#it was miserable and i still didn't get it in on time

[allhailklisz]

peer-reviewing these tags by @fuglyjeans

It’s so crazy that suicide prevention is just people going awwww don’t!! Awwww come on noooooooooo stopppppp

[thatlotuscookie]

jinu from kdh? it can be anything but maybe he goes too far with his teasing n u and him arent dating? and you actually feel hurt so he apologizes in his own, fluffy way

✧･ﾟ: a/n : ooh my GOODNESSS i love kdh. i watched it recently and im on my knees for part twoo PLZZZZ. love jinu and abbyy

✧ Title: ✧ Golden, huh? ✧ ✧ Characters: Jinu x Reader, Mentioned: Saja Boys, Huntrix, Bobby + Miraa n Zoey ✧ Genre: Enemies to Lovers, Idol AU, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort ✧ Rating: T ✧ Summary: As the leader of Huntrix, you're used to tough competition but when Saja Boys’ hit Your Idol, you've been overworking yourself to the brink of exhaustion, and when Jinu visits you while you practice one night, things just get tense. ✧ Content Warnings: Emotional teasing, mild injury (sprained ankle), idol rivalry, mutual jealousy, slowburn tension, fluff at the end !!

You’d been practicing alone for hours.

The studio was quiet except for the hum of the speaker and your own voice echoing off the mirrors. The chorus of Golden rang out again, soft and strained, as you pushed through the choreography one more time. You were tired. no, exhausted. but you couldn’t stop. Not now. Not after everything.

Not after Your Idol blew past Golden on every chart like it was nothing.

Saja Boys were everywhere. Their stage presence, their music, their absurd fan numbers. their stupid merch. It was all anyone talked about. Your girl group, Huntrix, was working hard, really hard, but it wasn’t enough. Not this time. And somewhere deep down, you knew it. But you weren’t ready to give up.

That’s when the door opened.

You didn’t look right away figured it was Bobby, or maybe Zoey and Mira checking on you. But then a familiar voice rang through the empty room. That stupidly cocky, know-it-all edge voice.

“Golden, huh?”

You froze, sweat dripping down your temple. You turned slowly, heart already sinking.

Jinu.

Of course.

There he was, leaning against the doorway with his usual smug expression, arms crossed pretentiously. His eyes flicked lazily over the studio, then back to you.

“Didn’t know this was a museum,” he said, stepping inside like he belonged in the damn room. “Didn’t realize people still practiced that one.”

You bit the inside of your cheek. “What do you want?”

He shrugged. “Just heard something down the hall. Thought maybe the ghosts of flop comebacks were haunting the place.”

Your jaw clenched.

He smiled wider, clearly enjoying himself. “Relax. I’m just saying, not everyone gets to have their song go viral. It’s not personal.”

You stared at him.

He didn’t even blink. “I mean, maybe it is. Better hook. Better choreo. Better group. It happens.”

And something in you cracked.

You didn’t cry. You didn’t scream. But your face sorta gave it away, your eyebrows furrowing just for a second.. That little shift in your eyes. The hurt. The frustration. The exhaustion suddenly starting to crash down on you.

Jinu saw it. He went quiet. Just stood there like he’d been slapped.

You didn’t give him the chance to backpedal or say sorry. You turned off the music, grabbed your stuff, and pushed past him with a cold, mumbled “Excuse me.”

He didn’t follow you, but he didn't forget that look on your face, either.

Later that night, you were limping down the stairs outside the building, ankle sore from the countless nights you spent practicing your choreography. Maybe a twist, maybe worse. You were alone. Hungry. Miserable. You hated that you let him get under your skin. Hated that his words stuck harder than the praise you’d gotten from your fans, and from Mira and Zoey.

You didn’t even notice the footsteps behind you until a voice muttered:

“Tch. You walk like an injured penguin.”

You spun around, glare loaded and ready. “Seriously? Again?”

Jinu stood at the foot of the stairs, hands in his pockets, frown tugging at his lips. But he didn’t look smug or pretentious this time. He looked… awkward.

“Didn’t think you’d actually hurt yourself,” he muttered. “Who am I kidding, you work too hard.”

You didn’t answer. Just turned to keep walking.

“Wait,” he said, tone shifting slightly. “Here.”

You blinked as he crouched down in front of you.

“…What are you doing?”

“I’m giving you a piggyback.”

“…What.”

“Your ankle’s jacked. Don’t make this weirder than it is.”

You stared at him, baffled. “Didn’t you say I was the ghost of a flop comeback, like, five hours ago?”

He winced. “Yeah. I was being a dick. I get it.”

Silence.

“Look,” he added, quieter now, “you looked… good. Earlier. When you were dancing. I didn’t expect that. It kinda pissed me off.”

You blinked. “Pissed you off?”

“Yeah,” he muttered. “'Cause you were actually really good. And I… didn’t want to admit it.”

There was a beat. You didn’t know what to say.

So you let yourself lean forward. Arms wrapped around his shoulders. He steadied you by the thighs, lifting you up with ease, your chin resting against his shoulder as he started to walk.

You could feel his heartbeat.

Could feel him tense and relax all at once.

“…You’re warm,” you whispered.

He rolls his eyes, sarcastically this timee. “Don’t get used to it.”

[seventeendeer]

it's easy to get emotionally invested in the main plot and characters of Deltarune, but I think one of those quiet little side stories that have fucked me up the most is what happened to Ramb. or didn't happen, I guess

like ... it's such a major theme of both Deltarune and Undertale that everyone has someone who would miss them if they were gone. no one is expendable, no matter how "unimportant" they seem from your perspective. it's one of the first major genre subversions that Undertale explicitly spells out for you

a major twist at the end of Undertale is that even Flowey has the capacity to miss someone who is gone. everyone is connected in some way, no one is truly alone. Deltarune elaborates on this theme; Susie is ostracized in the beginning, but Noelle always wanted to be closer with her, Toriel divorced Asgore, but she still prays for him, Carol is feared by those closest to her, but the town she runs appreciates her efforts, King is a tyrant, but Lancer still loves his dad despite everything, many people in Cyber World are afraid of Queen, but the Swatchlings are devoted to her, Jevil was close with Seam once. if the player allows it, even Tenna, defined by his loneliness and obsolescence, can go on to be exactly what someone else (Mettaton) needs. Tenna himself seems to miss Spamton on some level, who is otherwise widely hated.

but not one character is shown to care about Ramb, and when he "dies", a random colleague shrugs it off and says no one will miss him. and not because he was uniquely evil or anything, he was just kind of annoying and no one around him found a reason to look past it. Tenna's a shitty boss who actively abuses the power he holds over his world to make others' lives miserable, but he's also tragic and fun and charismatic, so those around him warm up to him despite his problems. when the Knight cuts him up, depending on circumstance, there will be people around him to fix him up again, or at least to mourn him.

this even extends to a meta level. Tenna's character is fully explored and his popularity with fans is through the roof. Ramb is a blip on the fandom's radar by comparison. we just don't get to know him that well, and he's just not that engaging. he's just some guy, friendly enough to us, but with much subtler characterization than most of the quirky personalities in this game. Tenna is loved in part because he has a huge, ugly, violent meltdown; it makes him exciting! relatable! Ramb never seems to directly hurt anybody. no doubt if he actually had been chapter 3's secret boss, as was hinted he might be before that pattern was subverted, he would have been more popular. but he wasn't the secret boss. really, there's no solid evidence he ever wanted anything except to help Kris in the only way he knew how.

I wonder if Kris cared about him. I want to say "of course they did" because he's an old item they used to love playing with come to life, but there are hints that Kris has a complicated relationship to the Darkners in general, so I actually don't want to say for sure. the player is compelled to care about Ramb at least a little because he's friendly to us and ultimately enables us, but we are not Kris, and the path Ramb enables the player to take is clearly emotionally distressing to Kris.

idk. there's just something about someone dying unloved and unmissed. not because they "deserve" it, but mostly out of happenstance. he didn't meet the right people for him. he was kind of aggravating and nothing about him was interesting or charming enough for anyone to want to look past it. after he's gone, the only person who takes note of his passing takes time out of their day to figuratively spit on his grave. in a story that is so warm and so full of love, where everyone is so connected, he just kind of ... slipped through the cracks

[urdeaddixon]

L O C K

prompt: getting locked in a room by mistake with your run partner daryl.

setting: prison era

warnings: fighting, name calling, blowjob, dom!daryl, kinda sub! fem reader (barely)

unedited work

word count: 3110

reminder, you are responsible for the media you consume! (+18 content)

4 hours and counting.

the lock on the damn door had been jammed for 4 hours, still not budging as you try to pull on it with all your might; ignoring the pain in your palms and fingers as you continued on.

"stupid lock," you mumble, "stupid door," annoyed, "stupid fucking pointless supply run." the rage consumed you as you slammed the lock against the door and walked away into the room you had found yourself trapped in, racking your fingers through your hair in frustration. you kicked a stray desk chair and watched as it spun to the opposite side of the room, not caring for the walkers that banged against the door at the sudden noise.

what was supposed to be a simple run to a veterinary clinic for medical supplies turned into a disaster, one wrong door leading to a flood of walkers chasing you and your partner, daryl, into an abandoned break room. the only thing that you had was a padlock to close the doors to prevent the dead corpses from making you their dinner. it was a spur of the moment decision that you thought would be a good one, but the rust inside the mechanism came back to bite you in the ass. big time.

"there ain't no point in loosin' your shit like that woman." daryl's raspy voice uttered out from the far corner of the room as his body leaned against one of the tables, irritation settling in as he eyed you down. it was as a surprise to him, seeing you like this, drastically different from the calm and mature woman you usually are. but something about your rage-induced state lit a fire in the pit of his stomach, seeing a side he never knew you had.

and though he was growing irritated, he couldn't help but imagine how hot it would be to get you to shut up with him in your mouth. the raised voice of banter seizing to be heard, instead being replaced by the sounds of your gags, the sounds of you taking him deep in your throat. but just as quick as he thought about that situation, he let it go, quickly covering the blush on his face by turning towards the boarded up window.

"well what am i meant to do?" you question, voice laced with anger. you didn't understand how the man before you could keep his cool. you're patience started running thin at the 2 hour mark. "the damn lock isn't budging and we've been fucking stuck for god knows how long, son of a bitch." you kicked the ground, watching as a cloud of dirt lifted off the tile and dispersed into the air.

"just relax until help comes," his response could've made your blood boil hotter than hell, like he wanted to piss you off —and maybe he did— but in a half-assed attempt to not explode on him you just rolled your eyes and plopped heavily down on the dusty ground with your arms crossed and stared at the cursed door. "there isn't anything we can do right now, unless you have a pair of bolt cutters?" he added. the way he was so calm was starting to piss you off more and he could definitely sense it.

"yeah, clearly," you rolled your eyes heavily and made sure he seen it, "like anyone would come anyways daryl, and yeah let me pull them outta my ass." with a voice laced with attitude, you pulled out your hunting knife and began cleaning it with the bottom of your tattered, rotten-blood soaked, tee. anything to pass the never-ending time. your every being was completely miserable, wanting nothing more than to summon the strength from somewhere to just break the door off the hinges.

"way-ta be positive." as your eyes shot towards him, squinted in a glare, you watch as he began to clean his crossbow. his tongue stuck out of the corner of his mouth as he concentrated, hair falling in front of his eyes, and his bicep muscles on full display, but even that bothered you. something about him just pissed you off today, made you want to fight with him. maybe even fuck him too just to get him to shut up, unbeknownst to you he wanted to do the same.

"there isn't anything positive about this situation." you mumble, face turning red as your anger —and now sexual frustration— grew more. all you wanted to do was gain a reaction from him, that's how bored you were. there was no reason to continue this conversation with daryl, however you couldn't get over the fact that he was so calm and collected. you wanted him to be just as miserable as you were.

"well maybe you shoulda been more careful," if looks could kill, daryl would be dead. "we wouldn't be in this situation if it weren't for you." you're eyes were now sending daggers towards him as you suddenly stood to your feet and stomped closer to the man, stopping right in front of him. he could feel the heat radiating off your body, beckoning him to draw nearer. to push you to the ground and shut you up like he thought earlier.

"if it weren't for me? nah we'd be chewed apart by those undead fucks, dixon," his last name rolled off your tongue with venom, using your pointer finger to poke his chest harshly, "don't you dare point the blame at me." your voice progressively got louder, attracting more walkers to bang on the door. as if daryl's arguing wasn't enough to get you going, with all the pent up frustration you could kill every single one of the undead members beyond the door.

"so you want me to lie?" he questions, "i'm tryna be optimistic, tryna pass the time and all you wanna do is argue and get your damn panties in a twist!" you could tell from the way he spoke, with a new found sense of bubbling anger and the way his tone rose to almost a yell, that you were getting what you suddenly wanted. however, with this new found emotion that you beckoned out of him, you found your neediness for him growing in between your legs.

daryl on the other hand couldn't help but to become more frustrated as you continued on and wouldn't drop the subject. the thought of being stuck in the room with you for another few hours seemed impossible now, growing to know that you won't give it up until you're out of here and back at the prison. how annoying.

he would just need to make his daydream of you on your knees a reality.

"i'm not saying for you to lie, but don't point the blame on someone who saved your ass!" you scowl, seething from between clenched teeth. if this was a cartoon, the smoke would be shooting out of your ears. despite the way you are feeling down south, you couldn't shake the vexation.

the gull that the redneck had to blame you after you saved the two of you without a second thought. yeah you opened the door without checking first, that was right. but how could anyone have known that many walkers would've been behind? in the end, however, you did save both your life and daryl's life. you would think he would be more proactive at helping you find a way out of this damn room, be more thankful too while he's at it.

"and you know, instead of sitting on your ass and cleaning that stupid bow, you could help me find a goddamn way out of here." the words fell from your mouth in a fit of rage, instantly gaining a reaction from daryl. his face set in a deadpanned glare, turning red as he slammed his crossbow down on the desk harshly. the sudden movement made you flinch, but the glare never faltered. how hot was this, the sight before you?

"you know i've had enough of your bratty ass attitude," his voice now seethed out, his face inches from yours. you hid a smirk as you were finally satisfied with his reaction. fucking miserable. fed up with you, just like you felt about him with his 'optimism'. "why don't you stop acting like a bitch, just shut the hell up and sit your ass down!" you couldn't deny that the way he spoke to you made you want to jump him even more than a few minutes ago, watching as the veins pop out in his neck just right. pathetic.

but little did you know that he felt bad. even though he didn't show it. he knew better than to talk to a woman like that, but he couldn't help it. the attitude that you had gained towards him over a situation he didn't even get the two of you in was intense. it was a drastic difference from the person he knew you as and what pissed him off the most was that he was amorous, wanting nothing more but to put his imagination to work. how you raged, like an animal in a cage. the way your chest fell up and down, how he could've sworn to hear your heart beating from within your slightly exposed chest was enough for him.

"if i'm a bitch what does that make you then? sitting there name calling at me like i did fuck-all to you!" you fire back immaturely, knowing that it'll only add fuel to his fiery rage. pressing his buttons was something that you never had done before, but you certainly would put yourself in this position again. the way his face was so red, the way his whole body tensed up, the way he even slammed his bow down aggressively just moments ago. fuck.

"nah, ya' just got me trapped in'ere with the likes of you." he spat coldly, not being able to help himself as his face got closer to yours. the air suddenly felt hot, too hot. his words should've stung, should've broke your little heart, but they didn't and he gathered it fairly quickly. instead they sent bone-rattling, spine tingling, shivers throughout your entire body. you felt yourself inhale sharply without warning and shuffle your feet as if you were growing inpatient.

"i'm sorry that i make you so miserable," you began, not genuinely meaning the apology, "but if you want me to shut up, than make me." you try your best to sound threatening —to sound daring— though the way he had you melting before him made it hard. you could feel yourself shaking at the knees, though you fought hard to keep your composure as you used your hands to brace yourself against the table that was now behind you. the metal was cold against your palms, a nice change from the heat that radiated everywhere else.

"the walkers out there should be enough for you to shut up, don't go demanding me," his voice was eerily calm and his tone low to almost a whisper, yet held so much tension. the way he took a step forward, pressing you against the table further as his threatening demeanour increased and his face grew inches away from yours. enough to make your brain go empty, despite the dirty thoughts that were rampaging through it. "but i think i got an idea."

your heart rate increased more if that was even possible, your body temperature going up with it as he wraps his fingers in the hair that lay innocently at the back of your head. he pushed you forward into him, his lips against yours in an instant; as if he was letting all of his anger out into the kiss. there was nothing gentle about the way he was working you through, more so teeth and tongue than anything else and it made you react with a moan into his mouth.

your hands let go of the table behind you to grip daryl's collar, causing you to crash into it harshly. the loud screeching of metal against tile flooring was enough to gain further attention from the walkers but you could care less. if anything it edged you on further as you ran your hands down the front of his torso, down to his belt buckle. you were growing even more impatient as your core began aching with the need of him.

but before you could even get the buckle undone his free hand grabbed yours and pushed it away, an animalistic growl omitting from deep within his throat as if he was warning you without any words. but you still persisted, moving your hands back to the buckle. as if your defiance against him wasn't done from earlier. and maybe it wasn't, maybe you still wanted to pick a fight. the reaction it withdrew from him was too good, the yelling and slamming going straight to your dripping core.

to your dismay he pulled away from the sultry kiss, lips shinning and puffy, "you still wanna try an'fight even now?" his voice was firm, anger visibly coming back as his eyebrows furrow and his neck muscles tighten as he clenches his jaw. his breathing was unsteady, chest rising and falling as he fought to catch his breath.

"what if i did?" you asked, tone matching his. you tried your best to steady your breathing as well, focusing on pressing your legs together for some sort of friction as your ache grows with each passing minute.

"hmm," he hums as he untangles his thick digits from your hair and uses them to grab your cheeks, squeezing lightly as you gave him your best doe eyes, "i guess i'll have to give ya a reason not to, give ya somethin' that'll zip tha' bratty mouth a'yours." his words, like music to your ears, drew a moan from your throat. one that resembled need and want.

"like what?" your voice was sultry, smooth like butter. but the question was not needed, you knew what he was talking about; what he was going to do. and you were all for it.

"get on your knees an'i'll show ya." and you knew exactly what it was, right away.

without hesitation, without any fight, a smirk found its way upon your lips as you got down to your knees; now eye level with the erection in daryl's pants. you licked your lips greedily and stared up at him as his hands moved quickly to undo his belt, quickly discarding his clothes from the waist down.

a light moan escapes your lips as your hand moves up, gripping the base of his cock and stroking it gently; earning you a throaty moan as daryl bucks his hips involuntarily. the feeling of your hand on him alone was enough to nearly send him over the edge, he was only imagining what your mouth could do. but that wasn't for long, as you parted your lips and licked from his base to his tip, beginning to suck gently on it.

"fuck..." he mumbles, dragging the word out as his head falls back and his eyes close. his thick fingers tangled into your hair, pulling gently with much restraint.

his reaction encourages you, drawing you in as you take more of him in your mouth until you couldn't take anymore. your hand pumps whatever you couldn't fit in your mouth as you begin picking up the pace, using your tongue to swirl around the thick vein on the back of his cock. his moans and hisses of pleasure were like music to your ears as you felt him push and pull your head against him.

"that's it darlin', finally shuttin' up with this cock in your mouth," voice sultry, tone low, daryl's words went straight to your pulsing clit. "couldn't stop thinkin' about this, about you zippin' that mouth with me..." you moan against him, the vibration making his knees nearly buckle. he only pushes your head further down on him, making you gag as your eyes watered.

"like music to my ears." he growled, pulling against your hair once again.

to think that daryl had been thinking about this was indeed something. something that made you proud inside, the meant that you got under his skin and into his mind. maybe towards his dick too. but right now, as your knees burned against the dirt covered tile, as your scalp pulsed with every pull of your hair, and as his tip kept hitting the back of your throat with force, you couldn't be happier.

maybe this needed to happen, maybe your future self was rewarding you for putting the two of you in this situation. and you thanked her, over and over and over again. each drip of saliva down your chin, each squelching sound that came from between your lips and his cock, each throb of your clit, you were thanking her for.

"fuck, where did you learn this from? gonna make me cum already darlin'." his voice pulled you out of you thoughts as you looked up at him, only to find him looking down at you. watching you as if you were the world to him right now, and you hoped that deep down you would find yourself in this predicament more.

but as you felt him twitch inside your mouth you began to go faster, tightening your grip on him and hollowing your cheeks out more; earning a tight pull against your hair and the sight of daryl's mouth gapping open, eye brows furrowing, eyes squeezing shut as he finally released— cumming hard enough for you to swallow immediately as you kept going, riding out his high.

"holy fuck." he breathed out as you finally pulled away, using your thumb to catch anything that spilt from your lips and down your chin— sucking it clean afterwards as if you couldn't get enough.

"maybe i should argue with you more often." you smirked up at him, watching as he catches his breath.

but before he could say anything more you hear the sudden sound of familiar voices calling out to you and daryl followed by bodies hitting the ground and the whizz of silenced rounds being shot off. you immediately stood to your feet and brushed off your knees and shins, staring at your partner as he dresses himself with a smug look on his face.

"what'd i tell ya?"

—

hey guys! it’s be a long time, had this one in the drafts for a while and figured i had the time to finish it. kinda rushed the ending but i think it’s alright!

thank you for reading!!

-urdeaddixon <3

[cinnamoqnscent]

.ೃ࿔.𖥔 ݁ ˖*:･༄ sickly sweet .ೃ࿔.𖥔 ݁ ˖*:･༄

During your last training session with Megumi, a bad storm caught you both while you were outside and due to Megumi saying it was fine to stay outside and carry on sparing. He fell ill with a fever from the rain and cold, so now you were in his dorm taking care of a very sick Megumi.

“You don’t need to fuss, I'm fine” he said dryly as he repositioned the wet flannel on his forehead, his mild coughing gave it away that he was NOT fine. “Your not fine, you have a really high fever and you keep coughing like a chainsmoker”

You said as you rummaged around his dorm for some sort of medicine, “do you have any medicine in your dorm?” Megumi let out a weary sigh, his eyes half closed as his hair was sprawled all over his navy blue pillow, “no i don’t think so..” he let out a raspy cough.

He attempted to sit up only to be pushed back down by your hands. “Ill go see if shoko or someone has any medicine" you kissed his cheek before leaving his room. Megumi's cheeks flushed a deep pink as he watched you leave. He sat there with a conflicted expression, his forehead still resting on the cool flannel. His fingers tracing the outline of the affectionate kiss you had left.

It took you 20 minutes to find someone with medicine and you slowly went back to your bed ridden boyfriend with the medicine and water, and also some bread. As you re-entered his room, Megumi's gaze shifted. “I thought you died," he said, his voice slightly raspy.

He shifted position, sitting up slightly, and his stomach growled at the sight of the bread.

“Sorry megs, literally no one had any medicine" you handed him the small bottle of medicine with water and placed the bread on his bed.

He happily took the medicine and almost drank the whole bottle of water, he slowly started picking at the bread. You moved to sit next to him on his bed, you pulled out your computer from your bag to watch some movies with your sick patient beside you. “Are you feeling any better?” you said looking up at him from your computer screen

”not really” He said as he coughed “this sucks”. You looked at him sympathetically “it’ll get better soon megs”

You soon scooted up next to him and put on the Jurassic park films. Megumi sat on his bed, his back leaning against the headrest, with a small, rare smile on his lips. He had to admit, it felt nice to be pampered. Normally, he would have pushed you away, preferring solitude over affection. Yet here he was, watching the iconic film series with you. The rain soon started to patter against the window, the sound a soothing backdrop to the movie.

“You don’t have to look after me you know?” he said quietly, keeping his eyes on the film, “hm? I want to” you said while looking up at him, his hair was a mess and his face was a light pink colour. Megumi rolled his eyes at your response, your kindness and warm heart was one thing he loved most about you, “you’re a kind person..” he mumbled while you leaned up and kissed his cheek Megumi's blush deepened as your lips touched his cheek. He tried to act nonchalant, to hide the fluttering of his heart, but he was failing miserably.

"Stop that," he protested weakly, "I'm sick, you know. You're taking advantage of my current state to be affectionate."

You just laughed at him before smothering him in kisses, Megumi protested a few more times, but there was no real fight. Your relentless affection was making it impossible for him to remain stoic and indifferent. He let out a defeated sigh and allowed you to smother him with hugs and kisses. Deep down, he knew he wanted this, even if he'd never admit it out loud.

"You're insufferable," he muttered, his arms wrapping around your waist. “Am not” you said before kissing him properly, Megumi's eyes widened slightly at the unexpected kiss, but he didn't pull away. Instead, he deepened the kiss, his hand gently cupping your face.

He tried to resist, to remind himself of his pride, but you had a way of melting his defenses. The rain continued to patter against the window, but the only sound Megumi focused on was the taste of your lips.

He drew away just enough to whisper, "Insufferably sweet," his voice raspy and slightly hoarse. "I'm gonna blame you if i get sick" you whispered while leaning your head onto his warm forehead, "Me?" Megumi feigned innocence, his eyes gleaming with a mischievous glint. "You're the one who voluntarily kissed an ill person. I think the blame lies with you." He shifted, pulling you closer so that you were half-resting on his chest.

Megumi slowly got better after a few days of bed rest and was his normal aloof self….you on the other hand got the same thing Megumi had, now it was his turn to take care of a sick you, in his mind you were a lot more whinier when sick…but he never said that.

[doubledeadstudio]

So, you guys are probably curious… What is the future of Reanimated Heart in its current state?

I've been quiet about this for a while because I wanted to get a bulk of my work done. Considering I'm working on the last and final Chapter One update, I am now formally announcing that the whole of Chapter One will still be uploaded in public for free.

Considering harassment issues I've experienced, however, I will only be doing it when Chapter One is fully wrapped up. That means that it'll be after the next update and after a final polish. I'm uncertain when I'll be done with all this, but my hope is to put it up in December on the same date the initial demo was posted.

After that, what then?

When I initially created Reanimated Heart, it was with the intent that it was going to be a very longform, serialized thing.

For context, before I started getting into game dev, I was a freelance artist with a background on Language and Literature. I did my best to post art to please an algorithm, but my true passion was writing. I wanted to write stories and novels, but the exhaustion of drawing and vying for some sort of online influence was draining to me.

I concluded that this type of work flow was 1) Psychologically damaging and unnatural, and 2) ultimately, unsatisfying.

Even when I had pieces that would do well, it didn't make me feel good because my heart wasn't in it because I had no time to make the things I wanted to make, I had no time to do what I actually wanted, which was to craft stories about my precious characters that I've had for years and were near and dear to my heart.

And then, I decided to create something that was, essentially, antithetical to this ritualistic pattern of clout chasing I've developed… and that was Reanimated Heart.

Given my background in Literature, I was very fixated on the concept of creating a "visual novel" in a serialized format, like how certain novels used to be published. (For example, Victor Hugo's Les Miserables is only as long as it is because it's a story told in a by chapter format over a long period of time.) I thought that, if visual novels were really to be novels too, then it should be allowed to function in a way novels used to.

I also had this belief that, despite the never ending barrage of corporate shortform content vying for the attention economy, there's always going to be a part of human beings that yearned for something personal, emotionally intricate, and created over a long period of time. People want to invest in something. They want to learn about characters and the settings they live in, follow elaborate plotlines, and watch mysteries unfold. At least when I immerse myself in stories, I want it to really grip my attention like nothing else and have it live in my mind like it has a home there. And so, when I decided to make the game, I decided to stay the course of my original intentions and publish it on a semi-regular basis, with enough content to justify the months of work. I have my update schedule to prove it.

After years of working on RH, my belief has been proven completely correct. More and more people discover it over the long time period, and many of them react like I thought they would… They want to know about the characters, the plot, and the lore. They want more length and more secrets to discover, and I'm more than happy to provide that.

And so, I'll be continuing this update schedule, just in Patreon until the base game's full release in different platforms because, like I said, as much as I want to provide this content for free, its costs and the constant harassment isn't enough to justify uploading it for free.

But, because I've chosen to do this format, I've been asked…

Is this just a grift to get people to invest in your Patreon?

I have been accused of this by many people, including some devs in the so-called "yandere" VN space. Let me make this very clear now…

I am losing more money making this game than not making it.

Before I decided to make this game, I had more time to focus on doing freelance work which earned me significantly more money on a monthly basis. By focusing on gamedev, I've lost a significant amount of my regular clients. Not only that, I also put a significant amount of the budget on other contractors (such as music from Claira, art from Tay, and voice actors) and I've also put other career prospects on pause.

So, why even make something that just loses me money and invites harassment from entitled "fans" anyway?

Passion, as lame as it sounds. This is something that I want to make and earnestly believe in, something that I'll be satisfied with making later in my life. With each update, I'm thrilled by how much the narrative blossoms on the screen as much as you are. I can't keep putting money incentive over my art, because I'll end up right back where I started, which is chasing a number either in followers or my bank account. This isn't even remotely about the money for me. I will keep making this until it finishes or I die randomly.

I want to make something I'm proud of for myself. Signing up for the Patreon is more just about ensuring I can make the highest quality of game possible.

Now that I've made my intentions clear, let me get to some FAQ…

I don't agree with this model you've chosen for the game. It still feels like a grift. How do we know you mean what you say?

Check my update schedule.

I've been consistent and I intend to continue being consistent. When I stop being consistent, then you should react like a responsible consumer and stop supporting the project. If I stop intending to upload, I will make a formal announcement here, in the page, and on Patreon anyway.

If you want the updates but don't want to pay me, there are ways of getting it for free by being active in the server community.

If you only want to pay full price for the game, then wait until it's done.

And if you really don't want to pay anything at all, then don't do it. I am not forcing you to pay anything.

Can I pay only when there's an update?

Yes, that's always allowed. No, I don't think that's scummy. Everyone should be able to do whatever they want with their money.

How long is the time period between updates?

My intent has always been 3-4 months between updates. Usually updates take me a month and a half to write, then a similar timeframe for assets and coding. There are also some stuff irl that I can't help, so I put that leeway there.

Will you let us Subscribe on other platforms?

Yes, but I'm still looking into it. I'm going to do research on what the best websites are for this. I'm going to be looking into Ko-Fi soon.

Will you still be making other games?

Yes! But their uploads will be random and sporadic.

I know there are a lot of people wondering about the drastic genre leaps with my other games (coughs Another Rose coughs), but my justification is that, while I view Reanimated Heart as the novel, my other games are more like… short stories. If you've ever read a Stephen King novel and then get shocked by how random his short stories are, well, that's about the same logic I have. My "other games" are less thoughtful, sprawling stories like Reanimated Heart, and more like experiments for me to break out of my shell and have fun. While some short stories get sequels, others don't. They're pretty non-committal.

Will you ever be opening Reanimated Heart's comment section again?

Yes, I will open it again when Chapter One is finished and uploaded. I only turned it off because people annoyed me so much that I didn't want to work on it. You guys can have discussions again when I'm not releasing updates publicly anymore.

...

I hope this puts a lot of your questions to rest. If there's more, send them to my Inbox and I will add them here.

[writingsoftarnishedsilver]

Almost, Always | Sebastian Sallow x Reader

Chapter Two

← Previous Chapter Next Chapter →

A story of almosts, maybes, and finallys. You and Sebastian Sallow have loved each other for years, just never at the right time.

Words: ~2,500

Series Tags: Modern AU, Post-Hogwarts, Auror!Sebastian Sallow, Cursebreaker!MC, Modern Magical AU, Female Reader Insert, Mid-Size / Plus-Size Female Protagonist, Friends to Lovers, Long-Term Mutual Pining, Slow Burn Romance, Missed Timing, Second Chances, Grief and Recovery, Hurt/Comfort, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Body Image Issues, Fluff, Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending

Content Warnings: Sexual Assault, Trauma, Abortion (Non-Descriptive), Strong Emotional Themes

Chapter Track: Wish You Were Here, Pink Floyd

Special thanks to @sunnyrealist for beta-ing the plot of this story and @dreamy-gal-30 for beta-ing the chapter drafts! I could not do this without you!

Sebastian, Age 19

Sebastian's boots echoed off the slick cobblestones as he turned the corner near Diagon Alley, wand loose in his hand, shoulders hunched against the London drizzle. The fog had settled in again, clinging to every lamp post like it was trying to smother the city. It was cold, damp, and miserably grey.

"This is what I get for scoring top marks," he muttered under his breath. "To be a glorified hallway monitor."

He was on patrol. Low-stakes, boring, uneventful. Nothing but puddles and pigeons for company. Still, he went through the motions—checking alley mouths, scanning corners, making a show of alertness for the benefit of no one. His breath fogged in the air, and he clenched his jaw to keep from shivering.

It had been almost a year since he last saw you in person.

You were supposed to be here. You. Him. Ominis. The three of you had talked about it like it was fate. But when it came time to sign the Auror contracts, you'd backed out. Signed on for a Cursebreaker apprenticeship halfway across the world, instead.

Sebastian didn’t know what hurt more—that you’d left in the first place, or that he didn't understand why.

He slowed near a bench just outside Flourish & Blotts, pulled his phone from his pocket, and stared at the screen.

No new messages.

Not that he’d expected one.

You never had proper reception. Not in the mountains of Peru or the ruins outside Petra or wherever you’d ended up this week. Half your messages came through hours or days late, sometimes sent three times in a row when your connection finally caught up.

Sebastian still read every one the second it arrived, though.

He thumbed through your chat thread. It was miles long with a thousand half-finished conversations, stupid memes, pictures of cursed artifacts you’d found on digs, and voice memos sent at odd hours. Yet, somehow, it still never felt like enough.

Impulsively, Sebastian hit record.

“It’s miserable out tonight," he started. "Proper swamp weather. Nearly slipped on wet moss outside a pub earlier and broke my arse in front of a delivery guy. Very dignified Auror moment.”

He started walking again, keeping his voice low and casual.

“Anyway. I’m on central patrol this week, so that’s exciting. If by exciting you mean soul-crushingly boring. You know what this job really needs? A mandatory tea break. Maybe with biscuits. The good kind, too. Not the dry ones Ominis keeps buying ‘because they were on sale.’”

He paused as the rain began to pick up again, slicking his curls to his forehead.

“London’s bloody dull without you, Cursebreaker. Place feels off-balance or something. Like it’s missing… I don’t know. Its charm.”

A breath. He almost said you, but didn’t.

“I miss your voice,” he muttered, then immediately added, “Your updates, I mean. Voice memos.”

He cringed at himself, then scrubbed a hand through his hair, letting the phone fall to his side for a moment before lifting it again.

“Anyway. Message back if you don’t get eaten by a vault. Or cursed. Or married to a desert spirit or whatever it is you lot do out there.”

He hit send before he could change his mind. And then, like a bloody idiot, he played one of your old voice notes just to hear your voice again. You were laughing about a cursed lamp in Romania that kept turning itself upside down. Something about it "throwing shade" in the most literal sense. He'd heard it a dozen times by now, maybe more.

He closed his eyes for a second, letting the sound settle deep in his chest. It didn’t fix the cold. Didn’t fix the ache that had taken up permanent residence somewhere just behind his ribs. But it helped.

And then, just like that, the moment passed.

Sebastian tucked his phone back into his coat, adjusted his wand holster, and kept walking, jaw tight. The streets were still, save for the occasional flicker of movement in a shop window or a cat darting across the street.

By the time he got home later that night, the drizzle had soaked through his coat. He let himself inside and kicked off his boots in the narrow entry.

The place was cozy but chaotic. Hoodies were draped over chairs, books were stacked two and three high on every surface. One of Ominis’s records was spinning lazily on the old player in the corner.

Sebastian shrugged off his coat and slung it over the back of the couch, glancing toward the kitchen table.

There it was. Your postcard. The newest one.

Ominis must have grabbed it from the mailroom.

He walked over and picked it up. It was from Morocco. The cardstock was sun-bleached at the edges, like it had soaked in the heat of the place it came from. A photograph of winding alleyways and vibrant market stalls stretched across the front.

Sebastian turned it over.

Don’t trust the carpets here. They bite.

You’d signed it with your usual scrawl and your usual little drawing. This time, it was a snarling rug with big eyes and stubby fangs.

He smiled despite himself. Then he walked to his bedroom and pinned it on the mirror next to all the others. There were so many now he could hardly see his reflection anymore, but he didn’t move them.

They were like breadcrumbs, proof that you still existed in his world, even if only in pieces of parchment and ink.

Some of them were wrinkled from being carried too long in a pocket. A few were stained with tea or rain. One still smelled faintly of firewood. And every single one bore your name in that loopy, impatient script followed by a silly little doodle.

He stared at the newest addition, its corner brushing up against one from Greece. You’d drawn a cyclops in a sunhat on that one.

Sebastian’s throat tightened.

He hadn’t seen you in person in a year. Hadn’t heard your laugh in real time, hadn’t had to argue with you over who got the last biscuit or listen to you mutter under your breath while you annotated your notes or corrected his with that annoying little “actually” voice you used when you knew you were right and wanted him to know it too.

He missed that. Missed you.

The real you. Not the ghost that lived in postcards and voice memos and a dozen shared memories he couldn’t stop replaying. Not the version he built up in his head at night when he lay in bed and tried to imagine what your hair looked like in Egypt, or whether you still wore that jumper with the frayed cuffs when it got cold.

He didn’t want breadcrumbs. He wanted the whole thing. The full story. The truth about why you left and why you stayed gone.

He fell back onto his unmade bed, eyes drifting to the ceiling as the ache in his chest deepened.

Sebastian was about to go over it again. That conversation in the Undercroft. The one where you’d told him you’d changed your mind and you weren’t joining the Auror program after all. That you'd been offered something else, a Cursebreaker apprenticeship, a chance to travel, to learn, to do something different.

He was right there again, the phantom of that moment wrapping around him like a noose—“It’s not that I don’t want to, Bas. It’s just… I have to see what this becomes”—but then the front door creaked open and shut.

Boots. A coat being shrugged off. The telltale click of the record player being turned down.

Then footsteps padded down the hallway.

The bedroom door creaked open, and Ominis stepped inside, arms crossed, brows lifted in that way that said he was preparing a lecture.

“You’re lying on top of the covers again,” he said evenly. “Which either means you’re procrastinating laundry, or you’re back on your mopey warpath. Judging by the smell of wet wool and despair, I’m guessing the latter.”

Sebastian didn’t move. “Good to see you too, sunshine.”

"So you got the postcard."

Sebastian didn’t answer. Just let out a long, tired exhale.

Ominis sighed. “You know, for someone who insists she’s just your best friend, it’s a bit strange you’ve got twenty-three of those things pinned up like religious icons.”

"Who's counting." Sebastian muttered.

“You,” Ominis replied dryly.

Sebastian let out a frustrated sound, somewhere between a sigh and a groan. “You don’t get it.”

"No?" Ominis stepped further into the room, pulling out the desk chair and flipping it backward before sitting with his arms crossed on the top. “Enlighten me, then. Because I'm pretty sure she's my best friend too, Sebastian, but I haven't got a bloody shrine to her on my mirror.”

Sebastian rolled his eyes. “It’s not a shrine.”

“Oh no, of course not,” Ominis said, deadpan. “It’s a completely normal, emotionally detached collection of travel correspondence from the girl you’re definitely not in love with.”

Sebastian flopped back onto the bed with a groan and covered his face with one arm.

"Look, I miss her, alright? Is that what you wanted me to say?"

“No."

Sebastian dragged his arm off his face and sat up. “Fine. I’m in love with someone who’s halfway across the bloody world and barely returns my messages. Happy?”

“Yes!” Ominis said, throwing his hands up. “Because it’s true! Everyone knows it! Hell, the portrait downstairs in the lobby probably knows it, and he’s stuck in 1762. Everyone knows except maybe her. Though frankly, I'd be shocked if she hasn’t figured it out by now."

Sebastian leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like it might hold some kind of answer. “If she knew and she ever felt the same, she would’ve stayed.”

Ominis sighed. "Feelings are messy, Sebastian. You’ve got her floating somewhere between saint and myth but she’s a person. She gets scared and bleeds just like everyone else."

Sebastian didn’t say anything.

“You want to know what I think?" Ominis leaned forward. "I think she loved you. But I also think you spent your time screwing around with Samantha Dale and she didn’t know how to come back from that.”

Sebastian’s jaw clenched. “That’s not true.”

Ominis raised an eyebrow. “How do you think you'd have felt if she spent her time shagging Leander?"

Sebastian visibly recoiled. “That’s disgusting.”

“Exactly,” Ominis said, voice dry.

“...Samantha and I weren’t serious,” Sebastian muttered eventually, but it sounded pathetic even to his own ears.

“That doesn’t matter.” Ominis shook his head. “You can’t fuck someone else and expect the girl you actually want to wait around until you finally grow a pair and confess your feelings."

Sebastian stood up, restless. He paced across the room, running a hand through his hair. “What do you want me to do, then? Send a dramatic owl apologizing? Apparate halfway across the world and declare myself like some tragic protagonist in a shitty romance novel?”

“Well for starters,” Ominis said, arms still folded. “I want you to stop trying to shag the feelings out of your system.”

Sebastian scoffed. “Oh, come on, Samantha and I broke up a year ago—”

“—and how many girls have there been since?” Ominis cut in sharply. “Don’t play dumb, Sebastian. And it’s not just about your emotional masochism. At this point, it’s logistical. I never know when I’m going to walk into the kitchen and find some half-dressed stranger rifling through our pantry or asking me how I make my coffee blind.”

Sebastian blinked. “Have they actually asked that?"

“Twice. Once last month, and once two weeks before that."

Sebastian scrubbed a hand down his face, groaning. “Merlin, I’m sorry.”

“She asked if I needed help finding the cream,” Ominis said with the tone of a man long-suffering. “I told her the only thing I needed was for her to leave.”

Sebastian wheezed. “That’s brutal.”

“Necessary,” Ominis countered. “Especially considering the fact that every single one of them looks or sounds like her."

Sebastian stilled.

"Height, hair, voice, laugh. One of them even had that same ridiculous habit of talking with her hands like she was trying to conduct an orchestra.”

Sebastian stared at the floor, jaw tight.

"Look," Ominis said with a sigh. “I’m not saying this to be cruel. It's just it feels like your holding auditions for a poor man’s version of the girl you actually want. But trust me when I say you’re not sleeping your way out of this. You're not going to find her in these strangers, Sebastian."

“I’m not trying to make it harder," Sebastian dropped onto the edge of the bed again with a sigh. "I’m just— what else am I supposed to do, Ominis? She left. She didn’t tell me why. She’s off in whatever ancient tomb or mountain or market, living her life, and I’m supposed to just… what? Sit here and pine?”

“Yes,” Ominis said, dry as dust. “With a modicum of grace, preferably.”

Sebastian shot him a look. “You are the worst therapist.”

Ominis smiled, faint and fond. “Only because I’ve had eight years of practice dealing with you.”

Sebastian snorted. “That sounds like grounds for sainthood.”

“Or institutionalization,” Ominis said with a lopsided grin. “But we’ll see which comes first.”

Sebastian dropped his head into his hands. Ominis let the quiet settle between them for a moment, then leaned forward, voice softening just slightly.

“She didn’t leave because she didn’t care.”

Sebastian lifted his head, brow furrowed. “You don’t know that.”

“I do,” Ominis said firmly. “I know her. And I know you. And you two were never casual about each other."

The silence that followed stretched long and taut between them, full of all the things Sebastian couldn’t bring himself to say out loud. The sound of the rain tapping faintly against the windowpane filled the space instead.

Eventually, Ominis stood up slowly, brushing nonexistent lint from his trousers. “Come on,” he said, tone lighter now. “Let’s go get a pint. You look like you need one, and I definitely do after all this emotional labor.”

Sebastian huffed a laugh. “You really know how to lift a bloke’s spirits.”

“It’s one of my many gifts,” Ominis said, already heading for the door. “You’ve got five minutes to put on a clean shirt or I’m going without you.”

The door clicked shut behind him. Sebastian didn’t move right away. Just sat there on the edge of the bed, staring at the carpet.

Then, with a quiet exhale, he reached for his phone to open your text conversation.

The voice memo he’d sent earlier still sat unopened. He typed out a text anyway.

Got the postcard. Still can’t decide if that doodle’s supposed to be adorable or a direct threat. Either way, Morocco looks insane.

He paused, then added.

Miss your voice, Cursebreaker. Even the ‘actually, Sebastian…’ tone.

He hit send, slipped the phone back into his pocket, and changed into a clean shirt before following Ominis out the door.

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Banner Credit

[sturnfever]

──────── ⤷ ✶ ; ATTENTION

⚠︎ sub!chris, dom!reader, orgasm denial, humiliation, degradation, punishment, name-calling (slut, pathetic), crying, no aftercare.

you're halfway through your afternoon when it happens—mind somewhere else, scrolling through your feed without thinking, barely aware of what you're even looking at until his face flashes across your screen. it's chris, looking the way he does when he knows people are watching. hoodie sleeves pushed up, chain around his neck catching the low bedroom light, curls tousled like he just woke up from a nap you should've been in with him.

the camera pans, slow and deliberate, his expression that practiced mixture of bored and fuck-me eyes. he's smirking before the video cuts, the kind of smirk that belongs on someone already in trouble. and the comments—god, the comments. they're full of it.

dozens, hundreds of people thirsting for him. "you wanna ruin my life?" "i'm on my knees." "give me 5 minutes and a hair tie." worse than that—he's replying. you see his handle under messages that say "i'd let you do anything to me," and he's responding with "don't tempt me."

your jaw clenches, thumb pausing mid-scroll. you don't even realize you're texting him until the message is already sent: "you're real bold today." it says delivered. then read. and he doesn't reply. when you swipe to his location, that little dot hasn't moved from his house all day. home. comfortable. smug. still online and ignoring you. that's when you move.

you're in your car without thinking, the drive quick and silent, your anger humming under your skin like static. the front door's unlocked when you get there, and you walk in without knocking. matt's lounging on the couch beside nick, both of them mid-movie, and they barely register your presence—just flick their eyes up at you like they know better than to ask what's going on.

"where is he?" your voice is calm, even. nick doesn't look away from the screen. "downstairs. hasn't moved all day." and that's all you need. your feet move on instinct, stomping down the basement steps with every ounce of weight you can put behind them. the door creaks open, and there he is—chris, laid out on his bed like a fucking centerfold, phone in hand, eyes catching the blue light from the led strips above his head.

his body tenses when he sees you, but then he straightens up like he thinks he can charm his way out of this, that lazy smirk creeping onto his face like it always does when he's feeling himself. "hi, mama," he starts, voice light, casual, like he didn't just post thirst bait for the entire internet. "was jus' gonna call—"

"shut the fuck up," you snap, and his mouth clicks shut so fast you hear his teeth knock. his whole body freezes like he knows what's coming but still thinks he might survive it. you step into the room and pull your phone from your pocket, scrolling until you reach the video. your eyes stay locked on his the whole time, watching him watch you, watching the realization flood his face in slow-motion horror as the thumbnail appears.

"this?" you say, voice like ice. "you wanna act like a fuckin' slut?" he shakes his head, stumbling over himself. "i-it was just a joke—i didn't mean—i wasn't thinkin'—"your grip catches his jaw, fingers squeezing hard enough to make his eyes go wide. "didn't think?" you repeat, slow and venomous. "you had time to reply to every bitch calling you daddy, but you couldn't answer my fuckin' text?" he swallows hard, cheeks flushed, guilt radiating off him in thick, miserable waves. you see it all—how fast his confidence crumbles, how deep the shame runs, how wet his lashes already look. he's pathetic. and he's hard. even now.

"strip." the word lands like a punch. his hands shake when he obeys, dragging his hoodie off with fumbling fingers, shirt riding up beneath it. the sweats slide down next, slow and clumsy, and when the boxers follow, he's already half-hard. it twitches up toward his stomach with zero shame, the head flushed and leaking like he's been waiting for this, like his body is too eager to care about being punished.

your mouth curls as you look him over. "fuckin' pathetic," you murmur. "you're already hard, and i haven't even touched you. you like being in trouble, don't you? like gettin' punished for acting out?" his breath catches, a whine in his throat, eyes glassy as he nods. "y-yeah," he chokes, "i-i do, m'sorry, m'sorry, i jus'—i wanted you to see me—i wanted your attention—fuck—"

your voice cuts clean through his rambling. "sit." he moves instantly, scrambling to the edge of the bed, legs spread on instinct. you guide his knees wider, palms firm on the inside of his thighs until he's fully exposed and helpless, dick flushed and angry-looking between his legs. "hands behind you. hold yourself up. don't move unless i say." he braces himself on his palms, head already tipped back, chest rising in quick, shallow breaths. he's dripping.

you slide your hand over him, slow and cruel, the lightest touch possible. his hips jump immediately, a gasp catching in his throat, and you're off him just as fast. "what the fuck did i just say?" you tilt your head. "s-sorry," he breathes, already falling apart. "i-i didn't mean to—i'll stay still, i promise—please, please—"

you hum, slow and mocking, and pull out your phone again. the comments roll past like poetry, filth in every line. "god, imagine riding that nose." you stroke him once. he moans, high and soft. "he's so cocky, i'd ruin him." another stroke. he whimpers, thighs twitching. "bet he sounds so pretty when he begs." you glance up, eyes burning into him. "prove them right," you whisper. "let's hear it."

and he does—he breaks. sobs bubbling up from his chest like a flood, tears already tracking down his cheeks as he chokes out broken, slurred pleads. "p-please, fuck, please, i'll be good—i'll never do it again, i-i promise, i'll delete everything—jus' wan' cum, please, i need it—i-i need you, please, i can't—i can't—"

you straddle his lap and wrap your hand around him again, but this time you stay still, cock trapped in your grip, leaking and throbbing with zero friction. his whole body shudders like it's too much, like the weight of your hand alone is enough to finish him off. but you won't let him. not after this. not after the thirst, the replies, the silence.

"you don't get to cum," you breathe into his ear, voice soft and sharp. "sluts don't get rewards." his entire frame crumbles, the sobs falling harder now, full-body hiccups shaking him to the core, wrists flexing behind him like he wants to touch you but knows better. "i-i'm sorry," he cries, words barely intelligible. "m'so sorry, i-i didn't mean to—i'll be good, i swear, i'll be so good—don't wan' be a slut anymore—jus' wan' be yours—please, please—" your grip tightens just a little, not enough to stroke, just enough to remind him you're still holding all the power.

"sit there," you whisper, mouth brushing the corner of his jaw, "and think about what you did."

──────── ⤷ ✶ ; ©STURNFEVER all rights reserved

⸝⸝ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ✉️ this isn't proofread, so excuse any mistakes

@lyingonchris ୭ 🔗 ✧ ˚ ·

[polnich]

Characters: Reader (gn), Lion El Johnson

Words: 700+

Warnings: fluff and silliest

A/N: Reader is a Navigator in this because I find Navigator's quite cool. Also, there is a part where a gender term is used, but it used for silliest.

"Been a while since you been down here."

You didn't need to know to sense that he had entered. After all, his soul shines brighter than any soul when he was in the room.

A broken knight, one born from the most holy blood left without a mission to follow. That all you could sense of the demi god standing at the door looking into the room.

"Are you saying I'm not allowed now?"

Gruff was his voice as it seem he yet to have a drink. You'll make a mental note to get a serf to bring him a drink.

"No, don't put words into my mouth, my lord. Can't one point out how rarely you visit?"

There was no reply as you tinted your head, seeing him from your throne down in the ship. He looks miserable, seems today was a rough one.

"Ah… you're here for that reason then."

Speaking you face away from him, putting the staff formerly in your hands away to the side. With a flat palm tapping your thighs a couple of times before the sound of movement quickly followed.

Coming to be in front, the primarch kneel himself down resting his head against your thighs. Burying his head into your robes. Lifting a hand through his mix of sliver and gold hair you could feel him let out a soft sigh. He sure does live up to being name after a type of cat.

"You bewitched me, haven't you?" His voice could barely be heard as you find yourself raising a brow at the odd question. Not this again.

"I have not, my lord."

"No you have. Each day that I'm not in your comfort, I long for it."

His mumbled voice came out as he doesn't dare to pull his face from your thighs. Rolling your eyes at his logic, you don't dare question it. After all, you don't have hours to argue with him.

Curling your fingers into his skull, you slowly scratching away, getting a grumble of a purr from him.

"Had a meeting with row boat."

"You shouldn't call Lord Gilliuman that."

Lion on hearing what you said upturn his head, only letting one of his green eyes be seen. A soft glare shined through, though knowing the primarch long enough you knew that glare wasn't a mean one.

"He can survive being call that. In fact, I'll call him something much worse for next time."

At this point, you let out a small laugh, unable to hide it. Doing so, you can see his eye soften.

"You're in quite a silly mood today, guessing something good must have happened, during your meeting?"

At your question, the primarch let's out a small hum. You weren't expecting to be answered as even now he still keeps many secrets to himself. But many today it be different.

"I have more time to spend with you."

He lifted his head at this point now just resting the side of his head against your thighs. He must look a bit silly if anyone saw him in this position.

After all, one of the emperor sons being seen seeking comfort in a navigator could be seen as wrong. Even though you have noble birth, you were still a mutant.

A mutant that he seek out for comfort.

"My lord, do my features not scare you?"

Glancing down at him, you couldn't help wonder if he would every seek comfort in you if you were born ten thousands years ago. Would his younger self still act like this towards you, knowing what you are.

"I've seen much worse than the maiden I see now."

Flushing a moment, your nails dig a bit into his head, getting a noise out of him. Currently, you did everything you could to kept your third eye shut.

"I'm not a maiden, my lord."

You quickly mumbled after all you didn't really fit what is needed to be a maiden in your eyes at least.

"Maiden don't always mean women, my maiden is who every I decide it is. Man or woman."

At his reply, your heart skips a beat as you couldn't believe this man logic sometimes. His logic going is the end of you one day.

"And your bewitchment brings me the most comfort there for you are my maiden."

"I haven't bewitched you..."

Mumbling out with flushed cheeks you could see him grinning at your state. He really was going to be the end of you one of these days.

~♡~

[5ummit]

#people actually think he's OK? #I suppose in comparison to. say. Bob. he's...functional #but he's pretty fucking far from ok #his whole character arc is that he keeps reverting to TWS even when he verbally states he's 'done' with that way of life #he's never done it's a part of him #ingrained down to his reinforced bones #he keeps rejecting it because he's still deeply ashamed and traumatized by what he was forced to do #he's trying to find the middle line where he can accept his skills can be useful and good even though they were developed for domination #he even brings it up in a cautionary way twice: to Mel and to the 'bolts #he's not anything close to okay he's just great at faking deflecting and powering through #like so many of us with functional depression #we're not drunks like yelena or druggies like bob #or completely isolated like ava and alexei #or a home life disaster like john #functioning with a stable job and friends but so very deeply miserable and in emotional pain all the time and not okay

@gunshou gets it (though I wish you didn't know quite so personally 🫂)

Propaganda I'm not falling for: Bucky has been to therapy so he's totally fine now and his Shame Rooms weren't actually that bad for him.

I'm so fucking tired of this take. First, that's not how therapy works. Second, even if it did, the little canonical "therapy" we see him get in TFATWS objectively sucked. Third, that's not how Shame Rooms work. By definition, if someone has completely gotten over something and is not ashamed of it anymore it wouldn't appear in their Shame Room.

Also just because Bucky is good at suppressing his feelings and is calm under pressure (which he was trained to be), doesn't mean his head isn't still a fucking mess. I mean, the man chose to abandon his job as a congressman to cosplay as his brainwashed assassin alter ego again and shoot people because he missed it so much doesn't know how else to handle his problems. And you think he seems totally fine and well-adjusted?

[jusiri]

Gotta say, i think the peak of my school performance is gonna be that on our last project of the semester, on the project that all of the upperclassmen said they hated, that people said made them cry

when my teacher was having individual discussions with each of us to go over any mistakes we made and explain it, when i went to talk to him, he said that there's about 15-20 mistakes that students will typically make

and i didn't make any of them

And frankly i dont think im gonna do that well in something ever for the rest of my whole academic career lmao

[itz-pandora]

Thank you guys for dealing with me

[lightningidle]

Fig's line "I don't think I'm an artist, I think I'm just a good friend" has not left my head at all. Just...

You're Fig Faeth and your horns came in over the summer and you pick up the bard class as a form of adolescent rock 'n' roll rebellion, and it works! It's exactly the outlet you need! You give a guy you just met drumsticks and you start a band and it's good enough that within a year and a half you're touring. You are, in every sense, good at being a bard.

And then, finally, your junior year, you start to take it seriously. Your art goes from an outlet and a form of rebellion to a practice. A discipline. (Can rebellion exist within a discipline?) Your classmates know what they want to do with their work. They all have a thesis statement. And yeah, there's cohesion in the music you make, but you've never had to think about why you make it. You've never sat down and dissected what it is about bass that speaks to you. You've never poured over your lyrics to pick at any deeper meaning. Why should you? You don't play music for a grand design, you do it to... huh, why do you do it?

(Your art is the one form of self-expression that feels as safe as Disguise Self does, because even if you're pouring your heart onto the page and then screaming it in front of thousands of people, it's not like you're really making yourself known. You can sing I'm lonely, I'm scared, I'm furious, and your fans will sing it right back, and there will still be the distance between performer and audience to keep your heart safe.)

Now you're being asked to look inward to explain the artistic choices you're making, and you can't help but recoil at that, because you'd rather do anything than look inward. Meanwhile, your classmates have no problem with it, so you start to wonder if you're a real artist at all. Can your art be authentic if it only exists to bolster a thesis statement? Has your art been unauthentic this whole time because you've never really thought about a thesis statement before? Is that what makes it art, and not just the next track on somebody's teen angst playlist?

You can't think about yourself— acknowledging your own existence makes you want to puke. So if your music is an extension of yourself, (and it is, even if it's just because the spotlight reveals only what you want it to,) you can't think about your music. You can't. You have to. Your grade depends on it.

You're Fig Faeth, and you keep multiclassing because you'd rather be a good friend than a great artist. If introspection is what great art demands, then fuck it. You must not be a bard at all.

[apocalypticdemon]

man. antidepressants.... good

[running-in-the-dark]

This is me venting so if you're that little baby anon who can't handle something that horrible, move along

I'm feeling really sad and lost about this whole thing. I'm not blaming myself as much as I was earlier - I've talked to enough people about it now that I think my now former friend is being somewhat unreasonable and nothing I did was this indefensible horrible thing. They just didn't communicate. Which means we probably just aren't compatible as friends. I said something insensitive accidentally, they handled it poorly. Nothing awful happened, just misunderstandings and poor communication.

I'm sad they don't want to fix this. I'm sad that they'd rather throw away all the good things too. I'm sad that they didn't even let me say goodbye. I'm sad they deleted everything and I'll never read any of our messages again. There's a lot there that I have very fond memories of. It feels like they stole all that. It's fine that they want a complete break. It's not fine that they made that decision for me, too. They had four months (plus three before that) to come to this conclusion. I got thrown into this headfirst last night and had no time to process it (yes, I could and probably should have waited to reply. But ffs my friend finally messages me after 4 months! And then my heart sinks as I read it. And then I'm completely overwhelmed with emotions and confusion. I had to respond even though it wasn't the logical thing to do).

By the way. I only messaged them again today because there was no reply from them. I know that's apparently rude but we never cared about that before. But apparently that was the last straw or something, I don't know. They deleted everything right after.

I want to be angry and feel glad that I'm rid of them, or something, but I can't. I'm just sad. I miss them. I miss talking to them. They were funny and nice and we had similar life experiences in a bunch of important areas. Talking to them was so easy (I thought).

But they are also often blunt and direct to the point of being hurtful. I knew they didn't mean it like that, so I didn't get offended. They often said things as if they were facts when it was just their opinion. They were very set on their opinions in ways that sometimes made it difficult for me to say anything that opposed those (drugs is one I can think of rn). They have health problems that often meant they couldn't message for a while, which was always fine. But sometimes when they came back it felt like they were... I don't know, resentful I guess.

I had to be there for them and support them when they needed it - they did the same for me, that's what friends do. But it felt unequal sometimes. I think they believe they did more for me and I wasn't there enough - that's what the last message sounded like. I know for a fact that's not true. I'm sad they felt like that and even more sad that they just built up this resentment instead of ever mentioning it. Looking back there's a lot that was never said.

Also there's many instances that I've remembered where they did the exact same thing they blamed me for. They often took charge and basically acted like they knew what's best. I liked their input and it never (usually) felt like they were overstepping or anything. I knew what their intentions were and that they weren't trying to talk over me or anything. Yet, the other way around they make it sound like I'm the worst friend ever.

Also - sometimes they would outright tell me I'm too naive/nice when it was just blatantly rude. Like one time when my in-laws did something that hurt my feelings, so I complained about it. Then later I found out more about their reasons for doing it and that changed my perspective (a bit). But my friend insisted I was being too easy on them and what they did was still not okay.

That's exactly what they're accusing me of doing. They did ACTUALLY outright tell me that I'm wrong about my own opinion about a situation in my own life that I have way more information about. They wouldn't back down, either. But I didn't make some huge drama out of it, I said it's fine and my in-laws meant well and everything's good.

But that means I had to basically give in to get them to stop. That's pretty shitty I think? I'm starting to think I ignored a lot of not so nice things because I enjoyed our conversations and they were nice most of the time...

Oh. Shit. I'm realising right now that they were a lot like my first best friend in some ways? That's... bad. This person was absolutely awful to me for years (we were friends from 7 to 24) and then (permanently) ghosted me after my father died. She was always right, things always had to go her way, there was no alternative. I had to be available when she wanted to spend time with me (literally the one time I was brave enough to say I didn't want to play that day, she came into our apartment and screamed at me....)

It's not the same, not even close, but the tendencies are there. I'm so easy to handle for people like that :( I just want to be nice, I want everyone to be happy, I don't want arguments, I don't want to fight. So I give in, and I interpret things in a nicer way than they might be meant, and I just go with what everyone else wants. And even though it's hard I always try to talk things out.

Fuck, I'm a doormat and I hate it

Edit: a little thing I forgot to mention. I am actually very angry about something, though. The way they talked about me in their last message has made me doubt myself, a lot. Every time I talked to anyone today, I analysed everything I said even more than I already do. Am I being manipulative? Am I making things about me? Am I not listening right and missing cues that should tell me what this person wants to hear? Am I just a horrible friend? Do I not do enough, should I support everyone much more, is it my fault, it's probably all my fault

This is gonna be a shitty thing to have to work on. I finally had gotten a little better with all that. My old therapist would be disappointed.