even if Peter will never fully know just how grand a gesture it is, of Tony’s trust in him.

Tony gratefully accepts the ‘blanket’. As soon as his fingers touch against his second skin, his insides fill with relief, a tangible proof that his pelt is here, safe, unharmed. He hugs it close to his chest. Some part of his mind reminds him to be subtle in the presence of company, and he wisely listens to it, easing up his grip.

“Here,” Stephen says, and Tony looks up to find his sorcerer encouraging Levi off of his shoulders, who all too willingly fly over to Peter and wrap him into another perfect burrito.

Right; it’s winter, and Peter just wanted something to wrap around himself, despite the indoors temperature always maintained a manageable level.

Tony’s pelt was never stolen. It was simply an innocent act, by an innocent child who didn’t know the significance of why Tony wanted this particular blanket always within his workshop walls.

Everything is fine. He would’ve even figured it out himself, if he had stopped freaking out for just one damn minute and had thought about it carefully...

Crisis averted, they wordlessly make their way back to the workshop. Tony can feel Stephen’s eyes on him, knows he has questions swirling left and right in his head. What’s so important about this particular blanket?

As Tony flops down on the couch of his workshop, his pelt in his lap, one hand rubbing the heavy exhaustion from his face, he contemplates what to tell. Should he just say that it’s heirloom? Or that it belonged to his mother. And so he’s attached.

He sounds lame even to himself.

Some small, barely audible voice in his head says that you should tell him the truth. This is your chance.

He buries his face in his hands, because he.. He can’t. He wants to, but..

A presence hovers right before Tony. He opens his eyes to find Stephen bending down to touch the ‘blanket’ in his lap.

Right, because Stephen is smart. Extraordinarily smart. He has a vast imagination and can view things from the wildest, most unthought of perspectives. And he’s a sorcerer with the knowledge of thousand different species of the supernatural, and million more spells & magic theories. 

So, really, Tony shouldn’t have been shocked by what happens next.

As Stephen touches the pelt, a wave of orange magic washes over it.

And the disguise falls away.

And there Tony’s pelt is, sitting in his lap, visible in all its glory.

Tony jerks away hurriedly, stunned, hands clutching onto his pelt like his life depends on it.

“Oh,” Stephen breathes. “Oh.” He covers his mouth with both hands in obvious disbelief and..

And fascination, Tony realizes, as he looks at Stephen’s sparkling eyes.

Maybe, maybe that would’ve made Tony feel a little better about all of this, if he had shown it of his own volition.

If he wasn’t feeling so utterly betrayed, for being stripped of his choice.

“I.. wow, I never could’ve even guessed until Today, Tony, you..” Stephen inhales slowly. “How did I not see the clues..” He mutters, mostly to himself.

“Yeah, well, I’m not exactly trying to advertise this, now, am I?” Tony’s voice comes out more snappy than he intended, but he can’t bring himself to care.

Because that fear.. that very thin possibility that Tony might just end up like his mother...

It feels too real now.

Stephen’s eyes flicker with something — realization, perhaps — and he takes a step back, gently raising his hands in a placating gesture. “I didn’t mean to cause you distress. It was just a hunch, the blanket..” Stephen shakes his head. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. I thought...” He sighs, closing his eyes. “I’m going about this the wrong way.”

He then extends a hand to the side and spins a half-sized portal to life, giving Tony a sneak peek to Stephen’s room at the Sanctum through it. He does another hand gesture, one Tony understands to be a simple telekinesis, and an object flies in, the portal closing shut after.

The object, Stephen’s blanket, the one that always stays neatly folded on Stephen’s bed, a rich peacock color and fluffy to the touch, the one Tony always loves hogging when they’re sleeping together, that blanker, drapes itself over Stephen’s shoulders, and— Tony’s breath catches.

There’s no way.

In a shower of orange sparks, the deep peacock blanket changes into a blinding white, beautiful, feathery cloak.

A feather robe!

Tony stares, mouth agape, as Stephen runs a hand down his shoulder, smoothing the pristine white feathers. He doesn’t know what to think. He can barely comprehend what he’s seeing.

Stephen is a swan. His Stephen is a swan.

“I’ve been meaning to tell you,” Stephen says, biting his lip. “I just didn’t know how. Or if you’d...”

If I would understand, Tony completes the unsaid words. If I would cherish that trust. If I would break it.

Tony can understand. God, for the first time in his life, he truly feels understood.

All this time, they were both just two scared, broken men, afraid of breaking further.

Tony takes slow, tentative steps towards Stephen, wanting to see his robe from up close, wanting to touch it, but he doesn’t think that will be acceptable.

Oh, but he does remember touching it, being wrapped in its warmth many a nights, even if it was in a disguised form. And now he can’t stop thinking about it, of all the times this man let Tony drape his feathers on himself.

But now that he knows, he wonders if that will change. If Stephen wouldn’t allow him to touch it anymore.

The thought sends a pang through his heart.

He should’ve told before. God, he should’ve told long ago. But he always chose to stay a coward. He wonders how much of uncertainty and fear he would’ve saved the both of them, if he had chosen to be brave, to be honest.

Walking around Stephen to view the beautiful robe from the back, he freezes at the sight.

Deep scars run vertically down the back, the feathers on those lines dead, deformed.

What he saw on the front was only a glimpse of the beauty that still remains, because the rest of it is hideous.

Just like his scars.

Tony’s heart pains, and he subconsciously reaches out a hand halting an inch away from the feathers. Oh, he wishes he could touch, but—

Stephen backs up, consequently pressing his robe into Tony’s extended hand. Tony gasps at the contact and looks up at Stephen.

Head tilted sideways so he could see Tony behind him, Stephen nods in a silent permission.

Tony swallows and runs his hands over the feather. They feel fluffy and incredibly delicate under his touch, and his heart flutters.

He moves on to the scarred lines, and realizes that the deformity of all the feathers isn’t directly related to the scars. Rather, they are spread out in a very different pattern of their own. Where that pattern emerges from, Tony really couldn’t tell unless Stephen was in his swan form. The feather robe is, after all, an abstraction of his swan hide, in the form of a cloak rather than the exact shape of wings. It’s the same with Tony’s pelt, it appears like a coat more than anything else.

But one thing is, unfortunately apparent.

Stephen can never fly again.

Tony’s heart breaks for this man.

“Do you.. want to touch my pelt?”

Stephen turns around and glances down at Tony’s hand where he’s still holding his pelt to his chest by a hand, and then looks up, hope blooming in his blue eyes. “May I?”

It truly is an odd concept. Only Today, Tony was spiraling down the train of thought of all the awful things Stephen might end up doing if he ever got his hands on Tony’s pelt. And now.. Now he is willing to hand his pelt to Stephen.

Because he knows now, knows with absolute certainty, that Stephen will never betray him.

He offers his pelt towards Stephen. Stephen carefully takes it, and Tony can’t help an involuntary shiver that runs up his spine at the feeling of another touching his pelt like this, without the disguise.

But it’s a pleasant kind of shiver.

Tony can see the awe and marvel in Stephen’s eyes as he so very gently handles the pelt, like it were a beautiful, delicate sculpture made of glass, and would shatter and one smallest mistake.

Stephen moves closer to Tony and drapes the pelt around Tony’s shoulders, straightening it around the shoulders as he murmurs, “It’s silky.”

Tony lets out a soft chuckle. “You don’t say. Yours is fluffier.”

“Well, yours is silkier.”

“Are we turning this into a competition. Cause I can point out twelve more qualities that yours—”

Stephen groans. “Tony, no.”

Tony huffs. “Fine, fine.” He places a hand over Stephen’s where it still rests on his shoulders, and Stephen brings them down so they can hold onto each other.

For a few moments they just stand in the comfort of the other’s presence. It’s.. truth be told, it is a lot to process. There’s just so much to understand here, so much that Tony hadn’t known about Stephen.

And there’s so much he still doesn’t know.

But that can change, starting now.

“So how come you live down here?” Tony asks, looking up at Stephen. From the little that Tony knows, swans are very different from selkies. Half-swans just cannot exist, the way Tony is half-selkie, because children born of a swan and a human never shed a swan robe.

Stephen’s eyes flicker away. Tony feels his body grow tense. “My robe was taken. When I was a child.”

Tony sucks in a sharp breath. “A child? Stephen..”

Stephen shrugged, not looking Tony in the eyes. “My.. the father who raised me, he found me and took my robe. Locked it away. I.. couldn’t find it even after his death. It wasn’t until I became a sorcerer that I searched it out again.” His pets a hand over his feathered shoulder. “And, well, by then I didn’t have much of a reason to go back.” Then, a little quieter, “Not that I would be able to, anyway.”

“Oh, Stephen..” Tony’s heart ached for his love. He had no idea that Stephen.. that he’d been caged all his life.

Just like his mother. Perhaps worse.

“Were you too..?” Stephen asks, finally looking at Tony.

“Christ, no. Well, not me anyway. Howard took my mother’s pelt.”

“I’m sorry,” Stephen says, and genuinely sounds so.

Tony huffs. “Well, we’ve both got quite the shitty life, huh?”

Stephen holds Tony close and leans his forehead against Tony’s. “Not anymore, I suppose.”

Tony smiles softly, closing his eyes and his hands wrap around Stephen’s back, settling buried in the soft, fluffy feathers. “Not anymore.”

[sweettoothbadger]

DAY 1: Breaking bad habits - A quick snack - RATCHET

The undisturbed whirling of the alien technology met you as a welcome while the certain medic did not even glance in your direction as you came to. Though nothing unusual. Maybe before it would hurt you, make angry, but after so many cycles spend side to side with the old medic, you've learnt that it's just how he was. It was deep in his plating. The desire to put his all into something that might help autobots. Might save their lives in the crucial moment of distress.

Well that hurt. Really did. And he saw it immediately as your face distorted for a second with a grimace. He didn't mean it. You know he did not. But it sure sting.

-Hm, decided to pest me now in the unusual time?

-You have to sustain yourself with proper food. It's not healthy.

-Like you are the one to talk.

-Don't- huh. No, you're not distracting me from the topic. Humans must eat on a regular as well as rest!

-Yeah, though when we are stressed we tend to forget about it, doc.

Ratchet furrowed at the nickname.

-And what, may I ask made you so stressed, huh? It's not like you are in danger of being diploid to the battlefield any time soon.

-Little one, I-

-I am worried because one of the most important to me bots is killing himself stubbornly, refusing to rest even for a second! I am worried every time I see this bucket-head of a bot ignoring the obvious tremors in his hands! I am worried sick after I notice that he didn't even take an ounce of energon during another 40 or more hours of work! 

At the end of your rant you had to pause to get some air in. The anger was now cursing through your whole body, anxiety straining your voice. You were stressed he was right, but not for yourself - it was relatively safe and rather easy to forget especially with the kids causing mischief with the scouts around on the base.

You were worried sick because there was no guarantee of any of them returning back from missions, making it back injured but at least alive. And, as if he could see through you strange optics your peculiar human spark, burning and hurting for him too.

Old medic huffed gruffly with no real intent to argue. You were right, everybody needed a break, even him. And. maybe, just maybe, with you by his side it would be easier to let go of the worries twisting his spark. Even for a little bit.

-I… I am sorry. I did not intend on hurting you.

-… I know, Ratch. - You shoulders easing down just as his frame relaxes a bit too. - Just let's grab something? A snack together?

-Yes, sure. - He gently picked you up to position on his shoulder. - Though non of those dry salty poisons, we will warm you a warm cut of this soup you left in the refrigerator. I don't have time for your human stomachaches.

[venture4treasure]

"Footnote"

Words: 1065

Premise: Venture and Ex-Talon!Reader talk about history to-be.

Warnings: Scars, Description of violence 

Sprawled out across Venture’s lap with the afternoon sun warming your back is one of the most pleasant ways to spend your down time. You shove your face into the pillow between you and Venture, mind begging for a nap. They rest their hand on your back, tracing down the shape of your spine, you melt into the feeling. Their hand sneaks under your shirt and trails back up your back. You can feel their calluses against your skin, scratching an itch you didn’t realize you had. 

You hear their breath hitch and you lift your head to see what’s caught their attention. Their hand is stopped at the edge of a large scar that tore across your back. The scar tissue is smooth and pale, dipped slightly lower than the rest of your skin. It's also violently jagged and marred, few things could leave a scar like that.

“You can touch it, not like I can feel anything there anymore,” you laugh, trying to bring up the mood. You drop your head back onto the pillow.  

“I did this to you,” Venture frowns, ignoring your comment.

You roll over, turning your back against the couch. Venture’s hand finds its place on your stomach instead. You're a bit annoyed that your afternoon took a turn like this — you could be napping right now. And recalling the story of the scar isn’t nice either, the reminder is enough to make the area tingle with a phantom pain you shouldn’t even be able to feel. 

Nobody forgets how it feels to be on the receiving end of a proper fight with Venture, the tremors and rumble from their drill. The feeling of plates and threads meant for cutting stone against flesh. It’s unforgettable. 

—

You’d genuinely believed you were going to die that day. 

You had been with Talon back then, out in the field to find whatever it was that your commander sent your team out to find. ‘You’ll know when you find it’ was all the details you were given – you’d nearly rolled your eyes at him when you’d been given the order.

The search crossed paths with Overwatch and the Wayfinder Society. It was unlucky that both groups would be at the same site your team was assigned to. You were all ill-prepared to handle Overwatch, much less both organizations at once. You had call the shots, you told your crew to retreat and that whatever consequences Talon had for your cowardice would be easier to handle than if Overwatch had gotten ahold of you guys – despite being Talon-affiliated, your team weren’t bad people and definitely didn’t deserve to be doomed to whatever fate ‘good guys’ wrote for them.

You would’ve gotten away too if Venture hadn’t caught you – your first meeting. They had been mad, screamed and shouted about artifacts and history. You didn’t really register anything about what they were saying, the sound of rushing blood deafened you. You had every intention to put a bullet in their head and book it before any backup arrived. Unfortunately, ever stubborn and skilled, Venture didn’t withdraw at the notion of a gunfight. They fought well with such an unconventional weapon. Impressive in retrospect, but horrifying in the moment. There was no way for you to land a good shot with the way they were moving and defending. No matter how much you backed up, they closed the space between you two faster. 

Too close, you had managed to keep Venture from slamming their excavator into your front point-blank by swinging your rifle at it. The drill sent painful tremors through your arms when your gun made contact – if you had a spare moment, you’d wonder how Venture was even holding it. Having traded your weapon to save your life, you couldn’t do anything when Venture swung again except dive out of the way. 

You weren’t fast enough, the drill ripped through the clothes and flesh of your back and sent you face first into the ground. You had screamed, raw and fear-filled. It seemed to snap some sense into Venture, who shut off their excavator, the silence without the engine was suffocating. They approached you and you could see your own blood drip off the ridges of their weapon. They had a scowl on their face as they radioed their location and reluctantly threw their jacket on your wound and pressed to keep you from bleeding out. They mumbled about how it was the ‘right thing to do’. 

—

“I was on the wrong side of history then,” you shrug, your feigned nonchalance breaking Venture out of their remorseful thoughts. They chuckle a bit. 

“There’s no real wrong side of history,” Venture smiles down at you, their mind now on a different train of thought, “history is written by the winners, and everyone wants to win in the present”. 

You swat at the air, “technicalities and whatever. You think you’re the good guys, no? So, therefore, you should think that I was on the wrong side of history. Simple”.

“Uh-huh,” they say, amused at your logic. 

They watch you with a soft expression, wearing the golden hour sunlight so prettily. Your heart stutters at the sight. 

“Look,” you swallow, “it’s my eternal joy to be able to spend my life as yours”.

“Aww, that’s sweet,” Venture coos, unsure where the unprompted affection is coming from, but happy to hear it nonetheless, “I love you t-”

You pull at their shirt, tugging them down to meet them halfway for a kiss. They give into you easily. 

“Sloan- No,” you correct yourself, “Venture”.

Your voice saying their call sign catches their complete attention.

“Venture,” you reiterate, your hand tangling in theirs, “your story was meant for the history books. Venture will be remembered for years and years after we’re all long gone. Venture of the Wayfinder Society, Venture of Overwatch, you’re destined for the spotlight in history. Maybe you’ll even get your own chapter,” you laugh.

“Right or wrong side of history, I’m happy to be just a footnote in your story”, you add softer, “as your lover”.

Venture hisses something in Spanish – you’re certain it’s a swear. 

They squeeze your hand, “Amor, I’ll make sure my story is a good one so you can be proud to be a part of it,” they promise with unwavering conviction. 

“I know,” you breathe, “I know you will, Sloan Cameron”.

Author’s Note: Reader’s fight with Venture was when Overwatch was first building relations with the Wayfinder Society. So, new and inexperienced, Venture mostly fought on instinct and emotion. They aren’t as violent anymore in fights. 

If you made me write out the entire story in my mind, it’s enemies to lovers. Slow burn, but picks up pretty fast once Reader and Venture’s relationship shifts from negative to friendly. During Reader’s time as a captive, Venture is constantly dropping by to share information about artifacts, at first to guilt-trip Reader and later it evolves into a daily routine to share about their day to Reader. Eventually, this relationship convinces Reader to spill what they know about Talon. Venture convinces Overwatch to let Reader go. Now they both live together and fall in love and all that good fun. Cheers! 

Hope it’s not too out of character… I haven’t been able to consume much Venture content lately :( It got harder and harder to get the confidence to write again, so I sat down (reminded myself that I am supposed to be less critical of my writing here) and just wrote whatever I wanted :)

[thatone-brightstar]

Amy's kinktober alphabet blurbs w/ special guest Carmy Berzatto! (1/6)

a/n: This is my first kinktober ever and I want to make it extra fun for both of us (me and you lol). So I'm gonna share some blurbs and the one you like the most will get a full oneshot at the end of the month!

Don't forget to like and repost or comment with the one you like the most! PS. lmk if you wanna be added to the taglist!

Warnings: Minors DNI, p in v unprotected sex (birth control is mentioned), creampie, choking, semi public, oral sex (both f and m recieving) I'll add more tags as they add up.

A is for: Anywhere.

Carmy couldn’t keep his hands off you in the new apartment. He wanted you everywhere and anywhere, couch, kitchen bar, shower; it was all the same. He couldn’t stop thinking about how good he felt buried deep in you even as he had you pinned against the newly arrived sofa. Strong arms caged you between the soft plush and the constant snap of his hips, each thrust pushed your belly deeper into the material, until you almost felt like he was breaking you in two.

B is for: Babies. 

The idea always got you flustered, especially once when you saw Carmy carry around Nat’s baby on one of your visits to their home. As soon as you arrived at your place, you couldn’t take your hands off him. The belt around his hips clinged loudly as you pushed the denim down to the floor, lungs burning from the lack of air.

‘I’m gonna make you a daddy’ you mumbled through spit stained lips, barely making it into the bedroom.

‘Oh yeah?’ He answered back, too hot and bothered for his own good. ‘That what you want? Fuck you so good and come all inside you?’ 

C is for: Costumes.

The witch costume you had chosen for Halloween didn’t make it past the living room. The hat had been clumsily discarded to the side and the fishnets covering your legs were left with more holes than necessary, fifteen minutes after he walked through the door.

‘We’re gonna- fuck- we’re gonna be late-’ You struggle to say through the quick snap of his hips.

‘They can wait-’ Carmy answered back and hoisted your leg up around his hips even higher, cock pounding inside at a new angle that made you lose your breath, forehead falling over his heaving chest. ‘Atta girl-’ He groans near your ear. ‘-you can take it.’ 

D is for: Dress.

It was his favorite one. Green silk gown, with a slit up your left thigh, that complimented your skin tone beautifully. It was only worn on special occasions and when you knew you had more than enough time to have it bunched around your hips and with his face buried deep between your folds. Carmy’s hands kept your thighs open despite the multiple tremors that tried to snap them shut. Bright eyes looked up teasingly, glistening chin covered in your slik as the undone tie balanced over his puffing chest.

______________

Taglist: @pearlstiare @teteminne, @beebslebobs, @harrysmatcha, @yum-yahgurt, @pussy-f41ry, @kirakombat, @redsakura101 , @hobisunshine13

[kii-nami]

GILDED DREAMS | SUNDAY

You do not protest the clear display of authority over the most minuscule of details. Maybe you don’t even care for things like that, maybe you even take pity on him for that fact. Whatever it is in the end, Sunday doesn’t know. Neither does he ask. Birds are born to foolishly oppose the safety of captivity, but some will walk into the cage willingly. For they believe it to be temporary. Sunday’s gloves are stained with your divine blood. Your name will be written in the holy scriptures by his own hand soon enough.

cw: 6.5k words; part one of three; next part; fem!mc; nameless!mc; i'm not a hsr lore scholar; sunday get behind me i have a glock and nothing to lose except you;

To survive is to suffer. And crippled birds neither fly nor sing. All they are truly good for is to live a life of captivity. The only way to keep them safe is to build them a cage strong enough to protect them from all known predators. A prison of comfort, peaceful enough for them to forget their broken wings and settle down, with only sickeningly sweet scent of heaven in the air. Idyllic enough for it to become a dream.

Thus, Sunday dreams of eternal paradise in which no bird will ever get its wings clipped. In his gilded dreams, humanity’s life is free of misery. There is no survival of the fittest, for there is no weakness. There is no uncertainty, for there is no future. There is no suffering, for there is only Order. Or so the Dreammaster says.

And Ena the Order dreams of a paradise for everyone but Sunday, as he is a necessary sacrifice for the greater good of peace. One must be crucified for the sake of humanity, and Sunday is more than willing to become a martyr if it means he will finally obtain a cage big enough to contain anything and everything that could threaten his family. Or so the Dreammaster says.

To live is to dream. And you, Sunday decides, dream of nothing. For if you were, you would not have been roaming the halls of this maze. Yet Ena the Order sees none of your trespassing, and Sundays dares not to disturb Them with the news of someone so easily escaping their handmade heaven. Yet the ravens won’t stop screeching, the voices continue chanting. You do not belong here, so Sunday has no other choice but to take you out himself. That is the right thing to do. Or so the Dreammaster says. That is what he wants.

“Be not afraid.”

Your hand stops midair. The ribbons of your intricate sleeves keep swaying gently as your fingers tremble a mere inch away from the marble surface of the statue you were admiring. Then you shudder, dropping your arm limply at your side and finally look at him.

“Fear is the soul killer.” You agree easily, the light tremor of your voice betraying you by giving that very fear away. “I’ve been wandering these halls for hours, however. It is natural for me to expect the worst, Mister Sunday.”

You know him yet he remembers you not. So it must be your first time in Penacony, otherwise Sunday would have surely remembered someone like you. Someone who is capable of evading Order’s omniscience. It matters not, however. For he will guide you back to paradise with his own hand.

“I shall show you the way, then.” Sunday offers you his hand in an exercise of faithless chivalry. The white fabric of his gloves is yet to be stained with blood or soiled with the touch of the passing visitors he is forced to exchange pleasantries with. But soon it will be. He doesn't want it to. “If I may.”

“I would be eternally grateful.” You smile. “My family must be worried sick about me.”

There is nothing but kindness behind your voice and the light reflecting of your eyes can blind a sinner if they look at you. Sunday knows better than to trust the emptiness of words and fool’s gold of flattery for he is throwing those around on the daily. So when your palm presses gently against his own, he leads you to your untimely demise with no hesitation and all the remorse one could have, leaving you none the wiser to his true intentions.

Sunday half-expects to be stabbed in the back with some sort of a mythical dagger bestowed upon you by an Aeon who opposes the harmonious Order he is conducting under Ena’s blessing. He's waiting for you to try and snap his other wing right off his back to make sure he isn't even capable of dreaming of the skies. Yet nothing of the sort ever happens. It's a little unnerving, unsettling in a way that makes Sunday feel the phantom pains of things long lost. He wants to accuse you of treachery yet cannot. He wishes to call you a master of deception yet cannot.

Like a saint, you seem to trust him to help you find your way back. Akin to a sinner, it is him who rules over the silver of his tongue and the steel of his word.

Sunday knows he should dispose of you in the waters of the dream pool like he intended to do. That is what the Dreammaster would have wanted. Anything that is a threat to Ena the Order is a threat to his gilded dreams. And those who threaten the cage will inevitably draw a weapon against Robin. Yet he sees no ill intent in your eyes. Just concern for your family who you supposedly burdened with worry of your disappearance. And as it gradually dissolves with each step he takes to the exit of reality, a conflict in him grows stronger.

Standing at the crossroads, Sunday knows nothing. So when the time comes for you to fall back into heaven, he is there to catch you with a promise of never meeting again.

Too bad he never asked for your name. How miserable it is you never thought yourself important enough to give it to him unprompted.

Even in dreams people like Sunday are not exempt from suffering. To suffer is to survive. That is just the price you must pay for being tied to reality like a Charmony dove that has been chained to a metal ball and released into the wilderness. And Sunday may be the head of the Oak Family on paper signed with a bloodstained feather plucked from his own wing, yet he despises dealing with people from the IPC. All precious stone in only name and nothing else, Aventurine is positively infuriating.

In more ways than one.

“One of Astral Express girls disappeared from her room last night.” His smirk is full of poorly hidden mischief and something else that Sunday simply doesn’t care about. He may crave control over all that is his, yet he wishes not to claim someone like Aventurine as one of his own. “How perfectly aligned with your sister’s unfortunate death…”

The muscles of his back are strained. To dominate over his own desires is just as important as it is to rule over every single aspect of the dream that is this life. The gilded dream of Ena the Order must continue, and Sunday will not be the one to sabotage it. To dream is to live.

Sunday taps the railing, “Are you accusing me of kidnapping now?”

Soothing tone and relaxed posture, Sunday will continue his reign over the dominion of Control no matter what he feels or wants. There is no other way. Crippled birds neither fly nor sing, nor do they grow their missing wings back. And even if some foolish being deems them fit enough to recover, takes pity on them and nurses them back to health, domesticated birds will only use those hollow, mended bones of theirs to plummet right back to the ground.

“Just stating my observations.” Aventurine laughs, a noisy little snicker that pierces Sunday’s ears like a nail on the chalkboard. Then he waves dismissively, the lackluster wiggle of his fingers as he turns around to leave. Good riddance, if only eternal. “Good luck. Her Foxian friend is very fond of fried chicken. Me too, now that I think about it…”

Sunday remains standing on the balcony for another hour. There is no rush. He knows who it was that vanished without a trace, and he knows where to find you. But he cannot control someone like Aventurine so Sunday dares not making any irrational decisions. Unlike Aventurine himself, Sunday isn’t fond of gambling. Uncertainty is at the roots of all evil.

He leaves and goes about his business. A sinner to confess their wrongdoings to him; a passerby to shake hands with, a Masked Fool to dampen already soiled mood; a Nameless to throw him a passing glance of suspicion; Robin’s shadow that should not be there for now. If the vermin – a truly formidable man all things considered, yet simply infuriating – is watching, he will see nothing but a busy head of the Oak Family. If Aventurine has better things to do than to follow Sunday’s footsteps in a feat of uncharacteristic obsession, at least Sunday finished all his work for the day and could finally take a shallow breath of momentary relief.

The halls of the maze are empty as they should be, yet Sunday didn’t expect to find anyone there in the first place. You remain in the dining room, rooted next to a marble statue, fingertips barely grazing the cool stone. The ribbons are swaying side to side and the white of your clothes is stained with pinks, blues and purples right in the middle of your back. The colors bleed out from there and drip down the dress onto your skin.

“Be not afraid.”

“Fear is the soul killer.” Your trembling fingers falter and when you turn to face him, there is way more of those pinks and blues all over your heaving chest all the way from your neck. Sunday knows not of what happened and he dares not to ask; his harmonic tuning failed once, and he will not be deceived anymore. “Are you here to escort me back to the dreamscape again, Mister Sunday?”

Sunday swears that if Ena could see you, They too would be just as terrified as he is at that moment. “I’m afraid I do not follow, Miss.”

“Then I shall pretend I said nothing.” You shrug, Sunday’s outstretched hand is hovering in the air for you to take. You do. With no hesitation and all the faith of a religious fanatic, you once more let him guide you out of the painful reality and into a dream as if you didn’t just admit to fully comprehending this fact. “Please be mindful that I will wake up no matter what. Your gilded dream rejects me.”

Sunday stops in his tracks. His crippled wing is pressing uncomfortably to his side, smoothed over bone digging into his skin as a reminder that he cannot ever fly even if he was delusional enough to try to. Every breath is a labor of well-practiced habit and an effort of greatest heights. You’re patiently waiting for him to gather his control back into his tightly clenched fist, the one that is always pulled behind his back to the broken wing he could never repair.

The colors are still bleeding all over your dress as your chest rises and falls in odd intervals. You may have the patience of a saint, yet your fears all eat you alive. Fear is the soul killer. Or so you say. To suffer is to survive. To dream is to live. How can you live if you can never dream?

You furrow your eyebrows. The harmonic tuning has failed yet again. This time without even clouding your mind enough to put you to sleep. Yet your jittering palm keeps trembling in his hold as you exhale lightly, trying to shake off the vibrations of his halo. A delicate cross dangling from your neckless is staring back at Sunday with resentment that he only saves for the person who shot Robin and the Cancer of All Worlds which took away their mother and the scissors which clipped his wings so Sunday would never dare to escape. Or maybe it’s just his reflection looking back at him from the golden glow of the cross.

In retrospect, you did nothing wrong. You don’t even try to hide anything from him, laying your knowledge bare for Sunday to interpret however he wishes to. A sinner that has confessed to their wrongdoings is ought to be forgiven in the eyes of any deity. Yet has this so-called sin been committed in the first place? If you allowed him to baptize you not once but twice, fully comprehending it meant abandoning any uncertain future you humans seem to crave so much.

What is right and what is wrong? What is a virtue and what is a sin? What is an Order and what is a Doubt? Sunday knows not. But he needs to collect all his control and pour it into a cup for you to savor one way or another. If not a sinner, you are a saint. Ena the Order sees you not, so you must have been imprisoned by someone else already. And it is Sunday’s duty to free all of mankind of the shackles of turmoil and lead them to paradise.

For he cannot let you leave yet he cannot bring himself to kill you. Sunday can talk in riddles and try to manipulate your emotions all he wishes, yet you seem to reject the vibrations of Order without even trying. So how does one contain something they cannot control? How does a devout believer tempt a messenger of a foreign god?

“I cannot let you go.” Sunday’s voice is a little hoarse, he is not used to telling the truth. It most often than not leads to suffering, yet something tells him you will see right through him if he does lie. Maybe he has much less control than he initially thought. “You know too much.”

“All is fair, Mister Sunday.” It is not a response a sane woman should give. “However, may I be so bold to ask for a clean dress?”

But saints are all-forgiving, and ordinary people are not meant to understand their reasoning. For there is none. At least not with you. No reason and a heart pinned to your sleeve, bleeding color all over your skin. Sunday needs to know your name so he can search high and low for the Aeon who crucified you for Their own selfish whims.

“I shall pick the best one there is.” Sunday nods.

You do not protest the clear display of authority over the most minuscule of details. Maybe you don’t even care for things like that, maybe you even take pity on him for that fact. Whatever it is in the end, Sunday doesn’t know. Neither does he ask. Birds are born to foolishly oppose the safety of captivity, but some will walk into the cage willingly. For they believe it to be temporary.

Sunday’s gloves are stained with your divine blood.

Your name will be written in the holy scriptures by his own hand soon enough.

The dress is beautiful. And so is the next. And the one after that. And all the others that follow.

Ribbons and feathers. Intricate lace and weightless silks. Gold and diamonds. All never worn even once and kept neatly in the wardrobe of your bedroom. If your disapproving sigh is anything to go by, you don’t appreciate the excessive luxury, yet accept them just to hide them in your closet and put on the simplest of garments that he brought to you the day you entered the mansion.

Sunday cannot understand you, but differences are included in the natural Order of things. Reality is a lonely prison of misery, and Sunday returns there for he has no other place to belong to. Yet you seem to enjoy it as a long-awaited vacation. Way more than your family does it back in Penacony’s gilded dream.

Sunday doesn’t think your behavior is reasonable, yet he questions you not. You won’t give him the answer he is seeking, anyway. Your heart may be out there in the open, yet the pages of your thoughts are written with invisible ink and no amount of heat can paint them with life.

You have a habit of refusing things you deem unnecessary or excessive, your friendly exposition never wavering even under pressure of almost constant loneliness. Some days Sunday wonders what would happen if he doesn’t return here after all his tasks for the day are done, when Aventurine with his Nameless Foxian companion and her other nosy friends don’t breathe down his neck with accusatory air. He does not entertain such foolish thoughts; they would break his carefully crafted routine and Sunday is a being of habit. For habit is Order.

And so, against his better judgment of clipped feathers, Sunday returns. To your palace of a bedroom, with three light knocks and a little apology for intrusion. You are rarely there, so he is forced to look for you just as he is searching for the Aeon responsible for your fate. And when he does find you, all Order crumbles.

To live is to suffer. Your suffering is intricately woven into your every breath.

On Mondays you prepare a special dinner. It’s just you and him and a lonely candle on a little table on your balcony. The stars are dripping the color of your blood, the wine in your glass is untouched and you never eat more than could fit in a teacup. A life of such modesty is far too unfamiliar for the bird who was brought up in a cage of golden bars and silver spoons, yet Sunday doesn’t mind. He’s got other, more important things to worry about. For if the Dreammaster finds out about you, he will wish to dispose of you. And Sunday may have already sinned for the betterment of humanity, yet he isn’t sure if he is capable of turning saints into martyrs just yet.

“Won’t it be easier to just kill me?” You constantly disarm him with your questions. Some days Sunday isn’t quick enough to even imagine drawing a weapon to protect his mingled self.

“No.” Sunday answers a bit too quickly for his liking. “I mean you no harm, Miss [Name].”

On Tuesdays you clean. The mansion is spotless for it is empty, and there is nothing, but a thin coat of dust gathered around on the bookshelves of his study. You busy yourself with it even if you are told not to bother with such things. Sunday wishes to treat you as a guest despite the circumstances. All people were born equal and pretending that you are anything less than he is would going against what he stands for. His gilded dreams are not built on bigotry or injustice, only harmonious Order of happiness.

Your presence in the room is that of a dove on a branch behind a glass dome. All hollow bones and disarray of feathers, Sunday cannot ignore you even if it is what the Order would have wanted. Yet what the Order cannot see, that is all for Sunday to keep for himself; to hide under his pillow so it won’t ever be taken away from him by any collapsing dreams.

“Do you think me a madman?” He asks.

You laugh and shake your head in amused disagreement. Sunday wishes he could steal your laughter straight from your vocal cords to fill in the holes in his wings with it. He cannot. Yet would you let him if he asked with the utmost honesty? Only time will tell.

You are a willing participant of all and any conversations, despite allowing him to talk most of the time. You listen and ask questions, give your own opinion in bite size pieces that never overshadow his voice. His dreams are grand, and his plans are fragile, yet for all that is worth you take him seriously. A noble man with a heart which bleeds for everyone but himself, you call him. A kind person with good intentions which will pave his downfall for him, you say easily. A caring brother, who will always put his family first even if it is bound to strain the thin red thread that connects them to each other, you smile wistfully.

“A flightless bird which longs for the sky. That is what you are to me, Mister Sunday.”

His soul aches. All bruised and mattered. Sunday would rather you simply called him mad.

On Wednesdays you tend to the garden. Flowers are blooming here no matter the season. Even in reality Penacony is still a dream, albeit not dusted with a thin layer of gold and illusions. You move around the sea of color like a ghost, the white of your dress stained with soil and a twinge of misery.

You don’t think Sunday is mad and you understand his dream of peace, yet you never condone his drastic approach to things. The dreams in which you hold happiness in the palms of your hands simply do not exist. That is what you say to him, picking two stray peonies from the bush and handing one of them to him with the tenderness of a torn-up heart. The other gets its petals plucked one by one with a gentle touch of your fingers, and the pain of the missing parts of him grows with each one getting lost in the green of the grass underneath your feet.

No wishes ever come true in a gilded cage so people will always seek reality, no matter how painful it may be. Sunday thinks his wishes can only ever be fulfilled by a dream in which nobody will suffer anymore. There is simply no such a thing that cannot be obtained by a paradise he wishes to create for everyone with Ena’s holy rule. And you – the misguided messenger of a foreign god, a martyr for a cause which you don’t stand for – you also deserve your wishes granted to you. For everyone is born equal.

“What do you dream of, Miss [Name]?” Sunday wonders, watching you longingly collect every single petal from the grass, mend them together with the hues of pinks and purples and then tear the peony back into pieces.

“I dream of living.”

You look up at him with misty eyes, clouded with yearning and unshed tears. The colors float around your head like a halo. Maybe one of these days Sunday will finally find an answer in those scattered petals.

Thursdays you watch the stars. Time flies as the stars keep shooting from the sky like fallen angels, and you simply observe as they crash and burn. Your fingers twitch as if you wish to catch all of them, yet you ask for nothing.

Sunday comes, his back hunched by the growing weight of endless responsibilities and troubles. Yet when he leaves with his shoulders less tense and buzzing static in his chest, to return to his life of sacrifice that is necessary for the good of all mankind, he never forgets to ask what you wish for. Silence is the only answer Sunday receives, and the gentle sway of the ribbons in a summer breeze tells him he will regret ever asking this question when you finally deem it appropriate to indulge him.

The stars glow bright when you’re out here in the garden. Caged birds keep singing their woeful tunes. Thread and needle in your hands, you’re mending the hem of your dress, still refusing to wear any of those more extravagant ones. Your nightgown is not made for the outside and you shiver. The night isn’t getting any warmer, yet you ask for nothing. To live is to suffer, yet what is life if you only ever knew of torment.

A jacket he places on your shoulders does little, and whatever selfish wishes Sunday has must be drowned in the sea of shooting stars. For they will not be accepted. There is no place for them in this reality in which he lays his mortal body on a stone and holds the nails which he will get crucified with in his own two hands. Yet if the Dreammaster were here, he would have shared Sunday’s vision of the gilded dream that he is bending and breaking to his will just to make enough space in it for you as well. A paradise in which you stay here by his side forever as the messenger for him and no one else.

“I wish for nothing, Mister Sunday.”

Sunday knows it to be a lie. You whisper your true wish with the last breath you take before falling into restless, golden slumber. He will break this world in half to grant it to you, even if it calls for eternity of loneliness. A twitch of a broken wing, you’re almost weightless in his arms. Sunday does not understand why just yet. But he will.

On Fridays you play the violin. For once it’s his fingers that are stained with color. Sunday is staring at the canvas, hues and tones blending together with shadows and highlights to create a heavenly image of absolute divinity. He thinks it belongs to a chapel right where he gets down on his knees to confess his wrongdoings and pray for forgiveness, yet Sunday knows even existence of such a thought in and of itself is a mortal sin.

The melody is full of sorrow and the birds which you released from the cages are all perched on the pews of the chapel where you put them. They cannot fly, so they cannot escape and meet their end in horrifying loneliness. For now, you are here to catch them if they were to fall, so they can only sing along to the miserable tune of a violin in your hands.

“To live is to suffer. We must make peace with this suffering.” You put the instrument back in its case and lock all the birds back in their respective cages.

They do not resist, so Sunday is convinced you are implying that they’ve made peace with their suffering just like the two of you accepted yours. Yet when Sunday washes the pinks and purples of his fingers, he cannot help but think you are wrong. To live is to dream. And to dream is to slumber in eternal paradise, where no suffering can ever touch you.

The portrait he’s made of you will never do your beauty justice, but no icon could ever depict the true holiness of a saint. He will succeed eventually. You will have all the time in the world in his eternal paradise.

On Saturdays you dance. In a world less cruel, the one Sunday will create in the name of Ena, Robin is there to support your performance with the soothing voice of a Charmony dove. She is not, for you and him are stuck in miserable world where no wishes ever come true.

You would have been one of Penacony’s brightest stars, if only you weren’t chained to reality by those who do not deserve you. A twirl, the wind picks up your ribbons as you move gracefully to the melody of a tearful piano. And in a moment of fleeting weakness, Sunday asks about your shackles. And with a sway of your swan song, you share the tale of Istanai the Repudiation.

The Aeon who claimed you at birth and refused to let go even after They forsook your people, and you abandoned Their rusted prison. They are still following you around even after all those years even if They don’t want you. They make no sense for They reject all of it, along with anything else that They have ever touched. Even Their own children, the natural Order of things, any wishes or dreams; They abdicate everything and nothing, for that is the Path that They oversee. It is the Path you were born into and that is also the Path that you abandoned to pursue eternal Trailblaze.

“To live is to suffer. For you can keep nothing. Cannot wish to hold anything.” And then you admit, heat radiating off you in waves, “And I am only useful to this world for as long as I keep Their gaze on me.”

Sunday thinks you are wrong. Yet then the clock strikes midnight, and it marks the Seventh day. And on Sundays, you weep.

With your knees on the cold floor and hands pressed close to your heart, you keep praying in a tongue he cannot comprehend. The words fall from your lips hastily and desperately, as you beg for forgiveness in a language he does not know. Yet the things that Sunday does understand, all relate to the Aeon who stole your will and clipped your wings, chaining you to reality where the weak only get weaker and the strong keep getting stronger.

That is not the Path one should walk on, the loneliness of martyrdom for someone else’s sake is not a burden that should be bestowed upon someone but instead a choice one makes willingly. And you chose not your fate, yet suffer the consequences, nonetheless.

Maybe, Sunday muses kneeling next to you for a prayer. Maybe something simple like a dream is not enough. If They refuse to let you go yet condemn you for keeping them, Sunday can create something bigger than a gilded dream of illusion. Maybe a real paradise will be just enough to steal you away to a life that is worth living.

Your hand gently wipes a tear away from his cheek before it can fall and stain the floor of the chapel. It lingers on your fingers with deep red. One glove, then another. You are as warm as he imagined in the dreams he cannot keep, for he is the lamb of Ena and he is ready to be slaughtered if it means people like you – or Robin, or their dear mother – won’t ever cry anymore. The skin of your palm is smooth against his lips. It’s all Sunday can ever allow himself to have, and that is all that he will ever keep.

“You must leave tomorrow, Miss [Name].” He says, hands grasping your own.

A tear falls. This time it feels like you are weeping for him and him alone.

Maybe being a messenger of the Order is not the end for harmony of happiness, and somewhere in the realm of gods there is a spot for his own ideals as well. The Dreammaker may not understand or approve, yet when Sunday ascends to greatness of true holiness, on his first day he will free you from suffering. And on the seventh, there will be nothing but peace. For his gaze will never abandon you.

Sunday can promise on his blood on your hands.

And as it always is, crippled birds neither fly nor sing. They fall. Shooting stars and collapsing dreams, all Order has been forsaken as gravity pulls Sunday closer to his inevitable demise. His flesh and blood clings to him like the ideals he cannot ever atone for, yet in his noble pursuit of eternal happiness a sliver of selfish desire for comfort remains. So he lets Robin linger yet dares not to soil the purity of her embrace with the dullness of his touch.

A cage will always rust and corrode with time, falling apart at the seams. Gilded dreams are not meant to last forever. Nothing is truly eternal except for humanity’s striving to move forward into that useless future full of self-inflicted misery.

Robin’s breathless voice mutters something that is instantly lost in the wind and she pulls him closer. If Sunday were a better brother, a better man, a better person, he would have stopped all galaxies and frozen this moment just to let his sister descend this condensed and polluted air of his crumbling paradise like a stairway to heaven. He isn’t any of those things. So, he doesn’t even try. No miracle will happen if he does. A bird missing its wing will never catch flight right before hitting the ground.

And Sunday is nothing more than a crippled Charmony dove – a dying raven, truly – destined to roam the cage of his gilded dreams forever, for stepping outside signifies the end of Order and the beginning of Suffering. And he isn’t ready to die yet. He wasn’t ready.

To live is to suffer. To dream is to survive. With no cages and no birds in sight, Sunday accepts the inevitable.

“It is in human nature to reject usurpers, Mister Sunday.” Weightlessness of your voice envelopes all in bright light of heavenly warmth.

A feather. A ribbon. A silken touch of divinity confined in a painfully human vessel. If Sunday didn’t know any better, he would have thought he met face to face with some foreign man’s Goddess. Sunday knows better, however. So he closes his eyes and lets Istanai the Repudiation touch him. There are no rules he wouldn’t break to ensure Robin’s survival. And yet…

“I told you to leave.” Sunday is not used to repeating himself twice. His fingers tremble as he watches Robin take your hand and walk down the ladder he thought to be impossible.

“And as a human that I am, I rejected your order.” You smile. The light in your eyes is made of purest of diamonds and it keeps burning with holy fire. Sunday was foolish to think you would listen to reason and not your bleeding heart. “It seems we don’t have much time, so let me heal your wounds as I celebrate that my naïve soul has won for once.”

Robin, as all free-spirited birds are, is a creature of curiosity. She tilts her head and finds comfort on one of the floating ribbons, swaying on it like a swing. There’s a little ruffle to the feathers of her wings, yet she minds it not, opting to watch the two of you instead. Your eyes may be glowing, yet the sturdiness of your will is starting to wear off. Sunday isn’t sure whether it’s his silence that is making you doubt your decisions, Robin’s dedicated stare or your own thinning convictions. His guess is as good as any, but the most logical answer will always be him.

Your forced companionship has come to its inevitable end. Yet just like the day you two met, Sunday is at the crossroads yet again.

“Robin first.”

There are no protests, just gentle swaying of ribbons, a warm glow of pale pinks and purples, and Robin’s hushed voice humming a tune. She looks livelier, well rested, the shadows under her eyes dissolve under the shimmer of divine rejection. Your hands are hovering over hers, almost grazing the skin yet never daring touching it. As if you too, thought yourself undeserving. It made no sense, yet Sunday had no right to question the natural Order of things. Istanai the Repudiation refused to give Their children up, even if They abandoned them first in pursuit of eternal rejection.

A song stops. A couple of grateful words fall from Robin’s rosy lips. You nod politely, a smile returning to your face with a bit more brightness. You offer him a place to sit, a fleeting glance cast over your shoulder. Sunday has half a mind to follow in your footsteps and refuse, yet he does not. He is tired, wasted efforts and unyielding dreams quivering under the weight of reality, all he truly wishes for is to collapse for good. With his missing wing and shuttered principles. How long has it been since he took a proper breath?

Sunday takes a seat. Like a holy dove that you are, you hover near him from your own heavenly branch. Never touching and always lingering, yet the heat of your skin burns him just like divine flame would scorch a sinner. The light under your fingertips rejects his wounds and exiles his exhaustion, it bends his will and breaks his bones. And if letting go or Order meant keeping you by his side for the rest of his life – however long it may be – then Sunday wouldn’t mind a life of sin of a different kind. And if you were to cross this distance and touch him, he would ask you to stay. Yet you don’t.

To live is to survive. To dream is to suffer. Your mind is somewhere far away, and the ache of his bones makes Sunday feel like he is being reborn. From a dying raven to a Charmony dove with all his wings intact, capable of flying on his own.

“So it is true that your kind cannot be manipulated.”

You shiver. Sunday’s back is throbbing. There’s not a person here but a cat. Cursing you with a heavy gaze of his eyes.

“It’s not nice to sneak up on people like that, Mister Elio.” You chastise him gently, pulling away from Sunday and taking all your holiness away. It is only the sheer power of self-control that allows him to not reach out to tug you back into him so your sunlight can burn him alive. Such earthly desires matter not if you two are soon to separate and never meet again.

The cat – Elio – huffs, unamused by your demeanor. You pay it no mind, your ribbons dissolve into thin air until only two remain. Neither do you answer Elio’s question. Simply gather your holy blood with your own two hands and let it all spill yet again through the stigmata on your palms.

“May heavens be kind enough to let our paths to cross again, Mister Sunday.”

His bones keep aching. The restless feathers of his wings flutter even if he wills them to stop. He can surrender his halo to you and despite it being all that is truly his to own in this life, it would never be enough. Deities require giving up all mortal possessions before devoted worship could be possible and what else can he offer to you if not himself?

Sunday has no time to ponder that question. He doesn’t even have the time to say goodbye to you properly. As gilded dreams are not meant to last forever, and this one too is taken away from him by something he cannot control.

“[Name]!” Himeko seems inhumanly comforted to see you safe, pulling you in a tight hug. And considering she wholeheartedly supported the young Foxian woman threatening to pluck his wings naked for taking you hostage, it is only logical for her to do so.

A brooding man – Dan Heng, if Sunday’s memory doesn’t fail him – stands awkwardly a little behind the two of you, while the aforementioned Foxian lady and her eccentric pink haired friend share a collective sigh of relief. You hesitantly pull away and take a hurried step forward, ushering them away before they can notice anything – anyone – else. You are far too kind for your own good and someone ought to exploit it eventually. At least it won’t be someone like him. It is far out of reach of Sunday’s capabilities to shackle a bird born of paradise.

The cat laughs. Sunday hates cats. You cannot cage them, yet they can snap your wings even if you are perfectly fit to fly on your own.

And so, the cat does.

Sunday’s bones are still aching even when he shakes hands with Kafka. Such is the nature of growing pains. A lot of misery is in Order.

[nartothelar]

I was seeing the comic of Emmets self destructing behavior even after he and Ingo reunited and wow… that implication it’s not the first time…

How many times must have this happened? How many times until Ingo knew snapping him out by a gentle hand on his shoulder? What bad habits did Emmet develop while being on his own? With "Ingo" encouraging him to be more healthy? Just so deliciously dark! I love it?

On the other hand how much strain Ingo's body going through when he has his moments he sees "the man in white" his body switches to "life-or-death-mode" receiving a little bruise could cause him to fall into full panic mode and try to treat it like a lethal wound if not for Emmet snapping him out of it and calming him down again.

While both have their moments of seeing their subconscious guardian angel both react differently.

Emmet is apathetic towards "Ingo" dismissing him since he’s not even there. He reacts mentally.

Ingo’s whole body could react to small bruises and injuries like they could kill him and depending on his support to get through it. He reacts with his whole body.

Also when Ingo’s aware he’s probably insecure about all the scars he’s got on him now. How many times he almost died… he doesn’t want the real Emmet to know. It’s bad enough that "the man in white knows"…

YES YES!!! This analysis is so perfect!!! If you'd allow me to ramble a bit...

Emmet's self destructive tendencies have been going on for a while since Ingo's disappearance. He has his Elesa and his depot agents to support him/remind him to not truly forget about himself (Elesa trying to take more time off from her job to check on Emmet/invite him out to lunch to make sure he eats, the veteran depot agents frequently checking up on him during the day/encouraging him take more breaks/interrupting his smoke breaks "accidentally", ect) but it's been hard to say the least. It will take some time for these habits to truly go away even with Ingo back, especially on his bad days.

BUT ALSO YEAH! Ingo! If Emmet appears at the corner of his eye suddenly or he sees him from a distance (any sort of blurred visage - as the man in white always appeared as) he might have a knee jerk response - a sudden urge to run or seek safety - but ultimately it won't be too serious.

His body reacts the most drastically when he is already in a state of injury and Emmet is within eyesight. Elevated heart rate, shortness of breathe, blurred vision, body tremors: his adrenaline levels will spike to an unnatural level causing a ton of stress on the body, since his mind is basically telling his body that he's on the brink of death. The quickest way to calm him down if it were to get this bad would be to have Emmet out of his sight until he can calm down...Not very ideal when the source of one's panic works the same job as you, in a work environment where slight injuries aren't too uncommon

[flyingdren]

Coping with Sebastian Sallow

Summary: In your seventh year at Hogwarts, the only thing keeping you sane is the comfort of your freckled best friend. After a nightmare, he finds another way to comfort you.

Disclaimer: So this is ending B! Or Sebastian's ending. I want to do a poly ending next so stay tuned for that! If anyone has any suggestions or feedback please let me know!

Rating: E

Pairing: Sebastian Sallow x F!Reader

Sebastian would never admit it, but his favourite time of day was definitely first thing in the morning. Everyone assumed he would be grumpy at first light and want to lay abed until late into the afternoon. 

And they’d be right. But Sebastian loved mornings because it was when he got to have you all to himself. He loved waking up with you tucked against his chest with his arms wrapped tightly around your midsection and his face buried in your hair. He loved inhaling your sweet scent and listening to your deep breathing.  

He also knew in these moments that you weren’t in any pain, and it made his chest swell with pride at the idea that he could keep you safe.  

Of course, his hubris immediately came back to bite him as start to you twitch against him, a small, pained whimper leaving your lips as the muscles in your back begin to spasm. He pulls back and gently rolls you so you’re laying with your head on his chest and begins rubbing soothing circles on your shoulder with one hand while the other reaches over to touch your face. The curtains on his four-poster bed are drawn tight against the morning light and quickly Sebastian grabs his wand from under his pillow and casts a silencing charm around the two of you. He then casts another that causes a soft glow to illuminate the space so that he could see your face. Then he puts his want back under his pillow and returns to petting you. 

“Shh. It’s okay. That’s my girl.” He repeats in a soothing tone. After a few minutes you still, and sigh as your eyes flutter open. 

For a moment you forget where you are, as if you hadn’t woken in Sebastian’s bed most days in you seventh year, with nightmares wracking your body and mind and the pain being simply too much. Slowly, you become aware of Sebastian’s calming voice and his warm sturdy body pressed against yours. He grounded you gently with comforting words and his large, freckled hands innocently exploring your body.  

Finally, when the tremors stop you pull back and gaze up at the man holding you. His eyes are already trained on you, his lips twisted in concern. 

“Thank you.” You whisper, dropping your eyes shyly at his intense gaze. 

Everything about Sebastian had become intense these last few months. You didn’t know how but he seemed to have become an even bigger fixture in your life, barely leaving your side I he could help it. He’s even become physically larger, taller and broader; towering over most of the student body. Only Ominis was taller than him, but unlike the blonde Slytherin prince Sebastian had filled out to the point where his shirts strained at the shoulders and wrists, especially since he’d started playing Quidditch as a Beater.  

One of your few true pleasures in life was watching him fly and seeing him play was no exception. The pure joy he radiated was infectious. But lately watching his intense expression as he concentrated on the game made you feel things you weren’t sure if you should feel about a best friend. His low rumbling voice brought your attention back to earth. 

“How are you feeling?” He asked, a warm freckled hand to cup the side of your jaw. You take a moment to collect your scattered thoughts then evaluate the state of your sore body. Your back feels tender and the nightmare had exhausted you. You bury your face in his chest, trying to stop the tears in your eyes from overflowing.  

“I’m okay. I had a bad dream.” You explain a little ashamed that a mere nightmare would affect you so badly. He nodded.  

“Would it feel better if you told me? Get it out?” For a moment you freeze, terrified he would judge you. Then you remember its Sebastian, you’d seen him fall into the lake from his broomstick and burn his eyebrows off with rogue confringo.  

“I keep dreaming that I’m getting married.” You say, still not meeting his eyes. “I feel so happy I could burst and then just as my husband lays me down on our marital bed I explode in pain. Everything goes black and when I come back, he’s staring at me with this horrible, disgusted look.” 

 You shudder, the image of the faceless man's lips curling in revulsion imprinted on your brain. You sigh.  

“I’m so tired.” You say and lay your head back down, eyes already closing. 

Sebastian watches as you drift off, his hands continuing to rub your shoulder almost absentmindedly. Anger builds in his stomach at the thought of anyone making you feel lesser. If you were his he would make you feel cherished, he swore to himself, you’d never feel anything but adored.  

And he could barely think straight after the idea of you and him on your wedding night entered his thoughts. 

His head was a mess of hormones and emotions lately. It felt like he was hyper aware of your every movement, when you played with your hair during class or huffed out a breath. You scent maddens him and his every waking moment seemed to be taken up with thoughts of you. Concern, of course, for your wellbeing but starting this summer it had also been a physical response as well. He admitted secretly to himself that he dreamt about you, dreams that ended with him grinding against his pillows or the mattress, glad you weren’t tucked close to him.  

When you were next to him, he had to distance himself in the bed, closing his eyes tightly and flexing his legs; willing his raging erection down. Usually, it worked but there were a few times he’d have to flee to the washroom to work himself to orgasm, nightshirt pulled up and stuffed into his mouth to muffle his moans. 

 He felt the familiar stirrings now and quickly bit his lip, willing himself to calm down. You were his best friend, you trusted him. He couldn’t ruin this with his lewd thoughts and actions.  

Finally, he fell into a sort of trance, counting your soft even breaths to anchor himself. He heard the muffled sound of his dorm mates awakening and shuffling around, preparing for the day. He stayed quiet and close to you, not wanting his movements to wake you from a well needed restful sleep.  

The dorm had been silent for almost ten minutes when you shifted, wrapping your arm around his chest and pressing yourself against his ribcage. Bad enough that this position pushed your breasts against the thin cotton of your nightdress, but you also threw one of your legs over his, essentially straddling his thigh. Sebastian was rife with panic and lust as he tried to move away, and he would swear on trial that he was just trying to adjust you as to preserve both of your propriety.  

But as his hand went to your hip and he shifted the leg you were pressed against, you moaned so sweetly it was like a drug; he was intoxicated instantly. Then with his hand still on your hip and your arms around him, you began to rock slowly. Your breasts pressed against the hard muscle of his abdomen as you were tucked into him with his arm around your shoulders. If he moved the hand that had been rubbing your shoulder, he could cup your breast and feel if your nipples were as hard to his fingers as they felt digging into his side.  

You moan again, your breathing becoming heavier as you press yourself into the cotton of his sleep pants. Sebastian could feel your panting, hot against his throat. Suddenly you thrust harder against him with a whine and your knee hitches up and brushes his hardened cock. He couldn’t stop the groan that reverbs through his chest, vibrating your entire being. Suddenly, you still and he feels you sharply inhale. There’s a moment of silence, heavy with possibilities.  

“Sebastian?” Your voice is barely above a whisper, and he can feel the heat radiating from your blushing cheeks. He lets out a shaky breath, trying to relax his tense body. 

“I’m here love.” He says and you don’t notice the term of endearment past rushing of blood in your ears.  

“I’m so sorry.” You gasp, jerking away. Sebastian quickly sits up, scrambling after you, and catching your shoulders.  

“Wait. Please.” He begs. 

 Your hands fly up to cover your face with a groan and he grasps them to pull them away so that he can clearly see your flushed face. The lighting is soft within the confines of the green velvet curtains, but he can see the colour high on your cheeks and how your chest heaves. You look absolutely mouthwatering as you bite your lip, finally raising your eyes to meet his.  

“I’m so, so sorry.” You repeat. Sebastian shakes his head.  

“I really don’t think you have anything to apologize for.” He says, hand going to your chin to tilt your face up towards his, heat blooming deep inside him as your eyes flick down to his lips then back up. Feeling bold, Sebastian lowers his lashes, and you mewl softly as his dark eyes rake over your face and he wets his lips.  

“What were you dreaming about this time love?” He asks, his voice husky. 

You shudder and move closer to him. You’re both knelt facing each other and you press yourself closer so that his right knee is almost between your legs.  

“I was dreaming about the wedding night again.” You whisper, unable to take your eyes off his.  

“I was on the bed wearing nothing but the lightest chemise and when I looked up-” You raise a hand to trail up with jaw and gently trace his lips. “When I look up, this time it's you that's standing above me.”  

Sebastian shivers and puts a hand on your wrist to hold your fingers to his lips. His next words you feel against the pads of your fingertips. 

“What was I doing?” He rasps.  

“You were staring at me. But you weren’t disgusted. You looked like you wanted, no, needed me.” Your breath stutters to a halt as he slowly sucks your fingers into his mouth, his tongue curling around your index finger.  

“Then what?” He asked around your digit.  

“Then you start touching me in places that I didn’t know felt so good.” Your hips nudged forward again and now his knee is pressed fully against your center. Sebastian releases your hand and places his hands on your waist and pulls you into his lap, grinding you down into his thigh. He leans forward and presses his lips against the shell of your ear.  

“Keep going.” He whispers roughly, rocking you, revelling in the damp spot that was forming on the fabric of his pants. For a moment you lose yourself in the sweet friction, head falling back with your lips parting. It was somehow better than anything you’d ever felt before.  

“What have you felt before?” Sebastian inquires and you jolt, unaware you had voiced your last thought. You meet his lust darkened eyes and he rubs sensual circles on your hip bones, then he slips his hands under your nightgown to caress the silky skin there. You just whine and he grips the skin almost painfully.  

“Answer me sweetness.” He commands softly and you shudder.  

“I’ve touched myself.” You stammer out. Sebastian raises a dark eyebrow. You can't help but grind your hips down on him, the feeling of your slick seeping through your drawers onto him is exhilarating and the scent of him is heavy in the air. He smells like fire and peppermint, and it clings to the fabric of the bed, you feel as if inhaling it alone could make you come.  

“Do you use your fingers?” He asks, almost innocently and you blush. But you can’t help but he honest with him, so you nod. In response he twitches against you, his hips jerking up to push his hard clothed length against where he’s pressed against you. 

“I-I use my fingers and sometimes my pillow.”  

He groans, his head falling forward to your shoulder. He then gently nips the skin there, making you shiver with desire.  

“Does it feel like this?” He asks huskily, rubbing his thigh into your cleft, at the same time shoving his hips forward to press his erection into you again. You shake your head and clutch his shoulder.  

“You’re much harder. More intense.” He laughs.  

“I would certainly hope so.”  

He bucks up against once more you to emphasize his point. The heat between your legs is becoming unbearable, your drawers too slick to get the friction you need, and you whimper. 

“S-Sebastian. Please I need...” You trail off, head falling back. Sebastian’s face comes up from the crook of your shoulder and he watches you intently.  

“What do you need my love.” He says, one hand coming up to caress your face; his thumb swiping over your lower lip.  

“Kiss me. Touch me. Anything. Please!” Your words sound needy even to your ears, but you can’t find it in you to care. 

Especially not when he dips his head down to press his lips against yours. You gasp against him, tangling your fingers into his sleep mussed brown hair. He pushes you back against the soft pillows and his scent wafts up to you even stronger than before.  

He breaks the kiss and you’re both breathing hard, but you can’t help but melt at the soft look in his hazel eyes. His hands begin to wander over your body, down your shoulders, squeezing your thighs and skimming up your ribs before stopping just below your breasts. His thumbs brush the swell just before your breasts begin and he searches your expression.  

“Can I?” He asks, sounding just as wrecked as you feel. You nod quickly and he wastes no time cupping your breasts fully. You arch as a wordless plea leaves your lips. You drop your hands to his shirt, pawing at the buttons. He allows you to pull the garment off him, only taking his hands off you for enough time that it takes to slip his shirt down his shoulders; not wanting to lose the feel of you for a second.  

You marvel at the taut muscles under your fingers, exploring first his shoulder then his chest. He has a constellation of freckles all over, and you marvel at the flush that stains his skin and make them stand out even darker. When your hands fall to the waistband of his pants though, he quickly grabs them.  

“Not yet.” He almost moans. “I won’t last.”  

He then, much to your displeasure, pulls back and slides down your body while looking up at you with a filthy expression. He bunches your nightgown around your waist and kisses your stomach just above the band of your drawers. You arch into him again and his hands come up to press your hips into the mattress.  

“Relax.” He purrs. “I want to make you feel good.”  

You can barely think at this point, your skin is on fire at the barest touch.  

“Please.” You beg. “More.”  

Despite your pleas he takes his time, gazing at the wet patch you’ve made with awe. Then he slowly leans forwards and kisses your clothed center. You keen at the sensation of his lips against you and you feel the huff of his laugh. He takes your hands and places them on top of his head and gazes up at you as he hooks his fingers into the waist of your drawers.  

“You’re in control here.” He promises as he pulls them down. “Tell me if you’re uncomfortable.” 

You nod even though you’re sure he’s not looking then almost scream as he licks you from your opening to your clit then back down. His groan reverberates through you and one of your hands fly where it's tangled in his hair to cover your mouth.  

He reaches up and tugs your hand back down, not stopping his ministrations for a moment. 

“Don’t hold back,” He gasps against your slick lips. “I want to hear you.” 

You shake your head frantically, pressing your lips tightly together.  

“They’ll hear.” You whisper, eyes darting to the curtains. Sebastian sharply sucks your clit into his lips before dipping his tongue back into your slick.  

“They’ve all left. It’s just the two of us.”  

With that you let your head fall back and stare up at the canopy above you as he slowly takes you apart. You feel his nimble fingers trail down your thighs and to your opening, gently prodding you open with his index finger. You buck against him and the hand still on your hip pushes you down again then he braces his forearm over your abdomen, pinning you down.  

His eyes don’t leave your face as he pumps his finger in time with his tongue, slowly adding another finger as he felt your channel loosen. You can feel the most intense orgasm of your life growing low in your belly and your thighs begin to tremble. His fingers continue to move, stroking your walls, as he lifts his head and nips at your inner thigh.  

“Let go.” He whispers and you raise your head to look at him. His lips glisten with your arousal and his tongue darts out to swipe it up, his eyes closing at the taste. When they open you swear, they’re glowing.  

“Look at me when you come” he says. “I want to see it.”  

You whine, canting your hips, fighting the urge to close your eyes. His eyes stay on yours as he lowers his mouth back to your clit, tongue swirling around it and fingers pressing against that spot you could never reach.  

Despite his holding you down you almost buck him off with the intensity of your orgasm. A ragged cry drags itself from your chest and your fingers tighten to an almost painful level in Sebastian’s hair. He groans against you, one arm dropping so he can palm his erection.  

Finally, you push him away as overstimulation makes you whimper. He pulls back looking like sin incarnate, licking your essence from his lips. He doesn’t let you breathe as he surges forward to capture your lips gain, his tongue swiping into your mouth messily. You can taste yourself on him and it stokes the fire within you as you gasp and you tongues tangle. Its messy with teeth and lips colliding but it’s the most amazing thing you’ve ever felt.  

Sebastian only pulls back to pull you nightgown over your head then he presses his lips back to yours. He finally lets you pull his pants down, freeing his now painfully hard cock. He hisses as your wrap your fingers around his length, and you pull away to and your eyes dart down to it. He doesn’t blush as you look at him with naked want, licking your lips. 

He's thick, so thick you can barely close your fingers around him. The head is red, and the rest is dark and veined, he feels like silk wrapped around steel. Curiously you stroke him up and down, fascinated with the way it twitches in your grasp. Suddenly he catches your hand, and your eyes jerk up to meet his 

“Not yet.” He says, leaning forwards and kissing you almost sweetly.  “I want to feel you.”  

The admission takes your breath away, as does the soft way he’s looking up at you from beneath hooded lids. You nod eagerly and he sweeps in to kiss you again before pulling back and gripping your thighs, gently parting and slotting himself between them. He turns so that his back is against the headboard and pulls you onto his lap straddling him. His cock is pressed against your lower stomach, smearing precum on your fevered skin. He takes a moment to get you settled, running his hands up your ribs and brushing against the puckered skin of your scar. You groan at the soothing feel of his hands against you. He then guides you so that the tip of him is pressed against your dripping opening, leaning forward to press his forehead against yours.  

“Go at your pace. You can stop at any time if it hurts.”  

You nod and take a shuddering breath. Then, with your hands on his shoulders you begin to slowly lower yourself. The unfamiliar feeling of the stretch has you sucking in a breath between your teeth, but you don’t stop. It's different, but not bad you decide.  

You don’t stop until you’re fully seated on him, eyes fluttering at the deep pleasure it invokes. Sebastian can barely hold back from thrusting into you as he watches you bite your lip, breasts heaving. Finally, you rock your hips forward and Sebastian feels his eyes roll into the back of his head. 

You moan, not bothering to hold back your noises anymore as your fingers dig into his shoulders. His hands were gripping your hips so hard he was sure he would leave bruises, but you don't care. He can't keep his eyes off you as you increased your pace, bouncing desperately up and down on his lap.  

Suddenly he leaned forward to press his lips into yours, swallowing the sweet noise you made. Even muffled, you adore the sounds Sebastian made. He was unrepentant in his need for you, growling and moaning right along with you. When he finally lets you breathe, he wraps his arms around your middle, pulling you to his chest and bucking up into your heat. This put his mouth right by your ear and he begins to whisper the filthiest things.  

“You feel so fucking good.” He gasps. “Wrapped so tightly around my cock. I’ve wanted you for so long, needed you in my bed. You’re mine, tell me you’re mine.”  

The last words came out as a ragged plea and you nodded vigorously.  

“I’m yours. Please, I’m yours.” Your voice is hoarse now. “I’m so close Sabastian please.” 

 You felt him smile against your skin as his pace increases. You are barely able to keep up at this point.  

Then he tips you back, bracing his arms so you won’t fall hard on your sensitive back, and increases his tempo. You’re practically sobbing at this point, thrashing your head back and forth against the soft covers. Sebastian’s adjusted his hips, and his pelvis was suddenly pressed right against your aching clit, and you barely have the breath to stutter out his name before you were soaring.  

Sebastian barely holds on as your walls clench around him, and a wash of warmth and wetness soak him. Pounding into you as you continue to flutter around him, Sebastian chases his own release. It only takes a few frantic thrusts before he is burying his head in your neck and he bites down, suckling the tender skin there as he exploded within you.  

The heat of his bite and the warmth that flooded you trigger another orgasm, and you see stars, legs wrapping around his waist and pulling him as close as possible.  

As you both come down, Sebastian lazily thrusts his semi-hard cock within you, basking in the afterglow. After a few shuddering breaths he finally slips out of you and lays next to you, limbs shaking slightly. You tuck yourself against him again, hands slowly exploring his sweat slick body. Your heart feels so full, and you find yourself blinking back tears. At your sniffle Sebastian pulls back and cups your face to tilt it up to him.  

“Did I hurt you?” He asks anxiously. You shake your head and lean up to kiss him sweetly on the lips.  

“I love you.” You whisper, eyes scanning his face for any reaction.  

A grin immediately split his freckled face and he pulls you against his lips. Then he pulls back and kisses your nose, forehead, eyelids and even chin. You giggle helplessly as he settles back on your lips before pulling back and looking at you with adoring hazel eyes.  

“I love you too.” He says. “So much it hurts. Please will you be mine?”  

He intertwines his fingers with yours, still not taking has eyes off yours. You squeeze his hand.  

“I’m already yours. I always have been.”  

Somehow he grins even wider.  

“Would you like to go to Hogsmeade today? Make it official?”  

You roll your eyes. Then you push your face into his bare chest, ignoring the twitch you feel from his lower half.  

“After I wake up.” You say, voice muffled by warm skin. He laughs his infectious laugh, and you find yourself smiling in turn. 

[himasgod]

Layla x Reader

Where you become the most bright star in her sky

Where you and Layla study together at the Akademiya, one day you became worried about her. Since that day, you have the habit of going to see the stars together. On one particular night, you follow her in her sleepwalking to a garden, where she tells you her fears. Where she tells you that she is afraid of forgetting your story, the story of your stars.

(Okay, I loved writing this and it took me way longer than usual. It was worth it. It's been another one of my favorite works that I've written here, even though it doesn't get many reviews because it's a female character, I don't mind. Happy bday, Layla, this one shot is dedicated to you <3)

The sky of Sumeru was immense, as vast and full of secrets as Layla’s mind. The stars seemed to speak to her in a way that no one else could understand, and yet there she was, trapped between endless scrolls and the invisible weight of expectations.

You met her by chance, on one of those nights when the warm desert wind carries with it the sand and the most restless thoughts. Layla was sitting on a bench in the Academiya garden, her small body hunched over a scroll of parchment, her fingers stained with ink and her lips barely moving, murmuring numbers and formulas. She was the image of exhaustion. And without knowing why, you stopped.

“Do you need help?” you asked softly.

She raised her head, surprised. Her eyes, tired and dark, looked at you as if you were a star fallen from the sky.

“Oh, no… I’m fine. Really,” she answered hastily, but the tremor in her voice said otherwise.

Since then, something between the two of you changed. You began to accompany her on long nights, sitting beside her as she wrote, corrected, and sighed in frustration. You couldn’t do much for her studies, but you could offer your presence. Sometimes, you brought her hot tea, other times, you just stared at the sky with her, pointing out constellations you could never remember.

“That one there… it looks like a bird,” you said once, pointing to a grouping of stars.

Layla put down the scroll and followed your finger with her gaze, a small smile appearing on her lips.

“It’s the Luscinia constellation. But… yes, now that you mention it, it does look like a bird.”

“You see, not everything has to be so complicated.”

She laughed softly, a sound that felt like a caress on your chest.

Restless nights were something you soon discovered was a part of Layla.

Students of the Akademiya, by their mere admission into it, had the privilege of living in a students residence just a few meters from the Akademiya. Because you and Layla were in the same year, the doors to your rooms were facing each other.

Often, you woke up to the sound of soft footsteps outside your door. At first, you thought it was the wind or an early-rising student, but one night you saw her: Layla, walking barefoot through the gardens, her gaze lost and her lips moving in incomprehensible murmurs. She was sleepwalking.

You approached carefully, afraid of waking her.

“Layla…” you whispered.

But she didn’t answer. Her eyes, open and glassy, ​​looked up at the sky, and in the dim light, you could hear her say:

“The stars… are fading away. Why can’t I stop it?”

Those words made your skin crawl.

Gently, you took her by the arm and led her back to her room.

Layla never remembered those nights, and at first you didn’t want to say anything to her. But the more time passed, the more frequent it became. The night walks, the strange words, and that invisible weight that seemed to crush her more and more.

One night, you decided to follow her further away. Layla crossed the Academiya boundaries, barefoot and with her nightgown fluttering in the wind. You followed her in silence, until she reached a lonely hill where the sky seemed even more vast and bright.

Layla raised a hand to the sky, as if trying to catch the stars with her fingers.

“Every star tells a story…” she whispered. “But… what happens when the story is forgotten?”

Her voice was so soft that you could barely hear her. You approached slowly.

“What story are you talking about, Layla?” you asked, trying to wake her up with your voice.

For the first time, she seemed to react. She turned her head towards you, her eyes still lost, but her expression seemed full of sadness.

“Mine… and yours.”

The next morning, Layla looked for you. She looked different, nervous, with a crumpled scroll in her hands.

“Last night… I dreamed about you,” she confessed quietly, not looking directly at you. “And about the stars. I think I’ve been running away from this for a long time.”

“What are you talking about?” you asked softly, trying not to scare her.

Layla took a deep breath, clutching the scroll to her chest.

“About depending on someone else. I’ve always thought that if I don’t do everything myself, if I don’t try hard enough, then… I’m not enough. But every time I lose myself… you’re there.”

Her voice trembled at the end, and your eyes softened. You understood her more than she imagined.

“I’ll always be here, Layla. What story are you talking about, what are you dreaming about? Tell me, I want to know everything. Maybe we can write it together”

She lifted her head, surprised by your words. Her cheeks tinted a soft pink, and for an instant, her shoulders seemed to relax. Layla smiled, a small, shy smile, but as beautiful as a rising star.

"So… will you help me write my story?"

You took a step closer, your gaze firmly on hers.

"Always."

Since that night, something in Layla changed. Her sleepwalks became less frequent, and although she was still the same hard-working student full of doubts, she now sought you out when she felt the weight was too much. Together, you spent the nights under the starry sky, tracing invisible constellations and naming them in honor of shared memories.

“Do you see that star, Layla?” you asked one night, pointing to a particularly bright star. “It shines brighter than all the others.”

Layla tilted her head, following your gaze.

“Which one?”

You turned to her, smiling.

“The one in your eyes.”

Layla laughed, her laugh soft and light as the wind, and in that moment, you knew that her story—your story—would never be lost. Because, without realizing it, you had become the brightest star in her sky.

And she, yours.

Here is my masterlist, in case you are interested in any more of my work or want to send me a request <3