#more people need to be drawing him with spurs i think
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triptychofvoids · 1 year ago
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halloooo mein freund engineer from team fortress two ^^!!
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moonsaver · 20 days ago
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Almost a kiss, Always a breath
How close life is unto death. Almost a kiss, but always a breath.
With only about a month left to live – your previous guardian angel, Robin, has been replaced, as The Family decide to assign you one that's more "suitable" to your need. Guardian Angel!Sunday x gn!reader CW/TW: reader is chronically ill, and there's descriptions of how painful it is (a little gruesome) but the actual illness is left vague for self insert purposes. Mentions + implications of childhood abuse, death (reader), lesbians because i just wanted it A/n: As much as I'd have loved to make it Seraphin x reader, Sunday is just a guardian angel who has a more biblically accurate appearance. also it's about just a bit over 11k words. sorry for the delays! ______
"You can stay out here."
You turn halfway to face Sunday, the pair of wings over his eyes firmly shut, the other two pairs slightly bristling at your words.
“I have been assigned to you for a reason.”
You glance at the bright entryway of the boutique in front of you. People would definitely notice something was off. No one can ignore someone like him. At least, they’d sense something would be off.
You turn back to face him. Your hesitant silence seems to spur him to continue,
“I shan't interfere.”
He smiles. You don't think it's genuine. You look up at the various eyes embedded across his halo and wings like jewels. They stare back.
Have they ever blinked?
You shake your head,
“No. Stay out here. You'll scare people.”
You stand your ground firmly, your body facing him entirely now. He hums, his smile vanishing from his face.
“Is that so?”
“It is so.”
You reply, and it's followed by silence.
The corners of his mouth perk up slightly, before it's met with lesser and lesser resistance, eventually letting out a wholehearted chuckle.
“I can promise, truly, I won't interfere, nor draw attention. Nothing like the scene at the hospital.”
You sigh.
“Sweet mother of..”
You keep Xipe's name out of your mouth, sitting up on your hospital bed as fast as you can, ignoring the jolt of pain in your body from the sudden movement, as your eyes train on the figure in front of you.
The man is clad in white – a suit, to be specific – and seems to have started his day much earlier than you.
“I thought Robin was..”
“The Family has decided otherwise.”
You stare at his covered eyes, only to glance over at the plethora of his.. other eyes blink at you; wide and all-seeing, surrounded by clusters of feathers. A pair of them bristle as you continue to stare, and he clears his throat, drawing your attention back to his (wing-covered) eyes. His halo is golden - just like Robin’s, except.. Bigger. And sharper.
“I'm– I think my intentions were very specific, so why on Earth do I have a Seraphim looking after me?”
“The Family decided the timely course of your fate required an assistance of much.. higher capability.”
You scoff, the covers crumpled under your hands as they clench.
“Robin was adequate– no, more than adequate.”
“I would be aware. I expect nothing less of my sister.”
“Your–?!”
This day couldn't get any more confusing in the mere 15 minutes of it's starting, really. A Seraphim. Sent to be your guardian angel. And he has a sister by some biological miracle.
As if he senses the question you are about to ask, he says,
“Let's focus on a more dire topic.”
He neatly sets down his cup of finished tea on a surface – you don't care enough to check; too busy glaring daggers at the man – a few of his other eyes peeking over at the cup in your stead.
“ugh, great.”
 You groan and plop onto the bed on your back with an ‘umpf', then cringe as the pain shoots up from a plethora of nerve endings on your back.
Sunday continues, regardless of your pained expression, an artificial smile plastered on his too human-like features,
“Roughly 2 weeks. That is all.”
He gets up, and walks with measured steps to the side of your hospital bed, his eyes (in multitudes) staring down at your not-so intimidating glare.
You click your tongue, your eyes zoning out for a moment before they settle back on the teacup he'd just placed down.
“Since when did Seraphims like..?”
“Coffee. It helps, I've found.”
“Found?”
He opens his hand towards you. You awkwardly look at his gloved palm before he speaks to clear your hesitance again,
“Let us continue to whichever place you wish to visit.”
You look at his hand again, now with a dull glaze over your eyes, a plethora of thoughts glooming over your mind before another one of his (unsettling, you may add) eyes catch your attention, breaking you out of your saddened trance.
You breathe out, taking his hand,
“Fine.”
—–
And so, that led you here.
You pick out a dress, then shuffle through the stacked hangers to find your size, as Sunday patiently stands beside you, his obnoxiously white suit out of your vision by your request as to “not blind you.” But you can't necessarily explain about that to someone who covers their eyes for.. 90% of the time, you assume. Regardless, he obliges.
You turn to hand him a few of your clothes to hold, but watch as he stares at a distant baby. Their face is red and swollen, presumably from having cried for a while. The tears in their eyes confirm the suspicion. You look back at him, curious as to what he could possibly find fascinating about a red-faced baby.
..what the fuck?
You observed his eyes – the conglomerate of them making a weird sensation bubble under your skin as you watch all of them blink in succession.
You sigh, for the umpteenth time, making him turn to you. You look at Sunday with a strangely confused expression, as Sunday’s cautious hands pry the clothes from yours. You shift your eyes to see the baby look at you two once again with a face as confused and perturbed as yours.
“You’re lucky not many can see you.”
“Yes, it is fortunate.”
You continue browsing through the selection of clothes, politely waving off any staff member that seem to force themselves to help you regardless of the strange aura they felt around you.
“I’m trying these on. You stay right..”
You reposition him, hands on the sides of his arms as he complies.
“Here.”
He stands, in all his glory, in front of a kids’ indoor playground.
“The changing room is too far from here.” Inquisitively, that seems to be the only trouble Sunday faces, and not the curious glances from a few children making weird faces at his eyes on his back.
“It isn’t. It’s just a few picks, I’ll be back soon.”
He seems to stay silent, although his (unsettling) smile is no longer on his face, which reads him as more intimidating instead.
You shake your head, and then turn to walk over to the changing room.
——
A scream.
It rips through the chill, calm atmosphere of the store, warranting concern from a few employees situated around the changing room,
“I-Is everything okay-?”
“Yes-! Sorry, sorry, Im just–”
You hurry, and shuffle the floating eye into your bag, your hands fumbling with the buckles and buttons.
Why was there an eye in your bag in the first place?
Turns out Sunday sent one to stand right dab in front of your stall to ensure your safety in, probably only his opinion – a minimal way. You screamed the moment you opened your door and found a floating eyeball in front of your stall, before realising only that Seraphim was capable of doing such a thing.
You internally let out a beautiful, colourful string of curses, presumably to beat some sense into him, as you wrestle with the bag that's flailing in your bag like an animal caught in a potato sack.
“Stop, stop, Xipe damn it-!”
You bring the bag up to your face, glaring down as the singular eye looks up at you with an unreadable glint from the soft fabrics of your bag,
“If we get caught I swear I will–”
“Uh.. is everything okay?”
You jolt watching the door slightly move ajar as one of the employees gently signal their presence,
Shit, you forgot to lock it!
It wasn't your fault - you were about to step out when you were delightfully greeted by an eyeball, and in your hurry you must have forgotten to lock it.
You throw a sheepish smile towards the door, hiding your bag behind you. You're aware it looks like you've stolen something, so you take a deep breath and pat your bag, careful around the bulge of the eye inside.
“I'm okay, I- I just uh.. saw a cockroach.”
“A cockroach-?!”
The employee gasps, immediate words of apology on the tip of their tongue, but you stop them before they can continue. You swing open the door, having only grabbed a single item as you rush past the employee sputtering on their words, politely dismissing yourself as you beeline to Sunday.
––
You did, thankfully, find Sunday where you left him.
You stood a bit of distance away as he came into your vision, making sure to count the number of his eyes, blinking a few times and recounting to really make sure – who knew staring at his eyes for so long would make you dizzy?
By then, the eye in your bag only nudged a few times, but nothing more than that. On the way you realised there might have been no need for the commotion, considering people can barely see Sunday as is, let alone (one of) his eyes. You sigh tiredly at the thought, but brush it off.
You walked over to the small barricade surrounding the children's indoor playground and observed.
Sunday is crouched down, watching intently as two young girls clack their (very distressed) barbies together, making up drama on a whim. Sunday seems deep in thought, occasionally piping up to add his own additions.
Ookay. You need to stop this.
You sigh, running your hand over your face before calling out,
“Sunday!”
His head turns to look at you, then gets up, unassumingly as though he'd not been getting in on local gossip from girls.
—–
You sigh, pushing off the shoes from your feet as you sit back down on your familiar hospital bed, the door of your room clicking as Sunday ensures your privacy.
“Do you plan on going somewhere?”
“Tomorrow, actually. Since we have enough time, I'll take it easy.”
He hums, merely in acceptance, as he sets down the small bag your recent purchase was in.
“Oh, also, c'mere.”
You motion him to come closer.
“Closer.”
He steps closer, your knee almost grazing against his thigh,
“Closer.”
“Any closer and I-”
You grab his tie and yank him down eye level,
“Do you know what happened in the dressing room-?!”
You sputter out, the embarrassment returning to you as you recall the flustered employee's voice,
“I.. cannot say I do.”
You grab your bag, and out comes bursting an eye.
Ah. He felt something was amiss.
“I was fine on my own! Seriously, if you wanted to check in you could have just walked over! Which guardian angel just casually sends an eyeball of theirs-?!”
“Ah, but I did not want to overbear—”
“I would have preferred that, instead of your eye hanging in front of my stall like a Christmas tree decor!”
“Noted.”
You sigh, watching the eye float and join the conglomerate of his, wink at you, making you blink, unimpressed.
——
“I wanna be buried…”
You hum, looking over the green, slightly bumpy landscape, and point to under a tree.
“There. That's perfect.”
Mei seems to take your words in stride, despite the depravity of your humor. She chuckles softly, and turns to you,
“I'm sure it's possible.”
“D'you think I can get one of those colored, glass tombstones?”
“Hm, slightly difficult..”
“Oh please.”
You nudge her shoulder, making her softly chuckle again. Both of you gaze over to the distance, the plot of land sparsely filled with tombstones of other strangers you've yet to know about from Mei.
If the purple haired woman knew anything about you – it was that you adored stories. She never considered herself the best storyteller, but you'd convinced her enough to tell you anyway. Occasionally her companion would join in, greatly elevating the storytelling atmosphere, but for the most part, it was just you two.
Mei, who would tell you of each person she'd buried. Carol, 98, a lovely grandmother. She'd always smell of pie and something herbal – always sure to drop off tea wherever she went, the dull packets that rattled whenever she'd placed them down with her shaky fingers. Only her daughter's side of the family visited. 
Nico, 17. His father comes every weekend to clean his tombstone. He had a green thumb. His gravestone had the most beautiful flowers around him.
Razalina, a mysterious woman who you'd been waiting to hear about from Mei, before Robin was shortly replaced. Your health got worse and Mei urged you to take a break. You miss the flavour of the tea Mei would serve for you two. You wonder how it would feel to drink it for the rest of your life until you'd grow to be 98.
There was a morbid comfort in having a friend as Mei. Acheron – the term suited her. A gentle, sorrowful, but greatly respectful and polite woman who took care of the dead. A mortician you'd gotten familiar with on a whim when you'd bumped into her somewhere. She was going to bury you, and you'd let her with delight. You imagine there was a sort of trust and intimacy in that. She would clean your organs, and lay you to sleep on the naked Earth. There was certainly intimacy in that.
“A wardrobe change, hm?”
She quirks an eyebrow, her words still slightly hushed in caution to not even possibly offend you.
“Thought I'd try something new.”
You kicked a stray rock, looking down at your newly bought clothes, then back up at Mei.
“Went shopping with someone yesterday.”
“Finally let you out of your enclosure?”
“Ugh, for once, thankfully.”
She hums, walking alongside you with a leisurely pace, her gaze drifting over the cloudy sky,
“I'd expected Robin to come with you. I don't think I was able to continue onto the next story with her.”
“Yeah, I did too..”
You look back at Sunday – still following you two a few ways behind, waving as you and Mei observe him for a second.
“quite a character.”
You nod, simply, continuing to look at him as Mei's steady eyes train on you for a moment.
“Scared?”
“No. Never have been.”
“Good.”
Mei's assurance was quiet, almost relieved. She turned ahead and continued, and you followed her.
——
The cloudy weather only seemed to thicken with humidity and the threat of rain as the sky dimmed with time, and Mei was kind enough to end the story on a reasonable cliffhanger, making you giggle in your seat.
“There's never enough time, really..”
You say, between your soft chuckling. It always felt like time passed by unfairly fast when you sat with Mei as you used to.
She hums, smiling, her finger circling the rim of her cup,
“Tomorrow will come, so have faith.”
Have faith in a tomorrow. It would have left you breathless had you not heard it from Robin before. You glance back at the Seraphim behind you as if to confirm Robin really wasn't looking after you anymore.
You bit your lip for a moment at the agitation as the thought bubbled in you, before looking back up at Mei and returning her gentle smile.
“Alright. I'll get going. Take care, Mei.”
She nods, getting up with you, as you gather your items and walk up ahead a bit.
Mei turns to Sunday, and mutters something out of earshot.
——
You're tired of this.
You get up once again, in pain. It shoots through you, and pulses in your body. It continues to ebb and intensify with passing moments.
You stifle a groan, biting down on your chapped lips and swallow thickly, a bead of sweat forming over your eyebrow as you clutch yourself in pain. 
No one else is awake.
You zone out in pain, the only sound in your ears of the heart rate monitor beside you picking up slightly. The pain renders you almost still. 
This pain. This all too familiar ache. You despise it, and yet you don't. How many events have you had to skip or leave because of it? How many times have you turned down hanging out with your friends over it? It angers you. It's as though inhabiting a scrawny animal who claws at your insides for nothing. How many hobbies, pastimes, hell even careers, have you missed out on because of this? The all to familiar sight of your friends’ slightly pitiful gazes burns your mind, almost making the pain in your body worse as you squeeze your eyes shut–
A hand.
Your eyes open, suddenly aware of the cold sweat forming on your back as you turn your head to look at the hand on your shoulder.
Sunday. He doesn't seem to be donning any gloves this time.
His hands are pretty. The thought floats through the top of your mind like oil on water, the pain pulsing in you barely letting you cling to the present.
“Are you in pain?”
You lick your lips, shallow breathing carrying the response you wish to say. He hums, the noise almost soothing.
His hand moves and rests on your back, the warmth of his palm more comforting than the sweat making your skin shiver. He doesn't seem to mind the fluid sticking to his own skin.
For a moment, you feel the warmth increase, before it dims. Everything dims. The pain ebbs away, making you breathe out shakily, your tense muscles eventually relaxing. His hand slides to your wrist as you lay back down, fatigued from the midnight bout of pain.
“Better?”
You blink a few times, a futile attempt to appear more alert and less affected from the episode. There's a bit of water in your eyes – you didn't notice, but it's nothing you're concerned about.
You turn your head slightly to him, your eyes looking up at him as you ask with a hoarse voice
“How did you do that?”
Sunday hums, his fingers moving from your wrist to your palm, drawing soothing circles in the middle of it as a comforting gesture.
“We are equipped to absolve a bit of your pain. This is our duty. This is how we become pure.”
“Pure?”
His head isn't turned to you, instead a bit low, as he leans back in his seat. He breathes out.
“Purification happens through only a few means. Absolving you of your pain is a major way to do it.”
“But it hurts.”
“It hurts.”
His hand gently squeezes your hand.
“But you are feeling better.”
“It's not fair.”
His head turns slightly to see you. Your watery eyes only become more teary. Frustration, hurt, sadness, anger. There's a scripture in your face as he scans the furrow of your brows, the tears in your eyes and the chapped, dry blood on your lips.
And the silence settles between you two. A tender sort of hurt in the night air as he folds his fingers around your hand. Your eyes trail to his plethora of wings. Pairs of 3. They're beautiful. You watch the conglomerate of his eyes closing and gently blinking, almost lulled to sleep. His golden halo hangs a little lower than usual – sharp, yet elegantly prudent. The ones on his wings covering his actual eyes stare back at you.
You're beautiful. The words stay choked on your tongue like a regretful prayer. Your eyebrows relax, and your jaw unclenches.
Sunday smiles, watching your tear filled eyes close with sleep.
–—
Your shoes click as you circle around the fountain, watching the carved figure in the middle pour out water from various sources. 
Your padded shoes come to a slow halt, followed by Sunday's polished shoes right behind.
“Do you believe in wishes?’
“Hm..”
You shuffle through your bag, picking out something silvery. A coin.
“Yeah. Like.. a wishbone. A shooting star. An eyelash.”
You hold up the delicate coin, but Sunday's attention is trained on your face.
“We find wishes and stories everywhere. If you could.. what would you wish for?”
You gently grab one of his hands, and press a coin in the middle of his palm. He seems to have forgone his gloves once again.
“I am incapable of–”
“It's hypothetical. Come on.”
He hums, glancing at the coin, and then at the fountain.
“I'd like more coffee. One that is flavorful, deep and complex.”
You chuckle and shake your head,
“Be a little more creative. Just coffee?”
You pick out your own coin.
You suppose you were a bit unfair to him. What would you explain about walking to a whale in it's depths? About flying to a mammal accustomed to it's faithful footing? About crawling to feathery or scaled wings?
You throw your coin.
I wish for freedom.
Sunday hums again, pondering deeply.
“Ah, but if I say it out loud, it won't come true.”
“Aww..”
He chuckles, pocketing the coin.
“Let us proceed.”
He holds out his hand to you, and you eagerly accept, intertwining your fingers around his as you walk alongside and make small talk
“They've been struggling to walk and do basic tasks. Look after them.”
Mei's voice rung out in his head for a while, like a record playing over and over in an empty ballroom.
“You can see me.” He says matter-of-factly, instead of a question, after a moment of contemplative silence.
“I'm intimately familiar with death.”
He stares at her distant look for a moment.
“..I have my duties.”
“Sure. Take care of them. Please.”
–—
“Sunday, it's okay–”
A small gasp escapes you as he yanks you a bit closer,
“Watch out for the pothole.”
“The cover?” You look up at him almost in disbelief. 
What on Earth has gotten into him?
“Careful.”
He pulls you aside again, ‘assisting’ you to dodge a very obvious, very blaringly red fire hydrant.
“Ugh, okay, wait.”
You halt, Sunday stopping in his tracks ahead of you as your limp hand refuses to move with his in grasp.
“you don't have to babysit me. I'm not going to keel over if I step on a rock or something.”
“Nonsense, I'm simply fulfilling my duty.”
He turns to you completely, your hand still firmly grasped in his, as he looks down at your troubled face.
“You weren't this.. protective.”
“Hm, something must have messed with your memories. Here, let me–”
You gently swat away his hand that reaches out to you,
“Sunday, relax.”
You both stay silent for a moment. You breathe out,
“Okay, here,”
You step closer, and shake your hand out of his firm grasp, but loop your arm around his, and gently pat his bicep with your other hand.
“Better?”
He stays silent for a moment,possibly surprised for a moment.
“Better.”
He smiles at you, and you return it, both of you continuing forward.
——
“I want a garden. As big as possible.”
“Is that so?”
You kick around a small pebble, stepping on a slightly raised stone platform before looking up to gawk once again at the priceless view – the field of tulips making you stop for a moment.
“Mhm. I want to grow as big of a garden as I can. I've always wanted to.”
He chuckles softly, following your gaze out into the vast tulip field, before returning back to you.
You almost belonged here.
The entire gorgeous tapestry of you. Blending into the delicate backdrop like a painting. He's seen a few portraits in museums that could at least come close to the vision.
“I want to paint.”
You turn and look at him, Inquisitively, as he says so, almost surprising you.
“Really?”
He fully turns to you, and holds out a flower for you to see.
A carnation.
“What do you want to paint?”
You glance back up at his covered face. He steps a bit closer, and places the flower in your hair, moving a few stray strands from your face as he does so.
“A garden.”
You giggle, and the sound blooms in his heart.
“What kind?”
“A big one. With as many flowers as there can be.”
“Sounds pretty.”
He hums. You are, He thinks.
——
Sunday hates the rain.
There are many things he hates.
Overrun schedules, late appointments, rushed deaths, overbearing contracts, unruly protectees, a bad cup of coffee, bright lights.
And the rain.
Both of you pant and huff – you especially – running to hunt for any cover, the pattering of your feet almost matching the rain's rhythm.
Sunday's hand is tightly grasped around yours as he leads you to a small cover; a small awning, the grip so firm you notice the middle of your palm is still dry when he lets go to check you over.
“Are you alright?”
Sunday scans you over, stepping to the side to examine you more, a supportive hand on your back as you continue to catch your breath. You can predict the next bout of pain is gonna be worse. But you shove that thought aside as you nod, turning to face him, wiping away some of the rainwater dripping from his chin.
“You're soaked.”
He hums, disregarding the obvious nature of your remark, his fingers wrapping around your wrist as he counters,
“You'll get sick.”
He raises his head slightly to glance over you, gauging something.
“We're closeby, let's just run–”
“No.”
Sunday shuts you down firmly. His tone doesn't allow more room for argument.
He sighs, running a hand through his own wet hair as he contemplates on what to do. You try to scrunch up a bit of your clothing to squeeze out the water, and do the same with your hair as you wait for him to continue.
“I'll be fine–”
You try to softly negotiate, but Sunday takes off his blazer, swiftly putting it over your shivering shoulders, before wrapping his arms around you and–
“Ah- Sunday-?”
You breathed out, almost a gasp, as he pulls you in. His shirt is thinner from the water still soaking it, but the warmth of his body (of which you become too aware about) relaxes you almost immediately. You hesitate for a moment, until Sunday quietly sighs into your shoulder. Your arms hesitantly wrap around his waist, tucking your face into his neck as well. Your bodies exchange warmth, and the water seems to help hold the heat better than before.
“I despise the rain.”
Sunday's muffled voice resounds into your clothes and skin, and you giggle at the ticklish sensation of his lips.
“Really?”
He nods
“Why?”
“Alters too many things in the schedule.”
“Ah. I see..”
He sighs again; a puff of breath warming– almost burning your shoulder.
You stay that way for a few moments longer, before you speak again;
“Sunday?”
“Yes?”
“I want to do something.”
He stays silent, as though waiting for your initiative. You loosen your grip, and he pulls away at the indication. You take a moment as you scan his appearance – nothing resembling the once pristine, well kept man you'd seen the first day in your hospital room. Bits of his blue hair stuck to his skin like waves latching onto the shore, the feathers of his wings adorned with raindrops, the blurred effect of his halo under the rain. Your eyes travel a bit lower; his tie is slightly crooked, and his shirt is see through and..
You clear your throat, blinking and turning your gaze away to the pattering rain.
“I've wanted to.. um..”
Sunday's fingers brush against the side of your face, turning your attention back to him.
He brushes away a few strands sticking to your wet skin. His fingers are cold.
Your hands gently grasp his, encasing it, your thumb rubbing over his knuckles.
You slowly turn, and walk backwards, his hand still encased in yours as you step into the rain, watching his hesitant steps follow you.
You both stand under the rain, the water cradling your skin and washing away your previous efforts to dry off. Your hand intertwines with his, and your other hand rests on his shoulder. He places his other hand on your waist.
You smile, but he still seems hesitant. For a moment, you both stand, simply looking at each other. 
As if to reassure himself, Sunday leans down, and gently presses his forehead to yours.
Your smile falters for a moment, your expression replaced by that of surprise, but when Sunday grins, your confusion floats away. His hand squeezes yours as both of you sway and dance in the rain.
–––
“Is everything okay?”
Or at least – that's what the curious look on your face might say.
Sunday retracts his hand from the water of the fountain, gently flicks it, before wiping it with a handkerchief, drying it off. He sits half turned to you on the fountain's edge.
You stand with an umbrella and a (familiar) floating eye in tow, changed into warmer clothes and dried hair, washed of the rain's scent. 
Sunday had temporarily stepped away while you were showering to visit a smaller fountain closer to where you stayed. He was acutely aware the coin you'd tossed wouldn't be here. 
Always standing. Never approaching. That was how he'd describe Gopher Wood.
Right where you are.
Dressed in black like a curse that followed him – ravens in corners of buildings and lurking from above muddied puddles. Always in the distance, fog following him like a haunting widow, the backdrop of the mist etching him further into Sunday's mind. A hollow that spasms like a missing organ.
“These are necessary measures” he'd say. “Are you afraid?” He took delight.
He took delight in it.
“Sunday?”
Your voice, soft and grounding, snapped him out of the small trance he was in.
“My apologies.”
He says, picking up his folded blazer as he stands and walks to you,
“I have to check your temperature and–”
“Stop, stop, stop. Hold on.”
You hand over the umbrella to him, and shuffled through your bag to pull out a warm and fuzzy towel.
Sunday simply observes you for a moment as you hold the towel in your hand. He tries to reach out to take it with his other, but you pull away. He looks at you hesitant and confused, as you motion for him to lean down.
Carefully, your hands bring the towel to his head, and cautious of his wings, you gently dry his damp, blue hair. He hums, his wings shifting and bristling from the contact at first, before relaxing. 
“You could have told me.”
“You wouldn't let me.”
“I wouldn't?”
You huff,
“You talk too much.”
“You're the one who cuts me off quite often.”
“Touchè.”
Your hands stop for a moment, looking over at his ruffled hair half dried by the towel. One of your hands brushes away some of the hair that sticks up onto his face.
You wish he'd let you see his eyes.
“What colour are your eyes?”
His throat tightened a bit. He'd hate to deny you if you asked to see them.
“..gold.”
“Sounds beautiful.”
You stayed quiet, simply looking at the soft feathers of his wings, your hand moving from his face to hover around the pairs behind his ear, you look at him, and he nods, giving you silent permission.
Your hand gently cards through one of the wings’ feathers, careful to not poke any of the eyes, wiping away any wet edges of his feathers.
“..You're pretty.”
“Sorry?”
“Nothing.”
You back away, your hand retracting and pulling away the towel but Sunday is a bit faster, his hand grabbing your wrist and immediately stilling you. You both stand for a moment, breathless, and silent.
“I.. I'll wash the towel.”
“Ah, it's okay..”
He insists, silently, although his originally urgent grip on your wrist loosens a bit.
You end up obliging, letting him take the towel.
He could feel your pulse. Do humans have normally quick heartbeats?
–—
“Brother!”
Robin grins, ear to ear, proud of her handiwork as she holds up her fingers, sticky from the dampness of the water and the sweat of her small, clammy hands. The water dips into the chubby curve of her elbow, threatening to go up further but dripping down into the water instead, rejoining the gentle flow. 
“Robin, that could be dangerous! We don't know what those plants are..”
Sunday cautions his sister, voice untethered but soft with naivety and youth. His feet remain hesitantly restless on the muddy edge of the small river bank.
She only offers him a closed eye grin, before trudging her short, stubby legs in the water, walking back to the soil where she descended from, her tongue poking out the side of her mouth in concentration as she was cautious not to slip.
“It's for you!”
“M-Me?”
Robin's wet hand reaches out to Sunday's, gently prying his soft palm open and placing a soaked flower, making the water drip from his rounded knuckles. Some of the water seeps into the edges of his sleeves, but not more than a few centimetres.
“It's the flower! From the book!”
“But it's not real..”
“It is! That's why it's white!”
Sunday looks down at the flower again. It looked dreadful, in a way. Like a drowned rat – if he knew he could describe it that way. But from the rambunctious effort of Robin's chubby little fingers having wrestled it out of the water, it looked..
perfect.
It was beautiful in a sense. The white petals were (almost) unmarred, the stamens gently swayed with the soft draft that carried with cloudy weather, and the stem was still slightly rigid.
Robin's handiwork was pretty.
“You mustn't run off like that.”
Robin flinches, and clings to Sunday's back, as he turns to the source of the voice.
His eyes first see shoes. Black, polished, unmarred. Never touched by filth. Then crisply ironed pant legs. Then up, up, and up, until his little neck strained.
Father.
Or what was left of him.
Gold rimmed glasses. A rosemary always adorning his neck.
Sunday's original thoughts, back then, had been none of these incriminating feelings. They'd been quiet. So silent and afraid, as though his father would hear if he thought too loudly.
“What do we have here?”
The man leans down, but it does less to make him non-imposing. He might prefer it, that way. Sunday notices the gentle tinker of his rosemary as it moves forward with his father.
Robin's clammy hands now clenched the soft fabrics draped over Sunday's small back, cowering behind him. His loud, messy sister. His determined, bright sister. Dimmed by the clouds and fear his father brought.
If only he reached out to choke his father with his rosemary right then and there.
—–
“I wish u could have made it ://”
You stare at an old text – probably even forgotten by the sender. The tears make the digital screen a bit hard to read momentarily as it fills up your vision, but it gets easier after they settle on your waterline. 
It's these quiet nights you realise how much company you're missing. Like an artist painting the negative spaces in blotches to carve out the image – texts and hidden whispers like these carved out the loneliness you'd fester in yourself.
Something stirred you awake. Maybe it was the constant lingering pain that threatened to push it's usual threshold. Maybe the constant beeping of the heartbeat monitor.
Or that Sunday wasn't here.
Not even his eye. As unsettling as it was – you missed it a little. You sigh, pushing yourself up and sitting on the edge of your familiar hospital bed, careful to not agitate the pain more by accident. You push off the bed, and walk a bit hunched, pulling a shawl over yourself and deciding to go out and search for him for whatever reason.
At least, it's a better way to pass your restlessness than going through old texts. Walking at night didn't seem as bad of an idea – at least within hospital grounds.
––
Sunday remembers the world.
Or what he wishes to remember it as.
Cold, stony alleyways. Unforgiving nights. Merciless fog. A sun that never shines.
Not upon those like him anyway.
His Father – always standing. Never approaching. The fog surrounding him was the same. Always at a standstill.
Until something broke that.
There it was. Blood, seeping through cracks in the broken pavement of the ground. Almost inky from the murkiness and filt that seeped into it.
That was the first time he saw his Father's shoes marred.
“This is necessary, child.”
The Raven perched on his shoulder would bristle a bit, but not more.
No, it wasn't.
“This is our duty.”
It isn't.
“You will have to do what it takes.”
Sunday felt impossibly small that day. Like a fawn's leg caught in a bear trap. As if his surroundings grew a size too big and left him behind like a borrowed sweater. He was always more frailer than the other kids.
He wonders if that's why his father broke him so easily.
His little, golden eyes peered down, lost in thought and terror. He learnt how to ground himself at a tender age.
There was grime under his shoes.
Grime in the cracks of the pavement.
Grime in his father's affections.
He was never pure.
——
You couldn't find Sunday.
Forget that – you couldn't even walk.
Pain shot through you the moment you stood up, making you gasp and breathlessly sit back down onto your bed. Your throat constricted – you couldn't tell if it was from the pain or the frustration.
The frustration that had been ebbing and chipping away at you; second by second, hour by hour.
“I can't make it”, “I'm not feeling well”, “The doctor said..”, “I probably won't.”,..
“It hurts.”
Your lungs tremble, before sucking in a breath. Tears prick the corner of your eyes as you hunch forward, glaring through the blur of your festering emotions at the sterile tiles of your hospital room.
The tapered off conversations, friendships fizzled out, disappointed looks.
You weren't blessed. By some being, or some cruel fate, or so on and so forth; it felt like if anything, you were created to be tortured. Like flimsy, rotting meat on a metal rod. Pain was more familiar to you than the crevices of your hand, weak with the trembling in your bones from all the feelings you couldn't even name.
“I wish you could have made it.”
That pulls a sob out of you like a hooked wire piercing and pulling through a fish's throat, making you double over as more continue to bubble past.
You were meant to be tortured; you choke on your spit, and sob past the coughing.
Why? God, just why? Fall to your side and curl up,
Why couldn't you be blessed? What did everyone else have that you didn't? Why weren't you blessed? Why couldn't you be free? What godforsaken sin had your soul committed? What did your fate have in store? What did you do?
Why you?
Burying your screams into the pillow, the ugliness of your reality was softened by it like an interrupted fall from a height.
You cry until your vessel is empty.
Until you feel you've carved a hole out of yourself from the middle.
What it would take to be blessed, you wonder. Your hands clench to your chest, and your heart throbs to live despite.
Sunday returns late.
And he returns quietly.
You look up, puffy and tired eyes meeting the wings where his are supposed to be.
He stands idly at the opened door. Blood stains his visage. 
You breathe out, your face warm from your previous bout of sobbing, and don't utter a word. Sunday walks– limps to your side, almost paddling his way, before slumping down into the chair beside you. Some of the eyes besotted on his halo look tiredly at you.
You sniffle. He stays still. You presume he's looking down at the tiled floor.
Your hand comes up to rub away at your sticky face, and soon Sunday's own hand comes up to cup your face when yours retracts.
You lean into his gloved hand, disregarding the grime and the strong, metallic scent. He leans forward, and presses his forehead against yours.
His hair are soft against your forehead. You peer into the deft feathers of the wings that firmly shut over his eyes. Your own hands gently cup his face, closing your eyes. After a moment, he shifts, his face moving to bury itself into your neck, his arms moving to wrap around you, a bit too tightly. He stays tense for a minute, then relaxes into your hold.
You both stay like that for a while.
—–
You woke up feeling under the weather the next day. Which was ironic, because the Dawn has never looked as beautiful as it did that morning.
In fact, you don’t even remember how you managed to sleep. 
You look down emptily at your hand – as though you awoke from a coma induced dream, reminiscent of the warmth that was under it just a night ago.
Just then, your door creaks open. Sunday enters with a small box, and stills for a moment before his face breaks into a gentle smile.
“Ah, you're already awake.”
He says, softly, careful to not disturb the peaceful atmosphere the morning sunlight had casted in your room with you two. He walks over and sets the box on your bedside table.
“What is that..?”
“Paint.”
“Oh. Wait, what?”
He leaves, and a few moments later, you hear a soft grunt in the distance, followed by some wood creaking. Finally, Sunday seems to be able to maneuver whatever he'd been handling and it comes into view as he brings it in;
An easel, and a canvas already set on it.
You smile, at his struggled and awkward movements as he carefully handles the easel inside.
“You wanted to paint.” You recall, propping up your pillows and lazily leaning back onto them.
“I did.” He says, his smile returning to his face after the slightly troubling task. He pulls a chair and sits in front of the canvas, adjusting and pondering over the position of it until he was satisfied.
“What are you going to paint?”
“You.”
“Something more original please.”
“With lots of care.”
“Hm? What?”
You chuckle a bit, Sunday puffing a smile at your seemingly lightened mood.
“You should rest for today. We have a few necessary tasks to look into, aswell.”
You yawn, turning your head to look at the morning sunlight brightening up your room.
“Sure. What are they?”
You hear a clack – the lid of the box having been pried open with a bit of difficulty, as Sunday rustles with the paintbrushes and paints.
“A few things regarding your previous experiences with The Family, reviews, feedback and complaints..”
Ugh. They wanted you to drop a review?
You sigh, stifling a groan as a hand runs down your face. Sunday chuckles, softly,
“I'll take care of the writing part, just answer the questions.”
——
“Hm, how curious.”
The lavender-haired woman stirs her tea with dainty, carefree rhythm, the spoon clicking against the ceramic of the cup as she peers down at the cards on the table.
Mei sighs, her hands folded on her lap as she stares at the golden liquid, occasional vibrations making it ebb the slightest bit.
“He doesn't seem.. angelic, does he?”
Black Swan ponders out loud, her hand picking up and flicking a few tarot cards,
“There's something about him. It feels off.”
“Relative to his sister, even I'd think so.”
The woman smiles lazily, her dawn colored eyes looking up at the purple haired woman in front of her.
“You're quite worried.”
“..I suppose, it's obvious.”
Mei's eyes flit up as she hears movement, followed by a lazy sigh from the woman across her.
Thin, manicured nails faintly brush against her skin as Black Swan holds her hand, her lithe fingers feeling the ridges of her engagement ring,
“And here I’d have thought you’d been more excited to see me back.”
Mei puffs out a prudent chuckle, her hands manoeuvring to hold her lover’s.
“Alright. Care to give me a reading?”
The dawn-eyed woman flicks up a card.
The Hanged Man.
Acheron’s eyes follow the swift movement.
“Let’s see what’s in store.”
——
Sunday thinks he's cursed.
Dirtied, marred. Absolution is in store for the sinners, and exorcism for the cursed like him.
Who dirties the divine? Who damns the dirtied? Whose hands marr purity?
Gopher Wood was not a man of purity. Grime-stricken hands that crawled up from the depths of hell to pull fragile minds into an abyss.
He inlaid a curse upon Sunday – that must have been it.
Why else would he not be able to look at him?
Head down, child.
Sunday's little feet would shuffle together, sweat would stick to the small flicks of his short hair on the back of his neck, eyes fixated on the grimy, cobblestone path under his polished shoes.
Follow my lead. Do not go astray.
His hand would tightly grasp onto a few fingers, barely gripping onto the firmness of the man's hand with his little, clammy ones.
Do not look.
Sunday stops. His heart beats a bit too fast for his tiny body.
Do not ask.
A bead of sweat tickles his skin as it rushes down the side of his temple.
Do not speak.
Tears would bubble at the corners of his eyes, hands red and swollen from being hit for every verse he got wrong. For every word he could not muster out from his throat that was raw from childish blubbering through cries.
He would not speak of him.
“Sunday?”
He holds his breath.
You scrutinize at the pamphlet in your hands, before aiming it towards him and pointing at a word on it.
His hand remains stiffly held in the air, the tip of the brush barely grazing against the painted canvas.
“What does this mean?”
His chair creaks as he leans aside the canvas to take a look at the word you pointed at.
“Ah. Exorbitant. Something unreasonably pricey.”
You make a small ‘o’ shape with your mouth, looking over the sentence again in better understanding.
“How's the painting coming along?”
“It's..”
Sunday takes a moment to glance over the painting.
The sky is barely painted in – it’s embarrassing how much detail he's put into your figure standing among the flowery field, however. The looser ends of your outfit billow among the sunlit garden, a wide smile etched upon your face, flowers adorning your arms in bunches as you try to hold the huge bundle.
“It'll take some more time.”
“Can I see?”
He hesitates. You smile.
“You.. can, however.. I'd like to keep it a surprise.”
You nod, softly,
“Okay. I'll see it when it's done.”
Sunday returns your smile. You continue reading the pamphlet. Sunday takes the time to admire the curve of your lips against the backdrop of sunlight through the window.
–——
You suppose you should have seen this fever coming.
You curl up further on your side, tapping away at a laptop on your hospital bed, putting on a show and huddling further into your additional blankets provided by the hospital. It helps provide background noise in case you want to zone out.
“Hm.. fever of.. 38°C.”
Sunday plucks out the thermometer from your mouth, before placing it on your bedside. His methodical hands mess with various sachets of medicine before neatly presenting a few of them on his open palm.
“You'll need these.”
He hands them over to you, along with a bottle of water. You eat your pills and settle back into your bed with a forlorn, disappointed sigh. Sunday only fixes your covers and tucks you more into bed.
Your eyes trail over to the canvas behind him, covered by a cloth, as Sunday dabs your sweaty forehead with his handkerchief.
“When can I see it?”
He hums, a bit in thought, as his hands continue to gently dab away the sweat on your skin.
“In a bit. I have to add a few details.”
“Okay.”
You close your eyes, your weakened body pulling you into sleep as you feel the sensation of Sunday's lips press on the corner of your brow.
And that was the last you'd seen from Sunday.
Not that you're upset – of course not. He's a Seraphim. He surely has much better things to be doing, really. You can't imagine it must have been easy gaining such a status in the first place. And then having to look after a sickly human in the last days of their life? Work must be drab to him.
That being said, you do wish he'd at least tell you where he is.
Your eyes drift over to the overcast weather outside your window.
You hope he took an umbrella with him.
——
“Sunday.”
“Mr. Wood.”
Sunday's voice is sharp – he doesn't bother coveting the offensive edge.
“You've been astray for too long.”
Silence.
His gloves creak in protest as his fingers dig into his palm, curled fists at his side.
His smile remains stiffly on his face as one of his gloved hands pushes up his glasses.
“Surely, do you think such blasphemy is tolerable within the Family?”
“I–”
“Im asking, child.”
Sunday breathes out, strained.
“I didn't mean to–”
“Such excuses do not work–”
“Stop cutting me off.”
Sunday's voice wavers at the end. He feels his heart pushing into his throat. The raven on the man's shoulder only bristles, the smile on his face unwavering under the shadow of his black umbrella.
“..You haven't changed, little sparrow.”
Sunday's jaw clenches more. But before he can speak, thunder cracks in the background. His head snaps to look at the distant skies covered by heavy clouds.
It smells like rain.
––
“Take responsibility. Take responsibility for all you have done!”
Sunday's voice cracks through the strain on it. 
To respond is to acknowledge. He knows that filth won't respond. But he tries anyway.
He and his sister – they weren't sinful. They were children. They weren't filthy, they were confused. They weren't sinners, they were hurt.
They were children.
Through countless tortures and rotting, had Sunday realised his training was nothing but an escapist projection of his Father's own fears.
The fears his Father could not absolve in himself – he would, through the raw, blistered hands of a child that did not know better.
Or perhaps it was enjoyment. Or to fulfill his ego. To bolster his position as the shoe that grinded on dirt like him.
Perhaps all of those reasons.
Children with clammy hands, who plucked flowers and grabbed too tightly onto the swing, with scraped knees and a face that basked in the innocence of an eternal Sun.
Children, who were perfect to hurt, for monsters like him. Monsters like him who revelled in the pain of the innocent in lieu of unproven salvation. 
By the time Sunday yells his throat raw, thunder bellows in the background in equal magnitude, the rushing rain doing little to calm his heated face and drowning out the pattering of your feet as you rush to find him in front of the fountain where you both had made a wish.
“Sunday!”
Your voice calls out in the distance, his head snapping to you.
You shouldn't be out here.
He turns to embrace your approaching figure in the distance, his feet thrumming and moving to meet you in the middle, but before he takes a step–
“Do not move.”
The words still his bones. He breathes out, watching your slowing figure, swaying from the fever. Water sloshes lazily along his polished shoes that leaks out from the overfilled fountain. You'd wished for freedom here.
“Do not defy.”
He bites his lip, his teeth gnawing the flesh and drawing blood. He kept his wish in his pocket.
“I have commanded you, child.”
He will always be a sinner.
A sinner who is undeserving of a salvation as beautiful as yours.
“Your thrall is fizzling out.”
He smiles, and Sunday wishes he could rip his teeth out.
You sway, stopping to catch your breath, feeling yourself almost lose balance before steady arms wrap around your body.
“You're soaked!”
You whisper, feeling the dampness of his suit as he pulls you into a hug.
“We need to leave.”
Sunday leads you back, ignoring the weakening tether of his divinity.
Sunday looks back for the final time – a lonely, black umbrella in front of the fountain, it's owner seemingly vanished.
——
You heave, as Sunday helps you back onto the bed. Somewhere along the way, your body only grew weaker. You feared something worse when you could barely feel your pulse, but the way your legs seemed to almost stop working by the time you reached your room, it was already true.
Your figures shuffle as Sunday paces around the room, trying to find extra blankets and covers provided by the hospital, cursing under his breath as he knocks over a few items, some getting caught in his leg. You try not to pay attention to your failing body, but its hard to ignore how much deja vu you're getting right about now. Only this time – the pain is worse. The chill running up your spine at your spike in fever is nothing compared to the cold that's slowly chipping away at your fingers, and the pain in your body is reaching an all time high, making your breaths come out in labored gasps. It feels like a scrawny animal trying to rip out of your body.
He hurries over to you, swaddling you in blankets and sheets in layers, furiously rubbing your arms as he tries to warm up your body from the biting cold of the rain. Thunder strikes through outside your window, and in your fever haze, you catch a glimpse of the painting Sunday had meticulously made. He must have accidentally pulled the cover while pacing around.
Sunday calls out to you, snapping you momentarily out of your haze, but not completely. You were losing consciousness, and fast. His voice is shaking, despite how much he tries to appear calm. 
He knows.
But you can't bring yourself to pay attention. Things float over your mind like an ephemeral dream, your eyes only focused on the golden sunlight of the painting.
There's Sunday. And you. The garden is beautiful, and the sun illuminates your hands, reaching out to each other.
The gold is beautiful.
“Hey..”
You call out, making his panicked actions stop abruptly. His hand cups the side of your face, so gently, as if you're porcelain under his hand.
“What is it?”
“Sunday..”
Your hands tremble, moving up to hold his face, your fingers brushing away stray droplets from the edges of the wings over his face. The pain ebbs in you, and you recognize the familiar action as you sense it dimming, coupled with the sweat forming above Sunday's scrunched up eyebrows. He's trying to salvage this pain.
“Can I see your eyes?”
Sunday breathes out, leaning more into your hands. His hands move from supporting your back to your shoulders, gently pushing you back onto the bed, but his forehead presses against yours. 
You can feel his trembling, cool breath fan the lower half of your face, his own hands clasping over yours. The pain starts decreasing terrifyingly fast, making you afraid of just how much Sunday is trying to take it from you and into himself.
“Sun..”
Your voice whispers out,
“You don't have to–”
“I love you.”
The words hang between you two. You hear the faint sound of him swallow. There's dried blood on his lips.
“I love you too. The painting is beautiful.”
Sunday sucks in a breath, his wings bristling at your words. You feel your hands slowly lose strength.
His wings move. You see his eyes.
And they hold the most beautiful, striking golden Sun.
You're caught breathless for a moment.
Sunday's hands are still clasped over yours as they loosen and threaten to fall away from his face. You sense the trembling in them as he fosters your pain.
“I'm scared.”
His eyes close, eyebrows scrunched in worry and uncertainty.
“I'm here. I always have been.”
“I don't want to die.”
Sunday shifts, and presses a soft kiss to your forehead,
“Wherever you go, I'll follow you. There is nowhere you will go that I won't reach you.”
You close your eyes, tears roll down the sides, and Sunday kisses them away, continuing to whisper against your skin,
“I promise. I'll find you. In every universe you are painted into.”
You smile, laughing bitterly through your tears, your voice cracking a bit,
“You didn't make a wish, you know..”
Sunday presses his forehead to yours, his hand fishing out the coin he'd kept from his pocket in a hasty manner. He holds your hand, and gently places the coin in the centre of your palm.
“Because this will be a promise. I will follow you unto the borders of fate. Wherever you will lead I shall look to.”
You smile, through your tears,
“It's not fair. It's not your wish.”
“It's mine. And I am yours.”
He kisses you. His lips are soft against yours. You can taste his blood.
“I will always be yours. In death, if not in life.”
His hands encase yours. You feel the ridges of the coin press against the inside of your closed hands. 
You die in love.
He is a curse; a man rotten by the grime of his humanity, and thus he turns to you for the salvation of his divinity. But how insignificant such a thing is to him  – He cannot bless you, so he curses you. You who were never blessed now face the miracle of an angel like him. A miracle crafted by the defiling hands of a sinner that cursed you for love.
And he shall follow you unto death like one.
——
Acheron thrums her fingers against the cool counter of her desk, her eyes trained on the register in front of her.
She doesn't know how to tell a story.
Not yours, anyway.
Black Swan hums in the background, fixing the frame over the wall,
“You doubt yourself too much.”
Mei stays silent for a moment, then sighs. Her office chair creaks as she leans back in it. A few moments of silence, followed by a soft peck on the bridge of her nose. She opens her eyes to see her wife's, the woman slightly leaned over her.
“I'll be home late. I promise I'll spend more time with you soon. I just..”
Black Swan hushes her, her fingers lazily tangling themselves in the woman's violet hair. 
“I know. You have a long day ahead, isn't it?”
Acheron sighs again, closing her eyes, remembering your body in the morgue. Just about a few hours ago, when the rain was hitting it's hardest, she and her wife had taken a relaxed break. Black Swan had drawn some predictions for her, and the sounds of thunder had soothed her troubled mind back to a still pond. 
She opens her eyes again, and watches the precipitation on the window, the gentle sunlight peeking through the breaking clouds, the sound of rain coming to a slow halt. She watched a raindrop sliding off of the leaf of a plant right outside her window. Black Swan has already returned to her own devices behind her.
In just a few hours, you'd been alive. By the time the clouds broke apart and the rain stopped, so had your heart.
And here you were – back with a story of your own, instead. Acheron wishes she was better at storytelling. She hopes her wife can do it justice.
She turns halfway in her seat, looking back at her wife.
“..do you mind.. lending me a hand?”
The lavender haired woman only hums in response, the clicking of her heels as she approaches her again. She places three cards on Mei's desk.
“Which one calls to you?”
Mei takes a minute, analysing the duplicate designs of each card's back. She taps on the one on the left. Black swan picks it up.
“that's good.” She hums, closing her eyes for a moment, before opening them and looking back at Mei,
“But I mean, you. Which one really calls to you?”
Acheron hesitates once again, before tapping the middle one.
“Perfect.”
——
“You were right.”
Mei says, before gently blowing on the hot liquid in her teacup,
Black swan hums, lighter at the end, questioning what Mei was mentioning.
“That painting looks better in the centre.”
At this, the lavender-haired woman's mouth makes an ‘o’ shape, before curling into a smile. She flicks a few cards before gathering and tapping the bundle on the table to even them out.
“It does. Aren't you pleased I'm looking after your office decor?”
Mei only hums in response, looking over to the said painting hanging above her office chair, her face hidden by the sunlight of early morning.
“Someone ought to have helped with such a..”
Black Swan trails off, perturbed by the sterile, clean look of Acheron's office where she has yet to make changes.
Mei only laughs under her breath at her words.
“You're right.”
Black Swan's gaze joins her lover's, as she looks to the painting aswell.
The golden sunlight peers through the tender reach of your hands with a certain, blue-haired angel. The same angel who was buried beside you.
“Ah, look.”
Mei looks down at the table, following her wife's fingers, as they tapped on the table.
“What do these cards mean?”
“Take a guess. Tell me what you feel from these.”
Her hand lands on Mei's – slightly coarse from her line of work. Her lithe fingers trace the band of her engagement ring.
“Something.. new. A fresh start.”
She smiles. Her dawn-colored eyes trail to the sidewalk just outside, watching a pair of lovers walk hand in hand under the newly uncovered Sun after the night's rain.
——
“Morning.”
You whisper, leaning down and gently kissing the corner of your husband's brow. He sighs, and shifts, burying his face further into the pillows. It's soon followed by arms that move under the covers to wrap around your waist, forcing you to stay seated beside him. You simply chuckle.
“Goodmorning.”
He replies, his voice soft with sleep. You ruffle the soft tufts of his blue hair.
“Sleep well?”
“Mm. I..”
He opens his eyes, half lidded and blurry with sleep, looking up at you. You both stay silent for a moment.
“I had a long dream.”
“Wanna tell me about it?”
He sighs, before slowly sitting up, and burying his face into your neck, and then leaning his body weight onto yours, making you lay down on the bed.
Hm. So this is how it's going to be.
You know your husband too well to know this is going to turn into a drawn out cuddling session. Your hand raises and brushes through the soft, blue locks. You're giving in anyway, because who are you to deny your lover?
He only holds you impossibly closer at that.
“I made coffee. It'll get cold.”
He hums at that.
“It's 10 in the morning, you dork.”
“Ah, didn't notice.”
You roll your eyes playfully, leaning down to press a chaste kiss on the top of his head. He presses a kiss to your neck in return.
“You haven't shown me your painting yet.”
He stays silent. But then, he shifts, his arms hesitantly letting go of you.
That seems to have gotten him going.
He gets up, and shuffles out of the room. A few moments later, he returns with a small canvas wrapped in a cloth. He hands it to you, then returns to sit beside you, burying his face into your neck once again.
“Wrapped too, hm?”
“It's your birthday.”
You smile. He leans over and presses a gentle kiss to the corner of your brow.
“Thank you. I really appreciate it.”
“You haven't even seen it yet.”
You unwrap the cloth from the canvas. Your smile only widens at the painting.
There you two are. Your house is behind you two, and there's your garden that you've painstakingly taken care of.
You chuckle, pointing to a few, scattered reds across the greenery,
“You included my carnations.”
His hand comes up to wrap around yours, before bringing it up to his lips, and pressing a kiss to your knuckles.
“Of course I did.”
You set the painting aside, before getting up and stretching, popping a few joints.
“Come on, I'll make you some fresh coffee.”
You reach your hand out, and he takes it, getting up on his feet as he lets you lead to the kitchen.
———
There's a strange shop that you've recently discovered.
It pops up just about whenever, wherever. A strangely elusive personality culminated by the repeated disappearance and the mysterious purpose of the shop tends to pull you in.
You had visited the shop before – but the memory is fuzzy. You don't remember having anything you'd like to buy. Photo Albums, mirrors, tarot cards, polaroid cameras, antique equipment and trinkets, and strange candles. It was when you were on your way home from work that you decided to take such a detour. Perhaps.. that must've been what it was. Regardless, you decided you'd want to visit the shop again with your husband.
The opportunity was pretty perfect; your schedules aligned, the weather was considerably not so miserable, and you managed to find the shop in time.
It's a bit of a chance opportunity, considering how your husband has taken a liking to a bird that recently ended up in your backyard – the poor thing was scuffled. It's wings were broken and it barely survived through the night you two found him.
Ever since, he'd been collecting photos and capturing the little thing's recovery, bit by bit. 
You smiled to yourself, humming in contentment as your arm was looped around his snugly, basking in the warm glow of the early Sun, walking in a leisurely pace as your husband continued to flick through photos on his phone.
The weather was especially nice today – the rains had stopped a while ago and the time window was perfectly in between cold breezes and a warm atmosphere. You eyed the gentle swaying of newly sprouted weeds and grasses, a thicket of flowers and so on, at the edge of the sidewalk connecting to the wall of a barrier.
The wall would end a few ways ahead, replaced by (slightly worn) fences, as the rest of the land came into view the more you two walked ahead. Your husband would occasionally fill in the silence with little facts he would remember of, while you scanned the vast scenery of the green land behind the fence.
It was a cemetery. The tombstones were warmed by the Sun – or you at least think so, the way a cat seems to be lazily draped over one. There's a hugely amassed tree a few ways up the tombstones, and there lay two solitary ones, just enough distance from the tree for the light to reach under and illuminate them. 
You wonder if they're warm. You wonder if the grass is soft, and the dirt is coldly comforting. You wonder who they were – lovers, spouses, friends. Perhaps they were holding hands through their graves. Another cat sprung from behind one of the tombstones, gracefully approaching the one asleep sunbathing, stomping around the little flowers growing beside the specific tombstone.
You see them greet each other. You see the cat lovingly bathe the sun-kissed one. It's tail lazily draped over the tombstone flicks, drawing your attention to the name. Nico. Below it, reads, Have faith in a tomorrow.
The fence cut the sight a little short as you two walked ahead. 
You think for a moment, almost disregarding the smallness of the thought amongst other things in your head.
“Ah, I don't think I've shown you this one.”
Your husband speaks, leaning over to show you a spontaneous photo of you on one of your dates. You both had taken a detour and rested near the fountain. That must have been when, as you smiled, looking at the photo.
But the thought still lingered quietly in your head.
To be woven so delicately and strongly into someone else's tapestry, until the strings frayed long after your deaths.
What it would take, you wonder.
———
Akin to your habits of detours, and keenly aware of your likings, your husband politely guides you to a cafe you two had visited once (he, thankfully, does not mention the audible growling of your stomach. Coffee is not a good, neither a fulling breakfast.)
You two spend a handful of hours there, simply relishing the downtime you two have together. Hushed, soft conversations, hands held over the wooden table that stayed linked as you two finally made your ways to the strange shop.
It was small, but the arrangement of the trinkets (and perhaps the placement of the lighting) made it look more spacious inside. You two talked at the front where, you presume, the owner of the shop was. A lavender haired woman who spoke in a hushed, sweet tone. Nothing else was off about her except her hypnotizing gaze and the knowing look in her eyes. You two would take your time sorting through the shop, and eventually your husband would pick a photo album.
The woman offered to print a few select photos, and you hesitantly agreed. Although technically this was a strange shop in itself, something about it prickled your skin the wrong way.
So, you waited outside for him as he discussed the details, choosing to admire the carefree and relaxed atmosphere of the day outside.
After a moment, your phone buzzed, and that was your signal. You headed inside, and found your husband listening carefully to the lavender-haired woman instructing on how to take care of the album. As soon as you catch her eye, she smiles at you, and waves. You wave back.
“Good to go?” You ask, looking at your lover in blue.
“Sure is. Feel free to drop by anytime you need some more help.” The woman chimes in, smiling lazily at you, her chin cradled on her hands, her elbows propped up on the counter as your husband fiddles around with the album a bit more.
“Alright.” He says, after a moment, satisfied with his inspection. “We can leave.”
You smile at the woman again as a thanks, she simply waves you two off as you leave. The chiming of the little bell over the door resounds for only a moment as she watches you two with a fixed gaze leave and walk away.
“Hm..”
She hums, her fingers grazing over the plethora of cards sprawled in the pop up desk below. Her finger lands on a card.
The Hanged Man.
“Mei was right.” She smiles.
———
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kisseobie · 7 months ago
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Can you rank P1harmony on who is most likely to get pussy drunk and why 👀👀
who in p1harmony is most likely to be pussy drunk
pairings: ot6 p1harmony x reader
warnings: nsfw obvi (mdni)
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a/n: well yes! this is in mtl, so most to least! (although i can see all of piwon as munches that all get pussy drunk tbh..)
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༘⋆₊˚ jongseob
might be a controversial take and might be spurred on by a seob work i am currently drafting out but.. fuck it i’m putting jongseob as the most likely to be pussy drunk! i’m just sooo fixated on the idea of him never experiencing anything before meeting you, and just becoming obsessed when his fingers, lips, and cock all make contact with your cunt for the first time.. so eager to please, and the fact that he’s able to draw out waves from you is enough for him to feel pleasure as well. definitely a service dom that can spend hours analyzing each reaction he can pull from you.. when he’s particularly stressed out in the midst of comeback preparations he’s spending his nights lapping at your pussy until all the worrying thoughts dissipate from his pretty head :3
༘⋆₊˚ intak
just a loser puppy bf obsessed with his girlfriend and her glistening cunt :(( he’s sooo desperate 24/7, is always pulling you away from whatever or whoever you’re currently occupied with, just so he can worship you and your pussy. he’s the typa bf to rut his hips against the bed whilst eating you out, eagerness evident in the way he groans into your cunny .. he’s def begging you afterwards to let him stuff you with his dick .. pleading with big eyes and nasty words like “just the tip? please angel, wanna feel you around me” and you’d never admit it to him, but his never-satiated desire to worship your pretty pussy drives you absolutely crazy :( please please rut your hips onto his face and pull his hair when he’s eating you out.. he deserves it!!
༘⋆₊˚ jiung
another hot take but i think a serious little nerdy introvert like ji would have a crazyyyyy sex drive; and an even crazier need to constantly be inside of you. once the pair of you have sex for the first time, it literally alters jiung’s brain chemistry. he’s particularly obsessed with overstimulating you just to witness the familiar frothy white ring of his and your cum placed around his dick every time he lifts your pelvis up and pulls in and out.. literally takes pictures of your pussy like it’s the finest piece of art he’ll ever see, tucking said photos into a locked folder on his phone that he visits quite frequently. is not as vocal about just how pussy drunk he gets, but his actions and stares make it obvious :DD
༘⋆₊˚ theo
now now.. i know people are gonna say yangie should be higher on the list, but personally, i think theo—whilst very much obsessed with eating you out—would get more drunk off of receiving pillow princess treatment? i know most people write him as a service dom but this man is lowkey the brattiest sub to exist in my eyes lol. can see him being greedy as hell. being fourth on this list and leaning submissive doesn’t mean he’s never pussy drunk tho! but i do think it’s less of a trait during sex, and more of a feeling he gets when he’s needy and missing you. i can see taeyang sniffing your unwashed panties and getting off to that like a little perv hehe
༘⋆₊˚ soul
now this was a bit difficult.. and shota is an enigma so it took me awhile to properly place him where he belongs. kind of like theo, i feel like he isn’t really the type to get pussy drunk during sex or foreplay or anything like that. instead, i think he’s just more obsessed with your other body parts and processes, like the way your tits bounce when he’s rutting into your heat, how you clench around his cock when he’s more vocal with you, how your moans eventually morph into little broken gasps. i think my main impression of being pussy drunk is being so obsessed, dazed, and brainless, but i just think soul would be a lot more aware when intimate, and not so easily lost in the sauce as the others lol
༘⋆₊˚ keeho
i can already hear the disgruntled keeho truthers making their way but before yall kill me.. hear me out.. i think of kyo as a hard dom majority of the time, so i really don’t think he would make it aware to you even if he was pussy drunk. i also think making you feel good would be his priority, and he wouldn’t pay much mind to his own pleasure until his girl was satisfied, so i just don’t think he’s got the time and drive to be pussy drunk! he’s on a mission to have you trembling with want, and he can’t really achieve that if he’s drooling with lust for your cunt :/ maybe it’s just the way i characterize him.. but i just think he and shota are more focused on other things during intimacy
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taglist: @woozixo @hearts4chanhee @kyokopi @astro-doll-the-star @soobiary @kyaaramello @t3ssamoodboard @angelcbf @idontknow-1s-world @vivienne-sim @elissasimp @imjustayapper @ihatewreckingballmains @sosaverse @seobing @www90kitsch @khfviq @barbiekh86t @bbyjjunie @taeyangi @fullsunstrawberry @jihnyah @intheemptymirror @watamotee33 @dreamer1299 @jixnnsie @wonootnoot @yukx-x047 @sundancearchives @chuuswifereal @seisyiss @fishsquishh @sunnyyangie
© kisseobie, please do not repost my writing!
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fandomfics · 5 months ago
Text
Anything for You
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Pairing: Dean Winchester x Fem Reader
Description: undercover jobs are always risky, but when you're caught going against the gang you and Dean have fallen in with, Dean is forced to do something drastic.
Masterlist
A/N: I love Dean. That is all
⚠️Warnings⚠️
18+ MDNI
Past/memories in italics. Canon typical violence, language, use of restraints, alcohol use, drunkenness, dark themes, human trafficking, murder, talk of vamps, no actual vamps appear. unprotected p in v, oral F receiving, angst, fluff, smut. The whole 9 yards. Not proof read.
Smut under the 🔥
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You are on your knees on the hard concrete, sitting on your heels, blindfolded. The rope that binds your wrists behind your back digs into you, the friction burning your sensitive skin. The smell of blood invades your nostrils, you can only hope it's not Dean's.
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"This could take weeks. We need to make sure that we don't blow this before we find the nest. " Dean sighs putting his head in his hands.
"We'll be fine. As fucked up as it is, them using a shelter as a cover will help us. My intel says they mostly pose as volunteers, they just hand the people off, No kidnap or torture at this stage. We pass the info to Sammy when we get it," you gesture to him across the table, "and he'll let the other hunters know the drop point."
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You curse yourself under your breath as you remember those words, you should have been prepared for the unexpected. Your sense of time is distorted, your body is weak, you just want to fall to your side and pass out. You resist the urge and continue straining your ears to hear anything outside of the concrete room you are in. Nothing. Every pair of shoes you have are modified to carry a blade of some sort, You take the silence as your que to remove it and work at the rope. Periodically you stop to listen for any indication of footsteps, when you are satisfied by the silence you continue.
After what feels like an eternity, you're finally able to free yourself. When you draw up the blindfold you see the bare concrete room with a single light dangling from the ceiling and a door in front of you.
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The shelter you stand in front of is quiet and unassuming, the sign above you flickers momentarily, 'Hope's Haven'. Your gut clenches, places like this are supposed to be safe for the less fortunate. You're spurred on to take out this threat and move forward, duffle slung over your shoulder.
Dean is hot on your heels as you enter the building, "We're the new in-house caretakers." You say plainly, looking over the receptionist, wondering if she's part of this whole game.
"Door at the end of the hallway." She considers you and Dean for a moment before returning to her computer.
You pass several doors, every one marked, men's and women's dorms, family dorms, restrooms, showers, cafeteria, rec room. The door at the end of the hallway is marked volunteers only.
Behind the door is a staircase that leads to the small volunteers dorm, a few individual rooms and bathrooms, and a door marked 'Do Not Enter.' each door of the dorms has a white board on it with the names of the occupants, you quickly find the one marked with yours and Dean's chosen alias'.
"I'm surprised you let me pick the names. No protest either. I expected more from you Dean." You chuckle as you start to unpack your things.
His eyes narrow as he realizes he's missed something, "what do you mean?"
"You know," you stiffle a full on giggle before continuing, "Stevie Nicks is a woman right....and Lindsey Buckingham is a dude."
"Really?" Dean says Incredulously. "I guess it's a good thing no one ever thinks twice when we give our cover names..."
You can no longer keep your laughter in, bursting out in a fit as you fall back into the bed. "Right, no one EVER second guesses them." The sarcasm in your voice evident as your laugh dies down.
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You hear footsteps approaching outside the door and reposition yourself to sit against the wall, replacing the blindfold, hands behind your back with your small knife in one.
The creak of the door causes your muscles to tense, but then you hear his voice.
"Fuck, are you okay?" You can hear Dean making his way across the room to you as you quickly bring your hands up to remove the blindfold. He drops to his knees next to you and cups your face in his hands waiting for your reply. When you don't respond quickly enough he lightly taps your cheek with his hand, "Hey!"
"I-I'm fine." You look at him in shock, "Dean...why are you covered in blood?"
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"I told you to fucking wait for me!" Deans exasperation was clear, "You think they really believe that you weren't in that office snooping?"
"Would they let me go if they didn't?" You plop down on the bed in your shared room and start to take off your shoes.
"Maybe not, but you still should have waited dammit." His voice was quiet, almost inaudible. You pause briefly before continuing in a totally different direction.
"Come on, it's the fourth night we've been here, stop sleeping on the floor. I'm not gonna give you cooties." You say playfully trying to change the subject.
"Fine, I guess that's a suitable punishment for making me worry."
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You've barely slept, huddled with your back against the wall, Dean takes up most of the bed. As much as you would love to just cuddle up to him, he's your best friend. You've harbored a bit of a crush on him for years, but you know he doesn't feel the same, you've accepted that.
You're letting your mind wander until he begins to shift beside you and suddenly his face is inches from yours.
"Dean." His name a hoarse whisper. When he doesn't stir you try again, this time louder, "Dean!"
His eyes open slowly, "hmm?" When he is finally able to focus he realizes how close he is. "I told you this was your punishment. I'm not moving." You push his chest trying to get him to move but he doesn't budge.
"I can't sleep, you're taking up the whole fucking bed." You whine, exasperated from your exhaustion.
He wraps his arm around you and pulls you a bit closer as his eyes slowly close again. "Come on. We're friends, you don't have to be afraid to touch me, get some sleep." He turns away from you and gives you a bit more room. You follow suit, turning to your other side to face the wall and finally drift off.
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When the alarm wakes you in the morning you feel the heaviness of Dean's arm draped over your waist. He stirs behind you and swings his arm back to turn the alarm off before leaving it back where it was.
"Mornin'" His voice is groggy
"Dean...what are you doing?"
"Shit, sorry. Am I making you uncomfortable?" He starts to move away but you catch his hand before he can, keeping it firmly planted where it lays on your stomach.
"No, it's nice." You are emboldened by his touch and allow your fingers to trace over his hands.
You feel his hot breath on the shell of your ear, "Yeah..." He quietly agrees before lightly kissing your cheek. Your heart swells and flutters and you have to stop yourself from overthinking this. He isn't confessing his love your you, he's just enjoying cuddle. It doesn't mean anything.
You wait a couple minutes in silence, enjoying a little taste of domestic bliss with Dean before reluctantly pushing his arm away and speaking again, "Come on, we gotta get up." You sit up and stretch, turning to Dean, "Come on!" He turns to lay face down, the pillows muffle his clear rejection at the thought.
"We've got shit to do. Come. On." You stand on your knees and push at his body again, trying to roll him out of bed. When that doesn't work you begin to poke and prod at him.
"I don't wanna." He groans.
As a last resort you stand up and start bouncing up and down, it's childish, but you're having the time of your life annoying Dean until he turns and sits up. You stop your antics, standing above him within arms reach, out of breath and giggling. His face softens and he smiles.
"You're a god damned pest, ya know that?" He chuckles and finally swings his legs over the side of the bed.
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"We can talk about it when we get out of here." Dean says as he helps you up from the concrete floor.
He checks you over before grabbing your hand to make a run for it. Everything is oddly quiet and you meet no resistance on your way to baby. In an instant your on the road making your way out of town in silence.
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You've barely slid out of the bed when you hear the door open. Some of the bigger goons of this operation stand on either side of the door as the woman you assumed to be the receptionist in your time here walks in with a look of disappointment on her face.
"You can't just barge into-" Dean starts protesting before one of the men point a gun at you. He stops and keeps his eye on him with a glare. "What do you want?" Dean says harshly.
"Her." The woman states rather plainly.
"Why?"
"She violated my privacy, caught her snooping through my things."
"What? No I didn't!" You try desperately to lie.
"Honey, I got you on camera."
Deans face drops as he looks to you, his face contorted in surprise and anger.
"Oh," she feigns pity, "you didn't know what she was doing without you? Wonder what else she gets up to behind your back?"
You're both too stunned for words as she turns with one last statement, "lock her up, don't torture her too much. She may still be useful. And Stevie, you'll need to work extra hard around here if you ever want to see her again." She snaps her fingers and the men drag you off to the room.
"Just do what they say, help them finish the job. don't worry about me." You try and tell Dean as he calls after you.
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An eternity passes in silence and night falls. A neon sign in the distance advertises a motel with a 24 hour diner across the street, you sigh in relief knowing he'll stop.
When you've showered and eaten you both lay in your respective beds in the dark. Dean has still barely said a word to you, the tension has made you anxious. You fade in and out of consciousness, your thoughts never ceasing. You remain restless.
You look to the clock on the nightstand. 3:17am. You run a hot bath, hoping it will help to ease your tense muscles, you pour the lavender shampoo in the running water, hoping the calming scent will ease your mind.
You let out a sigh as you sink in, your thoughts still lingering on the question you've pondered since leaving. What did Dean do that would cause him to be so distant?
Your snapped out of your thoughts when you hear a knock on the door. The water has grown cold and you're unsure how long you had been in there. "How much longer you gonna be? I need to piss." You hear Dean's gruff voice from the other side of the door.
"I'll be out in a sec." You quickly dry yourself off and dress allowing Dean the restroom. You sit on his bed, lights on, waiting for him to finish. He doesn't seem surprised, but he still doesn't want to talk.
"Dean, tell me what happened."
"I saved you, end of story." His climbs back into his bed and turns away from you. "Get the lights will ya?"
You scoff, "if it's that fucking simple, why can't you talk to me about it?"
He remains silent, no sign of any change. "Fine." Tears sting your eyes as you move back to your bed, turning the lights off on the way.
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You sit in the kitchen of the bunker with Sam. Same thing you've done a million times before.
"It's been three months Sam. Has barely talks to me. It fucking hurts."
"He still won't tell me anything about it either-"
"Yeah, but at least he doesn't treat you like the worst thing that ever happened to him, like a plague. We used to be so close, now we're practically strangers. I don't know if I can keep living here like this. I don't want to."
You hear footsteps retreating away towards the library and look to Sam.
"Well go tell him that. I don't want you to go, but I don't blame you either."
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You walk into the library to see Dean sitting at a table, hunched over a book, deep in thought.
"I'm leaving, I can't live here anymore." You say matter of factly.
"Okay. Have a nice life." Dean doesn't look up from his reading.
You march over to where he sits and fling everything in front of him off the table in a rage.
"What the fuck happened to you Dean? You have made these last few months an absolute living hell for me. We were best friends, we shared almost everything with each other." Your tears fall freely as you scream, he avoids your eyes.
"You can't even look at me. Like whatever happened is my fucking fault, but you're too chicken shit to say what it was."
You start to pace around as he stands up to leave.
"You're gonna run away from me again?" You stalk forward and shove him back, "Just tell me you hate me, you don't want to be near me, you don't want anything to do with me anymore. Something, anything. Give me some god damn peace Dean Winchester." You try to push him again and he catches your arms before they can make contact with his chest and you struggle to free yourself from his grip.
"I wish you left sooner. I thought maybe you woulda got the hint sooner. You're making this whole thing harder for both of us." He finally looks into your eyes after months, you're clearly in pain. Your mouth hangs open in disbelief of his words, as a sob shakes your body and your legs stop working. He catches you and sits you in the chair he was occupying.
You feel as though the man you thought he was is dead, and you sit in front of a facsimile of him, mourning the loss of someone who was once dear to you.
His hands slam on the table and you flinch at the sudden noise. "You want to know why I don't talk to you? Cause I killed five people. People, not monsters. I didn't think twice about doing it. I did it to save your sorry ass."
You sit in stunned silence as he leaves the room. You're heartbroken, you never would have expected him to be so cruel to you of all people.
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Torture? Absolutely the fuck not. Dean is going to take down every one of them before they can touch a hair on your head. He gets dressed and opens the door to find one of the large men guarding it.
"What? You supposed to follow me around?"
He nods solemnly. Without warning Dean pulls a small knife from his pocket and stabs the man right in the neck. As he begins to fall Dean catches him and drags him into the room before holstering the knife and continuing on.
His rage bubbles in his gut, consuming him entirely, his body moves without a second thought. His mission to rescue you is clear, damn the job, damn these fucking people.
One by one he finds each of the other people and puts them down without hesitation.
Something snaps when he finally releases you and is running for the exits. He just murdered five people. They weren't good people by any mans, but they weren't monsters in the literal sense.
The entire ride to the motel was silent, his mind was overwhelmed with the thoughts of how far he went to rescue you, how much it scares him that he was willing to take these humans out, for you. The fact that he would do it again a hundred times over if it means you're safe.
As much as he doesn't want you to leave, he is afraid of the lengths he will go to, the things he will do for you.
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Sam finds you in the library an hour later, hunched over the desk, still crying. He kneels beside you and puts a hand on your back to sooth you. You immediately turn into him and engulf him in a hug as you explain what happened. Your ever dutiful friend listens to every word as he allows you to cling to him, rubbing your back.
"I'm so sorry," he says as he squeezes you tightly. "I understand if you still want to leave, but you need to rest a bit now." You nod into his shoulder and he helps you up, guiding you to your room and laying you in bed. As he leaves you turn to face the wall and cry yourself to sleep.
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In the middle of the night you find yourself in desperate need of hydration. On your way back from the kitchen you turn a corner and collide hard with Dean. The glass in your hands drops to the floor and shatters sending water and sharp shards across the hallway. You're about to berate Dean, take all your anger out on him until you realize he's been crying.
He turns and makes his way back to his room without a word and you follow close behind.
"What the fuck do you have to cry about Winchester? Huh? You tore me to pieces like I didn't mean a thing and you're crying?" You scoff.
He ignores your words and you keep going. "Still don't want to talk? You killed those people. Not me. I told you to finish the job, not to worry about me. You decided to do all that yourself. So stop taking it out on me you selfish prick. Hate me all you want, but that was your decision."
He stops in his tracks just as he crosses the threshold of his room and finally turns his head to address you. "I don't hate you."
"Unbelievable."
"You're not going to leave me alone are you?" He turns to you fully now, "You aren't getting it. I killed those people because the thought of them touching you in any way was terrifying to me. The thought of losing you forever filled me with blind rage. You were careless and got yourself caught and I couldn't deal with it. The fact that I could do that for you fucking scares me. I was the monster."
His door slams in your face and you are left speechless. You have no idea how you feel, your thoughts are jumbled and you want nothing more than to quiet them down.
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You and a bottle of rum occupy the kitchen for the remainder of the night. You talk to yourself, to the bottle, to imaginary Dean as you play out how future conversations may go. You're emotions are scattered to the winds and you just want to drink until you're numb.
Half the bottle is gone and your head lays on your folded arms at the table. You hear someone walking in but all you can do is groan pitifully. Your vision is blurred and your head is fuzzy but you recognize Dean's voice through it it.
"Jesus Christ," you hear the bottle being picked up and unceremoniously slammed back down. "This isn't going to help."
"Yeronetatalk" your words slur together.
Without another word he lifts you from the chair and takes you to your room. As much as you want to protest, you can't, you're too drunk. He lays you in your bed and leaves for a few minutes. He returns with a gallon jug of water, a cup, a trash can, and some aspirin.
He pulls a chair up next to the bed and puts his head in his hands. He spends hours there with you, mostly asleep, but taking care of you when you're not, holding your hair back, urging you to drink water.
"I'm sorry." You hear him whisper when he thinks your asleep. "I didn't want this."
Your heart hurts. So does everything else. Your eyes open and he urges you to drink more water and take the aspirin.
"Dean," his eyes meet yours. "I'm sorry...for being reckless. I should have waited for you. You're right. But don't you dare blame me for what you did."
"I'm sorry too. I know it wasn't your fault that I did it for you. I just wanted you to leave so I wouldn't have to worry about losing you in the worst ways imaginable. I wanted you to run off and find a nice normal guy to settle down with and live a nice normal life. I've been....selfish. "
Again you're left speechless at the vulnerability that Dean is showing. He's finally talking to you again and dropping his innermost thoughts, it's dizzying.
"You're one of the most important people in my life, my best friend, I love you."
"Dean, I love you too, I never wanted to leave, you just made me feel like trash. Like nothing. I don't know what this means for our friendship, but you really fucking hurt me. Im not going anywhere though."
"I don't just love you as a friend. That's not what I meant." He whispers "but I understand, I wouldn't want to even be my friend after what I've done to you."
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
The next day him and Sam leave to go take care of a simple haunting. They should only be gone a few days, a week at most with delays. You take the time to try and do things you enjoy. You relax. For the first time in months. Now you know everything, it still hurts, but you aren't in the dark anymore.
You use the time to think about what you want. You think about Dean saying the words you've wanted to hear for so long. Even after all that you are still in love with him too.
You spend the next four days mulling everything over, weighing all of your options, going through every scenario in your head. Every outcome.
This is the first time in the years that you've known him that Dean has ever done anything to purposely upset you. You understand why. Can you forgive him?
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
You hear them return and rush to Dean's room to wait for him. You play with your fingers nervously as you sit on the bed, it feels like time slows as you wait.
"Oh, Hey." He says somewhat suspiciously as the door opens.
"Hey," a small smile graces your lips. "Can we talk?"
"Yeah....yeah. " he drops his duffle in the floor and sits next to you on the bed, suddenly finding his hands very interesting.
"I forgive you. You should forgive yourself too. Those were terrible people. They knew what they were sending those people into. They knew they would die."
He looks up to you in surprise, "They were still human though."
"They've led hundreds of people to their deaths, knowingly. Fuck them. I know you Dean. You wouldn't hurt anyone who doesn't deserve it."
"I did though... I hurt you."
"Okay, but you usually don't." You place your hand on his. His eyes meet yours before you continue, "That's why I forgive you."
"I don't deserve it."
"I think you do, so get over it and accept it because I'm in love with you too. You're never getting rid of me now."
"You can't be serious." You cup his face with your hands and pull him in for a gentle kiss which he eagerly returns.
"I am," you say pulling away, "get some rest, you're taking me out on a date later. And I want something fancy. Pick me up at eight."
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
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At exactly 8pm, Dean knocks on your door. He extends a single red rose when you open the door, a wide goofy grin adorns you face as you look him over in his suit. You take the rose and place it in the glass of water at your bedside before returning to him.
"You look beautiful. You always look beautiful." You look down as a blush comes to your cheeks.
"Thank you," you reach up on tip toes and kiss him on the cheek. "You look handsome as usual." You smile up at him.
"So, where are you taking me Mr. Winchester?" He extends an arm and you take it as he leads you to the garage.
"It's a surprise." He winks and your heart flutters.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
"Truth or Dare?" Dean asks you, it's your first night at the shelter and you and Dean are passing time with a game.
"Uhhhh, truth."
"What's your ideal date?"
"What an odd question from you," you laugh, "a picnic under the stars, dancing slow in the moonlight, maybe a bit of wine."
"That is so fucking sappy." Dean laughs and you stick your tongue out at him playfully.
"Whatever. Truth or dare?"
"Truth."
"What's your ideal date?" You chuckle maniacally.
"Whatever gets me laid." He laughs heartily and you roll your eyes.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
"Close your eyes." Dean holds you hand as he drives, after about 15 minutes of driving the car comes to a stop and Dean takes your hand. Your confused when you step out and feel the crunch of gravel beneath your feet, after a short walk it turns to grass.
"Okay, open your eyes." Dean drops your hand and leans down to press play on a. Old boom box and Lady by Styx begins to play. You stand on a hilltop, a tree before you is covered in fairy lights, on the ground is a blanket that's been laid out, he sets a basket on the ground and gestures for you to sit. The moon is full, the sky is littered with stars, everything is perfect.
"I know it's not fancy like you said... But-"
"You remembered." You whisper, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes.
"Of course I did." He smiles. You enjoy a charcuterie board, conversation, wine. You spend a while just enjoying each other's company, laying on the ground staring up at the stars. The tape that was playing finally ends and Dean switches to a new tape before standing up and extending his hand to you.
Can't Help Falling in Love by Elvis Presley begins to play and you take his hand. He helps you up and pulls you close, "dance with me?"
You nod your head, one hand clasped in his as the other rests on his chest. His other hand pulls you by the waiste, impossibly close. You sway slowly, looking up into his eyes. "You're so fucking sappy." You grin.
"Anything for you." He looks deep into your eyes before continuing, "I want to ask you something."
"Yeah?"
"Before I ask, I want to promise that I will always be honest with you from now on. I won't ever hide anything unless it's a really cool surprise for you."
"Okay," you giggle
"Will you be my girl?"
"Abso-fuckin-lutely." You bring him in for a kiss. It's soft and sweet, you feel a warmth flood through your body. "And I promise to try and not be so reckless."
He smiles and plants a quick peck on your lips before pulling away to get a velvety rectangular box out of his jacket pocket. He opens it in front of you and you can't help but laugh boisterously at his cheesy gift.
A dainty silver chain with a "D."
"You hate it." He says looking down.
"No, it's the cheesiest fucking thing and I absolutely adore it. Help me put it on!" He moves behind you and clasps it around your neck before snaking his arms around you and resting his head on your shoulder. You rest one hand on his and cup his face with the other.
"I'm never taking this off." He gives you a little squeeze and sways with you to the next song that plays. "I love you dean." He hums contentedly.
"I love you too." He says softly before kissing your neck. A small moan escapes your lips and you feel him smirk into your neck. You tilt your head and allow him to continue and he takes the invitation with no hesitation. A shiver runs down your spine when he hits your pulse point and you turn in his arms tilting your head up just as his lips crash into yours.
🔥
This kiss is deeper, voracious, his desire is evident in the way he holds you to him, and you're returning it right back to him.
"Dean," you pant after breaking the kiss, "do you think we'd get caught for public indecency out here?"
His eyes widen as he takes your meaning, "Babe, it'd be worth it even if we did."
You giggle as he backs you up against the tree and kisses down your body, when he's on his knees he looks up to you, "Tell me. Tell me what you want."
"I want you. I want to feel you inside of me, I want you to claim me."
"Fuck." He moans out before pushing his hands through the slit in your dress to remove your underwear. He shoves them in his pocket, "Those are mine now." He winks before hiking one leg over his shoulder, displaying your dripping cunt to him.
He immediately dives in, the obscene sounds of him devouring you mixed with both of your moans cut through the silence of the night. His hands gently caress your legs leaving a delightful tingle that causes you to shiver as the bark of the tree digs into your back with a pleasurable pinch of pain. He moves his focus to your clit as he allows a finger to prod your entrance.
"Yes, please, Dean..." You whisper breathlessly. He hums, sending a vibration through you and you can't help but buck into it. Your hands weave into his hair, gently pulling as you continue to roll your hips into him. He fully inserts his finger and curls it right against your sweet spot, eliciting a squeak of surprise from you that quickly turns to a moan.
He adds another finger and continues pumping them into you, moaning every time you pull his hair and grind against his face.
"Dean...fuck, just like that.... I'm gonna cum." Your cunt tightens, pulsing as your release hits and you cum hard on his fingers as he helps you ride it out. He immediately laps it up and removes his fingers. You moan as you watch him lick them clean. The lower half of his face is covered in your slick, igniting your desire to feel him again.
You grab the lapels of his jacket and yank him to you, his mouth finds yours again and you taste yourself on him. Your hand travels down his chest to the hard outline of his cock. You gently run a finger over it, teasing him until he's a shivering mess.
"Babe please." He whispers into your mouth. You make quick work of releasing him, he hikes your leg up, keeping one hand on your thigh as he lines up to your entrance. He slowly rolls his hips until he's fully inside of you.
He continues languidly rolling his hips, his free hand cups your face as his forehead rests against yours, his eyes firmly gazing into yours. The connection you feel is deeper than just the physical way your bodies are melding.
You call out his name in a breathy moan and his hips move a bit faster, "where?"
"Cum inside me, please Dean. I want to feel you."
"Fuck, you drive me wild. Cum with me." Your hand finds your clit, circling it in time with his thrusts. Your eyes close involuntarily in bliss, "Eyes on me beautiful."
"Almost...."
Another wave of pleasure washes over you, you pulse and contract around Dean as you both cry out in pleasure. You feel him spill inside you with a few final languid thrusts. He stays there, cradling your face in his hand, catching his breath.
After his breathing steadies, he releases your leg and puts himself away. He takes one of the extra cloth napkins he brought and pours some water on it before getting on one knee in front of you. His hands guide your foot to rest on his leg to open you up to him once more and he cleans you up, lovingly planting kisses to your inner thigh.
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sheriffaxolotl · 26 days ago
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Bleed, Survive, Remember (Chapter 1) Arthur Morgan x Reader
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Summary:
A hardened outlaw tied to a gang that's as much family as it is trouble, and a drifter searching for something she can’t name, find their paths crossing by chance. As Arthur shoulders the weight of the gang’s choices and the drifter continues to wonder, trust becomes a gamble earned through grit, gunfire, and mistakes neither can outrun. In the end, they’ll have to decide what kind of people they want to be. For now? It’s just bad decisions, sharp words, and worse company.
Chapter 1: How Did I Get Here?
Content Warning: Description of injury and blood      ︻デ═一・・・・・・・一═デ︻
The rhythmic pounding of hooves slices through the haze of pain. Your entire body aches, but it’s the jagged, burning sensation in your side that consumes every thought. Each breath comes in shallow bursts, the edges of your vision blurred, but you fight to stay conscious. The air reeks of blood and dirt, the sun searing your skin.
Stay with it, you tell yourself. Don’t fade now.
The wound bites deep, a tether holding you to the world. That, and the steady rhythm of hooves beneath you. The pain is unbearable, each jolt of the horse sending fresh waves of agony ripping through you. But you’re alive. Not dead yet. That grim truth is all you have to cling to.
The rough leather saddle digs into your skin as you slump forward, vision swimming. The world blurs with every move, the edges of consciousness threatening to give way. Blood seeps warm and sticky beneath your clothes, but you can’t dwell on it—not now. Thinking about it will undo you.
Fragments of memory flash through your mind: the campfire, the men, the fight. Gunshots. A trap. You recall the fire of the gun in your hands, the brief surge of triumph as your shot landed true. Then came the pain—searing, all-consuming.
Who did this to you? The thought spirals in your fractured mind. It wasn’t supposed to end like this.
The horse stumbles slightly, jolting you back to the present. A sharp gasp escapes your lips, the agony flaring anew. The sound of your own shallow breathing drowns everything else out, until a voice cuts through the noise.
“Stay with me.”
The voice is low, firm, and tinged with urgency. It pulls you back, anchoring you against the pull of oblivion. You turn your head slightly, eyes straining to focus, and catch a fleeting glimpse of him: Arthur Morgan. His familiar drawl grounds you, his steady presence a lifeline in the chaos.
The warmth of his arm braces you as the horse charges forward, his grip firm yet careful. The leather reins creak, and you catch the faint scent of sweat and gunpowder. It brings you an odd comfort.
“Don’t you dare close your eyes,” Arthur murmurs, the strain in his voice unmistakable. “I need you to hang on.”
A weak, bitter laugh escapes your lips, a cruel parody of defiance. “Only ‘cause you asked so nice…” The words tumble out, strained and barely audible.
Arthur spurs the horse onward, his breathing steady but his heartbeat frantic against your back. His urgency is a sharp contrast to the lethargy clawing at your limbs. You’re slipping, and he knows it.
The edges of your consciousness flicker, bright sparks turning to embers before dissolving into the darkness. The world tilts, a chaotic blur of sound and sensation, and for a moment, everything goes black. You lose the shape of his arms around you, the thud of the horse’s hooves beneath you. The pain recedes, leaving behind only the distant, rhythmic pounding of blood in your ears. The wind carries the faint, rhythmic sound of the horse’s hooves, a deep, steady thrum that draws you deeper, pulling the last of your thoughts, your memories, your fears, into the void.
                   ︻デ═一・・・・・・・・・・・・・・一═デ︻
The pounding of hooves slows, the sharp crunch of dirt underfoot stirs you awake once more. Strong hands haul you from the saddle, not gently, but with care born of necessity. Your vision swims, catching fleeting images: the flicker of a campfire, shadowy figures darting in the firelight, voices cutting through the haze.
“Come on, girlie,” a voice whispers, rough and urgent. Arthur. The gravelly tone catches in your ears, thick with exhaustion and a quiet strain. There’s a rawness to it, like the edge of a blade that’s been used too long, but beneath it, there’s something steady—something anchored. A confidence that can’t quite disguise the fear threaded through his words. The words are almost a command, but with a tenderness buried deep, like he’s trying to reassure both you and himself.
“Almost there,” he adds, the drawl of his southern accent seeping into the syllables, giving the words a warmth that contrasts with the urgency. The sound of it is grounding, familiar in a way that makes the world around you feel a little less threatening. It’s almost like he’s talking to himself, trying to believe in his own words.
A moment later.
Voices.
"Careful with her,” someone says sharply. “She’s bleedin’ bad.”
Cool hands press against your side, applying pressure to stem the flow. The pain flares, white-hot, and a strangled cry escapes your lips. Arthur’s voice is a constant thread through the noise.
“You’re gonna be fine,” he says, though his tone wavers.
A woman’s voice joins his, sharp and authoritative. “Careful! We need to stop the bleeding before she goes into shock. Someone go get the supplies! Reverend!”
The camp blurs in and out of focus. Cool cloths press against your forehead, the sting of antiseptic cuts through the fog. Every sensation feels distant, muted, like it’s happening to someone else.
“She’s losing too much blood.” The woman’s voice is sharper now, tinged with desperation.
Arthur’s grip on your arm tightens. “She’s not dyin’. Not here, not now.” His voice carries a fierce conviction that makes you want to believe him.
Your breathing comes in harsh, shallow gasps as you open your eyes again, only for the world to spin. Your vision narrows in on the looming figure above you—Arthur. You can make out the shape of him now, darkened against the campfire. His face is a mask of concern, his lips moving, but the words don’t quite reach you.
“Open your eyes,” he mutters lowly, but it sounds distant, as if he’s speaking through thick fog.
A rough, half-sarcastic laugh escapes you, though it’s weak and breathless. “Fine mess I got myself into…”
The words feel foreign, so far removed from the weight of the pain. But somehow, they escape, even though they carry with them the faintest echo of something you don’t fully understand.
Arthur’s grip on your arm tightens, firm but gentle. “We’ll get you patched up. Just hold on.”
You don’t have the strength to answer. The words are too far out of reach, tangled up with the pain and the weight of everything that’s happened. Your thoughts are swimming, slipping between memories that don’t quite make sense and the sharp, burning agony in your side. Your head lolls to one side, and your body shudders, a chill running through you despite the heat of the campfire.
The world dims, but Arthur’s steady presence anchors you.
“Stay awake, spitfire,” he says softly, the nickname laced with something unspoken. It stirs a faint flicker of warmth, like a distant memory brushing the edge of consciousness.
The warmth of Arthur’s hand is steady on your arm, his grip unshaken despite the commotion around you. You feel his breath against your ear, his voice cutting through your fractured thoughts.
“Hold on. You’re gonna be okay. We’ll fix this.”
For the briefest moment, you wonder if he believes it—or if he’s just saying it to keep himself together. Either way, it doesn’t matter. All you know is that you’re still here, and the voices haven’t stopped. Not yet.
The moments bleed into each other, each breath sharp and fleeting, but somewhere amid the blur of pain and fading vision, the voices begin to grow more distant. The chaos around you settles into a steady rhythm—softer murmurs and the movement of people working. You feel hands on you, their touch careful and practiced, pressing and adjusting with an urgency that pulls you back to the present.
A new cool cloth is pressed to your forehead, the sudden chill shocking you back to awareness. You let out a shuddering breath, eyes fluttering as the pain in your side radiates with a sharp bite. A voice, belonging to the woman, drifts through the haze.
“We’re lucky. The bullet went clean through; didn’t hit anything vital, from the looks of it.” Her voice, while tinged with worry, carries a note of relief. You try to focus on that, the small sliver of fortune.
Hands work quickly, removing torn fabric and applying pressure to slow the bleeding. The sting of antiseptic sears your skin, sharp and biting. The world wavers, edges blurred with fatigue, but the cool touch of the cloth remains. You shift slightly, feeling the taut muscles in your side tense as the cloth is replaced with bandages, rough and raw but securing the wound with an iron grip.
Arthur’s voice cuts through the fog again, low and steady, urging you to stay with him. You can feel his grip tightening on your arm, firm yet gentle, as if trying to beacon you back to the world around you.
The muffled sound of boots pounding on the dirt fades into the background as you force yourself to take another breath. You’re grateful for the simple fact that the bullet went clean through. For a moment, you allow yourself to think that maybe, just maybe, you’ll be alright. The voices around you blur into a comforting lullaby, soft and rhythmic, as if time has slowed to match the steady press of hands and the pulse of life still burning within you.
“Arthur…” The whisper escapes your lips, rough and barely audible. The sensation of your voice feels distant.
You feel his presence this time before you hear him, the shadow of him falling over you like a protective veil. He leans closer, his face etched with concern, the firelight casting deep lines across his features. “You with me?” His voice is urgent but gentle, like he's fighting against something he can’t control. “I need you to stay with me now, you hear?”
A tiny nod escapes you, barely perceptible, but it’s enough for him to catch. His breath catches, just a fraction of a second, before he exhales slowly. “Good,” he murmurs, the words so soft they might be meant for himself. “Just a little longer.”
But the camp around you seems to blur into nothing, a fading hum in the distance. The voices become indistinct murmurs, the movement of people turning into the background noise of a world you're slowly drifting away from. Each breath feels harder to pull in, your chest heavy with the weight of it, and your vision narrows to a thin line now.
You can feel Arthur’s grip, firm but tender, his calloused hand against your skin, grounding you as you fight to stay conscious. “Hold on, almost done,” he says again, his voice wavering once again.
The air feels colder now, the world spinning faster, and your breath comes in short, jagged gasps. The firelight feels far away, distant as the shadows stretch longer. The voices grow muffled, like you're sinking deeper into water, and the weight of the night presses down harder on you.
“Damn it,” Arthur's voice growls, low and fierce. “You’re gonna make it through this. Just hold on, spitfire.”
The nickname cuts through the haze like a beacon. Spitfire. It ignites something faint but stubborn—a flicker of warmth in the growing void. You cling to the sound, not for the word itself, but for the way he says it. It’s not a command but a promise, wrapped in affection and fear. Your lips twitch, almost a smile, but the effort is too much.
Your eyelids flutter, heavy with exhaustion. The cold gnaws at you, threatening to drag you into a place you won’t return from. For a moment, you surrender, letting the darkness cradle you. But his voice pulls you back.
“Don’t you dare,” he says, fierce and pleading all at once. “Stay with me. You hear me, spitfire? Stay awake.”
The nickname strikes you again, a whisper of warmth against the encroaching chill. You latch onto it like a lifeline, the way it curls around you, soft and steady.
The edges of your vision finally fades into a dark blur, the firelight fracturing into kaleidoscopic patterns. Your body sinks into the cold, bone-deep and unrelenting, but his hand doesn’t let go. You don’t think you’ll make it back this time, but as the void rises to claim you, his voice cuts through one last time.
“Spitfire.”
The world vanishes, and the darkness swallows you whole.
                                    ︻デ═一・・・・・・・一═デ︻
I hope you enjoy the first chapter! I’m always open to your thoughts, comments, and suggestions. AO3 : Chapter 1
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saturnville · 9 months ago
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Voting for more hamilton content!!!
wash day, l. hamilton
pairing: he (lewis hamilton) x she (black fem oc) content: non-physical intimacy is just as important as physical intimacy. warnings: none. an: the girlies want lh content, so here we are! likes are cool, but we love reblogs and comments! let me know what you think <3
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The soft pallets of her fingertips danced along his scalp. Her manicured nails brushed the sides of his temples, swiping away any beads of stress and insecurity that might have lingered longer than needed. Her gentle actions pulled a moan from his throat. She smiled softly.
A soft hum from the fan in the bathroom was the only sound that could be heard. That and the sloshing of the water in the tub when they moved ever so slightly. 
She combed through the beautiful coils upon his head with her fingers carefully. With ease, the knots and tangles broke away. Strands of his hair fell upon her wrist as she raked through his locks. 
Wash day was her favorite as much as it was his. It was a time for intimacy between them that did not require any sexual activity. Non-sexual intimacy was important. She stood by the sentiment and was willing to die on the hill most desired to climb upward in competition. There were important things, she noted, that deserved cultivation and just as much attention as learning her partner’s body. If she was honest, she felt closer to him in moments like these compared to when his body was pressed against hers.
She easily remembered the first time she participated in wash day with him. She came over one Sunday afternoon and found him in the bathroom scrubbing away at his scalp with his shirt drenched in water. She vividly remembered giggling at his state and offering to lend a hand, which he desperately needed. Sure, some people did his hair for him, but he figured he’d try it out himself. He did learn, however, he enjoyed it when she did it. There was something about being trapped between her legs as she wrapped his ringlets around her fingers, that he couldn’t get enough of.
“My hands are starting to prune,” she admitted as she dropped her hands into the water. She swished her hands to remove the remnants of deep conditioner trapped between her fingers. “You let this sit for a few minutes. I’m gonna rinse off in the other shower.”
She pressed her hands against the floor of the tub to push her body up, but his hands against her thighs halted her movements. “Mhm, stay.” His fingers danced along her calves. 
“By the time you get out, I’ll be waiting for you. I don’t want to shrivel up,” she replied, tapping his shoulder. With a dissatisfied groan, he released her body from the trap he had her in. She pecked his neck as she stood to her feet. 
His eyes were on her as she walked towards the rack that held her black towel. His eyes followed the droplets of water that slivered down her chest, to her hips, and down her brown legs. His tongue grazed over his lip. She sent him a wink before exiting the bathroom and starting towards the other one. 
He joined her hardly ten minutes later. She jumped when she felt his hands on her hips. She turned in his arms, gently shoving his shoulder as a repercussion for scaring her. The playful scowl on her lips did nothing but only egg on his desire for her. 
“Sorry, baby,” he mumbled, drawing her wet body close to his. She hummed in response, allowing her lips to brush against his. Her teeth gently nipped along his bottom lip before capturing his mouth completely in a steam-filled kiss. She swallowed his quiet noises and broke away before his wandering hands spurred her on. 
The warm water beating against them only intensified the heat burning between them. By the time the fire was extinguished, the water was as cold as a winter day, probing them to exit the shower.
“You don’t make yourself discreet at all,” she said while looking over her shoulder at her lover who smiled innocently. He was perched against the doorframe, a gray towel tied tightly around his waist. His damp hair leaked small droplets of water that slid down his bare chest. He smiled at her. 
She shook her head and continued to moisturize. She slid on a clean shirt and underwear. She sat on their shared bed and ushered for him to get dressed so she could finish his hair.
“You want two pieces left out or not?” she trailed off once he sat on the floor between her legs. Beside her was the ���hair bin” filled with the creams, serums, gels, and oils they used on their thick locks. 
“No,” he replied, lifting his arms to place them on her thighs. His fingers drew imaginary doodles on her skin. Mumbling a quiet, “Okay,” she retrieved what she needed from the hair bin and began combing his hair softly.
Small conversations and little comments were made, but, a comfortable, silence dawned over them. She was focused on parting, moisturizing, and braiding his ringlets,  and he was basking in the relaxation he felt. He nodded off a few times, only to be awoken by her giggles.
“I’m almost done, baby,” she assured. She took a nice amount of oil in her palms and rubbed them together, taking the time to massage his scalp softly. She ran her hands over his hair, watching as the curls jumped under her fingertips. She wiped her glistening hands on an old towel and then patted his shoulder. 
“You’re good to go. Tie it up.” She tossed a black durag at him, which he caught with easily. 
“Thank you, baby.” He kissed her gently. She smiled and pushed the hair bin to the side, making a mental note to put it away in the morning.
Tiredly, she pushed her body up the bed and swiped her scarf from underneath her pillow. It was silk and smelled like a variety of oils. She tied the fabric around her twisted hair and laid against the pillow. Just moments later he climbed in bed next to her. He was quick to engulf her in his arms and press a gentle kiss against her forehead.
“You know I love you right?”
“Mhm,” she hummed. “I love you too. That’s the only reason I’ll spend four hours doing your hair every month.” 
“I’m lucky to have you,” he said in response. His words were muffled as his lips moved against her neck. She sighed softly at the feeling of the open-mouthed kisses against her neck and his hands against the flesh of her thighs. 
“I’m lucky to have you,” she replied quietly. “and also lucky that wash day is over. I’m going to bed; cuddle me.”
Lewis hummed and slid his hand beneath her shirt, palming the heavy flesh of her chest. “Yes ma’am.”
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maxdibert · 2 months ago
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I’ve seen you talk about how the Marauders fandom (and how they have made their horrifically inaccurate fanon canon in a way) and I was curious about your thoughts on their horrible mischaracterisation of Lupin. From what I’ve seen they paint him as a sarcastic bad boy who’s apparently getting hit by everything all the time or whatever constantly (gee, sounds familiar in a way. ((I believe this was spurred on by ATYD.)) Anyways, thoughts?
Each of the Marauders triggers me in a different way, and not because I was bullied in school or have a visceral reaction due to personal traumas with people like them, but because I’ve met people like them. I’ve had to put up with people like them—people who are terrible, you know it, you see them as the absolute worst, yet they have the audacity to think they’re morally superior to others simply because of their political stances.
As a student, I was very involved in unions and active in political groups, and I’ve met James Potters (wealthy, privileged kids from progressive families who thought they were "fighters for the people" but had no clue about people’s actual needs and were only there because it was what they were supposed to do), Sirius Blacks (privileged kids who thought they were special because their whole family were fascists and they had "broken the cycle," yet they still carried all the prejudices of someone raised in a conservative, right-wing environment and made zero effort to deconstruct themselves because they thought not talking to their parents was enough), and Remus Lupins.
Remus Lupins, the quiet guys, the introverted ones who seem super nice but have awful friends. They don’t seem like terrible people because they don’t proactively show their flaws, and if you compare them to the others—who are a whirlwind—they appear as though they’ve never done anything wrong.
What bothers me about how the fandom characterizes Lupin is that it has nothing to do with what we see in the books or what Rowling said about him. Lupin was someone deeply insecure and self-conscious about his condition as a werewolf. He didn’t want to draw attention to himself as a way to hide that condition. He always followed behind his friends, letting them take the lead. His relationship with James and Sirius was nothing like Harry, Ron, and Hermione’s. The latter trio did everything together; they lived their adventures together. From what we know (because it’s explicitly mentioned in the books), the ones constantly seen together were James and Sirius. It’s literally stated that where one went, the other was always there. Remus (as Rowling herself said) was the third in a duo.
In fact, I imagine Remus and Peter being closer (something most people seem to find unthinkable because they have the critical reasoning skills of an amoeba when it comes to the Marauders) precisely because James and Sirius were the duo. The idea that Remus was some kind of alpha male is absolutely ridiculous because, if there were two characters in that generation who epitomized toxic masculinity and outdated gender dynamics to the fullest, they were James and Sirius—two bullies who used their power to get what they wanted, whether it was torturing someone or dating a girl.
We see Remus avoiding conflict, not having the guts to tell his friends they were wrong even though he had the responsibility of being a prefect. As an adult, we see him justifying his friends’ actions, which are unjustifiable. Remus was a lapdog because being with James and Sirius was a way for him to protect himself, to feel safe, and contradicting them would mean jeopardizing that safety he so desperately needed. So, he let everything slide. This is canon, and it tells you his personality was fearful, passive, and accommodating.
Remus is a coward. In fact, I find him much more cowardly than Peter. He never had the guts to confront his friends, never had the guts to admit that his friends were horrible people—even as adults—and never had guts, period. The best evidence is that, at 38 years old, he got a young woman pregnant and then left because he didn’t have the courage to face the consequences of his actions. Remus is the typical nice guy who acts all chill and friendly and understanding but, when it comes down to it, behaves like a jerk. He’s a Ted Mosby type.
Any other characterization, especially one that tries to make him sassy or badass, is an insult to anyone who has read the books because they’re literally inventing a new character and slapping his name on it. But that fandom does this all the time—they do it with all the characters. It doesn’t even surprise me anymore.
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creatingblackcharacters · 1 month ago
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hi there; first, thank you for making this blog and all the lessons you do, i really appreciate them as a Black person because it highlights a lot of struggles i face with fandoms in general, and why i dont interact more in certain spaces. it makes me feel seen
with regards to your questions, i'd also like answers to them from nonblack fans, especially nonblack anime fans. i don't even mean consuming anime with overtly racist caricatures of black characters (because numerous anime fans pirate their anime and never send a cent to the creators anyway), i mean how can they make fanworks of it?
how can they look at something that they are told is wildly offensive, but then defend with "well, this is how it looks in canon"? where is the line drawn between what's okay and what isn't? as long as it's slow and gradual, is there no line at all?
these are probably just rehashings of your own followup questions, so please excuse that, but i do have an anecdote
i joined a casual anime server the other day and a lot of folks were lamenting one Black character's racist design and how often those on social media will replicate it without thinking/caring. The thing that struck me is that, I've checked this character's tumblr tag regularly for a long time. There are always people who will post art/fanworks of this character with his racist design. Yet hardly ever, if ever, (outside of Black fans) have I seen any of these folks- the ones in the discord server- try to talk to artists/writers/fan creators/etc via asks/replies/etc. There's a notable amount of people in that server and a notable amount that agreed the design was outright racist and that they'll never make fanworks like that, and yet still silence
i'm not entirely sure what would be the line, or the "okay, that's enough" moment to spur any of these folks into action. i'm not sure if there is one. the only reason i don't make my own "hey what is wrong with all of you" post and blow up is because I've made a wonderful little friend group in this fandom who get it, and I don't want them to get caught up in whatever happens if I were to make a post like that
And this is just for getting people to stop using the canon design of the character, i.e., to stop drawing him as a racist caricature. This isn't touching on the people who 1) lighten his skintone [he's been horribly whitewashed over time, which has been reflected in some fanarts and fan merch], or 2) give him a looser hair/straight hair texture, rather than his type 4 hair (there's also #3, which is fanfiction with straight up slurs, and horribly racist writing in it that my friend heavily warned me not to read, but that was more of a one-off case and I've had the creator blocked a long time now).
my point being, we (Black fans) can't even get folks to stop with the caricatures, which we have to start with, and then there's even more of an annoying uphill battle with the other stuff. I'm just so tired of all of this; it makes me want delete my own works and turn away from fandom all together because i can't stand it.
trying for polite and assuming ignorance hardly ever works, speaking bluntly doesnt work at all, making public posts hardly goes anywhere (partly because of how rarely people reblog things anymore, partly because it makes people 'uncomfortable' to share this information with others). Black fans so obviously need help to combat this, and yet it's like sitting at a tea party and hearing all these pretty words in this one setting, yet nobody does anything different/better when the party's over/outside this setting.
sorry for dooming a bit, but like, genuinely i would like to know where the line is for nonblack folks? what is the point/are the points where you would speak up against antiblack racism? have you ever considered speaking up? if there's ever a moment you recognized antiblack racism and didn't say anything, why didn't you? did you consider how your lack of speaking up might affect your fellow Black fans? or how Black fans may be interpret this as silent agreement with the racists/with the racist 'norm'?
..those could maybe be alternative ways of asking your last followup question?
(if i've made any blunders or overstepped here, please let me know!)
No, I'm glad you spoke up! I too would like to see answers!
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slightlyhopefulromantic · 1 month ago
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aaand here's deadlands! it didnt take seven months this time, who cheered?
i'll probably do another post grouping all of my line-ups together, but that's gonna wait for when i do the wyrdwood PCs as well :] more thorough design thoughts/smaller details will be under the cut, but im putting this here so that everybody has to know: their eye shines are all different card suits, except for nate, who gets J for the joker card :]
oxventurers guild | the hobby horses
unlike my other designs where i let everyone have individual colors/palettes, i tried to keep colors more consistent across these designs! the oxventurers guild has the fantasy element and theyre all very different, so the wide mishmash of colors are fine, and the hobby horses all have a lot of dark colors so that keeps them looking consistent together. but for these guys, i wanted a more consistent feel, so i tried my best to reuse colors between each design (especially between delacy and nate ^-^)
silas - ough. my boy. i wanted him to be broad with a strong build, and i hope i pulled that off :D i had so much trouble with his hat that i almost just didnt give him one, but eventually i decided it was better to just. give up and rock with it, even if he looks a bit like a mountie hbjgfjhd and he is wearing cowboy boots, theyre just tucked into his pants because he doesnt feel the need to flash them (looking at delacy, lol). he has spurs on his boots, even though he doesnt ride horses, because he likes the way they jangle <3
garnet - people really liked it when i gave garnet dark roots, so i have decided to always give her dark roots. i like how it looks hehehe and i also like to give her freckles!!! i think theyre cute!!! for the vest, i struggled for a while trying to capture the vibe of jane's vest, because its so so strange and specific in a way that makes it impossible for me to picture garnet without it. i'm pretty happy with where i landed with it, especially the pattern, since i've never tried to make a pattern like that before :3 i dont know why ive been loving patterns so much lately LOL but i will keep riding this wave and regret it later when drawing the designs again
edie - definitely the furthest departure from canon outfits, though still in the right wheelhouse. i just don't like drawing multiple layers of ruffled skirt. i didn't like how my sketches kept looking. i wanted to give her a skirt slit, especially after my friend reminded me about her thigh rifle holster. so today, i stared at a bunch of victorian ballgowns and party city costumes, and then completely redesigned her skirt before i lined these XD and i think it was worth it!! i love the layers and the way her rifle peeks out, and it meant i could show off more of her boots and give them a pretty design :]
delacy - my main thought going into drawing delacy was just. "i need to malnourish this boy" LMAO i refuse to believe that he is eating properly, i just know that he is not. otherwise, i mostly just stuck to the campaign art but scuffed up his clothes a bit. as implied on silas's notes, i very purposefully had his boots be Big. he's overcompensating a little bit :] also sorry i did not want to draw rooster so he just gets a generic handgun. i didnt feel like drawing complicated guns, and i wanted it to be a smaller handgun so that he could be poorly copying edie :') he has no trigger discipline but neither does edie so its fine
nate - that's just nate, baby!!! i think, canonically, he's meant to be a bit. emaciated. but i cant help but just picture him being a bigger guy, i think it fits his vibe better and its more fun for me to draw that way. i like having variety in body shapes, and garnet and delacy already have the rail thin thing down for this line-up. let my old man be fat !!! also. he has a weird nipple because he is transgender. heart emoji
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misguidedasgardian · 2 years ago
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The dragon's Mistress (11)
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11. King and Queen
MASTERLIST
Summary: You had known more about humiliation in the past months that you’d hope you’d known in a lifetime 
Warnings: cursing, mentions of war, mentions of death, humiliation, use of the word bastard and traitor, incest, smut, breeding kink, from now on it will be adultery and sort of cheating, might miss some warnings
+18, MINORS DNI
Wordcount:  2.3k
Notes: shorter chapter, and a sad one too... anyways I wanted tog et this one out of my way hehe, now the dynamic is going to be different from before
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Aemond’s heavy breath in your face soothed you in some way, as he kept ramming into you, drawing moans and whimpers from your mouth. He kissed you sloppily, and your nails scratched his back angrily, but that seemed to spur him on. He kissed your jaw and neck.
He kept pounding into you, making you whimper 
“My King”, you whisper mindlessly, and he smiled wickedly at you
“I’m going to breed you”, he said, but it sounded more like threat, “I’m going to give you my children, and you will be the mother of the future King”, he growled, and in the haze of pleasure you believed him, and even wanted it, desire it
He cummed inside you, like he always did, and then he threw himself over you, crushing you under his weight. But the weight calmed you, made you feel sickly protected
Until you remembered what day it was. He seemed to read your mind, and he lean back to gaze at your face.
“We need to get ready”, he whispered, caressing your cheek with devotion
“Please don’t make me go”, you whispered, Aemond sighed, like he was tired of you, he lifted himself off of you and off the bed, and you seated on the bed, covering your naked body with the sheets as you saw Aemond put on his clothes he left in the floor of your room
“It is a royal wedding”, he said simply, and your eyes filled with tears again, “the wedding of the century according to many”
“Please”, you begged again, he looked at you, and only nodded. Unknown to you his mother had begged him to keep you out of all this, the mistress of the King being in his wedding ceremony was not going to look good, not for the family of the bride and not for the entire court. So, wanting to avoid drama and that nauseous look on his mother's face, he didn’t fight you. 
“if you rather be locked up in here, fine”, he said bitterly 
You were more relieved, but then, nausea hit you like a wild horse, make you scramble out of bed, finding the nearest pot, and throwing up in it, Aemond was on you in a second, taking your hair out of your face and caressing your back
“Are you alright? Are you ill?”, you only wiped your mouth with the back of your hand
“I’m fine my king, you don’t have to worry about me”, you whined
“You are the only one I worry about”, he whispered, leading you to sit on the bed, “I will go and fetch a maester”, he said gently
“You should go and get ready for the wedding”, you murmured
“I will do what I have to”, he said stubbornly, and left you
He didn’t show up again, but the maester did, he checked on you, gave you a simple tea for your weak stomach, claiming you felt nervous and that it gave you a sickness. So the tea was going to settle your stomach and then he left you alone.
Alone to hear the party that was going on in the castle and around it
You avoided Aemond like he was the winter fever when he started to talk about how boring where the preparations of his coming nuptials
Because he did tried to talk to you about it
How sick was that?
That Floris turned into some kind of monster that demanded these flowers, and this prayer, and this song, and this feast or this color… Had driven Aemond insane. You just listened to him and nodded, or hummed, not really caring, trying to think about anything but what he was saying
Each time he spoke of the wedding you wanted to throw up.
You could hear the celebration from your chambers, the music, the people gathering and cheering, it was driving you mad
But at the same time…
Everyone was distracted…
Nobody was going to bother you today, not Aemond, not anyone…
This could be an opportunity you were never going to have again…
You put on a comfortable dress, one you used for riding because you could put pants under it, and that is exactly what you did, you grabbed everything of value you had in a small purse, and then a cape. But as soon as you opened the door, there was a King’s GUard outside of it
“Your grace”, he greeted, bowing slightly
“Ser Steffon”, Ser Steffon Mangold had been recruited for the King’s guard of Aegon II after half of the guard would have fled to back your mother’s claim. He was exceptionally good with not one but two swords, and his job was to care for Aemond, and now, apparently, you.
“May I ask where are you going?”, he asked, you seemed to hear a tone of mockery in his voice, you only looked up to meet him
“The Dragonpit”, you said
“I’m afraid I can’t allow you to”, he whispered, “King Regent’s orders”
“Please”, he truly seemed sorry for you, but he still shook his head
“I'm sworn to the King, and I need to follow his command”, he said severely, and you only nodded, entering your rooms again.
But you couldn’t give up, you remembered what Jacaerys told you, about the secret passageways installed deep within the castle walls
But where to find them? 
You placed your hands in the wall, and pushed, then and there, everywhere, but nothing, there was nothing or rather, it was and now it was sealed shut, Aemond wasn’t an idiot and Aegon was famous for sneaking out of the Red Keep, using the same passageways, they said Queen Helaena’s children were murdered using said tunnels
Probably Aemond had them sealed 
So you opened the door ever so slightly, but to no use, the Kingsguard acknowledged you immediately
“Yes, your grace?”, he asked, clearly Aemond had restored your title of princess
“Please, I’m hungry, can you fetch a maid?”, you asked him, and he looked back at you, mockingly
“Do you take me for a fool?”, he asked then
“I will tell the king you refused…”, he sighed, loudly
“Very well, is this is how you want to play it”, he walked away from the door, and you, obviously, ran to the other side as soon as he turned the corner
It was silly, so silly it might actually work 
YOu only wanted to be at peace…
Was that too much to ask?
The only way to achieve that was to go away from the Keep, let them have it, your mother never wanted the crown anyways, you wouldn’t be disappointing her in any case, shape or form, but Dragonstone wasn’t far enough.
You had heard that Saera Targaryen, one of King’s Jaehaerys numerous daughters had run away to Pentos or one of the free cities, and had turned into a wealthy woman and lived freely, perhaps you could do the same. 
The free cities it was then
a quick stop in Dragonstone to take some golden dragons from under the mian room’s floorboards, and then…
Freedom
You ran hastily, the Red Keep was completely empty, everyone, including the staff must have been celebrating the Royal wedding
Your stomach twisted but you convinced yourself that the furthest you ran, the happies you were going to be.
You didn’t need to sit the throne, or for your children to do it, you were going to honor your mother by living, you were your mother’s legacy, she was going to live through you and the children you were going to have.
Perhaps you could search for Saera, join her, you didn’t know her, but you shared the blood of the dragon and that must count for something, right?
With all those things running through your head, you managed to reach the entrance of the castle that went through the courtyard, you didn’t know who you were going to go past the guards and that huge guarded door, but perhaps only an intimidated look was going to be enough 
And when you looked down the courtyard… IT WAS EMPTY!
You ran towards the exit, sprinted down the stairs… you were so close you could feel it. 
But as soon as you touched the huge wooden doors, you felt someone pull you off of them
“NO!”, you screamed, and wiggled out of grip, but it was Iron tight
Steffon Mangold, the king’s guard
“PLEASE!”, you cried, “let me go!”
“I can���t do that”, he seemed truly sorry as he started to pull you gently back towards the castle, “I can’t”
“Please”, you begged quietly, “I bet you are loyal towards the Baratheons?”, you offered, “If I leave, you will never see me again, Floris will be the Queen, she won’t be humiliated!”, you said, “please, I don’t want to be his mistress, you can say I knocked you out with a stick or something, and ran away, you don’t have to face any guilt, please, you will never see me again!”, you were back inside the hallways 
But he stopped, and made sure to look into your eyes
“I’m not loyal to that cunt”, he growled, and that surprised you
“Who are you loyal to?”, you asked. He blinked, and his anger passed to be something else
“Someone else”, he muttered, “I know you don’t want this, but there is something bigger at play here”
“What?”, you asked, but he turned and keep dragging you towards your rooms
“I can’t tell you”, he say stubbornly, and kept walking, and you were now resigned, he didn’t give you anything to go on, to hold onto any hope, he just dragged you back to your chambers, not before encountering the royal party, Aemond and Floris leading them, holding hands
It was only a second, in which Aemond looked upon you being dragged by your King’s guard, before you disappeared down the hallway
Your stomach twisted painfully, you were hungry you haven't eaten all day, but also, in disgust 
“Please”, you begged one more time before you reached your rooms
“I can’t”, he said, “but trust me, everything is going to be alright”, you only shook your head
“Please”, you begged, but he closed the door gently, but still… on your face.
When you turned, you saw the table was set for you. You guessed they took a serving from the wedding banquet 
You ate in an embarrassing pace, you were starving, luckily you were alone, but as soon as you took a pork chop, the strong smell caught you off guard, sickening you, and you threw it away like it burned, now you wanted to throw up like in the morning
So you washed it up with wine, and then you decided to take some fresh air, so you took a book and decided to sit on the balcony to read.
But your mind kept wandering…
Was there really something big at play here? you shook your head, you couldn’t do that to yourself, you couldn’t hold onto hope, what if there was nothing there? you were going to get your heart broken all over again… no… you had to ran away, it was the only way
You dozed off in the balcony, the sun was setting and you felt suddenly so tired, and you didn't understand why, so you walked back to the bed, disposed of your dress and just cuddled with yourself in your undergarments 
You didn’t know how late it was, but you were woken up by the door opening, you almost jumped off the bed, scared, but from the light of the torches in the hallway, you clearly saw Aemond walking in, and you whimpered, you did not wanted to see him today
“My King?”, you called, you didn't get to see his face, you only felt his heavy body land on the bed by your side and hugged you tightly against him
“Why are you here?”, you asked to the darkness of the room
“I couldn’t stand her”, he muttered, and you only whimpered
“Please my king, you shouldn’t be here”, you cried, “you should be with your wife”
“She isn’t you”, bitter tears fell down your eyes
“Please”, you begged, you wanted him to leave, you did not want all the court hating you, even though it was probably too late for that 
“Call me Aemond”, you felt it on his breath, he was drunk
“No”, you refused, turning in your bed, and you pushed him off of you, “you need to be with your wife, please, leave”, you begged. but no matter the strength you put on your arms, he wouldn’t budge, he just sighed
“I did it”, he whispered, he was out of it, drunk, you had never seen him like this, “I consummate the marriage”, that hurt, that truly hurt, he had been inside of her, and now he was laying next to you, you felt disgusted, “but she isn’t you”
“You married her, Aemond, it was your choice, now you have to endure it”, you said angrily, chances where he was not going to remember anything tomorrow, “get out!”, you cried, bitter tear fell down your face, “get the fuck out!”
He sat on the edge of the bed in a messy movement, showing you his back, he leaned forward, you couldn’t see him because it was dark and all, but it seemed like he used his mouth to stifle a whimper, but you were probably just dreaming
“Get out”, you whined, and he just stood up from the bed, and left the room without another word
Tomorrow you were probably going to pay for that, but tonight, you were going to enjoy the fact that he was not going to be over you every night, he had a wife now…
But still you felt sickened to your stomach. 
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genericpuff · 6 months ago
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Out curiosity what’s your honest opinion of people getting there girlfriend/boyfriend name tattooed on a them?? Because honestly I think it’s bad luck.
haha there's definitely a superstition among artists that once you get your partner's / friend's name tattooed on you, the relationship is doomed. The craziest real life example I have of that happening is when I gave matching tattoos to a boyfriend and girlfriend who then went through a break-up so messy just a week later that it literally led to her getting a restraining order against him, which was NUTS (she's doing a lot better now tho which is great to see)
But also it's one of those things where it's just superstitions, a tattoo is a tattoo. I do generally recommend that people who get matching tattoos with their besties / tattoos of their partner's names / etc. do all the proper amount of thinking over it to ensure that it's not a last minute spur-of-the-moment decision and that their relationship is generally stable enough that they don't see it going anywhere any time soon. One thing I've been seeing people do more of is get 'matching' tattoos that are still perfectly fine on their own, so if the relationship does fall through, they still have a tattoo that stands on its own with its own meaning without needing the other half to make sense.
Shit happens though, tattoo or no. If you really want to get tattooed together as a fun outing and bonding experience between you and a partner / friend / etc. then ultimately it's your choice and superstitions be damned. Just make sure you weigh the pros and cons properly and that all the people involved are going in fully informed and aren't just getting dragged along into it! It can be hard to draw boundaries regarding something like matching tattoos because it usually involves at least one person being super excited to do it and it can be hard to say no to that, but at the end of the day it's your body that you have to live with for the rest of your life, so you need to make the decisions that are right for you and your skin (•̀ᴗ•́)و
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thunder-point · 8 months ago
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Long ramble ahead
I've talked a bit about some things I liked, and mostly qotey, but I mentioned already that I adore phumpeem also, and this episode just spurred my love for their dynamic even more BECAUSE
THIS REACTION???????
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THIS ONE AS WELL???
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HOLD UP SOMEONE HOLD ME SOMEONE HOLD PHUM'S UNSTABLE ASS
For the love of everything on this planet I LOVED LIVED BREATHED FOR IT.
Not only because I adored how positive it was on both ends, but because of the differences and the genuine quality it gave me. The kiss was absolutely delightful, once again pondphuwin just delivered on that aspect, as they did throughout the entirely of Never Let Me Go.
BUT LISTEN Y'ALL
I just????? Fucking love???? HOW DIFFERENT PHUM AND PEEM EXPRESS THEIR LIKE TOWARDS EAC H OTHER
First of all I don't know how others feel about phum's character. Personally, I enjoy it very much. He has very visible flaws, emotional constipation in some aspects, but those in some way give way for other moments that just express how free he is with his feelings.
Because he likes Peem, and this episode he expressed it so openly that it gave me LIFE.
We don't know much about Phum yet, but he seems to have a complicated relationship with his parents. It gives the feelings that he lacked the affection he needed in the past. That, of course, leads to the attitude of seeking it so selfishly like he does with Peem.
And it's enjoyable to watch. He's a needy asshole, he's arrogant and he's attractive and he's attracted to Peem and he doesn't let ANY chance slip to get that attention that he wants. And even if it started in a rough way in the beginning, I genuinely think it's mostly because, for the most part, some people who never really had the attention they needed resort to getting it in very obnoxious manners later on. Phum is doing exactly that.
There are many things to talk about when it comes to Phum, and I hope that as the series goes on we get more from him, and good things while we are at it, but I just love how his crush developed. I loved that as soon as he realized he truly fucked up, he apologized THREE times, I love how remorseful he's looking in episode 6 when Peem's ruined painting is mentioned.
And I absolutely love how blunt he is with his feelings for Peem. He doesn't waste any time in episode 6. Not even caring if his friends catch on, if Peem's friends catch on. My man Phum is on a mission and he is RELENTLESS.
I think it gives me so much joy because they could have totally made a character like Phum, who is prideful and stubborn, hide his feelings behind teasing and this 'you are my slave' act that he puts forward. But instead, we got the softest smiles from him after the kiss. We got him coming into the art gallery TO TAKE PICTURES, TO START A CONVERSATION ABOUT WHAT HAPPENED.
We got him calling Peem adorable and pleading Peem to draw on a cup with him. He just wants LOVE. He wants it and as soon as he saw Peem reciprocated in some way it's like it exploded from him. And there's so much to say about it. God.
But Peem? Listen, I love it even more on Peem's side.
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Not only did this man INITIATE THE FIRST KISS, the way he's processing these emotions are so funny AND SO REAL.
I loved it from the very beginning that we see that Peem is attracted by Phum as much as he's incensed with him. He admitted it - Phum is handsome, but he's an asshole. And that's real. As someone who fell for a person who I bickered with a lot at first, I had such joy watching Peem's way through his bond with Phum and how it developed.
Because Phum has his bad sides, and he seems to bring them up around Peem for that attentions and reactions it gets him, but when Phum goes soft? That's when his attractiveness and his personality clash in a way that seems to make Peem WEAK.
"You're so demanding, Peem," said softly had Peem BY THE THROAT. And I felt that.
Phum apologizing so softly, Phum eating Peem's atrocious cooking. Peem? Absolutely GONE for it. And that's certainly such a rushing feeling to have. Peem is clearly not experienced with relationships, and that just makes the fact that he initiated the kiss SO MUCH BETTER.
Because we know that he's not scared of showing his emotions. Even if he's a people pleaser, he's not a pushover. He kicked Phum's balls back into his goddamn body as soon as he had the chance. HE THREW A CHANCLA AT HIM.
Him going for the kiss when he felt the need to MAKES SENSE. it's wonderful.
And don't get me started on how often my man seemed to fantasize back to those soft moments with Phum. Don't get me started ON HIS CONVERSATION WITH Q this episode about affection and relationships and FUCK. Don't get me started on his gay panicked ass.
that's a ramble for another post. I feel like this is already too long and too incoherent. I jumped from so many topics but I have so many feelings for these two. As many as I have for Qtoey.
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artful-aries · 2 years ago
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Acrophilia - Venti x Reader (NSFW)
Content Warnings: Penetrative sex with Venti in the hands of the statue of Barbatos statue in Mondstat. Reader can be read as gender neutral. Porn without plot. Minors please do not interact with this post.
Word Count: 1.1k
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The cool night air kissed your flushed skin as you looked down at Venti who was laying down on the carved marble of the Statue of Barbatos’ hands, looking up at you as though you descended straight from Celestia itself.
Funny how this was his statue and yet, here he was underneath you, practically worshiping the sight of you taking his cock so well.
“Ah- ah, (Y-Y/N),” Venti whined as you slowed your movements to tease him, “P-Please, I can’t-“
“Shhh, Venti, your voice carries on the wind from up here,” you cooed as you sheathed his entire length inside of you, grinding against his hips in lazy circles, “If you’re not careful, someone might hear us. You wouldn’t want me to stop, would you?”
“N-No,” Venti breathlessly stuttered as his hands gripped your hips in pure desperation, “No don’t s-stop, mmn, please don’t stop (Y/N).”
You smiled sweetly at him as you rewarded him with a slow, steady movement of your hips, eliciting a sharp hiss from him as his fingers dug into your soft flesh. His chest heaved as he struggled to keep quiet at the feeling of you riding him, little tremors of pleasure rippling through his body at your teasing movements. You could feel the wind pick up a little bit, making you smile as you knew that it was a byproduct of Venti’s overstimulation.
“Didn’t you ask me to tease you?” You feigned a sweet innocence as you brought your hips down harshly, making Venti choke on his own moan, “And all the way up on this statue, no less. What would the people of Mondstat think, seeing their god committing such lewd acts?”
The blush that was already covering his cheeks extended down his neck at your words, “F-Former Archon, (Y/N). I’m not their- Nng!”
His protest was cut off with a groan as you sped up the movement of your hips, making you smirk down at him. Venti had always been a talker, it came naturally to him as a bard, but it was extremely satisfying to take the words out of his mouth for once. His bright eyes looked up at you, half lidded with lust as he watched the steady bounce of your hips as he struggled to keep composure.
“S-Shit, you feel so good,” Venti moaned as he couldn’t help but buck up into you, drawing out a low moan from your lips before you could stop yourself.
“A-ah,” You breathed at the sensation of him twitching inside of you, making your toes curl, “Y-You want me to ride you faster, hm?”
Venti gave a fervent nod, his hands gliding over every inch of your skin that he could reach, “P-Please, I’m s-so close, I- mmm, I need you (Y/N).”
Your fingertips traced his swollen lips for a moment before you leaned down to trap him in a heated kiss, grinding against him for some desired friction before breaking away to properly ride his cock. Placing your hands on his chest for stability, you quickened the pace that your hips slammed down on him, your tight hole seeking to milk Venti completely dry.
His almost helpless whimpers spurred you to go faster as he begged, “J-just like that, f-fuck- just like that. More, p-please please give me more-“
“F-fuck, Venti,” You found yourself whining as you worked your hips at a relentless pace, the wet squelching sounds of his cock pumping in and out of you mixing with the sounds of the wind that Mondstat was renowned for. Any other time you might have worried about anyone potentially wandering to the statue late at night and hearing the two of you, but at this moment you didn’t care. Venti was laid out so nicely in the statue's hands as you rode him with reckless abandon while chasing after your own orgasm, how could you stop now?
“(Y/N), s-so close, I’m so close,” Venti groaned, unable to hold himself back as he gripped you harder and timed his thrusts to match yours, making you roll your eyes back in ecstasy, “Where do you want me, my windblume?”
You were barely able to stutter out a reply, your nails digging into Venti’s chest as he worked himself deeper, “I-inside, I w-want you to cum inside.”
Venti grinned before his brows knitted together in concentration as he struggled to maintain his steady rhythm, his hips stuttering the closer he reached his climax. You weren’t much better off yourself, your resolve to tease Venti going out the window as his length hammered into you.
“Mmn, V-Venti, you’re s-so good to me, fuck,” You moaned as his hand buried itself into your hair, “I’m coming, c-coming-!”
The force of your orgasm made you clench around Venti’s cock as you trembled, rushing him towards his own orgasm as he whined your name while spilling into you. Panting heavily, Venti gently pulled your face down to kiss your lips, not bothering to pull out of you as his cum dribbled down his shaft and your thigh.
He looked dazed and completely fucked out as he stared at you, caressing your cheek with a lopsided grin, “W-Wow, you were amazing, Windblume.”
You couldn’t help but laugh at his expression, “I’ll say, it’s written all over your face, Venti. But you were pretty good yourself,” You wiggled your hips teasingly, drawing a hiss from the former Archon.
“S-Still sensitive,” Venti breathed, his hands moving to keep you still.
“So you don’t want to make the most of our time up here?” You hummed as a mischievous glint flashed in your eyes, “You usually have more stamina than this, Venti. If you just wanted a quickie, we could have done it in an easier place than in the hands of your statue.”
He pouted at your words, “What do you mean? You teased me for so long, it’s a miracle I lasted as long as I did!”
You quirked an eyebrow at him, “I guess that means I can get off your cock and start getting dressed then?”
“…You’re more of a brat than I am,” Venti grumbled before rolling you underneath him. His eyes burned into yours as his thumb traced your bottom lip, “If you want to see how long I can really last, then you’ll get your wish.”
The look of determination on his face told you that it was his turn to make you a quivering mess. You were grateful that Venti had warmed the cold stone of the statue with his body, because you were in for a long night.
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starboishifting · 4 days ago
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☆⋆。𖦹°‧★ || autumn court d/r intro
★‧°𖦹 "𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒆𝒚𝒆𝒔… 𝒊 𝒔𝒘𝒆𝒂𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒈𝒍𝒐𝒘. 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒖𝒏 𝒉𝒊𝒕𝒔…" "𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒚?" "𝒚𝒐𝒖'𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒎𝒐𝒔𝒕 𝒆𝒙𝒒𝒖𝒊𝒔𝒊𝒕𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒊'𝒗𝒆 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒔𝒆𝒆𝒏." 𖦹°‧★
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☆⋆。𖦹°‧★ || who i am
my name is lyra, and i live just outside the capitol city of the autumn court. i live in the woods, somewhere hidden and safe, where foxes play and faeries hardly dare tread. except me. it was where i was raised, where my mother and sister raised me, until illness killed my mother and lord baron killed my sister, who was the lover lucien never speaks of. i only met him twice, but his face has been engrained in my mind ever since. we didn't grow up so isolated from society, but after 50 years of witnessing the people of autumn become more cruel and conniving with each passing moon, i decided to cut off the majority of faerie kind. after all, i had nothing to offer them anyway, and therefore no value, so i went unmissed and unhindered. i befriended a fox whom i dubbed aaravos, which is to say that he entered my home one day and didn't leave unless i was, too. and i was happy. i lived among the apple trees, harvesting them at my own convenience. i survived mostly off the land, but when i needed money, whether to fund a spur-of-the-moment passion project or to buy materials for a new gown for the solstice, i sold what i baked; pies, cobblers, the like. i ran a small stand, though it was only open a few days a month, where i sold my pastries and spiced-and-candied nuts. until he came.
☆⋆。𖦹°‧★ || eris vanserra
eris vanserra, eldest prince and heir apparent of the autumn court of the faerie lands of prythian, is as manipulative as he is beautiful. with amber eyes and crimson hair, the male walks with a certain... arrogance. as if to say, look at me. fear me. underneath, of course, he's just as soft as autumn leaves after rain, and as sweet as they smell. he needed to be feared because he had no other choice, not until he could dethrone his father. not until he could keep his court safe. until he stops one day in a random square, the scent of cinnamon and apples drawing him to an alley he's not been in for... well, centuries. not since he was a boy, playing at running from his father and his guards. it's there that he meets the female with the ram-like horns and sky blue eyes nestled between the scarlet curls barely held back by ribbons and wildflowers. she's scooping nuts into a paper for a child, smiling down at him with eyes so bright he knew they'd haunt his dreams for centuries. she didn't feel when the bond hit; but he did.and the princeling knew that his new mission, his only mission in this life, was to be loved by her. not respected. not feared. loved.
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☆⋆。𖦹°‧★ || how i fell
i didn't know who he was when he came up to me. i didn't know he was a prince, or that his father was high lord, least of all that he was my mate. so as i asked what i could get him, i gave him the same kind, bright smile i gave every customer, something warm and gentle. he stared at me for a moment, like his heart had stopped, like he'd never been looked at so kindly before. before i could say anything else, though, he asked for my favorite. "whatever is good enough for a female half as beautiful as you really ought to be good enough for a bastard like me, eh?" i'd giggled gently, used to the wayward comments and misplaced affections of fae, male and female alike, that had (supposedly) traveled days to be in the city when i came; some citing their grandmother needed my nuts for a recipe, others outright admitted to coming just to see me in the flesh, determined to prove that i'd not really been as beautiful as they'd heard and not at all disappointed to be wrong. so i think little of it as i cut him a slice of chai-spiced pumpkin pie and hand him a cup of cider. i'd giggled again when he moaned at the taste of the pie, kept warm by my own magic, missing the way his face went soft with every little laugh that bubbled from my lips. he paid too much, by a lot. an obscene amount of gold, the likes of which i hardly see in two months. he was gone before i could give it back. but every week, without fail, he found his way back to my stand. i'd refuse to take his coin, he'd toss it into my coinpot and winnow away before i could stop him. it became a routine, one perfectly engrained in my life. a part of my week that i looked forward to, and hardly for the gold he'd leave me with. because before the squabbling, we'd talk. about nothing, about everything. about my pet fox, who must be around here somewhere, about his hounds, who he think might just be able to outrun aaravos despite my avid protests. i found his voice comforting. safe. eventually, i learned who he was. eventually, i cut him off, citing the stories i'd heard of him, of how cruel he was, that he was baron's perfect son, how he'd hidden his identity as well as a mating bond. and eventually, i forgave him, trusting myself over some stories from village gossips. and by the gods it was not a happily ever after, but it was the closest to it we could possibly have gotten, what with his father being evil incarnate and a war going on with hybern. but i had him, and he had me, and that was all we needed.
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charliedawn · 2 years ago
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What if the slashers kept a journal ?
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Bo was taking care of one of the employees' car—which had a flat tire—when you decided it was the perfect time to do a round check of all the bedrooms. All of the slashers had to keep a journal and you thought it would be alright to just give it a quick look to see their progress.
However, Bo's journal seemed very well hidden and then, you found out that his desk was slightly off-centred. It was by palming haphazardly the underneath of his desk that you found the journal—hidden inside a secret compartment he had surely crafted himself.
"You clever clock.", you whistled admiratively with a proud smile. You then opened it and frowned as you noticed that the first page was blank...and the second...and the third. Why was it empty ?!
"Can I help ya ?"
You were surprised to hear Bo's voice behind you and quickly turned around. He eyed the journal in your hands and looked up at you before blinking several times. He seemed to catch up quickly on what you were doing by how guilty you looked.
"Anythin' interesting in there, nurse?"
However, instead of replying, you threw the journal on the bed scurried off of the room as quickly as you had entered it. As soon as the door was locked, he smiled and walked to his desk. He checked that his real journal was still there—hidden underneath some mechanical engineering book—and smiled when he realized it was...
He chuckled knowingly.
"Noisy lil' darlin'."
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In Vincent's journal, there were merely animal pics and various unreadable scribbles. You couldn't possibly read the things written, so you focused on the photographs and smiled at the various subjects...until you arrived to the last days' entries. Now, you knew Vincent to be easily obsessed. He had once followed a bird for hours—only to draw a sketch of it. However, you had never seen him get obsessed over an actual human being—until today.
There were only photographs of you.
You. Eating.
You. Talking.
You...Sleeping.
Oh...You blushed and promptly closed the journal before hiding it back underneath his pillow. However, when you turned around—you fell face to face with Vincent.
He looked successively between you and his pillow and finally, it clicked. He tried stop say something—but by then, you were already gone. You had snuck past him. He stood still for a second or two before re-opening the diary. He gently stroke the last photograph he had taken of you—smiling at him.
It was his best one yet...
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Sex jokes. So many sex jokes. You thought that man would take the time to write profound meaningful things ? Ah ! Joke's on you.
However, he smiled when he saw you reading his diary. He stayed there for a moment before creeping his way in and surprising you by suddenly pulling your head back.
"Haven't you heard the expression curiosity killed the cat, sweetheart ?", he asked with a threatening grin and you shrugged.
"Haven't you heard bastards usually get cooked ?", you shot back.
At this point, you didn't give a toss that he had caught you—with the amount of garbage you had read. His whole brain needed to be purged in holy water.
"It doesn't make any sense.", he snarled and you offered him a sweet smile before taking a lighter on the table.
"Yes. It means let me go, Krueger...before I burn you somewhere that REALLY hurts.", you his in-between meaningfully—but it didn't seen to be efficient. It only spurred him on as he closed the door with his foot.
"Hmm...Nah. Don't think I will."
No need to say...Freddy got more than one additional burn that day.
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Brahms was so discreet—you didn't notice when he approached you from behind. He glanced at what page you were on and realized it was a part when he described you.
Curious. Nice. Beautiful...
You smiled at the compliments, but realized that he had missed the point of the exercise. It was to focus on himself and reach deep. However, Brahms didn't like people reading his secrets.
His chest heaved heavily and in a matter of seconds, your back was against the door and he had removed his mask. You wanted to read all about his secrets ? He would make you sing yours.
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Jason mostly wrote random words he learned. He couldn't make full sentences yet—but he mostly tried to write words and various emotions or actions of the day.
Cutting. Eating. Cooking.
He didn't like making sentences—so he usually only writes down random words. He described people he met, places he went to and his feelings.
You smiled.
He might be the only one who had listened to you and tried to fill their journal with what they felt. You flipped quickly through the different entries until you reached the final one. You were then pleasantly surprised by finding a few sentences. But that pleasant feeling quickly disappeared when you read.
'Hello, mommy. I have friends now. I think you would like them. And I...I met someone. I think you'd like them too. They like us. They take care of us. I miss you. But I...I think I'll be alright.'
You let out a few tears as you imagined Jason writing those words. He had learned so much and you weren't afraid to say that you were proud of him. And you were sure his mother would be too if she could see him.
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Michael could smell you. He knew you had been in his room and every single thing you touched. The scent lingered on his diary and on one page in particular—one he didn't think was that important.
It was a photograph. A photograph of all the slashers reunited on Christmas. It was also the only day Carrie and Sadako were allowed in the facility.
Jason had taken that photograph before giving it to Michael as a present. He is completely forgotten about it, but smiled faintly at the realization that you had chosen this page in particular made it special.
He sighed before sitting on his bed and closing the journal. He looked out at the garden where you were helping Freddy with the bad weed.
You looked so...perfect. And that made you precious in Michael's mind—but also dangerous. He had this urge to protect you clashing with the need to kill you. It was exhausting to keep that last urge at bay, and he was afraid of what he might do if you were to ever know about his feelings...But, he wasn't worried.
You would never feel the same...right ?
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Jack writes down everything—and I mean everything. He can fill an entire book about his day. He also has a big memory and can remember the tiniest of details.
That was the reason why you had decided to read his entries—in case he would have written something you had missed.
What you found inside made your eyes widen.
He had studied them all. And it wasn't just moments. It was fully-detailed portraits. Physical. Mental. Psychological...He had recorded ever trait, every change...And not only about the slashers or the other patients.
But the staff as well. And of course, you. You learnt that he had memorized everything to you taste of cake and the type of clothes you wore for every occasion. It was impressive—but also rather worrying.
"Well well...Wasn't expecting any visitors."
You turned around swiftly add found him standing there with a smug look on his face. He didn't seem to mind you reading his journal. He simply tilted his head with a knowing smirk and you let the journal fall to the floor before slowly backing away.
"I was just..." His eyes didn't leave yours before he stepped out of the way.
"Here you go, nurse. You can go."
You eyed the door suspiciously. Could you...really ? But, you didn't want to stay and ask—so you walked out. Jack's eyes followed you until you were out of view before smiling and picking his journal back up.
New entry: Nurse Y/N doesn't seem to be very happy about being the studied subject for once...
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Pennywise hadn't written anything. You were partly disappointed, but not that surprised. Pennywise didn't like sharing—and that was even with himself. He was complicated and he refused to acknowledge his own feelings.
But, that was okay.
You closed the diary and looked at Pennywise who was sitting in his favorite rocking chair and was staring ahead at things you couldn't fathom.
Maybe were there ghosts of his past ? You didn't know. Maybe would he open up some day. But, you'd wait until then.
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They ran. They all ran. And I chased after them. Their little hearts pounded loudly in their chests as I trapped them. Their wide eyes fixed on me.
You had mainly a lot of notes on his time when he had to face the Losers' club. Penny was oddly specific on the gore details of his past kills. But, you needed to understand him—so you digged dipper.
You read everything—everything until you found something truly important.
I'm losing my memory...Pennywise says it's normal. But, I can't even remember who I was before. What was my name ? I think I was a clown...But, I don't know anymore. I think I had a daughter. But, I don't remember her name.
Penny was...losing his memory ? You looked up and saw him playing with the other younger slashers in the garden. He was smiling and carelessly chasing after them. But, what if...there was more to him than you had initially thought ?
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Ghostface had refused to show his face to anyone. You had simply wanted to get to know him better. You knew that searching though his personal entries for answers wasn't really nurse-worthy...But, he refused to open up. However, before you could read as much as a few words—he had grabbed the diary from your hands and pressed his knife against your throat.
"Now now...nursy. Spying ? That's not very ethical of you.", he teased and you closed your eyes.
He seemed pissed by the way his voice became slightly more high-pitched and you knew that you should be afraid—but something else crossed your mind.
"What is you favorite scary movie ?", you muttered and Ghostface tilted his head quizzically.
"...What ?"
You slowly turned around to face him fully and he didn't stop you.
"That is the question you ask to all the patients. The question you always ask to everyone you meet. Are you...", you looked up—even though you couldn't really judge his reaction. "...searching for someone ?"
Ghostface stayed uncharacteristically quiet for a moment before clenching his fists.
"Leave. Now.", he uttered in a quiet whisper and you didn't dare defy him—as you knew by the way he had suddenly tensed up that you weren't welcome anymore.
The moment you were out, he slammed the door and locked the door before removing his mask and throwing it to the ground angrily. He was was conflicted. He was ashamed that you had succeeded in seeing right through him so quickly. And, he couldn't tell you—not yet. He opened his diary and sighed. He couldn't tell you that the answer he was searching for was Psychose. 1960. His father's favorite scary movie.
It was the only information he had—that and that he was a patient in St Louis. He looked up at the ceiling and suddenly threw the diary in the fire heating up the room.
No one would know. He wouldn't risk it.
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the-raven-lady · 5 months ago
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a gift for @men-want-me-fish-fear-me !! it told me about its mpreg AU and got me thinking about the complications that would have for someone like Konrad
this one's a bit heavy on body image issues so please be in a good state of mind for this!!
please read the warnings!!
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Character: Konrad Curze
Song Inspiration: Real Men - Mitski [YouTube] [Spotify] "Real men don't need other people / And real men suck it in / Real men don't flinch or bleed in public / Oh, I think I'm a real man."
Warnings: mpreg, pregnancy symptoms, self image issues, self-inflicted gore, lamenting dark realities, implication of potential non-con, mentions of infanticide
Word Count: 643
Konrad groaned as the weight shift nearly threw him off balance and crashing into the stones below. Had the nausea not been enough? Blackened nails and coarse fingertips drag over the sensitive flesh of his aching abdomen, the skin taut against the growing life beneath. The Night Haunter loathed his natural urges. Being bound to a biological clock beyond his control was one of the many gifts of his father that he would rather have ripped out long ago.
As if he hadn’t already tried. 
It was easy enough for him to sink his clawed finger tips deep into the putrid skin of his belly. The iron tang of blood spilled had only served to spur him on, ripping and tearing and pulling as the offending organ until it was nothing but fleshy pink viscera on the floor. How miserable it had been when it had not even taken a week for the gland to revive itself. The regenerative nature of primarch biology seemed to leave him no choice in the matter.
Righting himself on his perch, Konrad elected to take a break from his prowling to calm the waves of nausea washing over him. He would never get used to it. A zing of electricity shot up from his tailbone when he sat against the stone ledge, drawing a gasp from him, then several curses. He gently rubs the base of his spine to soothe the ache.
Konrad felt delicate. Every little action that he would normally perform without effort could prove to be too much on his pregnant body. Perhaps he would be fine with it if he chose when the urges to breed took him, but his genealogy couldn’t even grant him that. Throne save the next helpless serf that wandered in his path when it kicked in, for Konrad knew their chances of survival were slim at best. This was a part of his father’s great vision? Bouncing on the cock of passers-by then birthing sons into a legion of murders and scum? It infuriated the primarch to no end. His only saving grace was that he never seemed to inflate to the size of his expecting brothers, remaining more gaunt and lithe.
Perhaps if he were Guilliman or Fulgrim, he could try to find an ounce of pride in bringing a new life into the world. Maybe then, he would see a purpose to all of the lost meals, cramping, and searing pain of the birthing process. Maybe then he wouldn’t hate the changes to his body, losing the ability to bend and contort as he wished. Maybe then he would want to hold the boys as they came out and coo at them as his brothers did.
His legion would never be grateful for the effort he put in for them. He would spare all of his blood children the mercy of ever having to integrate into the Night Lords with a quick snap to the neck if they weren’t always taken from him so quickly. Darling of his brothers to chain him down each and every time he neared emergence after they discovered the fates of the first several cycles. Fulgrim had been mortified hearing about how Konrad had disposed of the newborns like waste.
The Imperial Palace was always quiet at this time of night, nobles and Astartes alike turning in by this hour. Only Custodians remained, silent watchers they were (at least they could mind their own business), and his brothers would rarely come to check in on him. Konrad let out a weary sigh and tucked his legs the best he could against his swollen belly, protecting the fetus within. Emotions threatened to boil over in his chest, and Konrad Curze had to choke back a tired sob.
Things would be much easier if he didn’t still love each of his sons anyway.
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