#so did beta reader...

[girlafraidboyafraid]

Push, little dove.

||Logan Howlett x GN!Reader||

"Everything'll be okay."

You were sleeping soundly when all of a sudden your fiancée woke you up in a rush.

"It's time." Logan said, with a semi grimace on his face. You shot up in surprise.

"Already?!" You said.

He nodded.

"Bags already packed, cars all set, we're good to go." He pecked your cheek as you rushed to get somewhat ready. You were all set and decided to go check on the love of your life.

"All set, my love?" You looked at him worriedly. He cradled his stomach.

"They're feisty." He smiled and then winced in pain. You rushed to his side.

"I think this means it's time to go." He nodded in agreement and you both walked--or waddled--over to the car.

Once you arrived to maternity ward, you were quickly redirected to an open room.

"All set, bubby?" You stroked his arm lovingly.

He sighed and nodded. "I goddamn hope so." You playfully swatted him.

"You're not gonna be using that kind of language around our little howletts, are you?"

He rolled his eyes and then leaned in for a kiss.

SCREAMING.

It filled your ears like no other sound. Logan's death grip on your hand only got tighter. You tried to keep a soothing tone, but it was kind of difficult when your hand was being simultaneously broken and stabbed by his claws.

"Everything'll be okay." You winced out. He didn't seem to notice through all the pain.

Only two out of the four howletts had been born, whilst the other two were being a little more...tricky.

You tuned out Logan's sailor mouth whilst the nurse hurriedly rushed out of the room with Tim. You looked on nervously, hoping nothing bad was happening.

You were soon distracted once more when the Doctor exclaimed, "It's a girl!"

You looked at Logan, smiling. "Guess we can name her Anna Marie." He attempted a smile and then quickly shouted in pain once more.

The final baby was making its way into the world. The doctor picked it up and proclaimed, "Why is it lowkey nonbinary?"

You looked at Logan confused.

He shrugged. "At least it's out of me."

"What should we name them?" You asked. He thought for a moment.

"Eiden Ven Howlett." His eyes sparkled as he said the name.

Suddenly, the nurse rushed in.

"Are you Y/N?" You turned quickly and stood up.

"What's wrong?" You said, remembering her rushing out with little Timmy.

"He's..." She glanced at Logan.

"Well, spit it out already!" He said, anger taking over.

She nodded. "He's not breathing. Doctors are doing everything they can but..."

Your face dropped at the words. Logan tried getting up but you turned and him pushed onto the bed as gently as you could.

"I'll handle it, little dove." He looked at you, eyes full of tears.

You walked out of the hospital room, where Logan Jr., Anna Marie, and Eiden slept soundly.

While Tim's slumber was eternal.

[callieisto]

HAPPY (LATE!) BIRTHDAY RO MY LOVE!!! Have some of the softest birthday sex with Sam I could cook up <33 @ivysangel

⊹˚₊‧꒰ა𓆩✧𓆪໒꒱ ‧₊˚⊹

Usually, Hunters didn’t have partners. Hunters didn’t live long enough or safe enough to love someone properly, maintain anything the way a relationship needed to be maintained.

Clearly, Sam never got the memo.

“Missed you,” Sam said breathlessly, kissing you as soon as you opened the door to your apartment. Long distance was hell, especially when he was away for your birthday. It just made him feel like the shittiest boyfriend ever, just the worst. He could save you from a stalker vampire, but he couldn’t convince Dean to leave him in a town the week of your birthday.

To be fair to Sam- in many, many ways, dealing with a stalker vampire was much easier than dealing with his brother.

But Sam would find his way to you if the world was ending, if the sky was spitting fire and the seas turned to lava. He would crawl over broken glass to see you smile. He loved you more than he loved the idea of saving the world.

He pulled away to study your face, to just soak you in. God, you were the most beautiful woman in the world. He leaned in again to nuzzle against your nose, the smile on his face infectious.

“You got your hair done,” he whispered, taking one of the braids between his fingers and twisting it slightly. “It looks good. You look good. God, I missed you.”

He kisses you again, crowding you back into your apartment, cradling your face in his hands. To say he’s desperate would be an understatement. He’s starving for you, he’s been going through withdrawals, and the simple feeling of your mouth on his feels like coming home.

He always wanted a normal life. And meeting you had been just the most amazing thing in the world. Falling into bed with you the first time had felt like… god, like something had clicked in his brain. Like the universe had finally righted itself. He’d been so lost, been living outside his body since uprooting his entire life, and you brought him right back.

Right now, though, he needed you so bad it hurt.

Curling over you- god, you’re so small in comparison to him, so beautiful- he smiles that crooked little smile down at you, hands moving from your face to your hips.

“Let me make it up to you,” he begs plainly, because Sam Winchester is not above begging for the woman he loves. “Please?”

“Okay,” you giggle, and he nearly cries with relief because god, he just loves you so much.

He picks you up, your legs wrapping around his waist, his hands supporting your thighs, and carries you down the hall to your bedroom. It’s cute, it’s so you, and he can’t help but remember the first night he ended up tangled in your sheets. You had just moved in, and there were boxes everywhere, and you had been so scared when the brothers broke your door down and basically camped out in your living room until that scummy vampire had showed his face.

Dean, who had apparently met another girl in the same city, decided to spend the night with her. Which left Sam without a car, and, well…

It was history.

He crawled over you when he softly dropped you on the bed, trailing his hands up and down and up and down- just feeling you, because it’s been so long, because he loves you, because he wants to be close to you in a way he never wants to be close with anyone else again.

“Happy late birthday, baby.” He whispered, kissing down your throat. Your giggle makes him smile, makes his cheeks flush. God, he’s so whipped for you it’s embarrassing.

Pretty soon, you’re naked. And he’s naked too, but he’s using your thighs as earmuffs as he presses sweet kisses to your clit.

“Missed this pretty pussy,” he murmured like a prayer, licking a stripe up your folds. He moans, trying not to rut his cock against the bed like a loser. He sucks on your clit, pulling you further down on the bed and laughing when you squeak out in surprise.

“Sam!” You chide breathlessly, propping yourself up on your elbows with an affectionate look on your face.

He just smiles, and shrugs, and goes back to eating you out like it’s the last thing he’s ever going to do.

“C’mon baby,” he murmurs against you, hitching your legs higher so he can tongue fuck you deeper, can slurp at you like you’re a fucking soup, his nose bumping against your clit all the while. “You’re so fucking pretty, taste so good, lemme have it, give it to me please…”

When your legs tremble around his head and you buck your hips into his mouth, cumming with a little cry of his name, he swears he’s never tasted anything sweeter. He could spend hours between your legs, and has, but the way you’re squirming makes him think that maybe, just maybe, you missed him just as much as he missed you.

So he leans back once you’re limp on the bed, kissing his way up your body until he reaches your mouth. “You’re so perfect.” He said, his voice tight. “God, you’re so perfect baby, I missed you so much.”

He kissed you slow, soft, big hand cupping your breast in his hand, tweaking the nipple just to hear you squeak.

He pulls back, a string of spit connecting his tongue to yours. He lets go of your boob, reaching for the bedside table to dig around for a condom. He found one, sitting back on his haunches to tear the little foil packing open with his teeth.

It is unfairly sexy, especially considering how you’re pretty sure you look like a mess. He rolls the condom on, running two fingers through your wetness to lube up his cock a little bit. He leans back over you, carefully, kissing your forehead.

“God, you’re so pretty.” He whispered, notching his tip at your entrance very carefully. “I missed you so much, baby, god… love you, love you s’much…”

He groans when he pushes in almost annoyingly carefully, like you might break, like he’s been away for so long that you might have forgotten what he feels like inside you.

He leaned down, resting his forehead against yours when his hips are flush with yours. “Hi pretty girl.” He crooned, peppering your face with kisses. “Oh, you look so pretty, all full of me. Good god.”

You squirm under his careful kisses, whining impatiently. “Sam,” you whimper, trying to kick at him to knock him out of the little lovey dovey haze he’s in. “Sam, move! Mnh-”

The little sound you make drives him crazy, and he starts moving, slowly, carefully. He picks up the pace when you let little moans slip out, because that has got to be his favorite sound in the world. The little whimpers, the way your eyes flutter, the way your lips part sweetly.

His hand snakes down your body to rub at your clit, because when you seize up with a cry of his name and soak his cock, he wants to cry because he’s so happy.

He keeps working at it, thrusts getting faster and harder as you squeal out a little “Sam, sensitive!”

“Just one more,” he croons down at you, his voice tight. “Just give me one more, sweetheart, one more, please, ‘s your birthday present, gonna make you cum at least one more time…”

And, true to his words, he makes you cum again. You cling to his bicep, manicured nails digging into his skin, crying out weakly as tears of pleasure smudge your makeup and trail down your cheeks. He groans as his hips stutter to a stop, the condom filling as he leaned over her, panting weakly.

He kissed your tears from your face, smiling softly. “Hey, pretty girl. You did so good. You made me feel so good, baby, god, I missed you.”

The two of you lie like that for a while, sweaty and sated. After a few minutes of gentle kisses and sweet praise, he pulled out, chuckling when you whimper at the empty feeling. He took the condom off, tying it before he tossed it into the trashcan by your bedside table. He grabbed his boxers, hiking them back up before crawling into bed with you.

“I missed you.” He whispered again, while you busied yourself settling against his chest. “I’m in town for the week. What do you say we go out and get you some birthday presents tomorrow?”

Your hum makes him smile. He kisses your forehead, gets comfortable, and the two of you fall asleep tangled in your sheets.

[purplebehittindifferent]

Hope y’all have got some kromer or this call might be pretty short.

masterpost

prev (ch:3::2) / next (ch:3:4)

(a quick thanks to my beta reader @prunpplee)

[north-noire]

As William drives out of state to seek help from the guilt that's been eating him up, meanwhile Michael struggles with going to school without a friend by his side.

Hidden Hands Chapter 5 is out! AO3 Fic Link Here Previous Chapter Beginning Chapter

Hey, I would appreciate it if you reblog this post! I try my hardest for this AU fic, so reblogging it and being able to share it goes a long way!

[fumifooms]

"Marchil? I guess I can see it on Chilchuck’s end, but what about Marcille’s? What makes you think she could develop feelings for him?" I’m glad you asked!

The first thing to note is that she does think highly of him

In the page on the right, literally defending his virtues and literally comparing him to Dalclan. And oh…

She does love a brooding mysterious guy who closes himself to love. But surely, Chilchuck isn’t her type at all, right? He’s not princely or knightly at all. In apperances certainly not, both looks wise and demeanor wise, but then that’s why she seeks to know him on a deeper level, to not only look shallowly.

And hmm. Chilchuck really is quite selfless isn’t he? Always looking out for others, and saving specifically her often, always making sure himself and, staying in or even running towards danger for her sometimes. Modesty is often considered heroic…

And can we talk about that drowning one… You can definitely frame the special attention as him knowing she tends to hesitate or be clumsy, and then his insistance on pulling her out of danger that she’s the healer aka the most important to keep alive, but. From the one who says that he just keeps his ass out of fights and won’t help this is a lot of risk to take, and he does die trying to pull her to safety in the dungeon rabbits chapter. And the drowning bit??? That’s when the dungeon collapses. The only reason they DON’T die of drowning here is that the water then gives way to outside. There was NO hope of pulling her to safety here and resurrections would likely not work either, he truly preferred to die with her than try to survive himself.

Sit your ass back DOWN you are in no state, self-sacrifical hero much damn

And Marcille definitely noticed this imo, after all she loves learning all she can about him, remembering things like how he hates waiting on people too. She pays attention to him and what he does and what he says. This to say that it’s notable, whatever reason for it you may think (though we know by this point at least she was already aware he was an adult though it wasn’t internalized), out of everyone it’s Chilchuck’s bed that she wants to sleep in during the Golden Kingdom stay. He’s safe and comforting to her: dependable, the defining trait in her view of him as is shown by the relationship chart in the Adventurer’s Bible.

^ Lending handkerchiefs is a romance trope btw and handkerchiefs have irl history of being used for courting. Especially in old English literature and plays like Shakespeare’s Othello, and personally I do see a lot of Shakespeare in Dalclan (nobility political drama with some romance). There’s how his cowl is a dearly beloved souvenir from his family too, there’s a lot of aesthetic tropes you can apply to him.

All this to say you can 100% romanticize Chilchuck into a princely noble guy if you try and that’s exactly what Marcille does with the wife roleplay. She doesn’t need much in the first place, she latches onto crumbs and makes aesthetic narratives out of details, give her an inch she’ll take a mile.

But what’s interesting about the shift throughout the arc of her and his relationship is that she starts out idealizing him into a little angel of a kid (shapeshifter), and she ends it idealizing him as a virtuous husband and family man instead.

And what’s doubly interesting is that in the former, she’s actively warping who he is personality and demeanor wise to fit the aesthetic, he doesn’t have that bitter pride of not asking for help and the edges have been smoothened. But what she does during the wife roleplay is something else, she acknowledges the flaws and just… Accepts them, rolls with them. She’s aware of his flaws and implements them into the narrative, but the reason why his wife left doesn’t capitalize on them even, rather Chil is chilblivious and his wife loves him very much still, she’s just testing him after having had a night of feeling out of place at his side.

And this is what separates the idealization vs romanticization, she’s not twisting him into someone else she’s just uplifting what he is and focusing on the good sides.

Marcille: "he has a shitty personality sometimes but if he was my husband I’d still cherish him" "If I were your wife I’d be overjoyed to go out with you and would get myself prettied up while you complain about me taking a long time, your friends would tell me that I’m nice and that’d make me happy, but I’d also be sad because you wouldn’t tell me that you love me enough"

He’s angry and his wife left him, he’s *flawed*, but he’s still worth hyping up, still worth having his own romance story, still has a shot of winning back his beloved. She sees him for what he is, human and real and not a carefully scripted character that fits an aesthetic, and she thinks it’s still worthy of love and admiration and fighting for

And what’s funny too is that you might expect her to cool down on him once she learns more about him but actually she only gets increasingly into his business. You tell her your age and next thing you know you promise to introduce her to your family. Give her an inch she takes a mile. And too the thing is, Senshi is equally mysterious but she doesn’t pester him like at all, asks him ONCE about his succubus and he doesn’t even answer and that’s like… It. With Chilchuck it starts off innocently enough with her wanting to know his age, hometown, the stuff she mentions having asked pre-canon. But it just keeps and keeps going and escalating. Think she’ll be satisfied now knowing you have a wife and kids, maybe she’s disillusioned now? Wrong! She wants to know their names and ages and occupations and hey how did you propose to your wife? Do you think she’ll stop after meeting them? What’s next? What will she want to know next????

She’s… Like it’s not a reach that Marcille is all over him. Like it doesn’t mean it’s romantic but she just is. She is not normal about him idk. Can you not ask him about what tongue technique he used when first kissing his wife, give the man breathing room

Marcille could literally go "if I was Chilchuck’s wife" having deeply pondered and thought out the hypothetical and people would still ask where anyone sees any romantic potential between them. Oh wait

There’s a platonic explanation for everything (almost?) in Dungeon Meshi don’t say I’m saying otherwise, but it’s definitely not like there’s nothing here to read into lol

Going off a bit more under read bc it’s my fave topic

Marcille has a whole theme with the charming prince trope with her idealization and storybook motif and Chil is kinda the "Well someone perfect like that isn’t very realistic and romance is usually more complex and that’s ok and good and flawed people can still be ✨virtuous✨" catalyst

Do you see do you see she starts canon thinking the most romantic thing is a prince charming but her arc in the end has her romanticizing an average, flawed, real and realistic family man, who’s on the poorer side and is on the verge of divorce. And that’s what he needed, too, seeing the positive of himself and the situation instead of focusing on the negative is explicitly what inspires him to hope that he might be able to reconcile with his wife, gives him the courage and self-esteem to shoot his shot.

He IS a prince figure instead that now it’s not about idealizing the grand and overt it’s about romanticizing the small things in real life!! About finding joy and beauty in things that seem normal or mundane and uplifting them to make the world feel kinder!!!!

He’s the devoted virtuous man that she wantsss not the storybook prince that’s unrealistic and could crumble like a script at any time. He’s the perfect example of a flawed realistic but virtuous & devoted & loving man. Far from a prince charming, but not fully detached from it either. Something worth fighting for despite the flawed cracks. Like literally, flawed romance being worth fighting for is literally the finale of Chilchuck and Marcille’s arc on the matter, where their separate arcs and issues intersect at the most crucial moment.

Marcille is important to Chil’s arc not only because of her optimism, but also because of her interest and knowledge in romance & matters of the heart, and that’s what he needs to both open his heart up to hope and to try to reconcile with his wife, like idk sounds gay

Their arc together is literally learning to 1) see each other for how they are and not undermining their qualities capacities etc etc while still not leaving flaws unchecked either and 2) opening up to people. Marcille LITERALLY makes Chil open his heart up to hope like idk man. What do you want from me. He’s literally the guy helping her through deconstructing novels and fantasy and rose tinted glasses and like. Deconstructing the prince charming figure into something more real but still romantically beautiful like KUI KUI STOOOOP STOP I’M ALREADY HOOKED I’M ALREADY-

 Ok fine that’s me reading into the tropes too much forgive me for being storybook brained but like. Speaking his heart out to a lone woman on a balcony, Romeo and Juliette shit, asking if she, too, doesn’t want to meet his family, madly blushing. And like she’s learned with Chilchuck it’s all in the little things, all the implications he cannot speak aloud. She does reciprocate, does blush madly back, and the first thing she does is shower him in flowers and jewelry and what in her heart is coded as romantic gifts

A lady, stashed away in a high tower by her lonesome, waiting for someone to call out to her from below… Romeo courting type shit with an offer, a heartfelt spiel, implicit confession from underneath her balcony. Offering him flowers because he succeeded in calling out to her heart…….. And they have to climb to her too…. Crazy

Doesn’t it sound like a proposal. One that’s both so storybook-like and not, contrastedly real and grounded, all about the implications rather than in your face grand gestures, "Don’t you want to meet my family?". They literally have an arc about the topic of romance and this is the climax/pinnacle of it like god?? This is @ the woman who said "Chilchuck is a shy/bashful man so I know he wouldn’t tell me he loves me, but…" btw

To quote a friend, truly the shiny secret unlockable dating sim capture target : THE DUNGEON LORD BIT WAS SO FUNNY BECAUSE HE KNEW SHE'D TAKE IT HOOK LINE AND SINKER HES THE ONE WHO GOT HER TO TURN AROUND COMPLETELY SHES LIKE. WIDE EYED FLAG RAISED???? FLAG RAISED WITH CHILCHUCK 👀👀👀‼️👀👀‼️👀

And the way that this is the culmination of their arc together… Like people are not ready for the ‘Chil calling out to dunlord Marcille on the balcony has Romeo and Juliette romance novels imagery’ take. Or the ‘their arc is about growing to see beauty even in the non-idealized, in the flawed and in the real’ take which makes it so so perfect if she were to lower her ideal from a charming elven prince to a virtuous halfling man (which she does end up romanticizing)

So there, you got to witness in real time what happens when I think about marchil for longer than 2 minutes, there are so many layers it’s a deranged rabbithole. I saw the necronomicon of subtext and it’s driving me to madness with forbidden knowledge that no one else sees

……. Like what if I told you she implicitly picked Chilchuck over a "unrealistic prince charming who’s actually disingenuous" much earlier in the story already. If she was given the choice to think through going with a guy that seems perfect and chivalrous like her succubus she’d pick Chilchuck over the other actually. If I sound insane rn tune in for my full analysis on them coming this month hopefully thank youu. Interwoven arcs of fantasy vs reality and idealization vs pessimism I love youuu

So now you know the general thesis of my planned analysis about the importance of the prince charming figure in Marcille and Chilchuck’s arc, where she romanticizes things to a sometimes worrying degree or idealize people into something easy and digestible and poetic (like Chil being a kid, and then him being a virtuous ✨✨✨husband), and how she needs to value aesthetics less and actual acts and facts more, be more grounded (like seeing people for what they are flaws and all, and accepting that people need money and not pulling through on principles of honor or unity shouldn’t get Namari shamed) and a part of that is accepting that Chilchuck is BOTH flawed and virtuous, a loving husband that still has shitty moods and fumbled his marriage so bad etc etc. So it’s like, her image of perfect prince charming that will whisk you away on an ethereal romance -> realistic flawed middle aged dad with personality issues and a failing marriage but he still is worthy of love and having his cute grand romance story and his happy ending. Ik I keep repeating the same point through this but I need it to be burned into everyone’s brains it has its grip on me I can’t do this. They are so special……

[razrogue]

Let's Make a Deal (Rafayel)

Rafayel x Reader/You

Words: 1.5k+

Tags: mutual masturbation, smut

Notes: Thick thighs, soft tummy, and all that are mentioned. No beta, no edit, we ball (please be kind lol) 😂

Read on AO3

“Let's make a deal, cutie.”

He casually mentions as the two of you sit naked on his massive bed facing each other.

His hand slowly trails along the inside of your soft thigh, sending small sparks of pleasure down your legs with each swipe.

Your hand grips at his knee when his fingers lightly brush against you.

“A deal?” You ask him as your own hand slid along his outer thigh, resting at his hip while you wait for him to respond.

“Whoever comes first…”

Rafayel looks up at you, a hint of mischief in his eyes, and a sly grin on his lips.

You gaze at him, curious as to where he's going with this proposal, when his hand suddenly cups your breast and your breath hitches.

He rolls your nipple gently between his fingers before giving it a light pinch, eliciting a surprised squeak from you before you playfully swatted his hand away.

“Get to it, little fishy. What are you up to?”

Raf spreads your legs a little more, giving the both of you a better view of each other as he scoots a little closer.

“...has to do what the winner says for an entire day.”

Your eyes narrowed at him as he continued his leisurely rub along your thigh. When he reaches you again, his finger runs up and down your slit, swiping a little bit of you each time. With each pass over your clit, your back arches you forward into his touch.

He moves his hand back to your thigh as he waits for your response.

Your mind finally comes back to his proposition and you ready yourself to take him on.

With your hand resting on his thigh, you tighten your grip and confidently proclaim, “Sunset to sunrise and you're on.”

Rafayel leans in, “Kiss on it?”

Your lips meet his in a passionate embrace. Nipping and sucking each other, your tongues wrestle for a few minutes before you pull back slightly breathless. He knows you love kissing him and he knows what it does to you. You fell for it but try to regain your composure and focus.

He grins at you before reaching back for the lube from his nightstand and tossing it between your legs.

You pop the top and dribble a little bit onto his swollen head as you grab hold of him. The lube runs down his length and over your waiting fingers as you slowly begin to pump your hand.

He whimpers under his breath as your tempo remains slow and steady, making sure you're both covered. Your fingers graze over his slick shiny head, swiping at the clear fluid beading at the tip.

You smile at the way he's responding to your touch. He throws his head back as your hand moves up and down his shaft at a steady pace. Squeezing just beneath his hand each time you reach the top, delighted when he leans forward into your hand and you hear him moan your name. You're confident that you just might win as he starts to pump his hips a little faster into your hand, until you remember that he hasn't begun to touch you yet.

When Rafayel finally takes a deep breath and remembers the two of you are competing, he focuses with an intensity you weren't ready for.

His fingers spread your juicy lips, exposing your already wet cunt to the cool ocean air that's drifting in through his open patio doors. The tip of his finger enters you, circling around, making you clench, desperate to feel more of him but he denies you. He keeps teasing you, switching back and forth between circling your entrance and rubbing your clit. You're so wet from just his teasing that you forget the mutual part of the deal.

“You look so beautiful coming undone for me,” he remarks as his other hand grazes over your nipple, “but you're going to lose if you keep this up, cutie,” he teases as you notice you've let go of him and are holding on to his shoulders with both hands.

“Damnit Raf,” you hiss between shallow breaths. You reach for him again, determined not to let him best you since you were already developing plans for his loss.

You had tricks of your own and knew his body as much as he knew yours. You drag your finger over his head and down the bottom of his shaft and take hold of his balls. His teasing stops for a moment as he waits to see what you do. For the moment, you have him right where you want him and give him a small tug before squeezing them in your palm. Rafayel gasps and leans forward, resting his forehead against yours as he catches his breath.

“Oh you're mean,” he whispers between gritted teeth, shifting slightly as your hand continues massaging him.

You gently nudge his nose, “I don't know what you're talking about.”

He huffs and kisses your nose as he slips his fingers between your folds again. A slender finger slides in, watching your expression as he curls his finger and grazes that spot that makes your toes curl. Your stomach flutters as he goes in and out, each pass sending small jolts of electricity from your core to your toes and back again. Rafayel leans back and you catch a quick glimpse of a grin before he grabs hold of your thick thigh and slides a second finger into you. His thumb finds its place against your clit but just before he can find his rhythm again, you close your thighs around his arm in a desperate bid to stop him.

He bites his lower lip before he mouths the word NOPE to you as he scoots closer between your legs, freeing himself from your grip and concentrating fully on you now. You try but fail to keep your thighs closed, your body parting for him like your pride wasn't on the line. You resign yourself to your fate, hoping he doesn't have too much on his mind for you, and throw your legs wide open. Rafayel hums low in agreement, his fingers working again, slipping in and out of you. Your belly jiggles with each moan and whimper as you lose yourself to the motions of his hand. His fingers curl and that damn bundle of nerves makes your body quiver and shake for him but damn if it didn't feel good. The pressure in your core builds as he adds his touch back to your neglected swollen clit.

“Look at you, cutie. A wonderful mess all over my hand. Let me see you in all your beauty.”

Rafayel's hand begins moving faster, your walls clench around his fingers as you feel yourself losing more and more control until it finally breaks.

“Raf……….” You throw your head back and moan his name into the air as you grab hold of his arm. He holds onto you as you buck against him and roll through your orgasm, his fingers still in place, feeling every clench and getting covered with every drop of you.

Little by little as you come down from your euphoric high, he eases his grip on your hip as he reluctantly slides out of you. He held you so tightly to keep you from getting away from him that he left indents in your supple flesh. As you lay back on his pillows, pouting about your loss, you watch Rafayel lick you off his fingers before lying down on his stomach between your legs. His head rests on your thigh, observing the utter mess he made of you. You shiver as he breathes softly against your glistening folds. His hands run up and down your leg, caressing your soft skin.

“I can't believe I lost.”

Rafayel chuckles softly before turning his head to kiss your inner thigh, “That's ok, princess. You'll have another chance some day.”

He nips at your skin and soothes the spot before continuing, “Besides you wouldn't have beaten me today anyway.”

You raise your head a little as you push at his head to get him to look up at you.

“Hey, what do you mean by that?”

He realizes he's said too much and tries to distract you with a kiss to your clit but you shift yourself away from him at the last second.

He huffs aloud before he spills the details, “Fine! I had a little help today that kept me afloat so to speak.”

You prop up on your elbows to look at him. He gives you sad puppy dog eyes but you won't let him off this time.

“So you cheated???”

His cheeks begin to flush as he sticks his bottom lip out and avoids your gaze.

“You little shit,” you exclaim as you ruffle his hair, demanding his attention.

Rafayel looks at you, still trying but failing miserably to deter you.

“I will have my payback, little fishy. You can bet on it.”

Rafayel grins as his eyes widen in surprise before soften under your touch as you massage his scalp.

“I look forward to it.” He nodded in agreement before sliding a little further up between your legs.

“Now, sunset will be here soon and I have some delightful plans for you, cutie.”

[the-broken-pen]

Hello! Heard you were open for writing request? Had this idea in mind about a villain who's Russian and a hero who's falling for villain's accent? Maybe a bit of flirty banter as they fight 👀 your choice tho! Have a fun spring break ☀

The hero was pretty sure the villain was actually trying to kill them this time.

“Hey, don’t aim for the face, okay? It’s the money maker.”

The villain raised one eyebrow–and aimed for the hero’s face.

“Oh come on,” the hero groaned. “That’s just uncalled for.”

“Really? Is it now?”

If the hero had better judgment, they would have said something snarky back, or attempted to get the upper hand. Instead, in a move uncoordinated and wrought with embarrassment, they tripped over their own feet and blushed.

The hero was used to pretty. They were used to gorgeous.

But they had never expected to be attracted to someone’s accent of all things, and it was driving them mad.

“Yep, pretty sure it is,” they managed. They had to dodge halfway up the wall to avoid the villain’s next blow.

“You’re awfully chatty today,” the villain said, and the hero was going to lose their mind–

“Is this affection?” The hero blurted, and contemplated throwing themself off the building to spare both of them. “Because it feels like affection.”

“I don’t know,” the villain shrugged. Their mouth tipped up slightly, gone in a flash between one second and the next. “Do you want it to be?”

The hero froze. “You–I–” and found themself blinking up at the sky, the villain’s hand around their wrist. “Did you just judo flip me?” They wheezed, and the villain grinned.

“You’re blushing.”

“Yeah, because you just knocked the wind out of me. Excuse me for going red with oxygen loss–” the hero cut themself off with a cough, lungs protesting every word, and tugged the villain down to crash into the pavement beside them.

“Let me rephrase; You’ve been blushing this entire time.”

“It’s cold.”

“It’s July.”

“A very cold July.”

“If you’re going to lie,” the villain said, and truly, the hero was lucky they hadn’t had a knife pulled on them yet, “Do it well.”

The hero buckled the villain’s knees. Petty? Yes.

Satisfying? A good reprieve to try and get the blush that flared every time the villain spoke to subside? Also yes.

“Real smooth,” the villain rolled their eyes, pushing themself to their feet. “So, what is it.”

“Was that a question, or–”

“My winning personality?”

The villain was studying them with far too much care.

“Aren’t you supposed to be robbing a bank or something?” They said half-desperately.

“Smile? Laugh?” The villain paused for a moment, catching the hero’s punch as if it was nothing more than a mosquito–which was insulting, to say the least–before their face cleared of any confusion.

“Ah,” the villain said, and oh the hero was so screwed, because they knew that look. That look appeared regularly in their dreams. It was the villain’s signature ‘I figured something out and I’m going to use it to do nefarious things’ look. Their ‘I’m smarter than you and I’m about to prove it in an effortlessly ruthless maneuver’ look.

The hero saw it far too often.

“‘Ah’ what.”

The villain, damn them, grinned, releasing the hero’s hand.

“Accent.”

Any air that the hero had managed to regain after the judo flip escaped from them like they were a sinking ship.

“I’m right, aren’t I?”

“No,” the hero said, cursing every single moment of their life that had led up to this one. Maybe they really should have become a lawyer– “I’m just flabbergasted by how dumb that sentence was.”

Flabbergasted. Flabbergasted. Who the hell says flabbergasted?!

“This is cute,” the villain remarked as they drew a knife. They gestured with it towards the hero’s undoubtedly fire engine red face. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this flustered.”

“I’m not flustered, I’m–”

“Flabbergasted?” The villain suggested wryly, and truly, the fact that this situation was funny in a hopeless and pathetic way was not helping. The accent absolutely was not helping either.

The hero truly had nothing to say to that, staring at the villain, the two of them impromptu statues.

“You like me,” the villain teased. “And my accent.”

The hero was not proud of what they did next.

Considering their life, it wasn’t the worst thing they had ever done out of embarrassment.

A close second, though.

The villain smirked, and in a move far more elegant than they had ever thought themself possible, the hero slid under the villain’s arm, snagging the knife from the villain’s hand as they went—and planted it into the villain’s side.

The villain blinked, hand going to their side. The hero blushed—

Finally, in the single coherent thought they had managed in seemingly their entire life, they did something not embarrassingly pathetic.

The hero bolted away, into side streets and alleys, to the sound of the villain’s pained and endlessly amused laughter.

“Real smooth,” the villain called after them, voice echoing between the buildings. “You’re handling this quite well.”

The villain was never going to let them live this down.

[jamtoro]

Just a drabble in large part inspired by the first Challengers fic I read by @cybersunnie Content warning for masturbation but this is mostly just mutual pining

- Of course you knew who Art Donaldson was, because, really, who didn't? So why wouldn't you be surprised when he approached you, offering to be your hitting partner for the night?

- You hesitated on your response, a mixture of embarrassment (you were practicing for a mandatory athletics class and were far from being even decent) and confusion (why would he ask you? What did he gain from it?).

- But, still, you agreed. Practicing tennis with Art, the Art Donaldson, was not an opportunity afforded to many beginners (at least you imagined). And despite the preemptive embarrassment, it beat hitting a ball against a wall.

- So, you begin with a backhand warm up before advancing to a rally.

- You miss volleys left and right, and even fall on your ass at some point. But with the cool spring night breeze on your sweat-slick skin and a lack of the pressure you thought you'd feel when sparring with Art, that 10 AM lecture class you have tomorrow feels light years away.

- When you've both had enough (well, you're sick of running after missed balls and you feel bad for making Art watch you flounder) you thank him, trying not to fall into realm of gratuitous gratitude. "I know it's not what you're used to, and it felt like torture at times, but thank you. I had a lot of fun losing to you."

- "You're not terrible," Art says, looking at you. Really looking at you, a soft smile on his face. You open your mouth to protest, but he tilts his head back a certain way as if to say Are you really going to debate me on that? Me? And you avoid breaking into a gigantic grin, but your giddiness is evident.

- You felt drunk on luck. First he offers to be your partner for the night, then he complements you. Well, sort of, but it's enough to make your heart stammer in your chest.

- You'd be lying if you said Art didn't look beautiful under the florescent light of the tennis court, a light sweat above his brow. And the scent of his musk, it could grow addicting.

- and you'd be lying if you said Art wasn't the reason why you continued to practice tennis on late nights. Some nights you saw him practicing with someone, sometimes he was alone, sometimes he showed up after you, but most nights you practiced alone. But lighting can strike twice, you told yourself.

- It took until the night of your last final, but thankfully eventually Art approached you.

- "Most people leave as soon as their last final's over, but you're still here," He says. "Summer classes," is all you manage in return. You force a barely there smile with pressed lips. You're wrought with tension.

- "There's a two week bre--" "Can you teach me tennis?" You cut Art off, the words basically stumbling out of your mouth. "I can pay you whatever, and I won't whine, and I know you have your own practices, but I just want you. I want to play tennis with you."

- It's bold and you know you're asking for a lot. You hold your breath as you wait for an answer.

- Art pauses in consideration, turning your words over in his mind. And your heart twists like a wrung towel as you watch a faint smile tug on one side of his mouth. "If you can win against me, I'll coach you."

- Your mind goes into hyperdrive with inquiries. Why would he say that? Does he really believe I could beat him? What happens when I lose? Does he have to be this cruel? Am I too desperate? Is it obvious? And before you could even begin to verbalize such a question, you see Art setting down his tennis bags on the far end of the court.

- "Are you gonna go easy on me?" You yell from the other side as you stretch your upper body.

- "How could I assess your abilities as your coach without seeing how far you'll go?" Art asks when he finishes a set of side lunges.

- yeah, you're gonna lose.

- And at least it's not a humiliating loss. You've definitely improved since the first time you and Art played, even managing a point here and there (but deep down you feel like Art let you have those). And even though you've lost two of three games, you're laughing, you're joking, you're having fun. Even though you approached Art so seriously, so desperately, you can't take yourself seriously, not in earnest, even when playing for something as coveted as a Summer with Art. And you can't even hate yourself for it because you feel so free.

- "I won't torture you with the idea of a rematch, so thank you for playing with me." You say, hand extended as you walk towards the net. "I'll still see you around, right?"

- But Art doesn't respond when he shakes your hand. He kind of just stands there for a moment, shaking your hand in a trance.

- Within Art, something shifted, or clicked, rather.

- No stranger to desperation, he recognized it in you, saw himself reflected in your curious eyes. And though he expected himself to be more repulsed by your desperation, each volley blunted the edges of such an emotion.

- And it helped he saw what Tashi loved about tennis within you.

- Maybe you could've been great if you had more than a casual interest in the sport, or if you had started in the single digits like the rest of the college athletes, or if you stopped blowing rasberies and laughing everytime you hit the ball into the net. But you didn't care about greatness. And to Art, it almost seemed like you didn't care about winning him as a coach, not for lack of trying, but because you became someone else on the court. You found a liberation that Art could only dream of. A liberation that could only be afforded to someone who's highest aspiration is the intermural leagues. Your relationship with tennis, with your opponent was more self-serving. This was less of a relationship and more so voyeurism.

- And that appealed to Art in some capacity.

- "I mean, you played pretty well, considering," Art finally says, returning to himself. "Do Tuesdays work for you?"

- It scratches an itch to be wanted. Even if it isn't by the person you want.

- Art reminded himself of this, like a mantra, on the first night he cums to the thought of you. A late night tennis session turned mildly risqué with an absent minded question ("Do you think some people use rackets sexually?" You asked before the stream of laugh that followed due to Art's flusted expression) was all Art really needed to follow through on what was a burgeoning feeling.

- On one hand, Art struggled to remember why he's keeping himself from you. He's already this close. You never shy from his touch when he corrects your grip on the racket. You don't seem to mind sharing towels or water. And he feels the way you watch him, even when his back is turned.

- On the other, he's kicking himself. Even though he's only your senior by a year and he's not an official coach by any standard, it feels wrong. Especially when he's the catalyst in Tashi and Patrick's teetering relationship. You were meant to be a scapegoat if Patrick and Tashi got messy and Art's culpiblity was revealed. You were not supposed to stay.

- But being wanted is like a drug. And the thought of your mouth on his, along his body, around him, is irresistible.

- He knew, as he watched his cum thin out and disperse in the shower stream, that this wouldn't be the only time he came to the thought of you.

- (Should he feel ashamed that he's wrapped around your finger, too, even though you're the one who wants him so obviously?)

- Art leaves the locker room without looking in the mirror.

[avidya-musings]

Struck Too Far

Scaramouche (pre-3.3 Archon Quest) x reader

In which you, a lower-ranking Fatui, sacrifice yourself to save your lover, Scaramouche.

WORD COUNT: 1.2k

cw - angst . character death (reader) . Scaramouche is still Fatui and goes by his Fatui aliases . no comfort . TW; mentions of being shot

Banner art is by Sirwicca on TikTok!

A/N: please note there may be mixed lines between 3rd and 1st person since I had to do a lot of edits (because this was originally a story with an OC in the place of the reader), so forgive me for that, I don’t think I was able to fix it all 😭

It wasn’t supposed to have come to this. That much, Scaramouche was painfully aware of.

You shouldn’t be on the floor, bleeding to death in front of him — and he shouldn’t have even been attacked. You shouldn’t have jumped in the way of the arrow meant to hit him. And yet, with a smile; innocent expression, you had gladly taken the attack in his place.

“You idiot..!” Why did he feel something wet on his face? He wasn’t crying. He never cried. “Why.. why did you..” but he can’t bear to finish his sentence. If he did, then that would mean this was real. 

He would never let it be real.  He couldn’t.

Not for his sake, but for the sake of the bloodstained person laying in front of him.. you, his lover. His light. A hand on his cheek snaps him out of his thoughts. He meets your soft eyes with his own cold, anguished expression. “Better me than you,” you tell him, “the others need you, Scara. But they don’t need me.” “You’re wrong!” His voice was strained, on the edge of a hurt scream mixed with a sob. “You’re wrong, y/n, they- I-“

“‘Kuzushi.” 

Scaramouche froze. 

You never use that name with him, not unless you absolutely have to.  And it was then that it dawned on him, all too late, that there wouldn’t be any possible way to save you - why else were you calling him by his true name now?

“Kuzushi. You always told me that I should prove myself.. earn respect in a way that only I can. And for me.. it’s showing my loyalty. That’s how I’ve reached the point I’m at. By proving my loyalty.” You smile weakly, squeezing Scaramouche’s hand. “But.. I’m nothing more than a pawn in the Tsaritsa’s plan - while you are a vital asset.”

Scaramouche wanted to argue against that statement, so badly. But he also knew you were right. His life played a huge role in the Tsaritsa’s plans.  And the plain, ugly truth was that while his life was valuable to the Cryo Archon, your own life meant next to nothing to the Tsaritsa.

So instead of arguing, or yelling, he let himself sit there, numb, as he holds you in his arms while you speak - praying that there would be more time.. that he could have more time with you. It was selfish, but it was all he wanted, now, in this moment. Oh, how he regretted all the times he had pushed you away when he was in his moods. 

Time was cruel, and death was, too. 

You take in a breath, struggling now, “So, if me giving up my life means you.. you can continue to carve your legacy, then.. I don’t think I mind.” “You’re a fool, y/n.. you’re such a fool!” Scaramouche wants to yell at you so badly, call you an idiot for taking the attack meant for him, but he knows it won’t matter. 

You had always been stubborn since the day the both of you met.

“That makes you a bigger fool, then, my Balladeer..” you chuckle weakly, your life ebbing away from you, “you knew it would be this way. I always told you.. that I would give my own life to see yours through, if it came to that..” “Stop it-“ “You know I can’t..” even now, you have that soft, innocent look in your gaze. How could you act like everything would be fine when you were dying? 

He breathes in sharply, “just stop, y/n, please- just STOP!” He hates feeling that he is showing weakness, and he hates feeling vulnerable, but knowing that he is losing his partner is something he hates even more. “Please.. we have time-“

You only shake your head, “no, Kuzushi.. it hurts..”

Scaramouche lowers his head, his breath hitching in his throat. Why you? Why not some useless agent or a dispensable mage - not his lover. Not you. Not now, not when he had so much more he’d left unsaid. Again, he feels your hand on his cheek, and he looks down, his eyes softening. Something they only did for you, and you alone. “I.. I love you so much, Kuzushi-“ you cough, smiling again. That smile that Scaramouche knows he won’t see again once you’re gone. The thought makes his stomach turn. Again, he wishes his denial could be the truth, and at the same time he knows it never will be. 

The painful thing about denial is that it seldom ever becomes truth. Shaking his mind clear for the moment, he touches his forehead to yours, exhaling slowly, “I love you too, amaimono.. I’m sorry if I ever made you feel otherwise.. and I’m sorry I can’t save you-“ 

You silence him with a gentle hand gripping his - your strength is fading, and he knows it’s only a matter of moments before you, his partner, will leave his side in the mortal realm. 

Scaramouche wants to tell you everything he never could bring himself to before. That your smile always made him feel safe and wanted; that your touch always brightened even his darkest days. But there wasn’t time left.

“You never did. I knew you well enough to k-know you never meant anything harsh you m-may have said..” you smile again.

And Archons, how Scaramouche hates himself, for never finding the time to apologize properly for the times he’d lashed out; to thank you for staying by his side, even when he’d take his anger out on you or hurt you with his words. He finally breaks down; the wetness on his face could only be tears and nothing else. And he lets them fall. He could care less if an agent saw him, or if another Harbinger were to berate him; fuck it all, he doesn’t care anymore. 

You are the only thing that matters now, and he continues to tell himself this - to keep talking to you before he can’t anymore, lest he regret it if he doesn’t.

“Y/n, please, I-“ he sighs, a ragged, shuddering breath as his tears still fall, even now, “I can’t do this without you.” “You did it once, my love, even when I wasn’t there..” you whisper, pulling Scaramouche’s head closer to your own with your quickly fading strength.

Your lips then ghost against Scaramouche’s, faint, desperate, but unsure.

“I’ve always had faith in you, my storm, b-because I know you’ll do amazing.. even w-without me..” your words are barely a whisper, chest heaving - you’re tired, and you’re too far gone.  Your body falls limp before you can even take another breath, and Scaramouche turns away, his eyes screwed shut. You’re gone. Y/n, his y/n, isn’t with him anymore. 

It stings, an eerie feeling; though loss was something Scaramouche knew well, now he is sure he wouldn’t forget how it felt. First had come the three betrayals, and though he knows that it was beyond your control, that you were only mortal, he still feels as though your death was yet another one. Death truly is the cruelest master, Scaramouche thinks to himself as he finally lets down his guard, sobbing over your still body. 

If only it could’ve taken him instead.

[sircantus]

Hi! Do you have a beta for your fics? Or do you just release them into the wild without outside feedback first?

Oh yeahh no i just straight up post my chapters with only myself as my own proofreader. No beta i die like cwilbur. A while back i think?? I used to ask for people to look over my writing? Like as i was still making the chapters i would tweet “would anyone like to look over this i cant tell if its good” and if they said yet i instantly sent them a google doc. But im really impatient and i have to usually post my things the second they are done so thats why i didnt always bother with the feedback as i made it

Technically im now on a posting schedule so i could theoretically get a proper beta reader now but like. I fear being perceived in the proximity of my google doc

[rindomness]

In honor of me finishing the first draft of the Phanshuffle fic, here's the updated Thief designs for them all. I'm saving real-world redesigns for the Strikers fic that has, somehow, inexplicably, sprouted up in my wips.

Please please feel free to ask me any questions about them. I'm obsessed with this AU. It is my baby. There's strikers stuff now in case you missed that at the top and I really want to talk about it.

[thatonefandomjumper]

My fanfic A Lifetime from the Hunt is officially completed!

I have been posting these drawings one-by-one as the arcs came out but now that the fic is done might as well slap them all in one post!

It'd mean a lot if any Leo Valdez fan checked out the fic. I put a lot into it. And if anyone is reading this after completing the fic, thank you for sticking around! It really is appreciated :)))

[blkkizzat]

What happens when I try to get my well adjusted non-tumblr friends to beta read my JJK smut:

(This is for my Toji x Reader - The Nursery fic btw)

LOL even worse when they start clocking tea 😭

Lmfao this is what I go through y’all 😩😩

[stunie]

cleared my schedule for the umemiya fic.

AAAAA please nonnie i love you so much 😭 this made me smile so hard hsjsmmm

aaa tbh (rambling): i’ve never been this nervous to post writing though ?! is it because it’s umemiya ?! my first long wind breaker post ?! IDK AAAAAAAAA I KEEP READING IT IM LOSING MY MIND I FEEL LIKE I HAVE THE WHOLE THING MEMORIZED

[dangans-ur-ronpas]

Chapter 19

(blowing a lil party horn and firing confetti poppers) YIPPEEEE

SEE HERE FOR GENERAL WARNINGS AND FIC SUMMARY

Some pre-chapter notes:

sorry to the ishimondo fans

this is the one with an execution!!!

@digitaldollsworld my bestie my lord my homie <333

Content warning tags: descriptions of injury and mild gore, character death, canon-typical violence, guns

< previous - from start - next >

“NO!”

Owada’s shout is loud enough to startle Byakuya out of the slight torpor he had fallen into, too busy trying to fend off the migraine that was threatening to make him sick. He jerks, eyes blinking open to see Owada leaning in Ishimaru’s direction, his entire frame tense and trembling with restraint.

“It’s okay, Taka, you don’t have to say it,” He’s babbling, talking in a rush. His complexion is blanched, with fear or desperation, maybe both. “It’s okay, okay? I’ll tell them. It’s fine.”

“You really should let him-” Kirigiri starts to say, but Owada shakes his head vigorously, his hair bounces side-to-side.

“No, I’m not gonna make him cover for me any longer. I’m not gonna make him- make him lie for me.” He cuts Kirigiri off, before drawing himself up tall. “I did it. Okay? I killed him. I killed Chihiro.”

“Mondo-” Makoto starts to say, but Owada barrels through him like a steam train. His voice has the same, strained quality of a whisper, but it feels shockingly loud at the same time, the only thing audible in the entire room.

“It was - I know I was calm. Earlier. When Chihiro told me everything. And - I really was supportive. I was happy for him, so happy for him, you saw me Makoto, that was all real. But-” He pauses to take a sharp breath, and Byakuya wonders if he looks as insane as he sounds, leaning over the edge of the railing, like a seasick man over the edge of a rocking ship. Spewing words like he’s trying to empty his stomach of them. “I was thinking about it after, and I just. I just got so fucking mad, I mean - we all have secrets, and mine is - I know it’s probably not the worst one here, but it’s something I’ve been holding on to for so long, and he was just. Flaunting it around? Like it was something to be proud of?” He snorts a laugh, ugly and demeaning. “If it was that easy, then what the hell have I been doing all this time?”

His voice breaks, and for a moment his shoulders slump. But he regains his composure just as quickly, drawing himself back up with a shuddering breath. “I.. on the way back to the trophy room, I couldn’t stop feeling angry. It was like I couldn’t see anything else but red, I wasn’t paying attention to anything else. And when I got back I saw - I saw Taka, injured, and Chihiro standing over him -” He swallows. “It’s not an excuse. I know Chihiro would’ve never hurt him, never hurt anyone - but I was so angry and he was there, and there was a trophy on the floor, with blood on the corner, so I just…”

No one says a word. The implication of what he had done hangs over them all, like a fog - like a body, Byakuya thinks. Fukawa hadn’t been able to pin Chihiro as high up as Syo, but it feels like the boy was watching over them. A ghost listening silently from the rafters.

“...Then, tell us. If you did kill Chihiro, how did you do it?” Kirigiri asks at last, and Owada makes a sound crossed between a sob and a groan.

“I - I just sort of blanked out, when it happened. When I came to, he was there, and - I didn’t know what to do.” He lifts his face, and Byakuya can make out the shine of tears, the gray pallor of his skin. “So I took Taka to the nurse’s room first. And bandaged him up. And then I grabbed supplies to clean up the scene - that’s where I got a sheet to wrap Chihiro up in, and the gauze pads to soak up the blood.” He’s slowed down now. The words come tiredly, laboriously. “And then I…I was just thinking about cleaning up the room at first. That was all I could do, so I just did it. I wasn’t thinking about my survival or anything, or the fact that I might end up getting killed by this fucking bear - I just. I was planning on confessing to it all, but I didn’t want the place where he died to be so…so messed up.”

“Oh, Mondo…” Hagakure breathes quietly, grievingly. Owada’s head twitches, but he presses on.

“I went to check up on Taka, and when I came back, the body - Chihiro - he was gone. Sheet and all.” He laughs again, another twisted sound. “I thought, maybe it was all a dream? Maybe I was going crazy and Chihiro wasn’t dead, and all that blood was from Taka’s injury? I didn’t know what to think. I didn’t want to think. But I went back to what I was doing, and then a little later, the announcement went off. And you all know what happened after that.”

The room is silent for a long moment. No one says a word, and Byakuya can only just make out the sound of breathing, the only indication of life. And, a slight, quiet rattling; Ishimaru was trembling slightly, but still not uttering a sound.

In the silence, all Byakuya can feel is a storming, pitch-dark rage; rage for Chihiro, killed over something so pointless and without warning, rage at Fukawa for framing him, and rage at Owada for hiding it all. For losing control of himself in the first place. “So afterwards, Fukawa went downstairs and found the body. If we consider the sheet around Chihiro’s corpse and the scene cleaned of blood, that also helps explain how she was able to hold off Syo for so long.” He says, disgustedly. “But, the bloodied gauze in the library. I’m assuming that you were the one who put it there? Whatever happened to confessing?”

“I was! …I was, planning to confess to all of it. But then I saw Chihiro’s body, and - and as everyone was talking about Syo, I saw you holding the file and the blood, and I thought… I thought I had a chance. I mean, you were right there, and…I knew that Makoto wouldn’t have been able to back you up. I stuffed the gauze through the gap between the library door hinges while everyone was investigating.” Owada looks up for the first time, and Byakuya can’t see what look he’s wearing. And he feels glad for that; he doesn’t want to see whatever simpering face Owada has, pleading for forgiveness, miserable and sullen. “I know it was wrong, but all the pieces just seemed to fit together so perfectly, and the more time that went on, the more believable it seemed, and- I’m sorry. I really am.”

And Byakuya wants to scream.

What use is your worthless apology, he wants to rage. It wouldn’t resolve anything - in the end, he had still been accused, and humiliated, and now utterly disgraced. He was still blind and disabled. Chihiro was still dead. “All this, because you couldn’t decide if you wanted to live or die? Did you never consider if you deserved to?” He hisses, and Owada actually flinches back.

“I know I don’t. I’m sorry.” He repeats quietly, and he sounds so hollow and drained that Byakuya finds it hard to maintain his anger, all the heat and passion dissipating in an instant like smoke. It leaves him feeling empty, bewildered, and so, so tired.

“...Well. It seems that it’s time to vote, no?” Celeste claps her hands lightly, a smile in her voice. “Monokuma, won’t you please?”

“Since you asked so politely…I was still enjoying this dee-light-ful soap drama, but for my precious student, I will oblige!” Monokuma bounces up to its feet, one arm raised high in preparation to call the vote. “Everyone-”

“Wait.” Kirigiri interrupts. She hasn’t looked away from Owada once, her pale face turned towards him this entire time like a hawk. “Something’s not right.”

“Wha- what do you mean?” Hagakure asks. “It’s pretty cut and clear by now, right?”

“It’s suspicious. Why put in so much effort trying to pin the crime on Byakuya, and then confess so suddenly now?” Kirigiri rebuts. “And we still haven’t heard Taka’s testimony.”

“Man…come on, Kiri. Just look at him. I don’t think he’s in any shape to talk.” Hagakure shakes his head. “And - I think we shouldn’t push this on any longer than it needs to be.”

“Our lives are on the line. I don’t want to move on until we’re entirely sure.”

“He’s already confessed, though…isn’t this enough?” Yamada lets out a long-suffering sigh. “And, I can’t see any indication of anyone else who might’ve done it.”

“No, but Kyoko has a point,” Asahina interjects. “We almost got tricked once already into thinking it was Byakuya, right? We should be careful.”

“Yes. We should err on the side of caution,” Ogami agrees. “I can’t see the harm in having Taka speak, and…I cannot trust Mondo’s confession entirely. No matter how logical it seems.”

“He can’t,” Owada cuts in, that desperate tinge on his voice again. “I keep telling you guys- can’t you just leave him alone? Please?” He hangs his head low. “I know - I’ve done bad by you guys, I’m not exactly the easiest to get along with, but please, just…he’s been through a lot. Can’t you cut him a break?”

“Erm…Can you kids make up your mind?” Monokuma is still standing, balanced precariously on the tips of its toes with one arm still straining upwards. “My stitches are ‘bout to pop, you know!!”

During this whole time, Makoto was silent. Thinking again, Byakuya recognized, as he usually does with his chin tucked under a curled finger, his foot tapping a quiet rhythm against the floor.

“Okay, then. Taka doesn’t have to talk.” He says slowly. “But in that case - Taka, can you please take off your bandage? So we can see the wound?”

“The wound-?” Owada sputters, taken aback by the sudden request. “Wha- Makoto, what are you…?”

“Something about the whole story has been bothering me. Mondo, I know that you, uh…sometimes, you react kinda strongly, I guess, to stuff that makes you mad, but you’re also really caring. I find it hard to believe that you’d twist up on Chihiro like that so fast.” Makoto drops his hand to a fist at his side, clenched tight. “If the trophy really did hit Taka as bad as you said - where he got hit by the edge of it - then the wound should also be really bad, right?” He turns back to Ishimaru. “Taka, please. You don’t need to say anything, but- please, just show us.”

“No way, he doesn’t need to-” But Owada stops suddenly, slack-jawed as he stares.

Watching as Ishimaru slowly unwinds the stained, white strips wrapped around his head with shaky hands.

—

“As I thought,” Kyoko says, as the last bandage falls away. “There’s nothing there to constitute that amount of blood on that bandage, is there?”

And it’s true. The pile of linen that now litter the floor around Taka’s feet is stained and spotted through with blood, but there’s no sign of an injury anywhere on his head. There’s not even a bump, or a bruise.

Makoto swallows thickly, before he continues. “Taka, you never hit your head at all, did you?” And Taka flinches, face somehow blanching paler. “You’re the one that killed Chihiro.”

“No, he didn’t, it was me-!” Mondo throws out an arm in Taka’s direction, as if trying to shield him from the accusations. “I keep telling you - I was the one who did it, I killed Chihiro-”

“No you didn’t. You were covering for him.” This was the worst. Mondo - he was violent at the worst of times, but ultimately kind, and extremely loyal - and right now, Makoto was going to kill his best friend.

“Are you stupid or something? Makoto, hey-” There’s a strange grin twitching on the corner of Mondo’s mouth, like this was some joke he could laugh off. “I’m telling you - how many times do I have to tell you? It was me.”

“It wasn’t-”

“It was!”

It goes on like this for a while. Everyone else is silent - or, it feels like they’re silent. Makoto can’t really hear them, not over the rush in his own head, or Mondo’s desperate, hysteric words, denying the accusation, insulting Makoto and everyone else, cursing, pleading, screaming. It’s the same as when Leon was condemned, when all he could do at the end of it was wail, ‘stupid, stupid, stupid!’ until Makoto pointed out the toolkit, the undeniable proof that it had to be him. Or, when it was Byakuya-

And he stumbles a bit, his rebuttal stuttering as he falters. He remembers the look on Byakuya’s face as he asked about his handbook, with the knowledge that he couldn’t bring it out himself. Not without revealing it to Monokuma. And therefore forcing him to admit it by his own words, the one thing he wanted to conceal from everyone else in the room. The betrayal, the hatred - just thinking about him made Makoto want to disappear.

But there’d been no other choice. Kyoko told him as much when they were investigating; ‘There’s a likelihood that you will have to reveal his secret during the trial,’ she had said, as they inspected the still-damp floorboards of the trophy room. ‘It may be the only way to clear his name.’

He’ll hate me for it, Makoto had protested, and she had just shrugged and turned back to inspecting the trophies, one of which had small dots of blood at the corner of its marble base.

‘Would you rather live being hated or die knowing you could have prevented it? He’ll get over it if he wants to survive.’ 

Easy for her to say, he thinks, as Mondo screams something at him, an barb so ugly it made him feel equal parts furious and sick with guilt, because Mondo would probably never say such a thing otherwise if it weren’t for this. She’s never had to do this before.

“Dammit, show me the proof! If he did do it, what’s the proof!” Mondo shouts, accompanied by a loud bang as he slams his hands against the railing. “You don’t have any goddamn proof, you little shit! So don’t just stand there and say shit you don’t know!”

“That’s enough.”

For a moment, it’s hard to place who said that. The words were spoken so quietly, after all, and so raspy it was hard to discern whose voice it was. But Byakuya cocks his head, and turns to look in Taka’s direction with a frown.

Taka is still as still as ever, but one hand rests on the bannister, and he’s leaning forward. “That’s enough, Mondo,” He says again, louder, before coughing into his elbow, clearing his throat. “Please…just stop.”

Mondo looks like he was slapped across the face, mouth agape in shock. “Wh-what are you saying?” He tries to laugh, but it sounds more like a sob than anything. “Taka - bro, it’s okay, you fell and hit your head-”

“Mondo. That’s enough,” He repeats. His eyes are hollow; Makoto finds it hard to look him in the face. “I killed Chihiro.”

Kyoko is the only one who speaks up to ask: “How?”

Taka talks slowly, haltingly, as if trying to dredge the memories up. “It - it was after Mondo left with Chihiro and Makoto. To the cafeteria. I was still cleaning, alone - when I’m alone, I think. About things, my family outside the school, if they’re alive, my secret, my grandfather - and then Chihiro came back. Alone.” He sways slightly, steadied only by his hand, white-knuckled against the wood. “And - as he was talking - I was still thinking - and -”

He pauses, taking slow, deep breaths. No one says a word. Makoto’s not sure if he’s even breathing.

“It just - it wasn’t fair. Him, confessing it - it was so easy, for him. He was so happy about it. My grandfather - if you knew, you would hate me. That’s how it’s always been, everyone who’s ever known about it, hated me. But he was so happy, and he -” He takes another deep, shuddering breath. “It was an accident. I - I just pushed him, I didn’t think I pushed him hard, but he hit the shelf. And, the trophy…”

It’s not hard to figure out what happened afterward. Makoto can practically imagine it, though he doesn’t want to; Chihiro going up to Taka, and Taka, too caught up in his own trauma, backing away, combatting his own fury and dread. And Chihiro, walking up closer to check on him, only to get shoved bodily backwards, into the trophy shelf, and then-

Mondo is shaking his head, tears falling silently down his face - muttering ‘no’ under his breath, over and over, like a mantra. Taka turns to him, a sad sort of smile tugging at his mouth.

“Thank you, Mondo. For trying,” And he sounds so genuine and so incredibly sad. “But - I can’t let my family be disgraced anymore. I can’t let anyone die for my sake.”

“No, no, no,” Mondo repeats, and despite his size, he shakes like a leaf. “No, don’t, don’t, Taka,” And his voice breaks. “Don’t- Please don’t, I won’t be able to take it, I can’t take it, Taka- not again-”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, don’t you dare fucking apologize-! Just-” He breaks down fully now, and turns away, one hand raised to his eyes.

“Forgive me,” Celeste interrupts, still wearing her indecipherable smile, unnatural red eyes narrowed slightly as she addresses Taka. “But I recall you were the first to suggest sharing secrets the night Monokuma revealed the motive, no?”

Taka recoils slightly at that, bowing his head. “I…I was. I thought - I could be prepared. If it’s the right thing to do, I could do it. But-” he turns away, his brows twisted into a scowl. “I…”

“Enough.” Kyoko sighs. “There’s no point in making pointless allegations. We have our explanation. There’s nothing left to say.”

And she casts Makoto a look, which Makoto interprets immediately, and he sighs.

—

As Makoto explains, it started when he and Chihiro were walking around the first floor, planning to find and talk to everyone Chihiro had yet to disclose his secret to.

After they had spoken to Owada, Chihiro went to talk with Ishimaru alone - Ishimaru, who was so rule-abiding and careful that no one would assume him to be of any danger - and that was how he died. Suddenly, and unexpectedly, and completely by accident.

Owada was the one who found the body, and to protect his friend, who was reeling from shock, he concocted a story as he wrapped the corpse in a cloth and mopped up the blood. To claim that he killed Chihiro, that Taka was merely injured, and therefore protect his friend from harm.

It was during this time that Fukawa was in the library, making her own confession, before Byakuya’s swift rejection sent her fleeing. As she went down the first floor, she saw the body, and with the cord that was tangled around her ankle, she strung it up outside the library door in a poor likeness of Syo’s handiwork. In some twisted display of vengeance, or a demand for attention, or something; and when it was done, overwhelmed by the blood and exhausted by her own perseverance, she took the sheet to the bathroom with her and collapsed, where Kirigiri found her moments later.

Byakuya listens to him explain it through a fog, feeling distant from it all. As if he was merely observing it from behind a broken, filthy screen, the sounds tinny and the visuals shot. He watches as Owada clings to Ishimaru, screaming for mercy at Monokuma’s feet. He watches as Ishimaru is dragged ruthlessly away anyway, behind the steel doors of the execution chamber.

He watches the execution, from behind a glass window. Ishimaru standing in a gleaming white car, the sunroof pulled down, driving through a street lined with the black-and-white shapes of more Monokumas, cheering indistinctly as confetti rains around him. The Monokuma in the seat next to him is holding a sign, lifting his arm to make him wave, poking his cheek to make him smile.

There’s a loud crack, and Ishimaru seems to stumble, a bloom of blood on the shoulder of his white uniform. But he doesn’t fall; he must be held up by some kind of mechanism or another, because a moment later he’s upright again, still being forced to wave, to smile, even as the cheering turns to jeers and he starts being pelted with what looks like rotten fruit, the dark red shapes of tomatoes smashing against his head. Another gunshot, and this time it’s his leg, a large, dark spot in his thigh. Another, in his stomach, and he seems to cough a little, blood trickling from his mouth.

There must be a microphone or something pinned to Ishimaru’s collar, because Byakuya can hear his breathing, harsh and labored, pitched with fear. The whimpering he can’t quite suppress, the jumps in his throat as he tries to swallow. And, the quiet whisper, barely audible behind the shouting, the gunshots, the noise of it all -

‘I’m sorry-

The final shot is a thunderous noise accompanied by a sudden, gaping pit between his eyes. He slumps, and the scene stills at last; the crowd stops yelling, the car freezes in its tracks. The lights go off, plunging Ishimaru’s lonely form into darkness.

And through it all, Owada never stopped screaming once.

Byakuya tears his eyes away, holding onto the railing of the stand to keep from falling as he steps down. It’s a similar scene as the aftermath of the last trial, everyone either comforting each other or wallowing in their own grief, and Monokuma giggling over them.

“Oh, oh, oh! That was good! Not even ol’ John could’ve done it better!” It sings, dancing between them. “I got a little antsy earlier when you called for the vote the first time, but you all pulled through with fly-ing colors!! Amazing performance! Especially that last confession, I was so moved!” It cackles, twirling and landing right next to Owada, who was on his knees, hands plastered against the window as if praying. “Such a lovely display of friendship at the end there, or was it really friendship? Whatever the case, the bond between men sure is something! I don’t think I’ve ever seen - whoops!”

Owada had grabbed him, and now rises with the bear dangling between his hands. His arms are trembling like Monokuma’s the heaviest thing he’s ever held.

“You,” He hisses, and his voice is wet and choked through. “If it wasn’t for you- if it wasn’t for you-!”

“Puhu, do you ree-ally want to do this, Mister Owada? Didn’t you learn your lesson on the first day of school?” Monokuma swings its feet in the air. “I’d hate to punish you after that amazing show-”

“I don’t care.” He spits. As Byakuya draws closer, he can hear the quiet splat of fat tears, striking the floor. “I don’t care, you killed him- I should tear you to pieces right now-”

And he stops, as Byakuya places a hand on his elbow. “Put it down.”

He’s sure that the face Owada is giving him is positively murderous. “Why should I,” he snarls, and his words are still thick with grief. “The fucker-”

“Even if you break this one, another one will take his place. And there’s probably countless replacements.” Byakuya sighs. What was he doing? He wasn’t sure himself. “What are you planning to accomplish? Other than a very messy suicide?”

“You bastard-” He drops Monokuma, who lands with a squeak, and grabs Byakuya instead, hoisting him by the collar. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing? What does it matter to you if I die?” His last words sound less like a threat and more like a genuine question.

Instead of immediately replying, Byakuya casts a glance over his shoulder. Only a few people were watching them, the rest too preoccupied by their own misery. “...Take a look. There’s only so many of us left.” Byakuya looks back to Mondo, and even through the haze, he can see his face is pinched into a look of anguish. ”Did you hear what his last words were? Because I did.”

The grip on his shirt slackens, and his feet meet stable ground again. He pushes Owada’s limp hands away. “I don’t care if you want to die. But take responsibility at least.” He glares at him, his kneeling form. “We can’t leave until everyone’s on the elevator, so stand up and walk.”

There’s a part of him that wants to berate Owada - to tell him that Ishimaru likely never wanted his help in the first place, that all he accomplished was unnecessary strife - but such a thing doesn’t sit right with him. That would be the actions of someone petty and sore, a pathetic loser who couldn’t let it go; and right now, all Byakuya wants to do is sleep.

He steps onto the elevator. Celeste is already there, poised as ever, as is Yamada, who is mumbling unhappily to himself. Kirigiri and Makoto join them shortly after.

Makoto balks slightly when he sees Byakuya, tripping at the threshold with a yelp. But he straightens up quickly, glances around, and slowly, hesitantly, walks to Byakuya’s side. “Um…”

“Be silent.” He snaps. Makoto recoils instantly. “Do not speak to me. The deal is null.”

“Byakuya-”

He turns away, focusing on the metal grates of the elevator walls. The wires are bent into some kind of honeycomb pattern, though it’s not like Byakuya could make out exactly what.

He half-expects Makoto to say something more, but the elevator ride up is silent and still.

< previous - from start - next >

[beck-a-leck]

Ya know what.

More fanfic writers have got to start using "And Cast" character tags. (Or something similar)

I personally glaze completely over a huge Wall of Character Tags on AO3. I absorb nothing. I lose all concept of which characters are actually in the story in a meaningful way because Every Single Character is tagged. (And I know I cannot be the only person who does the same thing)

I hate looking for fics about a certain character and finding a thousand fics with them tagged but they're background, they're mentioned by other characters, maybe they have one line.

(If there was one thing I liked about fanfictiondotnet it was that character tags were limited. So only the actual main characters of the story were tagged.)

I don't need all 30 characters from a game or book or movie tagged for one story. Even if they all have scenes with the main characters. Even if they have dialogue. Their presence in the location of the story is implied and understood because they're canon characters.

'And Cast' succinctly encompasses the concept that "More characters will be here but they won't be the focus of the story." It's a beautiful 2-word shorthand tag to communicate something important to readers.

It would help declutter tag lists, so people can get a better idea of what's inside a story. It would help eliminate false positives for people looking for stories focusing on their blorbos. It would just help SO MUCH!

And I'm going to stand on my soapbox and shout about it tonight