#they both could burn the heart of the world down easily. they choose not to.

[mechieonu]

shadow 🤝 elise: emotionally repressed sonic love interests gang

[brownskinlemon]

Deal (d.f.)

pairings: dom/reader

word count: 4,061

summary: You've never experienced the big O, and a night with your best friend Dominic turns into more than you planned

warnings: smutty smut, mentions of smoking, unprotected s3x, cr3ampie, multiple orgasms, some sappy emotions

authors note: this is my first ever story, and I hope you all enjoy :)

!! do not repurpose or repost as your own for any reason on any platform without credit !!

The shuffling of feet was all that could be heard as you and your best friend Dominic paced the grocery store aisles. It was nearly midnight, the store getting ready to close soon. The munchies had taken over earlier in the night, which led you two to an hour's journey around this store, baskets full of junk food in both your hands. 

“Y/N…bro” You turned back to his mouth agape, eyes fixated on a mega-sized Ben n Jerry’s tin. He toyed with his lip between his teeth for a moment, before swinging the door open and obnoxiously tossing it into his already overflowing basket. 

You snorted quietly to yourself, quickly turning back around before you ended up staring at his pink lips for far too long for your own comfort, far too long to be considered platonic admiration.

-

The streets of Naples were empty and dim, headlights dancing across you in the passenger seat of Dominic’s car as you sped down a main road. Your eyes were glued to the moonlight dancing across the thrashing waves across the shore out of your window. 

“So beautiful” He mumbled to himself.

�� I know right?” You responded without looking at him. Your head whipped around to him, surprised to find his brown eyes already fixated on you, making your heart drop suddenly.

He coughed to himself, straightening up in his seat and turning his attention back to the road, his lips once again being caught in between his lips. Those perfect fucking lips.

With his looks he could easily have every girl in Naples on a leash, but chooses not to, you never understood why. You would like to think he had commitment issues, but it seemed to be pure disinterest in dating at all. You had been friends since middle school, and though you had been in so many friends and “relationships”, your friendship stayed the same. As close as you had been, there were lines you wouldn’t dare to cross. These lines became blurry in your mind as of late. His figure, eyes,lips, voice had all been so…enchanting recently. Staying up till late overthinking every little interaction was excruciating to say the least. You’d rather die than let him know a word of it. 

You snuck glances at him as his ring-clad fingers drummed on the steering wheel to whatever song was currently on. His apartment came into view, and he skillfully maneuvered into the parking deck. After he parked, you hopped out, grabbing the 7 bags worth of snacks you had bought earlier.

“You really think we can actually eat all this?” You huffed as you made your way down the hall to his apartment.

“ I know I can, especially that ice cream.” He nodded, a small smirk pulling lightly on his face. 

-

“Ok so out of all of them, who was the best in bed?” Dom quipped, eyes fixated on the rolling tray in front of him on the bed, hands skillfully pearling one of several blunts that night. 

You were both clad in a hoodie and pajamas, sitting on his bed. A fiery orange light danced across the dim room from a lamp, “Who Hurt You?” by Daniel Caesar playing lightly in the background.

“Hm…maybe that one soccer guy. But he did the bare minimum and didn’t even make me cum.”

“Well at least you’re able to get yourself off right? Who needs em anyway.”

“Yeah…” you trailed off quietly, eyes locked on your fiddling hands which had now become the most interesting thing in the world. You could see him stop his actions out of your peripheral vision. 

“Y/N”

“Dom”

“No way you’ve never…finished? Like ever in your 20 years?”

You sighed, eyes squeezing together. “I have not.” 

Tears begin to burn at the brim of your eyes, threatening to fall with each second of embarrassing silence that follows. Sure you had discussed…sex,all bestfriends do, but there were lines you didn’t want to cross. Dom knowing about your lack of ability to orgasm was one of those lines. 

Without looking up at him you jumped up, rushing past him to the bathroom across the hall, slamming the door behind you. You sighed deeply as you leaned on the counter, locking in on your eyes in your reflection  that were reddened, caused partially by both the weed and your now falling tears. It didn’t help that weed always made everything you felt even more intense. 

“Get it together. It’s not that serious.” You repeated like a mantra quietly until a heavy knock interrupted your thoughts. 

“Y/N come out…I didn’t mean to make you cry.” You couldn’t see him but you knew he was doing that thing where he tapped his feet when he got nervous or worried.

You nibbled on your bottom lip, pausing in the silence.

“You didn’t- I mean- you didn’t Dom. Shit’s just embarrassing.”

“There’s no point in being embarrassed. Why would I care if you’re not like a sex god or something. In fact that’s pretty normal for women to have that..blockage you know?”

You chuckled lightly to yourself, amused at the way his version of comforting you. You breathed out loudly, nodding to yourself in the mirror before swinging the door open to find Dominic leaning on the doorway, running right into his chest. 

You were taken off guard as his arms wrapped around you, your tense shoulders relaxing as you embraced him back.

“You ok?”

“Yeah..don’t rub it in.” You said muffled into his chest. 

His arms loosened around you as his tall frame loomed over you. His brown eyes bore into yours from above, rendering you silent. You watched as his eyes snuck a glance at your lips, quickly snapping back up to your eyes.

“Y/N…I-”

Before he could get a word out you moved around him, walking into his room and turning over your shoulder. 

“That blunt and ice cream won’t finish itself Dom!”

You watched him smirk to himself, shaking his head as he made his way back into his room with you 

-

After several blunts and snacks, you two found yourselves wrapped up in blankets on your second movie of the night: The Breakfast Club. 

“This movie is amazing.” You quipped up with a mouth full of ice cream, eyes not leaving the screen. You heard him hum in agreement, eyes sneaking a quick glance at him as he leaned back, shifting his hips underneath his blanket. My god, if I was on that lap I would-

“Y/N” 

“Dom” Your eyes were glued to the screen as you pretended to be completely invested in the film, and not as invested as you were intently ignoring whatever conversation he was about to start. 

“About earlier…you know I’m not good with emotional sappy conversations so..bear with me...” He trailed off, pausing the movie with the remote and forcing you to find another object in the room to fixate on.

“I wanted to say that I’m sorry they didn’t..care enough to make sure you were good. I know I clown on you alot but you don’t deserve that shit.”

His hand gently made its way under your chin, forcing you to look at him.

“You hear me?” His eyes searched yours valiantly.

“Yes.” You breathed out, freezing at how intense his gaze fanned over your features. 

His eyes dropped to where he began to cup your hands gently in his, as your eyes followed. You two were never touchy, and the frequency of physical touch tonight was stoking the already intense fire that was stirring in you for him. 

“Fingers crossed the next man that gets the honor of touching you is caring, and gives your body the respect it deserves. Hm?” 

“Fingers crossed” you said quietly, trying to hide your breath that was now ragged from the little contact. 

You looked up at him, surprised to find his eyes already fixated on you. His teeth caught on his full bottom lip, his chest heaving silently. The lighting in the room, combined with the way his hair fell over his face made your body run warm. The sweet smell of his cologne mixed with weed filled your lungs and made you dizzy with desire from how close you were sitting.

Fuck it. 

“Dom”

“Y/N?”

You leaned over quickly, smashing your lips into his. It took him no time to connect your lips, hands snaking around your waist. A moment later, you pulled away, leaning your forehead against his, eyes filled with desire as they met his.

“What was that for?” He breathed in and out, attempting to catch his breath.

“I…I want to try it…with you.” Your voice faltered as your sentence went on.

“It? What’s it?”

“Sex.”

His eyes danced back and forth between yours searching for any doubt.

Your hands covered your face. “Its okay if you don’t we can go to bed and pretend like this never happened I just-”

You were cut off by his lips smashing into yours again, and he flipped you two over so he was hovering on top of you. His hips grinded into the heat between your legs as they wrapped around him . You whined into the kiss from the friction as he pulled back, his hand placed under your chin. 

“Are you sure you want this? With me I mean?” 

“Yes Dom. Please. I need you.” you whimpered out as you grind your hips up into his to emphasize your point.

A quiet groan fell from his lips. “If you ever…and I mean ever want to stop you tell me okay? I want you too but this is about you. I want you to feel good but I need you to let me know what you need more or less of. Deal?”

You nodded silently, eyes boring into his.

“Words Y/N.”

“Yes- I mean deal” tumbled from your lips that had already begun to darken from his kiss.

He chuckled to himself, diving back in to connect your lips again. His lips danced their way from your mouth, across your jaw, and down your neck, deciding on a particularly sensitive spot to mark. Your breath began to waiver and small whimpers caught in your throat as his mouth left marks across your neck, surely to be a sickening purple in the morning. 

“You sound even prettier than I had imagined.” He whispered near your ear, making your stomach turn in the most amazing way.

As he continued his attack on your neck, his long fingers began to toy with the hem of your hoodie, dipping his hands underneath to run his hands up your stomach. 

“May I?” He asked, referring to your hoodie that had been pushed above your stomach by now.

“You may.” You smiled shyly at him as he gently pushed your hoodie off your body, exposing your baby pink bra to him . He met you in your bareness, leaning back to pull his hoodie over his head. Your teeth bit down on your bottom lip at the sight of his chest, the sharpness of his abs that were littered with tattoos had made you clench your legs together in a fever of need.

He leaned back into you, finding his place once again between your legs as his lips kissed across your chest. 

“Arch up for me” He muttered.

You obeyed, arching your back up as he unclipped your bra with his free hand, sliding it off you gently. A gasp from your lips broke the thick silence in the room as his lips gently wrapped around your nipple, his large hand twisting your other nipple gently in his hand. Your hands rushed to loop into his unruly curls. 

He continued his descent down your abdomen, leaving open mouthed kisses on his path until he reached the waistline of your pajamas. He sat up, kissing your forehead as he massaged your hips. 

“Lift up.” He breathed out. Your hips lifted in response as he pulled down your pajamas in one swift motion. He toyed with the hem of your panties, eyes catching onto yours as you stared at him. 

“Remember our deal okay?” His eyebrows raised. 

“Okay.” You responded shakily. Although you were not a virgin, the line you were crossing was enough to leave you in shock. You had reached a point beyond return and there was something about the sheer size of the tent in his pants that did not lend to not being overcome with nervousness. 

He hooked his ring clad fingers into the loop of your panties, pulling them down gently. He sat back on his knees, admiring you completely bare to him, your body running hot from his gaze. 

“Good god you are so beautiful..” He shook his head in disbelief. You looked up at your best friend, and saw everything that love could offer in human form. It was almost comical how whipped he had you from a few touches. He slid down between your legs, flat on his stomach and wrapping his arms around your thighs. 

He peppered open mouth kisses and hickeys between your thighs, getting dangerously close to where you needed him most. He blew a cool stream of air over your clit, causing you to jolt your hips trying to chase some type of sensation, in response he pushes your hips down gently, readjusting his grip on you.

“Relax baby, I got you” He quipped before suddenly wrapping his lips around your center. A silent moan lodged in your throat at the sudden contact. He began to work over you with his tongue, humming in pleasure as your moan finally released from your chest, echoing in his small room. 

Your hands searched the bed wildly for something to hold onto, one of your hands settling deep in his curls while the other gripped tightly on his bicep. You grinded up into his grip, breath labored and laced with ongoing whimpers. Just then, Dominic pulled back from you, earning a whine of frustration from your needy lips.

“Shh…I’m gonna add a finger now, okay?” He asked gently. You nodded fervently, desperate for him to touch you. Your body tensed as his digit slid into you easily thanks to the wetness that had pooled between your legs. He thrusted gently, making your mouth fall open as he repeatedly brushed over your g-spot.

“Can you add a second?” You labored out through heavy breaths.

He silently obliged, sliding a second finger gently inside of you, earning him a gasp and a mantra of his name tumbling from your lips like a broken record. A high pitched sound that he had never heard before left your bruised lips as he returned his mouth to your clit while still pumping his fingers into you. 

Everything felt more intense, and it was making you dizzy. You felt pleasure running through your veins, making your eyes roll back and your nails dig into his bicep. Your hips jolted up and in response Dom wrapped his hands tightly around your thighs, locking you in his grip and keeping you from moving. You felt an unfamiliar coil in your stomach, and it was almost too much for you to handle.

“Dom I-I can’t” You whined out through eyes that were squeezed closed, attempting to loosen his grip on you and run from the intensity that he had built up between your legs. 

“Yes” He peppered in between kisses on your center, his fingers not letting up their pace. “You can. That’s an orgasm baby, I know you can get there for me. Breathe.” 

It was almost like your body was programmed to his words, because just then the coil in your abdomen had snapped. Your vision went white and you could hear nothing but your own pulse in your ears, you were sure you could faintly hear Dom’s voice in the distance. A surge of pure unadulterated pleasure rushed through you, paralyzing you in his grip while rendering you speechless except for the screams of his name that echoed in the tiny room.

As you came down, you slowly opened your eyes to find Dominic staring at you with the goofiest smile one could muster. He looked so innocent as if he wasn’t covered in your juices and hadn’t just performed witchcraft between your legs that were still shaking. 

“Dom, what the fuck.” You heaved out.

“I know right?” He quipped while massaging your hips. He leaned over to kiss your forehead.”Do you still wanna continue? I know that was…a lot, or at least it seemed like it was. I don’t wanna push you too far if not.” Your eyes raked over his frame, nodding enthusiastically.

Your confirmation was all it took for him to remove his pajama pants in one swift movement. He followed by slowly removing his boxers, groaning as his dick sprung free from its confines. Your mouth fell agape. You had always had a guess that he was well endowed, and yes he was, but you never thought that a dick could be..pretty?

“Don’t stare, it makes me nervous.” He mocked with a small chuckle, earning a small exhausted smile from you. He found his place between your legs, his dick rubbing lightly between your wet folds, making you both groan. His free hand dipped between your chin, forcing you to look at him.

“Let me know if you want me to stop, okay? I never wanna make you feel anything other than good. Deal?”

“Deal” You nodded. He pecked your lips, dropping his head to look at where you two connected between your legs. He massaged his tip lightly between your folds, letting his tip gently slip inside, as you held your breath and his own ran shakily. Your eyes squeezed together and your hands gripped his biceps.

“Breathe, don’t go blue on me baby.” 

You tried to remember how to breathe, but all you could think about was the delicious feeling of him gently stretching you out. His thrusts stayed slow as he practiced getting deeper and deeper until your hips met each other. You arched your chest up until it met his tip as his tip began to massage deeply against your g-spot.

In no time, he had worked up to a decent pace after you gave him the okay, your body running hotter than ever as he worked into you while latching his lips onto your already decorated neck. The room felt like it was spinning in the best way, and the groans he elicited into your neck made you wanna explode. You were ripped out of your trance after he suddenly pulled out and flipped you onto your stomach.

“Dom what are you-”  Your sentence was interrupted as the feeling of a cold liquid ran up your spine from base to tip. You whined at the sudden temperature change, whimpering as the cold was replaced with his warm mouth that had begun indulging in the ice cream off of your back. 

“Tasted even better off of you than I imagined.” he commented, following his words with immediately slipping back into you completely, snatching your already ragged breath out of your chest for the thousandth time that night. Your nails clawed into the sheets under you, searching for a grip to cope with the rush of pleasure that had overtaken your body. He trailed his hands up your torso and arms, stopping at your hands as he interlinked your fingers with his own, not relenting on his pace inside of you. 

The room was filled with the melody of your collective moans paired with the harsh colliding of your ass into his hips. A thin blanket of sweat covered both your bodies, and once again he had brought you to a point where you were thrashing underneath his touch.

The whispers near your ear were driving you insane, and he began snaking his hand down around you and between your legs, using the wetness there that had pooled to his advantage. His fingers were now circling your sensitive bundle of nerves. That familiar coil tightened again in your lower abdomen, leaving you biting down into the pillow and arching up into his thrusts.

“You think you can be a good girl and give me a second one?” He toyed.

All that left your mouth was a string of desperate whines. 

“I can’t hear you baby…” He trailed off, thrusting particularly deep at the end of his words, leaving your mouth agape.

“I..I can’t…too much”You forced out between moans.

“I think…” He increased his pace between your hips and rubbed deliciously fast around your clit “You can.”

Your eyes squeezed together as he relentlessly worked at the coil that had tightened beyond belief in your abdomen. His lips trailed up your ear, and soon that coil had snapped, making your legs lock and a string of incoherent moans tumble  from your lips as he brought you to your peak for the second time that night. 

“Fucking hell…” He groaned at the sight of you coming undone and the way you were relentlessly clenching down on him. He pumped a few more strokes, pushing one last time into you to a hilt until you felt his warm release pooling your insides.

He suddenly pulled out, making both of you gasp. You were flat on the bed now, eyes fluttering as you felt the bed dip and his footsteps leave the room. You looked over your shoulder, wondering where he had trailed off to with such urgency. You heard the water run in the bathroom and he returned moments later with a warm wet washcloth. 

“You think you can flip onto your back for me?” He asked as he stood above you. 

“Mhm” You begrudgingly obliged. “What are you doing?”

“Cleaning you up duh” He said, shaking his head.

He spread your legs, trailing the washcloth down to your stomach and thighs. He gently brushed it over your center and beyond, earning a whine from you at the sensitivity.

“Shh I know, but you quite literally made a mess. And I hate to be that guy, but you’re gonna have to come pee baby” he cooed, earning a groan from you. He stood up, slipping on his pajamas before lifting you up and placing his oversized hoodie over you, flooding your nose with his scent. He suddenly lifted you up into his arms. You felt him walking out the room, placing you down on the toilet making your feet come in contact with the cold tile.

He leaned up against the counter, looking down at you with a big dopey smile as you waited for your center to stop pulsing so you could pee.

“You’re just gonna, stand there and watch me?” You quipped, raising your eyebrow.

“Yeah unfortunately, for you.” He fake sighed. 

A moment of comfortable silence passed before you broke it suddenly with your thoughts.

“Dom that was…I didn’t know I could…that it could feel like that.” You shook your head in disbelief before continuing. “I thought I was like..broken.”

He smiled softly before leaning over to kiss your forehead. “You did great. And you know, I’d like to think I know a few things.” You snorted in response to his cockyness. 

After you had finished and gotten cleaned up, you stumbled your way back to the bedroom with his help, flopping onto the bed.

He brought the covers over you, tucking you in and sliding up behind you to hold your frame to his chest. 

“Y/N…I love you.” He whispered, in a tone that made you understand that he wasn’t just saying that as your best friend.

“I love you too.” You hummed contently.

“I know this is probably a weird time to ask seeing as you actively have a little of me leaking out of you..but…” His voice ran shaky “Would you…and I understand if not I just wanted..for you to be my girlfriend. 

You turned in his arms, eyes searching for any sign of a joke, to no avail. “Deal.” You smirked at him, knowing he understood. 

“Deal.” He kissed you, smiling into the kiss, before you turned back into his arms. His curls tickled your neck as he feathered tender kisses down your neck before he finally settled in the pillow and fell asleep. 

[morethanmemory]

Imagine being his right hand while he's still a mob boss and he helps you put on the skeleton paint <3

They'd probably get to choose the colors of the paint, too, as he'd want his right hand to be easily distinguishable from the rest of the goons

Pairing: Doctor Phosphorus/Reader

Warnings: None; Some suggestive touching heheh ;)

Notes: anon this is lowkey so cute !! i'm a lil obsessed so a short blurb about it for you >:3c dragon reader makes a comeback in this au!

---

"You're kidding, right? I'll look like a walking Halloween decoration," you deadpan, fiddling with the lid of the neon green face paint as a frown tugs at your lips.

He scoffs as he takes the jar of glow-in-the dark paint from your fingers and unscrews the top.

"You already look like a Renaissance fair prop, so what's the big deal?" he retorts, tittering as he gestures at the sturdy horns atop your head. Your eyes narrow as you fix him with an unamused glower, but undeterred, he strides forward. As he takes another step closer, Phosphorus dips his fingers into the paint jar before waggling them at your face. The luminescent paint glitters on his fingertips under the dim lights of his office, sizzling against his fiery skin as the sparkling rivulets roll down his palm. Another step and he's leaning over you, pressing you up against the cool glass of the floor-to-ceiling windows behind his desk.

"C'mon," he urges gently. The simple plea rumbles in the back of his throat, deep and warm, and briefly, you're tempted to give in to his stupid, gaudy idea and let him paint you his. The soft purr of his voice makes your knees weak, and the sharp scent of radiation has your head spinning with its own stupid idea. The thought's crossed your mind more than once. Fleeting moments of curiosity when you've wondered what it'd be like to taste him. You could do it now if you wanted to. It'd be easy. Get on the tips of your toes, close the little space left between the two of you. But it's a bad idea—Phosphorus and you. He's as brash as he is flashy; you're hotheaded and stubborn to a fault. You'd both be playing with fire, and when neither of you can burn beneath the flames, you'll be stuck in hell forever.

In a poor attempt to bury the nagging desire to yank him down by his tie and kiss him stupid, you bat his hand away, but he's faster. With a swift swipe of his thumb, Phosphorus smudges the tip of your nose with a dab of paint, snickering as you scrunch up your face.

For a split second, he feels whatever is left of his heart stutter in his chest as you splutter and scowl. The twitch of your nose, the pinch of your brow, the pout of your lips, the shimmer of your scales—you're surprisingly adorable for a beast with hellfire in your veins. Despite himself, Phosphorus reaches up to brush his knuckles along your cheek, smearing green paint along the sharp scutes. In the silence of his office, with you silhouetted by Gotham's skyline and the stars above as his only witness, Phosphorus lets himself pretend—even if just for a moment—that this is something else, something more.

But your fingers wrap around his wrist, tugging his hand away, and he's dragged back into the world of endless, empty parties and drugs that never really numb the pain. Shallow and vapid is the life he leads now, but, at least, there's you at the end of every day.

And that means more to him than he'd like to admit.

His hand drops to his side, and Phosphorus chuckles quietly, praying his nerves don't bleed into his words. "What, not a fan of the brand?"

You shrug as your hands slide up to his chest with the crumbling intent to push him away. Your touch lingers a little longer than it should just to feel the warmth of his radiation seep into your palms through the fine wools of his dark suit.

"Sorry, boss," you apologize, half-hearted at most. Gently, you pat his chest. "Neon green's not really my color."

You haven't pulled away; he hasn't stepped back.

"Then," he begins coyly, grinning even if (or, perhaps, because) you can't see it, "what is?"

You don't expect him to take your answer seriously, to take you seriously—not for something as frivolous as this anyway. Sure, as his right hand, there are matters he takes your word for in a heartbeat. Phosphorus doesn't forget the faces of the rats you've sniffed out in his ranks. Still, you didn't think he'd ever actually remember your favorite color.

But, the next night, there it is, just sitting in his hand—a small jar of phosphorescent paint in the shade you love most.

"Do I have to?" you whine, arms crossed as you slouch against the back of the leather couch. The frown tugging your lips downward belies the fluttering butterflies in your stomach. He remembered your favorite color. The logical part of your mind (the part that's hopelessly in denial) says it means nothing, but your heart knows otherwise—and it's screaming in protest.

He reaches toward you, and you turn your head, sticking up your nose. You don't trust yourself to look at him when the lines between the two of you start blurring. It happens more often than not these days.

"Uh, yeah," he smirks, shuffling closer. "I didn't break into an arts and crafts store for no reason."

The cushions sag under the sudden shift of his weight, and you can feel his soft breaths tickle the back of your neck, making your scales rustle. You laugh under your breath, eyes trained on the intricate wooden molding trimming the ceiling of his office, and you try desperately to snuff out the simmering warmth in the pit of your belly.

"Oh, so that was you?" You spare him a quick glance over your shoulder. "The Carol's Crafts arson on the Upper East Side?"

"Actually, it was Gary."

You can't stop the bright laughter that bubbles up past your lips. Trust Gary, of all of Phosphorus's dim-witted lackeys, to be the one to set a store ablaze all for a few cans of glow-in-the-dark paint.

"Well, then, send him my thanks," you tell Phosphorus as a small smile curls your lips. You're turning back to face him before you can stop yourself, and you don't say a word when he moves close enough for your knees to touch.

"I'll make sure to get him a gift basket."

Phosphorus inches nearer, his thigh pressing against yours, and he holds up the jar between the two of you.

"Now, I don't know about you," he drawls, low and larky, "but—me, personally—I wouldn't want all of Gary's hard work to be in vain."

With a roll of your eyes, you reluctantly take the paint from his hand and unscrew the cap.

"Just so you know," you scoff, smiling despite the hint of annoyance lacing your words, "I'm only doing this for Gary."

A whispery laugh leaves him as he dips his fingers into the paint.

"Whatever you say."

The embers of something you'd long forgotten smolder to life in your chest, and you don't even realize you're holding your breath until it escapes you in a sharp gasp as cold paint and warm fingertips touch your cheek.

He chuckles, leaning in and crowding you against the couch. "Relax."

Phosphorus is walking death, but when he cups your jaw in his hand and strokes your silver scales with his thumb, you think you'd welcome the end with open arms. Your eyes flutter shut. You don't see how his hand trembles.

He's never told you this—and he probably never will—but every single time he touches you just a little too long, he's terrified. The ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner of his office echoes through the room in a taunting, torturous melody as his fingers slowly glide over the planes of your face. Tick. The radiation should have seared your skin. Tock. By now, it should have ripped through your flesh. The clock strikes the quarter-hour with crystalline chimes; every single cell in your body should have been incinerated. He waits for the horrified shrieks of unimaginable pain each time. Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Tick-tock. They never come.

Instead, your soft sighs and quiet giggles tinkle through the air as you squirm away from his ticklish touch.

"Stay still," he grunts, dragging his finger down the bridge of your nose.

But you can't stop laughing, shoulders shaking, as the contrasting sensations of cool paint and scorching skin make your scales tingle. "This paint smells like shit."

The pad of his index finger swirls over the button of your nose, and he bites back a smile when you wrinkle it. If he squints just right, Phosphorus thinks he can see something real through all the cheap thrills of this hollow life, and it's there in the twinkle of your eyes.

ACHOO!

Dragon fire skitters down his hand when you sneeze, and he flinches away, streaking the colorful paint across your face and up one scaly ear.

"Seriously?!" he cries shrilly, but there's no real bite to his words. "Did you just sneeze all over me?"

"S-Sorry, sorry!" you stammer between wheezing laughs, handing him a tissue. "I c-couldn't help it!"

You can't make out much of his indignant muttering as he wipes his hand clean before flinging the soiled tissue into the waste bin behind him, but you're certain he's not singing your praises. You're about to apologize again, but the words die on the tip of your tongue when his fingers gently grab your jaw, tilting your head back until your eyes meet his hollow sockets.

You wait for his usual scathing sarcasm, but he stays silent. Without a word, Phosphorus takes another tissue from the box and gently dabs at the paint in your hair. His tender affection is unexpected, unfamiliar, and yet, you lean into his touch anyway. "I can do this myself, y'know," you murmur in poor protest. It's not very convincing when you do nothing to stop him.

"I know." He brushes away the flecks of paint that litter the shell of your ear. "But..."

Whatever he's about to say catches in his throat.

You peer up at him through your lashes. "But?"

You can't see it, but you swear he's smiling. Really smiling.

"Nothing," he mutters. "Just don't want you fucking up my handiwork again."

"Oh, I'm so sorry," you apologize dramatically. "I had no idea Picasso had blessed me with his presence."

He groans, cringing. "Don't compare me to him."

"Why not? You hate Cubism or something?"

"The whack job was an asshole," Phosphorus bristles. For a moment, you think you catch a glimpse of the old him. Alexander Sartorius isn't a man you know very well, but he's always there just beneath the radiation. Sometimes, he breaks through the deadly flames, humming along to Bach or quoting Dante's Inferno (usually at your expense). You tuck away the tidbit that Alexander hates Picasso in the back of your mind.

"And you're not?" you shoot back with an impish smirk. He pinches your cheek.

"You are aware that I can always fire you, right?" he threatens lightly, wiping up the last stray splotches of paint from your temple.

"Doesn't mean you will," you reply with a simple shrug—stubborn and smug as always. He shouldn't like it as much as he does. Phosphorus brushes off your little, uppity remark with a click of his tongue before reaching for the paint once more.

This time, Phosphorus works with precision. Yet, despite his newfound determination, his touches remain oddly tender. He evens out the curves of the skeletal face, superimposed on your own, with the smallest scratch of his fingertips around the apples of your cheeks. His digits slide gently down your jaw to fill in the missing pieces of the mandible. He traces the Cupid's bow of your lips with his thumb in a stroke so slow that a shiver runs down your spine. He prays you can't hear the thundering of his old heart.

Phosphorus mumbles a flimsy excuse that you—too lost in the feeling of his free hand running down the arch of your back—don't really hear. You're too far away. You're moving too much. He needs you to come closer.

You let him pull you into his lap, fighting down a soft sigh. He lets your thighs straddle his hips, biting back a quiet moan. So, this is what it's like to hold a fallen star.

He drags his paint-tipped fingers down and over your lips. The finishing touch.

And yet.

He tucks a finger under your chin.

Your name falls from his lips in a wisp of a breath, and you know, without a doubt, that the battle your mind wages against your heart is a losing one with every tick of the grandfather clock.

His lips brush against yours in a ghost of a touch.

The heavy wooden doors to his office slam open, followed by a cacophony of hollering cronies, and your quiet world of stolen touches and words unspoken shatters like glass. A sea of bright green skeletal faces flood into the room just as the two of you jump apart. Their words all blend together as you try to orient yourself, but as the haze in your head clears, you manage to make out enough. Ice Lounge. A big party, an important party. Phosphorus is late.

So, you let them usher both of you out and into the elevator. Phosphorus berates the idiots for not knocking. Gary compliments you on the hue of the skull painted over your scales (you thank him for the arson).

The few centimeters between Phosphorus and you might as well be a chasm. Still, your eyes meet across the distance. Neon green, you think, is growing on you.

[tornado1992]

Sonic has always loved the golden color, that specific yellow was such a beautiful, lively color.

Red is his obvious answer to the “what is your favorite color?” question, but if they told him that he had to choose only one color he could see for the rest of his life, he knows golden yellow and baby blue would be the ones fighting for the throne.

How could they not? Those were his little bro’s colors.

Every time he looked at Tails it was like the sun had embraced the sky into a tiny fluffy ball, making both of them brighter and brighter, shining against each other, the softest shade of sky blue being evolved into a heart warming sun.

Tails was the infinite answer to the happiness question. His unstoppable potential to achieve anything he wanted, the endless possibilities of a wide happy future for him, the one who always accompanied him in his worldwide runs, just like the sky.

His brother was a soft light that warmed his heart everyday, a bright path to follow when he fell to deep in the dark, a reason to keep fighting for.

Yeah, Tails felt like the sky. But he was Sonic’s sun. And if he had to fight all his life to make sure that those bright baby blue eyes keep shining and that golden yellow fur keeps glowing, then he’ll fight till the world itself ended.

His world was ending. Slowly.

It was so sudden, so uncanny, and so, so unfair. They were happy, they were running together, they were laughing and racing each other until Tails abruptly fell from the sky, Sonic almost too late to catch him. “Just a headache” he said while being cradled in Sonic’s arms. Headaches were not supposed to make you faint, but Tails was fine, so it had to be okay.

It stated slowly. Tails kept fainting for some time, they worried, they went to the hospital and all the doctors said it was nothing. He started to vomit every time he ate, they returned to the doctors and the same answer was given.

He couldn’t sleep, they no longer believed the doctors.

His tails went limp, he couldn’t fly anymore, and his bright yellow fur was fading its color, he took matters into his own hands and after lots of analysis and test they got an answer for his predicament.

Tails was sick.

His fur was no longer shining, his eyes were no longer sparkling. Bright golden being rebalanced by an ashy sad yellow, and baby blue being covered by an infinite gray shadow.

Leaving a dark cloudy sky with a sun no longer shining.

His body was getting thinner by the day, Sonic could always carry Tails easily, he was a big brother, it came in the job’s description, so if he had to help Tails stand and walk for some time it didn’t matter, he’ll be by his side until he recovered. Until he no longer had to apologize for not finishing Amy’s cooking, until they’d stop bringing him to Angel Island trying to get the Master Emerald to heal him.

It didn’t matter how long would it take, he’ll be with him until he shines brighter than the sun once again.

Why

That was his only question

Why him? Why did it have to be him? Why wasn’t there any existing cure yet? Why didn’t even Tails had an answer? Why couldn’t Sonic do anything about it?

Tails was eight years old, eight, he hadn’t reached double digits yet, his birthday still too many months away. It could’ve been anyone, anyone but him. He had so much yet to live, and he told Sonic he knew he was dying.

A non believer would pray to a god to save their child. A believer would fight their god to save their child.

Sonic has already killed so many gods, and he’s already prayed to the ones that were left. So why wasn’t his sun shining again?

What deity did he annoy this time? What could’ve offend the universe so much that it has to take it on his baby brother? Why couldn’t it just burn the whole world down? Why couldn’t every enemy he’s ever faced come back and fight him? Why couldn’t reality just rip both his legs out instead? Why did it have to be Tails?

Sonic was willing to fight, bleed and die for that kit, so why couldn’t they just taken Sonic instead?

When his fur no longer showed any yellow brightnes and started getting covered by his own blood anytime he tried to speak they knew it was too late. When not even an over analysis on Shadows blood gave any hint of a cure, when not even Eggman’s biology knowledge and failed antidotes could even slow it down.

Not any deity, not the Master Emerald, not Sonic. No one could save him.

There was no solution. This was a threat he couldn’t outrun with Tails in his arms. An unforgiving curse slowly taking away his pride and joy to never give it back. A mocking laughing unknown force killing the only thing he would chose over anything else, his sun and sky, his kid.

Amy showered his forehead with kisses every time she came over, reading him bedtime stories to try and help him sleep, spoon feeding him his favorite ice cream when he was too weak to do it himself and too embarrassed to ask his brother. Knuckles stayed near their home, ready to assist in case there was an emergency, always bringing handmade wood toys so the kit could still play with something even if his arms were weak enough not to hold a small wrench, it wasn’t tinkering, but it made him a little bit happier.

They both told Tails how much they loved him every single time they were with him.

And Sonic couldn’t.

He hadn’t tell him that he loved him, not enough times before all this, never enough.

He couldn’t tell him he loved him now, not with words. He couldn’t voice that well known fact. Because his little bro already knew. Because it was something that was supposed to be shown with actions, not words. Because it went unsaid.

Because telling him he loves him now would mean accepting he’ll be gone. Accepting he lost, accepting he will lose him.

Sonic refused to lose him.

He needed to run, he needed to go away, because if he stayed, he didn’t think he’ll be strong enough not to crumble if they take his light away, when they take his light away.

He didn’t run, because that’s his brother, because even if his own heart is threatening to stop every time he looks at the cub’s small trembling frame, his heart wasn’t the one stoping in real time. So he stayed.

He stayed when Vanilla came over to check on Tails, to gift him a knitted beanie and matching gloves so he wouldn’t be cold in his own bed, the bed he hadn’t left in weeks. He stayed when he couldn’t properly take a bath by himself, helping him cleaning and brushing his fur while memories of baby fox fangs and campfires invaded his mind. He stayed when Tails couldn’t do anything but cry at the aching in his bones, and Sonic couldn’t do anything but hold him close.

His heartbeat was slower than usual, and that was already too slow.

And he was so, so cold. He wasn’t supposed to be cold, no, his golden fluffy fur was supposed to keep him warm.

The memory of his little squeaky voice was still engraved in Sonic’s mind, even if it had been months without properly hearing, and yet…

“I’m sorry”

“What’s that buddy?”

“I’m sorry, for making you wait for me to go”

No.

Why was his eight year old brother apologizing? Why did his kid feel the need to apologize for not dying? No. He knew exactly way, the reason were his feet’s constant tapping on the ground whenever he had a medic visit. The reason was how his own smile fell whenever the kid wasn’t looking at him. The reason… was because the kid just wanted to go, and Sonic wouldn’t let him. Sonic wanted him to get better, Sonic wanted him to stay with him. Not to let him go.

How could he? When he hasn’t had him for enough time? When he still had so much to live? When he still needed to apologize for not giving him the life he deserved? When he still needed to tell him that he loved him without feeling he’ll lose him forever?

Ten seconds of silence. Two voices in unison. The same feeling behind them, different words.

“Forgive me”

“I love you”

[dadsbongos]

yuuji x reader where the reader is nothing like his type at all (completely flat) I know you did a fic like this and i loved it so much but could you do a fic for the more flat chested girlies?? even a drabble is good! i loce ur work u are soo talented!!

oopsie i finished this the day i got it n then forgot to post it!! sorries!!

yuuji is so boy-coded in that he says what he’s thinking and doesn’t think it could be hurtful </3 also size kink hints

~~~ 18+ under the cut

“Angel face,” Yuuji grins like he’s proud of himself, and sadly, you know he is, “I got enough for the both of us.”

“Not funny!” you chuck the nearest pillow at his face, but your boyfriend easily catches it with a single hand. You watch his thick fingers dig and pull at the plush, he stretches the cushion between both hands before tossing it back towards you, “I’m trying to be serious, Yuuji…”

“So am I,” he frowns, all for show, plopping onto your bed beside you. He stares over your forlorn expression and his twists with sincerity, “Really, angel, I don’t…” he hesitates and you feel shame in how it makes your heart freeze, “I dunno how to explain it, but it doesn’t actually matter to me.”

You lean back onto your palm at that, raising an eyebrow at him, “It doesn’t matter?”

“Not really!” he shrugs, grinning sheepishly, “I just think you’re pretty. It’s not a turn off that you’re flat,” your wince at his choice of words does not go unnoticed, “It isn’t! You’re hot!” he leans into your space, bright grin now burning into your cheek as he kisses from your face and into the moor of your neck. He reaches up, fingers snaking under your shirt, “My angel’s the prettiest girl in the world.”

“You think so?”

“Baby,” he mutters into the hotbed of your skin, teething at the soft patch like a starved puppy, “I want you so bad all the time,” as if he senses your thrumming disbelief, he repeats himself, “All the time.”

His hands cover the entirety of your breasts and it drives him wild. Sparks something he’s unwilling to admit just yet: how crazy he goes for the way his body engulfs yours. Brain overheating and whole body jittering when he can feel your body pliant and dwarfed by his thicker frame. 

Besides, as much as he adores your looks, it isn’t as though your body is the most interesting thing about you. You’ve got Yuuji collared and leashed anyhow, the distribution of fat on your body couldn’t sway his heart.

Not in the slightest.

He digs his hands into your waist and laves your petite tits with violet kisses before stretching down to settle your thighs comfortably over his shoulder. Yuuji nestles into your warm body and digs out euphoria in earnest desperation. He’s certain that if he could curl up anywhere to rot away, he’d choose atop your body.

In the meantime, Yuuji excitedly works between your legs to remind you that he most certainly has enough thickness for the both of you.

[flowerandblood]

Glass Cuts Deepest (9)

[ professor! • Aemond x student! • female ]

[ warnings: kissing, panic attack, fluff, angst, trauma, mention of rape, indecent student-teacher relationship ]

[ description: A female painting student is finally able to choose the specialisation she has dreamt of - stained glass. She wants to become a student of the best specialist in this field, but he, for some reason, refuses to accept female students into his workshop. She finds out that he once slapped a female student of one of the other professors. Nevertheless, she makes an attempt to find out what happened then and to convince him to teach her. Slow burn, sexual tension, dark, agressive Aemond, great childhood traumas. ]

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Previous and next chapters: Masterlist

_____

She couldn't believe what had happened. She couldn't believe that he touched her, that she came on his hand, that he was planning to leave the university, that she could fall asleep in his embrace. In two days, her life had been turned upside down, and it appeared that the man she thought simply disliked her must have been in love with her for weeks.

What surprised her even more was that his confession had awakened something in her, some realisation that something about him had attracted her to him all along, had made her listen to every sentence he uttered to her colleagues, had made her gasp for air when he entered the room, had made her smile to herself when he watched from afar as she worked.

She thought at the time that the trembling of her hands and the hard pounding of her heart she felt when she spoke to him were due to fear, but she realised that it was always accompanied by an element of thrill, that as a man he was a challenge to her and by some miracle she had managed to get to his very heart, rooting so hard that he refused to let her out of his arms.

If it had been Cregan who had shown her so much interest and desire for intimacy she would surely have quickly cringed and withdrawn, overwhelmed and discouraged, however with him everything they did seemed strangely natural and came easily to her, as if subconsciously this was what she had been waiting for, patiently allowing him to approach her of his own accord.

They both squirmed through the night, aroused and elated, feeling that although no confession had been made between them, something had been decided, that they both knew they wanted each other, that they desired each other.

In the morning she was awakened by the tender touch of his fingers combing through her hair, his nose nestled against the top of her head, her cheek snuggled into his chest, locked in his tight, secure embrace.

She shuddered and sighed heavily, disappointed when she heard her alarm clock ring, hoping they had had a bit more time. She felt him release her from his arms so she could reach for her phone lying on her side of the bed, stroking her back as she muted her alarm, as if he wanted to take advantage of every second he was alone with her, every second he could touch her.

She looked over her shoulder at him and smiled, returning to her previous position, snuggling into his chest again, placing her hands exactly where he let her. He welcomed her back into the embrace of his arms with his murmur of contentment, his lips sinking into her hair on the top of her head in a tender kiss as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

She was shocked at how affectionate he was and how he needed that affection himself.

She thought, swallowing silently, that she wanted nothing more now than to take a shower with him.

She could feel his muscular body under her cheek and fingers – he had a slender, well-built figure and she suspected he went to the gym. She tried not to think about how wonderful he must look naked, wet, under the drops of water, but her imagination was apparently too lush, because she felt the wetness between her thighs again.

She heard him also grunt quietly and say that unfortunately he should go back to his room, take a quick shower and change before breakfast. She could feel how hard he was and knew that he was feeling extreme emotions, simultaneously terrified and aroused at the thought that she could touch him like that.

She decided that she would never try to touch him herself in such an intimate place until he guided her hand there himself or asked her to.

She didn't want to hurt him, seeing how much he trusted her.

Just two days ago, he wouldn't even shake her hand or sit close to her, but now they were lying in a tender, intimate embrace, stroking and kissing each other.

His lips found hers in a final, deep, drawn-out kiss before he stood up, standing with his back to her, not wanting to show what was going on in his sweatpants. She watched him leave and close the balcony door behind him while lying on her bed, feeling surprisingly calm.

It seemed like they were together.

She was in a relationship with her professor.

She sighed heavily, pressing her face against the pillow, recognising that she had no idea how they were going to manage to hide and pretend when they returned to university, when he needed her closeness and affection so much now.

How were they going to feign that they were indifferent to each other, that they kept their distance, that their relationship was downright chilly?

Nothing frightened her more than the thought that he would be in trouble because of her, that she would destroy his career.

She felt heat in her heart recalling what he had said, that he wanted to leave.

She knew they were balancing on the edge and recognised that she needed to be responsible for herself and for him, that she was no longer a small child and should control herself.

That he'd already suffered enough in his life and she needed to protect him, not get too carried away with their joy together and keep herself in check outside of the moments when it was just the two of them.

Just as the day before they'd had breakfast with Cregan – this time she had the impression that her professor was much more relaxed, even joining their discussion himself once in a while.

Apart from the pleasant realisation that there was some kind of beautiful feeling developing between them, which she had completely not expected, it came to her that she would see her project in its full glory today, her heart was hot with excitement.

When they arrived at the church she almost ran inside – she couldn't help herself, the technicians were just packing up the scaffolding and all the window quarters were put in their places. Father Bishop was already waiting for them, satisfaction gushing from his face.

"Please, come closer, Miss Wright, and see how magnificent your work looks." He said with a satisfaction from which she felt a kind of pride, knowing that she was only in her second year and although she had only cut out part of the background herself, this was her project, her vision, her idea.

She felt a tightness in her throat and a warmth ripple through her body seeing how beautiful it looked as a whole, how the faces of the saints, their robes and the backgrounds behind them shimmered in the sunlight, how wonderfully her composition and choice of colours matched the golden, baroque altar that stood before it.

Cregan patted her on the back proudly, saying that the whole thing looked amazing.

"It's a credit to the whole workshop. Everyone worked so hard, I'm so happy." She said softly, her voice trembling with emotion. She shuddered as she heard her professor's voice behind her.

"In Christian iconography and theology, the Virgin Mary is supposed to be the personification of the New Eve, transformed from a woman who was tempted into a woman who contributed to human salvation. Her son, Christ, was instead to be the new Adam, which is why often in crucifixion paintings we see a skull under his feet on the ground that is meant to symbolise Adam's tomb, on which his cross grows like a tree." He said in a calm, matter-of-fact tone, as if he were telling an interesing story, Cregan and the bishop looked at him with interest.

However, she knew perfectly well why he had said it, and she felt her heart beating fast, a pleasant heat spread over her whole body, a flush of embarrassment on her face.

For me, you are like Eve in Eden, who appeared beside me as a godsend.

She was his Eve, and his Virgin Mary had her face.

She wasn't sure there was any more intimate, spiritual declaration of love.

The bishop hummed under his breath, nodding.

"Indeed, the professor is right, Our Lady and Christ are the announcement of a new paradise, but also of the good news that the exile and wandering of mankind is over, that the gates of heaven have been opened to them again." He said, folding his hands behind him, glancing at her stained glass window and then at her, with a kind of curiosity from which she felt discomfort.

"Who painted the face of that wondrous Mother of God that shines so luminously before us?" He asked lightly, and she saw her professor look at him uncertainly, standing with his hands folded in front of him.

"Me." He replied briefly, lowly, but she felt a kind of tension in his answer. She saw Father Bishop glance at him and then at her and corrected his glasses with a light flick of his hand, a kind of amusement passed across his face from which she felt a squeeze in her throat.

Despite her concern, he didn't return to the subject, but she for some reason felt like crying.

It won't work.

People will guess that they have something in common and destroy them both.

They'll assume that she was in an intimate relationship with him from the very beginning and that's why he accepted her. They'll turn it against him, they'll think that's why he didn't want to accept women in the first place.

She felt tears at that thought and immense pain.

She saw that he glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, that he looked at her in the reflection of the mirror as they drove back to the hotel, but she was unable to look at him thinking that it was just a dream and nothing more, that she was naïve to think that what they were doing could have had any happy ending.

She went to her room without saying a word despite Cregan's encouragement for the three of them to have dinner at the restaurant and enjoy their new, wonderfully accomplished assignment.

She didn't have the strength to do that.

She was lying in her bed dressed in her pyjamas in complete darkness, knowing he would come, feeling in her heart ache at the thought that tomorrow they would return home, to the university, to an everyday life where what they did was immoral and would never be understood.

She shuddered when she heard movement on the balcony and then the quiet tapping of his fist on the window.

She thought for a moment that maybe she shouldn't open it, shouldn't give him or herself hope, but decided that she couldn't hurt him like that, just dismiss him without a word after what had happened between them.

She swallowed hard and stood up slowly, feeling her body tremble with fear, sadness and stress. She opened it and he stepped inside, closing her balcony door behind him, glancing at her quickly with concerned eyes, tense.

"What's going on?" He asked immediately, furrowing his brow, his voice trembling as he looked at her pleadingly.

He was afraid of what she would answer.

She pressed her lips together, looking away, feeling tears coming to the corners of her eyes, her body quivering all over. She shifted from foot to foot feeling overwhelmed and heartbroken at the same time.

"He knows. He knows it was my face you gave to your Virgin Mary." She muttered, looking up at him with suffering painted on her face, pulling in air with difficulty. She stepped back as he made a move towards her, but his hand caught her by the nape of her neck, pulling her close, shushing her tenderly.

"− shhh −" He whispered, pressing his forehead against hers, but she shook her head, tightening her hand on his wrist.

"− it won't work − someone will catch us − we won't hide −" She whispered, feeling tears begin to run down her cheeks and she sobbed quietly, heartbroken. He hushed her again, snuggling her face into his chest, embracing her tightly, tucking his nose into her hair.

She clung to him, clenching her fingers on his t-shirt, taking in the scent of his perfume, feeling so safe in his arms, so comfortable that it made her shiver in pain.

He was silent for a long moment, stroking her back and hair, listening to her raspy, anxious breathing.

"Just tell me if you want to try." He whispered quietly, and she felt a squeeze in her heart, feeling so painfully torn, at once wanting it with all her heart and panicking about the consequences of such a decision.

"I'm scared." She whispered in a trembling voice. He grasped her cheeks gently in his hand and lifted her face to look at him.

"I'm scared too, but that's not what I asked you." He said lowly, looking at her with a calmness that amazed her, a certainty and determination in his voice. She swallowed with difficulty, looking at him with her lips slightly parted.

I want to try.

It won't work.

I'm scared.

It's hard.

I want to try.

I don't know.

God.

"I don't know if you believe in God, but I do. Despite what has happened to me, I believe in him and that he is merciful. I also believe that he put you in my path, that he made me choose you because you are his gift, that he knows neither of us wants to do anything bad. I have never had the opportunity to care or look after anyone before in my life, but I want to do so for you. My sketches, your face that I painted, was an expression of my desperation and suffering, but this is the last time I let anyone see what I feel for you. This is the last time I put you in danger." He whispered in a trembling voice, making her completely stunned, tucking her hair behind her ear with a light, affectionate gesture of his fingers, a gesture that said 'you are mine'; 'I will protect you'; 'trust me'.

She looked at him with her lips slightly parted, feeling her heart pounding hard – she had the feeling that he himself was on the verge of crying, his fingers tracing the skin of her cheek was trembling, his gaze full of pain and affection from which she grew hot.

"Please, protect me." She mumbled helplessly, surrendering, feeling that she didn't have the strength to stand up to this, that even if she tried to lie to herself when she returned to the university she couldn't stop thinking about him, that it couldn't be undone anymore, that it was too late, that he had violently forced his way into her heart and she knew he had no intention of leaving it.

She saw him draw in a loud breath and sigh with relief, a small, shy smile crossed his face, gratitude that she had decided to trust him, that she wanted him to take care of her.

"I'll. I promise." He whispered, stroking her cheek with his fingers, and after a moment they leaned towards each other and kissed, deeply and tenderly, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

She felt butterflies in her stomach at the thought of how infatuated he must have been with her, how much he must have wanted her, to need her touch, her tenderness, her kisses so much despite his experiences, despite his trauma.

"− do you want to finish what we started yesterday? −" He asked in a quiet, trembling voice, as if unsure and ashamed himself of how much he needed her closeness, how much he desired her.

She nodded, not knowing what to answer, and they kissed again, this time more greedily, more passionately, as if they had finally accepted the fact that they both wanted this, that things would be what they were meant to be, that all they wanted and needed now was each other.

This time it was he who took her hand in his and led her to her bed, it was he who sat up, looking up at her, breathing unevenly.

"Can I stroke your cheek?" She asked quietly, longing to do so for so long, from the moment he touched her for the first time.

She saw him swallow loudly, looking at her with wide eyes, and then he nodded. She lifted her hand slowly and he closed his eyelids, drawing in air loudly as her fingers touched his skin.

"Are you okay?" She asked quietly, and he nodded and hummed under his breath, tense.

After a moment, however, she saw his lips tighten in discomfort, his face contorted in a sudden expression of pain and despair, he grabbed her wrist and shook his head.

"− no − I − I'm not − I'm sorry −" He mumbled out and she quickly took her hand away, horrified by his condition, by the fact that he hid his face in his hands and burst into loud sobs, by the fact that his body began to tremble in convulsions.

She knelt on the floor in front of him, looking at him in pain and disbelief, not knowing what to do, holding her hands over his knees, afraid to touch him, that she would only make his condition worse.

"− I'm begging you, don't apologise − I'm the one who's sorry − so much has happened, I shouldn't have asked for this − forgive me, I didn't mean to hurt you −" She mumbled out on the verge of crying, hearing his accelerated, breaking breath, his body trembling from crying.

"− hurt me? − you can't even touch me − fuck! −" He growled out with difficulty through his tears, desperation and disappointment with himself in his voice, with the hope that something had changed, that something had finally snapped inside him.

She didn't know what to say, what to do, how to soothe him without even being able to embrace him, hug him.

"− that whore − then when she came to me − she touched me, she fucking touched me everywhere − my cheeks, my shoulders, my chest, my stomach, my −" He couldn't finish, speaking with such deep sorrow that her throat tightened. She felt tears under her eyelids as he uncovered his face in front of her, looking at her as if he was searching for understanding, as if he needed to confide in someone at last.

He drew in a deep breath, gathering himself to speak his next sentence, raising his hand like a professor who wanted to explain something to his student.

"− she touched me everywhere − e v e r y w h e r e − as if she wanted to contaminate my body − to make sure that no one would ever touch me after her again −" He spoke the last sentence in a low, breaking voice, tears in his eyes again. She covered her mouth with her hand, feeling that her whole body was shaking, that she was in such a state as he was.

She was terrified.

"− she destroyed me as a man − as a boy − you were right − it doesn't make sense − you don't deserve this, you will only face rejection from me −" He muttered covering his face with his hand, struggling to utter his words between trying to catch his breath out loud – she felt a powerful sting in her heart at his thought of her wanting to abandon him because he saw no hope for himself, because he was disappointed.

"− you said you would never touch a woman before me, and yet you've been sleeping in the same bed with me for the past two nights − you've been holding my hand and kissing me − you demand too much of yourself and you think I demand the same, but that's not true − I just want you to be there for me −" She said brokenly, realising how much she had gotten herself into this, how much she didn't want him to suddenly become a stranger to her again, to disappear from her life.

She heard him trying to calm down, grasping at her words like a razor, himself clearly no longer knowing what he was thinking, terrified.

"− I − I − I think I'm about to throw up −" He muttered, and she quickly picked herself up from the ground, running for the first thing she thought would come in handy, which was a vase, pulling the flowers out of it quickly and handing it to him.

Barely in time, he merely turned his back on her and vomited, quivering all over. She sat beside him on her bed, looking at him with an anguish she had never experienced before in her life, her trembling hands wiping away the tears of pain that streamed down her face.

She suffered because she couldn't even stroke his back, she suffered because she didn't know if she could at least touch his hand, or if it would be too much now, she had never felt so helpless before in her life.

She couldn't find words of comfort for him.

Easy, nothing happened, everything will be fine sounded only like empty phrases.

"− I'll stay with you − I'll take my duvet, we'll go to your room and I'll lie down on the armchair next to you − I'll be with you, okay? −" She asked in a trembling voice, fearing that in desperation he would now try to reject her. He, however, was panting loudly, still with his back turned to her, trying to calm his breathing.

He nodded his head.

He disappeared into the bathroom for a moment to bring himself and the vase to order, not letting her do it for him, and then left her room without looking at her. She took her duvet quickly and ran out after him barefoot, noticing with relief that he had left his balcony door open.

She followed him in, seeing that he had checked that the door to his room was closed and was watching her vigilantly as she closed his balcony door behind her.

He wanted to be sure that no stranger would enter at night.

That no one would hurt him.

Resigned, he moved slowly towards his bed and lay on his stomach with his head facing her, not looking at her but in front of him, his gaze blank, cold.

Just like when she met him.

She thought with a squeeze of her heart that perhaps if she hadn't wanted to touch him it wouldn't have happened and she felt like crying again, but she thought she had to be strong for him.

She sat down in the armchair by the coffee table standing a short distance from his bed and covered herself with her duvet. He rose suddenly, without looking at her.

"− you'll be uncomfortable there − lie on the bed, I'll sleep in the armchair −" He said indifferently, and she shook her head, covering herself more tightly.

"− no −" She burbled wrinkling her brow, preparing to resist if necessary. He looked at her, seeming more tired than ever.

"− come to bed −" He whispered, moving back, laying down on his sheets, and she shook her head.

"− I don't need to…−"

"Come here. I want you close." He said in a matter-of-fact, confident voice, and she swallowed loudly, looking at him uncertainly. She stood up slowly, circling the bed, laying down slowly on the opposite side of it, as far away from him as possible.

He was lying with his back to her and not looking at her, but she heard his breathing quicken once more, his body starting to tremble again.

He cried.

"− will you stroke my head? −" He whispered in a breaking voice, a shiver went through her when she realised how much he needed her, how much he was suffering.

"− I don't want to hurt you again −" She whispered uncertainly, looking up at him in pain, seeing his chest fall and rise in anxious breaths.

"− please −" He said in such a tone that she felt like her heart had just broke.

She moved a little closer to him with a quiet creak of the mattress so that she could reach him with her hand, but not touch him in any other way. She slowly lifted her trembling palm and combed her fingers through his hair in a slow, soft, gentle motion.

She felt him flinch and wanted to ask what was going on, if he didn't want it after all, but he spoke up first.

"− don't stop −"

And so she lifted her hand again with a pounding heart, placing it on his head, brushing her fingers through his hair with a delicate, tender gesture exactly as he had done the first night.

"− I will watch over you all night − no one will come in here − no one will touch you − you are safe − try to sleep −" She whispered tenderly, her hand trailing through his hair in slow, steady movements. She heard him swallow hard, but did not speak.

As promised, she forced herself to stay awake, or remain only half asleep, alert to his every movement. He woke up once in a while with a sigh and only glanced at her, terrified to feel her touch, but as soon as he recognised her something in his gaze softened.

"− sleep −" He whispered, but she shook her head, playing with his short hair. He looked at her thoughtfully for a moment, as if he was thinking about something.

"− embrace me − I want to feel you close −" He hummed, and she looked at him tenderly. She rose slowly, moving closer to him with her quilt, not stopping to stroke him, resting her arm on his back now, putting her head a little above his.

He moved closer to her, snuggling his forehead into the hollow of her neck, and finally fell into a peaceful sleep.

_____

Aemond Taglist:

(bold means I couldn't tag you)

@its-actually-minicika @notnormalthings-blog @nikstrange @zenka69 @bellaisasleep @k-y-r-a-1 @g-cf2020 @melsunshine @opheliaas-stuff @chainsawsangel @iiamthehybrid @tinykryptonitewerewolf @namoreno @malfoytargaryen @qyburnsghost @aemondsdelight @persephonerinyes @fan-goddess

[blakeswritingimagines]

Yandere Aemond Who's Obsessed With His Maid

He is a man of many emotions. He is deeply passionate. When he loves, he loves fiercely and without reserve. And when he hates, he hates without mercy. He makes no exceptions. If something should happen to his loved one, whether it is a beautiful maiden or the most fearsome beast, he will do everything he can to find those responsible and he will make them pay. His wrath is not to be underestimated. It is a fire that burns brighter than the sun. And it will rain down upon his enemies like a thousand dragons.

Well, the first thing he would do is stalk your every move, every day. But not in an obvious way, so that you wouldn’t suspect a thing. He would watch you from a distance, like a shadow. He would follow you everywhere. He would be like you shadow, your constant companion, ever-present, never gone. Then he would wait for you to notice and return his affections. And he would make sure your heart did not waver, ever. Or else…

He would treat you like his queen. He would wait on your every command, fulfill every wish, and never take no for an answer. He would spoil you with gifts and attention, make sure you knew you are his only love. He would be devoted solely to you, and you alone. He would never stop pursuing you, not for the tiniest moment, or for the smallest reason. He would be relentless, his heart and soul given over to you. He would be all you ever wanted and more.

When he first laid eyes upon you in thanks of his mother for bringing you on, he knew you were the one. You were perfect. Beautiful, sweet, kind, everything a man could ask for. You were like an angel, sent from the heavens just for you. He knew instantly that you needed to be his, that you were destined to be together. And he knew that he would do anything to make sure that happened. He would protect you from all the evils of the world. He would be your shield and your sword.

Yes, you've tried leaving and making it clear you both couldn't be together. He sees it as you tried to break his heart by leaving him, but he would not let that happen. He would not be so easily discarded. He would do whatever it takes to make sure you were his to keep. He would make you see the truth, that you were meant to be together. You would not leave him again. Ever. You are his and his alone. And you always would be.

He did many things to force you into his arms as his. He was not above manipulating you, blackmailing you, threatening you, anything to keep you. He feels as if he couldn’t live without you. And he would do whatever it takes to make sure he always has you at his side. Even if it means doing terrible things.

Perhaps. Some would call it forcing. He would merely say he encouraged you to choose wisely once he asked you to marry him. But yes, when/if you refused to see the light, refused to understand that you were made for each other, he took matters into his own hands. He didn’t want to, but it was necessary for your own good. He feels you will come to know it was for the best.

If he found out that you were drinking moontea, behind his back, without his knowledge, and without his permission, he would have no choice but to punish you for your misdeeds. You would be made to stop. He feels you would be taught a lesson, that you cannot defy him in such a way. It would be a harsh punishment, but it would be necessary. He is a firm believer in discipline, in obedience. It is the only way for a person to learn proper respect.

He feels you would have no choice but to give him a child, especially once your off moontea, it is your duty, as it is his right. Your children will be born of pure Valyrian blood, and they will be strong and powerful, and beautiful. They will be the future of the realm, and they will carry on his legacy long after he is gone. He feels you should do as you are told, as you are commanded. You will have to bear his children, you will be his wife, and you will be his queen.

He would want a large family, many sons and daughters. He would be a proud father, with strong sons to carry on his legacy. He would be pleased if your children should happen to be dragon riders, but that is not a requirement.

Oh his sweet mother, she was not pleased. Not at all. She was against the idea from the start. She knew he was to be heir to a great dynasty, and she knew he needed a proper lady, a woman of nobility. She did not want him wasting his time on some lowborn servant. But he would not listen to her, he would not be swayed. He would be with the person I loved, no matter what. And eventually, even his mother would come to see that your love was true and meant to be even if it was just in his eyes.

There would be no question that If one of his siblings or nephews ever tried to lay a hand on the person of his dreams, they would be cut down in an instant. The thought of another laying claim to you is an abomination. It is an injustice. It is unforgivable. They would pay for their impudence and their insolence. It would be swift and brutal, but it would be necessary. No other shall have you. No other shall take you from him.

If you fought against it, if you tried to defy and resist his will, then he would know that you do not truly understand what you are together. He would do what he had to do. He would be forced to employ more, shall I say, aggressive methods. He would need to make sure you understood, that you know that this is necessary for you, for your future together. If you truly loved him, you would come to accept it.

Of course, within reason. He feels is not keeping you prisoner, he would not prevent you from fulfilling your duties. But he would make you understand that you should place him first and foremost. That he should come first, always, above all others. He would make sure you never forget it. He wants to be the most important thing in your life. He wants to be the center of your universe same as you are his. And he would make sure you remember that, day after day, hour after hour, minute after minute.

Well, he would not use the term “prisoner”. Rather, he would say that you are under his care and his protection. He would say that you are a very precious, delicate thing, especially compared to himself and as such, you must be guarded and protected. He is that guardian. He is that protector. And he is proud of it. He is sure that you see it as a blessing, and that you are grateful for it. It is his burden to carry. He is willing to take it on. For you.

The thought has crossed his mind mainly when this first started happening and he had never felt this way for anyone before. He has had thoughts. Thoughts that are not of the sane mind. But is it really so bad, so wrong to care deeply for another? He feels he is only human, like anybody else. And when one finds their love, when one finds their person, how can you not go to any lengths to be with them? To protect them? To prove your love? Is that so wrong? Surely, such dedication and commitment should be applauded, not criticized. He thinks that if it makes him a so-called “yandere” then he'll wear the title with honor.

In truth, he did. Yes. It wasn’t easy, but he made it happen. You will thank him one day. You will come to see that it was necessary and that you're better off with him. He could not wait for you to come around, to accept his love. He had to make you see sense before the world took you from him.

[coldgoldlazarus]

Gathered friends, listen again to our legend: the Bionicle.

Long ago, in the time before time, three great spirits, the siblings Mata-Nui, Makuta and [], existed in harmony. Makuta was a being of change and rebirth; carring out an endless cycle of creation, destruction, and creation anew. Mata-Nui was a being of order and preservation; choosing his favorites of Makuta's creations to keep as they were, and allowing them to flourish and explore the world. The third, [][][][].

But one day, [][]; and so an argument erupted, a long-festering resentment within Makuta coming to light. He felt that Mata-Nui had claimed too much under the mantle of preservation, and left Makuta's new creations diminished and stunted for the lack of material with which to build. He was frustrated by percieved flaws in his older creations, and being denied the opportunity to take them back and perfect their designs. And he was envious, for how his thinking creations chose to honor Mata-Nui and [] above himself, while fearing both the destruction he wrought and the unknown and strange new creations that would follow.

Mata-Nui remained stubborn and unyielding, refusing to grant any concessions or seek compromise, and could not understand why the favor of their charges mattered so much to Makuta when they could not last nearly so long under his reign. Thinking the matter settled, he returned to his vigil.

Makuta, however, was not so easily dissuaded. Calling forth both sides of his power, he created something most terrible: a Virus. An infectious cancer that would endlessly create itself, and in so doing destroy everything else. With this, Makuta betrayed Mata-Nui, striking him down and casting him into a deep slumber. His terrible Virus was unleashed, free to spread throughout the world, and spread it did.

But hope was not lost... [][][][]. From this, seven heroes, the Toa, arrived to save the day. They were all as different as the elements they embodied, yet shared one destiny; to defeat Makuta, cure the land of the Virus, and reawaken Mata-Nui.

Pohatu was swift and erratic as sand, and scouted ahead to find the best path forward, flowing like fine grains through claws, an untouched and unstoppable whirlwind. Tahu was fierce and passionate as fire, and courageously blazed the way forward, burning back the encroaching danger. Onua was wise and strong as earth, finding the hidden source of the infection, and forcefully ripped it free. Together as Akamai, [they]he broke its heart and tore it apart, so the Virus lost its will to go on and propogate further.

Kopaka was cold and steadfast as ice, and froze off the remaining infection from causing further harm. Gali was pure and healing as water, and created a great flood to restore the beings and infected by the Virus to their former selves, while washing away the land that was too far gone to be saved. Lewa was capricious and clever as life itself, and made the sea bloom with flora to break down the remnants of the infection, and from it disseminate new life. Together as Wairuha, [they]she reclaimed what was lost, filling the scars with beauty and growth and hope anew.

Voriki was mysterious and transient as lightning, splitting light and shadow into equal halves and charting the forks of time, making preparations none understood for far-distant possibilities. Together with Akamai and Wairuha, they confronted Makuta. And together as Toa Nui, [they]It cast him into sleep as well, and sealed him away from the world forever more. It healed Mata-Nui, and when still he would not rise, It carried out his funeral rites and sealed him away as well.

The Toa had united to stop the infection, had carried out their duty in defeating Makuta, but still their destiny lay out of reach. And so [][][], gone until the time is right. But they left behind a final gift: Seven toa stones, bearing a portion of their grand power. If ever a new crisis should occur, the stones would choose seven worthy Matoran to become a new Toa team, ready to rise to the challenge.

And they have. From the mists of uncertain myth, to ancient legends, to great history and heroes, to today, they have. Four generations of Toa have come and gone, some ending in tragedy while others found triumph, but all united in duty, and all met their destiny head-on. And all heralded tumultuous times, times when Makuta's lasting influence is felt the most, when creation and destruction meet and change comes all too fast and much too harsh. All marked the end of an era and the start of a new one, and the necessary but cataclysmic pain that would come with that transition.

And now the Toa Stones have chosen once more, but this time is different. Eight Matoran instead of seven, and yet even that may not be enough. As the sun sets on the present era of peace and a great storm rises, it is clear that the coming change may be the most painful yet.

[cilil]

౨ৎ Prompt: "Whenever I look at you..." ౨ৎ Synopsis: Melkor, Mairon and what they see in each other - a dialogue ౨ৎ Warnings: Some obsessive and possessive behavior ౨ৎ Oneshot (800 words. Yes, every segment is exactly 100 words long and I need you to know because I'm proud XD) ౨ৎ AO3

AN: A bit of a different approach this time, but I hope you enjoy what I've done with the prompt you chose for January. I recommend reading on AO3 because I formatted this in a particular way that doesn't properly display on Tumblr, so apologies for that.

Whenever I look at you, I am reminded of the Secret Fire I sought so long ago. A beautiful, precious flame, one of a kind, so full of potential. 

Your fire tempts me, your light draws me in. I wish to hold it in my hands, all of it, all of you. For you were made to be admirable, and admire you I shall, the only being in creation that I have found to be flawless and complete. 

Come to me, little flame. Let me have you, and I promise you that your fire shall burn unrestrained and never perish. 

Whenever I look at you, I see true power, the mightiest of us all, mastering all arts and elements. I sense my own element within your being, and much more still. 

Your song has spoken to me since the very beginning, and I could resist your voice only for so long. You call to me, you understand me like no one else ever could. 

The very fabric of creation bends to your will, even fate itself. You hold power that I covet, yet in my ambition I also desire to have you, all of you, and to call you mine. 

Whenever I look at you, I know that you were made to be mine. I watch you serve another, and envy consumes me, knowing in my heart that you were stolen from me. 

But fear not, little flame, for I will watch you from the shadows until we may finally see each other, until I have you all to myself. I will chase you, charm you, court you. You may curse me, you may push me away, but we both know the truth in your heart. 

At last, you will be ready to be mine, and I can be patient. 

Whenever I look at you, my spirit trembles with exhilaration. I have been warned to stay away from you, I sense the danger, yet I am unafraid. 

You hunt me, and I run from you, even though I know you will inevitably catch me. It is the thrill of the hunt that I crave – to be pursued to the ends of Arda, to be caught, to feel your hunger. I shan't let you have me easily, but I gladly play this game with you.

I will be your finest prey and proudest catch. Come for me, I await you eagerly. 

Whenever I look at you, I see love I thought could never be, love I thought I could never have. 

Time and time again it would elude me, until I found you. Time and time again I thought my father took it from me forever, until you gave it to me.

My one true passion. Never again may another touch you, hold you, cherish you, love you like I do. No other may have you, or I shall hunt them to the ends of Arda.

My hidden weakness. Yet, somehow, I don't mind. 

My precious. Complete me, make me whole. 

Whenever I look at you, I see darkness I no longer fear.

I was told to stifle my ambition, to forget my desires, to deny my nature. They want me to be teacher and servant to lesser beings. You want me to rule. And I choose your power over their petty laws. I choose you. 

One word from you, and I shall follow you into the darkness, even into the Void if I must. With you by my side, there is no fear. With you by my side, there are no limits.

Whenever I look at you, I see freedom. 

Whenever I look at you, you are the light in my darkness, a silver lining on a bleak and blackened horizon. 

I was told that I am doomed, that I am cursed, that I can only ever destroy and never create. 

And destroy I did, and hurt and maim and kill. 

But never you. Because you are precious to me. 

I promise I will never hurt you. I promise that you are the one thing I will never destroy. 

We will remake and reshape this world together, burn it down first if we must. For you, for me, for us. 

Whenever I look at you, I know that I am devoted to you forever. My one true love, my one true obsession. 

Never before has any lover made me feel like you do, possessed me like you do, held my heart like you do. Their attention was delightful and their admiration flattering, but they were expendable. 

Not you. Never you. 

You are the one I shall pledge myself to. You are the one I wish to belong to. You are the one I will swear to love, come what may; in light and in bliss, in darkness and in despair.

Thanks for reading! ♡

taglist: @angbangbaby @asianbutnotjapanese @a-world-of-whimsy-5 @bluezenzennie @edensrose @eunoiaastralwings @i-did-not-mean-to @melkors-big-tits @melkors-defense-attorney @singleteapot @stormchaser819 @wandererindreams

[dragoncult-handmaiden]

Engvall x Fem!Tarnished!Reader Relationship Headcannons (SFW)

answered an ask on my main blog (@lycheedr3ams) for @x-hey-jude-x

These headcannons will operate separately from my Banished Love fic since the reader is not tarnished in that story. I am long-winded so my headcannons are more like drabbles

Life in the Lands Between is not easy, and Engvall knows this all too well. Despite choosing to protect a lordless castle for the rest of his days, his first priority is protecting you. Even if you’re just going to collect herbs or take a bath in the stream, Engvall insists on accompanying you everywhere. And, um, you can’t exactly argue with an over 6 foot tall knight  XD

You and Engvall share a large room in the castle he chose to protect. He himself doesn’t mind sleeping on a hard bed or on the floor, but since you sleep with him every night, he would not let you rest until he found the best blankets available. Your comfort is very important to him, and it helps him rest better at night. 

Speaking of sleeping. This man is always cuddled into you or touching you in some way. I imagine the emotional toll of being banished is pretty tough, and Engvall appreciates that you’re always there for him. Whether it’s an arm around your waist, him spooning you tightly against his chest, or your arm and leg lazily flung over his body, he always wants some sort of contact with you when you both are asleep. He is always the big spoon, just bc of how large he is, and he enjoys protecting you even in his sleep. Given how tall he is, he gives off a ton of body heat, and you wake up pretty sweaty in the mornings

Sorry, but Engvall cannot cook very well. He can cook well enough to survive while traveling or just to get by, but it is by no means a 5-star meal. he burns most of his food. He avoids embarrassment by saying he prefers his food to be “crispy”. He has trained his whole life with his halberd and armor, not with pots and pans. Engvall loves it when you cook for him! He will sit patiently and watch you cook like you're the only thing that matters in the world. He’s usually very hungry since his daily activities expend a lot of calories, so be prepared to cook at least three plates for him to be full. But with how lovingly he watches you cook, you wouldn’t mind making food for him all day

Touching again on the protectiveness. He’s extremely overprotective, and a little possessive. If he sees someone else in the castle looking at you for too long or flirting with you, this man will stalk up silently behind you and just death stare at the person trying to get with you. His presence is enough to make anyone fold, so it’s always successful. Once you turn around after the person you were talking to runs away in fear, he instantly becomes your Engvall again, just with a slightly deadly twinkle in his eye

He needs a decent amount of reassurance, especially if he finds out someone was hitting on you. Engvall has little to no money of his own despite his title, and your living means are in no way comfortable. He’s scared you’ll leave him for someone who has more money and resources to give you a better life. But you always tell him that you don’t care about money or status or material things, you just want him, and that he’s the best partner anyone could ask for

Engvall loves it when you help him into his armor. I don’t even think it would be possible for him to put on all that armor by himself. He loves watching the way your fingers glide over the metal and buckle everything in place, and how your eyebrows furrow if something gets stuck. He looks at you so love-sickeningly that it makes your heart flutter. Engvall will track you down in the castle to ask you to help him into his armor even though there are tons of other people around who could easily do so. He says that you put on his armor just the way he likes <3

Engvall really does not want you to become elden lord. The path to doing so is riddled with death and despair, and he would be destroyed if something happened to you. If you want to be the elden lord, he will try to dissuade you at every chance he can get. If you end up setting out traveling the Lands Between to become elden lord, he will be with you every step of the way to ensure nothing happens to you at this rate, he might just become elden lord bc he doesn’t want you to fight anyone)

Engvall is pretty quiet even when alone with you, but you are his peace. When he is silent during his duties, it is because he has to maintain a watchful, cautious eye at all times. But when he’s quiet with you, wrapped up in a blanket in front of the fire and playing with your hair, he’s quiet because his love has no need for words. He will tell you he loves you sometimes, it is just hard for him to voice it. As a knight, he's a man of actions, not words. the only words he really ever had to say was his oath when he was sworn

Likes and reblogs are appreciated!!!

[lycheedr3ams]

Any way you could maybe do a Engvall and Female Tarnished Significant other couple headcanon list thing? 👀

Engvall x Fem!Tarnished!Reader Relationship Headcannons (SFW)

You’re officially my first ask!!! Thanks for requesting this!

These headcannons will operate separately from my Banished Love fic since the reader is not tarnished in that story. I am long-winded so my headcannons are more like drabbles

Life in the Lands Between is not easy, and Engvall knows this all too well. Despite choosing to protect a lordless castle for the rest of his days, his first priority is protecting you. Even if you’re just going to collect herbs or take a bath in the stream, Engvall insists on accompanying you everywhere. And, um, you can’t exactly argue with an over 6 foot tall knight  XD

You and Engvall share a large room in the castle he chose to protect. He himself doesn’t mind sleeping on a hard bed or on the floor, but since you sleep with him every night, he would not let you rest until he found the best blankets available. Your comfort is very important to him, and it helps him rest better at night. 

Speaking of sleeping. This man is always cuddled into you or touching you in some way. I imagine the emotional toll of being banished is pretty tough, and Engvall appreciates that you’re always there for him. Whether it’s an arm around your waist, him spooning you tightly against his chest, or your arm and leg lazily flung over his body, he always wants some sort of contact with you when you both are asleep. He is always the big spoon, just bc of how large he is, and he enjoys protecting you even in his sleep. Given how tall he is, he gives off a ton of body heat, and you wake up pretty sweaty in the mornings

Sorry, but Engvall cannot cook very well. He can cook well enough to survive while traveling or just to get by, but it is by no means a 5-star meal. he burns most of his food. He avoids embarrassment by saying he prefers his food to be “crispy”. He has trained his whole life with his halberd and armor, not with pots and pans. Engvall loves it when you cook for him! He will sit patiently and watch you cook like you're the only thing that matters in the world. He’s usually very hungry since his daily activities expend a lot of calories, so be prepared to cook at least three plates for him to be full. But with how lovingly he watches you cook, you wouldn’t mind making food for him all day

Touching again on the protectiveness. He’s extremely overprotective, and a little possessive. If he sees someone else in the castle looking at you for too long or flirting with you, this man will stalk up silently behind you and just death stare at the person trying to get with you. His presence is enough to make anyone fold, so it’s always successful. Once you turn around after the person you were talking to runs away in fear, he instantly becomes your Engvall again, just with a slightly deadly twinkle in his eye

He needs a decent amount of reassurance, especially if he finds out someone was hitting on you. Engvall has little to no money of his own despite his title, and your living means are in no way comfortable. He’s scared you’ll leave him for someone who has more money and resources to give you a better life. But you always tell him that you don’t care about money or status or material things, you just want him, and that he’s the best partner anyone could ask for

Engvall loves it when you help him into his armor. I don’t even think it would be possible for him to put on all that armor by himself. He loves watching the way your fingers glide over the metal and buckle everything in place, and how your eyebrows furrow if something gets stuck. He looks at you so love-sickeningly that it makes your heart flutter. Engvall will track you down in the castle to ask you to help him into his armor even though there are tons of other people around who could easily do so. He says that you put on his armor just the way he likes <3

Engvall really does not want you to become elden lord. The path to doing so is riddled with death and despair, and he would be destroyed if something happened to you. If you want to be the elden lord, he will try to dissuade you at every chance he can get. If you end up setting out traveling the Lands Between to become elden lord, he will be with you every step of the way to ensure nothing happens to you at this rate, he might just become elden lord bc he doesn’t want you to fight anyone)

Engvall is pretty quiet even when alone with you, but you are his peace. When he is silent during his duties, it is because he has to maintain a watchful, cautious eye at all times. But when he’s quiet with you, wrapped up in a blanket in front of the fire and playing with your hair, he’s quiet because his love has no need for words. He will tell you he loves you sometimes, it is just hard for him to voice it. As a knight, he's a man of actions, not words. the only words he really ever had to say was his oath when he was sworn

Likes and reblogs are appreciated!!!

[mercurydancer]

Burning Matches Pt 8

Wherein Everything is Terrible and Absolutely Everything Hurts

_

Warning Number One: Cannibalism is discussed in this chapter as having happened before. Quite frequently. If this is a trigger, TREAD LIGHTLY. There is also talk of Police Violence… both are non-descriptive and just talked about, but they are there. I don't know if I should tag any of these things, but let me know! Noir Peter's world is a FUCK, Ladies and Gentlemen, and we are still absolutely travelling along a similar vein as the comics.

_

      “I…uh…love you all.”

              It had been said so easily. Slipping out of his mouth before he knew what he was saying, an honest truth that had gutted him in a way that few things had. Torn him open to the core of his being even as he tried to deflect to the cube he still held in his hand. The cube had been true, too, but that had paled in comparison to the admission that he could sometimes still feel burning in his chest.

              He had told himself, promised himself, that he wouldn’t get attached anymore. That he would step back and stay away and yet… The instant he had found others that were…that were like him, he had cracked. He’d cracked and he’d gotten attached and wound up spilling some of his guts in front of them like an egg. The only thing that kept him from crippling anxiety was the fact that he’d never see them again.

              He wouldn’t put them in danger ever again.

              The loneliness was shoved aside and pushed deep down into his chest, knowing that it wasn’t right to mourn for people that he shouldn’t have been with in the first place. It made it easier to sleep at night, strung up in his web-hammock wherever he could put it, making sure to check his office every day to see if anyone needed his special brand of help.

              The cases his clients left would be stuck in the web that he left in the middle of the room, slips of paper, wrapper labels, whatever they could find that he would examine and choose who to help. That didn’t mean that he didn’t patrol, or he always took pay for the ones that were given to him directly (not that there was much dough to go around), but it kept him from being too closely involved with the clients. It kept him from being around people.

              That wasn’t to say that he never interacted with his clients, or he didn’t spend time staking the joints where they agreed to meet him to make sure they weren’t trying to pull a fast one, but it certainly limited their interactions. It kept him safe.

              It kept them safe.

              For the first few weeks he was okay with this arrangement and this pattern. He was able to swing back into his routine with his usual grace, was able to keep avoiding the people that he knew would be better off without him and remain the ghost that he preferred to be. Almost an urban legend of the Great Depression, the Boogieman that came for you if you crossed The Line. The Thing that was always there watching but was something that you couldn’t get close to. Not, of course, that people hadn’t tried.

              But all those people had died.

              This knowledge burned in him, pounding in his heart alongside a breathed out “I love you all,” and he tried to keep that knowledge forefront. He tried to tell himself that he didn’t need anyone, that he didn’t want to have friends, didn’t want to have anyone he was close to. He tried to tell himself that he was okay like this, sleeping on the streets, wrapped in his uncle’s coat and a web, with just himself for company… He didn’t need anyone.

              He didn’t need anyone. He didn’t need the Spiders who had looked at him with such understanding and such… He didn’t have the words for it. He had buried the words under layers of practiced apathy to the point where he had lost them.

              The only thing he knew anymore was the burning.

              At least it kept him warm.

              The problem came in with the fact that Peter Benjamin Parker was unbelievably and holistically selfish.

              The problem came in with the fact that anytime he was forced to interact with another client more closely, he was almost always unable to stop himself from getting attached. It should have been expected, really. He dealt with the people that Owed, the people that had Nothing, the people that were as Hard-Wrung as it was possible to be. There was a certain kinship that came from working with another in a situation like that, where a person was forced to provide so much of themselves in order to dig the other out of their hole that it didn’t take long until the one trying to do the digging found themselves burying themselves in there with them.

              This had been the way with a certain Scientist and his Wife and Kid.

              Curt Connors, a brilliant man who was studying…who was studying people like him. People like Peter. With a curse and power and… Curt Connors who gave him the possibility of a cure. Of something that could get rid of this thing that was plaguing him every second of every day, something that… Peter had jumped on that before he quite knew what he was doing. Peter had jumped on the opportunity to be a help to his experiments, to see if there was a possibility that some scientific explanation, some sort of scientific cure could be found.

              In the process, Peter had gotten close to the man, had gotten close to Curt’s wife, Martha, and his son, Billy, the whole of them sweet and… So, accepting. They knew what he was, what had happened to him, and they still accepted him. They recognized the dangers and they knew the risks and still… Still. Peter had had a warm place to sleep for the first time since… He had had people that cared about him.

              Martha seemed to sense the fact that Peter had nowhere else to go, it was her that first suggested that he stay with them. Billy had clung to him in a way that Peter hadn’t expected, until Curt had laughed and called him a hero. Billy’s hero. Peter had never seen himself as a hero. Not even with the others. But it was so nice. So nice to be with these people that were so kind and so willing to help, Peter in turn doing his absolute best to help them as well.

              Peter should have known better.

              Peter should have been paying more attention to what Curt Connors really wanted. Should have paid more attention to the way that he spent time on Peter’s healing abilities, on the way that any cut no matter how large or small would eventually heal. He should have spent more time paying attention to what all it was that Connors was studying.

              They had given up on finding the origins of whatever it was that had bit him, but there had been talk of studying other known origins, other known possibilities, and…and… Fuck, Peter should have seen it coming.

              Curt Connors was disabled. A WWI vet that had had his arm blown off, he had always found it hard to provide for his family. He had always been desperate to provide for his family all the same and had worked as hard as he could. But it was hard when you only had one arm, and in a time like this, when jobs were so scarce and competition fiercer… Even Peter’s contributions weren’t enough and considering that his time there was as limited as Curt’s current project as he still wouldn’t give them his identity, it left the family still in that fearful and uncompromising limbo. They were barely scraping by, and Curt was Proud. He was Proud and he was Smart, and so…so…

              Desperate.

              Curt made a Deal. He stretched out to Something, ignoring the research, ignoring Peter, ignoring everything that they had known and…

              Reached.

              Peter only realized what he had done when he found the remains of what had been his friend standing over the mangled half-eaten corpses of Martha and Billy.

              Curt had both of his arms. Curt had none of his body, none of his mind, and none of his soul.

              Curt, who had been there for him, had helped give names to what was happening to him, and been there for him. Martha, who helped patch Peter up, who had helped feed and support her husband and son as well as Peter, someone Peter had started seeing as something like a mother. Billy, who had thought the World of Peter, had looked up to him as something like an elder brother, someone that reminded him so much of Miles… They were all dead.

              Peter really, really should have known.

              Peter had fought against the Thing-That-Had-Been-His-Friend with the only goal being to kill him. It was too late for Curt. Curt was as dead as the wife and child he had eaten, devoured in a similar way by something wholly Evil. Something that promised the World and only brought Death. Something that took advantage of the desperate and the afraid and brought only ruin.

              The battle had taken them across the city, Peter’s bullets not enough to penetrate the thing’s tough hide, and finally he was forced to get more firepower, diving into one of the speakeasies he had hidden a stash of equipment in. He had hoped it would have been enough.

              Even with the Chicago Typewriter in his hand he had known it wouldn’t be, kicking the table over as the occupants ran away screaming.

              That’s when They came.

              They came.

              Peter had stared at Them with his heart in his throat and that burning confession beating in his heart. Then he knew pain. Then he was weightless. Then he was gone.

              When Peter came back, it was to the sight of Gwen trapped in the grip of that Thing that had been his friend. The others were otherwise pinned or out-of-commission, and Peter’s agony ratcheted up as he forced himself to crawl forward, intent on his gun. There was finally a chink in the Lizard’s armor. Finally, something he could use. He picked up the revolver, holding it out with agony in his chest, in his heart, in his mind, because they were here, they were here, they were here…

              And pulled the trigger three times, the loud bursts of sound beating in his ears and drawing all attention.

              Once for Billy, once for Martha, and once for Curt himself.

              Peter collapsed before he could properly appreciate what was happening before him, and for a while he knew no more.

              Peter was drowning. He was drowning and he needed to get out, he needed to get out, get away from all of the legs, all of the eyes, from the fangs… The sudden pressure keeping him from moving was reacted to with force. He fought against the tide, fought against whatever it was that was trying to keep him down, finally managing to flip them.

              “Peter Benjamin Parker!”

              The loud and sudden shout of his name froze everything in him.

              Peter looked up, looked out, staring at this small woman that he had never seen before, a woman that… A woman that shouldn’t have known his name, shouldn’t… It took him a moment to realize why staring at her hurt his eyes. Why staring at anything hurt. It took him a longer moment to realize the person he was pinning was Peter.

              He crawled away, pressing his back against the couch, fighting down the racing of his heart, of the panic trying to claw its way out of his throat. The agony that pulled across his chest was ignored, the pain in his back, in his ribs, in his head pushed back and replaced with one singular fact.

              It was Them. It was Them. It was Them.

              Peter wasn’t supposed to be here. He wasn’t supposed to be with Them. They talked to him, told him he was safe, that they were there, that…that it was okay, their voices blending together in a stream of comfort that he had no right to. It hurt him. His fingers tightened into fists, held against his chest, following the conversation enough to recognize that a cover-story had already been created.

              They were Miles’ parents, they were in Miles’ house.

              They wanted him to take off the mask.

              Peter felt like laughing. He felt like screaming. The mask had stayed on for months, only taken off when he had to wash it, or chop his hair back and out of the way. The mask hadn’t even come off around the Connors. Then Jefferson Davis began speaking, calling him by name, introducing himself and his wife Rio Morales, the one that had stitched him up, the one who had taken care of him, and then introduced him to Miles. Peter listened to the way that he phrased that, recognizing that Miles hadn’t told them who he was, that he had convinced them that Peter had saved him and not Gwen.

              For a moment Peter remained in limbo, listening to the promises and the thanks and the assurances, and once again proved that Peter Benjamin Parker was selfish.

              Peter slowly removed his goggles. He wasn’t quite ready for the burst of color that hit him as soon as the protective eyewear was removed and counted himself lucky his vision was as poor as it was without them. If he had to deal with clear vision as well as all of the color, he thought he might go blind with shock. He couldn’t focus on anything, not just because of the blurriness but because of the smears of color that his brain didn’t understand. It wasn’t as bad as last time, the pounding of a headache didn’t follow, but it was still wildly disorienting.

              He finally pulled off the mask, baring his face to the world in a way that it hadn’t been in… He licked his dry lips, nerves and fear burning in his stomach. When they asked his age, he immediately let slip the lie that he had for as long as he’d been turned at a very early 16. The looks of disbelief were surprising, the fact that no one else had thought he was a liar burning in the back of his mind, even as he hunched, and frowned, and finally spat out the truth with an irritation that he shouldn’t really feel. From there it was easy to fall into a rhythm of quips and light responses that were easy and above all, safe.

              For a while he let himself believe it. Let himself be lulled into the idea that…that… He had missed them.

              He had missed them.

              But he loved them. He loved them and that meant that they needed to know. They needed to know what they were doing, who they were letting into their house, who they were letting around them. And above all, he needed to know. He needed to be sure…to be sure that the Thing was Dead, and that there really had been nothing more of Connors left.

              “Did he change back into a human after I shot him?” Peter asked after they didn’t respond to the initial question. His head stayed bowed, his body-language as submissive as he could keep it. He knew that he was treading on dangerous ground, could see it in the way that Peter B stiffened. The way that Miles immediately turned his attention to his father, horror in his expression. He could see it in the way that Mr. Davis’ entire body-language and expression changed.

              Mr. Davis stood up slowly, his eyes fixed and his mouth in a grim line, his shoulders rolling slightly. His feet moved farther apart, ready, his position at the moment as the tallest thing in the room gave him the most authority. The way the rest stayed crouched and didn’t do anything or say anything until he cemented that authority. It tried simultaneously to keep him less likely to react in violence, as well as to make sure they didn’t seem a threat.

              Peter didn’t want to have to hurt Mr. Davis. He knew no one else did, either.

              “When you shot him?” That simple question seemed to unlock Mr. Davis’ gaze, which flitted to Peter B and then to Miles, and then back to him. There was something like betrayal in their depths, something that let Peter know the others had fed him a story that wasn’t quite lining up with what Peter had just said. That was fine. He could still meet them in the middle in a way that kept everyone happy and kept Peter as far away from them as possible.

              “Yes sir,” Peter replied easily, overriding anything else anyone tried to say, Peter B and Gwen both opening their mouths to respond before he could. Peter kept making eye-contact, a suspicion and a thought building up in the back of his mind with the dull warning of his spider-sense as Mr. Davis kept staring. He recognized the way that the other was looking at him. Peter recognized the way his hands twitched. “I shot him three times. I was trying to kill him.”

              “You were trying to…” Mr. Davis was tense. His fingers twitched once again in a way that Peter recognized from his own fingers.

              The reach for a gun.

              “May I ask you a question, sir?” Peter asked, and slowly stood up, the carton of ‘orange’ juice in his hand, and his other balled into a fist.

              “I think I should be asking the questions,” Mr. Davis started, and Peter spoke over him.

              “If you ate your wife and your son would you want to live?” Peter asked, keeping his gaze locked with the other man’s, his jaw set.

              Mr. Davis froze. “What?” he breathed out, the fight draining out of him at the suddenness of the question. Peter noticed the way that Peter B’s expression fell, horror and grief in the look, even as the rest of the Spiders either took a step back or put their hands to their mouths. Porker’s lower jaw fell all the way down to the ground, somehow comical while still being equally disgusting. They had all put two-and-two together it seemed.

              “Would you want to live?” Peter repeated, turning his attention back to Mr. Davis, his head tilting. “Maybe you would, perhaps. I don’t know the intimate details when it comes to a relationship like that. I don’t know what anyone would really be thinking.” He let his voice trail off, knowing that there was no reason to continue.

              There was a long pause, the other man staring at him, before his eyes flickered over to his wife, Mrs. Morales, whose hand was over her mouth, shock in her expression, and then over to Miles, who was staring at Peter with wide and horrified eyes. Miles looked over to his dad then, his expression edging towards gutted the longer Mr. Davis couldn’t respond.

              “No,” Mr. Davis finally whispered, his voice guttural, almost choked. “I…I’d want to die. Is that…is that why you tried to kill him?”

              “Yes, sir,” Peter replied easily. “Though Curt Connors…the man he was, was really already dead by the time he ate them. There’s no going back once you change completely. Providing, of course, that he really didn’t change back after I shot him?” he looked to the other Spiders then. Peter B shook his head.

              “He didn’t change back, no,” Peter B confirmed, and his voice was thick with something that might have been grief. Peter idly wondered whether Peter B knew a Curt Connors and what his relation to the man was even as he nodded slowly.

              “Good,” he took a breath, sucking it deep into his lungs, and breathing out the excess tension that Curt might not have been totally gone out with it. “Now, you’re going to let me go back to my universe, and you’re never going to contact me again,” Peter said.

              “What?” came the immediate exclamation, shock and horror, and…Peter almost wanted to call it despair sounding from all of the Spiders. The hurt they were feeling was palpable, somehow visible even though he couldn’t really see all of their expressions. It was bad enough that he looked away, down at the thing wrapped around his wrist. It looked a bit like a watch, but not like any watch he had ever seen. The same watch was on every other Spider’s wrist, aside from maybe Miles, he noticed. It wasn’t hard to figure out that the watches apparently had something to do with how they had gotten there, and also why they weren’t glitching. He wondered when they slipped it on. He wondered how hard it would be to destroy it.

              “You’re going to take me back and then I’m going to destroy the goober and…” Peter started repeating blandly.              

              “No!” Peni suddenly shouted out, interrupting his train of thought. “No! You can’t say that, you can’t mean that!” There were tears in her eyes he noticed, when he looked up, heavy awful tears, her nose beginning to run as she planted her feet, hands balled in front of her and head shaking. “You can’t mean that! I worked…I worked so hard to get us all together again!” She took a step towards him, throwing her arm around to indicate all of the Spiders, “I worked so hard to bring us back together because…because we’re family! All of us! I can’t…I can’t lose you! I can’t lose any of you again! I wouldn’t be able to take it!” She hiccupped, but there was anger in her expression, her arm lashing out and wiping away her tears forcefully. “I missed you!”

              “You don’t know me,” Peter responded simply. “You don’t know what I’ve done or what I am or…”

              “You’re Peter Benjamin Parker!” Peni beltedout. “You’re seventeen-years-old, you lost your Uncle Benjamin and you were bitten by a radioactive spider! You don’t know what color is, but you love it, even if it gives you a headache!” She took a breath. “You protected me, you were willing to die for us until you realized you couldn’t, you…you saved Miles’ life! You’re a hero! You…you got up even after that…thing sliced you open, and you shot him before he could kill Miles like he killed his family! We…we know enough about you to know that you’re a good person! We knew enough about you to know that…that you would have a reason for why you shot him! It’s the reason we were willing to let Miles bring you here! We…we trusted you, and you proved us right!” she wiped her face again, fighting against more tears, taking angry steps forward.

              Peter didn’t say anything. He couldn’t say anything, everything caught up in his throat in a way that it never was. He couldn’t remember the last time someone talked to him like this. It was very obvious that Peni took this silence as a dismissal, or maybe even as a challenge. She took his free hand in both of hers, holding tight to the long white fingers that stood out in contrast to the delicate color of her own small fists.              

              “I’m not going to lose you again!” she hiccupped, still staring up at him in a way that made the tears that he could barely see before so much clearer. “You said you loved us! You said you…you loved us, and I never got to hear it.” She wiped her face, and Peter felt momentarily stunned. She hadn’t heard him. She had leapt into the portal before the words had come spilling out. “How can you love us if you want to leave us?”

              “I need to leave because I love you,” Peter found himself saying after the silence grew to be too much, after the guilt that was the last thing he really recognized as an emotion burned too brightly. “I can’t be selfish anymore. I can’t stay here with you. I can’t be the one that hurts any of you.”

              Peni’s eyes widened, shock in her expression, before her eyes narrowed, and she stared up at him. “You…you said the spider that bit you was magic…” she whispered. “Not radioactive.”

              “Yeah,” Peter replied softly.

              “You’re…you’re like the Lizard,” Peni managed, her eyes widening. “You…”

              “No!” Gwen suddenly screamed out, all attention immediately snapping to her. “No! That’s not fair, you…you can’t be! You can’t be! It’s not fair!” She was looking at Peter like she had never seen him before, and Peter couldn’t read her expression clearly, but he could see that she was almost…afraid? “But you’re not! You…you’re…human! You look human, you look…you haven’t changed!”

              “I haven’t,” Peter agreed. “But that doesn’t mean that I won’t.”

              Gwen gave a soft sound, somewhere between a gasp and a sob, her hands going up to her face, even as Peni latched onto his waist, and Miles sat on the ground, his hands over his mouth, Porker having sunk into his own half-crouch, blue eyes focused and so…sad. Peter didn’t know what to do about the one who was holding onto him so tightly. He hadn’t been held like this… His arms remained immobile in the air above her, locked in the limbo of wanting to hold her, and wanting to keep her from getting more attached.

              Why did this have to hurt so much?

              “Wait,” Mrs. Morales suddenly spoke, holding her arms out as though she was trying to calm a raging beast, her attention on everyone around her. “Wait,” she repeated softly. “I…I have some questions. I have a lot of questions. I want…I want you to answer them.” She pointed to Peter. “I want you to answer them and tell me precisely why the one who saved my son thinks that he’s going to become some sort of monster. Did you make a deal?”

              “No,” Peter replied softly. “I didn’t.”

              “Then…why?” she asked, and Peni backed away at the statement. Peter’s heart lurched at the sudden lack of contact, missing her warmth immediately. “Why did you get your powers? If…it wasn’t because you made a deal, why would you change?”

              Peter stared at her for a moment, biting at his lip.

              “What’s your hardcore origin story?” Miles asked suddenly, staring at him, and Peter blinked.

              “Miles,” Mrs. Morales hissed, but Peter found his lips twisting into a semblance of a smile. He remembered murmuring that when Miles began talking about his Uncle being a supervillain. His poor Uncle. “No puedes decirle algo así a alguien! Discúlpate ahora mismo, jovencito!”

              “It’s okay, Mrs. Morales,” Peter said. “I don’t mind.”

              “Rio,” she stressed, turning her attention back to him. “I…want you to call me Rio. And please, drink that juice! You’ve been holding it for so long!”

              Peter blinked, before looking at the juice in his hand. “Oh. I forgot I had it.”

              “Can’t you tell when you’re holding something?” Mr. Davis asked, the first thing he had voiced in a while, exhaustion filtering through the tone. Peter held his hand up, revealing the fact that he wasn’t really holding it, more his fingers were sticking to it.

              “I don’t notice after a while.”

              “…” Mr. Davis stared at that for a moment before shrugging. “Alright. Hardcore origin story, what is it.” His expression was still vaguely challenging, his eyes still fixed as though they could pin Peter to a wall. Or arrest him. Peter almost sneered.

              “Jeff!” Rio snapped, and smacked him on his shoulder.

              Peter gave another slight smile, before sighing and finally bringing the orange juice carton to his lips and chugging it down. It was a weird mixture of sweet and fragrant, something he wasn’t at all used to. It almost got stuck at one point, a cloying sweetness, but he forced it down. He wasn’t about to hack up free anything. He finished it finally, wiping the back of his mouth with his other hand, catching the stray beads of orange juice he had missed and licking them back up before he could truly appreciate their bright color against his white skin. Waste nothing, want nothing.

              “We…have napkins, dear?” Rio put out softly. The endearment struck him in the heart, and Peter hunched.

              “Sorry, I…”

              “Great Depression, it’s fine,” Peter B interrupted immediately. “Totally get the habit. Sit, please.” Peter B gestured to the couch and Peter sank into it, watching as the rest sat around him, their eyes intent. He should really be leaving. He knew that the longer he stayed the harder it would be…

              God, Peter wished he wasn’t so selfish.

              “You…you said you lost your Uncle Benjamin?” Porker asked softly, eyes narrowed slightly.

              Oh. They were going for the big traumas. That was okay.

              “I did,” Peter responded easily, almost softly.

              “Did you live with them?” Peni asked. “Were your…are your parents dead, too?”

              “Dead and buried,” Peter responded. “Considering how they went…I should have known that my uncle was…or my aunt…” His fingers fisted and he suddenly found himself cold. He reached out and Peter B almost immediately handed his Uncle’s coat to him, wrapping himself in it and feeling in the pocket. After a moment of searching he pulled out his thrice-broken, barely-held-together-with-tape, round, wire-framed glasses, and slipped them on. He fought against the familiar stabbing in his skull for a moment as he stared out at them all, taking in the surprise in some of their faces, the shock in others.

              They all had such color to them. Colors he couldn’t name, but wanted to, painting them all such interesting shades, so different, but so beautiful all at the same time. He loved it, the way they contrasted and complimented each other. The different shades of hair, of eye-color, even the way their skin changed. Smatterings of darker colors on light. Beautiful.

              And yet it still gave him a headache.

              “This isn’t pretty,” Peter whispered. “The only two constants in my life have been death and hunger. I didn’t want to…because it’s…”

              “I’m sure we can take it,” Peni said, her eyebrows pinched. “It’s you. We…care about you.”

              “If it’s too much…” Peter whispered.

              “We’ll get you to stop,” Mr. Davis said, and Peter focused on him. Would he really.

              “I grew up in Hooverville,” Peter finally said, biting the word out through his teeth. “When my parents were killed my aunt and uncle took me in.”

              “Killed?” Peter B asked, his eyebrows pinched together.

              “Murdered, maybe,” Peter shrugged. “I don’t know what you call it when a bunch of coppers were the ones that killed them.”

              Mr. Davis jolted in the way that Peter had expected, Miles jerking his head in his father’s direction in a way that Peter had also expected. The horror immediately covered up by suspicion was also expected, and Peter had to force himself once again not to sneer.

              “Why did they shoot them?”

              “No good reason,” Peter responded easily, leaning back. “Unless you count the peaceful organization of a Strike a good reason.”

              “But…” Mr. Davis started, leaning forward, eyes wide, that suspicion fading back to horror. “They can’t do that, that’s not…that’s not what the police are about?”

              “Protect and Serve, right?” Peter asked, and when Mr. Davis nodded, Peter’s mouth twisted into another painful smile. “Well, the only thing they protect and serve where I’m from are the ones with the money.” He laughed, an ugly thing that he almost immediately tried to choke down. “The one’s who’ve got the money are the ones that need to be striked, and the ones with the money are the ones that pay the cops, and the…” He took a breath.

              “My aunt and uncle were the same way,” he continued when no one else said a word, Mr. Davis looking distinctly upset, that horror he had originally seen the only thing left in his expression. “Always protesting, always championing some little thing. My uncle…he always used to say that ‘If there is too much power, then it is the responsibility of the people to take it away,’ and boy, did he try.” He let out another laugh and this one he couldn’t bite back. “He tried-he tried right up until the Goblin had him-he had him eaten alive!” He managed to bite out between cackles, his fingers balling into tight fists. “I was the one who found the body. He just left him in the middle of the room. Left him there to gather flies and…” he cut himself off physically, biting down into his tongue.

              That was enough.

              “Dios mío,” Rio whispered, her hands flying over her mouth. The rest had similar reactions, hands over mouths, skin turning lighter in some cases as the blood rushed away from faces. Peter Porker had turned a sickly color, but it was Peter B that stumbled to his feet and left the room. There was the faint sound of retching coming from the bathroom a short while later, and when Peter B finally returned after the sink had been run, he had an odd gray cast to his skin, his face and hair damp.

              “He had him eaten?” Mr. Davis managed, voice soft and hard all at once, a mixture of something like horror and disgust in his face.

              “I thought it was dogs at first,” Peter said softly. “It turned out later to have been a man.” Peter B looked like he wasn’t going to be the only one to get sick. Horror and disgust and… All things that Peter had seen before. All things that he had felt before. He was so tired. “But I think that’s what gave me the final incentive to realize that it didn’t matter what the fuck any of us did, unless something happened to them, to the people with the dough, and the coppers, and the convincers…nothing was going to change. And I wanted to be the one that did something about it. But I had no idea how. Until I met Ben Urich.” He sighed. “I’m not going to bore you with this part. Long story short, he became my mentor, until I realized he was taking money from the very same people that he was professing to hate. But I didn’t learn that in time. And I also didn’t learn it quick enough to stay the hell away from one of his operations. I walked right smack dab into the middle of it. And it bit me."

              “What happened?” Gwen asked, staring at him, her eyes wide, eyebrows pinched. He could see the tear-tracks now that his glasses were on, see the desperation and the fear mixed with such deep weariness…

              “Group of men working for the Goblin were bringing in an art piece. Never seen the like before or since. Some kind of tribal thing, but they never mentioned who, or where, or what. All I know is that one of the men dropped it and it broke and…spiders came out.” Peter’s voice hushed involuntarily, his fingers balled into fists, thinking back to that moment, the moment where hundreds of legs, hundreds of eyes, hundreds of fangs swarmed up the man who had been carrying the end of the crate, all of them biting and ripping and… “They ate him alive, screaming for help that couldn’t be given, and that’s when I noticed the spider on me.” He grinned, looking at the back of his hand.

              “I couldn’t scream,” he continued softly, “they’d hear me, even over his screaming, and I couldn’t shake him off, I’d climbed onto a rafter, and if I moved suddenly, I’d fall… That’s when it bit me, and it was the most excruciating pain I have ever felt in my life. I may have screamed, I don’t know. All I know is one minute I was in that warehouse and the next… I was in a web.” He rubbed at his face, pushing his glasses up, exhaustion settling over him. “I don’t know how to explain what I saw, not exactly. Just that I wasn’t alone. It was there with me.”

              “What…what was there?” Peni asked softly.

              “It. The God of Spiders, or…Spider-God, or…I don’t know what it is. I don’t know who it is. We tried to research it, Connors and I, which is…which is how I knew him, but we couldn’t find anything. No texts exist that detail what exactly it is, all I know is that spider bit me, and then it was there, and I…I definitely screamed then.” Peter kept his hands over his face, leaning back slightly. “‘Why do you tremble, little man,’ it asked me. ‘My bite brings death only to those of evil intent…’” he whispered the words out, forcing them out through gritted teeth, not even trying to mimic the words that had been spoken in such a way that they tore into his mind, his heart, his ears, his everything. Driven into his very soul like nails across a chalkboard. “‘I will bestow on you a greater torment… The Curse of Power’ it said, and it did. I woke up and I was cocooned in webbing. It was the most frightening experiences of my life, but I had power and I could help.” He took a breath. “I should have been paying more attention.”

              “It’s a curse…” Rio whispered. “It cursed you.”

              “Worse, it follows me, and I can’t…I can’t let it hurt you. You have to let me go.”

[sinvulkt]

Angstpril: 22. SHADOW OF FORMER SELF - evil au (sin & scel)

@whumpril - 22. Infection

A soft tissue brushed my skin. I wavered, plunged into the limbo between awareness and sleep. Everything felt foggy, nauseous almost, but I didn’t fight the uncomfortable sensation. The dim light that painted my eyelids in red couldn’t convince me to open my eyes. I knew that only pain awaited me beyond the fog; pain and regrets I couldn’t escape. This place, as empty as it was, seemed heavenly next to it.

The brushing came back. It wasn’t hard, nor particularly insistent, but the sensation nagged me. It broke through the fog I had carefully cocooned myself in, tearing the weak walls apart as easily as thin paper. It slid towards my wings, coming dangerously close to the place that pulsed and burned ever since-

I flinched away from the touch, fully awake now. My eyes opened wide and my heart raced under the shot of adrenaline the contact with the oversensitive place had triggered. I sprung to  my feet, disoriented.

“...ulkt,” someone was calling. “...alm…own, Sinv…t”

My ears perked up and I focused on the voice. It was gentle and familiar, rousing back old forgotten memories of pain and chains, mixed with a bittersweet happiness. My muscles tensed upon hearing it, however, gearing up for a fight, and for all it was my only anchor in a reeling world of nauseous swirl, I couldn’t seem to feel at peace with it. 

“...infection…can’t hear… …ulkt?”

A purplish hand reached towards me, trying to make the touch come back and I hissed, teeth ready to snap. They gave me time, after that, time to make sense of the world of fire that parasitized my senses, time to track down the thorny road of my last memories. Waves of heat bloomed in my veins like tides, each attempt to gather focus slipping from my fingers faster than sand, irritating and coarse as it left deep gashes in my mind. 

Bits by bits I managed to gather where I was - the rebellion -, who was with me - Scélérat, a medic - and why - an infection was slowly spreading from my wings. I shut my eyes close, fist clenching, desperate to escape that last thought, and the truth behind it.

They were gone.

As my brain kickstarted into awareness, I bitterly missed the heavenly bliss my previous disoriented state offered me. Pain, both mental and physical, was my only wall between true suffering now. The Dark dance was different around me, changed as I had been, rendered frail by powerlessness yet stronger for the absence of care.

It was out of my reach however, and only my faltering vision warned me of Scélérat’s coming back. 

“Sinvulkt,” he said, a clean rag in hand, “we need to finish to wash and dress your wound. Will you let us?” he asked, as if I have any choice in the matter.

I could see more questions in his eyes. ‘What happened? Why wasn’t the unhealed surgery scar not already dressed when I came in? Why had I done nothing about it until I collapsed?’

The truth was, as soon as the shuttle had jumped to hyperspace and Solanna was asleep, I had removed every bandage I could find. I had torn them apart in rage, pulled whatever feathers had the misfortune of not being slick with blood, and collapsed on the piloting seat. I couldn’t care less about infection setting in- not when the future didn’t go beyond dropping Solanna and Rema’s message at the rebellion, then getting in a last fight before letting the rebels kill me.

Never could I have guessed they would choose to heal me, a Sith, whose blood covered hand had killed hundreds of their members. But then, Scélérat’s actions had always been weirdly unpredictable for all his simplicity.

I nodded at him, and blocked my joints when he came uncomfortably nearer, lest my fever-fizzled mind misguidedly attempted to run away. I allowed him to place the wet rag on my twisted feathers, knowing indulging him cost much less than resisting. Whatever he did didn’t matter, however, for we both knew it was only a matter of time before a vengeful rebel struck, or Kedrick’s men finished me off.

I couldn’t imagine a life where the clouds weren’t at my fingertips.

Surely, it meant the future offered only death.

Scélérat’s mind was calm, and his touch was soothing; long ago, it would surely have the same effect on me as Flock preening did, relaxing my limbs into a puddle mess. These days were far away however, and all I could feel was my enemy's presenceenemy presence next to me while I was vulnerable, like sandpapers on my mind shield, as I gathered speckles of iron will not to flinch away from it. 

Soon enough at least, the fever tiredness won over hyper-awareness, and my thoughts faded back into the swirling fog. Solanna was safe, Rema’s message had been passed on, and no ill-intent corrupted the persons in the room. Scélérat’s gentle touch lulled me, rearranging feathers, numbing phantom pains in the part that was gone.

I’d be angry surely, when I’d properly wake up, about the weakness I allowed there. I’d be angry and hurt, struggling to run back to this limbo between wake and sleep, only mildly successful thanks to Aheka’s cradle and the rebels' healing. It was a matter of the future, however, and as the future didn’t exist, it was not a matter I needed to care about. 

My eyelids fell, heavy, as I sank into the warm touch.

Tomorrow was another day.

[onereallygoodlambonastick]

“Making people feel helpless, powerless, and hopeless is part of the propaganda. […] I think we all need to become seriously mutinous.”

——-

That candle is burning at both ends and down the middle, too.

It cannot all be laid at the door of resource-plundering or strategic thinking. Eventually it develops a momentum and a logic of its own. 

As the storm builds, the ethno-nationalists are out harnessing the wind, giving each other courage. […] While it is easy to take lofty moral positions, in truth, there is nothing simple about this problem. Because it is not a problem. It is a symptom of a great churning and a deep malaise. The assertion of ethnicity, race, caste, nationalism, sub-nationalism, patriarchy, and all kinds of identity, by exploiters as well as the exploited, has a lot – but of course not everything – to do with laying collective claim to resources (water, land, jobs, money) that are fast disappearing. […]

If we go down this warren and choose to stay there, if we allow our imaginations to be trapped within this matrix, and come to believe there is no other way of seeing things, if we lose sight of the sky and the bigger picture, then we are bound to find ourselves in conflicts that spiral and spread and multiply and could very easily turn apocalyptic. […]

Empire is not just an idea. It is a kind of momentum. An impetus to dominate that contains within its circuitry the inevitability of overreach and self-destruction.

——-

In the spirit of the globalization of fascism, U.S. alt-right organizations are good friends of Hindu nationalists. Look to India, if you want to understand the world in microcosm. […]

It is interesting that countries that call themselves democracies – India, Israel, and the United States – are busy running military occupations. Kashmir is one of the deadliest and densest military occupations in the world. India transformed from colony to imperial power virtually overnight. There has not been a day since the British left India in August 1947 that the Indian army and paramilitary have not been deployed within the country’s borders against its “own people”: Mizoram, Manipur, Nagaland, Assam, Kashmir, Jammu, Hyderabad, Goa, Punjab, Bengal, and now Chhattisgarh, Orissa, Jharkhand. […]

As hatred is dripped into peoples’ souls, every day, with sickened hearts we wake up to Muslim-lynching videos put up on YouT*be by gloating vigilantes, news of Dalits being publicly flogged, of women and infants being raped, of thousands marching in support of people who have been arrested for rape, of those convicted for mass murder in the Gujarat pogrom being let out of jail while human rights defenders and thousands of indigenous people are in jail on charges of sedition, of children’s history textbooks being written by complete fools, of glaciers melting and of water tables plummeting […].

But it is all OK, because we are buying more weapons from Europe and the United States than almost anyone else. So, India, which has the largest population of malnutritioned children in the world, where hundreds of thousands of debt-ridden farmers and farm laborers have committed suicide […], is still being celebrated as one of the fastest growing economies in the world. […]

Corporations are hosting happiness fairs and dissent seminars and sponsoring literature festivals in which free speech is stoutly defended by great writers. Dissent Is the Cool (and Corporate) New Way To Be.

What can we do about that?

When you think about the grandeur of the civil rights movement in the United States, the anti–Vietnam War protests, it makes you wonder whether real protest is even possible any more.

It is. It surely is.

I was in Gothenburg, Sweden, recently, when the largest Nazi march since World War II took place. The Nazis were outnumbered by anti-Nazi demonstrators, including the ferocious Ant*fa, by more than ten to one. In Kashmir, unarmed villagers face down army bullets. In Bastar, in Central India, the armed struggle by the poorest people in the world has stopped some of the richest corporations in their tracks.

It is important to salute people’s victories, even if they don’t always get reported on TV. At least the ones we know about.

Making people feel helpless, powerless, and hopeless is part of the propaganda.

But what is going on in the world right now is coming from every direction and has already gone too far. It has to stop. But how? I don’t have any cure-all advice, really. I think we all need to become seriously mutinous.

——-

Arundhati Roy, interviewed by Avni Sejpal. “How to Think About Empire.” Boston Review. 3 January 2019. Reposted from the indomitable @fatehbaz. Bolding is my own.

My entire twitter feed is people in Rafah saying they’re terrified, saying their good byes, and asking us to remember them in our prayers. Rafah is facing a massacre. It’s a genocide. We will not know the number of deaths until the morning.

[svtswhorehouse]

DATING SEUNGCHEOL INCLUDES…. — sfw

• sugar daddy or boyfriend? (the answer is both.)

• the definition of a REAL MAN. no one has ever treated you with as much respect or given you as much love as seungcheol has.

• you're his pretty little passenger princess and he's your personal chauffeur.

• mom and dad of the group, duhhhh.

• he would drop anything and everything just to give you his undivided attention, no matter how important it is.

• yes. he would still love you if you were a worm.

• he would definitely give you his bank card without a second thought. it would also be linked to your phone, he insists on you using it always and would throw a fit when you don't.

• you would also give him your card at times and he always takes it without a fight, but would never use it.

• would take you out on dates in which you can dress up pretty and maybe dine at a fancy and EXPENSIVE restaurant. don't be fooled though. he also pays attention to the little things so if you're into books, he's taking you to a library themed restaurant. if you like animals, he's booking a ticket to orlando and ya'll are going to the rainforest cafe or something.

• you would never have to lift a finger ever again.

• he would wash your car, fill it up with gas, and take it to go get serviced without any complaints.

• he would burn down the world for you.

• he always puts you first. if he had to pick between you or the company (if they ever made him choose) he doesn't even need to think, it would be you every time.

• also your body guard ! any social gathering ya'll attend, he always has his eyes on you no matter how far away you are from him.

• times in which you do drive yourself, ya'll are definitely the type of couple to have life 360 on each other. he would text you saying to slow the fuck down if you're speeding.

• no matter how much you insist he goes to sleep and no matter how late you're getting home — it could be 4 in the morning, he will ALWAYS wait up for you.

• he has the habit of buying you anything you even slightly mention. he also pays close attention to the things you look at when out shopping together and they would show up delivered to your apartment the next day. he would take the heat from you, but still would continue to spend his money on you.

• when you have a bad day, he is already there with open arms ready to give you the biggest bear hug and shield you from the rest of the world.

• whenever you two go out together, he always has a hand on your back to guide you through crowds or just so everyone knows that you're off limits.

• if you ever lose during game nights with friends or really anywhere, he would do the penalties for you!

• he always makes sure you're on the inside when walking near a street.

• if you ever doubt yourself or feel insecure, prepare for a long serious conversation with lots of tears because he WILL NOT be having any of that. no. not when he thinks you're one of the most beautiful, talented, and honorable people he knows.

• you have never felt so safe and secure than when he's around.

• he will constantly be saying "i love you." definitely the type to call you back immediately if you forget to say it and hang up.

• he has a personal agenda out for revenge against anyone who hurts or disrespects you in any type of way.

• he will be your designated driver for not only you BUT your friends as well during girl's night out.

• he may be competitive, but when it comes to you, he would let you win just so he can see a smile on your face.

• says he CAN'T (won't because he's stubborn) fall asleep if he's not cuddling you.

• he becomes the softest most kindhearted person in the world when it comes to you.

• he gets jealous easily, but he trusts you with his whole heart so he doesn't dwell on it for too long.

• when it comes to arguing, no matter if he was in the right or wrong, he is always the first to apologize. definitely the type to get you chocolate, flowers, and ALWAYS gets you a teddy bear after.

• would make you sit on his back when doing pushups or would give you a piggy back ride when he is doing pull-ups !

• he LOVES when you wear his clothes. you would always find his shirts or hoodies on your side of the closet and be like "hmm, how did this get here?" ask your boyfriend.

• rarely ever calls you by your name. always calls you baby or something cute. he also insists that you don't call him seungcheol. he will pout if you do.

• definitely impressed your parents right off the bat. your family absolutely adores him and your parents treat him like a son.

• he would tease you by giving you a hug when he's all sweaty after practice.

• he INSISTS on picking you up EVERYDAY after work.

[ladythornapple]

Lost and Found - Robin Hood Fanfiction

Finding out Robin was dead was a shock. And finding out he was alive in another person’s body was just bizarre... Just a missing scene fic after the episode "Body and Soul" from season 3 because the emotional aftermath of that episode could be a whole episode on its own.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/53665531

Lost and Found

The last few days were a blur. Finding out Robin was dead was a shock. And finding out he was alive in another person’s body was just bizarre. With all that happened, Marion didn’t have time to properly process her emotions. Thrust from despair and guilt to happiness, thrown into a leadership position, preventing people from leaving the camp, trying to keep Robin’s legacy alive… With all of that, she didn’t have time to grieve properly.

Surreal was the word Marion would choose to describe it. Out-of-body experience. Seeing him dead didn’t feel real. Watching his body burn? She didn’t even remember that. Speaking to Robin in Brigg’s body was just absurd, like a weird dream she couldn’t wake up from. She knew it was Robin. But it didn’t feel real… It couldn’t be real until she saw him alive in his own body. Only then could she truly believe it.

And then Robin got his body back. She knew he was alive. She saw his body appear in Olwyn’s cave, she spoke to him and yet, she still couldn’t believe it, too afraid that if she did, she’d wake up and her heart would be broken again.

Standing in that cave surrounded by other people, Marion couldn’t stop looking at Robin, afraid that if she blinked, he would disappear again. And yet, when they were left alone, she couldn’t bear to look at him, unable to hold together any longer. Emotions that she buried deep down now started to surface. Marion’s eyes filled with tears. She choked them back trying to contain her emotions because once she started to cry, she was afraid that she wouldn’t be able to stop. Trying to hold it together until she was back in her own tent, she avoided looking at him and fixed her eyes on the ground. But Robin knew. He knew her well.

His steps soft on the ground. Three long strides before his boots appeared in her vision. She didn’t dare to look him in the eyes.

“Come here,” he said and opened his arms.

Without a word, Marion collapsed into them, crushing into him as she clutched his shirt like her life depended on it. And she couldn’t hold it together any longer. Her tears spilled; her sobs muffled by his chest as she clung to him crying. He gathered her to him, bringing her closer and just held her.

“I missed you,” she simply said.

The warmth of his body and the beat of his heart calmed her down, reminding her that he was alive and well. That was exactly what she needed. She wiped her eyes trying to compose herself not wanting to burden him as he was the one who died after all. And he died because of her.

She placed her hand on his chest and tried to pull back, but he held her tight as his chin rested on the top of her head. Robin might not remember what had happened, but he saw the pain in Marion’s eyes. If the roles were reveres, his whole world would come crashing down so he could imagine how she felt.

“Not yet,” he whispered in her hair holding her close.

She smiled in his chest through her tears. His shirt was wet, stained with her tears.

“You’re not getting rid of me that easily,” he added.

“I should hope not.” Her body started to relax in his arms.

“Robin, Marion, are you guys coming?” Friar Tuck's voice came from the outside.

The couple laughed and Robin loosened his grip allowing Marion to slip out of his arms which suddenly felt empty and cold without her inside them. She wiped her eyes.

“Let’s go home,” he said in his usual fashion.

Marion nodded, “Let’s go home.”

A wide smile appeared on both of their faces. Marion’s hand flew to the amber heart pendant she now wore, caressing it. It was no longer a painful reminder of what she had lost, now, a reminder of what could be.

The End