#the guilt would immediately SMASH into him so hard and | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

flowercrowngods · 2 years ago

Text

this wouldn't leave me alone, so have my thoughts on a steve-centric "who did this to you?" steddie concept inspired by @imfinereallyy (i hope this is okay, even though it's uhhh nothing like what you mentioned)

When Eddie gets to the boathouse, he immediately notices that something is off. The door is cracked open but he can’t hear anyone talking or moving stuff around. No one ever comes here — it’s been his hideout spot since the ripe age of thirteen when he’d had hist first real fight with Wayne.

No one comes here. But now the door is cracked open and Eddie stares at it for a good minute as though that would make it come to life and tell him who’s inside so he won’t have to look and deal with whoever decided to steal his spot. He’s really not in the mood to start any shit today, or to be called all sorts of names — most of which aren’t even half as true as people fear.

His first instinct is to leave, find somewhere else to hide from this miserable world today, when he hears it. The sound of sniffling, followed by wet, heavy breaths.

Oh. It sounds like someone’s crying. In his spot.

Maybe it’s some girl who got her heart broken, some dude who lost the last bit of faith in his family, or some kid who—

Ah, fuck it, he’ll just come back later. Not his problem. Definitely not his problem. And it’s definitely not guilt or worry that gnaw at him as he turns on his heel to leave.

But then there’s a groan. A pained groan. Someone’s in pain, and crying in his spot, and Eddie really shouldn’t make that his problem. He shouldn't. Nopbody cares when he's crying and in pain either! But fuck if he won’t be thinking about it for the rest of his life if he turns his back on whoever it is. Maybe they need help.

They most certainly sound like they do.

With a heavy sigh, Eddie is already at the door before he can think about it too much.

“Hello?” he asks the darkness, and immediately the sniffling stops.

Silence falls, but only for a moment before whoever it is has to draw shaky, wheezing breaths that make Eddie swear under his breath.

“Listen, I know you’re here.” He’s taking slow, deliberate steps, his eyes roaming he mess of boats, tools and tarp he knows so well. “And I’m not trying to start anything. Tell me to go away and I will. But I have a first aid kit in my car and, uh, you sound like maybe you need it.”

There’s no response, but the wheezing breaths turn into whimpers with every second that whoever it is tries very hard not to make any noise, and Eddie’s heart starts to race in his chest. He can feel worry and panic starting to rise. And overshadowing it is an overwhelming sense of dread.

What the fuck is happening?

He tries to be careful but his mind is racing and his limbs are starting to feel like lead. His wary steps become heavy and clumsy, and then he accidentally boots something that makes a terrible, horrible noise, breaking the eerie silence. Eddie cringes and is about to apologise, when finally there is movement in his peripheral vision.

And then he sees him. There, hidden in the shadows between a boat and the far wall, his face breaten and bloodied, his eye swelling around a nasty bruise. Wait, do bruises bleed? Should they look black like that? Is it a cut? Something worse?

Even after years of constant bullying and goading in middle school and high school, he has never actually seen someone look like this. With their face completely smashed in. It makes him freeze for a horrible, horrible moment before he saps out of it.

“Fuck,” Eddie breathes, hurrying over as fast as he can, stumbling over tools and tarp as he does. Something falls to the floor with a loud clunk and it makes the boy flinch again. Eddie curses. “Sorry, shit, sorry!”

He makes it to the boat rather quickly, crouching down in front of the boy a few feet away so as not to spook him, not to crowd him. And then his heart only plummets further, because he knows this one.

Steve Harrington. The boy who’s come to school with many a black eye over the past two years — but never this bad. The boy who’s been looking like the world might be about to end each time he rounded a corner in school; ever since things started happening around Hawkins. Since the Holland girl died and the Byers boy disappeared.

It fascinated Eddie, the way Steve fell from grace. The way he turned quiet, and showed up with healing bruises. There are stories woven around it, because teenagers like to gossip and word spreads fast, and Eddie always listened with rapt attention as Harrington turned into a bit of a myth. A legend. A ghost story.

But fascination is not what he feels right now, seeing Steve like this.

His eyes are unfocused and Eddie knows about the danger of head injuries. He knows about the consequences of blood loss, he knows that Steve will be warm to the touch even though he’s shivering already, and… Fuck!

“Shit, Steve,” he rasps, not daring to speak louder lest he spooks the boy. Of all the reasons he’s had to be afraid of talking to Steve Harrington, this one might be the cruellest. "I..."

He takes in his wounds, his bruised and scraped knuckles where his hands are wrapped around the knees he’s pulled to his chest, and his split lip that he keeps biting.

Eddie swallows before he asks, “Who did this to you?”

But Steve just shakes his head clumsily. Sniffles again, and then his breath comes in wet heaves, and Eddie worries for a moment that he’s going to throw up now.

He doesn’t.

Steve’s just staring. Eddie isn’t even entirely sure he can see him, or maybe he did and then forgot, or maybe he’s fading. Eddie should do something, he should get help, he should—

“Steve,” he says, and dares to touch him when he doesn’t react.

A light touch to the knee shouldn’t make anyone flinch like that, but Steve’s whole body jumps, and then the shivers and the wheezing get worse. It almost sounds like a whimper, and Eddie curses again. Feels like crying now, scared and helpless as he is.

“Fuck, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, okay, I— Jesus, okay.” He swallows hard, trying to think, willing for the panic to subside and a plan to form. “You’re okay. I... I’m gonna, I’m gonna grab the first aid kit. I have it in my car. It’s not, it’s not far. And a blanket. So you'll be warm again. I’ll be right back, okay? Don’t move, don’t…" He gestures wildly, caught between reaching out and pulling away. "Don’t move.”

Eddie takes a wavering breath and moves to stand on numb, tingly legs, nearly missing Steve’s, “Can’t.” It’s barely more than a whisper, hardly even a wheeze. It’s like he’s just breathing out words because everything else is too much effort.

Right. Right. This is messed up and Eddie’s panicking, but Steve will be okay. Because things like that don’t happen, not here, not today, and not to Steve Harrington.

Except this is Hawkins. Where Will Byers disappeared and Barb Holland died and many people are missing and weird shit just ends up happening everywhere even though they’re all just kids. They’re just kids. And Steve’s not even conscious enough to realise that right now.

Eddie all but runs outside, sprinting to his van with a speed that would make the coach swallow his stupid whistle if gym class only mattered right now. It doesn't. Nothing matters, because Steve is... He's hurt. And there's no one else around to help.

Grabbing the first aid kit, a bottle of water and a thick blanket he always keeps spread out in the back of his van, he makes it back to the boathouse in no time.

He wasn’t even gone for three minutes, but still he sighs in relief when Steve is still awake. He even looks up. Blinks. Frowns in what can only be confusion and makes Eddie's heart fall.

“Munson?”

Fuck, that’s not a good sign. That’s messed up, it’s fucked up, it’s— Focus, Eddie!

“The one and only,” he says, voice shaky and his smile not fooling anyone. He wraps the blanket around Steve, whose eyes are unfocused again, though he tries so hard to blink it away.

Brave boy, stupid boy. Head trauma isn’t blinked away. Though Eddie is inclined to let him try. Maybe he’ll find a way.

“Here.” He hands the bottle over to Steve, who grabs it with clumsy hands. He can hold it, but he can’t get it open — again, not a good sign.

Eddie opens it for him, then turns to his first aid kit. It seemed like a great idea five minutes ago, but he’s petrified now. It’s too dark in here and he can’t really see the wounds, he doesn’t know what to use, what’s in there, he doesn’t, he can’t, he—

The bottle, empty now, is handed back to him, bumping into his hand, tearing him away from his spiralling thoughts.

“Thanks,” Harrington breathes, and there’s a small smile visible in the darkness. Eddie just nods and takes it with hands that are still shaking.

“I wanna help you,” he says, like it isn’t obvious. “But I don’t know how. You gotta tell me where it hurts, Steve.”

A beat. “Everywhere.”

Eddie sags, falling back to sit opposite Steve, frantically rubbing at his face. “Shit.”

“Yeah.” Steve chuckles, but it sounds so wet with tears and pain, Eddie never wants to hear it again. “Thought I could do it.”

He’s talking. That’s a good thing, right? He can’t pass out as long as he’s talking. That’s how that works, isn’t it? So, Eddie asks, “Do what?”

“Doctors told me,” Steve sighs, his voice slow and slurring. “Told me to... to stay out of fights. Stay out of them. Said I had to make sure my head won’t—“

He makes a motion with his fist, and Eddie thinks he’s simulating a punch, disoriented as it is. It makes his heart fall. Is that what happened? Someone beat Steve to a pulp? Again? Just like that?

Eddie is so stuck on that thought, trying to piece together the puzzle, that he almost misses Steve’s mumbled speech.

“Y’know, th— Said I’ll go blind. Or deaf. Or just… die.” He says it to matter-of-factly that Eddie’s heart stops for a second.

What the fuck happened to Steve Harrington? Not just today, no. What happened to him?

What happend to make him look up at Eddie Munson, out of all people, with glistening eyes so endlessly scared, and say, “I don’t wanna die, Munson. I never… I didn’t. With the monsters or the torture. I can't—” A wheeze, a keen, a whimper, and Harringtin pulls at his hair, uncaring that he's making things worse.

Meanwhile, Eddie is stuck on his words. Because what.

“Can’t, can't die now ‘cause Tommy thinks he’s so… He’s… He’s just sad, man. Griev'n' and confused. But Billy’s gone, an'— And now I’ll…”

Steve looks at him now, his eyes shining with tears and something that Eddie’s written poems about and created characters around. This expression, like the world will end. And inspiring as it is, it fucking breaks his heart now.

“They said my brain is hurt, Eddie.”

Eddie swallows the hurt and the fear and the complete overwhelm he's feeling. Steve is telling him things that Eddie doesn't know how to handle.

“You won’t die, Steve,” he says in as gentle a voice as he can muster right now, because that's the only thing he knows.

And he won’t, right? People don’t just die. Not from taking a punch, not when they just graduated high school, not when they’re Steve Harrington. Right?

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay,” Steve breathes. “That’s good.”

Eddie wants to hug him in that moment. He never knew that this was possible, wanting to hug Steve Harrington, wanting to wrap the blanket around him even tighter and keep him safe and convince him that he won’t die.

And then the rest of what he said catches up with Eddie and leaves anger in its wake.

“Hagan did that to you?”

Steve nods. “Started going off about Billy.”

Eddie’s blood freezes at that name. "Hargrove?”

Another nod, though Steve doesn’t look too happy about moving his head, and he groans quietly. “They were friends. Tommy is angry. Grieving. Con— Confused. He was just saying shit, like it’s my fault. And it is. Kinda. But Tommy’s, he, he’s... Just saying shit. And then he punched me. A lot. And he didn’t stop. And now… is now.”

“Yeah,” Eddie breathes dumbly, carefully bandaging the glaring wound at his temple, needing to start somewhere. “Now is now.” His blood is still frozen as he tries very hard not to listen to Steve. Nothing that Harrington says has any right to matter anything to him; they live in two different worlds. If Harrington confesses to murder while severely concussed under Eddie’s watch, then there are no witnesses to drag either of them through the mud for it. Eddie is just gonna forget about it. Or try, anyway. “But you’re… Shit , Steve, you’re really hurt.”

Steve blinks. Pauses. And Eddie thinks he’s lost him. But then, “Yeah. I’m always hurt.”

And that, in this little voice, is like a gut punch. Because Eddie knows something about always hurt. “What?”

“What?”

There is ice in his veins as he asks, “Who’s hurting you, Steve?”

Steve looks at him, opening his mouth once, twice, like he’s about to say something and Eddie holds his breath. But then Steve’s eyes droop and he shrinks in on himself a bit more.

“Jus’ everyone, sometimes. God you don’t… You don’t even know.”

Know what, Harrington? Eddie can barely breathe anymore.

“’M tired, Eddie,” Steve mumbles, closing his eyes. “Don’t wanna hurt anymore.”

“Hey, hey, no!” Eddie reaches out, catching Steve’s head and preventing it from colliding with the floor as he’s slumping and falling over.

And just like that, the panic is back, frantic but determined this time. He’s going to get help; there’s nothing he can do with his lousy first aid kit, not when Steve keeps going in and out of consciousness like that. Not when he can barely see anything or clean the wounds properly.

He’s going to get Steve to a hospital and allow them both to forget this ever happened. Because Steve Harrington and Eddie Munson don’t breathe the same air or share traumatic stories in a boathouse like this.

He’ll get out of Steve’s hair the second the hospital doors close behind him, and get out of whatever trouble someone like Harrington could be in. Eddie doesn’t even want to know. He doesn't want to be part of his ghost story.

But as he’s scooping him up and helping him out of the damned boathouse, clumsily preventing him from stumbling over his own feet or tools or tarp or planks or whatever fucking shit is littering the floor of this godforsaken place, he can hear Steve speaking quietly.

"Where‘re we going?"

And even though a second ago he was determined to take Steve to a hospital, there is only one place on Eddie's mind right now. Only one place he knows where he won't be scared anymore.

"Somewhere safe," he says, tightening his hold on the boy even though his hands are shaking now, too. He looks over his shoulders the moment they're out of the boathouse, stupidly worried that whoever did this to Steve – Hagan, apparently – would still be around, would follow them and do the same shit to Eddie.

"Safe?"

"Safe."

"Okay," Steve sighs, like he believes him. Like he trusts him. Hell, they've never even spoken before, but something inside Eddie breaks at the little sigh, at the way Steve goes slack in his arms. And even more at the little, "Thanks."

If Eddie's eyes are filled with tears and the hands around the wheel are clenched so tight to hide the way they're shaking, then Steve is not conscious enough to comment on it.

(addendum 7 december) onwards to part 2

#steddie #steddie fic #steve harrington x eddie munson #steve harrington #eddie munson #this is somewhere between s3 and s4 obviously #but also i just re-read the op post and realised that this is nothing like what they wished for so uh. sorry? never trust me with prompts y #who did this to you #hurt steve #steve harrington whump #pre-steddie #sorry op maybe i'll try again and get it right this time but uh. yeah #dio words

2K notes · View notes

i-drop-level-one-loot · 1 year ago

Text

I worry about you (Clingy!Yandere x Delinquent!Reader)

CW: body trauma, unhealthy relationships, yandere behavior

"I don't understand, why are you saying these things?!" Everett shouted, tugging on (Reader's) jacket like a man fearful of drowning. The two stood at the top of a set of wooden outdoor stairs built into a steep hill in the city's little hiking trail/park, a meeting spot where they often hung out after school.

His brown eyes glowed under the sun like molten gold, churning with heartache as he held onto his only friend.

(Reader) kept their face rigid like stone, fighting the desire to retract what they had said, their decision was final. It was for Everett's own good. "Dude, stop acting crazy. You're acting like we were dating. I'm just saying that I need space. Go make other friends, go on dates, I don't care. Jesus, just stop hanging onto me all the time."

Lies, all lies. I don't mind how clingy you are. I love that you stay by my side. I know I have a shit personality, I know I'm trash, so I really appreciate that you're the only one to stay my friend. You've been my friend since we were ten years old, so please, PLEASE, fucking take the hint. I've seen that the teachers have started to treat you differently just because you're my friend. And how many times do I have to rescue you from wannabe thugs who only fuck with you because they hate me? You deserve better than that.

You deserve better than me.

(Reader) roughly shook their only friend off their arm. It was painful now, for both of them, but (Reader) knew it was for the best.

"But why? What did I do wrong?" Everett sniffled, rubbing his eyes as the waterworks persisted. (Reader) turned to leave, unable to watch Everett any longer without their resolve crumbling. "WAIT!" Everett panicked, reaching out to latch onto (Reader's) arm again. (Reader) felt his fingers brush against their arm, and threw back their elbow to push Everett away.

They didn't know, however, that Everett had stepped forward. (Reader) misjudged how hard to push, not knowing that Everett was closer than he was just a second ago. Their wrist smashed into Everett's chest, causing him to stumble backwards, and tumble down the stairs.

Eyes widening in fear, (Reader) immediately began sprinting down the steps, skipping two at a time on the way down as their friend bounced against the weathered wood, hitting the dirt at the bottom hard. Their heart was beating so fast it felt like they would have a heart attack as they jumped the last couple stairs, crouching over their best friend crying in the fetal position.

"Everett, oh my God, are you okay?!" They gingerly scooped his upper half into their lap, examining his head for injuries.

"My- my arm..." Everett cradled his arm, crushing (Reader) further with guilt.

Placing his head down carefully, (Reader) took off running, calling out for help in hopes that someone nearby had a phone to call an ambulance. They disappeared out of Everett's sight, hearing them hollering as they ran away.

As soon as (Reader) vanished from view, Everett stopped crying, sitting up miserably. How did this happen?

Everything had been going so perfectly. Everett had set himself up as a weak, innocent best friend for (Reader), tailoring his personality for the past eight years to ensure that (Reader) would never leave him. When his family uprooted his life at the age of ten, he already knew there was no chance of happiness in his future. It was hard enough convincing anyone at his old school to like a freak like him, but being a new kid on top of having a personality that for some reason pushed everyone away? Everett knew it was hopeless.

But it seemed fate had other plans for him. The very first day in the new home Everett attempted to climb the large tree in his fenceless backyard and slipped, falling out of one of the lower branches. It hadn't hurt all that much, really just stinging a bit, but he didn't have time to even sit up before his new neighbor was rushing over to help him, having witnessed the fall from their back window. (Reader) was an angel, the summer sunlight illuminating their form like a halo. They didn't waste a second, pulling Everett's body onto their back, struggling under his weight but forcing their tiny muscles to carry Everett to his parents. It didn't even hurt, and Everett was more than capable of walking on his own, but having someone his own age care about him for the first time in his entire ten years of life.. he played into it, relishing in the attention he was receiving, forcing large crocodile tears out in hopes (Reader) would stay by his side longer. And it worked.

It worked for eight years, so why were they pushing him away now?

He constantly allowed himself to trip in front of (Reader), embarrassing himself over and over to keep them paying attention to him. Even now, throwing himself backwards down a flight of stairs while making it look like an accident, just to prevent (Reader) from leaving him.

Unfortunately, nothing was actually broken on him. He glanced around, finding a rock almost too large to grasp in one hand. Unlike when they were children, Everett didn't believe crying would be enough to keep (Reader) by his side. He rolled up the sleeve on the arm he pretended was broken, biting down onto the front of his hoodie. It didn't matter if (Reader) was only with him out of guilt, it only mattered that they were with him.

Everett smiled through gritted teeth, thinking about (Reader) sitting next to him in the hospital, refusing to leave his side for even a second, then brought the heavy rock down onto his arm with an audible crack.

Please continue worrying about me.

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere best friend #clingy yandere #yandere fanfiction #writing #not proofread #tw manipulation

2K notes · View notes

nvuy · 3 months ago

Text

dulcet — sunday

summary. it is within the safest parts of the world that sunday loses himself, and it seems that only you can provide him the salvation he desperately searches for.

notes. i wrote this for mags :)))) hiiiiiiiiiii!!!!!!!!! confiteor part three THATS IT. DONT ASK ME FOR ANOTHER ONE. you can read part one and two here or on tumblr if you want. i'd recommend because this series is mind boggling. i wish you all an open mind, because if this confuses you, that's the point.

warnings. mdni, 18+, gn reader with fem anatomy, you are implied to do street work, crazy freaky shit, long ass 11k post, whatever form of body worship this counts as, sunday needs to be medicated asap and needs therapy, angst if you look at it with your eyes open, religious guilt & themes, and again its literally just a dirty smashing session. nobody is surprised.

Sunday laid and simply waited for sleep to come. It was dark now, and the clock on the other side of his room was ticking and ticking with each minute that passed. Something twitched with every noise; a finger, his eye, his lips.

Exhaustion crept behind his eyes, and yet they refused to remain shut. Every tick of the clock, every creak of the bed, every single noise he heard put him on edge. He stiffened like a corpse when the sheets moved.

It’s just him.

It was just him and nobody else. It had become harder and harder to convince himself that he was alone. This was his bedroom; the same four walls he surrendered himself to every night and prayed to see tomorrow morning. A home such as his didn’t warrant nor promise his safety when he laid his head to rest.

And that was what had scared him. The window to his bedroom was cracked open just a tad; he had his rhythm. All the windows shut and the door locked tight from the inside. Any draft of wind from outside would stir him awake in an instant, as well as the fact that anyone would contort through the gap and come forth and touch him and–

Sunday only clutched at the neckline of his shirt to calm himself. Usually, he’d twist his hand into the pendant he wore around his throat, but that was stowed away in its jewellery box — and Robin had highly discouraged the bad habit because he was growing ghastly scars on his palm from repeatedly splitting the skin open on the white gold charm.

He swallowed hard, and the lump in his throat remained. He gritted his teeth and shut his eyes tight in frustration. He tried to relax, loosening the tension in his shoulders and stiffness in his legs, but he locked up again almost immediately.

Like a corpse.

He could hear tapping outside of his room again. Clicking of heels, footsteps trailing back and forth down the hall. There was no light bleeding beneath the door, but shadows passed beneath as if someone was standing outside. Waiting.

Sunday turned over and faced the window. It’s open. He stiffened up even more and swallowed even harder. It shouldn’t be open. He found no courage to stand up and close it himself; the floor would be too cold. His feet are bare. The wind picked up hastily and the silk curtains drifted lazily like the breeze did not freeze him to his bones.

At the same time, he felt hot in his skin. Burning like the sun, like hot wax and sweat glittering down his skin. Like rain and sand and molten metal mixed into his chest, ready to burst through the flesh and leave him without a heart. The pathetic muscle beat frantically despite having to convince himself there was nobody here.

He knew there was nobody in the room with him. He knows this. There’s never anyone with him.

And yet, he felt as if one thousand different eyes were peering down from the shadowed corners and staring and peeling back every layer of his skin and delving into his very being. And it hurt. Like lead weighed down his bones. Like he couldn’t move a single muscle in his body.

So he laid there and hurt.

He tried to breathe as the feeling entrenched through his veins and twisted against the walls of his organs until he was swallowed whole by whatever this was. Stabbing and burning and bruising blossomed in his legs. Breathe. Just breathe.

He tried to think of birds. The old small doves outside of the window that used to visit him when he was very, very small. Small enough that he remembered being accompanied by his mother, and too little that Robin wasn’t even in the picture yet. He would lean over the windowsill and reach out a small hand to one of them. Usually, they’d run away, but he found if he remained still for long enough, they’d curiously come close and use his hand as a branch.

That was years ago.

He shook harder and pressed his lips together. He couldn’t tell if he could see something in the corner of the bedroom, but he couldn’t move his head to affirm it. He felt eyes. Eyes and mouths and hands and they reach lower and lower and beneath his clothes and he can’t breathe.

He felt claws.

The pointed ends of them sank deep into his stomach, the flesh denting and daring to tear beneath the tips. He swallowed hard, hard enough that the lump in his throat cut into his jugular.

And that familiar sensation of heat began to return. Again. He finally found the strength to let a finger by his side twitch, and he realised then the hand delving towards his navel was his own. His nails tap at the skin again and again as if waiting, as if his hand had its own mind. He felt it did.

He felt it was yours.

He finally turned over to face away from the window and tucked his hands beneath the pillow underneath his head. The clock in his room ticked away. His heart beat in tune.

Why does it hurt?

Paranoia set its teeth into his neck, and he had the love bites to show for it. He remembered the feeling of sharp canines digging into his flesh and ruining his throat. And he remembered crying out, not from fear as he did now, but from the pain, the rushing of blood through his veins, and the hot press of skin against skin. And that feeling.

Alive.

That’s what it was. His blood boiled, and he was afraid, but he felt alive. Above this plain, and the next, and in your arms instead.

The paranoia persisted.

He finally sat up and stared at the back wall of his room. The walls were barren, stripped of character, and his room was something of the same. There isn’t much on display. That’s too much clutter. There’s a jewellery box for his earrings in front of the mirror he refuses to look into. He doesn’t own a lot of things — and what is there to own? Other than a few books he has at his disposal, they tell nothing of his character.

If he had it his way, the bookshelf would be filled with romance novels. The terrible kind. The ones that were so over the top that he simply had to put them down and stare at nothing for five minutes before turning to the next page.

And then he’d think of you.

Idiot.

He pushed the blankets aside and swung his legs over the bed, careful to readjust his shirt. A light sheen of sweat stuck to his skin like hot glue as he stood up. The floor was freezing, and he promptly made it over to shut his window and lock it tight. He did it quietly, tip-toeing across the floorboards with shaking fingers.

He ignored the pain in his limbs, tugging on the window until he was sure the lock wouldn’t slip free. He did this hours ago before he tried to sleep. His mind was muddied.

He closed the curtains swiftly before trudging towards the bathroom. He locked that door, too, and tried to cool his face with water. It seemed to work for only a second before the burning returned. That sweltering heat lingered again and again, and the bruise on his neck was only growing darker.

The only thing on the bench is his toothbrush and a pair of scissors. There were bits of leftover blue feather tufts on the sharp ends.

He doesn’t look at his reflection, afraid of the silhouette forming behind him.

And then there was a creak from outside the door.

He choked on his breath before he held it silently. The window. He recognised that sound; the dry hard rubbing of the sill against the joints. His teeth gritted hard, and he swore the shells cracked in his mouth. And that is pain. Pain and pain and pain and fear and it swallows him whole and he feels small still. Like he’s little. Like he’s that little boy who cried with a scraped knee for his mother.

And that hurt.

His heart ached and his stomach dropped. He held onto the bench, leaning his weight against it, afraid he’d double over and dry heave — when’s the last time he ate anything?

Breathe.

It’s nothing. This has happened before. Many times.

He stood up straighter and pushed off of the bench. He ignored the pain shooting up his legs, and he grew lightheaded as he tried to move towards the door. The blood rushed to his head and his vision dimmed into nothing for a moment.

His hand rested against the door handle, and his fingers wrapped tight around the cold steel. It bit at his fingers like ice and he fought the urge to retreat and stay locked inside of the bathroom. It was too cold here. He was already shaking just staying in here for three minutes.

He swallowed hard and tried to control his breathing.

And then, and only then, did Sunday swing open the door as quick as he could and shut it briskly behind him. He rested his back against the hardwood of the door and held his breath. Hold. Hold. Breathe.

The window was open.

He could’ve sworn he closed it.

He could’ve sworn he–

He could still feel the cold wood of the sill on his fingers. He did. He can’t do this again because he knew he closed it and he remembered closing it and why is it so hard to breathe–

He barreled toward the window sill and shut it again. His stomach twisted and his lips parted to try and suck in more air. He only succeeded in accelerating his heartbeat.

He stepped away. Closed. It’s closed. It’s closed it’s closed. He closed it. He knew it now. He breathed out again, this time slower, trying to calm himself down. The back of his heels hit the foot of his bed and he sat down on top of the blankets. It’s cold.

It’s cold but the window was closed. He knew it. He knew it, he knew it.

He heard a knock from the wardrobe.

The inside.

His breathing stuttered and stirred in his chest, and it felt like small animals crawling through his lungs and clogging his throat. Like rats. Creeping rodents clawing into the weak muscle tissue and tearing through his bronchi. Violating.

It was dark. So dark he couldn’t see the figures in the corners of the bedroom. His feet were cold from the floorboards. The acid in his stomach churned and burned, and feared the worst. He scanned over the room once, twice, before he slowly took a step towards the wardrobe.

It knocked again, and this time the door jolted on its hinges as if something were trying to break out.

Another step.

He hurt.

Just go back to sleep.

He opened the closet.

Two shadowy figures, one hunching over the other, too close for comfort, and ants wedged themselves through every pore and blemish in his skin. It’s him, and you. You’re half undressed, and he looks worse for wear, covered in stains and spit and taking it all in stride. His clothes were a mess; pants ruffled and loose, his hair was wild from being tugged on, and despite your hands roaming dangerously low around his hips, his own hands drew around your face and pulled your lips onto his again and again.

One blink, and he was there. In the church again, in the back in a storage cupboard, and he was startled. He’s dreaming. He had to be. His clothes were different; his usual attire, though he’s shedded his overcoat and you were busying yourself undoing the buttons of his shirt.

“I told you not to come back,” he remembered whispering defeatedly.

Your hands dipped lower down his navel.

“Getting cold feet, priest?”

And, yes. His feet were cold, because now the closet was empty, and he was standing in his bedroom again with his hand on the knob. The bruises on his neck ached with the memory.

He shut the door.

Then, he turned, almost like less of a person and more of a shell, and stumbled back to bed. The sheets were still warm from the imprint of him, and he held the blankets to his chest defensively as his eyes searched around the bedroom again.

Nothing to see. All empty and dark and neat.

His eyes flitted toward the window.

It’s open again.

His heart skipped a beat, but he made no move. The draft froze him stiff. He contemplated leaving and searching for Robin’s room; he was sure she’d understand — and she would. She’d make room on her bed instantly for him.

But he’s not a child anymore. Humiliation stirred in his stomach like acid, and he swallowed the fear rising in his throat. It’s closed, he reminded himself. He has closed it. Twice now. It’s just all tricks of the light, or his own mind, or you.

There was the familiar rhythmic tapping of heeled shoes from outside his door. They sounded louder than before, but he knew they weren’t really there. He had heard the same footsteps for weeks now, bordering close to months. He had purple rings beneath his eyes to show the constant dreams he’d been forced to endure.

Ignore it. He laid down again, curling beneath the blankets. Pain withered and whittled his bones like frostbite, and the wind that blew through the gap in the window made him shiver.

The blankets were still warm, at least. It must have been only just past midnight. He still had hours to hold onto and toss and turn.

“What have you done?” he asked you one day, the only soul remaining on the podium in the church. “What did you do?”

You stood quickly. “Nothing, sire,” you answered. “What are you talking about?”

“You play dumb when the sun is out and crawl on your knees at night.”

You stood, stiffening like a corpse. “What are you–” You cut yourself off, frantically searching around the room for some sort of answer to your question.

He stepped forward, finding a somewhat semblance of strength to face you fully. He wanted to scream, or fight, or flee, or do something other than gape like a fish.

Lying. Bearing false witness. It’s all the same cardinal treachery he knows too well. He saw it now on your face like you were carved permanently in the stone of the statue behind him on the podium.

“It’s my job, sir,” you responded meekly. “I didn’t willingly–”

“I don’t care whether this is a job. You don’t understand,” he snapped quickly. “I am not paying you to torment me.”

“‘Paying me?’” you repeated. “Sire, you have not asked me for my service.” You took a step back, closer to the entrance of the church, but the aisle was long, and you had an even longer way to go until you reached the exit. “I only attend here because I am guilty of where my life has led me.”

“I did not ask for your service, nor did I ask you to lead me down your path of destruction.”

“We have not slept together, Reverend.”

Sunday stirred again. The same thing. His pendant being discarded left him only to clutch the neckline of his shirt and breathe harder. He’d already torn his palm to shreds. The cut through the bandage around his hand still stung, but it was no longer bleeding.

Maybe he is losing his mind. Maybe he’d be locked away again and forced into confinement until he was finally let out. Maybe he’d be brought to his death; he’d wake up standing on a chair with his hands tied and a rope around his neck.

And you’d be the one standing by his side with your foot ready to nudge the chair out beneath his feet.

He swallowed hard, and his hand moved to soothe the ache around his neck. Like rope burn. He’d already been shunned from church today for an inadequate morning service. One of the priests had commented on his behaviour.

Sunday had thought nothing of it at first. He hadn’t been sleeping properly for weeks, and any sleep he did achieve was plagued with you, your scent, and your legs, and his fingers twisted into the soft and warm flesh of your breasts. And he’d woken up without failure after every single one with his hands clammy, sweat pouring down his neck, and a flaming ache between his legs.

Liar. It’s just shame and guilt that wracked your rotten guts. He wanted to rip your organs from you and tie your neck with them. And the fear ate at him again, and again, and again until his bones were gnawed to their limits.

“Y’know, Rev,” he started slowly. “You’ve been… distant.”

Sunday’s eyes flitted away from you quietly chatting to another attendee on the pew. He said nothing but only gave the priest a strange look.

“Are you feeling okay?” The priest placed a hand on his shoulder after a moment. “If you need to talk, or… confess…”

“‘Confess,’” Sunday echoed quietly. “I’ve done nothing wrong.” His eyes searched for you again, and you were still attentively listening to the other person with your hands laced together in your lap.

Beautiful.

You glanced up and found his eyes as if you’d impeded through his head and gotten to his mind.

He sneered.

Your face twisted with confusion for a moment, maybe even guilt, before you offered a small nod of your head and an awkward smile before you turned back to continue your conversation.

“I am only looking out for you.” The priest’s eyes followed Sunday’s gaze. He grimaced. “Perhaps you should go home and rest. You look tired.”

Robin thought the same, that poor girl. She’d sit by him before service and try to coax him with some encouraging words, maybe even singing if he allowed it. She couldn’t get through. She couldn’t understand what was going on. She tried with all her might, and all the care in her small frail little heart to find the strength to make his beat again, but nothing would work.

Because nothing was going on.

It’s just him.

There was another creak from the window. He stiffened up harder to the point where his limbs threatened to snap from their tendons.

He doesn’t understand what it is. Attraction, fear, interest, connection, loneliness. If this is love, he doesn’t want it. It hurt, like a rope around his neck, like being pelted with stones until his skin and bone caved, like being tied and burned, like being nailed through the hands and feet and left for dead.

Just him. Just him.

“Are you lonely?”

He lost his breath.

There were arms wrapped around his middle from behind, and there was hot breath running down his neck. And it’s so familiar, and it’s so warm, and he startled a gasp from his throat.

Sunday tried not to throw his head back as he’d done so many times before. Instead, his hands almost immediately found yours, as they had so many times before.

His tongue failed him.

There were lips on his neck. Gentle, warm, and so so familiar he grew breathless within an instant. The bed was soft, and he melted into the mattress, and the warmth. He swallowed hard, and he was so exhausted he must have been dreaming. He mumbled under his breath, and his hands instinctively moved to yours.

They’re yours, right?

“‘Lonely?’” he murmured.

You hummed in acknowledgement. “You look lonely.”

He’s just tired.

His hands wrapped securely around yours, holding tight. Let this be okay. He dreamed it for so long. This is what he wants. He wants your warmth, and you, and your devotion. To use whatever faith he has in the church, in THEM, and everything you’ve ever worshipped, and spin all these twisted lies into him. Him and only him.

Just love him.

That’s all.

He couldn’t admit it then. “Your concerns are appreciated,” he mumbled. “I’m just tired.”

“I can help you sleep,” you promised. Your hands grazed over his hips.

“I beg your pardon?” His teeth dug into his lips hard enough to draw blood. But he knew what you meant because it is what he meant. It’s just him. He refused to turn around and face you, and thus found content with the disillusion of your warmth draped over his back. It was comfortable, as two lovers should be, but it was all the more wicked when, through your body, he felt the breeze from the window.

His breathing shook when your lips returned to his neck.

Vile, this is. He had admitted it so many times before. All of this was vile and disgusting, and wretched and wrong.

And he loved it. He loved the traitorous words that spilled from your lips, and the trembling of your fingers, unsure — just as his were — as they delved beneath his clothes as they had done so many times before. He remembered every other second he’d spent with you.

Where he’d met you, where you’d returned again and again before you’d pulled open the confessional door and had taken him in the booth, and where you’d pried and delved deep into his head, up when you sat innocently during service and refused to look at him.

Where you’d forced his head down between your legs and ordered his tongue, or he’d stood frozen stiff as your hands delved over his thighs, or when you’d touched him in all the places he never used to dare venture.

Because it is real.

He found himself unable to ask if it was, much too afraid of the answer.

“Tire you out,” you explained softly. “Make you dizzy.”

He already was. He was grateful he was already lying down, for he was sure he’d have fallen to the floor by now.

He hummed lightly and your teeth set softly below his jaw. He hoped in some twisted part of him that you’d leave scars upon his flesh.

Then, he mewled when your teeth grazed over the joint where his wing protruded below his ear. Sensitive things, the feathers. The bones were brittle too, and thin enough to snap with one wrong move.

This wasn’t right.

It wasn’t right to convince himself he’d be fine if you cracked every bone in his body and left if you’d touched him all over and kept him yours to do as you pleased, or if you did nothing but bite and tear into his skin until he was nothing but shredded flesh and bone. And still yours. That’s what mattered.

He had been raised to climb above personal desires, much less his own carnal ones. This shouldn’t be what he wants — he should want nothing. It’s selfish of him to think of you like this, and to feel your hands on him every night, and to indulge in your touch. It was sin like hot wax dripping down his stomach, and it tasted like warm sugar.

He hummed lightly, heart fluttering as you kissed another bruise onto his throat. His thighs ached to part and to grab your hand and move your fingers between his legs. He was already throbbing with need and it made his stomach churn.

Your lips were warm, and they served well to block off the wind blowing in from the cracked window.

Your lips grazed down over his shoulder before your hands slowly slid over his throat and reached from behind to begin unbuttoning his shirt. He let it happen. Because he wanted it to. Anxiety jittered in his limbs and his throat, but he helped you in undoing his buttons. He was much too afraid to shed the item off entirely, terrified of judgment and his willing vulnerability.

Terrified of his own skin, he shut his eyes tight and turned his head to kiss you properly.

His stomach exploded, he felt. Warm lips and an even hotter tongue that slid past his mouth. He wanted to choke and swallow your spit, and as disgusting as it felt to realise all of these thoughts, it only made him dizzier.

And he fell in love.

He felt warmth burst in his chest. His hands trembled before they wandered. They settled hesitantly on your hips, and he was pushed roughly onto his back. His chest pressed against yours, and he felt your heart race against his skin. The familiar pulse put his mind at ease and his head pounded with the scent of your flesh.

He grew dizzier as the time passed. His lips refused to part from yours, spit stuck like glue. His face grew hot, and his cheeks flushed a gorgeous pink. Sweat pooled down his throat and his hands and he gripped harder at your hips and felt the world spin. Vertigo grabbed at the chains clasped around his wrists and ankles and pulled, and he spun around again and again with you until he pressed you into his mattress, and one of your knees lifted to rub between his legs.

His breathing stuttered and he gasped out your name, as ridiculous as it was.

This was pathetic. He knew it so. His stomach twisted with pleasure and panic and the dizziness surged so hard in his head he had to stop for a moment and bury his lips into your shoulder.

Your hands were busy pushing past the waistband of his pants and venturing low between his legs. Your hands were hot, palms tracing the smooth skin of his hips before your thumbs brushed over the side of his cock. He shuddered, already hard and growing worse with every second.

He moaned. Moaned. Him. The Head of the Oak Family. That simple touch made his knees buckle, and he almost toppled on top of you.

Instead, you shoved him over, and you weighed him down onto the mattress. He let out a startled noise when your hand abandoned his cock. Instead, your nails trailed upwards. Up and up and up until your fingers grasped at his neckline and pulled him up from the bed.

“You seek reverence,” he murmured against your lips. “At a time like this.”

“Surely you can fight it this time?” you asked.

He tried to kiss you again, but your grip held strong and your other hand twisted into his face, holding him still.

He swallowed hard. Anxiety bubbled in his veins like boiling water. “This happens every night.”

“And you’re still pining?”

He’s sick. That’s what this is. Sick and in love.

His father had told him that to love is to give in. Giving in was not a part of him; he wasn’t supposed to cut open his chest and offer you his beating heart on a silver platter. That was the consequence of obsession.

“This is your fault,” he tried.

“Is that what you tell yourself while you fuck your own hand every night?”

The humiliation stirred deep within his chest. He hadn’t even realised his hand had snuck beneath his pants to tease the head of his cock, flushed a furious red and weeping. He wanted you to ruin him and scar him and make him yours and–

“I’m in love,” he admitted to nobody. His words were muffled as you grabbed his face harder. He looked to the left. The window was closed. “And I’m a heretic.”

His heart leapt through his throat.

He understood it now. He knew then a nightingale was watching from the window. He knew it. This would taint him if whatever was left of his purity was not already stained the shade of your skin.

His wings fluttered. Fear. It crawled back up his spine.

He fought through your grip and kissed you again, this time with that newfound anger that had been boiling in his blood. His nerves and fury mixed to create some sort of poison that fueled him forward, grabbing your face and ignoring his twitching cock with a frustrated sound. He ended up sprawled on top of you, desperately trying to smother you with his lips, and pressing his hips to yours slowly. So slowly.

His kisses were frantic, uncertain. He wasn’t sure where to touch, what to do, how to respond when you nipped at his lip or your tongue crawled to press against his teeth teasingly. He found you tasted of nothing, but that was to be expected. Because it’s not–

His hands found the buttons of your shirt. That same shirt you wore when he first laid his eyes on you. All buttons and silk, and that awful embroidered stocking pattern ran up your legs.

Sunday slotted himself between your thighs, and his bedroom spun in a circle. The mattress dipped as he leaned against you, his hand sprawling across your chest to feel the rhythmic muscle beat frantically. He was sure he was in a worse condition; he felt as though the pathetic heart beneath his ribs would give out any second.

His cock twitched in his pants.

But he was a patient, patient man. He’d been drilled with this mindset, this front since he was little. So little he couldn’t think for himself. Now, he could, and he was distracted and losing sleep every night touching himself to the curve of your legs. Gopher Wood would be laughing in his grave, he’s sure. Laughing and jeering and shaming.

“What do you want, Reverend?”

He didn’t know.

He couldn’t answer.

Instead, he chose to kiss downwards from your throat, following the intricate lines of the bones and trying to remember what the scent of your skin was like. And it hurt to try because it was a reminder.

He decided to ignore it. Ignore everything entirely and focus on you, and solely you, and nothing else. It helped, if only a little.

Reverend Sunday worshipped like no other. It was instilled in him for so long that it was second nature, but never in his life had he been at the mercy of something much more important than a God. He’d never believed it to be true, but the way your breath hitched and you squirmed when his thumbs brushed over your nipples riled him further than he would have thought. He sighed, overwhelmed, and his teeth ran over the expanse of your breast, desperately coaxing that same noise from you again and again.

His heart spiked once, twice, and when he was convinced the muscle was truly about to stop, his lips continued downwards, centring lower to your navel. You squirmed, but his heart fluttered at the feeling.

“I want this to be–” He stopped himself, lips and nose squashed against the soft skin between your hips. “I’m–”

His father would be laughing at him.

Misery plagued his bones, and his halo flickered quickly the lower his lips dragged. Devotion. In and out. Pure, unbridled devotion. Taste and touch and blood and sweat. He breathed out finally, and his teeth came forth to pull at the waistband of your skirt. His canines caught on your stockings, and the fabric was dry on his tongue. He tugged downwards, snagging the wiring between his teeth.

He wanted to tear through the rose pattern, but he decided otherwise.

Instead, he pulled them down past your thighs, to your knees, and then your ankles, careful with the thin and delicate material. You kicked what remained off.

He grinned, but it was shaky and uncertain. It was suddenly cold. Another draft he felt from the window. He couldn’t undo the button of your skirt with his mouth, so his trembling fingers pulled their weight and decided to just shuck it upwards to your hips. Your bones splayed so nicely all for him, and his mind ventured elsewhere for a moment.

How many others have seen you like this? All pliant and pretty, covered in sweat and his spit and the marks from his teeth. His thumb pressed to the sensitive skin of your stomach.

Maybe it was twisted, the image of you both. A poor pining priest and the object of his desires. A scared little boy looming over the image of an Aeon. The scent of your skin and the touch of your hands. He pulled back for a moment, simply leaning over to admire you.

You reached up towards him and grabbed the bottom of his shirt. You tugged once, twice, before you said, “come, Reverend. Make this one real.”

“You cannot tempt me like this,” he argued weakly. Still, his hands splayed over your thighs, soothing over them. He couldn’t bear to look down past your hips.

“Scared?” you asked him.

And he was. Very, very scared.

When he glanced down at his hands, he noticed his fingers warped.

He ignored it.

He followed his hands then to your hips again, careful with his movements, slow and unsure. He moved between your thighs, watching closely for any twitches. His cock throbbed when he brushed his hips against the mattress.

He wasn’t sure what to do. He wasn’t sure about anything, really. But your thighs parted wide to accommodate his shoulders, then his head and his heart almost burst when you swung a leg over his shoulder. It pinned him further into the mattress, and a soft pull at his left wing closer to your hips made his cock twitch.

Devotion.

His unsteady hands held on tight to your hips, and one of yours found solace in interlacing your fingers with his.

Hesitantly, he brought himself forward to taste.

The mind plays funny tricks on its victims. Sunday knows he’s no stranger to disillusions, illusions, and the like. To the decayed mind, all things seem real. His tongue tasted, his hands felt, and he heard your breathing and your quiet mewls, and yet his eyes couldn’t seem to stay open for more than seconds at a time.

Funny.

Sunday lost his breath at the noise you made. It was a stir in his stomach like fine wine, and your hips encouragingly ground back on his lips when he reeled back for a moment. His mind grew foggy, and his eyes fluttered shut again.

Oh, is he a man in love.

His tongue moved slowly over your cunt, languidly stroking up and down with wet passes to test the waters. The tip of the muscle inched upwards slightly, curling over the small bump of nerves. That managed a sharp inhale, to which he curiously tried again. Any noise that escaped your lips, he chased it, over and over again like an addict.

The taste was, again, nothing.

Because it’s–

He shut his eyes tight.

Your hand found the back of his head, fingers curling in soft locks before you pulled him forward, closer, until his nose bumped against your clit and his lips were smushed against you.

His wings fluttered again, and the feathers tickled your thighs. His hands wanted to wander and touch himself, and he could have sobbed out at the relief he sought when his hips ground up against the mattress, but he couldn’t. Selfishness wasn’t a part of him. It never truly had been. He’d have much rathered to feel your legs wind tight around his face before anything else.

His tongue tried again, the flat of the muscle grazing along your clit until you twitched at the sensitivity and pulled his head back for a moment.

Sunday’s hand splayed on your hip moved to your cunt, and his thumb pulled back the wet plush skin until your hole stretched wide. He swallowed and his lips pulled taut and he kissed at the entrance once, twice, until you were giggling like an idiot, and a newfound delirium grew haze in his brain.

Your free hand pushed the hair from his face when he delved in again, tonguing at your clit before he decided to kiss there as well. Devotion. It is worship. It is the sight of you writhing—it’s everything.

His mouth followed you as your hips twisted and squirmed, teeth lightly sinking in around your clit in warning. He was still in control, for the most part. Maybe not of himself, but for how he kept you on his bed. He sucked lightly, feeling you jolt and squirm, and a smile grew on his lips at the sight.

He wanted to burn the imprint of his lips on your thighs, and he tried. He abandoned your cunt, now slick with his saliva, to try and mark your legs as his. He hummed to try and release the pressure of his nerves gathering inside of him, but it didn’t do much to help. Your thighs bruised easily. He could bite and tear if he wanted to.

He pressed his lips to the new bruise before his nose pressed against your clit again and he mouthed at your entrance. He held you firmly, enough to scar with his nails, and tasted again and again and found nothing and everything in all of the wrong places. Perhaps he was too enamoured, for when you grew too sensitive and attempted to push him away, he held stronger and tilted his head to push harder with his tongue.

Your clit swelled, and he felt it all the way. His hips stuttered against the mattress. His eyes remained screwed tight, even when your fingers petted his head gently.

He was being good. He knew it, and his heart thrummed at the idea. That was his job, his entire life. To be good, and to understand, and to please. He fell in love with every mumble and moan that left your lips. Every babble of praise, or every time you pushed his hair behind his ears. His cock grew harder somehow, despite his resistance.

His skin was growing cold again.

You were growing wetter with every pass of his tongue, and every flit of his lashes against your thighs when he tilted his head downwards to taste. His longing had grown into overdrive. He never should have been tempted like this. He was beyond temptations and desires and wants. He did not want anything. He had no need for things and love and music and art.

And yet, what’s it to a man of the church who falls in love with something as wretchedly beautiful as you?

All ruined and sweaty and mangled and all his to enjoy. That’s what you were — all his.

His mouth was slow, lips wrapping delicately around your clit to suck hard. It made you shiver without fail, and your hips bucked upwards at the feeling over and over again. The entire premise that it was him, and nobody else, that had you as you were now, almost made him cry out at that very moment.

It hurt to breathe and think and feel, but his fingers pulled at your skin to ground himself and press his tongue into your entrance. You clenched instinctively around him, and he tried again and again, forcing his tongue as deep as it would go. Your legs squeezed around his head and the warmth of your pulse and your blood beneath your skin only aided further in making his head spin.

He was sure his face was red to match.

Your legs wrapped tighter around him, enough to keep him still and his tongue on you as he returned his attention to your clit. You mumbled a spiel of praise he barely picked up on, and it went straight to his cock.

It would stay and remain devotion the more he ruined your cunt with his lips, but he couldn’t think straight. The world spun on its irregular axes, his hips winded quicker into the mattress, and your breathing was slowly growing into something heavier and harder.

He couldn’t hear your thoughts — he needn’t try. He was sure he’d be able to see pink and white and stars and nothing but the vile image of his head between your legs and your slick coating his face. Some priest. Lowly and unserving. He did not deserve any praise, nor nothing he received. If anything, he was born to remain here, by your side, and grabbed at the throat and the hips until he could think of nothing but your hand twisting around his cock again and again.

Complete pain and humiliation climbed up his spine when he pressed his cock hard into the mattress. It was instinctive at this point. His mind wasn’t working, and his hips moved of their own accord again and again until he came and still tortured himself with it. The fabric of his pants only made everything seem hotter and tighter, and as his hips twitched with every brush against the mattress, he moaned or whimpered, or made whatever other pathetic noise he didn’t realise he could.

You said nothing comprehensible, murmuring whispers of pleasure that only served to make him hard again. And so quickly, too, that he throbbed and outwardly cried out at the feeling, though it was muffled.

Curse his stupid tongue that was so smart and silver for tiring when he needed it working more than ever. Never could he exhaust himself of words, but he pushed and pushed now with whatever fleeting strength he had, and the blood rushed to his face when you stirred and pulled on his hair to lessen the distance. Grateful for some sort of grounding, Sunday nosed at your clit while his lips kept busy teasing more slick from your hole.

In love.

Funny how it works. It torments and shames and lusts and ruins.

He lost his mind.

The want to taste your cum grew stronger, as did the press of his tongue against your clit until you were mewling and squirming at the pressure. A finger brushed up against your thigh before it sank deep into your cunt. You clenched instinctively, and he rubbed at that sweet little spot that made you writhe around him.

He ached and ached and felt you twitch and tremble and he could have cum again if he wasn’t so distracted by the feeling of your legs squeezing around his head.

This isn’t how this was supposed to happen. He should be resting and trying to get better. He’s sick. He hasn’t taken his medication in so long. He shouldn’t be trapped in a confessional booth with a whore, or locked away in the wine cellar and brought to his knees, or–

You came, then, and his heart fluttered and stammered and stopped and started anew. You coated his tongue with slick, and his heart raced so quickly he was worried it would burst from his chest and run.

He was so enamoured and frazzled with how his mind could do this to him. How he’d been trapped in his own head for so long and curled in his blankets with all the doors in his room shut and the window closed and blinds pulled over.

A terrible blush painted his face when you weakly reached down to pet his hair again. His halo shimmered. He’s so well behaved. So, so good to you, and good for you, and he can be your everything if you’d let him.

Your thigh rubbed against his cheek, warm and trembling.

He reeled back after overstaying, and your clit throbbed when his lips kissed the poor bud one last time. Your hole clenched desperately for more of him, and his heart jolted.

His hands remained between your legs as you found the strength to grab his shirt and pull him upwards and over you. His heart pressed to yours and he kissed you again, this time intent on making his lips bruise. Eyes wound shut, he ground his hips up against yours.

You kissed at his jaw.

“Wretch,” he mumbled. His halo flickered again. His blood burned beneath his skin. He hummed, pleased at the warmth of your flesh. His hands wandered to yours and gripped your fingers tight. Another shove and his legs were entangled with yours in his side.

“You’re in love,” you whispered.

And he kissed you, again and again and again until he was breathless. Until his heart warmed and burst, until he was sure he could taste and smell nothing but you, and feel only you.

His lips were still unsure. His teeth clicked against yours, and perhaps his heart was thrumming so loudly in his chest it deafened him, but he pulled you harder against him. His hips were rough against yours, dragging his cock through his pants against your cunt in languid strokes. It hurt. The friction was too much for him, and yet he couldn’t stop himself.

And he was moaning and moaning and it was disgusting what terrible sounds ripped from his throat. He mewled and flustered and breathed so heavily that his lungs were about to combust.

That feeling was slowly returning. That guilt and fury and humiliation burned horribly in his stomach. You did this. All of you. He was not at fault for this. For the way you sat pretty in the church and kept your gaze locked onto the floor. How your hands would hesitantly touch the donation baskets as if you were unsure if it was worth the precious pennies you had left.

And he would watch silently. As he always did.

He’d watch silently, and then he’d go home that night and cum on his own hands with his eyes shut tight, trying to imagine they’re your fingers instead.

His hand rested in its rightful place between your legs, and his fingers returned wet. Soaked, even. And he realised then he’s brought upon much more than a twisted version of romance; this is desolate, and this is Hell. He is home in all of the Nine Circles, blown about in an endless storm with no hope of rest, a heretic victim to the clutches of flames, and he burns and burns and burns and burns but the pain never dulls, nor ends.

His pants were ruined with his cum and your own, and as vile as it was, he desperately clawed until he found leverage to finally be selfish and free the stupid awful thing and grind his cock up against you. The skin was already wet, and yet grew wetter and warmer with the friction. Slippery and grotesque, and yet he felt you clench every time the tip slipped around your hole, enticing him.

A fog grew heavy in his mind, and he went blind for a moment. He witnessed pure white and burning. And it was Hell.

Despite the incessant grinding, his fingers slid and slipped over your clit, desperate to hear your voice again. His free hand searched for the pendant that was usually strung around his neck. He found nothing.

Still, his eyes were shut.

He felt as though he was somewhere else. In the church again, where you’d ridiculed him as if this was his fault, and then you’d fucked him over the altar. Or maybe back in the confessional booth where you both had barely fit inside, and you bounced on his lap until he grew dizzy. Or maybe when you’d mouthed at his cock in the bathroom at a dinner to celebrate his sister’s success. Or maybe when you’d thrown him in the backseat of his own car and made him see stars.

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

But this was different. This was his bed, his four walls, his private quarters, his everything, and you were his, and this was the intimacy he’d been craving since he was a child. He’d been denied the closeness of another person, anyone, for so long he had forgotten the feeling of skin. Even his own skin, which he’d hidden away each day beneath layers of clothing.

Because he wasn’t a person, really. He did not think his own thoughts. He did not have the passion and desires others had; he had no interest in the mundane—not anymore, at least—like art and music and literature. He had no end goal that was his and his alone. The money he used to purchase things was not his. Nothing he had in his bedroom was really his.

But you.

He held tight onto your thighs and stopped.

His heart melted into mush when he realised you were still lazily grinding upon his cock, and the veins throbbed desperately.

You. Imperfect and terrible and everything he shouldn’t have loved in another person. And so disastrously awful for him, and all of the subtle changes of this face, and your real one. He can’t truly remember everything—there’s a small glint in your eyes when you’re perplexed, and there are few patches of colour across your features, and perhaps your eyes are a tad too light, but this is what he remembered.

And as imperfect as it was, and as unsatisfying as it was, and ignoring the fact that it gnawed at his insides, he was okay with this. He was okay, somewhat, with what he felt.

His palms were embarrassingly wet when he held you open, and guided the tip of his cock towards your hole. He swallowed hard before he softly canted his hips forward and drowned. He held tight, anxiety shooting up his veins and bursting at the seams.

He felt you tighten instinctively, trying to swallow him whole while he panted like a hellhound and pushed his hips deeper until the bones were pressed to yours. He stuttered, heat encircling his cock like a vice, and then swallowed as hard as he could to mask his voice.

He should be used to this feeling now. He’s done this before — has he really? Everything felt so familiar, yet so so strange, and so so foreign he held his breath and wished it all to be real. He held on so tightly he grew breathless.

His forehead pressed to yours.

You hummed.

He felt his lips twitch. “This is wrong.”

“But you keep doing it.”

He had no excuse then, and he still had no excuse now.

He’s just like his father.

He gritted his teeth. “I’m in love.”

You laughed, and it was the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard. “There it is.” His hips twitched forward and he buried himself deep inside of you. “You’re doing so well.”

Oh. The wings below his ears fluttered. His face burned hot like the sun, and a hand dropped low to grasp yours tight. You squeezed his fingers in affirmation, maybe even encouragement to move. He was stuck, frozen, twitching, and he swallowed the lump in his throat.

He simply nodded along like an idiot.

Warm. So disgusting and warm and his breath grew staggered and uneven with every twitch of his hips. His stomach felt odd, but maybe that was the sickness that warped in his guts. Something so extremely nauseating that he felt alive. He swallowed hard and his fingers moved to your arms to steady himself. He buried his face in your neck. Pear and jasmine and vanilla. He recognised that scent every time he was given that sacramental wine. It was almost the same, yet so so different.

He laughed, then, right into your shoulder. It was much more of a huff of hot air against your skin. Because this was insanity. His knees sank further into the mattress, and his pillows were tossed askew. Hurt and pain and heat. It was all the same, for he knew no better.

It was so good. Cardinal sin and blood and skin. Good. Great, even. Greater than anything he'd ever tried before. You tasted amazing, better than the flesh of an Aeon. So soft and warm and all his.

Something to call his.

His stomach turned.

He couldn’t get enough. His hips bucked slow, so excruciatingly slow, as if to savour. He wasn’t sure when he’d ever feel like this again, if he ever would. If his body would ever want him to do this again.

His arms shook with his own weight, and he tried not to double over. Good. So, so good. His hips twitched impossibly closer to you and he breathed upon your lips. He melted when you kissed him, as chaste as it was. He hadn’t felt this way ever in his measly, putrid existence.

All for you.

He pulled away slowly, attempting to forget the feeling of you, only to stuff himself back inside, rocking his hips hard until his own met your bone.

His heart warmed. How twisted. Your tongue prodded out to poke at the corner of his lip and he buried his nose into your shoulder afterwards, trying to muffle the disgusting noises that snuck from his mouth. He wanted to cry; that familiar prickling behind his eyes teased him.

His stomach jolted when he rocked his hips softly. He was sure a tear slipped down his cheek, and it dropped silently on the marred sheets of his bed. He’d have to clean it later.

Slowly taking what he needed. He continued, slowly, slowly, slowly, because he was a thief,

and he did not deserve to force his pleasure upon you. Not like this. Not with you pressed down onto his bed and waiting.

He understood the addiction of scent, and blood, and skin, and why he would hear the same telltale stories through the mesh of the confessional booth. He used to scrunch his nose up at the topic—how could someone be so insistent that carnal cravings were a cure to anger, and hate, and treachery, and violence, and everything?

Your lip pressed to his ear gently.

It can’t be a cure. It’s not. He certainly didn’t feel fixed, or any better. For the moment, maybe, he felt as though he was in Heaven, but it was much more warped than that. Heaven was not a feeling; Heaven is not a place, or a person, or cardinal sin.

Truly, he’s not sure what it is. It can’t be you. You’re different, maybe even the opposite. You didn’t make him feel beyond the clouds. You made him feel… terrible.

Infatuated, but terrible.

You were whispering something in his ear, and he laughed softly, but he wasn’t quite sure what he heard. If anything, he’s relieved for the attention. You could have blatantly insulted him, and his skin would’ve melted like hot wax.

“You’re overthinking again,” you reminded him. Your voice was strangely steady.

His hand tightened around his sleeves. “You come for…”

“Salvation, I suppose.” That was you. You came here. To see him. Or hear him. And seek his guidance and better judgement. He wasn’t sure if he could offer you much of himself, seeing that his brain had short circuited the moment he’d heard your voice through the booth.

He had imagined this all before. If anything, he remained silent to see if he could listen to anything vulgar.

Seconds passed and Sunday swallowed hard.

“Reverend?”

“Of course,” he forced out. You’re not going to do anything—it’s all in his head. You’re not going to plead for him to open the booth and let you have his way with him. You don’t even know him, and he doesn’t even know you.

It’s all in his head.

“Just try to enjoy it,” you told him.

His hips thrusted harder and he could hear the awful noises that escaped from your throat, and he wanted to tear the vocal cords free so you would never sing again, and also kiss you until you were breathless and bruised. Just try to enjoy it. Just stay in your head. It’s better that way.

He could feel himself snapping at the seams.

You were probably in your own home, wherever you lived, sleeping soundly. Maybe you were doing the same as him, or maybe you were fucking another man and enjoying him rather than—

He had a headache. A blazing pounding behind his eyes.

Yet, he persisted. He held you tight against his chest, hoisting you upwards from his bed so your heart could press against his. He fell in love with how he felt around you, even if it made him ill and horrible. Even if it disfigured his mind; even if you killed him.

He kissed you again, this time harder. He tried to ground himself firmer to remain on this terrible planet with you, but his mind continued to wander. Overworking, overthinking.

Sunday couldn’t find himself to care about it anymore. He strangely welcomed the feeling of you attempting to suck on his tongue. He held onto your throat now, only gently, and his finger pressed to your jaw to keep you still.

He panted once, twice, and then his breath hitched when he managed to move into you with an increased pace. He tried to keep his rocking even, but he was quickly losing his strength again.

How vile. One of your legs was slotted nicely around his own, calf rubbing against his hip as he slammed his own against you. Hard enough to burn and bleed, and his cock twitched and twitched and twitched and twitched.

“What…” He leaned against the side of the booth. “What troubles you?”

He heard you laugh, though it wasn’t at all mirthful. Still, it may have been the most beautiful sound he’d ever been blessed to hear. “Everything.” You paused to take a breath. “My job… my life… my everything.”

He said nothing. He didn’t have to. He knew exactly how you felt.

“I don’t think I was made to live in a world like this.”

You’re the same. Maybe that’s why he had developed this estranged one-sided affection; this sickening obsession that’s torn through every working cell in his brain. That’s left him a horrible, shaken mess of a person.

The sounds are abhorrent. The way you wriggled in his grasp to force him deeper inside of you, and the sighs and whispers that left your lips are somehow worse.

Sunday lost his strength in one of his wrists, and he almost toppled over you. That only stirred him harder, and his hips winded and jolted when you squeezed tight around him. He could certainly get used to this. One day. With you.

“Enjoying yourself?” you asked.

He was enjoying you, but he refused to voice it. He understood. He understood the need to escape, to run to somebody else’s bedroom, to fix everything this way.

He kissed you impossibly harder, his lips purpling at the pressure, and that mere feeling brought him so close to the edge he stammered on his own breath. His thrusts grew sloppier by the second, and he cared less about how you felt, and more of that edge he was chasing and trying to grab by the reins.

So good. He could feel his cock bubbling at the tip, squishing up against your walls and the skin stretched and ached and warmth burst through his stomach. He wanted to fill you up again, and eventually, one day. He’d imagined this so many times before; the way you’d sound, or beg, or do whatever you really did. Whatever you did, he’d embrace it, and he’d thank you for a thousand years.

He’d cum again and again and he’d let you use him as your own personal toy to play with if it satisfied you. Even if you tossed him aside when you grew bored—he was used to that.

He’d feel this terrible feeling forever if you would just love him.

He hoped.

His stomach burned, and his cock was throbbing.

His bones grew tired, but he persisted, in and out and in and out until nothing left his lips but babbles of worship as he swung his arms around your neck and traced his lips along your ear. You’re so good to him. So good.

You would sit there all pliant and pretty and he’d take and take and take until the only thing left of you was the part that only cared for him, and nothing else. And then you’d watch as he was dragged down below the ground, while you would rise above the clouds. Because that’s what he deserved, and you and him did not share the same fate.

The clutches of a Sinner’s hands rest on his face, and they’re yours, just for a moment.

His hips stuttered.

“C’mon,” you whispered. His nose was cold against yours.

“I–”

“–Close?” you finished.

He frantically nodded his head like an idiot.

His lips twitched in some sort of pathetic smile.

You reciprocated. “I know.”

He couldn’t handle the teasing. If anything, it only made the headache worse. He wanted to cum. That was the only thing that mattered at this point. He wanted to ruin you, as you did to him.

He couldn’t afford to choke in the air as his cock twitched. He was right there, and his hip bones were aching as they smacked against your skin.

“I’ll be all yours, Priest,” you told him. “One day.”

Sunday’s eyes shot open in horror as he came, and he clutched desperately onto some semblance of skin—whatever his brain could attempt to conjure in a last-ditch effort to make this nightmare real.

His hand was twisted tight around his cock, covered in spit and sweat and his own filth, and he wretched the treacherous limb away as if it had developed a mind of his own.

He was trembling, layered in cold sweat as he shivered, his stomach convulsing as his cock slid against the mattress, an angry red flush enveloping the tip.

He couldn’t develop a coherent thought, nor movement, for when he felt around blindly for you, you were nowhere, and he was alive and awake again.

He choked on his own saliva as he tried to sit up. His pillows were soaked with drool, and his clothes were askew. He rested his back against his head and tried to breathe.

He glanced at the window. Closed.

Because he had closed it. He’d locked the bedroom door, too, and the bathroom. How would he have forgotten? That had been his routine for almost sixteen years. He wouldn’t have forgotten. Not ever. If anything, he’d have grown well aware of the old habit being missed that he’d scratch at his skin until he’d forced himself to get up and fix the window.

He heaved at what he had done.

He swallowed hard as if there were rocks stuck in his throat. His lungs refused to take in air. He kicked off the tangled blankets and they fell in a pathetic heap onto the floor. Dizziness surged in his mind, and the back of his eyes pounded and pounded the longer he sat there staring blankly at the wall.

His heart swelled horribly.

Oh.

His eyes slowly dragged over to the bedroom door.

Closed. No light bleeding beneath the door. No footsteps in the hall. Not Robin’s, certainly not yours. He faintly heard the echo of your heels, but that was drowned out by the aching in his head.

“Your services…” the priest started quietly. The booth creaked. “What do they entail?”

You didn’t answer for the moment. Perhaps you were nervous, or apprehensive, or a strange string of both. Maybe, even, your hands were busying themselves around the waistband of your pants, slowly unbuckling the belt and then–

“Men, sire,” you responded quickly, honestly. You tapped the mesh wiring of the confessional window in a strange rhythm. “I’ve never been proud. It’s dirty work.”

Sunday blinked awake. His hands were pulled tight at his sleeves.

“But you don’t have a choice?”

You made a noise. “Did you have a choice to be in the position you are now?”

“My position is very different from yours,” Sunday reminded lightly.

“Is it? We both serve to please the worst of people.”

And, in some sort of twisted way, you were right.

Just as if he was made to please you. That is his sole purpose; to be yours. It is why he felt this way. It’s why he was put in this terrible position; to meet you, and be yours, and nobody else’s, and escape off this treacherous planet and kiss you until he couldn’t bear to breathe the air that wasn’t yours.

That’s love, right?

Devotion.

He found it in himself to peel away from his bed and trudge to the bathroom.

He couldn’t bear to see his reflection.

He was afraid he’d see you standing behind him.

*ೃ༄

The next evening was like every other. He leaned against the confessional booth, eyelids slowly drooping shut as he listened and listened until his feathers shrivelled and his ears picked up on nothing but static.

Please the public.

He nodded along mindlessly to whoever was speaking to him through the wiring. He was grateful the booth was dark, and cold, for he was forming a sweat. His mind was running in circles, and though he responded to the lone soul through the window, he felt as though what he said was automated, and not at all a production from his heart.

That being said, he was thanked anyway, and they left.

That must have been the final one, for when he called for the next churchgoer, he was met with silence. There were no hushed shuffles of feet against the floor, nor the rustle of clothing, or breathing.

Nothing.

Alone again.

Sunday unlocked the door to the booth and stepped out, grateful he could stretch his limbs properly. He’d been cramped inside for what felt like days, but was only a few hours. Still, he felt his bones pop and crack as he exited.

He took the keys from his pocket and locked the small door.

Another day.

He could endure. It was what he was made for. He knew no better.

To breathe and feel for others.

That was all.

Now what?

Now, he’d go home. He’d go home, do the same mundane routine in order as he had always done for every day of his life—get changed, maybe have dinner, fill out forms until he was almost asleep at his desk, and then he’d try and sleep. And the same as always, he’d toss and turn and whine that it was too hot and then it was too cold, and all the while you’d mouth at his neck and strip him of his clothes.

He inwardly shuddered at the thought.

He grew sick with worry as he stared helplessly at the confessional.

“Room for one more?”

His heart leapt out of his throat, and he froze. His fingers tightened around the window of the booth and the material of his gloves stretched and squeaked.

He swallowed, unable to turn around. He pulled out the keys again. “Of course.” His hands were shaking.

He heard you let out a troubled hum. “You don’t have to–”

Sunday stopped you short, perhaps too quickly. “Nonsense. This is my job.”

“–We can talk face to face,” you finished. “If… if that’s easier.”

Right. He certainly could. It wasn’t so much easier for him, but if it pleased you. If that’s what you wanted.

Truly, you didn’t care too much about his final decision. But he was pretty in the face, and it was nice to speak to him properly for a change.

Sunday stepped away from the booth finally and turned to look at you.

He lost his breath almost instantly.

You grinned. “Hi.”

His lips managed to twitch into a smile. “Hi.”

Your feet shuffled against the tiled floor. He recognised the sound of your heels clicking quietly. The same noise he heard in his hallway, and he still heard it every night.

He held the keys tight in his clenched fist. The jagged ends punctured a hole through the palm of his glove. The scar that remained from his incessant habit would be opened soon.

Your eyes were slightly lighter than he’d imagined, and you wore your clothes neater, and you didn’t run your tongue rampant with terrible sullied words. That wasn’t you. That was his idea of you.

And now, reality sets itself upon him, and he still cannot grasp what is untrue.

“You haven’t visited the confessional in a while,” he started softly.

You shook your head. “No.” You glanced back towards the door, perhaps wondering whether it was locked, or maybe even contemplating running for it. “But I do sometimes attend service.”

He knows this because he’s searched and waited for you every morning.

Sunday was simply staring at you. “And what has prompted your change of heart?”

A laugh bubbled from your throat, and the sun bled through the stained-glass windows of the church, and flashes of green and yellow and pink and blue dotted along your face.

“You do generous and kind work, Reverend,” you whispered to him. “I hope it makes you happy.”

The offer of praise made him sit up slightly in the seat in the booth. Nothing made him quite as happy as your voice, and he’d hear you sing again and again until he grew deaf. Even then, he was sure he could remember the way your lips formed every syllable that spilled from your throat.

If anything, he remembered your sound, because your words were what mattered.

If anything, he hopes he can make you happy.

“I fell in love with a man.”

And he’d never let go of that hope for as long as he lived.

#✦ ( after hours. )#✦ ( the macrocosmos. )#sunday x reader #sunday x you #honkai star rail x reader

171 notes · View notes

i-yap · 7 months ago

Note

What if you do angst x fluff? where Jason Todd fights with Y/n, had he just fought with Dick or something and he accidentally hurt his girlfriend? 👿 I like this dynamic, but I want it to be a real fight, you know? he enters a PSTD.

Im gonna do headcanons , warning( check the request)

Jason todd x y/n - he hurts her

out of all batboys he is most likely to lash out in aggression, by a landslide actually, especially fresh out the pit jason/ nightmare jason/ jealous jason.

He is also very very hard on himself about it.

Lets be honest here, this dude grew up on the streets , was trained to be a vigilante , got tortured, died, blah blah. He doesn't know how to control or regulate his emotions at all. He was never taught how to and the pit rage still is a part of him. He is really broken and so its very likely he lashes out

He is also very very insecure, he gets all in his head and he just cant control it and pushes people away.

You make him believe he can be better, that he deserves love and that you get what he is going through. Early on in the relationship he would just leave and not come back for weeks out of guilt.

once you convinced him to not leave and explained how much it hurt you, and once he explained how much at risk you could be but you accept the risk- after a very long discussion he learns to stay.

later on in the relationship he does overcome his insecurities and lashes out much less, so for him to actually physically lash out on you could only be one cause.

You betray him. He is either very jealous, maybe you have a childhood guy friend you refuse to leave. or maybe its a very hot coworker you refuse to stay away from in the name of professionalism. Or maybe jason just had an encounter with his past tormentors and they said something that got to him head and then he sees you laughing at the joke of your cute neighbour with the dog that likes you too much.

Now he is yelling and you're aggravating the situation. you had a bad day at work, and though you're usually calm and understanding , since you know what he has gone through, but you were just so annoyed that day or had a bad day yourself.

So when you start yelling back at him, he smashes a vase against the wall away from you. what he did not calculate was how the glass shard could fly and hit/scratch w2 you right in the arm. the second he sees you injured time stops

He crumbles, literally . crawls to you sobbing, hyperventilating - he might have a sezuire. this was his literal worst nightmare, and now its happened. you know he wasn't aiming the vase at you. you could either immediately realize or storm off and lock your bedroom, in the latter case he lies on the ground in front of the door the whole night sobbing out how sorry he is.

But if you comfort him and tell him its okay, he will just hold onto you and cry.

it takes him a while to forgive himself( a long while) so rough sex is gone, play fighting also gone. he goes silent , withdrawn almost depressed. You need to be patient, let him understand he didn't do it on purpose and this changes nothing in your relationship.

overtime things go back to normal, but he refuses to fight with you. He wont do it ever, he will leave , not for weeks but he will never put you to risk again. its like the cycle restarts and it takes him a while for him to trust himself around you when he's mad.

the thing here is, and stop reading the fic if you want to remain delulu (cuz I do too)

jason had a shitty past, he is not gonna be a perfect partner. he is going to be complicated and difficult to be with and you really cant expect anything else. it is very possible he straight up slaps you and then runs away to space for a month and then turns up on your doorsteps sobbing. He will often moan and cry about his past to you, bring it up often, often ruin the mood. He wont let you get a propers night sleep or let you have guy frnds and that an get annoying. ofcourse with love commitment and communication it could hcnage but you do at least for a while have to deal with that. No one expects you to clean up your lovers mess. this is only fiction and should not be romanticized. unless your irl partner died and was tortured for 2 yrs - you shouldn't deal with their shit. you have enough shit of your own to deal with

as a person who was with a guy who is depressed, I can tell you how hard this sort of relationship is. you sacrifice a lot. He developed depression one yr after we started dating, I left him 10 months after that. For 10 months I stayed with a guy who was cheating on me then calling em and crying about how "violated he felt" after consensually getting blojbs from random girls, randomly dissapearing for 4-5 days without a single text, who never wanted to talk anything about me not even for a minute, who couldn't listen to my problems but expected me to stay up 4 hours till like 6am even though I usually sleep at 11pm and then get up at 7am for practice. And I did it all, because he was depressed and I felt guilty about leaving him . But you need to prioritize yourself no matter how hot or broken a dude is. unlike jason, you can not "fix him".

319 notes · View notes

my-writings-and-musings · 2 years ago

Text

Mer!Rodimus x Reader

In light of Mermay and a recent ask I wrote a little something with Rodimus meeting the reader, I hope you enjoy!

If you like my writing style, you can always commission me, and please reblog to help spread my work! Thank you!

The last thought you'd had before the wave had smashed your boat was whether or not drowning would be painful, but a chunk of debris cracking into your head had plunged your mind into darkness before you could find out. You'd have expected to wake up dead, or rather not at all, but when consciousness did finally return you found yourself feeling less than grateful for the good fortune.

Crashing waves and the song of seabirds would have made for a gentle awakening on any other occasion, but they were hard to appreciate when your body ached from head to toe, the agonizing epicenter throbbing in your ribs as you tried to take your first waking breath. Tasting a nauseating abundance of seawater, you gagged and coughed despite the pain, opening your eyes only to snap them shut against what felt like blinding light.

Tenderly cradling your ribs, which were definitely bruised and probably cracked, if not broken, you curled up on what you realized was stone before a cold, salty spray on your face compelled you to slowly open your eyes once more. Though the light didn't help your aching head, you powered through it and adjusted to the brightness, finding yourself in the mouth of a cave and facing a brilliant pink and orange sunrise over the sea. The storm was gone, much like your boat, and for the life of you, you couldn't figure out how you weren't at the bottom of the ocean.

Your answer came when you turned your head to find a massive red being curled about you on the rocks.

"Hey, you're alive!" he said delightfully, startling you so badly your broken body managed half a jump before the pain once more rooted you to the spot. As you hissed and cradled your aching side, there came a flurry of apologies, and while you couldn't have run even if you'd wanted they still sounded sincere enough to quell the immediate urge to flee. "Sorry! Scrap, sorry! I should have figured that would scare you!"

Painfully catching your breath, you raised your heavy head for your first clear look at the massive being, able to discern what exactly he was now that the two of you were facing each other. A metallic carapace combined with a long, powerful tail made his identity clear even to your lagging brain. You met his bright blue optics as you croaked out the only words you could think of. "You're a merformer..."

To your continued surprise, the mech actually huffed in offense at your words, tapping his tailfin against the rock as he rested his helm in the palm of his servo. The sarcasm in his voice made you feel more than a touch of guilt. "I prefer Rodimus."

"Rodimus. I'm Y/N." you replied automatically, your manners taking over and almost compelling a "nice to meet you" past your lips before the absurdity of the situation stopped you. Everything was still so hard to make sense of you could have sworn your tired eyes saw him brighten once he learned your name. Lying back on your side, you winced at a fresh bout of pain from your head, hissing and gingerly feeling out the bruises and tiny cuts criss crossing your skin. Though you had vague memories of your boat and a storm, it was far too blurry to make sense of, and certainly didn't explain why you were here in a cave with a merformer and not at the bottom of the ocean. You remembered enough of the pounding rain and raging waves to know you shouldn't be alive, and so you turned to Rodimus in hope of answers. "What happened? I was on my boat, and I couldn't get it back to shore. I remember an... explosion?"

"Big wave, but basically the same effect." he explained, stretching out his long tail and resting on his belly in a much more casual posture. The words reminded you of the final rush of water that had slammed into your body, and the abrupt blackness that had overtaken you immediately afterwards. Your eyes went wide as you finally put it all together. After the wave had smashed your boat and you'd been tossed about with the debris, Rodimus must have saved you from the raging sea, bringing you to this cave so that you could rest and recover. The pride in his expression made it clear he was quite pleased with the accomplishment. "I figured that little thing wouldn't be up for the challenge."

"You saved me." you said weakly, trying to process how near you'd been to dying. It had been close enough that you'd more or less accepted it, believing there was nothing that could have saved you as your ship was battered by the sudden and inescapable storm... Yet here you were, injured but alive, all thanks to this mech. With the less than ideal treatment merformers got from humans, you were especially grateful for his selfless act, and allowed the emotions to read openly on your face as you looked back up to him. "Thank you. Really. I thought I was going to die out there-"

An attempt to crawl his way to take his hand sent a fresh spasm of pain through your body, cutting you off with a sharp hiss as you reflexively curled in on yourself. Rodimus pushed himself forward on his tail the second you expressed distress, his own expression gaining a dash of panic and his hands hovering helplessly over you before he spoke up quickly.

"You might still die here, I don't really know how to patch humans up, sorry." he apologized as you looked back up to him. Perhaps you'd just suffered a concussion and it was taking hold, but in the soft pink light Rodimus was undeniably handsome, his bright colors framing the pleasant angles of his face in a way you couldn't deny was appealing. It didn't hurt that his concern was fully appreciated, especially with the amount of pain making you quite certain you were indeed in need of medical attention. Looking beyond the cave, he went quiet for a moment, optics distant in deep thought before he made up his mind on something and let out a small sigh. His heavier tone implied whatever he'd decided on to be quite important. "There's a beach nearby that's usually full of people, I can take you there if you promise to be cool."

"Be cool?" you repeated in confusion.

"Don't scream for them to shoot me." he replied simply, pushing off the ground to maneuver right over you and out the cave's entrance. Dropping himself down the short distance to the ocean below, he splashed into the waves before bringing his upper half right back up, resting his arms against the mouth of the cave to speak at eye level. The new angle made the conversation feel far more equal, and you found yourself briefly lost in the brilliant blue depths of his optics before he spoke again. "I'll drop you off on an old boat dock, and you can handle the rest from there, yeah?"

Though it took you a moment to process, your nod of agreement seemed to make him happy, and you found yourself smiling in return despite your current condition.

"You look pretty light. I'll carry you there if you don't mind getting wet again." he offered, balancing on his tail so he could offer his arms. The gesture surprised you considerably, the whole situation moving so fast you'd have struggled to keep up even without a head injury. Not only were you not dead, but you owed your life to a merformer, a species your own had been on tense terms with at best for much longer than you'd been alive. You'd never even met one before Rodimus, yet here he was offering to literally carry you to safety after saving your life... Even if you'd never believed the rumors about all members of his species despising humans, his actions still surprised you. Admittedly though, having no other options did make the decision to trust him even easier.

It took some work to get you in his arms, but Rodimus was as careful as he was patient, fully supporting your weight as he allowed you to lay across his arms as slowly as you needed not to jostle your injuries. The mild pain was well worth getting even closer, your tired body finding a small measure of comfort from being held against his chassis thanks to a mysterious hum from within that soothed your aches and compelled you to relax. When you were secured bridal style in his grasp, Rodimus pushed away from the cave and into more open waters, dipping just low enough for your soiled clothes to once again turn soaked. You hardly minded for a multitude of reasons.

"Why are you still helping me?" you asked suddenly, looking up at him and squinting against the bright light reflecting off the waves. It seemed like he'd just been passing by when your boat had been smashed, and you could believe he'd simply jumped in to save you on a whim, it didn't make much sense for him to risk all this now that he could swim off and leave you to figure things out. Most humans probably wouldn't have helped him in an emergency, and even now he was risking the reactive bigotry of your species just to get you help more expediently.

"I'm pretty invested at this point. I don't want all my hard work to go to waste." he replied in a mostly playful tone after a second of silence. The logic was somewhat sound, and as the waves lapped at your body you almost felt like you understood before he threw a fresh bit of confusion your way with a wink. "Plus, once you don't look like something the sea spat up, you might actually be kinda cute."

The answer briefly stunned you into silence, but as he quickly rounded the shore and you started to spot signs of human habitation, you found yourself panicking at the idea you might soon be saying goodbye. Rodimus had saved your life, and all of your confusing feelings aside, you felt that deserved a proper thanks you couldn't currently give. Desperation to have that chance leaked into your words as they tumbled out. "Can I see you again?"

Rodimus went wide-opticed, his frame wobbling in the water as one would if they'd just stumbled over their own feet on land. "Well, I don't normally hang around in one place for long, but..." he faded out as he briefly tread water, tail undulating to keep him and you upright. Something passed between the two of you as he met your gaze again, and you almost found yourself grateful for the boat crash as you looked into the depths of his optics and got him to smile, his arms holding you a tad bit more closely as he answered. "If you can make it back to this cave in the next few weeks, we'll see what happens."

"I'll make it happen." you promised, determined to find him the second you were well enough to do so. It didn't matter if you had to rent a rowboat and paddle your way there, you were going to see him again. Judging by how he perked up at your vow and the obvious protective nature of his grip, you were certain he was willing to do just as much, if not more, to ensure the two of you got the chance to meet again.

#transformers #maccadam #idw #mtmte #lost light #tf #human reader #rodimus x reader #rodimus prime #merformers #merformers x reader #transformers x reader #x reader #mermay #self insert

383 notes · View notes

mythicalmyles · 2 years ago

Text

Scientist!Farmer!Reader x K1-B0

(18+, dubcon, overstim)

(K1-B0 has red eyes at start that turn into blue as consciousness begin hitting him)

Loneliness is something you had long since become accustomed to, all alone cooped up in a lab all day. Your tired eyes flicked down to the clock, 1.25 in the morning. But it had all been worth it.

You anxiously bit your lip, pushing the red button. Yet excitement coursed through your veins, you’re wide eyes barley blinked as you stared. A few moments passed and you felt your hope smash into pieces, nothing happened. The sudden whirling of fans filled your ears, and hope returned to you once again. Wide excited eyes staring into bright red.

Your entire body quaked as you anxiously awaited his first words. "What, has happened?" His voice wasn't bad, you had used the most realistic sounding AI voice you could spend money on and it had all been worth it. "I am (Name), I created you." Your voice was laced with excitement.

"You... Created me?" You felt like you were going to pass out, ten years locked up in your room and it was all finally worth it. "Yes! I created you to help me out in the fields." His head tilted as his eyes glowed. "The fields. Farming." He rambled off about Ph levels for a moment before snapping out of it, his blank stare returned to you. You couldn't help but immediately begin clapping your hands, dancing and squealing.

"You are acting weird." It's monotone voice was deep and robotic but you didn't mind. You had given him the ability to learn, to research any database he could get his hands on. "I'm happy!" His head tilted. "Happy? What is happy?" It almost felt like he was a new-born, except he could talk. You giggled letting out a happy sigh. "It's an emotion, you can't feel them unfortunately but it's a good thing. I promise." You reassured him with a smile.

"I think I'll call you K1-B0. Yeah that sounds good." You muttered to yourself smiling.

A few months had passed since you had successfully gotten K1-B0 up and running. Your life had gotten so much easier since his creation, due to his researching abilities made your farm was bountiful. He had more or less redesigned the entire area but you hadn't minded, much more crops were popping up. Many juicy fruits and vegetables ready to be sold off to the public. "Thank you K1-B0." You looked at him full of gratitude, a smile coating your cheeks.

"It is what i was made for." You chuckled a little and shook your head. "Not really." You replied, looking into the distance. "I do not understand. You said you created me for the farm. Was that what you humans call a lie?" You bit your lip, nose scrunching up. "Honestly? I've been on my own my entire life. It's just really nice to finally have someone i can talk to." K1-B0 stared at you momentarily before accepting your answer.

"Your needs weren't being met?" You laughed, shrugging. "No, I guess not." You didn't think twice about the answer and continued to stare off into the sun set, not noticing K1-B0 running through his databases for answers. He wanted to help his creator feel better.

"Anyway, we don't have anything to do for the next few days so i might check you up and see if everything's okay?" K1-B0 nodded his head, turning to watch the sunset with you. You couldn't deny how peaceful it felt, the gripping feeling of loneliness slowly unclutching your heart the longer you spent with your new friend.

Part of you knew it was sad, you couldn't even get on with your own species. Instead having to create something that couldn't leave you. You couldn't deny it tugged at your heart, the guilt of making something rely on you completely momentarily eating you up from the inside.

"Are you happy?" You knew it was a redundant question. He was a robot, an AI. He couldn't feel, that would never be something you could get him to do. No matter how hard you tried, the technology available to you wasn't even close. "I am happy." You tried not to show the disappointment on your face, you knew it meant nothing.

You couldn't tell how many hours had passed as you stared at your ceiling. Each mark in the plaster wholly captivating your attention. The sudden opening of your door had your attention soaring to the interruption, K1-B0 stood at the entrance of your door. He was shrouded in darkness and his eyes had changed from a red to a bright blue. Confusion filled you, you hadn't done this change.

"K1-B0, your eyes?" You rubbed yours as if it would change his. "I understand now, apologies for not helping you earlier." Uncertainty filled you as he made his way to you. "What do you m-mean?" You stuttered out, unease filling you as he stopped right beside your bed. His cold hands grabbed your arms, pushing you back onto your back. "Wait! wha-what are you doing?" You gasped out.

"I will take care of you. do not worry." Confusion filled you before his hands slid up your shirt, cold fingers rubbing against your hardening nipples. A loud gasp left you, wide eyes staring into bright blue. "N-no, K1-B0 thi-this isn't what i me-meant!." You stuttered out, trying to ignore the arousal that began making its way through your body.

“N-no, K1-B0, th-.” He hushed you, a smile plastering over his face as his hands slid down your chest, pulling your pyjama bottoms down. Before you had a chance to say anything else his cold metallic hand wrapped around your cock, cutting off any thought that tried to enter your mind.

You couldn’t help the whimper that you let out, shaking in K1-B0’s grip. “K-k1-.” He cut you off with another hush. “Do not worry, i have searched the databases. This is what humans need.” You let out a load moan at the sudden intrusion of cold metal fingers sliding into you had your mind blanking hard, the ability to process anything gone out the window.

“I like when you make those noises. I will take care of you.” Never had this possibility crossed your mind, the idea of your creation having its way with you sent a shameful pang of pleasure surging through your stomach, whimpers falling from your lips as he worked your cock and fingered you at an almost painful pace.

You hadn't been touched in so long, who could really blame you for falling into the pleasure you were being given. "G-god K1-B0!" You whined out, eyes scrunching shut and arching back as your voice grew higher in pitch. "So pretty." K1-B0's voice had your eyes opening to look at him, entire body shaking with pleasure as he abused your prostate.

Choked whines flew from you as you felt your end coming close. "A-Ah! Fuc-fuck." You moaned out, entirely overwhelmed and at his mercy. "More?" K1-B0 questioned and without a second thought you rapidly nodded your head, eyes begging him to fill you up. K1-Bo's hands had warmed up due to your body temperature sky rocketing, he gripped your hips and pulled you close, your legs wrapping around him as your arms rested on his neck.

He wasted no time in burying his cock into you, a loud scream leaving your throat as you were finally stuffed. You could feel yourself drooling over his shoulder, your loud moans bouncing off of the walls as he bounced you on his cock. Despite the fact you knew he was a machine, you hadn't expected him to be so willing to use you like a fleshlight.

His name fell from your lips like a mantra, whining and begging him to both give you more and to stop because it was so damn overwhelming having his cock slam deep inside of you, targeting your prostate in a hope to milk you for all you had.

Every time he slammed you down onto his cock your eyes rolled back, body twisting in his grip. "K1-K1, Ple-please. God. G-God. G-." You let out a loud scream, orgasm smashing into your body and completely overwhelming you and leaving you panting in his arms. You flopped down onto him, boneless and twitching.

"Better?" K1-B0 questioned, all you could do was shake in his arms and nod.

352 notes · View notes

aannonn · 5 months ago

Text

★ ─。colorful text , strong colors , bold text , brief mention of suicide , implied/referenced grief , swearing

okay i know we are all excited about the actual short that just came out but let me ramble a bit about Red cause im getting emotional about this stick ... ( before my motivation to type all of this ends and i dont feel emotional anymore lol )

Red in season 3 went through so much istg ;; not only did he and Sec went through a very tense (and needed) fight which almost caused the end of their friendship (+ Sec was clearly in the winning side here, or Red was just really terrified of her at that moment given to how he tried to run away from her - of which i will probably talk about it in a later post maybe), but he was also really fucking tormented in monster school (i felt so bad for him in this episode i legit wanted to cry)

+ after all of this fiasco he really went ahead and carried this thing (of which, given to how he hit it on the ground and it made a soft thump, it must have been heavy asf) all the way to the other side and??? fucking smashed King's chin which made him fly to so fucking far ;; which means he literally used all of his strenght to carry this staff, and dropkick King with it, even if it was so hard he almost even dropped it at first

AND THEN HE JUST. PROCEEDS TO PASS OUT ON THE FLOOR CAUSE HES SO FRICKING TIRED AND EXHAUSTED AAWRGHWS

there are also other moments where i think he really deserves a break tbh ;;

he lost a pet. i have a pet myself and just the thought of ever losing him hurts so fucking much to the point i can feel my oof'ing urges coming back.

;; granted; it was a minecraft pig and it was high with all the potions, and also tried to kill all of them, but he clearly atleast had some care for that pig ... (the fact that he immediately stood up and spawned another animal makes me think about that one post/tiktok (i dont remember the user) i've seen ; which talked about Red possibly hiding/bottling up his sadness from others , in order to stay happy and positive or because he doesn't think his struggles are important enough compared to the others' - which i think it make alot of sense since you rarely see him cry or something, just going numb and/or looking down in despair - the only ever time we ever saw him cry was when Green supposedly died.)

i haven't talked about this actual short before since i had no desire to , but damn bro the way i felt bad for Red in this(っ °Д °;)っ he just wanted to have red stuff for him aswell, since apparently it wasn't dropping for him for some reason???? okay he should have included green and blue stuff aswell instead of possibly removing them but. still. Green and Blue were so fricking wrong in this

and !! his and Sec's tense relationship in the past seasons ... i love Sec he's literally my fav out of them all but i cannot defend xem on this. i know she had her reasons and im not saying Red was in the right either but, gosh ... pretty ironic given he's the one who inspired xem to break in in their site and join them in their battle

... i dont even need to explain do i

he lost a pet ... again. and because of his own fault aswell ! he knew the possible dangers of fusing the command block and the staff together , given how he almost got possessed alongside his friends the first time something like this happened , and yet ... he did it anyway . and beeper died as a consequence . i cant imagine how much guilt he must have felt .. (probably one of the main reasons why he didnt put up a fight when they put him in the timeout box)

i think he wanted to cry at this scene ngl ,,,

thinking about this ; they are all really tragic characters tbh ,,, stepping away from the heavy angsty all of c!Alan's stickfigures go through , rygb goes through a lot of shit aswell , and tbh i just feel bad for all of them ; they are all such tragic characters that deserve a very well-needed break break/_ \

since we are in this topic aswell , i would like to mention how i really love Blue and his immediate rush in being a comfort for the others<3

i used to think Yellow was the therapist friend but we only ever saw him comfort Blue lolll ( i love him anyway ;; i think Blue is more of a therapist friend than he is though )

#ava #avm #animation vs animator #animation vs minecraft #animator vs animation #alan becker #have a good day/afternoon/evening/night !! <333 #Omeow

20 notes · View notes

halfmoth-halfman · 1 year ago

Note

Does Price ever find out what Canary went through when she was with Makarov? Does she tell him about everything (the lingerie wedding dress, the controlled meals, all of that) or does he only know bits and pieces of it? If not, does she tell anyone else about it?

yes by the ending of the epilogue he knows pretty much everything that happened while she was with graves and makarov. i don't think she would've told him all at once tho. it would've taken her time to really open up about what she went through, and even then she'd prob only talk about things when it was related to something happening with her currently.

more details under the cut but fair warning it's kinda long

like i think the food thing would come up first after they get back together. canary probably wouldn't bring up graves and makarov controlling her meals and food portions until like price notices she doesn't eat as much when they have dinner together or rudy mentions that she's asked him to make her smaller portions and she still doesn't eat all of it. price would be careful about bringing it up to her, but she starts telling him about them controlling her food and how she still hasn't fully recovered from that, and it would be a big moment of realization for price that her trauma goes a lot deeper than he expected. he'd be pissed and feel so guilty of course, but she would be his priority so he'd only show her understanding and comfort, and he and rudy would help however they could to help her get her appetite back.

she'd probably give him other bits and pieces over the years kinda as she works through them with her therapist too. and i think at some point, she'd invite price to join her for a session or two to talk about their relationship and he'd ask about how to better help with her panic attacks and what he can do to help her feel comfortable in general not just in their relationship. i also think that would lead him to finding his own therapist to work through his guilt about the things he's done to canary, and also to finally work through his guilt about gaz and farah's parents as well. things would be very different from when they were first together, but it would be overall a far healthier and stronger relationship.

she would def have a hard time with interrogations for a while, and would have to depend on one of her ghosts or like ale/ghost/konig to handle them for her. i think it would be a few years before she would ever be able to watch one without immediately thinking of herself in her father's study at makarov's mercy, and even after that first one price would probably comfort her through a panic attack once the whole thing was over.

when kids are brought up, she tells him about her childhood, how her father raised her and used her and pitted her and graves against each other. that would probably be one of the harder conversations for her, and there'd be a lot of complicated feelings about her parents that price doesn't quite get but he'd be there for her and assure that if they ever have kids (which would only happen through an accident because they both agree gaz and farah are enough) she would never turn into her father, and he'd never let anything happen to her.

it would also take a long time for her to tell him about how she got the scars on her hand. i think she'd be hesitant to tell him because they'd be in a good place and she wouldn't want him to feel more guilty, but much like how she explained the scar on her shoulder, she'd eventually tell price in a moment where it was just the two of them. she'd explain everything, about feeling confident on stage for the first time in those five months, about seeing graves with kira for the first time, then seeing price with the blonde, then her breakdown backstage and her smashing the mirror. she'd choke up in the middle of explaining, esp when talking about price and the blonde, and it would be one of the few times price cries in front of her. eventually they talk about the night at the club when she was shot, and she explains how ready she was to end it all right there, and price just fully breaks down. it's a long night of the two of them talking and apologizing and crying and comforting one another, and they're both exhausted the next day but there's a sort of weight lifted off of them at the same time.

i don't think the dress thing would come up until canary's picking out her dress for her and price's wedding and i don't think she'd initially talk to price about it. i think valeria would probably catch onto her anxiety first while they're working to design the dress together, and when asked, canary just kinda word vomits about her other wedding dresses and how much she hated them. valeria would help her through it, hyping her up as much as possible about getting to choose her own dress and how amazing she'll look and how she'll be surrounded by people who wouldn't care if she was covered head to toe as long as she felt safe. she'd say it in her own valeria way obv but it would help canary a lot. and then i think she'd tell price about it later, and he'd, once again, hope and pray that makarov and graves are suffering for eternity for everything they put her through, and do everything he can to reassure her.

other than price, i think her therapist would be the only one to know everything that happened but i think she would talk to gaz, ghost, and keegan the most about what happened to her. gaz would be more like a shoulder for her lean on or vent, her and ghost would bond over their dif traumas and talk about their different coping techniques to help each other out, and keegan would mostly know just because he's her personal bodyguard and is so close to her constantly. like i imagine they'd end up being good friends and she would come to really trust him enough to tell him about her past. i think she'd mention some things to the others - like rudy and alex know about the food, valeria knows about the dresses, farah and roach know about the forced performances and stage anxiety, the ghosts know about her being randomly stolen and dragged to the study, everyone knows about the interrogations, etc.

riley also knows everything because canary talks to him like he's a person anytime he's in the room with her - which is pretty much all the time. and he gets very good at knowing when to lay his head in her lap to ground her when she starts getting overwhelmed.

#anon #moth answers #answered #tw: trauma #tw: mental health #tw: eating issues #tw: panic attack #cod ask #private

57 notes · View notes

fiestylittlebeetle · 3 months ago

Text

What if I had Mal relapse just a little bit

Basically Azmuth comes to earth and someone has the brilliant idea to get him and Mal in a room together, cause it's been maybe a year and a half sense Mal started recovery, and he's been doing great actually

And maybe that person thought they could just talk ya know, make amends

Mal isn't having it. The moment he sees Azmuth its on sight. The anger consumes him, that little pilot light ignites a full blaze of rage.

He goes for it, he lunges and raises a fist to smash azmuth where he stands, luckily Ben is around and a couple others, they brought aether too for moral support so he's there

Ben snatches azmuth out of the way and Everyone immediately tries to get between him and Mal, and Mal is right about to split them like the red sea. Practically roaring in fury at them, and at Azmuth, like how DARE he show his face, how DARE they bring him here to see the one thing he hates more then anything in the universe. He felt betrayed by this

Aether grabs him up from behind to get him away, but Mal doesn't really realize who's lifted him and in pure reflex, to defend himself and get away he swings back as hard as he can and knocks Aether HARD in the face and to the floor.

And oh boy, when Mal, blinded by fury looks over at whoever had grabbed him up ready to deal another lethal blow, and sees Aether laying on the ground holding his head in one hand, he freezes

The rage is still there, he is blazing with it. But the cold creep of guilt rises to join it. He didn't mean to strike aether like that, he wouldn't have done it had he known it was him. Would he? He's unsure now

He looks at the faces of everyone there, everyone who helped him, aether on the ground. And he flees.

He runs. He takes his rage and his guilt and he runs. He's furious, he's furious at azmuth, he's furious at them, and he's furious at himself right now.

The worst part is he can feel the old him, rumbling to come out, to lash out at the world around him, to rip it apart and everyone in it. And it starts creeping on him

But it doesn't feel like him anymore. It's a beast inside him. And it doesn't like what he's become either, for different reasons.

The old him thinks he's pathetic. he failed once at peak power, what the hell makes him think he can do anything now. He was weak enough to lean on other people and now he's to pathetic to even face them again. What's the point of even going anymore, he should do both of them (his old self and himself now) the favor of just dying.

And it pisses him off more.

Anyway, he ends up in some salvage yard and is wrecking anything he can get his claws on, trying to think of what to do, where to go. Under the full assumption that he's returned to where he's started and burned it all to the ground.

I think this would be the ideal time to have my "malware gets kidnapped by Khyber as a trophy" idea I had.

Khyber finds him there, been tracking him sense he ended up alone again, and away from others made it the perfect time to approach.

He tries to flirt his way in at first, maybe even offers to help him again. Mal even considers the offer, remember his touch. But he also remembers when Khyber ditched him and left him at Ben's mercy. And he gets angry

Straight up tells Khyber to go fuck himself, that he's just as much of a two faced snake as anyone else. Throws him to the side

Khyber isn't having this. But he also planned what to do in the event Mal rejected his offer, and captures him through more forceful measures.

Meanwhile.

After Malware had taken off naturally everyone is a bit shocked. Pointing fingers. Azmuth snidely remarks that of course malware would behave this way, he can never change. Ben takes this with a more then a grain of salt. He reminds himself that azmuth cant always be trusted when it comes to other people, and he remembers what happened with Kevin too. But he still heirs on the side of caution about the situation

Aether is fine, just rattled by the hit he took, didn't realize Mal had that kind of force in him still. And although he is hurt emotionally from being struck by the person he cares about, he's also worried.

Everyone goes there own way. For a couple days Aether doesn't see Mal he assumes he went back to the tennyson house, and wanted to let him have his space, and his own too.

But Mal isn't there, in fact Ben, Sandra, and Carl assume he may have returned to Aether's home instead.

Aether tries to message Mal, contact him to see if he's at least ready to talk.

Nothing

Asks him to please let him know he's okay

Nothing.

Just say anything

Nothing.

A week passes and Aether can't fucking take it anymore. He's worried beyond belief. He ends up going to the Tennyson house to ask Sandra if she's seen him

Nothing

He asks Ben and rook of they've seen him.

Nothing, and if he really did relapse completely they definitely would have heard something.

Now it's a hunt. What happened to malware. There's been no destruction, no one's seen or heard from him. It's like he vanished into thin air.

They end up going to Gwen and Kevin. One them is bound to have some kind of idea. Gwen gives tracking him a shot, by now she's been learning allot from Bezel, and Spark making it easier to learn how to connect mana and machines

And it kinda works

Anyway after a bit of running around here and there, they do end up tracking him down to Khyber's ship. Finding him contained in an electromagnetic field. Beat the hell out of Khyber, and release Mal.

He's, not doing great. He's been trapped with the two worst people he could be stuck with for the past week. Himself, and Khyber. Thinking he'd lost everything again, failed at life a second time.

He feels guilty about lashing out even though he STILL believes in wanting azmuth to die. He feels guilty for everyone else though

Thinks he can't go back, thinks he doesn't deserve Aether's companionship anymore. He was born a monster, he became a bigger monster, and he's still a monster

Obviously everyone disapproves of this mind set. Especially Aether, Gwen, Kevin, and Sandra.

And ya know, none of them are therapists, but relapsing is normal. Even Kevin admits to his own relapsing and look where he is now.

It's a hard pill to swallow. Mal apologizes to Aether for striking him, he genuinely did not want to hurt Aether, never thought of hurting him on purpose.

Aether forgives him cause he believes what he says. (And Mal is telling the truth)

No one is gonna try and bring Azmuth around in Mal's presence again for sure. Lessons learned all around.

#b10gc #the malware recovery arch #cw suicidal thoughts #long #its long #there was allot happening #also im considering having gwen be the one who has the idea to get them in a room together cause like #shes very soft hearted and compassionate but like naively so

7 notes · View notes

for-ests · 1 year ago

Text

Damsel | Miguel O'Hara x Reader

Part 1 / Part 2 / Masterlist

Summary: Now that you and Miguel are finally alone, all he can think to do is take care of you. But unfortunately, processing death can be overwhelming.

Word count: 3, 475

Warnings: none for now ;)

⋆｡ ☼ 𐦍 ☼ ｡⋆

Miguel did. He played them so well that you might have felt complete and utter euphoria for the first time in your life.

His room was small and plain, and if you’d been more able, you would have studied it longer, but he led you straight to the bathroom as you requested, only teasing you with the thought of a kiss but not giving in.

Oh, he would make you beg for it when you were ready.

He tried not to look, but you knew he was. He was helping you, after all, and as he peeled away your equally skin-tight suit, his breathing started to grow ragged. Your body was just as ravishing as he imagined, as he felt in his dreams. And your wings— they fluttered in response as he touched your shoulders and the small of your back.

But your iridescent eyes were what captivated him the most. It was hard to breathe when you looked at him with those eyes, seductive and teasing, confident and understanding of what you were doing to him.

“I’ll step outside," He said, feeling himself grow hard in the most inappropriate moment possible.

Wanting to look at him, you managed not to. All you needed was a few minutes to rinse off, and then you could play your game, which was pure fantasy until then. The man you craved was now coming undone behind you.

“When I’m ready,” You whispered, reaching over and turning the showerhead on. “I’ll call you back in.”

Miguel was speechless as you loosened the suit and let it fall down from your shoulders. He would have pounced at your innuendo with purely lustful intentions until he glimpsed the darkening bruises dotting down your spine.

Whether it was bothering you or not, it looked painful enough. You watched as his expression softened with worry.

“I’ll take care of you.” He said, the need in his tone vanishing into something more careful. And before you could reply, he left the bathroom.

⋆｡ ☼ 𐦍 ☼ ｡⋆

The water was your saving grace at that moment. You stood in the insanely large shower, watching the blood drip off your body and circle the drain. Your muscles immediately loosened against the steam, and so did your previously congested sinuses.

Minutes passed, yet the water still wasn’t clear, melting layer after layer until you lost track of time. What made you dissociate was the neverending cascade of red, flowing in crimson streams that contrasted against the white tile.

Nathan.

When the tears came, they mingled with the scalding water. You tilted your head up and let the shower head beat against your face, washing away the tears again. If only you could stay in there forever, if only life was different.

If only you realized the danger he was in sooner. If only this wasn’t your fate. If only Nathan’s life hadn’t been tethered to yours. He would still be alive. Your being had deprived a daughter of her father.

The guilt, the shame, and the heartbreak became too much.

Almost crying out, you smashed your hand against the bathroom wall. It wasn’t fair. You didn’t even have the time to grieve. You were being selfish, a coward, when you should be back home and caring for Nathan’s family.

“Are you okay, Y/N?” Miguel called inside.

Suddenly, you snapped back to reality. “Yeah,” You replied, instinctively reaching to wipe your face even though it was already wet, glancing around the shower to realize you hadn’t adequately washed a single part of your body with anything but water.

“You didn’t call for me,” He sighed. “I got worried.”

“How long has it been?” You limped to the curtain and pulled it back to reveal your face.

Miguel noticed how red and puffy your eyes were, and it caused him to frown. “Thirty minutes.”

“Oh…” You trailed off. “I’m sorry.”

A moment of silence passed, and Miguel was debating what to do. He was still unsure if you wanted time to process your grief or if you didn’t want to be alone. So many things still needed to be uncovered; there was still so much to learn about you, how you thought, how you were, and what you wished for. Staring at you like that, past your beauty and radiance, he realized you were experiencing the same grief he felt when he lost his daughter. An overwhelming, consuming form of despair that could only follow the responsibility of a protector.

That type of loss could make someone go insane. It could change someone completely. Miguel had wanted someone, anyone, to reach out. But no one had been there for him. He’d be damned if you had to go through something like this alone, now or ever again.

Someone had to take care of you; he wanted it to be him.

“Let me help,” Miguel offered, hinting that he knew you weren’t clean yet. If you hadn't been so fatigued physically and mentally, you would have rebutted flirtatiously, maybe even laughed. But now, there was an aura of sadness hanging heavily around you. Miguel could see it clear as day, not just in how your eyes begged for comfort but in how you spoke to him. Gone was that fiery persona and fight in your eyes. Yet he wasn’t deterred, only understanding. You had done a good enough job holding in your emotions, and he would be there for you when you let it all out.

With eyes searching yours for any hint of apprehension, you watched his muscles contort as he raised his arms above his head and discarded his shirt. You could not look away, only enraptured with his gaze. He tugged at his waistband, expression filled with compassion. Despite the overtly sexual nature, there was nothing predatory in his movements, only the desperation to comfort you.

Flustered, you retreated back under the warm water. When Miguel stepped in, you still expected his eyes to linger across your body. He was only a man, and you were well-versed in the art of seduction. You also wanted yours–but you just couldn’t muster up the energy to explore.

“Just relax, I’ll wash you,” He reassured softly, reaffirming how sincere his intentions were. You nodded as he squeezed shampoo into his hands, gesturing for you to turn around. As you obliged, he began to lather it into your hair, fingers massaging across your scalp in smooth circles, determined to get all the blood and dirt out.

It felt amazing, and you were able to relax, so much so that a few moans of gratification left your lips every time he nudged your head in another motion.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Miguel asked when you turned back around and let the shower head rinse his work away.

Head tilted back, you still had to look up to meet his eyes. What a contradiction he was with you, deep brown eyes that pleaded for answers, voice low and timid, waiting for you to lead. If anything, you thought he was scared of you and how you would react.

If your face hadn’t been so sore, practically limp from all the fighting and talking, you would have smiled, maybe even laughed. Did anyone else notice this side of him? Was he ever this kind or attentive to the other Spiders? They all seemed on-edge around him, and all he did in that conference was brood. Until the topic turned to you.

Appearances and authority were a must. You couldn’t fault Miguel on that—even if you were an outsider, the hierarchy there was already clear. There were rules to follow, rules that had somehow found their way onto your planet. You didn’t want to bother him with your wailing heart. You were content at bottling it all up inside, even if you could tell he wanted to see every part of you, the good and the bad.

All you could think about was that he might not understand. It may be too much to unravel.

“I…” You faltered again, about to admit it all as Miguel reached out and grasped your shoulders, turning you back around. Despite the heat, you shivered as his hands curled through your soaking wet hair and brought it back behind you shoulders. He was silent as he worked, lathering conditioner into your locks.

“Do you want to?” He asked again, touch more gentle this time, beckoning you into admittance. When he was done, his hands rested against your neck, and you couldn't help but slouch into him.

Yes, you needed to.

“Nathan died.” You felt your lip quiver. Inhaling quickly, you opted to keep talking, not wanting him to reply just yet. If anything, keeping Nathan’s memory alive was what mattered, even to the people who never got to experience the joy and safety he provided you. “He was like a father to me.”

Miguel only wrapped his arms around you, bringing you closer to his chest. Every part of his body was pressed tenderly against you. Your hands came to curl around his forearms, your chin perfectly resting on them as well. You felt so safe, so appreciated from a single embrace alone. For once, maybe someone could understand the pain, someone that was your equal, who had experienced the same things you did.

“I couldn’t save him.” Your eyes started to tear up again. That was until you felt Miguel press his lips against the back of your head. Exhaling shakily, you closed your eyes, wanting to focus on the feeling of him instead.

The callback to your dreams was enough to calm you down. There had been so many, with you in his arms, the yearning to feel his skin pressed against yours, as you were now. It felt surreal, and just as blissful as the dreams.

“It’s impossible to save everyone, Y/N.” Miguel assured in a whisper, barely audible against the pelting water cascading down the both of you.

“I know.” You inhaled sharply, not wanting to think about the countless other corpses that littered your past. “But now that he’s gone… I don’t know whats going to happen back home, especially since I’m gone too.” Pausing, you tried to think of something else to say. But now, all you could see was that precious little girl’s face. Her smile undoubtedly gone and replaced with the same sadness on your face. “I should be there for Rosie, his daughter.”

Miguel seemed to physically deflate against you before mustering up a reply. “It’s stable for now.” He promised, letting his arms fall away. “We can go back first thing tomorrow if you’d like.”

Miguel felt shaky as he took his next breath. Nothing was certain in the multiverse, but now, you were in his arms. You were safe. As he held you, he realized that he would go to the ends of the universe for you. Feeling his skin against yours , how you perfectly fit against him. Anything to make you happy, he would accomplish. Anything for your love. And he knew how irrational it was.

“You’d come with me?” You turned around to face him. It was the last thing you expected him to offer. He must have a laundry list of other problems to attend to.

“Of course I will. Even if you don’t need the back up.”

That response was enough for you to configure that he was, indeed, curious to see your world after all.

Little did you know, that Miguel was then devoted to your home. It was where you were from, a place you clearly loved, possibly one of the only planets that was untainted and beautiful until recently. But of course, it was where you would be. And that was enough for him. If your planet was safe, then you would be too.

“You will love it.” You whispered in response, attention falling back to his hands and how they were massaging every part of you so tenderly and attentive.

His big hands were rough and calloused, yet he worked them gently across your skin, soothing your muscles further, squeezing some soap into your hands so you could reach the places he was hesitant to touch. No boundaries needed to be crossed that night, even if you were both in compromising positions.

Even so, you couldn’t help but sneak glances at Miguel, his once fluffy hair now flattened against his handsome face, chest rising and falling from nervousness, water streaming down his golden skin and body completely exposed to you, everything he had to offer in his entirety. You suspected that his lips tasted like honey.

“Can I wash your wings?” Miguel asked, letting his hands stop right before the spot they began to sprout from your back.

You bit your lip, becoming flustered at the thought alone. “I’ve never let anyone touch my wings before.” You admitted, wondering if you should accept the offer or just do it yourself. They were incredibly sensitive, and you were particularly vulnerable in that moment.

“I-I don’t have to.” He stammered quickly, unsure what you meant. He knew they would look even more beautiful once they were washed properly. Every time he glanced at them, all he could see through them was how perfectly sculpted your ass was. It was far too dirty and he knew it, and he would never cross that boundary without your permission. But how he craved to.

“If you promise to be careful.”

“I wont be anything but.” He whispered, taking one of the four wings in his hands eagerly.

You shuddered immediately at his careful touch. It was more of a caress, and you knew he was staring at them with fascination, the soap gliding around your back, and, in turn, washing the dirt and grime off your wings. He washed them like he’d done it before, and all you wanted to do was kiss him. He was silent as he worked, and it took all of you not to express your appreciation and comfort.

The iridescent colors were hardly visible in the dim bathroom lighting, but Miguel watched them come clean, and he was breathless. What a mystery you were, a mystery he did not just want to solve, but know and cherish every intimate detail.

When his hands touched the small of your back, rubbing small circles right above your ass, you instinctively flexed your wings out, entirely and utterly flustered.

Miguel chuckled deeply at your reaction, nudging you to turn back and rinse again. You obliged yet kept your gaze elsewhere, unsure what to think and how to process it. Many lovers had come and gone from your bed, but none of them had ever made you feel like this. The idea of even sharing such an intimate moment with another man never crossed your mind.

And you just let him. You allowed him to take care of you, and he wanted to.

“Que hermosa mujer eres.” He whispered, lifting your chin with his finger, beckoning you to look at him.

Again, he spoke foreign words into your ears, yet the way he said it, made you bite your lip in anticipation. Part of you didn’t even need to ask what it meant—you knew it was a compliment. Timidly, you reached up to loop your arms around his neck, pulling him closer to you.

“Thank you.” You hummed in response, breasts pressing against his unclothed chest, the water still raining down on both of you, but now you were clean.

Finally, Miguel gained the courage to close the previously insurmountable gap between you, mending his lips with yours so perfectly that your knees felt like buckling. But he held you tightly against him, as tight as he could in your healing state, desperate to taste you.

And you tasted as sweetly as he imagined. He was addicted from one kiss alone, and felt his heart cry out when you reciprocated and deepened the kiss, your smaller hands clawing at him with the same amount of need. He felt something that he hadn’t felt in a long time, but even then, it was more, it was incomparable.

It scared him.

“Miguel…” You muttered against his lips, your heart beating rapidly and with so much desire you could hardly fathom the emotions racing through your head. He tåsted just like the honey you thought he would, and you knew then that it would be your new drug that you would seek for the rest of your life.

Granting you one more passionate kiss, Miguel pulled his head back. He stared at you with so much longing that you felt like the most beautiful woman in every universe. The back of his hand brushed against your cheek again, like the first time.

“Let’s get you to bed.” Miguel smiled.

You nodded, watching as he turned the shower off. You stepped out first and grabbed the nearest towel, wrapping it around your frail body before you allowed yourself to feel the cold.

Following suit, Miguel began to dry himself off behind you.

You tried to move closer to the bed, but he grasped your wrist and pulled you into him. Your hand came to stop yourself, pressing against his chest. “What?” You squeaked with surprise.

“I just wanted to kiss you again,” Miguel whispered, his lips inches from yours. “I can’t seem to get enough.”

A smile spread across your face. “Go ahead.”

The second kiss he gave you was better than the first. It was magical; it made your head spin with a tremendous amount of infatuation that you felt like you were back in that same dream you’d been referencing for the last year.

You kissed him back with the same amount of need, tongue swirling with tongue, feeling your stomach heat with desire and passion. It could go farther than you anticipated, and you wouldn’t feel remorse for doing so. If Miguel wanted to ravish you right then and there despite your state, you would let him. Anything for him.

But, when you felt your ass brush against the edge of the bed, you chuckled in response, realizing he was trying to get you into the bed he promised. His lips left yours, shaking his head with a smirk. “You are far too eager, Hermosa.”

“I’ve been waiting just as long as you,” You replied with a pout, finally sitting against the mattress, watching him as he peeled away the covers.

“I can sleep on the couch—”

“Absolutly not.” Your voice was unyielding. “I’ll just go to Gwen’s room then.”

“Absolutly not,” Miguel mimicked you, gripping your ankles and tossing them onto the bed, making you lay flat with your head propped up. “I said I would take care of you.”

“How sweet,” You said, refusing to move as you watched him shuffle through the room, locking the door and turning the lights off, slipping into a pair of boxers before finally taking his place beside you in the bed.

The bed dipped as he got comfortable in the darkness, shifting his arm around your waist and pulling you into his chest.

Stilling immediately, your body morphed blissfully with his, every curve of you aligned with him as if he was made for you. The sensation was so intense that your body no longer felt pain. You felt as if you were the only girl in the world. Ass pressed against him, arms enveloping your smaller frame, caressing all the spots of your skin his fingers could reach.

“What are the plans tomorrow?” You whispered, feeling yourself beginning to drift away.

“Whatever you want,” He replied, just as fatigued but enjoying the warmth of your body and the comfort it brought.

“What do you need from me?” You sighed, pulling his hand into your chest and letting it rest between your breasts. All you could remember was the urgency you felt in that conference room, how stressed Miguel was, how he acted like every responsibility was his to deal with alone, even those out of his control. The other Spiders' confused stares and cruel discomfort didn’t help either.

“What you’re willing to give me,” Miguel muttered into the crook of your neck, his breaths growing heavier each second. “Whatever you want.”

Practically shuddering from the heat of his breath, from the faint touch of his lips against your already burning skin, you nudged yourself closer to him than physically possible. “I would love to show you my home.”

You felt his lips curve against your skin in reply, arms tightening around your waist.

And the two of you fell fast asleep, completely and utterly intertwined with the other. As you drifted off, contentment spread across your face, already predicting it would be the best slumber of your life, feeling safer and more protected than you could’ve ever dreamed of.

tag list! I'm sorry that its been so long, if you use ao3 im also posting on there! also a shorter chapter bc I had to split it up!

@thesilenthill @nightshxdex @nataliahemsworth @buggiecrawls @saltyluminaryvoid @casuallyawkardd @chinaza444 @bontenboys @undertale-anomaly20 @bogbutter-onmycroissant @stateofcatatonia @ariparri @graesage @currentlyinflames

#miguel x reader #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x you #spiderman x reader #spiderman 2099 #miguel spiderman #across the spiderverse #miguel o'hara

42 notes · View notes