#it's the cracks that let the light shine through. — full-of-mercy.

[eventheodds]

— @full-of-mercy continued from here.

“I didn’t get burned, by the way,” she says, her voice trailing as she hops to her room—which is really just behind a partition because there’s hardly any space in this apartment of hers, and fetches the shirt.

In truth, she panicked and shucked the shirt off before running it under cold water. And she’d not been honest about not getting burned, because she did, but Meryl took care of that right away. The coffee had been piping hot—as well as strong enough to strip paint. She’s got more coffee than blood in her, she thinks. Probably also not good to drink it so bitter and strong.

She doesn’t want to dwell on the matter as to why that is, though they both know.

While not with Bernardelli any longer, Meryl hasn’t fully burned all her bridges yet. She’s grateful that some of the people she’d been in contact with while still employed believed her, though she’s told them to keep their distance.

Regardless, she’s not thinking about that right now even if she is, and takes the shirt to the sink and lets the water run for a moment before placing the stain beneath the cool spray.

“…it’s not coming out,” she says, a little worry in her voice because she knows how difficult shirts are to come by—especially those made from linen. “And yes, I have my own clothes, but your shirt was right there.”

It’s a terrible excuse because it’s not an excuse at all. She likes the way the material feels on her skin. She knows he’s going to hold this over her and Meryl’s heart sinks a little more when the stain is still there.

Shit.

[eventheodds]

It takes her a moment to realize there is tension as they walk through the corridor. With her mind still back there in the dome, she wonders if it was what she had said—or confessed—back there that might have contributed to this change, but it soon catches up with her.

When Conrad had taken her and Roberto on a tour of his laboratory and showed her the room that she can still see with such clarity that it may as well have been burned into her mind. No doubt Nicholas would hardly forget such a place and she lets out a soft “Oh…” as she walks alongside him.

There is the thought to reach out, to grab his hand, not that she could hold it in its entirety in her own, but for her to be a point of contact—to reassure him she’s there; however, she refrains as she hums her agreement and when hearing the sounds of curses mumbled loud enough, along with the tell-tale voice of Vash being subject to Brad’s reparations on his arm, she squares the thought away as the focus of their concerns comes into view.

“Do you think he’s gotten scolded enough by Brad by now?”

As Meryl keeps pace, she looks up at Nicholas, trying to discern his mood, silently wondering if sticking to safer topics might be best, or if she’ll let her stubbornness win out and aim for the jugular.

Figuratively speaking.

“C’mon!” She grabs hold of Nicholas’s hand and tugs him along the rest of the way until their footsteps would be noticed by both Vash and Brad. 

“Hold still!” There’s a few more grumbled words, mainly about how Vash’s arm was in such a state he was afraid he’d have to scrap but he’s too good of an engineer to have let that happen. Or something along those lines. 

She’s still not let go of Nicholas’s hand as she passes them through the threshold, obviously not minding Brad’s space and making it a tight fit—which earns her own set of curses that Meryl glares at before Brad returns to his work.

“You coulda wait outside, y’know. Not much room to work in here as it and, as you can see.”

“Luida told you to be nice to us, didn’t she?”

She’s tempted to stick out her tongue as a taunt but one look at Vash tells her that is the last thing she should be doing.

In an effort to not stir the worm’s nest, she keeps quiet, for now, and gently rubs her thumb atop Nicholas’s hand, gently squeezing every now and then.

“How are you holding up there, Vash? Hopefully not giving Brad too much grief?” At this, Brad scoffs and rolls his eyes and continues his work, tinkering and repairing in a room full of people. Not ideal, but he’s come to understand that Meryl cannot be moved and is not willing to try his luck.

"Yeah."

It is more a grunt of verbal acknowledgment than anything else. Wolfwood can be verbose if he needs to, but sometimes elocution is either out of reach or otherwise unnecessary. While it is not clear in the moment, he offers little more to the whole situation—though he does adjust his lope somewhat without a glance back or aside.

He can hear her move, after all. The whisper of footsteps through springy grass is such a novelty that it seems dreamlike, but even in what seems hallucinatory terrain, everything around them paints a sonic picture amid shades of green utterly alien to every human ever born on this dustball.

"Gotta keep him from runnin' off on his own. God knows he'll want to."

Best to get that out there before they enter the halls. Nicholas watches out of the corner of his eye, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his slacks. Joggers. Whatever they are. Luida was kind enough to provide a change of clothes, and sure, sure, he can take that as it is. Clothing of good quality is hard to come by on Gunsmoke, but that doesn't mean the fit isn't awkward. Gift tomas, something like that.

It's a distraction from just how uncomfortable it is to enter the ship proper.

The Eye of Michael facility in JuLai was built from the bones of a Plant carrier—a generation vessel from far-flung Earth. The structure is eerily similar, all gleaming metal and smooth deck plates punctuated with regular bars of white light wholly unlike the suns blazing outside.

It even smells similar. Less the blood and dross of suffering, but the undercurrent is there. Sterile. Recycled. Cooled.

Conversation carries. Vash's nervous titter of a laugh is unmistakable as he defends himself from the thrum of scolding.

Zap. Buzz. Aiee, ow, gyah—

His arm is in desperate need of maintenance. Brad grouses with each touch of tools to crystalline matter connected to the Independent's nerves, but the pain is a sign that the design is not completely compromised.

It's not that bad.

Even if the sound sets Wolfwood's jaw to grinding.

Around the bend, they reach Vash's quarters unopposed, though the two occupants are too indisposed to notice the approach upon open doors.

[blzzrdstryr]

Reveries of the Past. Yandere!Childe x Fatui!gn!reader

Wordcount: 3875

CW: Dissociation, graphic depiction of violence, hallucinations, unhealthy relationship and unhealthy power dynamics.

A.N.: I used a lot of my experience with dissociations in this and if it makes you uncomfortable, I would advice not to read it. I also plan on writing continuation for this, as it’s set before the Rite of Descension. P.s. I am not a native English speaker, so could you notify me if there’s awkward wording.

[Next chapter]

There are plenty of times you find yourself reminiscing about the past and now, your mind slips back to your memories, as you look at the horribly mangled body of the treasure hoarder. The stench of blood stuffs up your nose, it’s sickly sweet metallic odor making your gut clench and nausea rise, as your limbs grow heavier and numb. You don’t feel  like you belong in your skin and bones and blood anymore - it’s cold, so cold, yet you don’t feel any of it. You are an outsider, an unwanted intruder in the house that is your body, an indifferent observer looking at the world through the thick glass.

The world around disfigures, shapes and colors changing in the constant whirlwind - they jump and dance around, small becoming large and large shrinking so much it’s barely visible, green shifts to red to blue and to yellow and to million of other colors, and sounds suddenly become muffled, losing their sharpness, but you don’t care about it: the part that is “you” fled to the daydreams of your childhood moments ago, leaving a clinically observing, yet unfeeling being behind. 

Adults would describe you as a perfect child: quiet, obedient and dutiful, you were a stark contrast to the other louder and more free spirited kids. You studied hard, cleaned the house, helped with dishes and cooking and never talked back. 

I can't upset mom and dad because they work so much. I can't play with other kids because if I do, they will make fun of me, I have to study hard and get good grades, because mom said I will have a good job and become rich and help them. 

These particular memories don't feel good to you: they're bleak and boring, yet full of silent shame - they make your throat clog and eyes water, as something burning starts to bloom deep underneath your skin. 

Childe stops beating the still alive treasure hoarder, a blood smeared on the cheek and a dangerous glint in his eyes, and turns his head to you. 

"Hey, how about lending me a helping hand?", there’s a hunger in his voice you recognize, he wants to teach a lesson to the debtors, then. You walk towards him, feeling your knees get weaker and weaker with each step for some reason. A dagger made of ice shines in your hand with cold light. 

"It's no wonder [First] received a vision! My [First] is always so good and smart, there are no children better" the exact words your mother says, as she brags to her friends, showing them the vision you were bestowed with. You left it to her, not caring what will happen to it - despite all the child's wonder you felt before receiving it, the glowing orb doesn’t look so amazing to you now. It feels foreign and ugly, a reminder of what happened seconds before you gained it. 

“You know, when I was a child”, he takes the weapon and focuses on the treasure hoarder’s leader again, “we made a special kind of promise”. It’s tip travels to the hoarder’s hand. “You make a pinkie promise, you keep it all your life”

The sweet voice he uses and the fact that you  know the nursery rhyme too would make you sick in the stomach the other day, but not now. 

You don’t exactly remember how you joined the Fatui - it happened shortly after you gained a vision, when you were still too numb and cold to the outside world after the Event. 

Mom will hate me, dad will hate me too. I can’t let them know.

Your parents say that officials just knocked on the front door one day and offered you an entry into the Fatui and a monthly salary, big enough to stop your parents from overworking themselves. You were terrified back then, Fatuis despite being known as a diplomatic organization are still a mystery to the ordinary Shezhnayan and a direct servants to Her will. The thought of disappointing Tsaritsa or letting down Snezhnaya was enough to paralyze you, but seeing the smiles on your parents faces was enough to make you swear to yourself, that you will work there no matter how scary it seems.

“You break a pinkie promise, I throw you on the ice.” The blade stops between phalanges of the little finger: “The cold will kill the pinkie that once betrayed your friend", he presses it, strong enough to detach the limb from the rest of the body in one swift slash. Treasure hoarder starts to cry and scream from the sudden pain, yet quickly chokes on it as Childe hits him in the solar plexus. The crack of bones feels deafening among the sea of muffled sounds.

Training was rigorous to say the least, you came back to your dorm room absolutely exhausted and after you fell on the bed you were practically dead to the world. Turns out, having a vision wasn’t enough to make you a fighter - you needed to know how to climb, swim, run with a weight to lift and wield a weapon. There were other children and teens with you, they eyed your vision with a mix of adoration and envy, you pretended not to catch it in turn.

“The frost will freeze your tongue off so you never lie again”, harbinger forces the victim's jaw apart by squeezing it with one hand, the other rapidly forcing a dagger inside the mouth. Treasure hoarder gasps and mumbles, fat tears forming in his eyes. A part of you expects a sound of parting flesh, but none comes: Tartaglia stands up and removes the blade, leaving a shivering and terrified man laying on the ground.

“Well,” Childe shrugs, as if he didn’t just dismember a person, voice back to his cheery tone : “You didn’t actually make a pinkie promise, so consider it a small mercy”. The treasure hoarder cowers even more, snuggling the injured hand close to the bruised chest. “But if you fail to repay your debt I will oversee that the frost”, he points in your direction, a treasure hoarder’s eyes going wide as he notices your vision, “will actually freeze your lying tongue off”, his voice descends again, back to it’s dangerous half-whisper.

You meet Ajax during the winter, he’s close to you in age and just arrived into Fatui grounds. He boasts and shows off to all of you, and you desperately want to retort something acidic to shut him up and rip off that arrogant bravado, yet say nothing, picturing how the tomorrow training session will have him laying flat on his back, too hurt and too tired to move even a single finger. 

He defeats the trainer in less than a minute.

Now, that the treasure hoarder fled, still snuggling disfigured limb, Childe turns attention back to you. “You seem a little bit disinterested here”, his hand on your cheek is so foreign, it’s burning and freezing at the same time, the shock from the unwanted touch almost strong enough to pull you back into reality. He notices your unintentional flinching and unfocused eyes “Ah, you hurt my feelings, [First]! And I thought we already became friends”. 

You say nothing, cold and unmoving, blind and deaf to the outside world, his words register a second too late, and there’s no cliche phrase for you to reply with. He looks a bit baffled and deflated for a second, but shrugs it off, just like he did during teen years, when you deliberately ignored all his attempts at catching your attention.

“Huh, even if you are so cold to me, I still forgive you”, he takes your hand, his touch still too overwhelming for you to process and pulls you back to Liyue harbor, your legs barely bending as you walk after him, like an obedient dog trailing it’s master.

“You know [First], I can beat you up so badly, that you will barely walk”, you put feather aside, stopping writing the letter to your parents as you glare at Ajax with barely masked indignation. He grins, satisfied to finally catch your attention after the whole day of pestering you. “I am aware of that” you reply in an absolutely flat tone, holding yourself from pouncing on him and trying to break the teeth out of that smug smile. He beams even wider, as if sensing your not-so-good intentions, revealing even more pearly whites as if taunting you.

“But I won’t, count yourself lucky”. And he leaves, this short interaction filling you with so much rage that you shake, handwritten letters noticeably becoming sharper and faster, your thoughts clouding around the idea of acquating his face with your boots. 

 Nonetheless, you indeed count yourself fortunate enough, when you see Ajax defeating grown men with bare hands. When you two, the only vision holders among your peers have to spar, he always goes easy on you, prefering to immobilize you rather than beating, making your defeat less painful yet even more humiliating. 

Almost at the end of your trail he suddenly stops and says something, but you don't catch it, words turning into separate vowels and then fusing together into one unintelligible gibberish mess. He leans in, close enough for his breath to burn your neck, and he continues to get closer, until his empty eyes look into yours glazed ones. He seems disappointed for a second and backs down, his breathing no longer fanning your skin. 

Distantly you think that you somehow angered him and he will slap you for it, and do nothing to dodge the hit - you barely feel pain in this condition anyway, but he doesn’t. The road to the Northland Bank is completed in absolute silence, Childe no longer trying to grab your attention, only when you enter Liyue Harbor does he whisper, that you two must look like a pair with all that hand holding. Judging by the volume and tone of his voice he says it more to himself than to you.

***

You come back to yourself in the safety of your room on the third room of the Northland bank. It feels like a rush of sensation, as everything becomes sharper and clearer again, like you just swam to the surface of water from the very depths of it. An invisible bubble around your head pops in one moment, and the world becomes real again, mind and body connecting for once more.

Eyes and ears focused you take in surroundings: the room is neat and lifelessly empty - just a bed and a working desk with a stack of written but unsent letters, along with a small bookcase near, no figurines, pictures or even plants to decorate living place, as you see no reason to adorn the area you use for sleeping only. Indiscernible wallpapers and a small window close to the middle of the bed finish the picture of austerity.

 Once, your memory catches up to you, you can't help groan from the shame and irritation, hiding your face in both hands. Afterwards  always feels both like a disgraceful escape and a warm blanket during the stormy night, a duality that you accepted long ago after joining the Fatui and today is no exception. You curse Harbinger when you remember why exactly you had an episode, and get up from the bed you threw yourself on minutes ago. You come to the desk, taking a clean form of a relocation request from the drawer and writing materials. 

Filling in the blank feels like commiting a felony to you for some reason - you stop several times when you hear footsteps in the corridor, focusing on the door,ready to hide the half written form and say some lie as an excuse. You don't list the Childe-related reasons, knowing that there's nothing that could make any of the Harbingers face the consequence for their actions, and instead you write completely normal and fake causes: health concerns, family matters and so on. Part of you doubts that this will work and you will have the fortune to get away from a certain harbinger as far as possible. Trying and failing is better than never attempting, you think, quickly writing the paper.

Once you finish it, you almost rush to Ekaterina, praying that you won't run into a certain ginger on the way. Sometime ago you caught Tartaglia checking your letters, for a secrecy he said back then, we can’t let anyone know about the coming operation. Childe then instilled that every sent and received letter should be checked, lest Qixing and other Liyuens learned what Fatui had in plan. It sounded logical and sensible, but the paranoid thought that he enforced this policy just to have a glimpse at your feelings never stopped eating at you. From that day on you sent your family the most basic and vague letters, just stating that you’re in good health and mind, still missing them and Snezhnaya, leaving the ones with more private sentiments in your room. 

Her eyes are completely obscured by the mask, but even with that you can’t miss the pointed glare she sends your way - Tartaglia never shied away from showing off, be it his strength, money or his twisted obsession that he calls love. With the amount of time and finances he spends on you and the way he acts like a kicked lovesick puppy in your vicinity, you are pretty sure that at least half of the bank workers see you as a cunning and cruel seducer, so keen and devious in the art of temptation that you managed to lure in Eleventh Harbinger.

As if archons decided to laugh at you, Childe descends from the second floor too, catching the sight of you near the receptionist. He looks unusually somber for a moment, but then he sees you, a smile appearing on his face as he takes the form from Ekaterina's hands. You can just feel how Ekaterina rolls her eyes under the mask, as if muttering complaints about the lovers’ spat and insubordination, having been working with her for some time, enough to have a clue of the inner workings of her mind.

You have to give him that he plays the confusion and regret very persuasively. He asks how he can fix this, says what a valuable team member you are to him and how much you are needed in the Northland bank. You agree to his suggestion - if years of training with Ajax and then work with Childe taught you anything, it is that Ajax is the chaos incarnate and Tartaglia is Ajax’s less tolerable and more unpredictable version, so it’s better not to anger him.

***

In the end he invites you to dine with him at Wanmin restaurant, a place Childe heard from some “xiansheng” as he called them. A bustling Liyue street is open before you two, tall midday sun painting the whole street into bright orange, so unlike the pristine white landscapes of Snezhnaya. He orders two Black Back Perch Stews on the chef's recommendations, and hands a bouquet of local flowers in a parody of a normal boyfriend. Any random observer would really see it as a date.

You take the flowers, pretending to pay more attention to  them than to a man sitting near you. Tartaglia is an unpredictability wrapped in human skin, there’s no privilege as being lax and carefree near him, as even Tsaritsa has no idea what he will do next. 

To your mutual confusion Xiangling presents the meal with two pairs of chopsticks. Utensils feel foreign in your palm, you having no idea how to handle them and Childe, by the looks of it too. Tartaglia specifically asks the chef for spoons, while you observe the other clients, noting how they use theirs. Holding one stick like a pen and then placing the bottom one in a fixed position under the thumb you manage to grasp the fish from the soup, albeit clumsily. You consider it a small win. 

The image of a mighty Harbinger struggling in a failing battle with chopsticks would look funny to you, if it wasn’t for the whole "date" you were having. After putting them aside, and seemingly admitting defeat, Childe starts from afar: "You know [First], you changed a lot since I first met you" .

You raise an eyebrow at the starter, it's vague and innocent enough, but experience tells you that he will or at least try to stir the conversation into your relationship with him again. Straightening a bit and finally turning your eyes to him, you pause for a second, picking the least offensive reply you can muster - there’s a swarm of insults buzzing at the tip of your tongue prepared just for him, growing and sprouting since your pubescent years.

“Yes, I got taller”, he laughs it off, like you said some funny joke, his giggles not stopping for some time. "No, I mean as a person. Remember how you used to glare at me for joking? And now you act so unfazed ”

Joking. Is this what he calls it? Shivers creep up your spine when your memory oh so conveniently conjures the images of the aftermath of his jokes.

“Your jokes weren’t funny to anyone but you”. Breathe, you think, there’s no need to anger him. There are pictures of broken bones and bruised bodies and a cacophony of somebody else’s pained screams flashing and rattling in your head, Adults never did anything. Why would they? They had a golden boy Ajax, why would they help the others when they had him? Why would they help you? Bitterness and anger you thought you swallowed long ago rise up to the surface again, and you decide to bite down on the stew - Tartaglia always found a way to turn your words against you and hurt you, no need to give him more weapons now.

“I changed a lot too. I know I was insufferable as a teen”, he must have taken your silence as a free pass to continue whatever nonsense he’s sprouting, “I am sorry”.

The last three words catch you off guard, a piece of fish almost stuck in the throat from the jolt. Ajax takes you by surprise once again, for him to finally acknowledge and apologize for all the pain he caused and years he tormented you?

You blink and look at him intently, his facial expression changing into an unusually somber one. It seems authentic enough.

“Let’s start from the scratch?

You contemplate unsure what to say.

Was he lying?

Looking back, you in a sense are luckier than most of Childe's victims, witnessing his youth, familiarizing and distinguishing the tells of him lying and scheming, observing the way he bloomed into the manipulator he is today firsthand. You see a familiarity in his face and voice, something that helps you from falling to his charms. There's also the added fact that you were and still are an involuntary witness to the way how carnal and bloodthirsty usually friendly Ajax can become. 

When did you catch his attention?

You remember his smile when he first approached you, less teeth and more sincerity that is thereafter,a hand outstretched to you. It happens on the next day after his arrival, almost as cold and unpleasant as the previous one. You brush the limb away like a noisy fly, secretly angry at his arrogant attitude and how effortlessly he endured training. His smiling doesn’t stop, yet you feel a sudden change in the air around you.

Would your fate be different if you took his hand?

You can't forget how your mind disconnected from your body for the second time. It was Ajax again vying for your attention akin to a spoiled child, and like one he threw a tantrum when you refused to give him any. The poor recruit you were talking with was hospitalized the same day, as you helplessly watched the carnage before you. You didn't fight, you didn’t flee, you just froze, like a scared animal, paralyzed by fear, yet somehow too detached from feelings. That day was bizarre: once you felt reality, it was solid and undeniable and then you didn't. The realness of the current diffused, slipped through the fingers like sand, leaving nothing but unreliable and delusive reveries behind.

Will he let you go? 

“People do change and I see that you changed too. I don’t think of you as a teen you were” you carefully pick the words, Tartaglia visibly blooms, thinking that his apology worked, yet your next words snuff out his triumph: “but my memories stay the same. I don’t think we can start from scratch”

You bite the tongue, the second part still coming out too harsh for your liking. The moment of sincerity is interrupted, you see him, changing the masks, unsure what to do. It seems for the first time it was you who caught him off guard. You guess which one of the two standard facades he will decide to show to you, having spent years by his side to observe him masterfully wielding both, the friendly one with a vacant smile that never reaches his dead, dead eyes or the calculating one, distant and devoid of humanity?

In the end he uses none, a hurt still evident, dripping in his tone, face and moves - is it another mask you never got to see or is it real? - “So that is your answer”, he leans in closer, dull cerulean eyes looking right into yours.

You hold his stare, nodding, instead of saying anything and he hums, sitting back and wearing the cold mask, reserved for his enemies: “Just wanted to remind you that I am the Harbinger and you are just a position higher than an ordinary agent”. Despite seeing it so many times, it’s the first time he directs it at you and you have to suppress the shiver. The unsaid threat hangs heavy in the air, suffocating you.

You two are no longer solemn [First] and annoying Ajax, who trails your steps behind like a puppy, no, you are a special agent [Last] and Eleventh Fatui Harbinger Tartaglia, to whom you are personally assigned by Tsaritsa herself. Even possessing vision and delusion yourself you can’t match Childe’s power, and your loss would be easy to overlook if your harbinger wished for it. Honestly speaking, there are a lot of things he could do to you without anyone questioning it, the Harbingers being the second most powerful figures in the organization, right after Tsaritsa herself. You heard the stories of Krupp and other assistants who got missing under Il Dottore, you heard of horrible accidents happening to the people Scaramouche dislikes, you heard about the injuries Signora inflicts on the unfortunate recruits when she is in foul mood, yet you never thought that Tartaglia will abuse his power in the same way.

“Don’t worry” he seems to have taken mercy on you, “I won’t use my position like that, it’s cheating and I like to play the fair game”, despite the seemingly reassuring words , you don’t let yourself relax, knowing him for years.

“Don’t think I will back down though, I am not the type to give up”

[chatonne-rousse]

Be Bold, Be Kind, Be Brave

This is one akuma whose intentions are good. After all, who couldn't use an extra dose of courage to overcome fear?

A superhero whose identity will be immediately revealed in the process, for one.

When an akuma causes several secrets to come to light all at once, our heroes will need to drum up some courage to face their fears - and each other.

But what's waiting after that looks like it might be a dream come true. It'll just take a bit of bravery and a lot of heart. Piece of cake.

***

Only eight days late and several dollars short, I’m wishing @jennagrinsoverml a happy belated birthday with this gift, written just for her.  ILY, my friend!  

Read it on Ao3 here.

***

Ladybug has to give Courageous some credit: she's a rarity, an akuma born of selfless means. A teenager who hadn't mustered the courage to stand up for a younger student being bullied at school, she'd been so ashamed, so angry with herself, that Hawkmoth had found an easy target to ply with honeyed words and promises.

Her power isn't even a terrible one. The beam of light she shoots from her right hand simply causes the person it strikes to relive the last encounter they had when their bravery failed them, this time with courage aplenty. It's admirable, really.

Admirable, but terrifying nonethless.

(The fear of Chat Noir finding out her identity is deep and dark and often floats to the surface of her nightmares with blue eyes and white hair and a drowned, ruined world. He cannot know. The cost is too high.)

"Whatever you do," she calls to her partner, frantic and scared, "don't let her hit you! Please, Chat!"

She hears the desperation in her own voice, and the look on his face conveys that he certainly does. He nods solemnly.

"I'll do my best, My Lady."

She nods back, and off they go into the fray.

For well over an hour, they fight Courageous through parks and plazas, sidewalks and thoroughfares. All around them, the people of Paris have squared their shoulders, lifted their chins, and braved conversations big and small with people only they could see.

Ladybug has to smile as she hears a young man confidently ask for a raise and watches his eyes light up at the response.

That smile fades when she remembers once again that the last time her courage had failed her was just as they were dismissed for lunch break, when she'd tried to invite Adrien to a movie that weekend. His eyes had been so kind as he'd waited for her to gather her words properly, and somehow that had just made it harder.

Then Lila had "accidentally" tripped and knocked into her, sending her to the floor. The memory of Adrien's hand reaching out to her to help her up, those same kind, patient eyes locked on hers, makes Ladybug's cheeks heat even now. But after she was upright again, after Lila had stalked off because no one seemed to care that she "probably would need surgery now because her arthritis would flare", Nino had reminded Adrien about the gig he was DJing on Friday and Alya had led her away to show her something on her phone.

Just like that, her opportunity was gone.

And that would be fine, honestly. Marinette was used to moments of stuttering and botched declarations when it came to Adrien.

But if she's hit by Courageous, Chat Noir - plus the citizens of Paris, Hawkmoth, everyone - will hear Ladybug try to ask Adrien Agreste on a date, and that will be a disaster of epic proportions.

"Ladybug, look out!"

Chat's body slams into hers, sending them rolling on the sidewalk just as a beam of magical light zips over their heads. In a flash, Chat Noir bundles her in his arms and vaults them to the rooftop above, making sure she's steady on her feet once they land.

"Thank you, Ki-" The words die in her throat when she sees over her partner's shoulder that Courageous has followed them.

Chat turns, his baton at the ready, while Ladybug reaches for her yo-yo, but neither is quick enough to stop the akuma's beam from finally finding one of its main targets.

"I'm sorry, Bug," he murmurs as his eyes glaze over.

Using her yo-yo as a spinning shield, Ladybug drags her partner behind the nearest chimney stack just as he begins to speak.

Panic sets in as her mind screams at her over the hum of her yo-yo, the akuma's laughter, her partner's voice.

I can't just leave him!

"Father, may I come in?"

Oh no, oh no, oh no. I can't hear this!

"Yes, Nathalie said she penciled me into your schedule for noon."

Nathalie?

Ladybug's gaze snaps to her partner, yo-yo still spinning to deflect beams of light. She's surprised to find Chat Noir's head bowed in deference, though his eyes shine with a confident gleam.

"I requested this appointment to ask you again if I could attend the event with my friends tomorrow evening. I've already completed my assignments for school and the homework from my Mandarin tutor."

Mandarin tutor? What?!

"Yes, Father, I'm aware that you don't care for Nino, but..."

The panicked scream in her mind gives up any attempt at coherence; by this point, it's no more than a muddled loop of Nathalie, Mandarin, Nino, Father.

Ladybug feints to the left to avoid being hit by the akuma as a mix of terror and adrenaline floods her system. She leaps forward, leaving Chat behind the chimney in the hope that she can engage the akuma just long enough to get her partner back and finally, finally finish this off.

She knows too much already. The cat has bolted straight out of the bag and is running loose on this rooftop beneath her feet, a distraction she can't handle right now.

On hero autopilot, she hurdles one beam after another, then tucks and rolls and pops up to roundhouse kick Courageous in the chest, sending her flying.

She hears the akuma's "oof" just as Chat Noir's jubilant voice rings out from behind the chimney.

"Thank you, Father! Thank you so much!"

She can hear his grin in those simple words, the sheer joy in being given permission to leave the house. Everyone in their class knows what a tight leash Gabriel Agreste keeps on his son. It breaks her heart every time she thinks of it. In fact, she's successfully fought for his release from that marble prison on more than one occasion! So yes, she'd already known with all the clues in place, but there was truly no mistaking it now: that was Adrien talking to his father.

Because Adrien is Chat Noir.

Her heart cracks. Oh, Chaton.

Suddenly, the akuma's progress in clambering to her feet is impeded by the whoosh and subsequent metallic thunk of Chat's overhand swing with his baton.

Relief floods her heart at the return of her partner. No matter who he is, Chat Noir is her other half, and Ladybug is never quite herself without him.

"Maybe we could use a little extra luck, My Lady!" Chat winks at her over his shoulder before facing the akuma again.

"Yes! Right! You bet!"

Get it together, Marinette, she thinks. Her face heats and she scampers away to the safety of the chimney stack where Chat was hidden to call for her lucky charm.

A red and black spotted can opener drops into her hands and she looks at it in confusion. "What am I supposed to do with this?" she grumbles, looking around frantically but seeing nothing to help her decipher how to use the lucky charm.

She takes a deep breath, peeks out from behind the bricks, and promptly takes a light beam to the face.

No, no, no, no!

It feels vaguely like having a water balloon popped on her head, a chill of sensation dripping down her spine and rippling through her nerves. It's a small mercy that being hit by an akuma rarely hurts physically. Her vision swims like a mirage in the desert, the familiar courtyard at school coalescing from vapor around her.

The last thing she sees is her partner's stricken face.

The last thing she hears is the akuma cackling.

"Heylo! Who! I mean," she takes a deep breath, a rush of confidence tingling along her nerves. "Hey, Adrien!" She smiles and gives him a little wave.

His grin takes her breath away. "Hi, Marinette! How are you?"

"I'm great!"

You can do it, you can do it!, her heart sings, and miraculously, her brain listens. Her smile turns coy. She taps her lip with her index finger. Her pulse pounds a bolstering tattoo in her ears. Go for it, girl!

"But I could be better."

Adrien's smile drops a fraction. "Are you okay? Is there something I can do?"

With another deep breath, she squares her shoulders and looks him in the eyes, her very cells imbued with a courage unparalleled even when she's wearing spots. She could do anything, anything, right now, but she has her mind set on accomplishing one thing and one thing only.

"You could join me for a movie on Saturday."

"I could...?" His brows furrow, but his grin grows slowly, bright but incredulous. "Are you asking me....?" He blinks, takes two shallow breaths. "Do you mean just the two of us?"

She nods decisively. "A date."

You did it. You did it! A veritable party erupts in the back of her mind, radiant relief spreading to her fingertips. It feels so good to finally break through her anxiety and fear and ask him that simple question that felt like an impossible task just a few hours ago.

Thankfully, he doesn't keep her waiting. The answer is in his eyes, anyway. "I would love to," he breathes, cheeks pink and smile dazzling.

"Really?" Marinette squeaks, and now it's his turn to nod.

"I'll be there even if I have to sneak out." Adrien reaches for her hand and gives it a little squeeze. "We'll talk about it later today, okay?"

She nods again, her chest so full of emotion she can barely breathe. Not only did she ask him, but he said yes!

Suddenly, blue sky fills her vision and she regains awareness to the sound of a scuffle on the other side of the chimney stack. Ladybug tentatively gets to her feet, reaching for her yo-yo and setting it spinning immediately. This time there's no peeking around the corner; she bursts from behind the bricks on the offensive, ready to finish the fight.

What she finds is Courageous struggling under Chat's baton, twisted up like a pretzel and unable to move for the steel-toed boot resting across her shoulders.

"Just in time, LB!" Chat crows triumphantly. He tosses her a bracelet emblazoned with the words Be Bold, Be Kind, Be Brave that currently pulses with Hawkmoth's dark energy.

In moments, the bracelet is broken, the akuma is freed and purified, and a confused teenager sits where Courageous was restrained a moment ago.

Chat docks his baton at his back and looks at his partner with the softest eyes she's ever seen, a tiny, equally soft smile playing at his lips.

Her heart sighs. Adrien. That's Adrien, and he knows.

The lucky charm sits heavy in her palm. Abject fear makes her hope against hope that she won't remember his identity when she casts her miraculous cure, just as her heart longs to hold on to the knowledge that her precious partner is the boy of her deepest desires, and maybe, maybe they really can have it all.

With a deep breath, she throws the unused can opener into the air, watching magical ladybugs and healing light burst forth and spread throughout the city. She waits, holding her breath, but when pink light swirls around them, the only affect it has is the healing of the twinge in her ankle from when she fell mid-fight.

She looks up, and her partner's eyes say it all.

He remembers, too.

Even as fear grips her heart, radiant joy shines from his face as his grin spreads. It scrunches his eyes behind the mask and pinkens his cheeks, delight seeming to glow from his pores. Ladybug has never seen her partner so happy. That elation is a balm to her soul, and she can't help but smile right along with him.

Ladybug turns to the akuma victim and holds out her hand, offering the bracelet back to her. "I really like that inscription" she says, pointing at the now-silver bracelet as the girl fixes it back on her wrist.

She smiles shyly at the two heroes. "I wish I had the courage to do more. I wish I was brave like you."

"We get scared sometimes, too. Everyone does," Ladybug starts, before her partner nudges her shoulder with his elbow.

"Speak for yourself, Bugaboo. This cat has no fear." Chat Noir throws her an exaggerated wink, and the girl laughs. "But real talk, anyone can be a hero in their own way. Little things, big stuff...you're stronger than you think, I promise. Cat's honor."

She nods. "Thank you for, you know, saving me and everything." Glancing at the street below, she gestures toward the edge of the roof. "Would it be too much trouble to get me back down there?"

"Not at all," Ladybug replies with a smile. Calling on her own courage, she looks at her partner and takes a deep breath. Here goes nothing, she thinks. "The usual spot in five? Or less, I guess, since it...doesn't matter now," she says with a shrug that she hopes looks nonchalant.

And there's that smile that shines like the summer sun. He gives her a jaunty salute. "I'll be there with bells on," he says, tapping the bell at his throat and making it jingle.

Ladybug just shakes her head and giggles.

A few minutes later, when she lands beside Chat Noir on their familiar rooftop, her earrings are beeping a frantic rhythm, signaling mere seconds before she detransforms. Instinct has her looking around the roof, ready to dart behind anything she can use to hide.

Before she can move, Chat steps toward her and quietly asks, "Marinette?"

Her transformation dissolves in a wave of pink light, and she hears him gasp as she catches Tikki gently in her palms. Marinette takes her time retrieving a macaron from her purse to feed her kwami, deliberately moving slowly in an attempt to get herself under control before she looks up at her partner. He knows, and he's thrilled, and that's amazing, but it feels like the entire world will change when their gazes finally meet, and she's just not ready yet.

"I, um...I didn't use my cataclysm, so I can stay transformed if you'd prefer, but..." he trails off.

There's something in his voice that finally makes her look at him. Just like when he talked to his father under the akuma's control, his head is bowed slightly, but instead of confidence, this time his eyes are bright with nervous hope.

Marinette understands both the nerves and the hope, and she'll joke with her partner until the end of time about who's in charge, but it feels wrong for either Chat or Adrien to look at her with uneasy deference.

And that's what she thinks of as courage wells in her chest. Her brave, steadfast partner, the other half of their unstoppable team, the boy with terrible timing who can still make her laugh, her best friend whom she loves so fiercely, should never feel he has to approach her in fear.

"Oh, Minou," she breathes. "Of course, go ahead. I...I already know."

He nods and stands a little straighter, and with a whisper and a flash of green, Chat's magical leather is replaced with denim and cotton poplin.

Predictably, her brain is short-circuiting, hollering in panic and terror, but even as her heart pounds wildly in her chest, it whispers quietly, gently, that this is her partner. Her silly kitty. Her dearest friend. He just happens to look like Adrien Agreste at the moment.

(Okay, this is going to take some getting used to.)

Tikki flies off to join Plagg nearby, while Marinette sits down on the roof with her knees pulled to her chest. She pats the space to her right and Adrien settles in cross-legged next to her.

He's the first to break the silence. "I'm sorry, Marinette. I shouldn't have gotten hit. I shouldn't have let you get hit. I know this wasn't what you wanted, and-"

"No, no, don't apologize," she interrupts, shaking her head. "It happens. It's...not the first time." Marinette sighs and closes her eyes, suddenly feeling a lot less courageous in the face of this world-bending change now that they're in their civilian clothes and it's Adrien apologizing to her. She presses her forehead to her knees and tries to imagine the boy beside her in magical leather and cat ears. It only helps a little, but it's enough. "We, um-" she pauses, licks her lips. "We have a lot to talk about. I just don't know if I'm ready for...all of it."

Adrien is silent for an uncomfortably long moment. "Yeah. We do." She hears him take a deep breath that shakes a bit on the exhale and turns her head a fraction to peek at him. His eyes are on the distant horizon. "I...think I understand some things now."

Abruptly, he turns toward her, a little smile tilting the corners of his mouth when he his eyes meet hers. Fear tells her to look away, but she tamps it down and holds his gaze. His smile widens.

"May I ask you something, Marinette?"

She nods.

"When you came up to me at lunch today, were you...planning to ask me on a date?"

Her pulse pounds in her ears. She could give in to fear, say no and brush it off like Chat had misheard her when she was under the akuma's spell. But suddenly her heartbeat seems to drum, "be bold, be kind, be brave," over and over again, and just as the smile begins to slip from his face, she finds the nerve to nod again.

Just like on the other rooftop a few minutes ago, his face lights up like the first rays of sun after a week of rain, shining splendid even in the early afternoon light.

"Am I--" he whispers, his breath hitching though his joy never dims, "Am I the boy?"

Be bold, be kind, be brave.

She calls on her Ladybug courage and nods once more.

His breath catches again and his eyes fill with tears that he brushes away quickly.

Clarity dawns all of a sudden, sweeping her fears to the corners of her mind to be dealt with later. She understood Chat Noir being happy to know his partner's identity, his excitement in finding out his Lady was his friend, too. But this is so much more. Beside her sits Adrien, wiping tears of joy from his eyes at the knowledge that Marinette is in love with him. This might just be a dream coming true on a random rooftop on a random Thursday afternoon.

"Chaton," she breathes, stretching her legs in front of her and placing a hand on his knee.

His hand covers hers, and she meets his gaze, words caught in her throat at the intensity in his eyes.

"I have a confession to make." He rubs the back of his neck with his free hand and takes a deep breath. "I think everyone in Paris knows that Chat Noir is in love with Ladybug. I...know you know." He shrugs as his smile turns a little helpless. "But no one knows that I might have a little tiny bit of a huge crush on Marinette Dupain-Cheng, too."

"Kid, don't lie to your girlfriend. You know very well that I knew, because I've been telling you forever!" Plagg calls from somewhere behind them. Tikki hushes him loudly.

"Okay, he's not wrong," Adrien says, huffing out a combination of a laugh and a sigh. I'm just very stupid, apparently."

"Hey, don't talk that way about my partner." Marinette bumps his shoulder with hers. "I have a teeny, tiny, huge crush on him, too, you know, and I don't appreciate your tone."

Adrien's surprised laugh rings out across the rooftop, filling her heart with so much love she can barely breathe with the force of it. She could listen to that laugh for the rest of her life. She hopes she'll have that chance.

He brushes tears from his eyes again as his laughter subsides, his grin still shining bright. "I'm so happy it's you, Marinette. Beyond happy." He turns her hand beneath his and threads his fingers through hers. "Honestly, there's no one else I would rather have as my partner."

"Me too, Minou," she murmurs, squeezing his hand lightly as incredulous joy sings through her veins.

Tikki's little voice pipes up nearby. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but it's almost time to go back to class."

Adrien lets go of her hand to fish for his phone and curses under his breath when he sees the time. "She's right, My Lady. Could we meet up this evening? I know we have, um...a lot of things to talk about."

Marinette nods. It feels like she's done a lot of that in the last few minutes.

When Adrien stands, he offers his hand to help her up. Just like in the courtyard at lunch, his eyes are patient and kind, but now they shine with something more. She lets him pull her to her feet, then wraps her arms around his waist in a tight hug.

His soft exhale at her ear as he melts against her makes her smile, scrunching up his white overshirt under her cheek. Her senses are filled with him, and she's surprised to realize that it's a feeling of comfort and safety instead of the usual panic.

Maybe loving Adrien and being loved in return will be easier than it seemed all this time. Her fears seem so silly when his arms are wrapped around her shoulders and his head rests on top of hers - a perfect fit.

Even the nightmarish terror of Chat Blanc is diminished. Adrien never told anyone her identity; he knew because he himself was Chat Noir, and there's no way in the world that Chat would hurt his Lady, nor would Adrien ever harm Marinette on purpose. She must have misunderstood. He must have misunderstood. He was an akuma, after all. She sighs into Adrien's shirt. She can never allow that terrible timeline to occur, but whatever happens after this, they'll face it together. Stronger. She'll make sure of it.

"Do you think my father will let me go to Nino's gig in real life?" he asks quietly.

The sad note in his voice breaks her heart. She squeezes him tighter.

"I don't know, Kitty. Do you think we'll be having a movie date on Saturday?"

He leans back abruptly, though his hands still grip her shoulders. "Of course! I'll be there if I have to sneak out!"

Marinette boops his nose, laughing when his eyes cross. "I think that's your answer for Friday night, too."

Suddenly she's in his arms again, this time lifted off the ground and spinning. She can't help but giggle.

"I knew I was in love with a genius!" he cries, jubilant. He sets her down and plants a kiss in the middle of her forehead before calling for Plagg to transform him.

When he turns his masked face back to her, it's like the world is different. She can easily see the brilliant green of Adrien's eyes in Chat's glowing sclerae. The blending of two of her favorite people into one extraordinary boy who - oh my goodness - just said he loves her gives her a shot of courage even before she suits up again.

"You missed, beau gosse."

His eyes widen comically. "I....what?"

Marinette smiles and calls for her transformation, then taps her lips with her gloved fingers. "You kissed me, but you missed."

The sly gleam in his eyes makes her breathing speed up.

"First of all, I would ask before I did that," Chat says, sticking out his thumb before raising his clawed index finger. "Second, I thought I'd save our first kiss for Saturday. Seems like a great way to end our first date, doesn't it?"

Our first date. A tingle runs down her spine. She likes the sound of that.

"I guess I can wait." Her smile turns cheeky. "But it'll be our third--"

"Ah, ah, ah," Chat cuts her off with a grin. He extends his thumb again. "First of all, I don't remember either of those."

Ladybug rolls her eyes, still smiling.

"And second," he says, his voice pitching lower and making her heart skip a beat, "it will be Marinette and Adrien's first kiss."

Oh, this boy, she thinks as her heart soars.

She bites her lip to keep from giggling. "I suppose you're right, even though we both know we're the same people."

Chat gives her a deadpan look. "Just let me have this, Bug."

She bursts into laughter and reaches for her yo-yo, delighting in watching a grin light her partner's face.

"I really am looking forward to Saturday," he says, unhooking his baton from his back. He reaches for her hand and gives it a gentle squeeze. "We'll talk about it later today, okay?"

She nods and watches him vault off toward home.

The wind against her face is exhilarating as she swings back to the bakery. It's amazing how one revelation seems to have changed everything. Even the zip of her yo-yo through the air sounds different to her ears now that she knows, now that he knows.

Marinette detransforms as she touches down on the terrace and sinks into her pink-striped chair while Tikki phases through the hatch into her room in search of food. A quick check of her phone tells her that she has ten minutes before she has to go back to school.

School. One more thing that's going to be different.

Before nerves can creep in, she thinks of Chat Noir and his beaming joy at learning the identity of his beloved partner. That was Adrien. She thinks of the comfort of being wrapped in Adrien's arms, his scent, his warmth. That was Chat Noir.

And when she sits down in class behind him in a few short minutes, that boy with the soft smile and shining eyes will look like Adrien, but now he's so much more.

Marinette stands up from her chair with a lighter heart than she can remember having in a long, long time. She's suddenly looking forward to the second half of the day, even more excited for Nino's event tomorrow night, and positively thrilled that she has a date with Adrien - who is Chat Noir! - on Saturday.

There's so much to experience, so many memories to be made. It feels a bit like a dream. It feels more than a bit scary. But it's going to be great.

It's just going to take a little courage.

She's got this.

[reliving-elegy]

Anamorph

Byron, alone and in company, observes the results of his efforts with muted delight. He steps slowly through a clearing, a path of well-trodden grass and mud separating an ocean of red and sinew.

Gentle as he walks, Byron gazes to the distant sky. The moon half-full, the stars ever-present; washing over the piles of viscera and carved metal. As he passes, reflections of him distort, the gentle light of eventide becoming multitudes.

The Argent comes to a halt before the lowest point of the field; a patch of newly soaking mud. Within lies a slowly growing font of blood, still full of the life he'd sought. With a satisfied sigh, he kneels, bending forward to glimpse at his form.

His fur, once mottled and black, now shines bright as the stars themselves. Where his red, maddened eyes once resided had been replaced by spheres of viscous mercury; within which the Ichor ebbs and flows freely.

"...Unimaginable."

With a longing expression, Byron reaches his right hand toward his image. Cautious as to not allow himself to break the surface, a single claw makes contact.

"They cannot see themselves as I do. Truthfully. Without pity. Without mercy."

Byron takes his opposite hand, gliding it upon his knee and slowly across his breast. So precise are his movements that the blood remains undisturbed.

"Fools. Enthralled to the belief that the world is theirs. That they, together, share the gift of vision; that one amongst their ilk is capable..."

With a quieted growl, Byron's left hand continues- across his collarbone, then to his shoulder. As he speaks, the hand begins descending, sliding gracefully down his stilled arm.

"That one among them is worthy to understand the world. To speak their word as law. That one among them might cross the threshold."

Byron's left hand pauses at his wrist, glancing over to it. His ring finger extends, now alone as it travels down his right.

"But what of them...?"

Byron's right claw dips slightly into the pool, causing a single ripple.

"What of those who give their existence to these saviors? Saints and Gods and Prophets- what of the common name?"

He growls deeply, looking into his reflection and watching it distort with the presence of the single ripple.

"They are forgotten- as is deserved. But, they are led to believe that they will not be so. That, in service to what is 'good' and 'right', their death brings further meaning."

Byron snarls openly. As he does, his reflection begins to warp abnormally; with some remaining unfazed while others vanished entirely.

"That mortals are capable of such treachery- that they would leave another to writhe in abandon and continue to speak?!"

Byron's ring claw smoothly digs into his index finger, dragging it up to the center of his right hand before retracting his left. Split flesh lets ichor fall noiselessly, ebbing down his finger and into the pool.

"...No matter. To you, the foolish... I grant a pitying, passing glance. As is the right you were given- to be seen, in your final moment."

As the silver fluid sinks into the pool, a reaction takes place- almost instantly, the font and its many offshoot rivers of blood begin to crack and burn.

The wind ceases. The light of midnight fades. The field dries as the unknowable is fathomed. Metal bends in screaming angles. Bone and sinew from piling bodies wrong themselves.

Byron's reflection fades as roiling ichor and mortal blood burns away to mirror-smog, and all the world is unbecoming.

"...But no more."

The light returns. Byron kneels in a grassy field before a patch of mud. He grins widely.

[tales-unique]

FAITH, LOST  IV

Oh honey she starts off so spicy! Hence why it's all under a Read More since I don't wanna get done for showing the nasty straight out the gate. Minors better beware! ;3

Tagging the boos, for obvs reasons @chelseareferenced @buckysbaby1 hope you all like it! 😘😘

Chapter 4

It begins as soon as your eyes flutter open. The darkness, familiar, like an old friend, coerces your senses into a heightened state. Exposed, your skin prickles at the coolness of the room, writhing against soft sheets. You exhale in exhilaration; you know what’s to come. It starts small, a low thrum of electricity in the air that tickles your bare flesh. Then it builds, tantalizingly slow, a measured surge of power that has you twisting yourself in knots. You want more. Only He can give you more. His arrival is heralded by the scent of oil and whiskey, leather and smoke. It caresses you, embraces you, and sends you into overdrive. It’s instinctual, a primal desire. It corrupts your mind, the sequence disjointing in its take over. Thick boots echo on a wooden floor, your mouth falling open with a heated breath. Your back arches when you feel his weight dip the bed, heat radiating from him. The contrast has you trembling, body wired. His hands, strong and calloused, grip the backs of your thighs easily. A simple tug and you’re at his mercy, legs parting easily in his strong grip. You moan, he growls. He likes what he can see, those beast eyes glowing a dangerous red in the blackness. Sharp indents form against delicate skin, his claws marking your inner thighs. His little lamb, so sweet and so ready for the slaughter. Then there’s movement, the shuffle of fabric, the chink of a belt buckle. You tense, but you’re ready. The air surges with the oncoming crescendo, the room spinning, or maybe it’s you? You’re not sure, preoccupied with the molten heat that pools suddenly between your legs. You feel his grin, all teeth and tongue helping to blot out the sharp stab of pain.      Forgive me Father, for I have sinned—

The sudden chaos of a burst steam pipe in the hallway outside your room abruptly shocks you from your slumber, a cacophony of sounds assaulting your sleep-hazed senses. You hear Heisenberg shouting, the scraping of metal being reshaped at will, the harsh hissing of escaping steam. Groaning at the rude awakening you flop back against the lumpy couch cushions, kicking off your blanket in protest. A light sheen of sweat covers your body, making your nightclothes stick to you in an uncomfortable way. As you stare up at the ceiling you try to decode the meaning behind your dream. You recall with an embarrassing amount of clarity just what it was you were doing and who you were enjoying it with. Humiliation blooms within you, coloring your cheeks a shade of scarlet. It wasn’t as though you hadn’t indulged in the past, you just never had desires so blatant before. Especially for someone who was your superior in every way. “Hey, you awake in there?” Heisenberg’s voice cuts your thoughts short. All the racket has stopped, there’s just the usual hum of the Factory. “Y-yes!” You squeak, stomach clenching uncharacteristically as you sit up, “I’m awake!” “Well get your ass up, we have work to do!” He claps his hands hard to exaggerate his point and you lament your new found torture as his footfalls recede down the corridor. Oh merciful Mother Miranda how were you supposed to face him anymore?

Heisenberg is, for lack of a better word, pissed. It surges through him and it shows in the haphazard, volatile approach he takes with his work. It isn’t rational, this level of response on his part, but he can’t help it. You’ve barely spoken a full sentence to him all day. Now, he’s under no illusions that you were going to become the best of friends. After all, you had been sent to him by Mother Bitch herself to be his servant and he knew that you were three sheets to the wind over this religious bullshit, but he’d thought that you’d been showing progress in becoming your own person. At least, you were , until that little incident where he had you pinned against his desk and decided to take his teasing to the next level. It isn’t often that Heisenberg considers that he may have gone too far with something, or someone , but he’s definitely considering the possibility now that you seem to be avoiding him wherever possible. You’d even brushed off his blatant last ditch attempt, an offer to accompany him to see his forge and the projects he’d been working on, in favour of praying to Mother Miranda. It’s the exact opposite of what he wanted to happen. You’d been so close to opening up, to no longer being a tool, but instead you’re become even more the meek little lamb of Miranda’s flock. Frustration bubbles within and his temper, short-fused as it already is, takes a critical hit. As a result everything he does has a sharp, volatile edge to it; even something as simple as opening a door is menacing in his current state. It serves to further deter you from him, giving you the space you so desperately desired. That is, until Heisenberg reaches his limit. “Just open up already! You can’t ignore me forever!” He thunders where he stands in the hallway, gritting his teeth in a vicious snarl. When he’s met with your persistent silence he howls in frustration, throwing his arms up in the air. The irony of him choosing to remain outside your door doesn’t go amiss, since it’s well known that he could easily rip the door from its hinges with the flick of his hand because of his nifty little ability to manipulate metal. Which, coincidentally, nearly everything in this Factory is made of in some form or another. But he doesn’t and you’re thankful for that, even if you still don’t want to face him. It continues on relentlessly, neither side backing down, and without realizing it, the whole thing becomes a game in its own right. One that pits you against one another to see who cracks first. So it’s a surprise when it’s Heisenberg that seeks you out first. It’s a situation of his own making, having followed you on the gritty live feed from his security cameras. With ease he catches you off guard on your way out of the elevator, taking your fright in his stride. “Easy now!” He exclaims, his hands raised in surrender. You’re cagey, looking for a way out. He isn’t going to give you one because he’s had about enough of you giving him the cold shoulder over a goddamn joke . You’ve pressed yourself tight against the wall, watching him like a hawk. He can hear the frantic flutter of your heart, the sharp intakes of breath, and his jaw tightens. He can’t get distracted now, he needs to focus — this was not the time to enjoy your distress. “Now I know that I can be a bit of a handful,” he starts, then falters, mouth working to try and word it just right, “but, really, hasn’t this gone on long enough? I didn’t mean any harm by it! Just a little teasing, you weren’t meant to get upset.” Oh, he thinks this is because of that time. You stare up at him in utter disbelief. You want to slap him. It’s the first time you’ve ever felt the innate burning desire to inflict bodily harm on anyone, but here you stand, about ready to knock those glasses right off his face. “You have literally no idea how you make me feel , do you?” You accuse him, incredulous, your posture straightening. Things might have slipped back to the way they were before all of this if he had just let you be, allowed you to warm back up to him, and maybe you might have been content with that. This was a turmoil of his own creation, after all, so why not let him stew in it a while. But now? Now you were at your limit. You’re tired of constantly tip-toeing around yourself because of him and his stupid games. If anything, you’re even more tentative to rekindle whatever this relationship is that you have with him, to throw in the towel and tell Mother Miranda she’d been wrong about you. It made you sour to think that what little progress you had made had been lost and it’s taken its toll on you. There’s a harsh look to you that has Heisenberg’s head spinning, apprehension gripping him. “H-Hold on a minute,” he attempts to defend himself, an uncomfortable blend of emotions sitting like a stone in his stomach. He’s conflicted over your new found confidence. You’re no longer the mild-mannered devotee that was wound around Mother Miranda’s finger, standing tall. You’re practically shining. It’s a good look on you, but he’s not exactly thrilled to be the one on the receiving end. “No!” You snap, squaring up to him. You see his brilliant eyes widen behind his circular glasses and for once in your life you feel powerful and in control . “I’ve done nothing but try my best here, trying to make something good out of this situation and you made me feel like a complete idiot !” The words feel heavy on your tongue, but you feel lighter now that they’re out in the open. Who knew that having your shame out in the open could feel so liberating. You take a deep breath when you feel the pinpricks of tears sting your eyes, trying to ground yourself. You wouldn’t forgive yourself if you cried in front of him. Not in this lifetime, or the next. Heisenberg stares down at you with a look of realization on his face, now fully aware that there was more to this than your feelings of inadequacy, that you were little more than a joke to him. It’s always been there, in the way your heart races when he gets just that little bit too close or how your eyes soften when he’s agonizing over his work. He goes to speak this revelation but you shake your head, lower lip trembling. “I was just trying to help .” The way your voice breaks has him in a tailspin, the look of pure anguish in your eyes cutting him deep. This is in no way what he had envisioned when he spotted the chance to clear the air with you. “Oh come on, don’t cry!” It’s a desperate plea, something you never thought you would hear from him. “You’re making me feel really shitty here!” “That’s because you are!” You sob, unable to hold it back anymore. You feel like such a pathetic idiot. That overwhelming monster of self-degradation looms, fueling your misery. If only a dark abyss could just swallow you up and save you from this embarrassment, but you know that’s not going to happen. There’s only this awkward moment, lingering between you. You whimper, trying desperately to wipe away your tears. They stream down your cheeks, burning against your already flushed skin as you sniffle. Suddenly his hands are encasing your own in a firm grip. With a surprisingly gentle touch he tugs them down, exposing you. The whites of your eyes are marred with tiny lines of red and your long lashes clump together from your tears. You’re a mess, but he doesn’t mind. In fact, he finds you oddly endearing in the moment. Swallowing, you try to understand what’s going on. Your hands are still held in his, the feel of soft leather almost comforting against your skin, and you wonder if you’re dreaming again. Something stirs in you, glowing embers kicking up from ashes, and you try to pull away. It’s an admirable attempt but Heisenberg easily catches you, holding you in a vice-like grip against him. You whine at the harshness of his grasp and he frowns, loosening his hold just enough to make it bearable. “I’m sorry, alright?” He mumbles, hesitating. It’s been so long, too long, since he’s been in such close proximity to someone who wasn’t prey. You aren’t fighting him, you aren’t trying your damnedest to get away. In fact, you look as though you’re captivated by him. It’s a side of him that no one has ever seen before, the dejection of a man twisted into being a monster. Something inside you breaks anew at how lost he looks, the last and most dangerous of the Lords at Mother Miranda’s disposal. He’s nothing more than a dog on a choke chain, to be used when it’s suited and then discarded afterwards. Just like you. “Heisenberg,” your voice is hushed, woeful. The words are so genuine and your heart isn’t yet made of stone to be immune to their plight. When you shift in his grasp there’s no resistance and you reach up to gently cup his cheeks in your hands. The stubble on his face tickles your palms and his skin is warm and smooth to the touch. You find you quite like it, the contrast of textures. He does little in the way to stop you. In fact, he encourages you. His hands find purchase on your hips, thumbs brushing the delicate spots just below your rib cage. It elicits a soft gasp from you, your body stiffening beneath him. Glistening eyes stare up at him, a swirling maelstrom threatening to drown him along with you. He’s curious whether or not you’re ready to commit to this. Heisenberg knows what you want, or better yet, what your body wants, but your mind eludes him. He waits with bated breath to see what path you will take, the uncomfortable feeling of anxiety creeping in his bones. It’s like poison, a crawling taint that threatens to take over him. What have you done to him? The exact same thing he did to you. It’s a disquieting notion, one that almost overtakes him, until it doesn’t. The doubts are suddenly banished and relief washes over him at the feel of your silken lips against his in a tender kiss. The chain breaks; you're both suddenly free, and it feels euphoric .

[unwanted-animal]

Matt/Frank : T E E T H

Explicit. M/M.

Tags/CW: Teeth, Mouth Likely, Consensual Torture, Blood, Tooth Trauma, Dark, Romance, Don/sub, Rutting, Coming In Pants, Bloody Kisses, Please Do Not Let Matt Murdock Perform Oral Surgery On You

My gifts for @lovetincture for this year’s @daredevilexchange :D The prompt I chose to roll with was “Romantic Teeth Trauma”, and it lit a spark inside me! Which is why my gift is two moodboards, a playlist, AND a fic lol

AO3 for the playlist and Alt Text (will be live when the collection opens!)

“Are you sure about this, Frank?”

Matt crouched in front of the chair, head tilted to the side as he listened for any changes in Frank. His breathing. His heart rate. His tone. If there was any sign he wasn’t confident about his request, Matt planned to stop. Frank liked pain, sure, but this? This was beyond normal pain.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m sure, Red. Only you. Anyone else I wouldn’t think about it, but you? You get me. I, I trust you. Y’know?”

“And you want no anesthesia?”

“None.”

No change. Even breathing. Steady heart rate. Frank was out of his goddamn mind, letting a blind man cut out one of his teeth. The thought brought a smile to Matt’s lips. Frank was mad, but that madness, that dedication to seeing things through, that only endeared him to him. He patted Frank’s leg gently and stood up.

“Okay. Can you reach the tools, push them toward me? Please?”

The rattle of metal filled his senses, making the room feel full and featureless. Matt groaned and shook his head to clear the cloud stifling his ‘sight’. Once the tray stopped, his access to the space returned. Deep shades of red, sparked by changes in the environment, that let him see - in a sense.

His world on fire.

Frank burned brightly in his special sense. Rugged, body made of valleys and hills and broken roads, sound made him shine. And Frank? Frank shone the loudest when he screamed.

Matt placed one hand on the handle of the cart. The other hovered over the tools.

“Scalpel,” he said softly.

“Four inches to your left. Blade facing away from you.”

He followed Frank’s instructions and lifted the surgical knife from the cloth. It was cool in his grasp, the handle weighted and the blade light and sharp enough to cut through muscle and tendon. Matt let out a slow breath. His hands were steady — no tremor. No fear.

Just a blind man performing intimate oral surgery.

“Once I’m in your mouth you won’t be able to instruct me, so if there’s anything you need to say to me, Frank? Now’s the time.”

Something about Frank’s gaze, Matt could always feel . He stared at him now , and from the way his pulse quickened he knew it was affectionate. Tender. He’d seen that look once, when the sirens lit the graveyard after the Irish. That hangdog, loving look in Frank’s sad eyes turned to him now, and he was certain there was a hint of madness to it. Of thrill. Frank wanted this. Hell, it’d been his idea.

“Yeah. Yeah, I got somethin’. Yeah. Matt?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t fuck it up,” Frank teased. “I love you.”

Matt smirked.

“I know. Open up for me.”

Frank opened his mouth, as wide as he could. His wrists tugged against the handcuffs holding them to the legs of the chair, the rattle reassuring. Frank wouldn’t get out if the pain was too great, which meant Matt wouldn’t wind up with a fist in his face when he dug into the root. It was a precaution, sure, but he had to admit he liked Frank tied up.

At his mercy .

Matt slipped two fingers inside his waiting mouth and slid them along his tongue. Frank shuddered, gagging slightly as he pressed down. Drool pooled around his hand and ran down, down the curve of his chin, spattering on his bare chest. Matt felt the wetness and smiled down at Frank.

“I bet you can do better than that.”

He lifted the scalpel and guided his fingers up. Picking a molar was the hard part. Humming, Matt tapped between three of them, whispering that familiar mantra.

“One batch. Two batch. Penny and dime — Ah. This one.”

The back molar. One Frank wouldn’t even know was missing.

“Here we go, Frank.”

All he got was a huff of a growl in response.

Matt pressed the blade into the soft meat of Frank’s gum. Blood welled from the wound, mixing with the drool, and Matt wished he could see it. The ecstatic look of agony carved into Frank’s Roman features, the mess he made, the wild rush burning in his eyes… He cut again. Again. Tracing the tooth. Beneath him, Frank snarled and roared.

“That’s right. Like that. Make noise, nobody will hear you here. Nobody but me.”

His noise made it easier for Matt to see what he was doing. Vibrations traveled through his mouth, and the loose skin he sliced through swayed from side to side. Soon he had most of the tooth exposed, the gums cut and peeled back with careful - if amateur - care. Frank pulled against the cuffs and rocked the chair as his fingers touched the wound, but Matt didn’t stop.

Frank had had plenty of time to revoke consent before. He didn’t. His fingers weren’t tapping out his safeword on the wood. Frank loved being out of control, submitting to Matt in such a deep, intimate way. Pain, even the extreme kind, wasn’t foreign to their relationship nor their sex.

This, this was dedication. A declaration. One far more beautiful than any other words or gestures could be.

Matt used Frank’s moans to find the forceps. He traded out his scalpel for the pointed steel, clicking them together a few times as Frank simply sat there shaking. His lips trembled, but he kept his mouth open to the cool air.

A good dog. Loyal. Obedient.

He guided the new tool inside, easily finding his way back. The blood dripping on his knuckles couldn’t be missed. Matt’s forceps closed around the tooth and he began to pry. Grunting, he pumped his arm, moving the bone in its tight little socket. Frank roared in pain, hips coming up and rubbing against Matt’s thigh.

He was hard, hard enough that the brief touch sent a shiver down Frank’s spine. Matt grinned, his dimples deep as he pressed his thigh back in response.

“Rut. Like a dog. I wouldn’t want to leave you all worked up, not when you’re behaving for me. Go on. Consider it a reward. A treat, Frank.”

Frank didn’t hesitate. He started thrusting against Matt, breathing hard through his nose as his cock strained against his jeans. A low moan vibrated in his throat as Matt yanked again, pulling, fighting to get the tooth free of his jaw. Frank screamed around his hands, tears flowing down his cheeks, and Matt’s world burst with vivid red color. He could see Frank. See the blood. See the wide-eyed and hungry stare Frank fixed on him. He was a beacon at the center of Matt’s world, pulsing with every shuddering sob.

“Beautiful,” he said, voice low and soft. “You make the world so beautiful .”

A loud crack split the air. Another. Another, as Matt leveraged his strength to force it out. With one last tug it snapped free of Frank’s jaw, clutched firmly in the forceps. Frank slammed his hips forward as he came, eyes rolling back in his head as that final surge of pain pushed him over the edge. Matt stumbled backward and held the tooth up triumphantly. His prize. His token.

While Frank’s sounds grew quiet, Matt’s vision faded back to darkness. He couldn’t see the sloppy smile on Frank’s face as he drooled blood onto his bare chest.

“… That,” Frank slurred, barely able to move his jaw. His words were mumbled, accompanied by dribbling blood. “Is yours. Yeah. Gonna take it to, to, to your guy. Drill a hole, get a chain. Wear it. Always.”

Matt released the tooth into his hand and ran his bloody thumb over the bone.

Frank’s bone.

A piece of him, to keep forever.

“… I love you, Frank. You know that?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I know. I, I love you too.”

He slipped the tooth into his pocket and lowered himself down on Frank’s filthy lap. His hands were just as messy, bloodied up almost to the elbow from Frank’s coughing and screaming. He slid one through Frank’s curls and tugged him into a rough, heated kiss. Blood filled his mouth, and Matt let it. He savored the taste of Frank. It was no different from kissing him with a split lip.

Except this time he could swallow the mess.

[eventheodds]

In hindsight, she knows her eagerness to get out of the roiling heat and dual suns played a major part in not being more vigilant in regards to looking out for notice and bulletin boards. In particular, wanted posters. The gust of cold air when she had entered made good sense and rationality fly the coop as she easily slid into the booth and picked up the menu that, despite it being protected by a plastic sheet, has some sort of cleaner residue smeared all over it from constant wiping and handling. 

The choices are good at least—some she recognizes and would probably order. Others…maybe not.

Meryl scoots closer to the window as Vash slides in beside her and Wolfwood sits across. She has yet to look up and see if people are staring, though with the din of noises filling in the background spaces, she suspects that their entrance might have caused a little break before everything resumed its natural course. 

She considers ordering a tall glass of ice water when she thinks of what the water looked like in Jeneora Rock. When she looks around, and she has to crane her neck to do so as Vash is beside her and blocking her side view, she spots a few glasses of water on tables that look fine enough.

The condensation on the glasses and making water rings on the table tops is enough to make her smack her lips and order as many as she can drink. No doubt Roberto found the first whiskey bottle he could get his hands on and has started his day off the way he intended to from the start.

She’s still fuming at the fact that he deliberately took a room for himself—and not that she minded, but feeling excluded in his plans, or not being told what was going to happen made her feel like she had been passed over.

It happened enough when she had been studying, no one ever taking her seriously when she told them about her ambitions. The same way her parents would often sigh with that hint of disappointment in her choice of career.

Vash’s exclamation about the choices of ice cream since she had been perusing the desserts menu brings her back as she looks down at the varieties offered here and there is a temptation to order one of everything—until Wolfwood’s comments make her look up at him with a scowl.

Her shoe comes into contact with the centre post of the table bolted to the floor and knows Wolfwood is using that to his advantage. The idea of breaking her toes does not sit well with her, so his shins are spared for the moment.

“Why? Is that a problem?” 

Though, despite not wanting to admit it, especially out loud, he’s right. Junk food will not tide them for long and it will be within the following hour that hunger will strike again. She hates the fact that he’s taking a similar approach to how she addresses Roberto’s drinking and smoking, though she’s a tad bit more aggressive when it comes to that.

She grabs another menu, letting Vash continue with the dessert options, and flips through the dishes they serve here. Sundaes are good and all, and she does intend to order one—her plan needs to work after all, but they have a supreme brunch menu that looks appetizing and Meryl has always been fond of crêpes.

“Fine, have it your way,” which is just shy of admitting he’s right and she grabs his cup for a sip of coffee. She pretends to not flinch at the bitterness and how hot it is as their waitress comes by their table to take their orders.

“I’ll have the ‘Brunch Supreme’ eggs over easy, and one banana sundae, please. Oh, and a glass of water with ice.”

When Meryl is motivated, even if (especially if) her motivation is misguided, precious little short of grabbing hold of her and hauling her in a different direction will stop her.

So, she decides.

And she chooses one of the few little eateries in the town that seems to defy the general degradation of the desert. Sure, the outside is a little worn from sand scouring, its corrugated metal exterior buffed to a satin sheen and its windows clouded and scratched, but the diner made out of a U-shape of transport buses welded together onto a stone foundation appears to be well-maintained.

The price of food and drink will probably reflect that, along with the sheer amount of Plant energy this place enjoys .

Maybe.

"Could be eatin' worm anyway, there, Princess. Doubtless have your whole life-"

"...c'mon, Wolfwood. Why?"

Vash interjects, and Nicholas does not need for him to continue his line of questioning before he grins unabashed, eyes crinkled behind his sunglasses. He knows why. They both do. It's been like this from jump, from the moment Meryl swerved and struck him with the van, and while they have come to something of an understanding, riling her and reaping the consequences is—

"Fun. Besides, you know I'm right."

The bells on the door jingle like a pair of spurs as the gunmen follow Meryl inside. While she has already found a likely place to sit and has already secured a menu, Wolfwood and Vash draw looks from the clientele at the shake bar and in the booths. The host waves them to wherever after a side-eye, though fortunately it seems they get all sorts here and there is no immediately visible bounty board.

It doesn't mean there isn't one somewhere.

They decide to join her, Vash beside with a grin and a little wave, Wolfwood across with the adroit flick of fingers to pass a cigarette from crumpled pack to chapped lips.

"—oooh, they have tea ice cream? And fried ice cream? That's amazing..."

The blond hovers, peering over Meryl's shoulder while Wolfwood pretends to vacillate on the offerings behind the counter, taking his sweet time to settle on a cup of coffee and something savory. They all do have to eat. Neither donuts nor sweet treats seem to enter his reckoning.

Cheaper that way. More calories. Something like that. Maybe he'll pilfer something from the others as a tithe.

He adjusts his legs to shield his shins with the table's center post.

"Junk again, huh?"

[plush-rabbit]

A Ruined Otaku

Warnings: Dom, Degradation (light), Fem!Reader

Word Count: 2.9K

A/N: i wanna make Levi cry (also just one oro for him!! I forgot to add the second:(()

-

Leviathan is many things. The third born. The Avatar of Envy. An angel turned demon. A Grand Admiral. He can summon an old creature, scales embedded with everything lost to the sea and kill with a simple squeeze of his hand. He’s something old and powerful, a minimalist body to hold the power and horror that resides. Leviathan, is an old demon, scales and teeth, thirsty for blood and poisonous to the mind, and yet, with all the power and title that he carries, he still lays beneath you, legs spread and cock oozing with semen, a gag shoved in his mouth- a simple makeshift of your underwear that was stained with arousal- soaked with his own drool as tears form in his eyes like dew that forms under the bright moon of Devildom. His hands are clawed into the cheap fabric of the small bed- a futon, if he was to be more specific- the fabric ripped and stuffing fluffing out of the sheet. 

“You’re drooling,” you muse, the heels of your shoes clicking against the tile of his room. “You know how expensive those were, right?” He can only nod his head, feeling a thick sliver of drool slip down his chin. “Here I am, wasting money on you, getting all dolled up, and there you go. Drooling over my underwear like some fucking creep.” Your voice raises into a lilt at the end, a cruel smile stretching against your lips, your eyes narrowing as the fat of your cheeks push upwards. “Who’s going to get me a new outfit? Hm? Are you?” He remains silent, sniffling through the fabric, cock jerking, the spiraled head dotted with pearly white semen that drips down onto the bottom of his stomach, the scales that adorn him are coated in a slimy substance, glistening and heavy, lubricated due to his nature, aching and ready to be put to use. He can only nod his head at your question, he doesn’t do more than that, nodding until his purple hair is ruffled. You’re not stronger than him- you could never beat him in an actual fight, but he is at your mercy right now and with a slight work of spell, he can feel the pressure of your nails against his tight. “Answer me, Levi.” 

His words are muffled against the cloth. He’s heard you say his name plenty of times, but each and every time, it still stirs something within him. “Yes,” he says, the word muffled, a harsh “sh” sound at the end of the word and he wants you to pierce his skin; he’d give you his strength just to feel blood prick at his skin, to feel you have all the power and to put him at your mercy. He thinks with a bit more practice, you should be able to leave him bruises in the shape of your hands. He salivates at the thought of feeling an actual sensation coming from you and not from some type of toy.

His stomach aches, his erection almost painful, skin tingling and running over his body with pricks. He can’t seem to find his breath. He tries to peer at you, so desperate to call you by name and ask you to touch him just once more, to give pity to him. 

“And how are you going to do that? You waste every single grimm that you earn on figures and anything else you can get your hands on.” His legs are spread and he can feel your knee against the inside of his thigh. “So reckless and horrible. You’re a pathetic excuse for a demon.” His chest aches and his hands tighten around the sheets. “Worrying about standing in line, having me do all your dirty work just so you can jerk off to plastic.” He moans against the fabric when your hand wraps around his cock; you don’t cover him entirely but it’s more than enough for him to at least derive some pleasure. “Is that what gets you off? Fisting your cock over plastic, thinking about how the new waifu-” he can hear the distaste in your voice and he’s pleading in his mind for you to just hurry and jerk him off- “would bend over and ask you to fuck them.” Your laugh is harsh, piercing into his fragile self-esteem and he’s whining, a high-pitched and pathetic noise that makes you glower at him. “What do you think of when you jerk off over plastic?”

He refuses to answer. He’s a yucky otaku, something gross and perverted, a title given to him only because he had fallen along with his brothers. He is powerful but weak, cracking under pressure and having to beg for things. It’s already mortifying enough that you know of his perverted secret, humiliating, knowing that you’re using it against him in such a private and intimate moment. But he couldn’t help himself- he couldn’t ask you to help him, he was too nervous, shaking at the thought of telling you that he was aroused and none of the videos or hentai were doing it for him. It was his fault- he’s the one that bought the scantily clad figure, an ahegao expression printed onto it that was soon painted white.

The bed creaks, the metal groaning under the weight of both of you, the front of the bed knocking against the wall and his face burns. He knows that whatever happens will be echoed through the house, that he’ll be forced to endure even more teasing and having to go back to you and beg for you to take care of him. 

Your hands dance on his abdomen, fluttering hands that graze his sides and rest where a rib cage would be, curving over his breasts and the heel of your palm nudges against his pebbled nipples. He is still, breath hitched in his throat and eyes fluttering to a close. It’s the softest touch he’ll get from you right now, something so comforting that it sends the muscle in his chest beating harsh against the skin of his body. He wants something harsher, he wants to feel you grip on him and never let go, to be gasping for breath simply because you gave him what he wanted. He’d lie on the ground and bleed for you, choke against his own blood, grovel at your feet and kiss the ground you walk on if it meant that you would touch him in the way he wanted to be touched.

Your hands are curved against his chest, the pads of your fingertips pressed into him and he stares at amazement above you. His cock, a spiraled tip with bumps and ridges, the shaft is a soft curve is a heavy, dark color. It’s hard, the scales that etch onto him below the head are rigid and bumped, the arousal and state of mind that he is in makes him lose focus. He’s spilling, drenched in his own arousal. You sit bare on his thighs. He can smell your sex, aroused and leaking. He’d give up an entire season of anime if it meant he could see how pretty your cunt looked. 

“You’re a filthy, fucking whore, Levi.” With every inch that you sink onto his cock, he screams against your underwear. “A quick and easy fuck.” You’re so warm and soft, the puffiness of your walls enveloping in a sweet hug. “You should be lucky that even a human would want to touch you.” You spit the words out and his sobs against the cloth, jaw twitching and tear tearing through the fabric. Your hands grip at his face, turning him towards you and he looks at you with heavy eyes filled with tears. “Tell me your perverted fantasies, Leviathan.” The fabric spills from his mouth, dragging across his skin, leaving his lower half of the face in a thin layer of his own drool. You sneer at him and yank your hand away from his face, shaking it beside you as if to flick off any of his own secretion. 

Where could he even start? He’s breathless, shaking in his position, trembling bones as he raises his arms and covers his face with clammy hands. He can feel your gaze on him, his face burning and chest heaving with every intake of air, pressing his heels into his face. His body reacts, knees bending, trying to curl up in a ball, meeting your ack instead and he can hear the soft puff of air. 

He peeks between slender fingers, staring up at you and he can only lay and watch as you tilt your head. You raise your brows at him expectantly, and there’s a falling pit in his stomach. “I-” his voice cracks and his neck burns- “I think of you,” he says in a rushed voice. “I think of how good your mouth feels, how you always leave me pleased and completely drained.” He yelps when fingers twist at his nipple, the skin blooming in red and back arching, hands leaving his face to grasp at the bed. “I- I think of you- It’s always you. How you let such a poor excuse of a demon touch you.” His voice is steadily growing louder, choking through the words and staring up at you. “I’m gross and I’m touching you, a filthy, yucky otaku-” with each word his voice grows louder until it’s booming against the walls, the glass of his aquarium shaking, making the poor fish swim around anxiously- “who thinks of fucking you when I jerk off.” 

He’s pitiful. Messy, purple hair that sticks to his forehead with sweat, orange eyes tinted with blue shine under tears that have yet to be shed, few tear streaks wet at his face, falling down to the pillow under him, the dark gray pillowcase darkens under him. Your hand cradles his face and for the first time in the night, his chest feels light, he can breathe, staring at your parted lips and wanting to kiss them. He purses his lips and jerks his head towards your, eyes closing slowly- just one kiss, something so simple and innocent that he wants. 

He’s pulled back with a soft click of your tongue, your head shaking in a denial that you give him. “Tsk, tsk.” Your hand is still gentle and it’s intoxicating to have you touch him. His cock warms your insides, pulsing and aching, his entire control kept in check in order to not disobey and let himself ravage your weaker body. There’s a horrible thought in his head as you lay limp in his arms as he pushes inside your body, kissing at your wet lips and meeting the dazed look in your eyes. “Only good boys get to kiss me.” Your lips are so close to his and your free hand rests on the curve of his breast. “Are you a good boy, Levi?” The tip of your nose grazes at his and he’s never been so weak in his entire life, never so full of want and hunger to force himself to move so he can kiss your lips. 

“No,” he breathes out. His tongue peeks out, the soft, pink tip lapping at his lips. “I’m horrible.” He thinks he’d kill for just a simple kiss. “Make me a good boy, please.” He calls your name, he dares to utter the breath of his love in such a hopeless voice, wanting to reach above with curling hands. 

He gasps when your lips are pressed against his- slipping past, slick with something sour, tongue slipping past and entering his mouth. If it were any other day, he’d slip his tongue in your mouth and have you choke, but for now, he remains unable to, completely at your will. He’s certain now- he really would kill for just a simple kiss from you.

It’s shameful and he won’t live it down for the next odd years, but the kiss is enough to send him over the edge. He keeps his lips pressed to yours, bruising almost as he pushes himself against you, cock twitching and a soft rut of his hips as he spills his seed inside of you. It’s a thick, heavy flow, filling you and his hands are moving, flat against your back and curing against the back of your head, pushing you closer to him. His mouth opens and he whines, salivating as you let out a stifled moan. Filthy and wet, his slick sliding out of you, coating his cock with semen, the scales that line around him are lost under him. 

He’s delirious, humping you, his face dazed and eyes rolled to the back of his head, a heavy blush across his face as you let him do all the work. While endurance was never his strongest suit, he absolutely loses himself over you, his thrusts becoming sloppier- a lewd, wet shucking sound fills the room, your breasts bouncing and it’s humiliating at how riled he becomes. He pants like a bitch in heat, and he can hear just how pathetic he sounds, croaking and gasping for breath. 

You’re slick, your walls molded around him, the soft walls that envelop him in a warm hug, make him twitch. He’s whining, chest vibrating against yours, his stiff nipples pressed against your soft chest. Every pull of your body makes him murmur a slurred version of your name, mind hazy as he continues to rut inside of you, feeling the burning heat in his lower stomach return, aching and tightening, having him kick out his legs as his body starts to grow rigid and antsy. 

“Such a whore, Levi.” Your lips brush against the shell of his ear, lowering yourself on his cock, the base of it stretching your wet sex. The curve of his cock pushes against a spot, eliciting a strangled moan from you. You clench tighter around him, your plush walls squishing around him- silky and plush, against his cock. “Acting like you’ve never fucked a cunt before.” Your words low, lowering your head to kiss at his neck, wet spots that glisten against his skin.

“Not-” he’s interrupted by a moan, hands clawing against you, pressing you close to his flush body- “not as good as yours.” His hands release you and you immediately rise. Your smile is breathless and coy, chest rising and dropping as you stare down at him. Your eyes soften for just a moment, and his own hands come to pinch at his nipples, the soft tissue of his breast squished under his hands. He must look pitiful- a look akin to that of a hurt animal if your gaze on him is anything to go by. He knows how he must look. A flushed face tinted in a rosy red, eyes that shine with tears, lashes that catch the fallen drops and a tear-stained face, puffy, reddened lips that part with each gasp of air. He must look wretched. 

Your hand curves around his cheek and he leans into your touch. “How sweet-” your smile returns into a more stretched version, teeth hidden behind your lips- “my dear Leviathan.” He wonders if you can hear the way that his heart beats. His mouth parts and there’s a sick perversion where he wants you to spit on him, to treat him like the disgusting pervert that he truly is. “Are you close?” Your nails drag along his skin and he can only nod, eyes flickering to where your skin slaps against his. “You know that you’re only allowed to because of me, correct?” Your eyes glint with something that he cannot place. “No matter what anyone says,” your voice lowers and it’s erotic to him, something like a drug that he’s never taken and makes him all more weak to you, “you’re nothing more than a living toy.” He jerks inside of you and his stomach begins to ache. “A pretty, little demon that I get to fuck.” He so desperately wants to touch you. “You’re nothing more than a filthy, yucky otaku.” His nails pierce into the skin of his breasts, blood dotting along him. Your eyes dart to his chest before returning to his eyes, lowering until the tip of your nose brushes against his. “Don’t ruin yourself Levi, save that for me.” Your lips meet his and he does as he is told. 

His hands leave his chest and he pushes you onto him, spilling his seed into your cunt, feeling the way that your walls tighten and pulse, the heavy beating of your body and the heat that floods out. He’s moaning into you, muffled and drowning out your gasped version of his name that escapes your lips. 

His cock is wet as he lays beside you. He’s curled against your side, a softening cock that sticks against your thigh, body curved so his head rests on your chest. He lays above you, eyes wet as you pet his hair. “You had such a lovely look on you, Levi.” He can feel your lips kiss at the crown of his head. “It made you look so handsome.” He lets out a weak cry, nodding as tears slip past his closed eyes, nuzzling closer to your chest as your hand lowers to soothe against his back. You shush him gently as he begins to rut against your thigh.

[peterrparrkerr]

Oviposition - read on ao3

*-*

Tony waits until he's sure everyone is asleep before making his way to the lab. He's not been able to stop thinking about the arachnid since he'd arrived.

It had started out as curiosity -a boy more insect than human, with pitch black eyes and four extra legs sprouting from his spine. He was a character straight out of a comic book.

They were testing him -trying to see how it was he got to be what he is, and in that testing, Tony found things that only drew him in more.

Tony's team found out a lot in the few months they had him. His senses were all dialed to an eleven, so he could hear, smell and see things Tony couldn't. He could feel individual threads in almost every fabric offered to him, and could list every ingredient in his food with complete accuracy.

His eyes -though terrifying and demonic looking when the boy got upset- made him look almost cute when he tilted his head to the side.

Tony swiped his key card and pulled the door open when the little red light switched to green. The lab had an eery blue glow to it when the white florescent lights weren't on.

He makes his way on silent feet across the lab to the cell they had kept the boy in. He couldn't help it. There was no talking himself out of it.

He needed- he needed to see the boy.

They'd discovered something about their arachnid friend that had Tony aching for it. He hadn't herb able to sleep, too busy imagining it. Imagining his gut filled with the eggs the boy apparently carried instead of semen.

He stops at the cell door, peering inside. The ten by ten space is covered in webbing. Spun from the boy himself.

In the top right corner is a tunnel, big enough to crawl through and leading to what Tony can only assume is his nest.

They'd tested the webbing too, and Tony couldn't help but look at the webs in awe.

Tony takes a deep breath, then swipes his card.

There's a click, the red light flickers green, and then Tony's stepping inside. He makes sure to close it behind him, locking them both inside.

There's movement above him. Tony looks up, tracking the sounds as the boy moves from his spot in his webbed nest to the tunnel.

Tony barely makes out the shining eyes at the tunnel's entrance. They reflect the blue light terrifyingly.

"Hello, Peter," Tony greets softly, as to not spook the boy.

There's a second or two where the boy doesn't move, and then two spider legs emerge from the dark, gripping the wall and his webbing. Two more come out next, and then Peter is coming out, crawling across the wall like something out of the exorcist.

Tony had gotten used to it, but at night, it sets Tony's heart rate spiking and the hairs of his arms on end.

When Peter is close enough to the ground, he drops onto his feet. He's wearing nothing but a pair of black basketball shorts -they couldn't get him into anything else.

Peter's extra limbs tuck themselves behind him, nearly making him look like a regular teenager.

"Tony," Peter greets, voice an odd inflection of boy and not-quite-human. It sends a shiver through Tony. His cock twitches in interest.

Tony doesn't know how to start. He just knows he wants. He wants to see his stomach bulge with Peter's seed, and he'll do anything to get it.

"You want something," the boy hummed, head tilted to the side. Perceptive little thing.

"Yes," Tony said, sounding breathless.

Peter straightens his head, peering up at Tony, blinking as he tries to figure it out. "What?"

Tony doesn't know how to say it. Doesn't know if Peter's human enough to realize how inappropriate this is. But Tony can't back down now. If he does, it'll drive him crazy.

So, instead of answering, Tony pulls his tank top off over his head, dropping it with the key card down onto the floor, just outside the cage.

Peter watches silently. Calculating.

Tony hooks his thumbs into the striped pajama pants and drops them to his ankles.

It must be the thing that cues Peter in, because suddenly, the boy is moving for him. Its fast -inhumanly so- and Tony doesn't have any time to react beside gasping.

Bare chests press together, and Peter's arms wrap around Tony, lifting him off the ground as those extra limbs lift them into the air.

Tony suddenly pictures himself in a webbed cocoon, waiting to be Peter's meal. Theres a reason Peter stays behind metal bars, and Tony suddenly wishes he had thought more with his head than his cock.

But then they're on the ceiling -Tony laying on Peter's chest, the boy holding them parallel to the ceiling.

"You want to mate?" Peter asks, looking at Tony with blinking, curious black eyes. Tony's surprised those four limbs have the strength to hold them both up. He refuses to look anywhere but at Peter -even if it is only a ten foot drop, he'd rather not fall.

"Yes," is what Tony says before he can stop himself. Something filters through Peter's features, and just as suddenly as Tony blinks, the boy has him turned over, so his back is pressed into Peter's chest.

Tony's breath hitches, feeling Peter's growing cock between his cheeks already, through the fabric of his shorts.

Peter crawls across the ceiling towards the tunnel, the two of them disappearing inside.

Tony's so hard it hurts. He allows Peter to manhandle him into the position of his choosing.

The webbing -although slightly sticky- is surprisingly soft and pliant to Tony's weight as Peter settles him onto his stomach, crawling over top of him, with two extra legs on either side.

"My mate," Peter hums lowly, nosing at Tony's spine. Tony can't do anything but nod, lifting his ass until its pushing against Peter's clothed crotch.

He gets his knees under him, rubbing himself against Peter, trying to get Peter in motion.

It works. The boy shoves his shorts down and kicks them to the side, adapting arms around Tony's waist and rutting into Tony's crack.

"Mine," Peter murmured against the skin of Tony's shoulder.

"Yours," Tony confirmed on a groan. He needs to be filled. Its almost agony not having Peter buried deep inside him. "Mate me, Peter."

And that's all the direction Peter needs.

Tony's suddenly glad he fucked himself on his fingers before coming here. There's no preparation as Peter presses into Tony.

Tony chokes on a cry as the mushroom head of Peter's cock pops in past his rim. Peter doesn't stop there though, he presses in until he's buried at the hilt.

"Oh God," Tony groaned. Peter keeps both arms around Tony's middle, keeping his hips in the air.

His extra legs allow Peter to hover over him as he begins to thrust in and out of Tony, hips snapping and balls slapping against Tony.

Tony can't help the punched out moans from falling from his mouth. Peter's much bigger than Tony expected, and he can feel everything.

"My mate," Peter gasped lowly, hips pistoning into Tony in a toe curling pace. He fights the urge to let his eyes roll back into his head at the constant pounding of his prostate.

"You want to carry my offspring?" Peter asked, mouth at Tony's ear. "Want to see you so full with them."

Tony groans at the thought and clenches around Peter, driving his own hips back to meet Peter's.

"Yes, God yes, please, fill me up til I'm bursting," Tony nearly begged, neglected cock drooling pre-cum at the thought.

Peter picks up the pace, assaulting Tony's asshole and prostate without mercy.

Tony can't help the onslaught of moans and whimpers and unintelligible mumbles that fall past his lips, chest dropping to the webbed flooring, hips rolling up to allow Peter deeper.

His breath hitches when he feels Peter climax. Its so much different than any orgasm Tony's felt before.

He feels the first egg pass from Peter, then the second. Each significant in size. Tony feels his cock throb painfully at the feeling.

"Yes, fill me up, God please!" Tony sobbed, rocking back onto Peter's cock.

The boy grunts, panting as he thrusts into Tony, emptying himself.

Its not long before Tony begins to feel full, his stomach tight, but not yet extended. He reaches a hand down, palm flat against his abdomen.

"More, keep going," Tony breathed, clenching around Peter, trying desperately to squeeze every last egg from Peter's sack.

"Going to be so full," Peter moaned, more eggs filling Tony up.

Tony feels his orgasm fast approaching as his stomach begins to bulge. Peter keeps going, keeps emptying himself deep inside Tony.

Tony whimpers at the feeling, the hand on his stomach moving to stroke at his cock. It only takes three passes before he's cumming with a reedy mewl, stomach still extending impossibly far.

"Gonna carry my babies," Peter grunted. Tears gather in Tony's eyes at the stretch in his abdomen. He feels ready to burst. It feels so fucking good.

Its almost too much for Tony, the extention of his belly stretching at his skin. It feels like he's being ripped apart from the inside.

And then Peter stills, gasping for breath. Tony chokes on air, trying to even his own breathing.

Peter pulls out, and Tony feels like he's gaping, cool air hitting his exposed asshole and making him shiver.

Peter manhandles Tony onto his back, hovering over him with those extra limbs. Tony can't help but look down at his stomach, raised and rounded with Peter's eggs.

His hands move to it, smoothing over the bump. His cock twitches at the idea.

Peter seems to be thinking the same, because he leans over, nosing at Tony's neck, his own hands pressing into Tony's extended stomach.

"So full," he hums. Tony hums in agreement, removing one hand from his belly in order to grab Peter by the jaw.

He doesn't know if Peter knows what a kiss is, but the need to taste Peter's tongue is too great to wait and explain.

He guides Peter's face up, then connects their lips. Peter's frozen for a moment, not sure. Tony licks inside his mouth, hands still on his belly.

"My mate," Peter repeated between kisses.

"Your mate," Tony agreed.

Tony walks with a hand under the slight bulge of his stomach, back to his room. He clenches to keep the eggs inside -wanting to feel them for as long as he can.

Tony's already set his mind on going back the following night, and every night for as long as he can.

[pro-fangirls-unsocial-life]

Overload

A/N: Hello everyone! Look at me! Being productive! So this a fic inspired by THIS amazing art by @sorry-but-no-sorry of Hunter. I hope you guys enjoy! This one was a bit personal to write, cause I pulled some of the feeling described from my own experiences with panic attacks and sensory overload but I hope its still good all the same! And a big thanks to @captainrexisboo, my sword wife, for helping me out with one of the scenes!

Length: ~2200 words

Warnings: descriptions of panic attacks and sensory overload. Angst. Hurt/comfort.

“Hunter!”

  Though each and every clone valued their name more than life itself, Hunter wanted nothing more than to be nameless in this moment. Every time the syllables came tumbling from his brothers mouths and crashing into his ears, it was like thousands of shrieking whistles all began their assault on his senses at once.

  They all still smelled from their most recent mission. Hunter could make out every scent that they had brought back with them as they all mixed together and bombarded his nose. He could feel every single spec of grime that was caked onto his body. The way that it cracked as he moved felt like a million tiny blades all piercing his skin at once.

He was too hot and too cold all at once. The sweat slowly making its way down his forehead left a searing imprint on his mind as he tried to force himself to ignore it. He needed to keep being strong, to be the image of composure that his brothers needed him to be.

  He still had to deliver his report to Admiral Tarkin, a feat that was never easy. The admiral's cold gaze would always burn right through him and would send waves of pure panic coursing through his veins. Like a predator stalking its prey.

  Tarkin knew he had this effect on the Sergeant regardless of his desperate attempt to hide it, and he used it to his full advantage. The moment Hunter's image appeared in front of him, he would begin doing everything that he could to send him spiraling. This new clone force was far too successful, and he needed something to try and prove their inadequacy.

  Hunter knew what Tarkin was doing. He knew that if he let his panic slip through the cracks in his mask, things would only get worse for him and his brothers. So, he would not let himself break. He would not give Tarkin the satisfaction of seeing him fall apart. He became the perfect soldier, shoving everything down until he could be alone, pleading with his mind to show him even the slightest bit of mercy.

  The meetings would always be a blur in the moment but as they carried on, they would be forcefully engraving themselves into his mind, not granting him the small bit of solace he craved once they were finally over.

  He would always send the others to go relax while he finished the briefing, always thanking every God he could think of when they chose to go outside.

  He almost didn’t hear the sneering “very good Sergeant” that was spit out at him before the screen flashed to black over the panic that had broken through his defenses and had begun making its way back into the forefront of his mind.

  But the second the image of the admiral was no longer plastered across the screen and the hurricane of sounds and frequencies had finally stopped coming through the speakers, Hunter forced out the breath he had been holding, now gasping for air inside the empty ship as everything came rushing through his now broken barrier.

  He tore off his armor, letting each piece tumble to the metal floor with a loud clang. He rolls the sleeves of his blacks up to his elbows, not knowing if he feels comforted or completely overwhelmed by the feeling of the fabric on his skin.

  The light was blinding, shining brightly into his eyes like a star gone supernova.

  Everything is too much. Even though the ship is almost completely silent of everything but his shuddering breaths, every sound thunders against his eardrums, echoing throughout his mind and making him feel as if he is being hit upside the head with a brick with every new vibration.

  The steady hum of the ship’s machinery, a sound that is soothing to others, now roars in his mind with no end in sight. The rhythmic drip of a leak that they have been meaning to fix, once a welcomed background noise, now a piercing spear through his head. His own heartbeat, the only real thing he has to himself, the sound he finds solace in while he tries to will himself to sleep and while blocking out the darkness that threatens to consume him, now an endless assault that has risen in his ears, trying to drag him toward a never-ending expanse of torture.

  His hands didn’t feel like his own. They were heavy, weighted bags that dragged his spirit down. He felt his soul trying to leave through his throat.

  Shaking. Everything was shaking. His teeth, his fingers, his shoulders. As if he could reset, he tried to focus the energy; recalibrate his hands by flinging out his wrists.

  In that single movement, everything came crashing down, and a wave of emotion he’d been keeping at bay tore through him in a ripping shout. A shout that reverberated off the walls of the small space, coming back toward him to assault his ears once again.

  His ears were ringing. Every ripple of sound, every nauseating smell in the air, every feeling of every substance that was plastered to his skin was attacking him from every direction.

  He heard his name called from outside accompanied by far off footsteps and his hands flew up to his ears while his eyes screwed shut. He began pressing his palms up against the sides of his head so forcefully, that his whole body began to shake.

  He fell to his knees, each muffled call of his name rapping against his head, causing him to curl in on himself and making his forehead come to rest against the cold, grimy floor.

  He felt like he was drowning. With each gasping breath he took, it felt as though more and more weight was being cruelly added to the suffocating press on his chest. The feeling of tears beginning to roll down his face registered in his mind, adding to the uncontrollable spiral that he was being dragged down without mercy.

  More voices. More footsteps. More unbearable, ear-piercing noise.

  “Hunter? You ok?” Echo carefully walked up the steps of the ship, scanning the area just inside, looking for the origin of the shout he had heard. “Hunter? I, oof—”

  He toppled to the ground, turning to look at what had tripped him and finding Hunter's helmet at his feet. It was then he heard a tiny whimper come from across the ship. A whimper so soft that he almost didn’t hear it over the ships steady hum.

  He looked up, finding Hunter's trembling form curled up on the floor, his hands pressed to his ears and a sheen of sweat covering his body.

  “Hunter,” he asks, concern creeping its way into his voice. “Hunter?”

  Another small whimper falls from Hunter's lips, his body flinching each time Echo says his name.

  Echo scrambles over to Hunter, his hands hovering over Hunters back, not touching him. He stops, thinking back to when he would walk in on Hardcase in this same position, before lowering himself down so that he is lying on his stomach on the floor.

  “Hunter?”

  Hunter flinches again, his muscles straining as he presses his hands impossibly harder up against his head.

  “Hunter,” he whispers again, trying to get a look at his brother's face.

  “I-Its s-so loud,” Hunter chokes out. He gasps for breath, more tears falling from his face onto the floor. “I-I want it to s-stop. M-make it s-stop.”

  “I know. I know,” Echo softly says. “Let’s get you to your room. You’ve sound proofed it yeah?”

  Hunter takes a few heaving breaths before nodding his head.

  “Ok,” Echo says. “Now, I’m gonna have to touch you to help you get there. Is that alright?”

  Two more rasping breaths before another nod.

  “Ok. I’m going to get up and go turn off the lights before I come back and help you to your room. Ok?”

  Another nod.

  Echo quickly pushes himself up as quietly as he can before making his way over to the light panel. He flips a switch, turning off the main lights and leaving only that night cycle floor lights glowing. He gives his eyes a moment to adjust before making his way back over to Hunter.

  He crouches down, pressing himself to the floor again. “I’m going to touch you now so I can get you to your room. Ok?”

  Hunter nods, flinching slightly when he feels Echo’s hands gently touching his body.

  Echo slowly pulls him up off of the floor, not wanting to overwhelm Hunter more than he already is, before carefully guiding him down the hall toward his room.

  When they finally make it to the end of the hall, Echo presses the panel for Hunter's door and it whishes open, causing Hunter to flinch in pain at the sound. They make their way over to the bed and Echo sits him down on the edge, crouching down so that he is looking up at Hunter.

  “Do you want the boots off?”

  Hunter nods, cringing as he feels the movement against his skin and the sound of his boots and socks being set at the end of his bed.

  “The bandana?”

  Another nod.

  Echo reaches up and carefully pulls the fabric, now soaked in sweat, off of Hunter's head and places it on the shelf next to the bed.

  “Alright,” Echo whispers. “I need you to stay sitting up for just one second while I go get something to help you. Do you think you can do that for me?”

  Hunter gives a small nod, and Echo quickly exits the room.

  He hears water running and the sound of something being rung out. It is far away, but still rippling loudly in his mind. He reaches his hands back up to cover his ears and once again, screws his eyes shut. He hears Echo making his way back, being careful not to make any noise.

  Opening his eyes once he hears Echo step into the room, he sees him holding a washcloth and a glass of water.

  Echo comes back down to kneel in front of Hunter, offering him the glass. “Do you think you can drink some of this for me?”

  Hunter reaches out, grasping tightly at the glass being lightly pushed into his hand. “I’ll try,” he says, his voice soft and breaking.

  He shakily brings the water up to his mouth and presses the cold hard glass against his lips, taking a small sip.

  “Good,” Echo says with a small smile. “Very good.”

  Hunter hands the glass back to Echo, his hands still shaking. Echo takes it, and lightly sets it on the shelf next to Hunter's bandana.

  “I think you should lie down and try to get some rest now.”

  Hunter weakly nods, swinging his legs onto the bed and placing his head on the pillow.

  “Do you want the blanket?”

  Hunter shakes his head no.

  “Alright,” Echo says softly. “I have a wet washcloth here. Do you want it for your head?”

  He nods and closes his eyes, sighing as Echo gently moves his hair out of the way and places the cool washcloth on his forehead.

  “Alright. I’m going to go send the guys into town so that you’ll have some quiet. I’ll stay here and be just down the hall if you need me, ok?”

  Hunter nods, his breathing beginning to even out. He hears Echo take a breath before standing and quietly tiptoeing out of the room.

  “Echo,” Hunter gently says, opening his eyes slightly.

  Echo stops in the doorway, turning questioningly to Hunter.

  “Thank you.”

  Echo gives him a small, warm smile. “Get some rest vod’ika.”

  Hunter smiles and closes his eyes, laying his head back on the pillow.

  With that, Echo walks back out to the main area of the ship, leaving Hunter's door open so it won’t make any more noise as it closes. He goes outside and gives his three brothers some credits and tells them to spend the day in town.

  “Make sure you stay out of trouble,” he calls after them.

  Wrecker looks back over his shoulder and laughs. “When have we ever?”

  Echo shakes his head and chuckles, climbing back up into the ship, careful to avoid Hunter's armor on the floor. He could take care of it later when it wouldn’t make so much noise for Hunter.

  He walks down the hall quietly, peaking in to check on Hunter. His chest steadily rises and falls as he breathes in and out. His head is angled slightly toward the door and his mouth is hanging slightly open.

  Echo smiles and goes back out to the main area, sitting down in a chair. He picks up his data pad and opens up his copy of his favorite book.

  It was one that Fives had picked out when they were on leave after their first mission as ARC troopers. Nothing special. Just a typical hero’s journey fantasy adventure. But to Echo, it was the best book in the entire universe.

  He opens it up to the page he left off on and takes a deep breath, angling his head toward the ceiling. He smiles. “Just like old times, aye Fives?”

  He looks back down, taking another deep breath before diving back into the fantastic adventure that he and Fives always happily shared together, feeling his brother in every word as he peacefully read in silence.

[thosewickedlovelies]

AND THEY WERE WALLMATES: Brownies (part 4)

Pairing: Javier Peña x F!Reader

Rating: E for Explicit!!!

Summary: Javier reveals his knight-in-shining-armor side when Reader is in danger. Then Reader bakes brownies, and he reveals...something else ;)

Tags: Attempted mugging at knifepoint. Javi points his gun. Swearing. Inappropriate or maybe completely appropriate use of chocolate. Male masturbation. Exhibitionism if you squint.

Word Count: 4,634

A/N: Okay but consider: Javier has a competency kink.

Masterlist

--

The last three days had been exhausting. Long shifts at the hospital with your intensive-care patient had worn you out, but it was worth it to watch them steadily get better. Tomorrow somebody else was on duty in the morning, and you were greatly looking forward to sleeping in. Knowing that you wouldn’t want to leave your pajamas before your afternoon shift, you had plodded through the grocery store on your walk home tonight.

You breathe deeply, gratefully of the fresh night air as you turn into your building’s driveway. With the all-day shifts and your lack of motivation to do anything but sleep after them, you hadn’t been outside as much in the past few days. Idly you wonder if it’s too soon to ask Javier to take you to that bakery.

You glance reflexively up at his front window as you stop at the base of the steps outside. A light turns off as you rummage through your purse for your keys, but it’s far too early for him to be going to bed. Maybe he’s going out.

You set down a grocery bag, your keys evading your slightly constrained reach. With your head down and your vision narrowed to the inside of your purse, you don’t notice the man until it’s too late.

A rough grip where your neck meets your shoulder, thumb digging painfully into the muscle, and the cold press of steel against vulnerable skin- a knife blade, you register dimly. Every alarm in your body blares as a voice scratches in your ear: “Give me all of the money you have, and I will not use this.”

Adrenaline burns through you, and your hands tremble as it fights the fog of tiredness that had been smothering you. The man scrapes the blade of his weapon along your neck to make his point, then shoves you forward, into the metal bannister of the staircase. The breath whooshes painfully out of you.

Your skin flashes hot and cold with panic, but you force yourself to breathe through the pounding of your heart. You slowly turn around.

Your aggressor is a skinny, unassuming young man, like any other you’d pass on the street, but his eyes are hard, his hold on the knife unwavering as he points it at you. “Your wallet. Now,” he demands, eyes flashing, and you know he meant his threat.

The streetlight above gleams on the blade, a foot from your face. Your tongue feels thick and clumsy in your mouth. You can only nod, trying to communicate placation, that you’ll comply with his request. Your eyes never leave him as you gradually close your hand around your wallet.

Just then, the building door opens, and everything happens very quickly.

Light splashes on the man’s face. “What the- HEY!” Javier’s anger blasts over you, the sudden whip-crack sound of it the loudest you’d ever heard from him. He lets out a rattling stream of Spanish, but your mugger appears unconcerned until a second later, when you hear a sharp click above you. Alarm dashes the arrogance off his face as he flinches. Javi has a gun.

In his moment of distraction, you lift your foot and ram it into the man’s stomach, propelling him backward. He stumbles nearly onto his ass, wheezing, and in an instant Javi is in front of you, gun pointing at him. He shouts something else too fast for you to make out.

The man answers, cowering with his hands up, and Javier spits out one final statement before telling him to leave, jerking his gun in emphasis. Your would-be mugger doesn’t look back.

Javier holds his stance for another tense moment. You tentatively touch your fingertips to his shoulder blade, feeling the strength holding his muscles taut. He nearly shudders at the contact, bringing him back to himself.

He turns to face you, tucking his gun away against his back. “Hey, are you okay? Did he hurt you?” His voice urgent, his eyes still dark and tense with rage. He holds his hands palms out, showing you he’s safe, begging you to believe him.

Adrenaline still vibrates beneath your skin. You look at him with wild eyes, shake your head. Abruptly your knees wobble, and Javier springs forward. “Whoa, hey, it’s okay, you’re okay now, Vecinita.”

One arm encircles your waist while the other props you up along your spine, broad hand splaying, fingers pressing into you with desperate relief. His rough voice smooths your lingering tension, the closeness of his body new but comforting. You let his warmth erase the other man’s violation of your space. Your hands clutch at the lapels of his leather jacket, a sigh shuddering out of you.

“Vecinita. Let’s get you inside, okay?” Javi gently prompts you into moving, keeping one arm wrapped around you as he guides you up the stairs. He directs you to lean against the wall just inside the door.

“Here, put those down, all right? Stay here. I’ll get your other one.” He eases the remaining bags off your shoulder and onto the floor, then disappears out the door, only to return in a flash with your second grocery bag in hand. He sets it down by the others.

You watch him, your head resting against the wall as you battle the exhaustion that had returned full force, aided by the rush of adrenaline and the subsequent crash as it left your system.

Javi approaches you again, worry clear in his face at your limp posture. “Vecinita? You okay?” His hand comes up as if to brush a stray hair at your temple, but he doesn’t touch you. His arm drops.

But you reach out for it, sliding your hand down his wrist to entangle your fingers; the touch as much a comfort for you as it is for him.

Surprise flares in his eyes at your gesture; something indescribably like longing crosses his face. He squeezes your hand.

You smile faintly at him. “I’m fine, Javi. Just...shaken. And tired,” you admit. “I’ve had long shifts at work the past few days.” Your feet ache just remembering, but you make no move to leave.

“Oh yeah, Connie told me,” Javier says without thinking.

Well, that was news to you. You look at him with sudden, sly interest. “Oh yeah? You two ladies talk about me?” Giving his own words back to him, from the second time you went over to check on his leg. It could have been a lifetime ago for how different things are now.

Javi looks dumbfounded for a split second. A helpless chuckle spills out of him, unconsciously swaying forward as if only this, your familiar teasing, had convinced him that you were fine, that he could finally let go of his own tension.

His face is so unguarded; you’re delighted to see his eyes crinkle with laughter. They’re so brown, so beautiful this close up, a rich spiral of shades that you could stare into for hours and still not find the right words to describe.

You smile fondly up at him, not minding his nearness in the slightest. You’re conscious, suddenly, of how overwhelmingly glad you are that you got to know Javier. Of how grateful you are for his company, his protection just now.

For once, you are the conflicted one, a thoughtful expression puzzling your brow. Because it’s your turn to consider how you could possibly thank him for what he’s done. What could be enough to communicate the depth of your gratitude?

--

Javier knows that you are okay, really. That he should get you inside your own apartment, let you sleep off the past few days. But he is utterly captivated. Held in place like an animal caught in the wrong trap, at the mercy of the hunter to decide its fate. Would you put him out of his misery by telling him that you’re not interested? Or free him from the trap of his clumsy uncertainty, grant him the clarity of your feelings so that he may choose his own course?

The press of your hand in his gives him hope, intimate and promising in all the right ways. He doesn’t want to let go, but this is unquestionably the wrong time to make any kind of move. He’s already standing too close to you, unable to resist your draw in the relief of the moment.

Time seems to thicken as your smile fades. He wants to smooth the furrow in your brow, chase off what’s troubling you. Of course, it could be me, he thinks sardonically. Despite his best efforts, his eyes flick rapidly down to your lips.

And he watches your expression shift again, those lips parting, and if Javier didn’t know better he’d think you wanted him to kiss you- but that can’t be right, you’re just in shock. His moral compass gets him into trouble at the best of times, but it’s swinging wildly now, leaving him utterly spun.

His tongue pokes forward unconsciously, just wetting his lips...but before either of you can move you hear a crash from Steve and Connie’s apartment above.

The spell is broken. You start, your head automatically turning in the direction of the sound. Javi straightens, putting some air between you, but his gaze never leaves your face.

“Sounds like they’re fighting,” he says. “Come on, let’s get you inside before one of them storms out.” He lets go of your hand only to slide his arm around you again. You let him help carry your bags, your limbs revolting at the idea of further movement.

Javier guides you into your apartment as far as the kitchen. He’s reluctant to let you go, but darts anxious glances at the back hall, not wanting to overstep (despite what had just almost happened outside).

He unwinds himself from you once he’s sure you’re holding yourself upright. Before he can leave, however, you grab his arm again.

“Javi!” You seem...afraid, but like you’re furiously trying not to be. “...What did you say to him?”

He’s not convinced that was your original question, but he answers. “I asked him who he worked for. He said no one, he just needed some money...you were a random pick, Vecinita, in the wrong place at the wrong time. He won’t come back.” A bitter taste fills his mouth at the memory, the sight of that motherfucker pointing a knife at you. But his rage softens when he sees the anxiety haunting your face.

“Hey. You want me to stay here tonight? I’ll sleep on the couch. Guard the door.” His attempt at levity sounds half-hearted, but your lips twitch upward in response.

“I..can’t ask you to do that, Javier,” you mumble, gaze shifting- until you remember something. “You were going out.” You look back at him questioningly.

He barely remembers his original plans for this evening. Drinks with coworkers? Javier shrugs dismissively. “Nothing important. Don’t worry about it. Come on- I’ll stay here tonight and drive you to work tomorrow. Deal?”

You bite your lip. “I don’t work until the afternoon tomorrow.” Another feeble attempt at protesting. He waits.

Finally you concede. “Thank you, Javi”, you whisper, nearly inaudibly.

Instead of speaking, he takes your hand again. Bringing it to his mouth, he presses a soft kiss to your knuckles, without a trace of his suggestive intentions from the first time. “Que duermas bien, Vecinita.” Sleep well.

--

You wake naturally the next morning to sunlight streaming through your curtains. You forgot to set your alarm! Your first thought has you sitting bolt upright, heart pounding; then you remember that you have the morning off. Your heart rate slows only marginally as the events of the previous evening return to you, including- Javier slept on your sofa.

Your pulse rockets right back up, flushing your whole body with nervous energy. Damn it, it’s too early for this. Your sleep-clumsy thoughts are tumbling and manic as you try to decide on a course of action.

Right, first- check your clock. Ten a.m.?! You stifle a groan. Who knows how long Javi has been awake by now, just waiting in your living room? Assuming he stayed- you wouldn’t blame him if he’s gone to his own apartment for food by now.

Wait, speaking of food- you frown, lifting your nose toward the door. Is that coffee you smell?

So Javier’s awake, then.

Abruptly overcome with giggles, you cover your face with your hands, grinning like a fool. Javier had stayed, and made himself coffee in your kitchen.

Well you couldn’t just leave him out there. You take a deep breath, willing yourself calm. Time to stop acting like a giggling mess with a crush. The thought makes you pause, wide-eyed. Holy shit, did you have a crush on Javi?

I mean, he did save your ass last night, you reason. Very superhero of him. And you kept finding more attractive things about him, and you’d spent some real time together now, and he...he had kissed your hand last night. After definitely almost kissing you in the hall. Mierda. You giggle to yourself again. So much for being calm.

Well, there was nothing to be done for it. You throw a light robe over your pajamas and pad to the kitchen.

Butterflies burst in your chest at the sight that greets you. Javier is sitting at your dining room table, a mug in front of him. Chin in hand, lost in thought, hair still adorably mussed from sleep.

You only have a second to appreciate it before he hears you approach. He stands with a start, guilty eyes flitting from his coffee to the kitchen before settling on you, hands fidgeting like he doesn’t know what to do with himself. He clears his throat. “Morning.”

His voice is even raspier this early in the day, like a match striking heat inside you. A reaction you will definitely have to process later.

“Morning,” you return, smiling sheepishly at him. You go to the sink to fill a glass of water, opting to stay at the counter to drink it. “How long have you been up?”

His gaze flits to the clock on the microwave. “About an hour. I, uh. Made coffee. Hope you don’t mind.” His hand flies to his head as if only just now remembering the state his hair could be in, hurriedly smoothing errant curls (to your disappointment).

Javi’s shirt is rumpled, and you feel guilty as you realize he would have slept in his clothes. You’d been so dead on your feet last night, you don’t even remember if you gave him a  blanket. “Not at all,” you reply. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sleep this late. I didn’t even offer you pajamas or anything last night...” You’re about to continue apologizing when he cuts you off.

“Don’t worry about it, Vecinita. I’m not sure yours would have fit me anyway.” A teasing grin uncurls as he eyes the short pajama shorts under your robe, in a way that’s wholly different from how he might have looked at you before you fixed his leg (a time designation you find yourself referencing more and more often lately: Before-Leg and After-Leg). Now he’s earned such familiarity, and although unexpected, it’s not unwelcome. You still nearly gape at the joke and his once-over, feeling decidedly warm.

Oblivious to your internal temperature rising, Javi continues. “I could do with a shower though. What time do you have work?”

Right, work. “Twelve,” you respond. “Um, I can make breakfast? While you run home and shower. If you want. How’s pancakes? And I think I have bacon.”

Javier looks relieved to have a plan. “You had me at bacon,” he confirms. “I won’t be long.” He starts for the door, scooping up his jacket as he goes.

“No hurry!” You call after him.

True to his word, Javi is barely gone fifteen minutes before he’s back at your dining room table, a fresh mug of coffee cradled in hand. Conversation doesn’t come as readily as it did during your movie night, but the silence in between feels...comfortable.

Javier hesitantly brings up the night before, but only to compliment the form of your kick to the man’s stomach. “Self-defense classes before traveling,” you explain, which led to a continued interest in fighting skills. Your neighbor looks impressed and...intrigued, maybe. Something speculative in his eyes, like he’s reassessing his idea of you.

He drives you to work later, and arranges for Steve to pick you up.

“Heard you had to kick some ass last night,” the blond drawls in greeting.

Well, it was nice of Javier to tell such a flattering version of the story. You roll your eyes, even as you preen the tiniest bit. “Yeah, that’s how it happened,” you grumble. “It wasn’t just Javier swooping in to save my ass like fucking Batman with a shiny gun.”

Steve guffaws at your description. But neither man makes light of the incident. Steve drives you to or from work at Javi’s request when he’s busy, until after a few days you insist that you’re fine, plenty confident that Javi scared off your attacker. Even so, he walks with you to the grocery store the next time you go, swearing up and down that the timing is just a coincidence, that he needs a few things too.

Secretly you’re grateful for that. You feel safe with Javier, and it’s a nice feeling, being protected. You’re just as capable of watching out for threats, but you could never replicate the swooping, shivery feeling low in your belly when his guiding hand brushes the small of your back. Ever since you took his hand that night, he’s been slowly getting bolder with small, casual touches. And every time you let him, his eyes brighten a little more, his breath loosening like he’s afraid you’ll reject each one. As if you’d reject proof of his affection, or the glow of pleasure that smolders in you with every glimpse of it.

At the store, you mentally flip through your cookbook, tilting your head thoughtfully at the cocoa powder.

--

Javier doesn’t remember inviting you over to bake in his kitchen, but he’s sure as hell not complaining. Watching you competently twirl about the room, sifting and stirring and tasting things in various bowls, is stirring in ways he hadn’t anticipated. The graceful lift of your arms, your eyes narrowed in concentration. He almost wants to interrupt, just to see how you’d react.

He drifts over to see if he can help, when his senses are powerfully overwhelmed by the smell of chocolate.

You stand in front of him, the source dripping suggestively from a spoon in your hand. “Want a taste, Javi?” You lick the spoon slowly, holding his gaze as you close your mouth around it, cheeks hollowing with the effort of sucking it clean.

Javier swallows hard at the dizzyingly tempting scene before him, all but floating toward you.

You smile coyly at him, meaningfully lifting a chocolate-tipped finger. He doesn’t dare move. His lips part as it nears, not knowing what you intend but knowing that he desperately wants it. His breaths come quick and shallow. You trace your finger lightly along his lower lip.

The touch sizzles through him, the taste of your skin far more vibrant than that of the chocolate. Javi can’t help but flick his tongue out to chase it, catching just the tip of your finger before it retreats, and suddenly you look as lost as he feels, staring at his mouth as he works to clean the silky sweetness from it.

As if in a trance, you lift your hand again, your own lips parting. “Want another?” Your voice breathy and uneven. A fingerprint smudging your lower lip, you lift your chin-

And Javier is on you, sucking your lip into his mouth, tasting the chocolate on your breath, wanting more. He groans as you arch into the kiss, devouring you, sliding his tongue against yours. You clutch at each other like this is everything you’d been waiting for.

Javier loses himself in you. Just the sounds you’re making have him harder than he’s ever been, he’d let you lick chocolate off whatever you damn well want-

He jolts awake.

Gasping and sweating and so painfully hard he instinctively presses a palm to his crotch, choking on a groan. What the hell?

He is completely disoriented. The smell of chocolate still pervades his senses. He registers the muted sound of- music? Your singing.

He’d fallen asleep on the couch; the scent in his dream was you baking again. Maybe you dropped something and it woke him up. He can’t focus on anything else right now besides his absolutely throbbing erection.

His breathing is harsh in his throat as he shoves at the zipper of his pants. He wraps a hand around himself, his head dropping back and his mouth open in a soundless moan. His hips buck upward, head still full of you, you-

He snaps in less than a minute.

His release spatters hot over his hand and shirt. He slumps back down into the cushions, panting, spent. As the haze clears, he has only a single thought.

Fuck.

--

The sunlight is too bright for Javier’s thoughts the next morning. It dazzles him on his way to work, making it even harder to focus when his mind is still full of you. The softness of your lips, your sighs of pleasure, all of it conjured up by his apparently lust-addled mind- whose desperation would only increase the more he longed for a taste in real life.

It’s an immense relief when he finally arrives to the familiar office smell of musty files and weak coffee.

He’s here before Steve today- a rare occurrence, but he had to get out of the house. There’s some fanfare going on when he finally does catch a glimpse of his partner’s blond hair across the floor.

Steve is- holding something? Handing out something? As he makes his way over, the sounds of appreciation from colleagues grow clearer, but it doesn’t sink in until he’s nearly reached the door.

“Man, Steve, you gotta bring this neighbor of yours to the next office party so we can show our appreciation!” The agent’s chortle dies as he catches sight of Javier, who makes no attempt to regulate his steadily souring expression. “Peña.” The man gives him a quick nod and says a last farewell to Steve.

His partner sets the tray he’s holding down on his desk and slowly turns to face Javier. Steve’s gaze lingers over the look on his face, the way he’s zeroed in on the dish, lips puckered like he can’t decide if he should speak.

“Well good mornin’ to you, Javi,” Steve drawls, in that too-knowing way he sometimes had. “Brownie?” He gestures to the tray.

The smell reaches him then. Chocolate. Thick and rich and- a chocolate-coated finger hovering before his mouth, your eyes twinkling innocently up at him- Javier’s jaw clenches.

“What,” he grits out, demanding an explanation with the single syllable.

“Neighbor-lady dropped ‘em off last night. Said they were for us to take to work today. Apparently she tried you first, but you weren’t home.”

Right. Because after staining his shirt with thoughts of you, he’d barely taken the time to throw on a clean one before stumbling out the door, sucking in deep breaths of fresh air as he walked to the nearest dive that served whiskey.

But- you had brought them to him first. Not Connie, or Steve, or anyone else. Him.

“Huh,” he replies distantly.

It’s all too much for Javier to process. He stands abruptly and stalks out of the office, making a beeline for the restroom.

His mind clears a bit after splashing some water on his face. He manages to be cordial once he returns to his desk, but it isn’t long before the emotional impact of his revelation fades, leaving him once more occupied by daydreams of the physical confirmation he craves.

It doesn’t help that apparently the entire fucking building was told about the brownies. Every time someone new comes in he gets a fresh whiff of chocolate, remembers dreaming of sucking the taste off your tongue and the needy noises you made when he did.

For the next several hours he glowers at the tray, perched innocuously on the corner of Steve’s desk. His skin feels hot and tight. It’s possible he smokes a few more cigarettes than usual in an effort to numb his tastebuds, or his olfactory sensors, or whatever the fuck keeps registering fucking chocolate.

Steve eyes him curiously. “You okay, man? You’ve snapped at nearly every person who’s come in here for a brownie. You allergic or somethin? I can move ‘em…”

Javier nearly snarls. “No, I am not allergic,” he says very calmly, the words clipped.

He manages to escape a little while before Steve, citing his early arrival as an excuse to head home. As he pulls into the drive, however, he passes your familiar figure on the corner.

His head thunks against the steering wheel. Steeling himself, he gets out of the car as you walk up.

“Hi Javi!” You beam at him, and his heart nearly beats right out of his fucking chest.

Tiredness lines your face from a long hospital shift, but it doesn’t stop you from looking all caring as you take him in. He doesn’t even want to imagine what you see: his shirt wrinkled from constantly shifting and tugging at it all day, his face pinched from scowling.

“Are you okay, Javi? You look flushed.” You bite your lip in a concerned frown.

It’s a struggle to hide his aggravation. “Long day at work,” he mutters, fumbling with the building keys, trying not to look like he’s hurrying.

Luckily you don’t seem to notice his temper. “God, me too. I’m gonna go take a nap. All I’ve been thinking about all day is getting back in bed.”

The mention of you and getting in bed and Javier about bursts into flame. He stutters out an excuse, all but bolting for his door. The lock clicks firmly behind him.

He stomps through the apartment to his bedroom, shedding clothing as he goes. His shoes and jacket dropped by the couch. His shirt yanked off and flung over a dining room chair. His jeans shoved down at the foot of his bed.

He stumbles to the wall you share, breathing ragged, resting one hand flat against it as the other finally wraps around the hard-on he’s been nursing for hours.

His lip nearly bleeds with the force he bites into it to stifle his groan. Every inch of his skin feels exquisitely sensitive, his blood racing hot in his veins from thinking of you all day. From thinking of you now, just on the other side of this wall. Shedding your scrubs, sliding amidst your bedsheets, unaware of the state you’ve put him in. Or maybe you are aware. Maybe you can hear him panting, strangling sighs of your name as he imagines your lips on his skin, your hand squeezing his cock. Encouraging him sweetly while he strokes himself higher and higher-

And comes harder than he ever has on his own. Shaking and gasping, there’s no way you don’t hear the sound which escapes him then. For a second he feels light-headed.

When his eyes open again, he grimaces at the mess on the wall. As his heart rate settles, his expression further contorts imagining the potential consequences for what he just did. For what you could have heard.

Maybe...he should do something about this.

--

Post A/N: Sorry for the negative implications about Steve and Connie’s marriage, I promise they’re fine! I’m just a simple writer in need of storytelling devices <3

Also someone pls tell me if I used the wrong form of the verb ‘to sleep’

Fic Taglist: @din-damn-djarin, @thirstworldproblemss, @remembertoreadthese, @knightowl247, @pamguini

[aquafolia]

Sokai Day Fic 2: Guardian, Angel

Okay! One more for today :)

This fic was inspired by phoenix-downer’s fic Lifeline. I’m also a huge Percabeth fan so I decided to remix another one of their famous moments, too. 

As I said, I only just found KH: I beat KH1 a few weeks ago and I’m about to beat KH2 for the first time! This one is for @phoenix-downer, whose amazing fics and insightful translations/analyses are a huge part of why I adore Sokai as much as I do. Their love and enthusiasm for the ship really is infectious! As I’m playing I appreciate the Sokai moments so much more because of phoenix-’s posts. Cheers :)

-----------

Guardian, Angel

‘Looks like you’ve hit a dead end, Sora!’ Vanitas called out menacingly, his manic laughter echoing through the narrow canyon. Hemmed in on three sides by steep stone walls– and with Vanitas blocking the only exit route– Sora realized he had nowhere to run. He turned to face his pursuer, his back to the canyon wall.

‘For someone with a giant key for a weapon,’ the black-haired boy sneered, ‘you sure are hard to find. But it looks like it’s the end of the road for you at last, Sora. You will kneel before me in defeat,’ Vanitas continued, raising his palms skyward. ‘You will beg me for mercy, and I’ll watch the hope drain from your eyes when– are you listening to me?!’

Vanitas’s words weren’t having their intended effect: For someone being threatened by one of his greatest enemies, Sora’s demeanor was annoyingly calm and composed, relaxed even: He stood upright, not in his usual battle stance– he didn’t even have his Keyblade summoned. Instead, Sora was extremely preoccupied with patting down his many pockets, rooting around in each one.

‘Which one did I put it in?’ Sora muttered to himself.

‘What are you doing, you dolt?’ Vanitas asked icily.

‘No, no, go ahead,’ Sora said, his eyes looking up in concentration as he continued to rifle through his seemingly endless number of pants pockets. ‘Watching the hope drain from my eyes and all that.’

Vanitas’s eyes narrowed in irritation. He found his light-filled double vexing on a good day– but this was strange, even for Sora. ‘Um… Right.’ Vanitas said. Clearing his throat, he regained his villanly composure. ‘I’ve been your shadow for too long, Sora. I’ll snuff out your pathetic little light, brother, right here, right now– in the showdown that was always meant to be! And then nothing will stand between this world and the glorious reign of dark–’

‘Found it!’

‘–ness.’

Sora had retrieved Kairi’s good luck charm, and was holding it in his hand. He gazed down at it fondly, seeming to find it much more compelling than his arch enemy.

‘Hah! Is this some kind of a joke?’ Vanitas laughed. ‘Does the Keyblade’s Chosen Hero like to accessorize? You think a toy like that is going to help you now? Draw your Keyblade, fool, and let’s finish this!’

As Vanitas taunted him, Sora closed his eyes and brought the charm to his lips. After planting a soft kiss, he shot Vanitas a smug grin. Without breaking eye contact, Sora casually tossed the charm aside. The small star spun as it sailed through the air, shining with a faint golden light as it careened toward the cliff wall beside Sora. At the moment it should have hit the stone and shattered, it passed right through the rock face in a cloud of sparks.

‘Why did– what did you just do?’ Vanitas asked. After what he hoped was another intimidating laugh, he shot back, ‘Was that supposed to scare me?’

Sora lifted his arms up, cupping his hands behind his head, looking quite pleased with himself. ‘Oh, no reason. It’s nothing, really.’

Vanitas was growing impatient. ‘I don’t care what trick you’re trying to pull, Sora! You’re trapped here! There’s nowhere for you to run,’ he gloated. ‘It’s too bad “your friends are your power”,’ he said in a mockery of Sora’s mantra, ‘because you’re going to die here– alone.’

Even at Vanitas’s death threat, Sora remained totally unfazed. He just kept staring at Vanitas, that stupid grin still on his face. What was this kid’s deal? Deciding he’d had enough, Vanitas summoned his Keyblade and charged. Still Sora stayed exactly as he was, not even bothering to draw his own weapon. But Vanitas had stopped caring about his enemy’s strange behavior– running at full speed, with a gleeful laugh, he shouted, ‘Goodbye, So–’

The ground shook violently as a giant crack in the canyon floor opened up between Sora and Vanitas, the sound of the rending so loud, it seemed like the world was breaking. From the fissure, a column of golden light burst forth that sent Vanitas flying backward. Then, what looked like a spinning wheel of whirling colors came rocketing out of the light– some sort of object revolving at such an incredible speed, it looked like a solid glowing disk of golds, blues, pinks, and oranges. As it hurtled toward Vanitas, it left a tail of golden light like a comet crossing the night sky, and shed a flurry of white feathers. 

Vanitas, slowly attempting to stand up, was too dazed from his crash-landing to see it coming: just as he regained his footing, the projectile struck him square in the chest, slicing into him over and over again as the strange disk turned, a sickening sound echoing through the narrow canyon with each rapid-fire blow. The final slash sent Vanitas flying once more, and he face-planted into the stone wall of the ravine. His Keyblade clattered to the ground and disappeared in a puff of black smoke, a clear sign that he had been soundly defeated.

The column of light dissipated to reveal Kairi floating down to the ground, white feathers falling gently around her like snowflakes. Her Keyblade reappeared in her hand, returning from its trip to Vanitas’s face. After studying her enemy’s crumpled form with a satisfied smirk, she turned to Sora. She was holding his good luck charm in her hand.

‘You dropped this,’ she said with a sweet smile.

-----------

[eventheodds]

She had been prepared to dish out more arguments if need be if he refused, if he chose to walk into the night and not be seen again, but his acceptance makes Meryl fumble for just a moment and it shows.

She would have been insistent, perhaps even using the tactic of being amongst old friends that had not seen one another in a long time. Anything that might get him to stay, and he did. He does. 

And Meryl can feel the tiredness slam into her like a freight yet she holds herself upright and gives him a nod, words suddenly gone, as she relinquishes the lapels of his coat and leads the way back to the inn. It is fortunate that they have done so at this particular moment in time as the innkeeper, or whoever works in shifts, looks just about ready to prop his feet up for the night behind the counter just as they reenter the saloon and Meryl, mustering the last of her strength, pays for one extra room.

She can tell, even in her state, that the innkeeper does not look too pleased at having to do more work at this late an hour, but she hands him the required double dollars and gets back a key in exchange.

“You don’t mind if I head on up right away? Feel like I’m about to keel over at any moment,” she yawns as she hands him the key with a plastic card that has the room number stamped into it. “You’re not going to run off in the night, I hope?”

Despite her exhaustion, there is the unmistakable tone of determination behind her words—a promise that she and Milly would find him again if he did.

There is a part of her that is afraid he might. That, come morning, he will be gone and she will know this was not a dream but it will have felt like one. Rather, in these short moments in between it takes herself to climb the stairs to the upper level and quietly sneak into the room she shares with Milly, Meryl knows she can trust him.

She trusted herself to follow him outside when she first glanced upon him earlier tonight; trusted herself to approach and reach out to find out he was, in fact, very real and really there; trusted herself to finally know this had all been for something.

She trusts him, despite the changes that seem slight or that she does not remember seeing when she had last seen him. 

Milly’s snores can be heard as she kicks off her boots and nudges them to the side of the wall and plops herself onto the bed, not even bothering to change her clothes. The weight of their days, weeks, travelling, coupled with tonight, crash down upon her like an oncoming sandstorm and she falls into a dreamless sleep.

It does not feel like she has slept very long, despite the pillow imprint and dried trail of drool on her cheek that she hears Milly exclaiming, her voice booming, and Meryl gets up like she has experienced a spike in adrenaline, intent on warning her that she will wake up the entire town, when she realizes the time of day.

Midday. The dual suns are high up in the sky, and the folks of this town are already out and about, and it takes her a moment to listen for the din of sounds in the saloon down below to understand that, perhaps, she was the only one still asleep.

Still, Milly’s voice is very loud and as Meryl can feel herself coming to more and more, she can make out what she is saying.

“MR. WOLFWOOD!!!”

Standing over six feet tall, Meryl steps out of their room to behold a sight of Milly gripping Wolfwood in a tight hug that could, and would, lift him off the ground, as tears stream down her face as she watches Milly doing her best to hold it together.

Meryl had not considered how to initiate this encounter, though it had played in the back of her mind earlier in the night when she and Wolfwood stood there in the glow of street lamps. 

Well, cat’s out of the bag now.

She does not, however, want to ruin this moment with words, so Meryl opts to lean against the door frame, one arm crossed while the other is held up, fingers curling under her chin, and she does her best to not grin too much at the sight. Though, her dark blue eyes hold a mirth in them that had not been there for quite some time.

“Milly, I think you should put him down,” she finally says, her eyes prickling a little bit as she cannot contain the beaming smile from her voice.

Meryl keeps hold with her hard little hands despite everything. She speaks her mind as always, bold and cutting and direct and yet there is a softness there that, directed at him, feels somewhat undeserved. Greatly undeserved. Wolfwood remains upright, steadfast, expression as carefully neutral as he can make it.

He is reasonably certain he manages. Reasonably. Although reason is not the strongest force in play at the moment. How can it be?

Here they are, standing in the airy darkness after last call. Here they are, bathed in the sulfur-yellow light of feeble streetlamps on the dusty row, and for all that they are strange, for all that it is strange, they are not strangers. No more than they were before, at least. No more than they were when they trailed the Stampede's chaos and the drive for both love and peace.

Neither of them are unchanged by it.

Perhaps she has changed more than he.

For a while he holds his peace, holds his silence, and listens. Smoke wreaths from his nostrils and lips, drifting lazily on the scant and chilly breeze that breathes between ramshackle scrap-built for-purpose structures. He holds her eyes more or less, the gleam of lucidum over the rims of his shades unvarnished gold. Unnatural. The moons cresting the horizon are plenty of reflected illumination to see her by.

Among other things.

Important, she said. That connects. It stings. He isn't sure why it does. Why it aches.

Her tears do too; she sheds them for someone (something) undeserving, just like someone else did. Does, maybe. He does not know.

More quiet, and after a few more moments he sighs.

"Alright, little lady. 'Nother case for you to investigate, hm?"

Wry, his attempt at teasing falls flat and he knows that it does. The grin he offers is faint and fleeting, albeit not exactly apologetic. Meryl is not taking the out he has offered, not that he could have expected her to.

"Got a tent on the bike, but sure."

For now, he does not say, instead gesturing for her to lead the way.

Whenever she decides to let his coat lapels go, that is.

[herstarburststories]

I'd die for you, come kill me

Kinktober Day 11: restrained

Pairing: Demon!Dean x Reader

A/N: This one goes for my good friend followers celebration. So happy for your milestone, @msmarvelouswinchester! Divider by @talesmaniac89.

@stillintheimpala said: i have a fic idea. demon!dean stuck in a chair on handcuffed to a bed with those demon proof handcuffs. he's completely at your mercy. you get to dom him. (I put ropes instead of handcuffs because of the gif)

Prompt: Remember how I said I'd die for you.

Warnings: angry sex, p in v, riding, restraints, power play, smangst, angst, kind of hopefully ending (?), demon!dean acts like demon!dean

“Where is he?”

Sam sucked in a breath, moving his shoulder uncomfortably as he straightened his posture. The youngest Winchester's features contorted into a grimace, and you couldn't tell if it was because of the look on your face or him jarring his dislocated arm. “He's in the dungeon, but Y/N-”

“He isn't himself. I know that. Kinda noticed when he threw me against the wall and said he couldn't wait to rip my throat out with his teeth.” You gave Sam a humorless grin before you gestured to the wound on your shoulder. “This is a good reminder as well.”

“We'll cure him.” Sammy nodded at you, wrapping his words with faith and determination; he was always a believer.

You arched your eyebrows. “Then what are you waiting for?”

You two were still standing in the living room as Dean's howl rushed through the air. He sounded more like a beast than a man, yet he was smack dab in the middle of those polarized states. He was human enough to know where to strike and animal enough to relish in the attack.

Sam's gaze softened on yours.

“I know he hurt you. He hurt both of us, but Dean is my brother. I can do it alone. You don't need to-”

“Sam, he ran away once, and you just got your arm yanked out of your socket. You won't be able to fight him. You need backup,” you interrupted him. Despite your conclusion being completely rational, there was more to it than that, but Sam didn't need to know about it yet. “Besides, it's Dean.”

The hunter glanced at you. Gentle eyes watching your jaw harden, he pressed his lips together and nodded. “Okay.”

Dean's demonic self had been throwing insults like a man feeding his dog shattered glass. He was full of them, not caring about hiding his satisfaction when he hits yours and Sam's weak spots.

A couple of seconds ago, he had called you an easy pussy that saved him the job of having to go out and get some. That display rewarded him with a thicker needle that pierced much deeper than it needed to. The pure human blood spread into his veins as a holy wash, like soap over a flesh wound. Dean growled in pain and went quiet for a while.

Your eyes abandoned the demon for once, directed now to his brother. Sam's earthy brown eyes were drawn in concern, mouth sketched into a frown. His healthy arm was onto his shoulder, obviously physically hurting.

“Sam, go. I can do it. It’s just two more needles. He'll probably pass out once it's done,” you pleaded in an attempt to catch Sam's rational side that always saw the order in chaos. His hazel orbs settled on you, and you knew he didn't want to leave his brother. You can't blame him for that. You didn’t either, but if Dean was in his right mind, he'd want that. And you needed some time alone with this demon version of your boyfriend. “Please.”

You didn’t know if it was something in your cracking voice or if the fact his brother regaining control meant he’d have even harsher words to spit, but when the tall man’s eyes swept from you to his brother and back, he sighed. In that moment, you knew he accepted it. 

“If he doesn't pass out…”

“I call you right away. Don't worry, and please take some meds for your pain.” You offered some tenderness to him in the middle of the violence through a lovingly smile. In a matter of seconds, the only traces of Sammy in the room were the boot-clad clamor of his footsteps growing quieter and quieter.

“Now you have me all to yourself, sweetheart. What are you planning to do?”

The lopsided grin was still attached to his face, and those were still his teeth. Still, something about Dean's smile made you want to rip him apart with your nails. How did he let this happen? How did the situation escalate like this? How did everything get so bad so fast?

“Shut up,” you hissed through your teeth, boots clicking on the floor as you approached him. Dean glanced at you shamelessly; the pretty little bruise on your skin proving that he had succeeded in breaking you. It twisted his guts in both good and bad ways — the bittersweet contradiction among lovers. 

“Feisty, huh? I always liked that on you. Who would guess that you were a bottom in bed?” Dean appeared to find your fury entertaining as if he relished any emotion he could instigate inside you.

“I said shut up.”

“Or what? You are gonna sting me with a flimsy syringe needle like I did to you with my cock? Go ahead, sweetheart.”

The idiotic nickname burned your insides. As your and Dean's relationship got more serious, he'd stop calling you that. You weren't just a fling or a woman he'd leave the next day, and the Winchester only called you that either sarcastically or during an argument now. Was this how the demon saw you? Just another sweetheart?

Dean smirked at your quietude, poking the bear once again. “What? Demon got that smart tongue of yours? It's embarrassing, really. You get all worked up, pretending to be that tough gal, but you can't hurt me. You didn't even fight back when I tried to kill you. How weak is that? You’ve always been a liability. Just another woman I had to protect to get inside her.”

You warned him, the words coming out more like a groan than anything else: “Shut up!”

Yet, Dean persisted. He had discovered your weakness, and he couldn't wait to see how much you could take. You'd end up giving in to him, thrashing headfirst into a fight, and he'd escape again. The demon was counting on that. “A waste of time, really. At least you had a nice pussy, but I scratched it open. It's useless now, just like you.”

The dismissal in his words laced with the cynical chuckle that left his mouth made you hit your breaking point. 

“I TOLD YOU TO SHUT THE FUCK UP!” You grabbed a syringe and stung Dean like a scorpion, right in the jugular. He wanted to set you on fire? Good, you'd make sure he got burnt too. “I said I'd die for you. Remember how I said I'd die for you? And you tried to kill me.” You grunted, throwing the empty needle away. Dean's normally forest green eyes went black as howls of outrage escaped his mouth. The blood of saints that coursed through his body was a good way to either turn the beast into a man again or kill him completely. Knowing this, he screamed and struggled in the chair, as desperate as a rat stuck in a mousetrap. It made you doubt the cure. Perhaps a good thing couldn't save him now, the whispers of sulfur that colored his heart black too intrinsic to eradicate without killing the host. You couldn't bring yourself to care about it now. The demon was suffering, and he deserved it. You wanted your own hurt ricochet back to where it came from: him. “Now you are sitting there talking about me like I'm your bitch or something like that, but I'm not. I can take care of myself, and I don't need you. I chose to stay here.”

Dean blinked, and suddenly everything was in place again. His face softened like it usually did when you two were alone, and an actual smile conquered his features. All the oxygen in your body caught in your throat.

“You're right. You are a strong, independent woman, and I should feel lucky to get myself a keeper like you.” His voice filled the dungeon with light-hearted relief. Your cheeks were hurting as you scooted closer to him. “I missed you so much.”

He was saying all you wanted to tell him the minute he left. Your eyes got glossy, and you threw yourself on his lap, clutching to him like devout patron to her bible. Dean was here. He came back to you.

A quiet gasp of praise left your mouth: “Dean-”

He interrupted whatever you were about to say, replacing your words with a kiss. A sweet one — sweeter than anything you might imagine. It was the kind of kiss shared for two lovers in the dark, recognizing each other’s bodies by touch alone. You, of course, allowed yourself to get lost in the sensation of belonging. You shouldn't have. You should never just jump into someone, or you might drown. It's hard to find corpses in a black river.

Yet, your soul was tied to the righteous sinner, so you kept pressing your lips to his while he devoured your mouth softly.

“Sammy doesn't understand, Y/N,” he said. When he pulled away, you nuzzled into his neck. The heated tang to his murmured sentiments remained there, but his voice, less gruff than usual, fooled you. “I finally don't have the weight of the world on my shoulders. I'm free. I never thought I'd be happy after that night…” Dean wore the façade, even gulping at the thought. He didn't know if it was because the human blood was slowly coursing into the core of his being, but he wouldn't waste time on it. “But I can now. We can run away together, leave Sam behind. Just me and you.”

What did you expect? He was a demon. The blame was on you for expecting repentance from the ashes of hellfire. This isn't a fairytale where the hero suddenly is hit by true love and everything is solved with the ultimate kiss. This is a hunter’s tale, and there's just one ending for those stories: the prey dying.

You lifted your head. “Dean would never leave Sam behind.”

Dean burst into laughter as if your hope was some sort of funny joke. He adjusted his hips in the chair, smirking at you with cruelty.

“Bet it almost got you. I could see your eyes shining with hope. You were ready to get on your knees and suck my cock. You’d be screaming Dean, Dean, Dean, and inevitably fall for some stupid lies.” He shook his head with disappointment. “You're too easy, Y/N.”

“Who do you think you are?” The indignancy in your tone only drew a malicious grin out of Dean. This was too good. He could feel his cock hardened in his pants. He might fuck you before killing you only to make good use of his time.

“I'm a demon. What about you? Oh, wait! I know the answer to that one.” He licked his lips, savoring the moment. “You're a little-”

Smack.

The palm of your hand met Dean's cheek harshly, transferring some of your anger into a red mark on his right cheek. The eldest Winchester's head was tilted to the side from the impact. He clenched his jaw before turning his glare at you, eyes back in black as he spoke: “You shouldn't have done that.”

Every syllable that left his tongue was imbued with a threatening crimson rage, but you didn't care. Not now.

You weren't scared of him.

“You shouldn't be a demon, but here we are,” you remarked, summoning a smarmy leer and wearing it like one of his flannels. “Shut up. I know you're not my Dean. You are just all he hates in himself wrapped with his skin. You're disgusting, cruel, and selfish.” It didn’t make any sense for your body to be as heated up as it was, but it was. And Dean didn’t care. Fuck him. “You’ve spent so long aiming at our Achilles’ heel that you forgot you have yours too. Stupid.” You chortled, grinding your hips on his. At this point, both your panties and emotional stability were ruined. “Look at you, all hard for the girl basically torturing you with poison, huh?”

“You-” He attempted to speak, to put you down so he can climb over you. You stopped him with a hand inside his pants.

“Language, Dean,” you groaned at him. It wasn't unusual for you and Dean to blow off some steam with sex, either after a fight or a hunt, but, this? It’s a whole new level of fucked. Yet somehow, your pussy didn't seem to mind, and neither did his cock. You got his length free, and his stiffened cock slapped his clothed belly. “I don't wanna hear something that makes me angry because if I get mad, then I won't let you come inside my pretty pussy. Understood?”

He groaned in response, trying to move his hands to show you who the real alpha was here, but the rope kept him in place. Silence lanced through the air because you knew you didn't want to waste time on something as exciting as foreplay; he did not deserve that, and you didn't want this. You just lifted your red skirt and slid your panties to the side. Your pussy swallowed his cock painfully slow.

The demon that ate your lover didn't offer mumbled protests at the fact you were still wearing clothes. Your Dean always tried to get any piece of fabric away because he liked to see all of you. This Dean, though, gulped and glared at you. Pleasure flushed his cheeks only he can’t deny the physical pleasure. It’s clear that, even as a demon, he could never reject the carnal appeal of your body and your sweet, soaked pussy. Hands pinned behind his back with the restraints, you two in the middle of a big demon symbols on the ground, he was completely at your mercy. He was helpless.

Dean bucked his hips to get all of his hardness inside you right way, to show both you and himself that he still had the power here. You barely blinked before moving your hips up, restricting him further entrance into your cunt. Dean was always eager when it came to sex, but you knew this wasn't about just fucking you anymore. You were in control.

Placing your hands on his shoulders, you murmured in an increasingly sultry bite: “I'm the one making the rules here. Take it or leave it.”

“Fucking a demon? That's why you told Sammy to go with all the crap about caring for his arm?” the former hunter remarked. You and he both knew Dean wouldn't — couldn’t, not with half his cock being squeezed by your tightness — leave your pussy, but he still very much had the capacity to bite.

“Unlike you, I worry about the people I love.”

“I don't love,” he snarled, watching you swallow the malcontented lump in your throat. “Hear that? I don't love you.”

“Then at least be useful and fuck me,” you groaned, finally resting wholly in his lap with all of his dick inside of you. Dean whimpered, overthrown by the sensation of your heady tightness encompassing his cock. He tried to break free again, starved to grab your thighs, your ass, any part of you he could get his hands on, but the rope limited his range of motion. The raw polyester and nylon mix around his wrists was a contrast to the warmth of his lap. His eyes closed, blinking only back into wakeful blackness because of your promise disguised as a hissed threat: “No, forget it. I'll be the one fucking you.”

There was something delightfully mercurial about the way you rode Dean. The dungeon once filled by his pained screams had now become the perfect studio for your flexing thighs slapping against his, your breathless moans camouflaging the raw hurt of your heart, and the unique sound of Dean's cock sunk to impossible degrees inside your needy cunt. He leaned in for more.

This was no longer about the sexual release for him. It was for the tiny part of Dean that always craved an order to follow. It was the small piece of him that craved carrying the weight of responsibility heavy on his back like the burden Atlas had to bear. It was the liberation of the heavy chains that held him down since he was a child, even if his hands were — appropriately enough — tied behind his back. As a demon, he didn’t have to worry, and neither did he when submissive to you. For you, it was expelling your revenge on this devilish version of the man you loved. He had it coming.

“I hate you. I hate having to save you. I hate caring about you.” You huffed, nails sinking in his clothed shoulder. The ghost of your touch was enough to make his dick twitch inside you. Tears brimmed in your eyes as the goosebumps rose your spine, and every time you sunk on his cock brought you closer to collapse. All Dean did was to praise your name with a moan. “I hate how good you feel inside me.” You sobbed, increasing your rhythmic and going fast and rougher on his cock. Your walls were tightening around his dick. Your untouched clit rubbed against the fabric, but it didn't matter. This wasn't about pleasure. “I hate that it’s you and not him.” That's not my Dean.

That caught his attention. Dean’s shoulders grew rigid. He was ready to catch a glimpse of warring emotions of hatred and disgust on your face, but he wasn't prepared for the crushingly forlorn refraction of loss and dispair he found there. 

The knight of hell should feel satisfied. That was what he wanted, wasn't it? Destroying you, turning the woman the human version of himself loved into a walking catastrophe so you wouldn't dare bring him back.

Apparently, the priorities changed. Maybe the blood was really effective, slowly disintegrating his armor into flesh again. It was the only explanation for all the humanly emotions he was experiencing.

Dean felt the conflict building as if hurting you was physically tearing him apart. His eyes contracted into livid green again, shining like the moon with tears he didn't dare drop. He was still a demon, bratty heart or not.

Yet, there was only so far a man could control himself. His lips were treacherous for your name, echoed more like a plea than anything: “Y/N-”

“Shut up! I don't wanna hear your voice. You said I'm your little bitch, nothing but a whore to you, huh? Guess what, asshole. You are my bitch now, and you’re gonna like it.” The little monster in you hummed happily to your authority, glad to finally punish someone for the incitement of agony inside your guts. You closed your eyes, riding Dean ferociously.

Dean Winchester might have been a cage to your feelings, but at least it was golden.

You said you'd be here. You said you wouldn't leave me. Your thoughts corroded your wearied heart as you tried to fuck them away with Dean's weeping cock. You could feel he was close, and you were constantly hitting your G-spot with eagerness, your sweat and harrowed feelings gushing over. You said I didn't need to leave. You said we'd find a way through this. You lied, you lied, you lied. 

I trusted you, and you destroyed me. You hurt me and Sam, and I can't even blame you for it. He knew all your enemies started out as friends. He knew how much it would hurt you if he got the mark. He knew how it would break you if he said those words, demon or not. And you know you can't put this blame on Dean’s shoulders, but you were suffocating and needed fresh air. The sacrificial game wasn’t always a virtuous act. So, you dropped yourself down hard, appreciating the way his cock hit the right spot over and over again. It forced your body to feel good despite your restless mind. I hate you. You made me go crazy. And I miss you.

What was the saying? Man makes the promise, and the demon makes him break it.

Dean's fixated you. He wanted to get free of his cuffs and cup your cheeks, see you lean into his touch so he could wipe away the tears that started to fall and haven't stopped in minutes. He wanted to tell you he was here, not completely, but he was here. He wanted to apologize and make it better, but he didn't. His white skin was burning red because of how hard he was trying to move his hands, hair moving by your movements and his. The semi-human groaned like the remainder of the beast clutching his strings when he hit his orgasm and spread his seed inside you. You whined like a broken toy as you came all over his cock.

It felt good, for a while. It was nice, feeling good.

You stayed there a little more, gaining control over yourself while he softened inside of you. Dean was doing the same in an attempt to stifle his human emotions from surfacing. He wasn't going to be weak anymore. He couldn't be because for once in his life, he hadn’t hated himself. 

You coughed, using the chair to hoist yourself to your feet. His cum dripped from your pussy, dampening his still-clothed thigh. You sniffed, grimacing a little when you noticed that your face wasn't wet with sweat. You’d been crying. 

That only made you madder at yourself.

“Fuck it,” you groaned, putting his dick back into his pants before zipping him up.

Dean smirked in a final attempt to turn the table and get on your nerves again. “That's what we just did.”

You didn't waste more of your heart on him. Taking the last needle, you sunk the devil into his sharp skin and pressed the plunger with all the fervor of pulling a gun's trigger. He screamed like the rush of humanity flowing into him was a shot to the heart.

Your legs were trembling when you threw the object away and hugged yourself, focused on Dean's fragile body in front of you. 

He looked down, eyes shutting a few times as if he was waking up before lifting his head to look at you. 

“Y/N?” His voice was back to its gruff drag, but it was carrying a strand of vulnerability and care that he had only ever directed at you. Dean frowned, confusedly watching you and the place around you both, not to mention himself. “Y/N, what happened?”

He didn't remember anything. He didn't remember the terrible things he’d done. He didn't remember the words said.

You gulped, the back of your hand pressed against your wet cheeks. “I'm going to get Sam.”

The demon may have gotten teary-eyed, but the human Dean was the one letting the tears slide down his cheeks as you turned around and left, almost running to get away from him. He didn't even know why.

Leave a comment and REBLOG. Feedback is magic!

TAGS ON MY REBLOG

WANNA BE TAGGED? SEND ME AN ASK/DM

[razorblade180-heated]

Tension

[Shameless Smut]

Tension, a term Jaune was familiar with. Between Pyrrha pushing his muscles, Oobleck his mind, and the stress of school in general, Jaune and tension had become good friends. Instead of the norm though, tension came in the form of Nora’s well sized chest pressing behind him as he tried to write. A couple days into November and she was cracking. They had both decided to try the challenge and of course, it wasn’t going too well. Nora had all but succumbed to the idea of returning to their routine of frisky behavior.

Jaune tried to stay strong. But the nibbling on his ear and Nora’s hand rubbing his chest under his shirt. He let a tiny groan that made Nora giggle. “That’s it Jaune...let’s relax a little, and forget this challenge.” The sensation of her breath that close gave him chills.

“Last time I checked, this was your idea Nora. Stick by it.”

Jaune tried moving but her but it didn’t work. Nora was on a mission to get some. “Listen, I’m glad you’re so dedicated to my dumb idea; it’s what makes you a great leader. I need you to abandon all of that right this instant.”

“But I’m doing so well. I’m productive. Just look at all the work I’ve-gah!” He wasn’t expecting Nora’s warm hands to start going south. Both of them found their way under his sweatpants and took ahold of his steaming rection length.

“You can’t be too productive like this now can you?” Nora said, stroking him lightly. Doing this challenge was her dumbest idea yet. Nora didn’t understand why she thought this would be easy. Her, the most energetic and into sleeping with her handsome boyfriend. Feeling Jaune in her hands after several days was kinda...intense. Maybe it was her imagination but everything felt a little newer.

“You feel so hard and heavy. Already backed up? That’s not good. Nora bit his neck lightly and began stroking his shaft faster. Jaune finally put down his pencil and hitched his breath. She could feel his resolve break. “Jaune, I wanna ride you so bad~”

“You’re so not playing fair Nora. Just get off by yourself.” His composure was hard to take seriously with his cock basically throbbing. It may have been a few days but with the way him Nora did things, it might as well have been a week already. “Nora...please….” Jaune begged. His naughty girlfriend still refused. Instead she pulled out his chair from his study fest a little more and got on her knees. Nora fully whipped out Jaune’s sizable member and blushed the moment it sprang out, hitting her face briefly. Jaune watched the girl stare up at him as her lips pressed against the base of the shaft and sucked lightly. She then used her tongue to give a painfully slow lick up to the tip and winked.

“I refuse to believe this challenge is more important to you than this view right now. I know I’m being selfish but hey, you make me feel really good.” She said sheepishly, not meaning to get all mushy. “Still wanna stop?”

Jaune looked at his girlfriend with flustered intent. How could she ask that after what she just did!? Still, he did wanna know just how strong his resolve was, so he hatched an idea. “Why don’t I just help you get off then and not cum myself? My hands and tongue good enough for ya?”

“Hmmm, I guess we’ll just have to find out. You honestly think you’re that good?” Nora challenged. They’ve only been with each other two months. She remembered both of them fumbling so hard the first time, especially Jaune. He’s definitely improved since then but they’ve never tried only doing oral.

Jaune stood up and pulled up his pants to Nora’s dismay. The gentleman helped Nora stand up, before pushing her onto his bed, earning a yelp. “Yes…”

“Ooo, confidence. So far so-” Jaune pressed his lips against hers before she could finish. The feeling of his tongue invading her mouth made her quiver. Jaune pulled away to begin assaulting Nora’s neck, slowly working down. “Mmmm, yesss” Nora moaned. She raised her arms to remove her ‘boop’ shirt and let out another yelp as Jaune pulled down her shorts. For someone who only wanted to give, Jaune was acting pretty aggressive. “Someone eager to taste me?” Nora spread her legs for him. Her wet panties slipped off with her pesky shorts. Strands of her arousal clung to Nora’s shapely thighs as her hand dipped down to rub her sensitive flower.

Jaune gulped at the lustful sight of Nora’s hands becoming slick as she moaned with each rub. Her fingers spread her lips and even more of Nora began to flow out. He didn’t think she’d be this wet. This wanting of him.

Nora was equally surprised. The slightest graze against her clit made her body ache in the best way possible. Every nerve felt light lightning and seeing Jaune stare so intensely at her body made it worse. “Jaune…?” Nora moaned, gaining his attention. “Still just wanna use your hands and tongue?” Her spare hand started groping her left boob as she slid one finger inside herself. Automatically, Nora moaned with her hips bucking into her hand. “Because I don’t…”

Jaune was left speechless as he watched Nora finger herself. To an Arc, resolve meant a lot. It was a pride thing. A way to test yourself to the highest degree. Jaune was highly considering changing his last name. He removed his pants and shirt to see Nora give him a very excited smile.

“About time. Don’t worry, there’s next year.” She opened up her arms and welcomed her dorky boyfriend into a big embrace. She was once again caught off guard by a passionate kiss that served as a distraction. Lightning struck again through her body from the full feeling of a Jaune sliding deep inside of her hot and soaked pussy. “Mmmmph!” Jaune started rocking into her.

He couldn’t believe just how tight he was right now, or how wet. Jaune moved his lips to her ear and whispered, “I can’t go easy on you.” That alone made her feel even tighter.

“Fuck me up…” Nora whimpered. She felt his hands grab the back of her thighs and Jaune. Moved her legs until Nora could was staring up at her own knees. Her own heart skipped the moment she realized what position he wanted. “Oh fuck…” Jaune pulled his hips back slowly before plunging straight down into her. “ Oh fuck!” She screamed. “Give it to me Jaune!”

He was more than happy to. Jaune wasted no time pounding into Nora repeatedly, filling the room with the sound of their intense pent up session.

The only thing dwarfing the wet sound of Nora submitting to a mating press was the beds rattling. There’s never been a time their sex didn’t feel good, but Nora could feel a tangible difference this time around as she gripped the sheets and shut her eyes tight. Was it Jaune’s previous reluctance? Putting on a show for him wasn’t new but asking, no, begging for him to join was different. The look he gave her. That desire to fight the urge let her body seduce him. Nora never knew being tempting could be so alluring.

Her eyes briefly opened to see Jaune’s developing muscles shine with the sweat he was working up. His chests rose and fell with each deep plunge that Nora found numbingly good. She grabbed a hold of his forearms to brace each impact. Nora desperately wanted to speak but she found herself mimicking his deep breaths instead, her face turning to the side to bite down on the cover. His stare was just too much. Everything was too much.

Seeing the normally talkative and energetic teammate so meek and flushed made Jaune want to keep going. “You’re so beautiful.” Somehow, Jaune managed to move his right hand enough to turn Nora’s face back to him and kissed her hungrily. “Don’t stop looking at me.”

Nora let go of his arms and wrapped them around his neck again. Her hands ran through his slightly damp hair and held Jaune close. It was impossible to tell how long they’ve been like this, but the building pressure inside her that was wonderfully reaching new heights told Nora that her and Jaune wouldn’t be like this for too much longer.

“Cl..close…” She panted. “I’m so close…!” With the way she could feel Jaune twitch inside her and knock on the entrance to her womb, he wasn’t lasting much longer either.

“Want me to pull out?”

“Whatever you want!” Nora cried. Her climax came not even seconds later. Nora’s entire body tensed underneath Jaune’s. The only thing keeping her from screaming was biting down on Jaune’s shoulder, hard. It was a good thing he had aura in spades.

Jaune kept thrusting into Nora’s tightening walls until he had reached his end too. As much as he wanted to fill her up, he repressed the carnal desire and pulled out, shooting thick strands of clouded white all over Nora’s flushed chest and even a little on her face.

“Whoops…. sorry about that.” Jaune went to reach for a rag but Nora had already decided to wipe off her very healthy boyfriend’s spunk with her finger, then letting it fall into her mouth.

Jaune could only watch Nora do an exaggerated gulp before smiling at him seductively.

“Why use a towel when I can get that look from you with one simple move?” Nora giggled. She wrapped her arms around Jaune to pull him in close. Even after what they just did, the skin to skin contact made her jolt with pleasure. A glance down revealed she wasn’t the only person who was still up for more. “Look at that? And here I was thinking I wasn’t rocking your world. It took some effort to get you in bed. Not that I didn’t enjoy doing it.”

“You always rock my world. I just wanted to go one November to end in completion. Guess that’s never happening with you.” Jaune started attacking her neck with kisses and nomming.

Nora couldn’t control her laughter from the surprise assault. She eventually got him to show mercy. “Aww, don’t feel bad. Who cares about a challenge like that when you have a horny and loving partner. After all, I’m about to make it up to you right now.” Nora kisses his cheek before making him lean back to straddle him properly. “Told ya that I wanted a ride. My turn to do the leg work.”

Jaune blushed watching Nora bite her lower lip as she sat down on his dick. Both moaned in unison from the sensitivity from the first round. Jaune didn’t think it was possible, but Nora somehow felt warmer and slicker than before. His hands took a hold of her hips while Nora’s found a comfortable spot on his chest so she could lean forward a bit. Then, she rocked, teasingly slow. The back and forth motion almost seemed to pull him in deeper before playing with the idea of letting Jaune slip out. The pace slowly got a little faster, allowing Jaune to watch the sway and bounce of Nora’s boobs while she fucked herself.

“Yeah, I’m not lasting as long as the first time.” Jaune admitted. He started bucking up into Nora to make her gasp and see her thighs shake. Her lip bite became harder and her body flattened to lay on top of him, never breaking the rhythm they’ve chosen.

“S-same...ah! Same here…!” Nora had to make a mental note that doing anything after mating press was just asking for punishment. Not just her hips, but her knees and core was just in sensory overload. Jaune must’ve noticed just how much she was trying to keep control. His hands moved from around her waist to her ass, pushing and rocking it onto him harder to help her out. As well as provide sweet torture. “Fuck, aaah~” Nora feel him reaching the same spots from before. “You get so fucking deep…!” She whimpered.

Wet, sloppy sounds had returned to the room in full force. The two felt hot enough to burn the bed. Chests constantly rose and fell as repressed moans snuck out with everybody shift and love bite. Nora placed her face in the crook of Jaune’s neck. As much as she wanted an even spit of doing the work, her body had given up on that idea in favor of letting Jaune pump into her relentlessly until he was good and satisfied with her. A deep red blush came over her by the warm, wet sensation coating their upper thighs that was no doubt her never ending arousal for Jaune’s eager cock.

“H-Hey, cum in me this time.” Nora groaned, riding her waves of pleasure. Jaune only grunted, which she took as an agreement from the way he speared into her with a little more force. Nora only lasted several more thrusts before she milked Jaune of all he had to give. The sudden feeling of immense heat filling inside her body made it shake with pleasure. Finally, the two calmed down, lying motionless on the bed.

Jaune let out a tired chuckle. “Okay, you were right. This was better than any challenge. That...that was….” he couldn’t even speak right.

Nora smiled at her tired night and gave him a big kiss, filled with passion and endearment. “Yeah, it was. Several days and I got this out of you. I might actually be in trouble if I let you get pent. My fucking legs are done!” Her head rested on his chest. “Guess I gotta sleep this off.”

“Not a bad idea.” Jaune grabbed an end of his cover and flung it over their bodies. “Pyrrha and Ren shouldn’t have to witness this sight first thing through the door.”

“That’s my leader, always thinking.” Nora yawned. Her eyes fell slowly and relaxed her body onto Jaune’s. She could feel one of his arms secure her as she dozed off.

Jaune was only a few moments behind her. As usual, another failed attempt this year. Eh, worth it.