#he’s so pathetic and sad and tortured in this

[befuddled-calico-whump]

“I warned you what i’d do if you tried anything, remember? Say it.”

“You.. You said you’d break my arm.” 

from Ribbons by @sunshiline-writes !

definitely go check out this piece, it's especially brutal to Hunter, and i love that for him 🥰🥰

[whumpitisthen]

Blasphemy

Previous I Masterlist I Next

7.4k words....... my brain is mush but i wanted to finish this so badly so here it is!! i need to stop looking at it, you look at it now i dont want it >:( CWs: blood, referenced torture, broken bones, unconsciousness, self-esteem issues, crying, begging, self-sacrifice, bleeding out, religious themes, angel whumpee, nonhuman whumpee, multiple whumpees, nonhuman/vampire/deity whumper, bad caretaker, carewhumper, slavery mention, death, psychological whump, emotional whump, power dynamics, Grim's inability to be normal about his little guys, Auden's inability to be normal about anything, nudity (nonsexual)

Don't panic. Don't panic. Don't panic.

Of course he panicked.

How could he not? He just watched someone slowly bleed out in front of him, now lying in a pool of their own blood on the floor, motionless and gone, — and right before they pass out, all they ask of him is not to panic? What kind of request is that!

He told them to stop, he told them to take a break; why would they not listen? He doesn't need to be a healer to know that blood needs to stay inside a body, mortal or not. Blood means pain, blood means danger, blood means something is wrong. Blood covers every single inch of the floor.

Are they dead? He doesn't know, he doesn't know! They stopped moving, they fell to the ground like a corpse. They look dead, with the darkness under their eyes, and the sickly cold paleness that took hold of their skin. He should know, should be able to tell, he's an angel, how could he not know if a mortal is dead or not?

He has never needed to know. Healing is not a Guardian’s job, it's the sign of a Guardian’s failure. A Guardian protects, a Guardian shields, a Guardian prevents hurt before it could even occur. If their Dependant needs healing, that means they have failed in their duty.

He cannot have let this happen to them. He cannot have failed again. He cannot have failed them again.

All he knows to do is what feels right. The way he scrambles out of the bathtub is akin to a wild thing. He slips onto his knees, cradling Mori's unconscious body, barely feeling the wet tiles under his bony limbs. He holds them close, calling to them, shaking them gently.

They are cold, but mortals are only cold when their bodies die. He looks around frantically. A towel of some sort, large, folded neatly on a dresser near him. He leans over to tear the one he can reach out of the tower, not caring about all the rest falling to the floor after it. He drapes it over the both of them, hoping to achieve some sort of tent to trap the heat under.

Mori doesn't stir. No matter how much he warms them, no matter how many times he calls their name, no matter how much he begs them to remain alive; they show no aspiration to live. He grabs another towel and wraps it around their head, trying to stall the bleeding of their broken antler. That must be key; blood is finite, he has to stop it.

He isn't sure if mortals feel pain in their sleep, so he works carefully around the wound, putting far too little pressure onto it to cease the flow. The towel just keeps languidly swallowing up their blood, but it has to help, it must be better than nothing. Maybe if he holds them closer, if he cleans off all the crimson from their face. He wipes away the curtain of blood from their forehead and eye. He fixes their hair — it was a little dishevelled, but they kept it out of their eyes, carding through it habitually any time they got nervous.

There, they look a little better. That must have helped.

It has to help.

Please, please help.

They aren't moving. He holds them a little closer, shakes them, pleads with them. No response. The tent of towels and black wings aren't warming them at all. The blood still oozes.

He doesn't know what to do; he doesn't know how to help!

They need help.

He shouldn't…

‘They will die if you don't, and it will be all your fault.’

The only healer he knows of here is the Doctor, but he doesn't know how to contact it. He has seen absolutely nobody else in this silent mansion of endless corridors, and he fears leaving Mori's side for even a moment to go look. He wants to help them, but he needs help to do that.

So, in his weeping desperation, he calls to the one person he knows will answer.

Tears of worry pooling in his eyes, scared and helpless like a child, he wails for the Reaper.

Mori told him not to yell when they first met. He hadn't understood yet just how dangerous it could be to draw attention to himself. He was scared, just as scared as he is now, and now here he is, yelling again, listening to his own voice echo back at him, waiting for Death to arrive. This time, he makes noise on purpose, with purpose, and that only scares him more, because then if things go wrong, it won't be an accident anymore. He chose to do this all on his own.

He needs to, he has to. The Reaper has to understand. Mori will understand.

Even if they don't, at least they will still be alive to be angry at him for it.

The Reaper isn't here yet, and Auden tries his best to be patient. He counts the seconds, managing to make it past sixty, up till seventy. At around seventy-two he touches the towel wrapped around Mori's antler. It's heavy with blood.

He decides to try calling again.

It takes him another minute to psych himself up to raise his voice again and scream, his lungs filled with a convoluted mess of desperation to save Mori no matter the cost. The knowledge that he is demanding a deity to hurry up and answer him — his Lord would have erased him just for thinking he was entitled to His time.

But the Reaper isn't his Lord. Calling him a deity feels like sacrilege in itself, but Auden doesn't know what else to refer to him as. Anything lower seems unfitting, but he will absolutely not for even a moment think them coequal in status, power, or any other metric. He is powerful, and terrifying, and vicious and cruel, a force, necessary, but the angel only sees a twisted sanctuary every time he thinks of him. He is all those terrible things, and he saved him. He has to save Mori.

Auden fidgets under Mori. He rustles his wings. Tries to swallow the growing lump in his throat. The quiet fills with the gentle sound of rain droplets landing against the windows. Three large windows, with a double cross of thin black iron running up it to end in a pointed top elegantly. Should he open the window, let in some fresh air? No, it must be cold outside, Mori would get even colder. He holds them a little closer.

Where is he? Last time it barely took a minute for the Reaper to show up, popping up out of thin air like he never even left. It has to have been at least ten minutes, maybe twenty. An hour. A long time. He keeps having to reorder his black-blue legs under him, going numb on his knees with the extra weight.

He shudders out a breath that sounds suspiciously close to a sob, getting dizzy with how much he cranes his head from wall to wall, hoping to catch his black-cloaked saviour leaning up against it. Why is the Reaper not showing? He has to be coming. He looks down at Mori, sniffling. Whines pull at the corners of his lips, wobbling his chin.

Auden yells again, as loud as he can. The end of his cry wanes off into a miserable sound, muffled into Mori's hair.

Maybe he misunderstood. Maybe it wasn't the noise that had caught the Reaper's attention before. Maybe he is just so far away that he cannot hear. Maybe he heard and he doesn't care. Maybe he isn't coming at all. Lord, he isn't coming at all, is he?

Auden is all on his own, and Mori will die, or they are already dead, because Auden is a useless, winged fraud. Just a weak, pathetic nobody, getting people hurt and making fake promises. Mori died because of him. They died because he couldn't do as he was told.

“I am sorry. I am so, so sorry, Mori, I'm sorry,” — he blubbers through his tears. If he wasn't holding them as he does, he would draw blood with how deep he wants to dig his overgrown nails into his palm.

He wonders if Mori's soul can feel the force of his sobs through his chest. If it can hear his pitiful apologies. His ridiculous weeping.

He is so preoccupied with his self-loathing that he fails to notice the change. The candles giving a gentle, warm light flicker with an inexplicable gust of wind. The air cools and thickens with dread, filling his throat with a wicked black fog. The feeling of being watched is ignored. The suffocating terror starting up inside him is not much different than his grief. Past the curtain of his half-washed hair, a pair of heavy boots appear. A cloak of darkness. The smell of rot follows.

Then, a dark, haunting voice.

“Peril finds you good company, doesn't she?”

Auden jerks at the Reaper's insincere lamentation, his gasp loud in the otherwise silent room. His crying quiets immediately, frozen in his throat. He can't decide if he should be relieved or even more scared upon finding the Grim Reaper had heard him. He brought with him his deadly scythe and cloak of shadows. Auden cannot see under the canine skull, and it makes him nervous that he doesn't know what kind of expression it hides. Was that a tone of disappointment or indifference? Boredom? What if he is angry? Angry at him for yelling, for not doing as he said, for letting Mori die; oh, he must be angry…

His mouth opens and closes, suddenly dry of all sound. His eyes switch wildly between the deity and his maybe-dead companion, eventually filling with new tears and looking up pleadingly at his saviour, hoping for a little more mercy. — “I-I’m sorry, I yelled, I sh-shouldn’t, I know, but I-I-I didn't, I didn't know what else to do ah-and — Help, please help them, please help, I-I do not, I do not kn — I am not a healer, please don't let them die like this, I beg you, I beg you…”

The plea is soft, a quiet prayer. He is begging earnestly, deeply and perplexingly distraught at the misfortune of someone he hasn't even known for a day. His grief is raw and true. Kneeling in a pool of blood like this, weeping unendingly, painting the fawn with his sorrow, holding onto the tortured soul in his arms like they are the most precious treasure he has ever known — Grim finds it all such a pleasant surprise to come back to. Far more interesting than whatever the Hell those mortals were bumbling on about at the parley.

He expected Mori to have passed out, naturally; that part doesn't surprise him. But the angel… oh, this angel is surpassing all of his expectations. He is terrified for them, holding their unconscious body as if they will disappear if he lets go. And this beautiful red sheen across the floor, wall to wall; the overwhelming flavor of Mori's blood dancing in the air…

His footfalls remain measured as he approaches the two. He considers them silently, letting the pause eat at the angel, making up his mind on where to go from here. Finally, he sighs.

“The irony of calling me of all people here to save your friend cannot be lost on you,” — the Reaper says as he removes his mask, casually untensing every muscle that was primed to roll heads upon arriving at the angel’s desperate call, — “whatever made you think I would help them? Do you know me to be so merciful?”

The angel seems a little crestfallen at that, a little confused. Can't the Reaper see the person dying in his arms? Why would he not help? He has to help! — “Th — Mori, did — They need help…”

“Do they deserve help?”

“Yes!” — the Fallen cries, manic in his own uselessness, — “they, they did it right. They said you, you told them to help me, and they did, they kept going until they fell, even though I told them not to, and, a-and now you won't help them?”

Death tilts his head at him, brows raised and eyes laying him bare. A look of faux-confusion, like Auden is not making any sense, as well as something a little dangerous underneath peeking through at Auden's last words. — “They did not do it right. They have failed.” — He gestures at their unconscious body, still slowly oozing blood onto the floor, a puddle having been made to halo their head. — “I asked them to feed you, bathe you and get you ready for your new master. You are soaking wet and naked, distressed, kneeling in filth on the floor. Nowhere near ready. They have failed in their task.”

He isn't angry with them; there is no fury in his voice. He is stating this like it's a fact that they deserve to die for not meeting his impossible standards. The chilling conviction in him stalls the angel’s breath.

‘Convince him. Try to convince your saviour that he is wrong. Beg for his favour. He is testing your faith.’

His bare shoulders jerk, the sudden weight of the persistent voice landing on them like a pair of heavy hands, guiding him further into desperation. Grim narrows his eyes.

Any other angel would have taken the straight refusal of help and backed down, bowing their head and apologising for asking for something so untoward. Angels do not argue. They do not plead; they pray and hope, and if their wishes aren't granted, then it is the will of God, and so there must be good reason for it. It's part of their culture, something that most of them do not even notice about themselves as strange or naïve. It's just how they operate in Heaven, and only once removed from their palace of ignorance do they start understanding all the intricate little ways in which they are taught to obey and never question much of anything.

Auden never found this particular skill to be so self-evident or natural to weave. Even if he did, his Guardian nature will not allow him to let go so easily when Mori could very well die in his arms any moment, and it's on him to try to plead with the Reaper to save them. —“Please. They do not deserve this. It, it isn't fair.”

The Reaper smiles. It's an empty smile that doesn't reach past his lips. — “Is that so?” — Pretending to be in deep thought, Grim hums, then leans down as if to whisper to the angel about something forbidden, the blade of his heavy scythe floating above him like a crescent moon as his hands move to cross at the small of his back. — “Is it fair, up there?”

The angel pauses, swallowing. — “Whu — What?”

“Was it fair when they deemed you a sinner? When you were cast out? When you landed; burnt, bruised, defenceless on the earth as a mortal? Was it fair?”

His eyes widen. Auden remembers when it all fell apart. He remembers vividly every pair of eyes that turned hateful, the friends he lost, the time he spent praying, begging for another chance. He thought he was invincible back then. He thought that as an angel, a Guardian, no matter how weak or clumsy he was, as long as he kept his faith close, there would be nothing more he could want. He worried about such insignificant things, spending days with worry etched between his brows because of an off-handed comment someone more capable than him made, trying so pathetically to prove himself to people who couldn't care less about him.

He was trying so desperately to fit in, while failing to follow the most simple of instructions given to him by his Seraph.

He thought he knew better. When he was told his human no longer deserved protection, he thought there must have been a mistake. When he kept watching over them despite clear orders, he thought he was doing the right thing. When his human got into trouble, real trouble, and he had to help, he had to, but there was no way to do it lawfully, not without breaking the most unbreakable of rules; — when he locked eyes with his human for the first time like he always dreamed he could, when he saw recognition in theirs… He was arrogant, selfish, unfit to be a holy servant. He was told as much when his sins were tallied by the cold voice of the Council during the ceremony of his banishment.

He wonders if he could visit his human sometime now that he is stuck here. He hopes they are safe. He hopes they don't remember him at all, but he wonders sometimes, — if they do remember him, do they think of him often?

Maybe he shouldn't visit them anyway. He would much rather they keep the image of who he was back then instead of who he is now.

“It w-was…” — His head droops. He tries to consider the Reaper's question, but the more he thinks about it, the more it confuses him. He huffs frustratedly. It should be the easiest answer to give. His Lord is fair and just. Every angel lives by strict rules, orders, responsibilities. His punishment was fair. He takes it to be another failing of his own; just how much it hurts to believe this. — “…It doesn't matter if, if it was. Mori doesn't deserve this.”

‘Your crime was not sin. It, too, was inadequacy. Failure. You were not malicious. You were weak.’

He may have been weak, but Mori isn't. They are stronger than he ever was.

‘They failed their Master like you failed yours.’

That's different, the Lord is not Auden's master — Mori wasn't made to obey —

‘Were they not? They told you what they are. A slave from birth. Made to serve.’

“Mori doesn't deserve any of this, they, they — “

‘They are hellspawn. They deserve everything they are given.’

“They don't! — he nearly shouts, overwhelmed and manic with grief, trying to drain out the malevolent voice inside his head. — “They did everything as well as they possibly could, they made no mistakes, they were kind and brave and helpful and they for-forgave me, even after, after I messed up, over and over again! Just, if,“ — his voice breaks in preparation for what he is about to ask for, — “if they deserve punishment, let me take it! If they failed, it was because of me, and I will, I will take it, no matter what it is. I won't let them — please don't punish them for my mistakes.”

The Reaper's expression hardly changes in reaction to Auden's outburst. The angel's choppy babbling doesn't really phase him, though the corner of Grim's mouth catches on that almost threat; — ‘I won't let them.’ As if the angel had any power over what happens next. The thought is amusing.

It's hilarious how little he knows of pain. He would not be so eager to take it otherwise.

Grim's polite smile quickly vanishes, eyes narrowed to slits. Leaning back in a slow, assertive manner, he straightens his spine to stand tall once more, looking down upon Auden like a judge. His head is haloed by the light of the chandelier behind him, casting an intimidating shadow over the both of them. — “I am not deaf, angel. If I wished to hear your shrill screeching, believe me, I would have plenty of ways to drag it out of you.”

The angel's mouth snaps shut instantly. This sudden change in the deity's tone freezes him to his core. The way he fights himself to speak so he may apologise reminds Grim of a fish out of water, mouth agape and gasping. — “I-I didn't… I am sorry, I didn't realise I was —”

“No, you did not. Perception eludes you like oil does water.”

It's that little righteous incredulity that crawls its way into his tone. That disappointment, but a lack of expectation to begin with, that sears Auden's heart like venom. It's a familiar pain, and so he does what he has learned to do all those other times he felt this same shame — he bows his head and remains silent, letting the self-loathing eat up any stray thoughts that could distract him from his shame.

Truthfully, Grim is not so angry. Maybe a little, — after all, this is the second time he has come to the angel's rescue, only to find him perfectly fine — but it does irk him, this… shadow, behind every word he says. Something bothers him, clearly. Whatever it is, it muffles his true thoughts, distracts him, diverts his attention; and well, Grim has never been very good at sharing with others. He wants to rip open that silly skull and pick at his brain until he finds what he is looking for.

The angel shivers under his gaze. In allowing Auden a moment to steep in his misery, he also allows for the mouthwatering aroma of Mori's spillt blood to overwhelm his focus. With the crimson smeared so thoroughly in this small room, the smell of it is near impossible to ignore. In the angel's arms, Mori is angled just so, their veins supplying drop after drop of crimson for the floor to collect. The sound of wasted nectar could drive him mad. This lovely scene coupled with the angel's pleasant vanilla-scent, and his beautiful sorrow on display is a perfect cocktail mix for all his senses to drink up.

He inhales deeply. Eternal hunger is a hell of a curse.

Eventually, the angel's sobs quieten. Softness carries Death's next words; — “Were you scared for them?”

Auden nods, sniffling sadly. His only friend, perhaps already dead. It devastates him. He loosens his hold on Mori, breaking under the voice telling him over and over that he is holding onto a corpse.

“You have grown so close to them already… a foolish mistake, but you couldn't have known. You know so little.”

A backhandedly sympathetic assurance that only serves to drive the edge of that searing shame deeper into his chest. The tent he holds sinks as his wings do, pooling the towel around himself and uncovering Mori's cold body. They look so small and defenceless. A sea of scars, old and new. Deep bruises that will never have the chance to heal. Tired eyes that will never open. A shattered wrist and a snapped antler, his own contributions to the collage of their suffering.

He is truly the most pathetic being in all of existence.

In the soft candlelight, Grim watches him unravel with great excitement. Though he says nothing, his lips curl and his eyes light up in amusement. This Fallen is a funny one. A large golden heart hidden beneath the thinnest layers of skin and bone. Naïve. Easy to mold, to trick, to scar. Passionate, even now, during a time most would consider too unbearable to be worth holding on for. And the taste of his sorrow; the sweetness of his tears… Such a darling little lamb.

Though the sound of footfalls were not silent, Auden still flinches from the silver claws entering his vision. Dropped to a crouch, Grim had sat aside his scythe and attempted to lower himself to the angel's level, now reaching for Mori.

Numbly, Auden watches those clawed fingers sink beneath the sticky brown locks of the unconscious servant. They massage tenderly, avoiding cutting into the skin underneath. The closeness has Auden’s skin inadvertently crawling, his already cold flesh chilled even deeper from such proximity to Death. Like this, he finds himself paying that much closer attention to every little detail about his saviour.

The Reaper's skin is truly pale, its hue only surpassed by his snow-white hair. Auden's gaze catches on the small dot right under his left eye — do beings like him have such flaws? Mortals have plenty, birthmarks and such, but Auden has never imagined deities could have such mundane imperfections. His left arm is where the void-black markings on his skin begin — downright monstrous with sickening veins popping out of wicked muscles, fully corrupted by the darkness, a gauntlet of silver claws enunciating its role being a weapon of slaughter. From the tips of the fingers, to the wrist, shoulder, then presumably up the chest and crawling all the way up under his chin, drawing confusing, intricate shapes that remind Auden of an all-consuming hellfire.

The hand carding through Mori's hair is jewelled as opposed to armoured, the markings there more… unnatural. Man-made would be a better term to use. They remind Auden of some of the painted pages of his codices in their pattern, as opposed to the fuller, consuming, almost infectious spread running up his neck. Parallel lines, symbols, some sort of language. They run along each finger, disappearing under shining metal rings, ending in sharp black nails. Auden never noticed before, just how marred the flesh under those rings are. It's like they were welded into him. Deep, sickening scarring that is red around the edges under each iron band.

He wonders just how much influence Hell’s infection has had on the Reaper. As far as he is aware, Death has been a neutral, non-conforming being since the beginning of time. Because his job requires him to be a bridge not only between Heaven and Earth, but Hell and Earth as well, and because of his independent nature, angels have grown further and further from conversing with him, and Auden has only really been taught that the Grim Reaper is a necessary evil, and that it's not his place to be inquiring about things that do not pertain to him. But he has to imagine, with how much of Earth has been swallowed up by demonkind, the balance of things changing must have had some sort of effect on him.

His brain feels like there are a thousand ants crawling all over it. His train of thought halts upon contact with those iron claws, holding his chin to direct his wide eyes toward the Reaper's. The claws are sharp, an ornately carved glove of icy blades. His breath halts completely, and the Reaper grins.

“You are fond of them,” — the Reaper states, jerking Auden's head to lead his gaze back to himself when he tries looking away, — “did you get to know each other well?”

Auden finds it hard to care, right now. Even through his fear-indebtedness-adoration for the deity and Death's cursed aura snuffing out any breath of disobedience with a chilling sense of terror, he just cannot bring himself to respond. His eyes are red and empty and tired, similar to Mori's — their gaze is always alert, fearful, but tired, missing their spark. They hold no flame in them anymore; that is, if they ever did. A wilted rose.

He cannot nod, but the fresh tears and a lovely shudder are enough of a response either way.

Grim tuts sympathetically, feeling a great urge to kiss away those beautiful tears. While it is a mere fact that angels are not exactly made to deal with loss, this one is young and so very tenderhearted. It very nearly breaks his heart to watch the darling dove shatter like this.

It is the angel's most endearing quality; how strongly he feels. It's like all rational thought escapes him as soon as his heart fires up. When he is frustrated or sees some sort of injustice, he forgets himself, and becomes foolishly unafraid. When he is sad, he cannot bear to exist at all, shutting down completely. And Grim does not doubt for a moment that he becomes the most bouncy, passionate, energetic critter when he is happy. It almost makes him curious to see just how much joy can fit into this broken-winged-broken-hearted darling. It clearly doesn't matter who witnesses, if the little thing behaves like this even in front of him, someone he is well and truly afraid of.

“Do not weep,” — he settles on, the soothing murmur coupled with a kind expression, — “It will be okay. It will all be okay. I will make sure of it.”

It isn't a lie, depending on a given day. Somedays, okay means content and safe. On others, it will mean just enough mercy to keep his lungs working so he may live. However, it doesn't matter what it means to the angel. Right now, what he hears is what he needs — supporting words, kind words, caring words. He could forget about the blades at his throat for those, like he has already forgotten the godly being comforting him is the same one that wounded his friend so deep and cruel, then forced them to work themself bloodless and unconscious.

A tear slides down his claw, glimmering tantalisingly as it rolls down like a pearl of glass. It's so perfectly silent. His pointed ears twitch at the sound of the drop splattering on the floor.

He cannot resist lifting a hand soaked in Mori's blood to wipe away the rivulets of sweet sorrow from the angel's red cheeks. Hopefully his tears blind him to the condescending expression on the Reaper's face. — “There there. Come, let me help.”

Wiping, petting, caressing, pinching, ruffling, — his hands do not leave him until Auden starts reacting, once he realises he is being teased, weakly pulling back from all the unwanted, giggling attention. It should really not surprise him at all that Death would find the passing of a mortal so uninteresting, but his stomach still flips at just how unbothered he acts. Mori spoke so reverently of him…

With one last pull on his still slippery hair — the conditioner was never rinsed out, it seems, though the strong yet pleasant smell coming off him in waves should have been a dead giveaway — Grim rescinds. Gently, he takes hold of Auden's wrists, pressing his thumbs flush against his pulse there and massaging. He feels so wonderful. — “Let go of them, angel.”

Belatedly, Auden draws back from Mori's body, letting the Reaper cradle them instead. In the tall deity's arms, they look even smaller. As he stands, Auden finds himself reaching after them, watching Mori's legs swing in the air limply, their body held in a bridal carry. The unshakeable urge to protect eats at him relentlessly. He feels like a dog growling at passerby above its owner's corpse.

“Whe-Where are you take-ing them?” — Auden croaks tiredly, cursed with the after-cry hiccups.

The towel the angel had wrapped around Mori's head falls to the ground with a wet splat. The stump where their antler used to be is still weeping, though much slower, demanding attention from the vampyric deity. He may have gone a little overboard with that one, he ponders, humming himself; —  but really, it's his little fawn’s fault for making the most adorable sounds when he threatened to rip the antler off by grabbing onto it and slowly twisting their head by it. Their ears pulled back, their eyes turned as large as dinner plates, and they trembled, so small, so sweet against the floor, pinned and vulnerable, squirming under their master to escape, but too scared to actually try. They do so well with threats, so proficient in begging for mercy, so perfect soaked in terror.

There is no wolf that could hold its jaw slack around the throat of its prey once its fangs have drawn blood. It is fun for a while; the squirming, the whining, the pleading and crying; — but it is only a matter of time until those jaws slam down and shatter the vermin's spine.

Gently, with so much care, he presses his lips onto the wound, kissing it closed. His fawn’s delectable blood could send him into a frenzy on the best of days, but unfortunately, they might really not survive if he doesn't concentrate, so he makes sure not to lose himself in his violent thirst.

Miraculously, the bleeding stops. Grim purrs, perfectly content as he licks his teeth clean of the divine crimson.

Auden is… mortified. What did Death just do? Does he do that often? It looked like he enjoyed it, and the very thought of taking pleasure in the taste of someone's blood — someone who is dying of a lack of it! — sends a horrid shiver down Auden's spine. Perhaps it's some sort of ritual, for the Reaper to drink the blood of the deceased? That sounds like some sort of demonic ceremony. He called Mori a demon, before… He can't really make up his mind about this, so he just stares at the deity like an idiot, a somewhat questioning-disgusted look on his face.

Auden is so stunned that Grim cannot help the laugh that bubbles out of him. Those big wet eyes are so perplexed at what they were just witness to; he is reminded of a baby seal. — “What is it? You look positively aghast.”

The big grin on his face is tainted with smudges of red. Auden opens his mouth, but he ends up closing it anyway. He blinks, shakes his head. It's nothing, he signals.

To that, there is no response. A moment stretches between the two, listening to the sounds of rain and Auden's hand rubbing at his face. There is blood under his nails.

“Well, to answer your question, since you won't answer mine — I am helping them,” — he states, bouncing them carefully to get a better grip on their body, — “is that not what you wanted? Would you prefer me to leave them here to rot?”

Auden shakes his head vehemently, though his eyes water and his face falls again at the confirmation of his perceived situation. He is going to dispose of the body. — “No, no, I do not want that, I am sorry, I’m, I-I just…”

Grim can see his throat closing up from where he stands. The angel’s sobs are choking him, barely letting him speak. What comes out is a fragile, quivering breath. — “Could… Could you please tell them that, h-how, that, that I am sorry? I, I am sorry that I could not save them? Please. A-And that I nev-ver, ever meant to hurt them? I-I, need them to know this, please…”

Oh, now that is just precious. He is so scared they won't forgive him. It warms Grim’s heart. — “So I am your messenger pigeon now, am I?”

Auden could never live with the thought that Mori died because of him and that they never even heard him apologise. The crushing guilt he feels will kill him if the last thing Mori was allowed to do was clean his body of filth, a slave from birth ‘till death, as they bled out, and Auden could never let them know how much more he thought of them, how in the short time he spent with them, they have entirely changed how he sees the world. Auden wanted to ask them so many things, he wanted to hear them talk and see them smile and help them and protect them, and he cannot keep living if they will never even know how much they meant to him.

It was only a few hours at best. Half of it was spent in terror, pain and confusion. But, Auden cannot help it; — when he sees an innocent, good soul suffer, he would give up everything he can to preserve their life. If Mori deserved half of what was done to them, then Auden deserves a hundred times worse. It's no wonder in his mind that he feels so strongly for them, even after such a short time; to him his duty is clear as day. That must be why he hurts so much, watching Death take them like he would any other perished mortal.

He sounds like he's demanding again, and he is starting to feel like that might be true. His thoughts vacillate. He goes quiet for a moment.

He's already kneeling. What else does he have to lose?

“Angel…” — the Reaper gasps, scandalised by what he sees.

The boy just keeps on thinking of new, outrageous ways to surprise him. He is bowing in front of him, putting his hands together in humble prayer. At his feet, showing obedience and loyalty, he supplicates to someone other than his Lord. He breaks another rule, disobeys another law, because what does it matter to follow divine law when he will never get to gaze upon his Heaven or be grazed by God's holy light again? What does anything matter, all that he does and thinks and finds right, in this upside down world of torment and perdition? Why was he even created, allowed to live, if he cannot even fulfill the one purpose he was made for? He is a failure, through and through, if he truly would rather hold onto dignity and loyalty to something he will never have the opportunity to be part of again — if he ever was — over what truly matters.

The Fallen closes his eyes, hiding from his own act of sacrilege. Behind his eyelids, he sees Mori, scared and alone, stuck inside their body, in darkness, feeling only the frigid touch of Death nearby. The image provides inspiration to continue what he began. — “I ask you, Grim Reaper, you who governs death, who ferries mortal souls to the beyond, to hear me. I need you as much as I fear you, but more than myself, I fear for the blameless soul in your arms, and ask… beg, that you find it in your endless might to allow my message to be heard, before they leave here and never return.”

This is prayer. He is praying to him. The angel has thrown away everything this very moment, broken down and empty, and prays as he would have — should have — done for no one else but his Lord. The rule, one that cannot be broken, of faith above all else, of belief and reverence and worship for nobody but their one true God, a law engraved so deeply into every angel's soul that even after death they cannot help floating towards light, no matter how far they have fallen; — he would betray his divine nature so easily; for a slave of Hell. For a single, inconceivably small speck of dust he barely knows. Absolutely astounding.

He wouldn't dream of cutting short this beautiful show of veneration. He waits patiently until the angel convinces himself to spit out the Amen, sealing the prayer as is customary, and waits longer still to see if he will say anything more. Temptation drives him to keep waiting until the Fallen crawls forward to kiss his feet or start making other desperate offerings of submission in the hopes that he grants his wish. Alas, time is not infinite.

“I think I may have a supposition about what the reason you were cast out may be,” — he crools belatedly,  — “I have to ask, angel; — are you mad?”

He must be, Auden is certain. He hears voices that aren't his own, he cannot understand things that are obvious and clear to anyone but him, he would give up everything for the smallest of rewards and do it all over again if the opportunity arose, he is an outlier and a failure and he is the only angel in existence that would choose to worship a bringer of death over spending all that is left of his life begging the Lord for forgiveness. No sane angel acts like this. No sane angel even thinks of doing this.

It feels impossible to squeeze any sort of a response out of himself. Lacking any other way to proceed, he bows low, all the way to the floor. His forehead touches the cold, sticky layer of Mori's blood below. It surprises even him, how little shame he feels. He doesn't really feel much of anything, unable to see past Mori's teary face in front of him. All he cares about is making sure they know someone will miss them, and remember them.

He is as close as he can physically be without touching the deity. His hair reaches for the toe of Grim's boot. He remembers how similarly Mori bowed before Death when they met, right before their hand was shattered bit by bit. He forces his hands still.

“I cannot tell if you were made too well, or made to fail. Your sense of duty flares so bright, it supersedes your faith. A disloyal angel: how paradoxically peculiar…” — Grim wonders aloud. Despite himself, he is a small bit awestruck at this rather sacrilegious turn of events. An angel that would willingly serve another god — oh, he knew this one would be special, he knew as soon as he had laid eyes on him! His old friend will have plenty to nibble on with this wretched little dove, what with all their mirrorisms. He cannot wait to finally introduce them.

With this, he wonders — what kind of angel would do something like this for someone like Mori? A fierce sense of protection, responsibility and righteousness, enough to rival faith. He does not have to think for long.

“You're a bit small for a Guardian, aren't you?” — he beamed, his tone patronising and wicked. — “A protector of the innocent. Justice is your flesh and self-sacrifice sweetens your veins. Mori is more than a companion to cling to in your darkest time of need, I see now. You chose them as your Dependant. What a brashly unfortunate decision that was.”

It wasn't a decision — he wants to scream those words at Death, for seeing through him so effortlessly, like he knows exactly what goes on in Auden's head. A decision would require conscious thought. It can be abandoned at any point. What he has made is a pact, and while he may have been somewhat conscious of his initial urge to protect, it's become something he cannot let go of, something that drives him crazy every day as long as it lasts, and that haunts him long after it's broken. He cannot help it, he can love no other way.

He wants to scream, but all that makes it out is a sound similar to a miserable choked off sob. The wings on his back are lopsidedly sliding off his back to soak on the floor instead, too exhausted to be kept neatly folded behind him.

The Reaper's laughter is a haunting melody ending in a good-natured sigh. — “Mm, well. I must admit, you have given me a taste of something new. My name is only spoken to pray me away by most. I am so used to ignoring pleas — but one so beautifully spoken I cannot ignore so easily.”

There is a pause, the sound of rain. Then, Death steps closer again, finding grip under the angel's chin with the toe of his blooded boot. He doesn't stop lifting until those gorgeous lavender eyes find his own; wide, frightened, full of life.

They look so alike.

“I will let them know,” — he promises, a fond smile telling of something sinister under his sincerity, — “you need not worry about a thing, little lamb.”

The angel crumbles like a house of cards, gratitude and grief spilling forth from him uncontrollably. Near unresponsive with his pain, he can only nod to show he can hear the Reaper's orders. Finish bathing, dry off, put on some clothes — further teasing about how unangelic it is of him to be bare in front of others so unapologetically — and wait for the Reaper to return.

Backing off, Grim watches the little one reach for the blood-soaked towel to drag close and bury his face in. He keeps the fabric close, reminded of his precarious nakedness so suddenly. He pulls his knees out from under him and up to his chest, shuddering with the force of his weeping, but so quiet, quieter still than Mori’s slowly beating heart.

Sorrow looks beautiful on him. Why else would he have been made this way, to feel so strongly, if not to show off all the beauteous shades of his torment?

The next time Auden lifts his head, he finds himself alone in the crimson bathroom. His cries have died down, his lungs have emptied themselves of anguish, and the Reaper has long disappeared into a black mist, bringing with Mori's body and soul, as if they were never even here to begin with. The water in the tub has gone cold, but he only notices after a couple minutes of numb soaking.

Mori will understand. They will know. The Reaper promised. That is all that matters.

<3

Mastelist | Ko-fi

Taglist: @whumpsday @whump-me-all-night-long @sordayciega @a-miscellaneous-number-of-rats

@letitbehurt @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees

Taglist (tagged in everything I write): @morning-star-whump @whumprince @a-living-canvas

[quietwingsinthesky]

Dean being supportive of Sam/Lucifer because from the outside it seems like Sam is into it and Lucifer’s turning over a new leaf when it’s actually Lucifer digging his claws into Sam with every new deal they make (a kiss for some information on a case, an hour in Lucifer’s lap for a weapon to kill something, Lucifer joining him in the shower for someone healed) while Sam has no way out but to keep giving more of himself. And Dean (besties with Crowley) is going “Damn, glad he turned over a new leaf. You know, I’d kill him if he ever hurt you. :)”

[soullessjack]

hey did you know that uhm and well if you and uuhhhhh

[malhare-archive]

I've been quiet about it on here but I need to speak my truth, this show has endeared me to Jimmy/Saul in the sense that I want to put him in a collar and slap him

[llycaons]

another thing I liked was how vicious and hateful and unforgivable xy was depicted because he literally did manipulate a good man into murdering hundreds of people and then tortured and murdered a little girl, whose pov we are reading from, like I find him entertaining as a villain but he's absolutely vile and sooo many fics want to be like '🥺 he just needed love' well he actually did get unconditional love and support and companionship FROM XXC and he used it to manipulate and mass murder so idk it was really awful what he went through but I think in any situation he would have been a fucked up sadist out for his own amusement and you know what im just going to link it: x. it's good but the wx is very novel-faithful so 😔

[yourlovermumu]

sukuna literally can NOT fuck you slow and soft.

its not that he hates it. nor that he doesnt want to. its a lot more complicated than that.

sukuna always- always fucks you rough and fast.

thats how it has always been. but as a change of phrase, he once decided to try fucking you slow and soft. but to be honest its not like he choose to do so himself, he literally does not see the point in fucking you soft and slow when he can just blow your brains out. but he got curious. and when he happened to ask you one night, ''choose. want me to fuck you slow and soft or rough and fast? you have 5 seconds to make your choice.'' you had answered eagerly to be fucked slow and soft.

and he was willing to comply.

this night he had slipped his cock inside your tight little hole slowly. ever so slowly.

but he was already regretting agreeing to this. the moment your warm, wet, pussy wrapped around his thick cock he was already starting to lose reason. and he was barely half way in. but oh god how much he wanted to just slam his whole length inside of you in one go right than and there. but alas, he wouldn't. he did say he would give you a choice. and he wasnt about to go back on his word right now.

and in contrast to all the things going through his mind, he was holding up well enough. and after some agonizingly slow moments, he was finally all the way inside you. he couldnt help but curse under his breath, he was trying so, so hard to not just start pounding your pussy like a pathetic little fleshlight. oh, why did he subject himself to this torture?

he pulls his hips back slowly, and drives back in devastatingly slower than his used to. you let out a soft whimper in response. and thats when he makes his biggest mistake.

he looks up.

his ruby eyes locking with yours.

and immediately his eyes widen.

your brows are all furrowed and your lips pulled into a pout. in his eyes, he thinks you look like a sad puppy. an adorable puppy whimpering for more. he fucking groans. this isnt fair. why must you be so beautiful? why must you look at him that way? its as if you are begging him to fuck you stupid.

his cock twitches inside your pussy.

his hands grip your hips tightly.

and he pulls his own hips back, the movement is slow. but his following action is not, because next thing you know he is slamming you down on his cock. pounding your pussy like a madman as you moan and slip out protests from your mouth. but his not listening. he cant. and its your fault.

''...don't tell me to stop. t-take. it. this is your fault. so...hah..take. it. all.''

[halfgirl-halfdolll]

They aren't themselves when you go on vacation.

It's sad, really. Almost pathetic.

Price wished you were under his command, so he could just order you to stay. You wouldn't have to worry about a thing, you wouldn't need to work at all, you'd just need to be there, with him and his men.

But no. Your job was created by a carefully crafted contract. There were clauses both him and you had to follow in order to have you keep your place as his lovely secretary and one of them was reassuring you'd take some weeks off on vacation.

So you had to leave. Leave their side, leave your quarters, leave them all in their lonesome without their pretty little bird to brighten their days. And it wasn't enough to leave the base temporarily, no. You just HAD to go on a trip, huh? You torture them so, doll.

It was hard to tell who took it the hardest. Price was grumpy, Johnny was sulking, Ghost was even moodier and Kyle was snappy. Each one enduring your absence in their own emotionally constipated way.

Sometimes they would raid your bedroom. It was easy. You had locked it before leaving, like a responsible good girl, but it's not like Johnny didn't know how to pick a lock in mere seconds (he's done it before time and time again when you were around just to explore your room, after all).

They'd look like a bunch of mutts feeling the scent of proper food for the first time as soon as they stepped inside your pretty room. Your smell, the ghost of your presence inundating their senses, made your absence just a little bit more bearable.

They stand out like a sore thumb between the purples and pinks and blues of your room, amongst the plushies and the faint clouds of lavender room spray.

Johnny rushes to your bed, plopping onto it unceremoniously and curling himself on his side with one of your plushies held tightly in his arms. It's a jarring sight – a tall, muscular man holding onto a black bunny as if he would die without it.

Simon snatches your blanket from under Johnny's legs and brings it to his face, inhaling your faint scent mixed with fabric softener as if he needed it instead of oxygen. He rubs the fleece plush on his face, feeling it caress his scars and his roughed skin.

Kyle runs to your desk, rummaging through the mess of stationery and notebooks, reverently touching your handwriting as if he could touch you through the disarray of notes and glittery pens. He revels in the little peeks of the depths of your mind with every little note he finds.

Price just chooses to stand in the middle of your room, basking in the atmosphere of your place; the remnants of your presence. He wishes he could will you into coming back sooner, before he or any of his men go mad. It definitely feels like it could happen at any given moment.

They're so fucking dramatic. Four gigantic velcro dogs you don't even know you own.

But how can you blame them? You are everything they never thought they could have. Peaceful, soft, tender, sweet. How can they keep themselves from being addicted to you, love? It's impossible.

It's why they hang by the thinnest thread when you have to leave.

Won't you come back, doll? Come on. Please?

[astramachina]

Bill's wife committed suicide.... Luo's wife is still in hibernation.... Bill and Luo are sun and moon coded..... both former messiahs....

You know what this means, gentlemen.

[camzeecorner]

𝙼𝙰𝚃𝚃 𝚂𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙽𝙸𝙾𝙻𝙾 ₊˚ෆ 𝐌𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐘 𝐁𝐎𝐘

smut ღ dividers → @bernardsbendystraws ฅ^._.^ฅ

Matt was the type of guy who liked to stay in the background, keeping quiet and out of the spotlight. He didn’t put himself out there much because he was really shy. Despite that, he managed to get by with the help of his small group of friends. They never pushed him to do things he wasn’t comfortable with and always made him feel included.

But lately, Matt had been feeling pretty lonely. He saw his friends going out with their girlfriends and having fun, and he wondered if he’d ever get to experience that. The thought of having someone special made him feel both hopeful and a bit sad, wondering when his turn would come.

He had one friend he especially liked. They met two years ago at a gas station. He saw her walking out the door toward her car, probably after paying for her gas. She had gorgeous honey-brown skin and dark hair that flowed past her shoulders. She was short, but not in a babydoll way—just a little below average height. To him, she looked like a walking angel. She complimented his shoes, and ever since then, they became his favorite pair.

They hung out occasionally when neither of them had any other plans. Matt never told her about the feelings he had for her, too scared she might blow him off or laugh in his face. Instead, he kept those feelings to himself, cherishing every moment they spent together. Each time they hung out, he hoped she might see him in a different light, but he never found the courage to say anything.

Which brought Matt to his current situation. He had been desperately grinding against his bed for the past hour, his body drenched in sweat. Beads of perspiration trickled down his face, and his knuckles had turned a ghostly white from gripping the sheets so tightly. His phone lay beside him, screen glowing with the images and videos of you that he mindlessly scrolled through, each one igniting a fresh wave of longing.

“Ooh fuck..mmm” Matt moaned against his pillow, biting harshly against his lips. His cock was twitching against his sheets signifying how desperately close he was. His tip was red and swollen due to all the torture it had been through.

Matt imagined it was you riding him. The image had been running through his mind for days, not being able to escape. It had sexually frustrated him knowing he could never do such things.

Your perfect brown skin laid onto him. He moaned at the image in his head. The way you would bounce on him, your boobs shaking in front of his face. It was the most perfect sight anyone could ever see. The way you clenched around his aching cock desperate for release. How you kissed his skin so carefully, your soft pink pillow lips.

He nearly screamed as you began riding faster, chasing for your release. “Mm baby.. you gonna cum in me?” Matt nodded pathetically at your words. Too stuck in a trance to comprehend a response. “Yea? You gonna fill me up like a good boy?” Matt could feel the tears spilling from his eyes. His breath started getting heavier. “Y-yes im such a go-good boy for mommy” he whined.

You rubbed your clit in harsh circles inching closer to your orgasm. Your body shutted against Matt’s, the pleasure from his pulsing cock stretching you in the right places and your fingers rubbing against your clit. “Oh fuck yes.. just like that.. make mommy cum.” Quickly Matt flipped over to his back, leaning against his headboard. Matt could feel his body freeze as his cum squirted from his cock. His mouth hung open, as he let out low moans and whines. His cum going in every direction. He whimpered at the feeling of his sweet release.

He whimpered lowly as his cock twitched harshly. The pleasure felt so good, he could cry. He placed his hand firmly on his cock, giving long and slow strokes. He paid most of his attention to the head of his cock, squeezing each time his hand would run past it. His cum ran down his hand, he audibly moaned at the sight. He had milked himself completely dry by now, making sure he had savored each moment.

Matt laid still, flat on his back, in his own fluids. Too tired to move he exhaled and looked at his mess. That had been one of the most intense orgasm’s he’d ever had. Grabbing the towel nearby on his floor he carefully wiped his cock, trying not to overstimulate himself. He wiped his chest and face, and any other area that had been shot at. He sighed throwing his head back against his pillow.

“Holy fuck.” He heard a voice speak from his door. Matt’s eyes widen in shock and fear as his body jolted forward. His eyes caught yours, he knew it’d been too late to move now. He’s already been caught.

🏷️ - @shaquilles-0atmeal @monroesturnns @blahbel668 @mattssluttywaist @jetaimevous @kayeeaa @ribread03

[v1x3n]

SHOWER TIME ── ripped apart.

♯ PAIRINGS - john price x falsely accused reader x 141

♯ SYNOPSIS - tortured for information by your family and the person you loved, john price. you were harmed for something you hadn't even done, you were framed as the traitor and soon they would find out.

♯ TAGS - angst - nightmare mention, hospital setting, scars, depression, neglect.

─ previous chapter // masterlist // next chapter ─

After being taken to the infirmary, your body had uncontrollably decided to take a long sleep, your dreams full of the terrors your best friends had caused you. Your dreams reminisce on the before, on the time where everything was okay, the time where you had a friend group and your job was going well. But that had to end, didn't it? 

Nothing good could ever happen to you. 

Waking up, you don't even know how long you slept for, you discover your bandages on your body changed. Still bloody but they were fresh material, you were in new clothes - well clothes. Head goes dizzy when you look around the room, taking in everything you could see. The high white walls with no decoration, the window that you could look out from on your so-called bed, the cream curtains that hung but were swept to the side - bringing in bright light from the outdoors. The outdoors, something you hadn't seen in what, a month? You couldn't remember anymore. You felt disoriented, angry yet also sad. You felt every fucking emotion you didnt have time to feel during the attacks, all at once. Eyebrows squeezing together, looking to the side of your sheets, a small wooden chair was placed there. After gulping you peek at the table next to your bed, there was also a sink in the corner. Usual hospital room, tv and two doors, one leading out into the hallways and one to a bathroom. And that was that. 

There was one thing that made your heart furious though, an arrangement of colourful flowers, wrapped in a light pink ribbon sat on the table beside you. Frowning as you peer at the beautiful petals you look away, they ruined you, ruined your body, your life and all they give you is fucking flowers? You knew it was one of them, you had not built that much of a relationship with anyone else and they were your favourite flowers. Only the 141 knew your favourites, cheap fucking way of saying sorry. You hadn't even heard the words come out from any of their mouths yet, fucking pathetic. enraged, angry, furious and irritated were only some of the words you were feeling. 

Soon it had been a week, lay in that stupid fucking room. At Least you had met a few people, you met a few nurses who came by to feed you, check up on you and help your wounds. And you had met a patient in the room next to yours, he was sweet towards you, you never spoke to him though. He did most of the talking, his name was Logan and honestly in the week you had known him for - he was growing on you. He came by everyday, he was very nosy though, very extroverted. Luckily he never demanded answers from you, he always spoke, sometimes you would reply with a shrug or a small nod. You couldn't tell if he had heard about what happened to you though, he never touched you and he was always so gentle, dunno. Maybe he was just nice.

Scars were left all over your form, a healing cut on your cheek that wouldn't take that long to fix - just a very quick and painful stitch up!, your legs just starting to become responsive, rope marks dug in your skin from how tightly they displayed you on that cold pole. 

Drugged up on antibiotics wasn't the best feeling, you had a few infected wounds down your body, the one on your lower womb was ugly. It looked diabolical, but luckily you were on many pills so life is okay! Looking down at your hands, the missing fingers was just another example of the pain the four caused you. 

Just when you were about to spew tears from your tear ducts, a light shadow covered you. When did he come in? 

Your captain sat on the wooden chair beside you, he didn't speak, just looked down at his raggy boots. You were glad he didn't speak, but deep down you kind of wanted him too because this was far too awkward. Glaring down at your lap, you refused to speak to him, just as you tried to turn around the door swings open. The nurse you were closest to walks in and sees the two of you. The obvious tension floods the air, flowing out the open door when Jane starts talking, “morning, honey” she smiles and takes slow steps up to you. 

You dont reply. 

“We need t’ get you into the shower” she mumbles to you, peeling off the sheets that covered your battered body. You were ashamed that the nurse had to physically get you up and take you to the shower but your legs just wouldn't cooperate with you. A twisted and healing ankle paired with weak legs and then on top of that the depression that comes along with all of this summed up too being unable to help yourself up. You couldn't do anything for yourself, they tore you limp by limp and now you weren't the strong soldier you were before. All thanks to them. “Okay” a light voice sounds from you through a sigh, almost whispering, not wanting that fucking man next to you get the pleasure of hearing your voice. Letting the nurse help you get out of the bed, Jane looks down at your form, your skin and your trauma.

“Healing well, hm? Did nurse poppy give you your pills this morning?” Jane asks, tilting your head up gently to take a look at the slight slit on your throat. When the man right next to you was about to end your life.

What is the saying? Each scar tells a story but every story leaves a car. Something like that.

Nodding at the nurse's question makes the corners of her lips twerk up into a small yet genuine smile, “good, now let's get you up, hm?” you could almost feel john's eyes burning into you while the nurse helps you get up, your weak limbs drop as you stand on your feet, jane instantly gripping you and jolting you back up, an arm wrapped around you to help you walk. 

You were thankful for the nurses, obviously they knew what had happened and they were nothing but gentle and sweet with you, they never tried to do anything that would trigger you and knew to check up on you, make sure you were eating, drinking, sleeping and things like brushing your teeth and showering. You felt kind of useless. Not  being able to do anything for yourself but it wasn't exactly your fault though was it? 

Jane took you towards the bathroom and Price still just kind of sat there, in your hospital room - staring at your bed.

“You can do it yourself, yeah?” Jane helps you sit on the lip of the toilet seat, the bathroom was sterile and white. The smell of bleach attacked your nose, you looked at the shower. The shower head pours down water at a fast pace when the woman in front of you turns the knob around, you almost flinch at the sound of the water hitting the shower floor. “C'mon” she mumbles, taking your arm to help you limp into the shower, as soon as the water hits you - you flinch. Taking in an old memory, instantly you back up to the wall, “i-i can't” you shake, gulping down, staring at the dropping water splattering over the floor. Breath picking up as you breathe in harshly, “i cant - i cant” you repeat as if the nurse hadn't heard you, she quickly leans over to grab the sponge that was placed under the shower head, she places it in your hand, “its okay, honey, don't worry.” jane coos while you shake, “you don't gotta, just scrub yourself down outside the shower, you don't have t’ go in if you can't” 

Thank god for this sweet woman. After nodding she leaves you to your own devices.

Taking a glance at the shower and then down at your sponge, you sigh. How could you let yourself become this pathetic. A panic scares you when you hear sounds coming from outside the bathroom door, a deep voice which was so obviously johns then a softer voice which you would only match it to janes.

“Is she okay?” Jane's ears picked up John's voice, still sitting on the wooden chair but he was facing the bathroom door. “You know they dont want you here” she states, walking past him to clean up your sheets. 

“I needed to see them.” All Jane does is sigh, “they can't see you right now, i understand it's hard but it's harder for her” john looks down at his boots, in  defeat. Closing his eyes and biting his tongue, this was hard for him - it was hard for everyone. 

All of the 141 missed you, missed talking to you, seeing you and missed their relationship with you. No one knew how to go about the situation, nobody knew what to do. How to make it right, how to make it the same as before. They all just thought; they didn't know what else to do, they all thought it was you and the signs pointed to you. 

The job is ugly, it's disgusting, that's what it is.but there's nothing they can do about it, it's all a part of the job.

[lovelivision]

CLOTHED?!

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: 【𝐬𝐞𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐞】 fushiguro toji/reader, geto suguru/reader, gojo satoru/reader, kamo choso/reader

𝐖𝐂: 4.8k

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: they all have their own reasons for not undressing completely, just how crazy will they drive you in their pursuit to have you cumming in your clothes?

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: 18+ only, smut, swearing, dirty talk, teasing, dry humping, thigh riding, cunnilingus, afab!reader, no pronouns or y/n used, pet names used: doll, baby, sweetheart, i think that's all !! <3

𝐅𝐔𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐆𝐔𝐑𝐎 𝐓𝐎𝐉𝐈 ★

This all started because he believed something and you didn’t, now you’re sat on him, fully clothed, struggling to comprehend just how your few words worked him up so much to the point that it feels like he’s torturing you over them. A punishment, that you feel, you do not deserve.

All you had said was that you don’t think it’s possible for you to finish fully clothed and he took that as a personal challenge and a slight against his ability to please you, which, you never meant it as.

What you meant doesn’t change the facts of your situation though, he’s got you teary eyed and shaking on his lap. Clothed erection rutting up against your core, hands digging into your hips to drag you back and forth over him. So determined in how he’s devotedly humping up into you.

So badly you want for him to forget about the thing you said, you just want him to fuck you but he’s not going to, and you can tell that just by the look on his face alone. “Toji, please just – hah – forget what I said,” your voice shakes slightly.

Almost baring his teeth when he snaps back, “Trying to prove you wrong, doll.”

“But it would feel so much better if you – hnn – would just–”

He grunts at you, hips jerking up, “I’ll make you feel so much better once you cum in your pants.”

“I don’t think I–”

Predicting what you were going to say, “–You can, I’ll make sure of it,” his hands gripping you so firm you think he might leave bruises behind.

Toji’s so hard, straining against his pants, desperate to fuck you, to feel some kind of release but you said something that he disagrees with, and now he’s going to show you that you can cum for him no matter how clothed you are.

Panties so slick and sticky, stuck to your cunt, leaking into your pants, you’re going insane. Right on the edge of cumming but not feeling like it’s enough, wanting for him to just stuff you full at this point. Foggy brain not understanding why he’s so bent out of shape over this, it would feel so much better if he would just fuck you.

The friction against your core not enough, his cock splits your folds, grinding you down into him. The pleasure better, hands grabbing at his shoulders, fisting his shirt, gasping at how the head of his clothed cock hits your clit.

“Toji,” you whine at him.

“Right there, huh?” He huffs, doubling his efforts.

Dripping into your panties and shorts embarrassingly, soaking them, so incredibly damp. Something that he doesn’t miss, not if his smirk and visibly inflating ego are anything to go by.

Your eyes are large as you plead with him, “Please, just fuck me.”

His smile is dark, evil, taunting, “I will…after you’ve cum for me.”

Your hips stutter on him, grinding down harder, your own determination to cum like this growing, if it means finally getting fucked full then you will finish for him, fully clothed.

“Suddenly feeling motivated, doll?” His chuckle feels demeaning.

“Shuddup,” you mean for it to have more bite when you say it, but you sound pathetic and needy.

He bites his lower lip at the way you circle your hips, “Pretty cute how desperate you’ve gotten.”

“Be nicer,” trying to chastise him while humping his clothed cock isn’t all that effective.

Laughing heartily at your poor excuse of admonishment, “You should be nicer to me, you know I could always be meaner.” As if to illustrate his point, he lets go of your hips, no longer assisting you.

A sad noise leaves you at the loss of his hands, struggling to get the same kind of pleasure from this without his help. Your fingers digging into his shirt, brows scrunching as you try to make up for the loss of him. Wet cunt grinding down, not quite getting the same kind of pleasure, back to desperately wanting for him to fuck you open.

“I’m sorry,” you rush out, hoping he’ll show mercy.

“What was that, doll?” He asks, feigning like he couldn’t hear you perfectly well.

Shooting him a teary-eyed glare, you repeat, “I’m sorry, just please– help.”

His smile is self-satisfied at your pleading, cooing at you, “You sure you want the help of this mean man?”

“Mhm,” nodding your head vehemently at him, wanting nothing more than that.

Huffing a breath of amusement at your eagerness, “Should’ve said I wasn’t mean there.”

“Toji!”

“Yeah, yeah,” he dismisses, pulling you down with a strong hand on the back of your neck. Lips colliding with his, sloppy and messy, all teeth and tongues.

Once he has his lips on yours, he moves his hand back to your hips, stroking them lower to your thighs just to pull them apart further on top of him. His clothed cock splitting your folds more like this, your pussy twitching and drooling into your panties.

He groans against your mouth, “I bet you’re so fuckin wet,” he pants against you, growing just as frustrated as you, if not more, “Gotta cum soon, doll. Can’t handle much more of this.”

He could always just stop this and fuck you but he’s stubborn and you know better than to try and convince him of this, especially now, when you’re getting so close to finishing.

“Promise to fuck me after?” Feeling worried he might go back on his word and torture you some more.

“Hah– I’m not depriving myself of your creamy little cunt, doll. Stuffing you full right after you’ve cum is one of my favourite pastimes,” he licks at your lower lip before nipping it.

Your arms wrap around him completely, face nuzzling into his neck, focusing on how you’re moving against him. Starting to stutter against your will, his large hands helping you along, supplying you with the friction he had robbed you of only a few moments ago.

His huffed breaths tickling your ear, having turned his head towards you, to continue talking to you, keep spouting filth at you. Too aware of how much his voice gets you off, “C’mon, doll, know you’re so close, cum in your panties for me, hmm?”

Only able to whimper against him in response, no words forming as you continue to rut into him. Pussy hole clenching pathetically around nothing, begging to be filled, getting closer to your end. It’s almost embarrassing that he’s able to have you falling apart despite the fact you’re both fully clothed.

“Be good and cum for me, wanna fuck you into next week,” he groans out when you press down into him with more pressure, his words getting to you more than you’d ever admit.

“Toji –hnn– I’m soo–”

His voice is lilted, excited, “Yeahh that’s it, doing so good for me– fuck.”

You shake on top of him, clit hitting his cock just right, whimpered whines leaving you as you huff against the skin of his neck. Tears welling in your eyes, nails digging into him slightly. The groan he lets out swiftly followed by your name has you cumming for him, in your clothes, fully dressed.

He talks you through it, hands stroking at your back, amused by how you twitch from your aftershocks. After a beat of silence, and your breathing evens out, he speaks lowly into your ear, “Told ya so.”

𝐆𝐄𝐓𝐎 𝐒𝐔𝐆𝐔𝐑𝐔 ★

Your panties are soaked through, almost completely wet as you slide back and forth on Geto’s jean clad thigh. He’s not even touching you, refusing to help, only sitting back and enjoying the view of you humping down into him like a bitch in heat.

Enjoying the frustrated pout settling on your features, playing dumb when he asks, “What’s wrong?”

“Not enough,” you huff back.

“Sure it is,” he hums, hand moving only to tickle up the length of your inner thigh, “Look at the mess you’re leaving behind, ruining my pants.”

Your skin flares at his comment, all too aware of the dark and damp spot you’re leaking into his jeans. Not appreciating his comment, only serving to embarrass you, feeling self-conscious with how you’re rubbing your pussy into his thigh.

He must notice, smile kind when he says, “Don’t be embarrassed, it’s cute how worked up you are just for my thigh, think you could cum like this?”

Shaking your head at him, “No –hng–” moaning when he bounces his leg up, jostling you on his thigh suddenly.

“I think you can,” his lips curling into a deceivingly innocent grin, “Go on, keep going,” nodding downwards at his leg, encouraging you to continue your movements.

Sticky folds splitting obscenely to rut down into him, panties moulding to your pussy lips, leaving nothing to the imagination. Slick beading through the material of your underwear, repeated back and forth of your hips spreading it all over him.

A completely lewd display, one that Geto is appreciating deeply, his cock painfully erect at how your eyes are all bleary and unfocused. Simultaneously embarrassed about how you’re humping his leg and so desperate to cum that you’re not stopping your movements.

Small whines and whimpers leaving you, despite the fact that you’re biting your lower lip in an attempt to stop them. Geto’s fingers twitch with the need to touch you, feeling an itch to help you, get you off faster but stopping himself, enjoying the struggle you’re facing a bit too much.

“Sugu, I just want you,” sounding pathetic even to yourself, begging him for help? For his cock? Either? Both?

Tutting at you with faux sympathy, “I’m right here, baby,” smirking at how your brows upturn and you huff at him.

“I want – hah – want you to touch me, please,” eyes big and pitifully wet.

“Always so pretty when you beg,” his hand reaches for your face and wipes away the tears you hadn’t realised you’d shed.

Spreading your legs slightly, continuing to grind down onto his thigh, wishing he would at least take off his pants so you can feel every ridge and dip of his muscles. Slippery in how you rock back and forth, clit catching with your grinding, gasped moans leaving you with it.

He observes, “Getting desperate?”

“Please just touch me, I don’t care where, just touch me please, Sugu,” practically sobbing at him, feeling so completely deprived of him by now.

His outside demeanour stays unchanged, forever amused by how desperate you are for him to touch you but his cock twitches in his pants and is leaking profusely. So fucking hard and ready to fuck you, loving how you plead and beg for him.

Wanting nothing more than to fuck inside you, feel the way your tight cunt sucks him in, drooling all over him but he’s gonna have you finishing like this first. Thinking to himself that you’ll probably make a great face when you cum in your panties for him.

He obliges you slightly though, hands moving to your hips, forcing you down on his thigh harder. Giving you a more consistent pace to get off to, relief flooding you at how much better it feels to have him set the rhythm, you could almost cry at how good it feels.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” it’s repeated over and over, so grateful for his help.

“So polite when you get what you want,” he muses, eyes fixated on the way you’re seemingly growing slicker. God, by the time he’s inside you, you’re going to be beyond dripping, the realisation thrilling him.

Panties borderline see through with how you’re coating them, his large hands gripping your thighs harshly, spreading them open even more. He wants to see how you rub your pretty little cunt down into him, needs to see.

Aching in his pants for you, close to giving up and bullying his thick cock inside you, voice strained when he asks, “Getting close?”

“Mhm,” you mumble back, hole fluttering on nothing at the sound of his wrecked voice.

His leg starts bouncing again, adding more stimulation for you to get off to. Almost screaming at the abrupt change, hands digging into his shoulders, mouth gaping open as moans and whines push their way out of you.

Tears streaming down your face again as you twitch down into him, “Sugu– it feels – ah –” Not able to properly verbalise just how good he’s making you feel.

“If it feels so good,” his hands forcing you down and circling your hips, feeling the way he almost starts salivating at the wet sounds your slutty pussy makes for him, “Cum for me,” almost spitting out the rest of his sentence.

His eyes glazing over, mirroring your own, so fucking horny he’s going to go insane. Poor cock feeling neglected, getting consumed in his own thoughts, thoughts about your cunt and how divinely you take him.

“I– I’m gonna–” panting with the effort it takes to talk when your brain is so foggy.

Extremities thrumming with the build up of your orgasm, head feeling heavy as you struggle to hold it up straight. Letting it loll to the front, chin on your chest as you cum all over Geto’s leg. Gushing inside your panties and soaking his thigh, cum seeping into the material, matching the small wet spot on his pants by the tip of his dick.

“Ffffuck– that’s it, so fucking perfect for me,” praise falling from his lips easily as he watches your body twitch and jerk on top of him.

Once you’ve come down some, he has you standing between his spread legs, your hands resting on his shoulders still to keep yourself on your feet. His hands tug your panties down, watching the way your cum connects to your cunt with sticky strings, low growl stuck in his throat at how creamy your pussy is.

“That’s what I like to see,” he hums, smile evil as he continues to pull them down and off you.

“Sugu.”

“Hmm?”

“You’ll fuck me now, right?” You ask, hoping desperately that he will, not realising that it might just kill him if he doesn’t stuff you full.

“Ah, on one condition,” smile growing as he says, “Open your mouth.” His hand holding your panties shoving them into your mouth, “Since you wanna get stuffed full so bad,” he hums.

𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔 ★

What’s gotten Gojo so worked up, you couldn’t say, all you know is that it’s hard to think. Feeling breathless at the way he’s lapping at your clothed cunt, hands pulling at the material on your hips to have them melding to you.

Your legs thrown haphazardly over his shoulders, his faze nuzzling into your pussy, licking and sucking at the material of your panties. His saliva soaking them just as much as your slick is, lolling his tongue out and letting it rest against your cunt. His dazed eyes and small sounds of pleasure having you twitch down onto him, pussy gliding along his tongue.

Using him to get yourself off, he’s letting you use him to get yourself off, head nodding slightly with your movements, tongue sliding through your folds. His eyes sparkling as he watches you grow desperate for him, thumbs parting your pussy lips. Tongue fucking deeper, almost dipping into your hole, stopped by the resistance of your panties.

Your voice calls out for him, “‘Toru, please just take them off–”

“No.” His mouth parting from you only to spit out that singular answer, not interested in taking off your underwear in the slightest. Apparently too pleased with himself and this situation.

Huffing out at him, frustrated by his answer, “Please, need more.”

“I need you to let me lick at your pussy like this, I like the way you’re coating them,” he hums, licking at the length of your pussy, hands now holding you still by your thighs, taking back the small amount of control he allowed you, “Want you to cream them.”

“Why?” Eyes wet when you ask him why he’s suddenly so desperate to have you cumming in your panties for him.

“Wanna see what will happen,” he shrugs easily.

Feeling yourself bristle at his answer, basically torturing you just because he wants to see what will happen.

“That – and I’m enjoying this,” he smiles, tongue hanging from his mouth, letting his saliva drip down onto your covered pussy, you’ve got him salivating for you and he’s not even put his tongue on you properly, “Aren’t you?”

His eyes on you are intent and bordering on desperate, so hazy, consumed by lust as he stares at you, letting his tongue continue to drool down onto your panties. Panties that are completely soaked by now, you can’t even tell who more from at this point, only really aware of how wet they are, to the point they feel like a second skin.

He chuckles when you don’t answer, too dazed in how you watch him, his tongue licking his lower lip, mouth down turning into a mocking pout, “You not enjoying yourself, sweetheart?”

“No,” your frown must feel meaner than it really is because Gojo’s eyes only sparkle with delight.

Smirking before lowering his head, “I guess I’ll just have to fix that then.”

Mouth back on you in full force, making out with your clothed cunt with so much vigour he’s making wet sloppy sounds, the noises make you grow hot, feeling embarrassed at just how messy it all sounds. It’s even messier than it sounds, your pussy leaking into his mouth and down your inner thighs.

Shamelessly, he presses his face right into your cunt, inhaling deeply, the action has your skin flaring. Hands instinctually moving to his head, attempting to push him away but he’s immovable, steadfast in how he’s sniffing the panties you’re still wearing.

“Gojo!”

“Don’t be embarrassed, love everything about your pussy,” he’s nuzzling into your cunt more, opening his mouth to press his tongue against your hole, letting your slick bead through the fabric onto it.

Groaning when he swallows, “Smell so good, taste so good,” his eyes lazily look up to you, “Feel so good, so soft, sweetheart… you know that?”

Teary eyed when you shake your head no at him, feeling so embarrassingly overwhelmed. It’s like he’s drunk but nothing has happened for him to lose it to this point, “Are you okay?” Your hand runs softly through his hair.

“I’m perfect,” he assures, smile intoxicated as he goes back to mumbling about your cunt, “So soft, so wet, you gonna let me suck at your pussy over your panties?”

“Are you sure you’re–”

“–If you’re so worried about me, jus let me have my way with you,” his words slurring slightly.

He realises that he must seem different from usual but really, he’s just having trouble holding back right now. You were wearing such a cute pair of panties, wandering around his apartment in them and his shirt. Who can blame him for how he’s acting? When you looked like that? He’s just a little drunk on your pussy and he doesn’t feel the slightest bit embarrassed about it, not when you’re this wet for him.

Your hand tugs at his hair, pulling his gaze back to yours, it had dipped to stare greedily at your cunt, “Then take off–”

He singsongs at you, “Nope.” Blowing cool air against your core to tease you, it causes you to involuntarily twitch for him, “So needy, lemme play with you like this a little more, hmm?”

“Wouldn’t it be better if–”

“Nooo,” he drags it out, as if it were obvious, “After, I promise after you cum in your panties, I will tongue fuck you so good you’ll see stars but for now, be good and let me do this for you.” He presses wet kisses into your thighs, voice pleading as he repeats over and over, “Please, please, please please please.”

“Just, make me cum, please,” you’re starting to feel neglected.

“Of course I will, what do you take me for?” His brows scrunch at you, considering arguing with you about when he’s not had you finishing for him but too keen to put his mouth back on you to talk anymore.

The only time he’s content to be silent is when his tongue is busy lapping at you like a starved man and even then, he’s far from silent, tongue making obscene noises as he licks at you, moans and whines leaving him against his will. Enjoying himself too much to register or even really care that he sounds so pathetically wrecked just from this much.

Hips grinding down into the bed, too needy to hold himself back, cock so hard and ignored. Leaking profusely into his pants, needing the small relief badly, happy he’s too consumed in your cunt to think about his dick too much, otherwise he’d be stuffing you full before he gets what he wants.

Grip lessening on you, hanging his tongue to let you grind into it again, loving the way you get so eager to cum, chasing your own high and using him to get there. Smiling lazily at how your hips rise and fall, rubbing your pussy down onto him, head tipped back, struggling to keep your whines at bay.

Excitement running through his body down to his stiff cock when you twitch and moan for him in a way that tells him you’re getting so close to cumming. His hands hold your thighs tightly as he assists your movements, encouraging you to be rougher, to use him more.

“‘Toru – hah – I’m gonna – hnn –”

“Mhm,” he hums his acknowledgement, all too ready for you to cum.

Eyes shutting tight against the force of your orgasm, toes curling, thighs attempting to close around his head, but Gojo holds you so embarrassingly open. When your movements twitch and stutter, losing their pace, he pins you down into the bed and keeps licking at you. Depraved in how he’s lapping at you, losing his fucking mind at how you’ve creamed your panties for him.

Tingling felt throughout all your limbs, feeling overstimulated as he doesn’t stop his movements, jerking away from him and pushing at his head, whining, “It’s too much, ‘Toru.”

“Sorry, ‘m sorry,” his hand rips your panties from you, tongue fucking into your pussy hole suddenly, drinking down your cum, desperate for more. It doesn’t seem like he’ll be done anytime soon.

𝐊𝐀𝐌𝐎 𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐎 ★

Choso has you on your back for him, legs spread wide, his clothed dick grinding down into your panty clad core. What had started as an innocent kiss, turned into a heated make out session and then into shedding of pants while he humped into your cunt.

So desperate in his movements, cock rubbing through your folds, spreading your pussy lips obscenely. Slick pooling into your panties, he’s much the same, his cock head weeping into his underwear, dark spot at the tip.

His mouth is still firmly planted against yours, kissing you so dizzyingly, sucking your tongue into his mouth. Only ever parting from you long enough to huff out and catch his breath, pressing out compliments through clenched teeth.

“Feels so good, so pretty,” his words murmured, mouth brushing against yours, lips back on yours before you can even think to reply.

He’s holding back for you, you had wanted to take the relationship slower than your previous ones, which included waiting for sex but as the tip of his cock presses at your clothed hole, your resolve cracks and you want to tell him it’s okay.

You don’t get a chance to say anything though, his mouth needily kissing you into submission, almost tearing up at how it feels to have his lips on yours. Hands gripping at his shirt, his own on your thigh, on your hips, your stomach, boobs, anywhere he can reach, he’s touching and groping.

So overwhelming in how he’s touching you, your cunt so slick and ready to take him, legs tightening around his waist and pulling him down into you more. Grinding up into him, so fucking horny and ready to beg for more, Choso whines into your mouth at how you rut up into him.

Breaking the kiss to moan into the delicate skin of your neck, huffing as his hips fuck frantically down into you, meeting your need tenfold. Borderline whimpering at how damp you feel through all the layers.

He’s dizzied, from the thought of how your tight, wet heat will envelop his cock, sucking him in greedily. Losing his sanity as he humps at you, feeling juvenile but wanting nothing more than to respect your wishes and also get you off, he can do both, he can make you cum for him like this without fucking you full.

“Choso – hnn –”

Ah, your wrecked voice has him twitching pathetically against you, hips coming down more forcefully into yours. His breaths panting against your skin, struggling to focus on anything but how good this feels, how much better it could feel.

“– Mmph – Choso,” you call for him again, needing his attention.

His movements don’t stop, not even for a moment, too fucking lost in the pleasure to even think of stopping, “Hmm, you okay?” His hand gently holds your face, his own moving back to look you in the eyes, to check on you.

Nodding your head at him, “I’m fine, want more.”

“No,” he shakes his head at you.

“But–”

“Only saying that now – hah –” his eyes nearly roll to the back of his head at the thought of actually fucking you, “Only saying that because you’re horny – hnn –”

“Nooo – mmph – ‘m saying it because I mean it.”

“Ask me again after you’ve cum,” he noses at the side of your face.

His voice and steadfastness regarding this topic has your pussy clenching pathetically around nothing, eager to be stuffed full of him. Hoping to change his mind, “Cho, please,” eyes big and wet when you plead with him.

“No,” he huffs out, finding it harder and harder to resist you.

“Wanna be stuffed full, Cho – hnn – wanna feel you inside me, so bad,” babbling to him in your want.

Moaning at your words, “I want that too.”

“Then–”

“Nope,” his mouth back on yours to shut you up for a moment, tongue sliding into the kiss. He can’t have you keep begging him like that, he’ll give you what you want but you made the decision to wait for sex before you were so fucking desperate for him to fuck you, so you’ll have to wait.

You’re clawing at him frantically, hips messy in their movements, only seeking pleasure, offering no rhyme or reason to how you achieve it. Drooling into your panties for him, to have him shoving you down his fat cock, taking it all, the idea of it all has you drunk. You’d be embarrassed by how needy you are for his dick if you weren’t so aroused, so preoccupied with how good he’s making you feel.

When he parts the kiss, your mouths are connected by a string of saliva, kiss so messy and fuelled purely by lust. His eyes so dazed as they look down at you, almost unseeing, brows scrunched as his cock jerks against your cunt.

You go to speak, to beg him again, but his hand reaches up to cover your mouth, clamping down, “Can’t keep begging me, I’ll give in, I’ll give you anything you want – fuck – feels so fucking good and I’m not even – hah – not even inside you, can’t even feel how soft you are, how tight, wet – fuck.”

He bites his lip to stop his mouth, dick releasing thick globs of precum at the way you’re almost crying for him, eyes pathetic as you look up at him from underneath his large hand.

“Look so pretty right now,” he compliments, eyes adoring as he does.

You moan back at him, pleading with him through your eyes, his hips stutter and he groans out. His hand leaves you, only so he can use both of them to tug your panties up, spreading your folds open in a lewd display, his cock rubbing against you insistently. Shocked whimpers leaving you at the sudden change in friction, feeling it so much more.

“Cho!”

“I know – fuck – I know,” his head looks down to how your pussy lips bulge around your panties, losing his fucking mind at the sight of it. If he just gave into your begging, your lips could be bulging around his dick.

Shiver running down his spine, eyes flicking back to yours, “You need to cum.”

“What–”

“Right now.”

It feels like he doubles his efforts, grinding down into you with a new kind of need. Your eyes glazing over, fucked out over his clothed cock, body shaking as your high approaches so much faster. The work up having gotten to you, so fucking close to cumming from this.

His mouth back on you, kissing you breathless, hips moving against you almost like he’s fucking you. Hands everywhere, groping, pulling, his whimpers filling your ears, you wonder how he’d sound while actually fucking you.

Cumming suddenly for him, clawing at his back, legs kicking where they’re wrapped around him, cunt pulsing around nothing. Tears slipping from your waterline, mind hazy and foggy, orgasm wracking through you so deliciously.

Choso’s hips stutter against you, nipping at your lower lip before pulling away, whines leaving him as he continues to overstimulate the both of you, refusing to stop until you whimper and push at him.

Looking down to where his pelvis rests against yours, you can see the dark patch at the front of his boxers. His cum leaking into his underwear, the sight has your tummy doing flips and Choso’s skin tinting a deeper pink.

“Can you fuck me now?” You ask simply, still desperate for him.

𝐀/𝐍: i got a bit carried away with this... i think if i hadn't stopped myself gojo's would have been obscenely long 😳 thank you for reading !! ‧₊˚✩彡

[⚠︎] — 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆: do not reupload / repost / translate / plagiarise my works © all works are the intellectual property of lovelivision

[creepycatboyz]

#soundlessly screaming for someone who couldn't come to get him... who didn't want him anymore...

WAHHHHHHHHHH SOBBING HARDDDDD

oh wow hi alt!cesar from the hail true body au!!! I sure hope I dont draw some sad stu- *falls down sobbing*

I still need to draw post void alt!cesar SO NORMAL ABOUT HIM

[bl-bracket]

Poor Little Meow Meow Finals: Vegas (Kinnporsche: The Series) vs Jin Guangyao (The Untamed)

[Submitted Reasons Under Cut]

Vegas: The guy may be an actual murderer, torturer, mafia boss, manipulator, and possible grapist but come on! He is the most character ever! He is the definition of meow meow! He has a hedgehog! And he is very sad a d pathetic when it does and he buries it! And scores with the future love of his life over its grave! He fucks this dude he kidnapped and tortured so good the guy quits his job and becomes his malewife and raises his baby brothers for him!

Jin Guangyao: born the illegitimate son of a Sect Leader (like a wizard prince) and a prostitute. He and his mum were bullied in the brothel where he grew up because his mum was an educated woman. He witnesses his mum being horribly abused and is unable to protect her. When he’s 14 she dies, after having convinced him to go to his father for protection and telling him that his father will take him in and give him a place as his son.

He goes to his father on his birthday and his father utterly refuses to even see him. Instead he is thrown off the top of his father’s palace’s marble staircase. The attempt to be recognized makes him a laughingstock and figure of public ridicule and gossip throughout society, and he is treated as though he has some kind of communicable disease just for being the son of a whore.

His life of crime begins when he murders a man for bullying him and insulting his mother, and is thrown out of his sect as a result. He then goes and becomes a double agent with the big bad of the first half of the story, doing terrible things to earn the man’s trust. (Torture and killing of various good guys’ henchmen.) He then stabs the baddy in the back and wins the war for the good guys.

Legitimised by his father for winning the war, he soon discovers that his father is not a good man either, and does some terrible things to keep his father’s favour (while being physically and emotionally abused by his father and step mother.)

Finally he does terrible things to cover up the terrible things he has already done, and becomes the big bad of the second half of the story, but it’s very easy to imagine that if he had not been consistently treated like shit by everyone (not you, Xichen, you’re a delight) he would have preferred to be firmly on the side of the heroes.

[seungkw1]

touch me, tease me, feel me up — xmh

💿 love talk - wayv

♡ pairing: xu minghao x afab!reader ♡ theme: smut [18+ mdni], pwp ♡ wc: 1.1k ♡ warnings: unprotected piv sex (don't do this), fingering, oral (f. receiving), choking (f. receiving), size kink if u squint, creampie, cum swallowing, petnames (baby, good girl) ♡ a/n: happy holidays @haologram!!! written as part of @camandemstudios secret santa event - hope u enjoy bestie 🫶 and tysm @miniseokminnies for the banner <3

“Hao… please…”

Your whines fill the air as your boyfriend’s long fingers trace slowly up and down your pussy, the heat of his breath on your exposed cunt sending a shiver up your spine. He’s been at this for way too long, teasing you with the most delicate touches all over your body, torturously dragging out foreplay so long that you feel like you're going to explode. 

“What is it baby? Tell me,” he speaks softly as he plants a slow kiss on your inner thigh. He fixes his eyes on your desperate face, eyelids heavy with a sultry gaze as he gives you another kiss. His mouth is so close to your cunt - but nowhere near close enough. Your clit aches, throbbing against nothing, begging for the relief of Minghao’s touch. 

“Need your mouth on me,” you plead, your voice wavering pathetically. He drags his middle finger in a circle around your bud, causing you to let out a sad-sounding whimper, your hips involuntarily bucking into the air in search of Minghao’s lips. But, he’s quicker, raising his chin enough for his mouth to be just out of reach. 

“Patience, love,” he responds, but you see the glimmer of a smile forming upon his face, relishing in watching you lose composure beneath him. He loves how needy you are, and the fact that he can do the bare minimum and still make you dripping wet in no time makes him incredibly turned on.

Eventually, he can't wait any longer. He presses his plump red lips against your clit, kissing it delicately, making you sigh from the relief of his touch. He flattens his tongue against your cunt, giving you a slow lick; he repeats it again, and again - by the fourth time, you're squirming against the sheets. He wraps his arms around your thighs, holding you in place as he swirls the tip of his tongue around your clit, eliciting a moan from deep within. 

“Oh god…”

He drags his tongue back down, pressing it into your hole, again and again until he’s fully tongue-fucking you. His nose grazes your swollen clit, sending an electric shock through you each time. You feel like you're going to cum already - it feels too fast, he just started properly going down on you. But, you can't help it - Minghao is simply too skilled in bringing you pleasure. 

He pauses, raising his head and making eye contact with you. His face is glistening, covered in your juices. Eyes filled with hunger, he grins at you lazily before suddenly hoisting your thighs upwards. You yelp as he shifts your hips, practically folding you in half so he can have full, uninhibited access to your pussy. He takes your clit gently between his lips, suckling on it lightly; with a low groan your head falls back onto the pillow. He unwraps his arm from one of your thighs, bringing his fingertips to your cunt, brushing up and down your soaked slit a few times before pushing his first two fingers inside you. You cry out as he curls his fingers, stroking your g-spot as he suctions back onto your clit. He fucks you with his fingers - slowly at first, but the more you wriggle beneath him the faster he goes, pumping his fingers at the perfect rhythm. 

“Oh my god, Minghao…”

He's never told you outright that you moaning his name is the hottest sound he could ever hear, but he doesn't have to. He buries his face in your pussy, sucking on your clit while his fingers work their magic. You grasp onto the bedsheets, your back arching as your climax nears, closer and closer, until-

“Oh god, I’m cumming…”

You release hits like a bolt of lightning, sending shockwaves of pleasure rolling through your body as your orgasm takes control. Minghao sucks on your clit ceaselessly as you cum on his fingers, making you see stars as your body trembles, riding out your high. Your chest rises with heavy breaths as you start to come down, your body relaxing into the bed - but neither of you are anywhere near done. 

Minghao gives you one last kiss on your pulsating bud before lifting himself up to kiss you on the lips, his hand caressing the back of your neck as he makes out with you lovingly. The head of his cock bumps against your pussy; you lower yourself onto him, your overwhelming wetness taking in his tip with ease. You groan as he slowly pushes the rest of his length into you, his thickness stretching your walls deliciously. He gives you a moment to get used to his size, but you're impatient. 

“Please fuck me,” you whimper, looking up at him with utter desperation. He too can't wait a moment longer - he begins to thrust into you, long and slow strokes, letting his cock feel every inch of your pussy. You reach for his arm, tugging at his wrist - and he knows exactly what you want. He drags his hand up your torso, stopping for a moment to squeeze your breasts, before wrapping his hand around your throat. His fingers squeeze into your neck, choking you as he thrusts deep into your pussy. Your eyes beg and plead him to fuck you harder as gagging noises fill the air - a fire builds in his gut, pounding into you harder and harder, until he can't resist any longer. With a string of deep moans he releases, his cum spilling into your pussy, painting your insides with his hot ropes. His cock throbs against your walls as the last few spurts fill you to the brim. After a few moments, he slowly pulls his cock out. His cum dribbles out of your hole, but he quickly catches it, stuffing it back into your cunt. 

“That’s my good girl,” he coos. “Taking all my cum in your pretty pussy.” 

You whine as he slowly pulls his fingers out; you grab his forearm, drawing his milky-white coated hand up to your face. You wrap your mouth around his fingers, sucking slowly, swallowing all of the excess cum. 

“Oh, wow,” he mutters softly. “My baby is so perfect.”

He wraps his arm around your torso, rolling over onto his side and taking you in his embrace. His skin is hot against yours, dewey with sweat, holding you tight as he presses a deep kiss onto your cheek. You breathe in tandem, warm and safe in each other’s arms, lulling you both into a blissful trance. 

[pomefioredove]

You know what would be sad? If you/Yuu breaks up with Vil (or vice versa) and then runs to Rook afterwards. I wonder if Vil is going to feel betrayed again? If you could do a little scenario for this, that’d be great!

this is such a good prompt, I love rebound scenarios omg. needed this today. and here comes rook with the steel chair!!!

summary: getting dumped by vil schoenheit type of post: long fic characters: rook additional info: romantic, established relationship, vil breaks up with reader, reader is gender neutral, reader is yuu, kinda angsty, hahhhh, my god

"It's not personal. I just don't think it's fair to you," Vil says.

He doesn't fidget. Maintains perfect eye contact. He doesn't even try to act sorry, which, perhaps, is what stings the most.

He's supposed to be an actor, after all.

That's what this is all about.

"You must have always known this was a possibility," he says. "My schedule is getting busier, I simply don't... want to push you away."

Each word is spoken with a honeyed softness, as if he's trying to cushion the blows. It doesn't help.

Your heart thuds in your chest, your eyes burn. This is the worst thing you've ever experienced. You would take a thousand overblots over this. Any day.

What a bitter sentiment.

"You don't mean to push me away. What is this, then?"

A look of guilt finally crosses Vil's face, cracking the mask of professionalism he'd been hiding behind. It offers little comfort.

His brow furrows, and he sighs. "A preventative measure. It would hurt more if I'd waited,"

A million questions fly through your mind, faster than you can catch them. You want to shout, to tell him exactly how he's making you feel, to ask him who he thinks he is- but all you can manage is a stare.

He frowns, extending a hand as if to caress your face, but you turn on your heels and leave before he has the chance.

You wouldn't sit there and let him make a fool of you any longer.

You had become comfortable with the Pomefiore dorm in the past few months, but today, its elegance feels suffocating. The white and gold decor seems to mock you, every vase of perfect flowers laughing at your imperfection as you pass them by.

It hurts.

Stings, burns, makes you feel like you're drowning in a sea of perfume, choking on lilac and rose. Has the air here always been so sickeningly sweet?

There's still a lingering part of you that wants to run back to him, to beg, to negotiate, but you know he's right. You hate that he's right.

This... whatever it was... wouldn't last.

And you'd always known it.

---

How does one recover from being dumped by Vil Schoenheit?

Short answer: you can't.

You can wallow all you want, drowning yourself in the unhealthy foods he forbade you from eating, skipping the classes he'd so encouraged you to excel in, and using cheap tissues on your formerly-perfect skin, but that doesn't change a thing.

Perhaps if it hadn't been so public, you might have pulled yourself together sooner. But the very second all of your pictures were gone from his profile, everyone knew.

On some nights, you'd torture yourself by reading the thirsty comments from desperate fans under his latest posts, all of them pointing out his recent singleness. You would wonder to yourself if you had sounded that pathetic when you were dating Vil.

Just another hopeless, desperate fan, hoping for a piece of him.

People on campus avoided you. Not out of fear, but pity, a lack of knowing what to say. How do you even comfort someone after this?

It was like having an open wound on full display. No matter how you tried to bandage it, it kept bleeding through.

Even Grim was keeping his distance.

What little comfort came in the form of an anonymous knight in shining armor. Roses left at your doorstep, letters of love and encouragement on your assigned seats, little baskets full of your favorite foods and trinkets on your kitchen table...

You would have questioned it if you were not so consumed by your grief. At least the mystery offered a distraction.

"Another one," Ace comments, pulling a letter off your chair before you can sit on it. "Whoever this guy is, he's slick."

He hands you the letter, which you gracefully accept.

Deuce watches cautiously. "And you're sure it's not just... some kinda of prank, right? I've known my fair share of nasty types, this could be a trick."

"Too much effort," you shake your head. "I mean, whoever this is is spending a lot of time and money cheering me up. Not to mention... I've tried looking up some of these poems, and no matches. They're originals."

You wave around the letter in hand, a faint smile tugging at the corners of your lips. "Though, I'm sure whoever's doing it is just being nice,"

"Nice. Right," Ace rolls his eyes. "Cause I know like, a million teenage boys who are just dying to write poetry for their friends."

Even Deuce snickers at that. You roll your eyes.

"Point taken. I guess I just can't believe that anyone would want me after..." you pause. There's no pleasant way to put it, so you let Ace and Deuce fill in the blanks.

"Hey, Vil is a jerk. He doesn't deserve you," Deuce says. "And trust me, if I ever catch him disrespecting you again-"

Ace scoffs. "Woah, there, tiger. Calm down. Vil could kick your ass and we all know it,"

"He really was something, wasn't he?" you sigh, slumping in your seat. Ace and Deuce give each other a panicked look.

"We didn't mean-"

"No, I get it," you say, reaching down to the floor in an attempt to touch your toes. Vil had told you that little exercises help calm the nerves. You hate how you still need his advice.

"Oh, hey, look," you sit back up, another pink envelope in hand. "Another one."

---

There's something about these gifts that doesn't sit right with you.

Each one is arranged to perfection, obviously crafted by a very thoughtful individual, just personal enough to suit your tastes but distant all the same.

It's almost as if the sender is holding something back.

But, not today.

You're greeted by a trail of rose petals leading up to Ramshackle's front door, which itself is ajar. Not uncommon, considering Grim's inability to take care of the makeshift dorm, but with the scent of roses and the candlelight inside, you know it's something more.

You walk in, setting your things aside, and continue following the path of petals into the kitchen, where a rickety wooden table has been set for two.

You, however, are the only one in the room.

"Hello?" you ask, turning in circles. The space is empty, save for a small letter on one of the chairs.

Beautiful,

A little bird told me you doubt the intentions of my admiration. I must amend that immediately, and I see no better way than to say it myself.

Yours truly.

"Trickster," a familiar voice comes from the doorway behind you, and you whirl around to face your admirer.

"Rook!" you gasp, clutching the letter to your chest.

He beams in response. "Oui, c'est moi. Though I was so enjoying the mystery, I feel it's time I made my intentions clear. Sit, please,"

You don't hesitate to follow his suggestion (the surprise left your knees feeling weak, anyway), and he joins you in the adjacent seat.

"But what-"

"Please," he says, holding a finger to your lips to shush you. "Let me start. I first want to say that I have meant every single word, in song and ink, that I have given to you. My heart is true."

Your mind is overflowing with questions, none of which he seems keen on answering in full just yet.

"I have spent the past several months allowing our Beautiful Vil to woo you. I have so enjoyed watching your love blossom from afar, despite my own feelings towards you. But things have changed," Rook says.

"For as much as I love him, this was his own doing. He has made a fatal mistake, one which cannot be undone- he has wounded you, mon amour, in a most vulnerable fashion. Months ago, when we both realized our feelings for you, I willingly stepped aside," he says. "I thought Vil would be the best option for you. I thought I was not ready to commit myself. Now I see what a mistake that was, and I hope you might find it within yourself to forgive me..."

You can only stare back. "Rook..."

"I cannot resent our Roi du Poison for his choice, for it's his to make. But he hurt you dearly, and in the process, he has relinquished his claim on you. I know your wound is still fresh. But, please, Mon Trickster, mon véritable amour, be mine?"

You're silent for a moment, processing every detail of what he said, what he's offering...

He's right. The wound Vil created is still open, and despite the weeks of "recovery", had yet to improve.

If you kept waiting for it to heal, perhaps it never would.

You nod. "Okay. Okay! But-! Let's take it slow, okay?"

Rook just barely manages to stop himself from leaping across the table to take your hands into his, and he reaffirms your request with a nod.

"Of course, mon cœur. What is a hunter if not patient?"

---

Pomefiore is beautiful again.

There are still times where you swear you can see Vil staring at the two of you, a look of discontent on his face, from across the room.

He doesn't utter a word about the way Rook has his arm over your shoulder, or the many terms of endearment he uses on you, though he doesn't have to. The lingering guilt and regret has made a home for itself in Vil Schoenheit.

You're sure Rook has noticed by now, too, although this isn't the first time he's pulled something like this on the housewarden without a second thought, and it likely won't be the last.

Perhaps it's for the better.