#this music is too foreboding not to do this to

[genshingorlsrevengeance]

Ok hear me out…Drunk Karaoke, with any girls *ahem M16 ahem*, where their s/o gets a little too tipsy and starts singing to them when s/o’s favourite song comes on

I’m sorry I’ve been playing payday2 so much and have unironically been singing this banger while doing chores -

I will give you my all, pretty baby, I'll come whenever you call for me, baby, yeah

I will give you the best of me

The best of me, The best of me

(H:SR) Fugue and Serval's S/O getting drunk and singing Karaoke

Alternative Titles: Like a Butterfly/TONIGHT

You know, I was actually listening to a song that made me think of Fugue, and this gives me the perfect excuse. Girl deserves to laugh anyway with what she's been through. Fugue gets the all star treatment with a short fic since this particular brainworm has taken hold of me for the last few days for her specifically. Meanwhile, I'll be twisting the ask a little and having Serval be the lead singer, but you'll see the reason for that. Content: Yakuza Karaoke Jumpscares, Funny for Fugue, Feels for Serval Word Count for Fugue's Part: 1.4k

Fugue and S/O took a while to reconnect, considering all that had happened. It was not a smooth transition, and to imply otherwise would be a bold-faced lie.

But through some perseverance from both parties, things had gotten to some sense of normalcy again. Quiet moments of getting to drink tea with S/O, watching the people stroll by got her to remember in flashes of what she loves.

And more importantly, who she loves as well. Though, tonight was a bit different. Instead of tea, S/O opted to drink something a bit more alcholic.

And for some odd reason, alarms began ringing in Fugue's head, but she couldn't quite place why. Instead of intervening, she decided to let S/O drink and find out for herself why this premonition came to her.

Only to realize that even in her current state, her past self was warning her: For the love of god, do NOT LET S/O DRINK.

A warning that came too late, she feared.

(S/O) HIC! "Ah! Now THAT hits the spot!"

Fugue ears slightly recoiled at their volume, a foreboding sense of deja vu washing over her.

(Fugue) "I-I see...How often did we go drinking together, out of curiousity?"

S/O turned to face their lover, slightly off balance and red in the face as they frowned, struggling to remember.

(S/O) "Hmmmmm....Iunno. We just drank some tea and stuff. You never let me drink, usually."

(Fugue) I think I'm beginning to remember why.

Fugue was only lost in her thoughts for a moment longer before S/O smiled at her, causing to become slightly flustered under their attention.

(Fugue) "S/O?"

(S/O) "You're so beautiful..."

The way they had said it sounded like it took every fiber of their being to say it correctly, a fact that made Fugue giggle, her own affection barely being contained by her smile.

(Fugue) "Always the charmer, I see.~"

Fugue finishes the rest of her tea before moving over to help S/O up, effortlessly dragging them to stand as one arm was looped around her neck.

...Strange. She can't help but feel like this used to be harder to do. Oh well, this is probably the one of the few things she can't complain that's different now.

Before she can even take a single step, she immediately gets startled by S/O who suddenly stands upright on their own.

(S/O) "I WANT TO SING WITH YOU!"

(Fugue) "...W-Wha-?"

They grab her shoulders gently, yet firm enough that causes her to freeze in place as her tail and ears shoot up in surprise.

(S/O) hic! "We should sing the night away with some music!"

(Fugue) "Karaoke? Well, I suppose there are a few bars here that host-"

(S/O) "GREAT, LET'S GO!"

(Fugue) "W-WAH?!"

Getting dragged along to one of the nearby bars in the Loufou, S/O rented a room to themselves, with S/O excitedly sitting down and taking a peek through the song list.

Fugue meanwhile felt like she was suddenly in over her head. She knew that she had a nice voice, but enough to sing?

Regardless of what kind of singing voice she possessed, S/O was not going to let her dwell on it.

(S/O) "Okay, you can take the lead and I'll be your backup vocals!"

(Fugue) "You want me to be the lead singer? I think you should-"

(S/O) "NAH!"

S/O flopped their head onto her lap, making her jump slightly.

(S/O) "I'm...a little gone right now...Besides, this song I wanna hear your voice, it's my favorite!"

Fugue took the song list from S/O and examined the title.

(Fugue) "Like a Butterfly?"

She tried scrounging whatever scrap of memory was in her head, and nothing came up, though the name didn't exactly stir anything either. As if sensing her thoughts, S/O grabbed the list back and put it on the Karaoke Machine.

(S/O) "I...didn't really tell you about this song. It's a bit of a guilty pleasure, to be honest!"

That at least made her feel a little better, fearing that she was forgetting yet another important memory, and instead just something-

...Wait, why was S/O embarrassed to show this to her?

(S/O) "I always sing the rap parts by myself, but now I have you to sing the lady's part!"

Drunk rapping? Oh boy.

(Fugue) "Well...I'll give it my best shot...!"

(S/O) "Great, we have all night!"

Well, at least this night would be something to remember, for better or worse.

[Song: Like a Butterfly]

Fugue swayed from side to side as the beat of the song kicked in, meanwhile S/O was bobbing their head violently, grabbing their microphone and shouting with their entire heart as their part came first.

(S/O) "BE REBORN! CLIMB OUT OF HELL, BORN AGAIN! LET'S FLY HIGH LIKE A BUTTERFLY!"

Fugue smiled and grabbed her own microphone, singing timidly in comparison to S/O's manic energy.

(Fugue) "It's drowning in its greed, the wicked trap was sprung, Tangled in the threads of its deeds!"

From the lyrics alone, Fugue could tell that she would like this song as well.

(S/O) "TANGLED IN ITS CRIMES!"

Fugue tapped her foot as the song got faster, being infected by S/O's energy, her eyes on them the entire time as both of them smiled, her voice growing louder as she sang her next part.

(Fugue) "Like fate scoops up a fish, struggling in a net Its brittle wings are torn by the tears as it trembles in cold sweat!" (S/O) "YOU TORE YOUR WINGS NOW CRY!"

S/O was clapping to the rhythm, getting Fugue more into the feel and just having fun at this point, neither of them particularly caring if they were great. While Fugue's voice was bewitching, S/O's voice came crashing like a fingernail to chalkboard.

(Fugue) "The spider comes, a thirst in its eyes-" (S/O) "A BUTTERFLY WITH NO WINGS IS A MOTH IN THE FLAME! JUST A RAT ON THE FLOOR WITH ANOTHER NAME!"

Subconsciously, Fugue could tell why S/O sang this alone as the rapping was ridiculous, but she could not deny that this was really fun to sing along to with another person, lover or otherwise.

(Fugue) "The venomous fangs sink into the soul-" (S/O) "THIS WORLD IS DEAD, NO LIGHT LEFT TO FIND! IT'S TOO LATE-"

Fugue joined S/O in standing up, both of them swaying to the beat, though S/O's was far more aggressive as they sang their parts like they were rapping on stage, something that made her almost break down laughing.

(Fugue) "Too late now, to mourn it's punctured wings, to take to the sky!" (S/O) "TAKE TO THE SKY!"

With any former hesitation gone, Fugue smiled as she just enjoyed the rest of the song with her lover enthusiastically cheering her on by remaining on backup vocals.

If only it could be, just one more time (TO THE BITTER END IN OVERDRIVE!) Engrave the beat, flap your wings 'til you feel you are complete (FLY, HIGH!) Oh you tragic butterfly Despairing, craving it, that singular last ray of light still shining down on bitter wings (BE REBORN, CLIMB OUT OF HELL BORN AGAIN! LET'S FLY HIGH LIKE A BUTTERFLY! YOU'VE DREAMED LONG OF THIS DAY, DREAM AGAIN!) So fly high again (AND FLY HIGH LIKE A BUTTERFLY!)

Like a butterfly (TO THE BITTER END OVERDRIVE,BURNING OUT IN AN ENDLESS DRIVE!) Soaring in the sky like a butterfly (TO THE BITTER END OVERDRIVE, BURNING OUT IN AN ENDLESS DRIVE- OH YEAAAAAAAAAH!)

Fugue couldn't hold back her laughter anymore, doubly so when S/O finished off the song.

(S/O) "FLY LIKE A BEAUTIFUL BUTTERFLY, FLY LIKE A BEAUTIFUL BUTTERFLY!"

Finally catching her breath, Fugue sat back down, still laughing as S/O cheered, flopping down next to her and struggling to catch theirs.

(S/O) "Like the song?"

(Fugue) "Hm, not my usual style admittedly but...I do resonate with the lyrics."

(S/O) "Hm...? Why's that?"

...Oh right, they were still drunk. As if their "singing" wasn't reminder enough. But, honestly just something as simple as singing a dumb song was enough to lighten her spirit, and though it didn't call any particular memory to mind, it was something like this that reminded why 'Tingyun' fell in love with S/O in the first place.

Though, she figured she'd better take the song's advice and start focusing on new memories, rather than any old one for now.

(Fugue) "Well, what other songs do you have for us?"

Seeing their eyes glimmer at that, S/O began rushing through the song list for another one, all the while Fugue's smile grew even bigger.

(S/O) "SERVAAAAAAL!"

Serval was nearly glomped by S/O, causing her to laugh and set her drink far away from the edge of the table.

(Serval) "Oof, hey! Think ya had enough?"

From their breath and flushed face, that answer was most definitely a-

(S/O) "Heh, nope!"

S/O rested their head on her shoulder, almost threatening to yank her off.

(S/O) "I want to sing a song with you!"

(Serval) "Hm, is that right?"

After a few hiccups and almost losing their balance, they nodded aggressively.

As funny as it would be to have their drunk ass sing some rock and roll...She had a different idea in mind.

(Serval) "I'll cut you a better deal, you get to hear a song I've been working on by myself! An exclusive sneak peek!"

S/O's eyes glowed and they stumbled onto a nearby chair.

(S/O) "Y-Yeah! I wanna hear it!"

Though Serval was smiling, there was a hint of sadness in it.

That hint being big enough for S/O to catch onto it, even when alcohol was scrambling their senses.

(S/O) "...Babe, something wrong?"

Serval laughed at the petname and shook her head, uncharacteristically becoming shy as her finger tapped the table.

(Serval) "Not really just...This song isn't my usual kinda style, ya know? Don't wanna bore you to death with it."

(S/O) "Nothing you could share to me could ever be boring! I...just might pass out from the alcohol is all."

Serval rolled her eyes.

(Serval) "Gee, that makes me feel better."

(S/O) "Just shut up and grab your guitar already!"

Serval took a deep breath and grabbed her guitar and hooked up her phone to play the other instrumental parts she had done herself, looking at S/O, and then to the ceiling and closing her eyes.

(Serval) "I've kept this one hidden for a while, thought it might be a bit too personal but...Eh, what the heck. This one goes out to...a friend now gone."

S/O's smile grew more somber at that, having an inkling of who she was talking about.

[Song: Tonight -restart from this night-]

Serval's pick began strumming along the strings of her guitar, as she began singing, her tone growing much more heartfelt.

(Serval) "Back in the day, I thought I was strong, that I was the one who could right every wrong, Years roll on by, time does what it does, so hard to hold on to the people we love."

Serval's foot was tapping in rhythm, her eyes catching a glance at S/O, their hand doing the same. Smiling softly at that, she continued her song.

(Serval) "I've lost count of the days, And though I never stop thinking of you, We have gone our separate ways-"

Serval's mind rushed back with memories, where S/O was sitting, Cocolia was there, hanging off every word she was singing with a bright smile.

And that made Serval forget entirely about her mini stage-fright, singing as if there was no audience at all and simply speaking from the heart now.

So, tonight, let's start again From this night, rewrite the way it ends You and I would laugh And sing all night like we'd always meant

Part of her wondered if the Cocolia she knew would poke fun at her, thinking this song was a bit too sappy for what Serval usually did.

Would this song have even moved the Supreme Guardian at all?

Maybe. Serval would never know.

So, tonight, you'll find me there The nights we shared in places drinks would flow And the sun never rose And life meant living the life we chose

If I could relive the moment we drifted apart I'd right every wrong for you Whatever life asks from me, I will do Just to see you smile and waste a night with you

Serval closed out the song with a final strum, letting the instrumentals finish it out.

After opening her eyes again, she saw S/O with tears welling in their eyes, rubbing them aggressively with their sleeves.

The sight got her to laugh a little, despite the fact a part of her felt like tearing up as well.

(S/O) "That...song is beautiful! Why don't you play that?!"

(Serval) "Hah...maybe someday, but like I said, I'm still working out some little tidbits here and there on it."

(S/O) "Then...Then I can sing it instead!"

That had Serval suddenly burst into laughter, nearly dropping her guitar.

(Serval) "Maybe when I can't smell the drink you had all the way from here, I'll consider it!"

Serval shook her head and sat next to S/O, wiping away the tear on their cheek with her thumb.

(Serval) "How 'bout a different song huh? I can play it for ya, and you can scream like an idiot!"

(S/O) "Hey!"

Smiling at their pout, S/O was doing a good job of lifting her spirits already. Thanks to them, and many others, she wouldn't stay in the past.

...But, she'd be lying if she said she wouldn't want her best friend back.

Maybe for S/O, and the Cocolia she knew, she'd play that song for a real audience someday.

...But not tonight.

[cozcat]

spotify meme. masriel song 42!

song 42: The Hailene - Lorne Balfe (Wheel of Time season 2, volume 1)

Edward Coulter has little patience for being made a fool. His wife - oh, his wife, sweet and demure as long as you don���t look at her for more than a breath - he should have expected this of her, and yet, he did not expect it so soon, dust yet to settle on marital gifts before whispers of her ways began. He thinks he knows the man, the snow leopard by his side, but there’s nothing, no proof of it. Not that he has seen the man in weeks. Not that he would, housebound as he is, with a mourning wife and an empty nursery. But proof is worth seeking to a man who wishes to play the fool no longer.

[spotify ficlet meme]

[clowningaroundmars]

heeyyy yaaalllll

so i was thinking to myself, i love punkflower. i really do.

what if there was a hobie in miles' universe and he didnt have to do the whole long distance relationship across dimensions thing, though? just keep his lil secret crush on spiderpunk a secret and keep it pushing, only to literally bump into his own hobie brown in 1610 one day?

wouldnt that be cool, guys?

wouldnt it? :)

wouldnt :) it :) be :) so :) cool? :) and so cute too?

:)

update: >part 2 here<

Miles was late.

It was his first day back, the very beginning of his junior year at Visions Academy and he was late. God damn.

His parents were really gonna kill him this time, no doubt about it. There weren't even any good Spiderman excuses he could use to weasel his way out of getting into trouble this time! He'd just have to cross his fingers and pray that his chemistry teacher for this year wasn't a total hardass like last year's English teacher.

Maybe he could make up some dumb excuse this time, try to wriggle his way into the professor's good graces with some blatant lie. Anyways, whose dumb idea was it to put him in a class so damn far from the entrance doors so early in the mor--

BRRRRRRING!

Miles tore around a corner just as the final bell rang throughout the mostly-empty hallways, inciting panic in his chest and making him nearly launch himself down another hallway just to get to his class.

In his haste, he nearly knocked over a very tall and very... familiar looking person that happened to be in Miles' trajectory. Luckily, bodies didn't end up colliding but the shock of having a person fly so quickly into their line of sight shocked the both of them into skidding to a sudden stop.

The tall person ended up dropping a textbook and what seemed like an enormous packet of papers, because sheets scattered absolutely everywhere, almost like snow.

Ugh. Of course.

They both stared down at the mess in the middle of the hallway floor for a beat.

Then, Miles exhaled a laugh, shaking his head.

"Aw man, I-I'm sorry! I just uh... here, lemme just--"

They both bent down to quickly scoop up the papers as Miles stuttered and spoke a hundred miles a minute, trying to apologize for the heart-stopping scare he caused. Just as Miles shuffled the papers together in his hands, he finally looked up at the unlucky student he almost football-tackled first thing in the morning... and nearly dropped the papers onto the floor again.

Kneeled right in front of him with papers and a textbook tucked under a skinny arm, long fingers nervously plucking up what was left of the rest of the packet, was none other than... Hobie Brown.

Oh. God.

This Hobie didn't seem to be Miles' Hobie, though.

(Miles' temperature rose a bit as he quickly thought: wait, my Hobie? That's not right, either.)

Instead of large freeform locs that tapered off like wicks, he was sporting long uniform locs that were piled up high in a loose ponytail on his head, most likely due to the school policy that stated boys needed to have hair above the nape of their neck. Miles kinda wondered about that policy, if he ever decided to grow out his hair; would pulling his hair up be enough? Or would they police his hair length and force him to cut it all off?

Well, turns out the answer was literally right in front of him. Another shock to the system right after the first one.

That was Miles' excuse, really. It was just so dang early in the morning and he really really wasn't thinking when he opened his mouth and basically shouted "Hobie?!"

It honest to god sounded like it echoed in the hallway.

He slapped a hand over his mouth, immediately chastising himself for the stupid mistake he made, mentally kicking himself. Stupid, stupid, stupid!! He wasn't supposed to know this guy obviously, they hadn't even met in their dimension yet!

Hobie, for his part, didn't seem perturbed by this at all though. He took the papers from Miles' hands and straightened himself back up to his full height, offering a hand so that Miles could stand up too.

He shrugged shyly and hid behind a couple locs that happened to fall back into his face, holding the books and papers closer to his chest.

"Uhmmn yeah, sorry. I-I'm runnin' late to my first class so I can't really give any autographs right now. Maybe later... if we see each other, ok?"

Miles blinked owlishly. Did he just say... autographs?

And wait a minute... was this Hobie... American?

Miles' poor little sleep-deprived mind was being blown again and again. He really didn't know if he was ever going to recover from this.

Hobie started to back up and walk away so Miles held his hands up to stop him. "Wait wait wait, autographs? I'm not uh-- sorry, this is weird," he laughed, rubbing his neck. "Nah, man. That's cool. I don't really want any autographs. Are you uh-- are you famous, actually?"

It was this Hobie's turn to blink owlishly now, hesitating a bit. A non-pierced eyebrow was raised as he said, "I... I kinda am...?"

He turned and pointed out the giant window of the hallway that they happened to be standing by, and Miles craned his neck to peer outside.

It smacked him right in the face once his eyes landed on it: a giant billboard fixed atop a neighboring building that depicted Hobie Brown in a luxurious-looking perfume ad. He sported the same locs as he did in real life, wearing shiny-looking makeup and giving the viewer the fiercest, smokiest look Miles has ever seen from a model in a hot minute. He was clutching deep purple satin, wrapped in it, basking in it. A single perfume bottle with a deep purple bow on the neck was photoshopped next to him, matching the overall vibe of the ad.

Miles was rooted to the spot, absolutely gobsmacked. How in the world did he miss that?!

Distantly, a small echo of a conversation he had in what seemed like a lifetime ago floated up from a memory. "I was briefly a runway model" pulsed in his neural pathways for a quick second.

Slowly, the gears started turning in his head. Slowly, he turned back to his dimension's Hobie Brown, who was giving him a strange sort of look.

Miles awkwardly tried to gather himself up, waving his hands around as he struggled for a non-weird explanation to his very weird behavior.

"I-I mean-- ahahaha! Yeah I mean, obviously you're famous! I was just y'know-- playin' with you. Pulling your leg and all that, I guess... heh."

The strange dubious look on Hobie's face didn't budge. "...Right."

Miles coughed conspicuously, trying to change the subject. "But uh yeah, haven't seen you around this school much then! Are you... you in a different grade than me or...?"

The corner of Hobie's mouth twitched suddenly, and for a split second Miles wondered if he said something wrong.

But then Hobie chuckled a bit. "No, I don't think so? This is my first day here. Like... ever. So I'm not really surprised you haven't seen me before. I just transferred over."

Miles practically sighed in relief and nodded, hands in his pockets. "Right! Right, very cool. Welcome to Visions then, I guess. Uh... I'm Miles! Miles Morales. Nice to meet ya!"

He goofily stuck a hand out, which Hobie actually accepted. They shook hands for a second, and then Miles was suddenly taken aback by how cold his hand was against his own skin. It was a definite contrast to the warm and lanky body he remembered practically draped across his own, back in Mumbattan.

He forced those particular memories away for now.

This Hobie was smiling down at him, sad eyes set inside a seemingly genuine expression of fondness. "Cool. I'm Hobie. But, uh, it seems like you already knew that, so."

"Aha, yeah yeah! It just-- honestly it's just the shock of, uh, running into a major celeb in the middle of my school that really got to me, I think. Sorry. I probably look like a total weirdo right now!"

Hobie shook his head, and Miles took the opportunity to really study this guy now that the shock was over and the vibe was more chill. This Hobie was just as long and lanky as the punk anarchist Miles was already well acquainted with, but he held himself completely differently. Where Spider-Hobie was all confident strut and careless swagger, this Hobie seemed to be all reserved grace and... sadness? He definitely reminded Miles of a willow tree drooping down into a lake, beautiful but tragic at the same time.

Okay Miles, get it together, he thought, stop thinking this guy is beautiful. I mean, he is beautiful yeah... but c'mon man, focus!

Hobie's non-pierced lips were moving now, finishing a sentence that Miles most definitely did not catch.

Then, Hobie looked at him expectantly.

Oh shit. He just asked a question didn't he? Fuck.

"Uh, sorry... one more time?" Miles grinned as wide as he could, apologetic. Nice going, Morales, the humorless voice in his head chimed in. Definitely not convincing this guy you're an alien from outer space or anything!

Hobie huffed a laugh and cleared his throat. "Sorry, my fault. Sometimes I mumble and... yeah. Mom says I need to work on that," he sighed, then continued, "I was just wondering if you knew where room 301 was?"

Miles nearly jumped with the force of the realization that just hit him.

"301? Mr. Moriarty's class?"

"Y-yeah, that's the one," Hobie smiled, twirling a loc on one finger and tugging it a bit. Then he tucked it back behind his ear. "I'm actually so lost it's not even funny, I'm godawful at directions and like, navigating. I've been looking for it for like 20 minutes now--"

"That's where my first class is too! AP chem!"

Hobie seemed to brighten up a bit at that, straightening his posture up from his own self-conscious hunch. "Oh cool! We should probably get going then, if we don't wanna be more late than we already are."

Without thinking, Miles places a hand on Hobie's shoulder and steers them both towards a classroom right at the end of the hallway they were in.

"Of course, right this way! Pretty lucky you ran into me, huh? I can help you find your other classes later on if you want, too."

For the first time since nearly crashing into him, Miles looked up at Hobie and saw genuine happiness in his eyes as they grinned at each other and walked down the hall together.

"...Yeah," Hobie said, nodding slowly. "Yeah that'd be pretty cool. Thanks!"

♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧

Their chemistry teacher ended up not being a total hardass after all! Especially when Miles rolled up with none other than Famous Model Hobie in tow, immediately causing a ripple of whispers amongst the students sat at their desks.

Mr. Moriarty was a short and stumpy old man with a kind face and a severely receding hairline. He took one look at Hobie after squinting at his attendance sheet, accepted Miles' quick explanation that they were late because Hobie's minty fresh enrollment got him all lost in these maze-like hallways, and excused their tardiness with a wave of a hand.

"It's the first day and you were very kind to help a new student out, Mr. Morales. You're both excused for today, but try not to make a habit of it, alright?"

Miles bobbed his head as he picked his way past rows of desks. "Absolutely, sir. No problem at all. Thanks a bunch!"

Hobie stuck close to him, and smiled a bit as the only two desks left empty in the whole room happened to be right next to each other, right up in the back of the class. Nice.

They took their seats and exchanged a couple of glances as they pulled out their notebooks, barely listening to their professor's quick introduction and class syllabus. Well, Miles was barely listening, anyways. He was too caught up in the euphoria of running into a dimensional variant of one of his friends, in Visions Academy no less! His mind started to wander a bit. Did a 1610 Gwen exist too? a 1610 Pavitr? Were they also here at Visions? And what was with these random stares he and Hobie were getting from their fellow classmates right now?

Every now and then a student's head would swivel back to glance in their direction, awestruck looks evident on their faces.

How famous was Hobie anyway?

Of course, there was that giant billboard conveniently placed within view of the school's back hallways near a busy intersection, but Miles really started to think. He sneakily pulled out his phone and swiped down to the lowest brightness he could in case the classroom's fluorescent lighting wasn't enough to hide the phone screen's own light.

He kept his face straight forward, eyes flicking to and from his typing that he was trying to conceal behind the student sitting in front of him. He typed Hobie Brown model, Hobie Brown perfume ad, Hobie Brown supermodel, getting absolutely nothing every single time. Well, nothing that looked like the Hobie Brown sitting next to him, who happened to be dutifully scribbling down some notes in his notebook. Miles looked down at his own empty sheet of paper and quickly copied his new friend, whipping out a pencil and hurrying to catch up with the lecture on the whiteboard before the professor moved on.

Groan. What gives? Was Hobie this super accomplished, totally famous supermodel or not? Maybe he wasn't on social media, oddly enough. Maybe he just started an illustrious career and happened to be famous only in Brooklyn right now? No, that didn't make sense. If he was some small-time influencer or whatever, people would not be asking for autographs so often that Hobie would just automatically assume anyone who recognized him wanted one. And the looks on these other kids' faces convinced Miles that... maybe something was missing. Maybe he's just not searching up the right terms?

Agh, if only Spiderman business didn't keep him totally detached from reality sometimes. He really felt like he and the rest of the world were on totally different planets. If he had any friends besides Ganke, he probably would've heard about Hobie by now.

He bit his lip in concentration, trying to multitask between forming theories and keeping up with the lesson in the front of the classroom.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a pair of eyes staring straight at him that didn't belong to the other classmates he barely even knew. He glanced over at Hobie, who quickly looked away.

Was that... an embarrassed look on his face just now? Miles scratched at his jaw a bit, more confused than before.

That was weird. Whatever. Anyways...

Before long, class was over and the bell rang. Miles and Hobie both meandered slowly up to the door and hung around the outside, leaning against the wall as they compared schedules before they had to make their way to their next class.

"Dang," Miles lamented, clutching his own schedule and moving to slot it into the cover of his binder. "Looks like we don't share any more classes besides 1st period..."

Hobie stopped his hand and squinted at the sheet again, glancing back at his own. "Uhmm... nah, actually. I think we might have 6th period together? Right after lunch."

"Do we share a lunch period too, actually?" Miles asked excitedly.

Hobie made a small noise of triumph, a smile playing over his lips. "Yeah! 1st, lunch and then 6th. Okay. Better than nothing, right?"

Miles chuckled, shoving his schedule into the plastic and tucking it under his arm. "Definitely. We can eat together at the cafeteria if you want! I'll walk you to your next class though, since it's basically right around the corner."

Hobie shrugged his own backpack back onto his shoulder and shoved his hands into his trouser pockets. His eyes were cast downwards as he grinned at the floor and said, "yeah, if you don't mind... that'd be pretty cool."

This guy sure does like the word cool, Miles thought, and away to Hobie's next class they both went. They both ignored the various whispers and stares in their direction. Miles was already used to it by now.

They walked together amiably, in near lockstep for a little while before Hobie finally spoke up again.

"... So... if you don't mind me asking... why are you so nice to me if you didn't know I was famous, then?"

It was an innocent enough question, but it kinda caught Miles off guard nonetheless.

He laughed nervously. "Uhh ahaha, whaddya mean? I did know you were famous! I just... y'know my brain doesn't work the best real early in the morning. I'm, uh. Sometimes I can be pretty weird, if you haven't noticed by now."

Hobie nodded slowly, digesting this information for a bit. "Yeah, you did recognize me in the first place, I guess. It's just weird, you're like... the first person I met that doesn't look at me like I'm made out of solid gold, though. That's all..."

They exchanged glances again, and Miles' brain was working into overdrive, thinking of an appropriate response.

Before he could open his mouth, they finally reached their destination and Hobie bumped Miles' shoulder with his arm, smiling.

"So, thanks. For, uh... this. All this."

Miles raised a brow at him. "Oh yeah, this is nothing. I just walked you over to your next class, no biggie. My class is right over here anyways, so--"

Hobie laughed and shook his head, the expression lighting up his facial features unlike anything Miles has seen on that face yet.

"No, Miles. Not just this. I mean, like..." Hobie dipped his head, a bashful sort of move. "I mean, like, being nice to me. Like forreal. I really appreciate this."

They looked at each other for a moment, something real warm growing in Miles' chest all of a sudden, something... familiar.

He was just about to casually brush the gratitude off a second time with a dorky quip, before some girl's screechy voice interrupted their private little moment out of nowhere. It honestly startled them both, and the nice warm atmosphere dissipated immediately.

"Oh. My. GOD!! Is that Hobie Jones? Like actually?!"

She giggled and bounded up to them, blatantly ignoring Miles to insert herself between them and crowd into Hobie's space. She coquettishly asked for a selfie with him, promising to tag him on social media. The sudden commotion unfortunately attracted some other students who then took their cue to also bother Hobie for autographs, selfies, throwing compliments left and right.

Miles backed up out of the crowd, eyes still on Hobie as he watched the poor guy metaphorically slip on a mask, the very same that Miles saw when they first met not 2 hours ago. It was a sad, detached sort of look, and Hobie was forced to hunch in on himself to meet his fellow students' heights as they snapped selfie after selfie. His lips formed a smile all the while. His eyes did not.

A pang of sympathy hit Miles as he slowly turned away and made his way down to his own classroom without so much as a goodbye. He shrugged to himself, shaking his head. Yeah, he knew how that felt, just trying to mind your own business and live your life, do what you have to do-- and being stopped by nearly every living being within a 50 ft radius wanting their photo ops and their babies kissed.

Miles smiled to himself as he shouldered his way past other students and sauntered into his class, right on time. The bell rang as he reached his desk, and he pulled out another notebook out of his bag before the realization finally hit him with the force of a truck.

Wait... Hobie JONES?!

Miles quickly glanced around at his surroundings and mentally kicked himself yet again for choosing a seat so close to the teacher's desk, almost right up at the front. Damnit!

But the teacher wasn't in the classroom just yet, most likely making a quick run down to the printer down the hall to make copies of the class syllabus or something.

Okay, Morales. Gotta be quick.

He hastily pulled out his phone yet again, one eye on the door. He quickly typed in Hobie Jones model in his browser's search box, letting out a breath as search results loaded up and gave him exactly what he was looking for this entire time.

Bingo.

Hobie's face popped up in the image search previews, all sorts of cool and striking photoshoots lit up in all kinds of different ways. And the very first link at the top of the page? Hobie's own Flickstagram.

With a shaky hand, Miles tapped the link and impatiently waited for it to load, for his phone to get with the program and just open the damn app already. He kept glancing every so often at the door yet again, praying that the printer or copier-- or whatever-the-hell that was keeping the professor away from the class-- would keep them away for just a second longer.

He finally cast his gaze back down onto his own Flickstagram app and his heart nearly dropped out of his chest.

At the top, right next to Hobie's own smoldering profile picture was his username: hobiemjones

hobiemjones... hobie m jones. Hobie M. Jones.

M.J.

Miles exhaled again and tucked his phone away in shock just as the classroom door opened yet again and all the students quieted down. This class's teacher made their way over to their desk, piles of papers in hand. They started to pass them out to the students in the front row, introducing themself and then going over the usual attendance policies.

Miles accepted the syllabus sheets with trembling hands, turning to pass them over his shoulder once he got his own, his mind running a hundred miles a minute.

Peter talked nonstop about his wife, whenever he managed to stop talking about his baby, that is. It was always MJ this, MJ that. Flashes of a middle-aged man staring forlornly at a picture of his then-ex wife-- grieving the one who got away-- raced across his mind's eye. His universe's own MJ standing at a podium, strong but deeply hurt as she addressed all of Brooklyn after Spiderman's funeral.

"She wanted kids and I... just wasn't ready," echoed over and over in Miles' mind. Of course, they're together now. But the way Peter talked about his divorce... oh god.

Wait... was Miles ready for kids? Were he and Hobie going to have a messy on-and-off again relationship that ended up with them having to care for a spider-baby just like Mayday?! Maybe even multiple spider-babies?!?!?

Miles loosened his tie a bit, sweating profusely.

The fact that neither Hobie nor Miles were equipped with the parts to make a baby together flew right over his head. No... instead, his mind skipped straight to marriage, messy emotional fights and inevitable breakups. How was he gonna juggle school, work, Spiderman stuff and a relationship all at once?!

Without realizing, Miles started hyperventilating.

No no no no no, cool it Miles. COOL IT. Don't be weird. Miles mentally slapped himself and tried to even out his breathing as he leaned back in his seat and wiped some sweat off his brow.

He just proved to Miguel O' Hara and the entire multiverse this past spring that he can do his own thing, canon events be damned. Miles Morales was no victim to fate. Maybe all of the other spider-people had their own MJs. But maybe in this universe, MJ and Spiderman were... just friends. Good friends! ...Yeah, yeah, just friends...

The idea floated around in Miles' head throughout the entire rest of the class, but it didn't really make the tightness in his chest loosen up any at all.

Once the bell rang again and everyone started packing their things up, Miles dawdled a bit by the door, fumbling with his phone as his classmates filed out of the room. If he was late enough, maybe he'd completely miss Hobie in the hallways and not have to see him at all. Miles double-checked, triple-checked his schedule again and again, mapping out an eventual escape route through the halls in case Hobie's path did intercept Miles'.

God, Miles thought ruefully, checking the hour on his phone for the 15th time in a row and smiling awkwardly at his teacher's questioning glance. You're being so fucking weird about this right now!

The rational part of his brain kicked in and presented a quick slideshow of other calmer, more reasonable explanations as to why he really shouldn't be avoiding his new friend like the plague all of a sudden.

1. Hobie probably doesn't and won't like me, it stated. There is literally no proof that Hobie Jones is even into guys. Or me, Miles Morales.

2. Even if Hobie Jones is into guys-- or me, Miles Morales-- that does not mean the endgame is automatically marriage. No sir, no proof of that at all!

3. Canon events were officially disproven. Kinda. Mostly. Sort of?

C'mon, bro. Just man up and get out there. You're gonna be late for the next class soon anyways.

Right. He inhaled deeply and steeled himself.

"Okay well, uh. Have a nice day Mx. Gonzalez! See ya... tomorrow." Miles cringed inwardly at how lame that sounded, but his teacher didn't seem to notice as they bid him a nice day as well.

With his heart in his stomach, Miles slowly made his way into the hallway and started walking at a brisk pace, keeping his eyeline straight in front of him, trying to reach his next class on the floor below quickly but manageably. It was when he reached the stairs that his heart sank even lower.

Hobie was standing right next to the stairwell, glaring at the school map placed on the wall off to the left, fingertips on his chin as he mumbled to himself. He was glancing up and down between the map and his schedule in his hand, clearly befuddled.

Damn, he really is bad at navigating, Miles mused, once he recovered.

But as luck would have it, tragedy struck right then. Miles being pretty much the only other kid in the hallway attracted Hobie's attention, and even though Miles' feet kept him moving, he almost tripped on air once Hobie perked up upon seeing him.

"Miles!" Hobie grinned and waved him over, clearly happy to see him.

Oh noooo. Miles was not as happy to see him.

Without thinking, he launched himself down the flight of stairs, hopping over the railing and landing loudly on the 1st floor. Once steady, he basically sprinted over to his 3rd period class, completely missing the way Hobie's sunny grin slowly disappeared and his hand lowered back down to his side.

♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧

Lunchtime came and went. Miles ate his packed lunch at his usual perch on top of the school building, where he always hid while trying to avoid the rest of the student body. He managed to pick a good spot away from prying eyes, and it never failed him.

Hobie ate alone, at a table tucked into the corner of the cafeteria despite being invited to several other tables. He sat and chewed sadly, locs back in front of his eyes, posture hunched over and defeated.

6th period came and went. Miles purposefully kept his gaze averted as Hobie walked in 5 minutes late. They sat at opposite ends of the room, never acknowledging each other's existence.

The school day ended and Miles made his way back to the dorms, sighing with relief once he glanced out the window and saw giant rainclouds rolling in over the horizon. Man, was he glad he got to bunk up on campus with his best friend! He greeted Ganke, kicked off his shoes and climbed up onto his bunkbed, laying back with a sigh. Maybe tomorrow he'd confront Hobie about his erratic behavior and apologize. Maybe.

But that was a problem for future Miles...

♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧

Outside, the rain started falling fast and hard.

Outside, Hobie M. Jones waited miserably by the curb with an umbrella in hand, getting drenched by the water nonetheless. He checked his phone for the 15th time and sniffled angrily, pocketing it and gripping onto his umbrella handle.

Late. Again.

His mother was late to pick him up, as usual.

He swiped at a tear rolling down his cheek and finally loosened his ponytail, letting his locs fall all around his face.

Once she arrived, his mother was going to inevitably ask him how his day was, look only slightly concerned about his angry tears and ask if he made any new friends anyways, despite knowing the answer.

No, mom, Hobie would say as he kept his eyes glued to the car window.

No. I didn't make any friends.

[scribeofmorpheus]

Why Dragon Age Veilguard isn't a "Cathedral"

Concept art by Matt Rhodes

"To disinherit the storylines of past games goes directly against the notion of building cathedrals."

What is inherent with Veilguard that keeps bothering me is the fact that the world's choices truly didn't matter--and it doesn't simply bother me from a player perspective, it's not simply a grievance borne of frustration to what I (as a longtime fan) have lost. It's about the very culture of the arts under capitalism's new media habituation cycle [x][x].

Yes, I spent hours of my life playing and replaying each instalment of Dragon Age. Yes, I painstakingly curated a 'canon' world state by replaying what came before in preparation for Veilguard. Yes, I am even more unsatisfied with the end product--time hasn't helped, it's just widened the divide. But, and I can't stress this enough, these very personal gripes aren't what hit home the most. It's the inherent disregard of legacy. A legacy that the previous writers and game developers were building towards.

In the DAV artbook, "cathedral" is the word used to describe the process of making a game. Matt Rhodes' exact words are: "One artist can make a painting, but it takes a team to build a cathedral." Cathedrals took centuries to build. The architect who drafted the first blueprints would likely never see his work realised, he had to rely on those who came after him, like-minded and passionate, to see it through--for the culture, for the future, for legacy. Painters took on several apprentices for this reason too--giant frescoes were not completed by one man's hand, even if it is one man's name that immortalises them. Similarly, if you weave a narrative around choice, what good does it do to take it away at the final act if not to fall to caricature?

To disinherit the storylines of past games goes directly against the notion of building cathedrals.

Late-stage capitalism and profit-margin-obsessed game producers forcing developers to churn out meager content, to make a known brand into something it's not, to chase a fad or a popular trend... o, how reductive and cliche you've been forced to become Bioware. We have lost the cultural thought patterns relative to Cathedrals. We know only of barn-raised churches--done in a day but unlikely to last the turn of the seasons.

And don't even get me started on the music of Veilguard either. From Origins to World of Warcraft to Everquest to Baldur's Gate to Dungeon Siege, you can hear the intricate interconnected weave of sounds inspired by the Dungeons and Dragons-esque fantasy genre. You hear it in the repeated use of certain instruments, in the harmonic weeping notes of a bard-like singer or the foreboding echoes of drums as if of war. In tavern songs. But then, rather than hire someone who loves these worlds and this genre, who is a hungry artist looking to make a name, a legacy if you will, for themselves with a spectacular score, you hire any already sated composer, one well-into the encroaching years of career fatigue, whose notes repeat in countless projects, who feels less concise and more uninterested with each new project. One who has long since cemented his legacy. Someone in it for a paycheck and nothing else! And, to top it off, you let him compose something so minimalist? I am offended actually.

Cathedrals! We should have witnessed the final tile being placed on the Dragon Age cathedral. Instead, some architects walked up, tore down the interior and installed IKEA furniture and called it authentic before having to call the previous architects to come and fix the "load-bearing issues", forcing them to rush and add a coat of varnish and a few 'aged' details for authenticity.

[pastryfication]

THE RED SHOES ↳ oscar piastri

based on the fairytale by hans christian andersen | inspired by an old school project i found on my laptop … this took me forever so please give it some love <33

pairing: oscar piastri x leclerc!sister!reader summary: from the moment you were gifted your first ballet slippers, dance had been a constant in your life. a comfort in even the darkest times. but it becomes unhealthy the moment you are unable to take off the shoes.

the most worn out, old shoes in your collection dated all the way back to your fourth birthday. they had been a gift from your three brothers; a pair of red dance slippers for you to wear when you the following week participated in your very first ballet class.

it had been love at first sight for you. the moment you stepped into the studio, feeling the hardwood beneath your thin shoes, seeing yourself reflected in a mirror no matter what direction you looked in, you knew that it was where you wanted to spend the rest of your days. dance became your lifeline, the only thing keeping you going when everything else seemed dull.

when your brothers were off racing and your parents preoccupied themselves with the go-karts and helmets, you found solace in the simple act of ballet. lacing up your shoes, the familiar scent of the studio and the smoothness of the wooden floor always managed to calm you. when the music started, your world narrowed down to the rhythmic beating of the drum and the fluidity of your movements. there, in that sanctuary, nothing else mattered.

your first pair of shoes quickly became worn out, too ruined to be used, and your parents provided you with a new pair. a new pair that soon would be replaced as well.

when you were twenty, you were for the first time introduced to oscar. it was the italian grand prix, an event your entire family always attended in support of your older brother, and that year was no different. you had been wandering around in search of a familiar face when you ran into the mclaren driver. it had been love a first sight—something neither of you believed in, yet couldn’t deny—to put it simple, and the two years you had been together had been nothing short of incredible.

the australian was more than happy to contribute to your collection of shoes that only grew more and more as your training became harder, more challenging, more draining.

he worried. it wasn’t in his nature, not something he found himself doing often, but for you, for the growing dark circles under your eyes, for the weight you only seemed to loose and not gain, he worried.

you would never want him foreboding, never want him to feel the slightest unease, but as your days filled with more stress, your mind started closing up, leaving room for nothing but the new choreography.

each morning and each night, you stepped into the studio, the mirrored walls reflecting your resolve, as the music filled the air like a whisper of promise. each movement carved out a sanctuary, a space where the weight of the world faded to a distant hum.

your body became a vessel for the dance, each plié and tendu an escape from the noise outside. time drifted away, an endless stream of practice and precision and the pulse of the music guiding you deeper into this realm.

the world outside became a mere shadow, its demands and voices lost in the blur of your focus, where you were both lost and found. every ache was a testament to your commitment, every breath a surrender to the rhythm.

the only thing remaining clear was the shoes.

you had long since outgrown the pair your brothers had gifted you so thoughtfully, yet somehow, they stayed with you, not only in the physical sense, but in a way that felt deeper, more insidious. you couldn’t see it then, couldn’t know how easily the delicate line between passion and obsession could blur without you noticing.

your brothers had never fully understood, though they loved you all the same. their world was filled with the rush of engines, the thrill of speed. they were boys of the track, always chasing something fast, something tangible. when they handed you those shoes on your fourth birthday, they had no way of knowing they were giving you something you would chase for the rest of your life. a place you would carve out in the quiet, where the sound of your feet against the floor was all that mattered.

time went on so slow yet so fast. your brothers still called, though not as often as before. arthur’s voice always had an edge of command, as though even over the phone, he couldn’t help but lead you, the only person who would ever follow his command. “we’re all going to monaco this year. you’re coming, right?” his words held the weight of expectation, as though he couldn’t imagine you saying no. but when you hesitated, there was always that brief pause before he moved on, never pushing too hard.

charles’ calls were shorter, more distant, his voice lighter, floating through pictures and scattered texts from whatever corner of the world he happened to be racing through. he asked about the dance, though you both knew he didn’t really need the answer. to him, it was enough that you were still moving, still spinning through your world as he did through his.

and lorenzo—sweet, caring enzo—he called the most, his words gentle but filled with concern as he told you about your mother’s worry. about his own worry. “you sound tired,” he’d say, even when you laughed it off. he noticed things the others didn’t, sensed the exhaustion creeping into your voice, the hesitation between your words. but you reassured him, told him you were fine, always fine.

it wasn’t until oscar voiced the same worry that you began to feel the weight of it yourself. he wasn’t like your brothers—his concern was quieter, but it settled over you like a shadow. he’d watch you in the studio, even when he was busy and cramped by his ever growing career.

silent he was, his eyes tracing the movements of your body as it twisted and turned, as though trying to understand what it was you were chasing. he knew, even if you didn’t want to admit it yet, that something had shifted.

“i’m worried,” he had said one evening, after watching you move through another rehearsal, the exhaustion clinging to you like a second skin. “you don’t have to push so hard.”

his words were soft, but they lingered. you had brushed them aside at first because how could he understand?

the studio was your world. it was where everything made sense.

each day, the pull of the shoes grew stronger, though they were no longer on your feet. the new pairs you slipped on felt no different; they all seemed to carry the same curse, driving you forward even when your body begged to stop. the movements, once effortless, now felt like a compulsion, a promise you couldn’t break. you were chasing something. chasing a perfection that always seemed just out of reach.

it wasn’t until you stumbled—it just a small misstep, barely noticeable to anyone but you—that the truth started to crack open. you stood there, breath caught in your chest, staring at the mirrored walls surrounding you. your reflection looked back, but it didn’t feel like your own. there was something unfamiliar in the way your body moved, something hollow in your eyes. the girl in the mirror was still dancing, but you weren’t sure why anymore.

oscar was a magician in the way he immediately was there, his hand on your arm before you even realized it. “it’s okay,” he whispered, his voice steady, but his eyes told a completely different story. “you don’t have to keep doing this,” he said softly, his fingers brushing against yours as tenderly as if you were close to breaking. “you don’t have to prove anything to anyone.”

you wanted to believe him, but you couldn’t. the shoes still called to you, still urged you forward. they were tied to something deeper than the dance itself, something you couldn’t quite name, but couldn’t quite let go of either.

your brothers called again, their voices distant but filled with love. “come to the race,” charles said. “we’ll all be there. we want to see you.”

and for a moment, you hesitated, the pull of family tugging against the pull of the enchanting movements. you thought of charles‘ steady voice, of arthur’s laughter, of lorenzo’s quiet concern and of your mothers worrying eyes. you thought of your first ever shoes, of the girl who had received them. the girl who danced because it was her joy, not her burden.

but as you tried to step out the shoes, you found that you couldn’t. they were stuck, grown unto your feet so tightly that not even the whispers of your adoring family and all too loving boyfriend could free them. the web had spun for years, and now, it was too late to escape.

[sweetnothingtm]

every man gets his wish // simon riley

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ "i learned how to make love from the movies" ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

pairing simon x fem!reader

content pure unadulterated smut, maybe a daddy kink?

summary the one where ghost is obsessed w a camgirl

note based off my drabble, thank you for the love ♡ lmk if you want a part twooo

There’s a special place in hell for people like Simon Riley.

He could’ve gone to heaven - but he won’t.

Simon has vices. He has anger issues, and he doesn’t like to share. He doesn’t take precautions, he’s cocky with his wallet and he most certainly doesn’t take orders from anyone.

He’s impulsive, abrasive, and most importantly - Simon Riley only thinks with his dick.

You’re the opposite of him. Careful, gentle and patient, you come across as bubbly and approachable. The sparkle in your eyes just never seemed to die, and an innocent smile is always playing at your lips. You seem to embody everything that Simon could never be.

Not that he would know - you’re just an eager camgirl with a big audience.

Every night, Simon Riley comes crawling to you like a stray dog. It wasn’t meant to be this way, so vile and naughty and delicious. He swore it would only happen once, and yet here he is, pining after the taste of you. He always finds himself with his cock in his hands, eyes rolling up to the ceiling and filthy curses slipping past his lips.

You’ve already started - much to his disappointment.

He’s usually so punctual. Never wasting your time. Always appreciative of the way your eyes sparkle with adoration when he joins the stream. Today was no different - he was just a little too eager and spent the last hour jerking off to the thought of you.

And he’s gonna do it again

The room is cast in a soft glow, your legs tucked beneath you and the soft hum of music playing in the background. Your soft skin is covered in red lingerie, pillowy tits covered by the lace that he bought.

It’s a damn shame - the way Simon can’t be there to take it off himself.

In contrast to the natural shine you give off, Simon is drowned out by the dark moonlight. His body casually leans back against the headboard, eyes trained on the illuminated screen that separates you from him. While he is adorned in shadows, you shine with the soft glow of your exposed skin.

Your lips, pulled into a little pout. Your delicate fingers, dipping between your plush thighs. The ebbs and flow of your body, curves and blemishes that he’s memorized like he owns you.

It’s quite pathetic, really - how infatuated he’s become with a camgirl. But he can’t help himself. He’s got all your videos saved in a folder that he opens at every opportunity.

He’s cum to you more times than he can count, always groaning as the hot ropes of white liquid splatter against his skin. He’d tip you relentlessly, always accompanied by a foreboding message that sent chills along your spine.

Missed you, princess. What a good girl. Finished so soon? What a beautiful little slut.

Your hands are wrapped around a little pink toy that you push between your thighs. It hums against your skin, causing Simon to angrily palm himself through his pants. The sickeningly sweet sound of your gasp has him reeling, cock already beginning to twitch and drip with precum.

His hand continues to palm at it, ignoring the little stain that starts to form on his pants as you continue to stimulate yourself. You gently part your thighs, hair framing your face as you give him - yes, him - a little preview of his deepest desires.

You’re already wet, and he curses himself for being late today. Simon is memorizing the little bow on your panties, the way you push the vibrator against the soft fabric and let your little plump lips part for a moan.

He’s got a toothy grin, rubbing at the tip of his cock and imagining that it’s your delicate hands struggling to wrap around him.

You’d blink up at him with full and eager eyes, lip pulled between your teeth. You’d gently unzip his pants, fingernails dragging against his skin and causing his dick to perk up. He’d rub the pad of his thumb against your cheek, a nasty smirk plastered across his face.

Simon imagines that your tongue would give gentle licks against his irritated tip, that you’d hollow out your cheeks and suck him off until his cum is coating your throat. He would continue to lazily fuck your mouth, tears gathering at the corner of your eyes as you hummed against his cock.

The sound of your little gasps pulls him from the daydream, eyes sharply trained on the screen as you pull your panties to the side and rub the vibrator against your clit. Your chest is pressed outwards, nipples hard against the red lace that separates him from you.

Before he can stop himself, with his cock twitching underneath his touch and thumb rubbing softly over his tip, he absently clicks on the keyboard. It’s a good thing he’s got his card number memorized.

$250 from Ghost_Stalker

-smile pretty for me, princess.

You pause your movement, vibrator stuck between your folds as you writhe and twitch against it. You squint your eyes, rolling over the message once. Twice. Three times before a smile is tugging at your lips. A hand comes up to squeeze your tit, fingernails dragging against the lace as you lean into the camera and smile sweetly.

“hi ghost - i missed you.”

His belt hits the floor before you finish your sentence.

Your voice is thick like honey, laced with desire that Simon is convinced was meant just for him. The vibrator begins to move again, pressing into your wet core with a little squelch as you mewl out in pleasure.

He follows your pace, eyes fixated on the pink toy that dips in and out of your little pussy. It stretches you, pushing against your folds and humming against you.

Simon is messily jerking himself off as you roll your hips against the vibrator, letting soft pleas fall from your lips. He spits on the tip of his cock, palm rubbing it against his shaft as he grunts happily. The slick and lazy strokes mirror the way you rub the vibrator greedily against your clit, thighs parting like the gates of heaven.

He wants in.

When you pull the toy away from you, the sound of your dripping cunt follows along with it. You wiggle closer to the camera, eyes blown out with pleasure as you press the pink toy into your mouth and lick. Tongue sloppy, eyes rolling in ecstasy and hips bucking against the pillow underneath you.

$300 from Ghost_Stalker

-i missed you more princess. missed your pretty little pussy.

“prove it,” you challenge.

His head slams against the back of the chair, cock covered in his spit as the sounds of your soft laughter that plays from his screen. He bucks his hips up with his movements, imagining that your body is curled around him and bouncing on his lap.

Your nails would drag against his skin, leaving harsh red lines in their wake as he’d let his hand fly to your ass with a sickening smack.

You’d jump, grinding your mound into him with desperation as your perky tits rub against his chest. Simon imagines himself nipping, licking and biting at them, his dick throbbing at the way you’d drool out his name.

In his dreams, you’re an obedient little slut. Ever a tease, you’d bounce on his dick one minute and beg for a kiss the next. He’d wrap his hand around your throat, choking you until you’re seeing stars and begging him for more.

You’re chatting away with sleazy men who can’t afford you, and it makes Simon enraged. It’s him who matters. It’s him who should have your attention. It’s him who you should open your legs for. His stroking gets aggressive, jaw set and hardened as you blow kisses and make false promises. Simon is rubbing himself raw, his free hand going to cup his balls and gently squeeze.

And then someone asks you where you got your cute little outfit. And like the vixen you are, you smile sweetly into the camera and push your tits together.

“Oh? these? they were a gift from someone special.”

And it’s true. He’s your favorite. He’s the one who you’re dreaming of - and it’s embarrassing to pine after a man you’ve never met. But it’s washed away by the burning desire to please him. Only him.

He’s trying so hard to hang on. To regain some sense of normalcy as his dick continues to twitch and warmth spreads throughout his body like an inferno. His eyes are trained on your curves, the way you’ve got a smile lighting your face up as your hips grind into the soft pillow below you. He’s slapping the tip of his dick against his abdomen, letting the beads of precum splat against his skin and forever stain him a sinner.

Here he goes again, thinking with his dick.

$500 from Ghost_Stalker

-put on a good show for daddy.

And you do. The red lace has been slipped off of you, tossed to the side as you reach over and off the screen to grab something. A perfect angle of your tits in full view. Simon follows every movement. He licks his lips in anticipation, stomach heavy with desire.

You sheepishly pull the dildo out, smacking it against your outstretched tongue and dipping a hand between your legs. Dripping, wet beyond comprehension and Simon is lucky enough to watch as you curl your fingers inside your pussy and mewl.

His hips are rutting up, hand fisting his cock in desperation as you suck on the dildo while fingerfucking yourself. His chest is tight, sweat glistening against his skin while he watches intensely. So fucking wet.

You hope he’s watching. You’re praying that he’s jerking off to the sight of you. That you’re both staring up at the ceiling, eyes searching for the constellations that brought you together when the stars aligned.

Is it wrong? To want something that you’ve never known?

Simon can tell you’re becoming undone. You always get riled up with his words, eyes full of excitement as he showers you with attention every stream. In his fantasy, Simon thinks you wished that your delicate fingers were his. That you wanted him to slowly rub at your bud of nerves and press his fingers into your cunt. And then he’d have you sit on his cock and make him watch as he licked his fingers clean.

He can’t help himself when you’re like this, messy and needy on screen with your wet pussy smearing against the pillow that he wishes was his face. You’re whining and panting, fingers dipping in and out of your core as Simon picks up the pace and lets the heat travel up his skin and light him ablaze. Your voice is music to his ears.

“i’m so close- fuck. please, i- gonna cum.”

When you climax, your chest is heaving and a layer of sweat has covered your soft skin. Your hands are dancing across your soft tits, twisting at your hardened nipples that all but scream bite me. He’s smearing more spit all over himself, breath coming out in short pants and eyes dark and heavy.

The dildo rests against your folds, almost as if it’s taunting him. And so what if he blows all him money in one night? It’s going to a good cause - at least, that’s what he’s convinced himself.

$2500 from Ghost_Stalker

-again.

You pull your bottom lip between your teeth at the message, ignoring the chat as it blows up at the extra show. You’re already eager, smacking the tip of the dildo against your folds and rolling your hips upwards.

“a little desperate tonight? i don’t mind - anything for daddy”

It takes everything in him not to cum right then and there. Simon feels like he’s died and been reborn. Like a siren has sung him to a peaceful sleep. Like the explanations for his bank statements are worth it. And when you press the tip of the toy into your dripping wet hole, it feels like Simon can practically smell your sickeningly sweet pussy.

He thinks it smells like candy.

You wince at every inch of silicone that slides into you. Your thighs are trembling, an arm propping yourself up as you whine and mewl like his favorite little kitten. The camera is shaking from your movements, head hung back in ecstasy as you bottom out the dildo and sigh happily.

Such a dirty slut, Simon muses. So nasty. At this point, his strokes are quick and methodical. Tugging at his tip that’s still producing precum, almost as if it’s desperate for release. His balls ache, his eyebrows are knitted in concentration and his abs are tight with anticipation.

“m’ so wet,” you gasp, the sounds of your pussy flitting against the dildo playing on repeat in Simon’s mind. Your thighs are spread fully, and your pillowy tits are jiggling with the movement of you fucking yourself. “are you watching?”

There’s a frenzy in the chat, a hundred eager men thinking that your words are meant for them. You raise yourself to your knees, angling to toy to press against your folds as you bite your lip. “i bet you are. guess what?” You breathe, eyes twinkling with mischief. “i wish you were here.”

Oh, how wrong they were.

He's close. The edge that he’s built is about to fall beneath him, collapse into a million pieces while you get drunk off the way the dildo slips in and out of you. Your eyes are squeezed shut and your chest is heaving, lungs struggling to take in air as you climb that high once more.

You whine and beg to yourself. Simon curses and lets his hips snap up against his stroking. His cock is unbearably hard, skin tingling with the sensation of pure lust that consumes him. You bounce and grind on the dildo with need, hair falling back against your bare shoulders as Simon drinks in every ounce of you.

Legs shaking, tits bouncing and hands coming up to play with your nipples, you look like a goddess. He’s never been so entranced, so enthralled and so obsessed. The way your nails dig into your skin, squeals of pleasure ripping through your stomach as you cum around the toy. You roll your hips greedily, savoring the orgasm and rubbing quick circles against your clit.

It’s all that it takes to have him squeezing the tip of his cock and shooting hot cum all over his stomach. It’s shameful, pathetic and downright heavenly. He promises that he’ll never cum to anyone but you.

The overstimulation has you reeling, chest heaving and eyes watering in excitement as a wave of pure bliss is crashing against you. The chat is singing praises to you, falling on deaf ears as you lazily still your hips and lean forward - dildo still firmly shoved in your pussy.

“are you satisfied?” You ask innocently. No, never. You don’t say his screen name, but it doesn’t matter, he knows it’s him you’re talking to. He knows by the way you slide off the toy, hair sticking to your skin as you slip on the red lace as a sign that the shows coming to an end. He knows by the way you dip your fingers between your wet folds, gathering the sticky cum around your digits - before you lick it off them like such a good girl.

He has to have you.

$5000 from Ghost_Stalker

-i’ll double it if you do it again

[orcasoul]

The Lesser of Two Evils

Summery: In the face of desperation, you make a life changing decision, which will benefit both yourself and Marcus.

Warnings: Swearing, smut (eventual), threats of rape, sexual harassment, violence, gore, detailed injuries, angst, enemies(ish) to lovers, protective Marcus Acacius, age gap, OFC/reader.

Word Count: 5,622

Chapter 2 Desperate Times

The evening stretched on and you made every effort to remain as invisible as possible. While Adhelm and his sons convened with the council and discussed the next plan of attack you busied yourself with preparing food for them, making sure to keep your eyes on your hands as you served them. But you didn't have to look up to know a pair of eyes were watching your every move. Predatory eyes, just waiting, biding their time. You could feel the hate closing around you, oppressive and suffocating. After serving everyone in attendance, Adhelm dismissed you and you couldn't have been more relieved.

You breathed the chilly night air in deeply through your nose as you stepped outside and released a sigh of relief. All you want now, is to get home, lock yourself away and try to ignore the sense of foreboding prickling under your skin. You hurry along the shadowed path, passing other homes filled with the voices of families, laughter and music. Often you would stop and remember what it felt like to have a family, to have a home filled with love and not just some weathered shack filled with silence and lonliness. But this is not the time for yearning. You need to get home, now.

The hair on your arms suddenly raise and it's nothing to do with the cold. Your heart begins to pound rapidly as the disquiet you'd felt earlier now shifts into an almost paralyzing fear. You are not alone! The sound of footsteps confirms your suspicions. You turn around quickly but the blanket of darkness hides whomever is following you. Your heart is now in your throat! Panic propels you to pick up the pace as you swiftly turn on your heel. As you round the corner of a storage building, relief sweeps over you but only for a moment before two strong arms engulf you; one around your midsection, squeezing your arms to your sides, and the other across your chest, hand pressing firmly over your mouth.

You try to scream, to free your arms but the grip is unforgiving. In your feeble attempt to resist all you can do is emit a muffled scream and kick out. The next thing you feel is the intense, sharp jolt, shooting from the back of your head. Glinting specs dance in your vision, almost resembling a vibrant night sky in the dark. A hand wraps around your throat and another finds your mouth once more. You blink harshly to clear your vision, the face coming into view being the one you loath the most. Fucking Bardulf! The arsehole flashes you a toothy grin, obviously pleased by your frightened response. He leans in closer to your face, snarling. "You really thought you could get away with that display back there?" Without a second thought you bit down on his hand.

Bardulf instantly recoils but before you can cry out he backhands you, knocking you to the ground. "Bitch!" he fumed as he pulled your head back by your hair. Your eyes widen in terror when you feel a sharp cold point pressing lightly at your throat. "Scream and I'll cut your fucking tongue out and ram it down your throat, understand?!" "Y... yes," you stutter, legs feeling like they might give way any second. Bardulf removes the knife and drags you to your feet, roughly slamming you against the side of the hut. "My father has been lenient with you for far too long. But that is about to come to an end," Bardulf smirked, your gut twisting up in response.

"Please, just let-" you whimper but he cuts you off, "Shut up! Kuno has no use for you so I convinced him to give you to me when he becomes chief. Told him I'd... "look after you". You want to stay strong. You want to mask the dread you feel right now, but your face betrays you, much to the delight of your assailant. "Things are going to change around here very soon. You will learn your place. I won't just beat it into you..." he slithers a hand down your torso, gripping your waist. Your stomach threatens to expell it's contents as his filthy paws continue to grope you. "I'll fuck it into you!"

Your heart plummets. For a moment you are speechless. He can't be serious! Why does he hate you so much? What have you ever done to him to deserve this campaign of hate he has waged against you for so long? "You c... can't! Your fathers' rule-" "Will die with him. When you are mine I shall do with you as I please. Your body will be my body," he says as he smoothes a rough finger over your cheek. Just the feel of his skin against your makes you wish you could shed your own and grow a new, untainted one.

"Why?" You begin to cry -more from frustration than fear now - despite your best efforts not to. "Why do you despise me? Why do you constantly torment me!" "Because I can," Bardulf gripped your chin, forcing your eyes up to his. "You will show me the respect I deserve. I'm going to break you, slowly. Oh, it'll be such fun," he snickered, almost maniacally, the shadows of the surrounding buildings making him appear more menacing than ever before. He continued, "I'm going to break you..." his lip curled in a cruel grin. "And once I've had my fun, I will enjoy watching you die as I squeeze the life from you."

Tightness grips your chest as his words chill you to the bone. Rage has now taken root, strangling the fear from you. "Fuck you, you loathsome piece of shit!" you lashed out, finding it within you to push him away. A repulsive smile stretched across his face. "I'll let that one slide this time, Alia. Savour it, while it lasts." Bardulf releases his hold on you and walks away, laughing to himself. You sprint home as fast as you can, locking your door before falling onto your bed and sobbing uncontrollably.

"It'll be okay. We'll be okay!" your mother stressed while holding you tightly in her arms, but the tremble of her body betrayed her words of reassurance. Outside your house, angry voices are rising in pitch, demanding that your mother show herself. In amongst the commotion your fathers' voice rang out, loud and determined, warning the gathered mob to go home. "Stay here," your mother whispered and began to rise from the corner you were both huddled in. You grip her arm, desperation in your eyes and voice. "Don't go mama, please!" "I'm just going to the window." She cupped your cheek, the warmth of her flesh soothing your nerves. If only you'd known that would be the last time you'd feel her gentle touch.

The storm of anger outside seemed to escalate with every passing minute, more and more voices joining the already volatile crowd. "You're all a bunch of gullible fools!" your father exploded. "She has nothing to do with the failed crops. You're just looking for something or someone to blame and I won't allow you to blame her!" "Bring her out, bring her out, bring her out!" the horde kept chanting. You cover your ears and close your eyes, desperate to drown out the noise, heart thumping so wildly, you fear it may burst through your chest. Your whole body jumps when your mother lets out an anguished scream and bolts for the door.

Scrambling to your feet, you run outside after her but stop dead in your tracks, muscles frozen, shock and disbelief anchoring you to the spot as you witness your fathers' blood soaked body fall to the ground. "Papa!" you whimper, all the air now having left your lungs as if you'd been punched in the stomach. You gasp for air, tears burning your eyes. Your mothers' piercing cries shake you from your stupor. "No! Mama!" you scream as she gets dragged off of your fathers' lifeless body. You only manage to run a few steps towards her before you feel multiple hands gripping your arms, fingers digging into your flesh as you fight against their hold.

"Please, please don't hurt her!" you beg the frenzied crowd but it falls on deaf ears. Your mother screams your name as she is beaten and kicked mercilessly. Accusations are spat at her along with the words "Witch" and "kill her". The whole time you struggle, frantically, to free yourself, screaming and pleading until your throat is raw. She is then pulled to her feet and dragged back to your house. You pull against the men restraining you so forcefully it feels like your shoulders might dislocate. Her once beautiful face, now black and blue and dripping with blood seeks your own before she is thrown through the door.

A man carrying a lit torch approaches your house and your eyes widen in horror, the world slowing down for you as you watch him throw the torch onto the thatched roof. In a matter of seconds your home is a blazing inferno, your innocent mothers' screams joining the crackle of the flames. You have no voice. Your strength abandons you, falling to your knees, mouth open to scream but nothing can escape the crushing sorrow and anger constricting your lungs. You clutch your hands to your chest, tears streaming down your cheeks while your life as you knew it literally goes up in flames before your very eyes.

Your body shoots upright, chest heaving as your wide eyes dart around the dark room. It's silent, oppressively so, the cold, empty darkness being the only witness to your grief. It's been a long time since you'd dreamed of that day, of your parents' death, but Bardulf's threat had festered in your mind as you drifted off into an uneasy sleep. Using your sleeve, you wipe your tears away and sit up in bed. Your body longs for comfort, for a time when the embrace of your parents felt like an impenetrable shield. Nothing could hurt you back then. With a heavy heart, you wrap your fleece blanket around your body and bring your knees to your chest, hugging and resting your chin on them. Only you can comfort yourself now and it has to be enough.

These people - who were supposed to be your people - have taken everything from you; your family, your freedom, your dignity - even your only friend. fresh tears form at your lashes at the thought of Faro. You'll always carry the weight of his death with you. But also a silent rage at Bardulf; the bastard even grinned at you as he slit his throat! For the past fifteen years the community has shunned you, the chief and his family had enslaved and alienated you and the kids you had grown up with made your existence hell with their relentless bullying.

And for what? All because some fear mongering arseholes had convinced the village that your mother was a Seer (witch) and was responsible for a bad harvest. The familiar sting of anger wells up again, replacing the hopelessness you'd awoken to only minutes ago. Fuck these people! The only reason you were spared that night was because you were only a child at the time, and the only reason no one had dared to take your virtue is because Adhelm feared your "Seers' blood" and threatened death upon anyone who touched you. But very soon, even that one last thing that was just yours will be taken from you.

Your belly twists in discomfort knowing that Bardulf will take what he wants from you and when he tires of you, he will kill you like a worthless animal. Unless... you get the hell out of here. The option to flee had always been there - and Faro often spoke of starting again somewhere new - but you knew you both never would have survived on your own; two children out there alone... It just wasn't possible. Your father had taught you how to hunt small animals and how to fish, but if the elements didn't get you, the bears and wolves would eventually. Fleeing was a death sentence for so long, but now...? Maybe salvation is possible. Salvation in the form of an injured and angry Roman General sitting in a cage not too far from your hut.

Marcus shivers as a cold breeze licks at his bare arms. In quiet contemplation he sits against the bars watching the moon spill it's silvery luminescence in a halo around itself, his mind transported to simpler times; times when he observed the moon from his balcony back home, when the mere sight of it would offer peace and stillness to the emotional scars of years of battles and slayings. But tonight he feels no such piece. He has accepted the fact that he will die soon, already having beseeched Mars to lend his unwavering strength to his men, his brothers, and not allow his public execution to quell their resolve and weaken their moral.

Rome will be victorious, no matter what these heathen beasts do. Rome is the light and darkness cannot dwell where - "General..." Marcus startles from his pensive state at the unexpected whisper in the dark. Posture rigid, he scans the immediate area but the darkness is almost impenetrable. "General!" the voice whispers again, with more urgency this time. "Who's there?" Marcus demanded. "Shhh... someone will hear us." Marcus lowers his voice. "I said who's there? Show yourself." "I can't. It's Alia. You must be still or you'll draw attention." "What do you want?" Marcus asks in a hushed tone, turning his head a fraction over his shoulder in the direction of your voice.

"I need to ask you something," you begin, your voice cautious. "Is it possible for an... outsider to become a Roman citizen?" Marcus remained silent for a moment, unsure if he'd heard you correctly. Surely you couldn't be planning on abandoning your people. "Why would you-" "I haven't the time to explain. Please just tell me if it's possible for someone like me to begin anew as a subject of Rome!" The urgency in your voice leads Marcus to wonder what could have happened for you to seek out refuge from your enemy. It must be pretty bad for you to take such a drastic action. "Yes, as long as you have committed no crime nor treason against Rome, anyone can be granted citizenship."

In the still of the night Marcus hears you release a sigh of... relief? "In that case, I have a proposition for you," you venture carefully. "Speak..." Marcus encourages you. "I will help you escape and get you back to your army if you promise that you'll take me to Rome with you and make me a Roman citizen." Marcus' immediate reaction is disgust at your disloyalty to your people, but he bit back his scorn; after all, you just might be his only hope. "I will-" he began but you cut him off. "Swear to me!" you demanded. "On my honour, I will take you to Rome, and I will personally and publicly grant you citizenship an all the rights and protection that entails."

You take a deep breath, then exhale, "Okay... In three days there will be a ceremony and celebration in honour of our youngest warriors' coming of age. Almost everyone will attend except for a few watchmen. When the time is right, I will create a distraction and then I'll come for you. This will be our only opportunity. If we fail, we are dead. Do you understand?" "I understand. I will be ready," Marcus assured. "In the meantime you must eat and build up your strength. Until then, General." Marcus listened to the sound of you shuffling away through the trees. He leans his head back against the bars, a glimmer of hope sparking within. Maybe the gods aren't done with me yet.

The next two days pass agonisingly slowly. You tend to your duties while keeping your head down, trying your best to remain inconspicuous to everyone, especially Bardulf, but every now and then you catch his sickening leer boring into you, giving you a look as if to say "It's only a matter of time." If your escape plan fails, it's all over for you. You won't wait for Bardulf to enforce his inhuman punishment on you. You'll escape or die trying. Either way he won't get what he wants and the fact that you'll be the one to ensure that, brings a quiet satisfaction to your anxious mind.

While tending to Marcus' leg you'd also snuck in some extra food to help build his strength during those days, silently mouthing "soon" to him. The night before your escape, your whole body is thrumming with uneasy apprehension. You're not sleeping tonight. You mentally rehash the escape plan over and over, praying you've left nothing to chance. Your bag is packed - and hidden away - with everything you'll need for the journey; water, ointments and balms, bandages and a small stash of fruit and dried meat that you were able to sneak from the mead hall. It's not much but it will have to do.

Dawn breaks while you continue to pace around in your hut, willing your jittery nerves to abate. It's imperative that you maintain a cool facade today. A few moments of deep, slow breathing helps to alleviate the storm brewing in your stomach. You can do this. The whole village is abuzz today, with the excitement of tonight's ceremony. While preparations are under way, you are escorted once again to Marcus' cage, food, water and fresh bandages in tow. The guard is never too far away so you keep your voice as low as you can. "Today's the day," you whisper while dressing Marcus' leg, still to intimidated by him to look him in the eye.

It's not lost on you just how thick and muscular his thigh is; a sobering reminder that this man is dangerous and could easily overpower you once you are both alone and kill you with ease. But at this point you have nothing left to lose. "After the ceremony the celebrations will begin. Once the wine is upon them, I will start a fire..." you glance around quickly, ensuring no one is within earshot. "While they are distracted I will come for you. Be ready." "I will... thank you, Alia." Marcus' unexpected gratitude and soft tone caused you to forget yourself momentarily, your eyes flicking up to be met with a softness you hadn't imagined possible from someone like him.

Instead of the cold, sharp glare he'd granted you at your initial meeting, he now regards you with gratitude and... something you can't really discern. The intensity of the moment makes you heart leap in your chest and you can no longer comfortably hold his gaze, so you lower your eyes. "Don't thank me yet, General," you shook your head. "Marcus," he replies swiftly. "Marcus," you repeat awkwardly after a moment, glancing at his face then away just as quickly. "Make sure to eat." You gesture to the bowl you had set down beside him. "You're going to need your strength." And with that you bag up your supplies and stand by the gate, calling to be let out.

As Marcus watched you walk away he's suddenly overwhwelmed by a whirlwind of conflicting emotions; hope - however small - that he'll live to see his home again, uncertainty that this risky plan of yours will actually work and a gnawing consternation at having to place his fate in the hands of, not just a stranger, but an enemy. As much as he would like to trust you, he knows the only reason you want to help him him is to help yourself. He can't help but wonder, again, what could have happened for theses Gutones to treat one of their own so abhorrently, which also leads him to wonder if you're more dangerous than you seem. He'll have to keep a close eye on you.

It's clear there's a lot going on that he's not aware of... but if it brings him his freedom and a second chance to live, he'll accept your help as desperate times call for desperate measures and even enemies can benefit from aiding one another sometimes, but he'll never be foolish enough to fully trust you. Now all he has to do is wait for the moment to arrive and in the meantime he will pray to Mercury to guide his and your steps and lead you both to the sanctuary of the Castrum (army encampment).

The ceremony went without a hitch - or at least you assume so, as you were never included in social events, unless it was to serve, and that's what you are doing now; serving the increasingly drunk and rowdy young warriors and their families. The evening stretches into night and finally, the time has come. It's now or never. While most of the women and children have returned to their homes and settled in for the night, the men continue their frivolities becoming more and more inebriated. Using the situation to your advantage, you slip away from the mead hall unnoticed, keeping to the shadows as you hurry to your hut to retrieve your bag.

Your heart is thumping in your ears, hands shaking as you exit your hut for the last time. But before you execute the next step of your plan, you have one more stop to make. Adhelms home is thankfully abandoned for the time being, he and his sons still eating and drinking their fill in the mead hall, unaware of your intrusion. On the back wall of his home is a large rack, full of weapons he'd acquired from defeated foes. The smug bastard seemed to pride himself on his "spoils of war" as he'd called them. Among the display was your fathers Seax (dagger) still in it's sheath, taken the night your parents were murdered.

With a pounding heart, you take the Seax from the rack, your fingertips trailing over the intricately carved zig zags running down both sides of the mahogany hilt. Tears build behind your eyes as just the mere touch of this knife brought forth a connection, a closeness with your father that you'd never expected to feel again. You carefully tuck it into the belt around your tunic and with a new determination, leave the chiefs home, grabbing a lit torch from a sconce on the way out.

Marcus waits anxiously for what fells like an eternity, in a constant state of hypervigilance, expecting you to show up at any moment. Every sound in the dark catching his ear sends his adrenaline spiking, but every time it's a false alarm. Frustration and doubt begin to creep in the longer he waits. She's not coming! Had you lost the nerve or been caught? Damn it! You were his only way out. He was a fool to put his faith in you. Marcus growls quietly to himself, careful not to draw he attention of the guard close by. Just when he'd thought all was lost an orange glow lighting up the darkness at the other end of the village caught his eye.

Panicked voices arose through the village as the orange light grew brighter and and the crackle of flames filed the air. The guard keeping watch lingered for a few moments, seemingly unsure of whether or not he should abandon his post, but as the chaos intensified he hurried off, disappearing around the side of a building. Marcus pulled himself to his feet lumberingly, limping to the other side of the cage, eager to see what was happening. His brow scrunched in confusion when thud followed by a pained groan rang out close by. A moment later, you emerged from where the guard had disappeared, keys clinking as you rushed to the cage door. "We have to go now, before he wakes!" you cried as you clumsily fumbled with the keys, trying each one out until the lock finally clicked.

Throwing the cage door open you hurried inside, forgetting all about the initial fear you'd felt in this Romans' presence. The only thing that matters now is escaping. Slinging one of Marcus' arms over your shoulder, you brace yourself to support his weight and the two of you make haste, away from the village and into the surrounding woodland. Scrambling through the inky black forrest with loose rocks and branches and twigs from broken trees and low bushes would be an arduous endeavour at the best of times, but trying to keep your footing whist helping to drag this mountain of a man with you is proving increasingly difficult.

It's obvious by Marcus' grunting and heavy breaths that he's mustering all the strength he has to keep pushing forward. "It's... not far... now. Urrgh... we're... nearly there," your voice shakes under the sheer exertion, your arms and legs burning with every step. "Where are we... going?" Marcus panted, twisting his head in every direction, keeping a ear out for the sound of anyone following. "There's a small... clearing... up ahead. I've got a... horse waiting... for us there." Sweat is trickling down your back now, your lungs aching with every drag of air you take in but you find the will to keep going. Nothing will stop you now... you hope.

A few minutes later you both arrive at the clearing. The full moon is bathing the open area in a soft milky gleam, the limited light enough to guide your way. It's as though the god Mani himself has taken issue with your predicament and had decided to lend you his favour. The horse you had managed to sneak out of the village in the early hours of this morning stands calmly next to the tree you'd tethered her to. A quick glance at your surroundings shows no sign of immediate danger, so you swiftly make your way over to the horse, only slowing down as you draw closer. You're greeted with an agitated whinny as the horse shuffles nervously.

You carefully pull yourself from under Marcus' arm and hold your palm out for the horse to sniff. "Shhh easy, Inga," you sooth while digging an apple from your bag. "Easy, girl. Sorry I left you here for so long." You rub down the center of her face, all the way to her velvety muzzle as she happily munches on the peace offering you'd given her. Once Inga had been placated you turn back to Marcus. "Quick!" you gesture to the horse and crouch down, interlacing you fingers to serve as a sort of step to help him mount. "I can manage," Marcus insisted, knowing you'll never be able to lift him.

Gripping onto the pommel of the crude looking saddle, Marcus took a deep breath, mentally and physically preparing himself for the coming agony of swinging his injured leg over the horses' wide body. With a surge of reserved energy and determination, he lifts his leg, throwing his entire weight along with it, swallowing the painful howl trying to claw it's way up his throat. Unfortunately in his weakened state, Marcus wasn't able to gather the needed momentum and bagan to fall backwards. Before he could fall off the horse completely, you appeared behind him, pushing him up and helping to steady him as he settled on Inga.

You flicked your wrist. "Move back." Marcus raised a questioning eyebrow at your order, remaining where he sat. "I know the direction to my Castrum." "In the dark?" you ask sceptically, surprising yourself with the hint of challenge in your voice. "How do you know the way?" he asked, as if he were afraid you'd get lost. "I overhear everything in Adhelms home," is all you offer. "Very well," Marcus conceded and slid back to sit behind the saddle. He offered his hand to pull you up. You reach out, fingers barely brushing his when all of a sudden a sharp yank of your hair sends a shockwave of pin pricks rippling across your scalp.

Your hands automatically fly up to where the pain radiates. Next thing you know, you are spun around, face to face with an enraged Adhelm. "Treacherous bitch!" he snarled in your face, fury twisting his weathered features into a grotesque appearance. "After everything I've done for you, this is how you repay my kindness, by betraying your people, your home!" "Let me go!" you shrieked, trying to free yourself from Adhelms iron grip. Through the sound of your pulse rushing in your ears you hear Marcus' threatening voice, demanding your release, followed by a distressed groan and thud on the ground.

As you writhe and fight to keep your hair this time, Adhelm continued, "I should have killed you alongside your parents. I knew you couldn't be trusted. It's in your blood, you evil, degenerate cunt! You'll pay dearly for this betrayal!" The air is forced from your lungs as your body is slammed against a nearby tree, the shock of the impact manifesting in sparks of white before your eyes. You only manage a couple of breaths before Adhelms hands crush your throat, cutting of your air intake completely. You scratch, desperately at his rough hands, throat burning and eyes watering; the pressure building behind them leaves you afraid they will burst from their sockets any moment.

A haze begins to settle over your mind, making it difficult to focus on anything around you. The panicked whinny of Inga and the deep growl of Marcus' voice sound muffled and far away. Everything seems to be slipping away, like a feather, floating into the distance on a calm wind. "You have always been more trouble than you're worth," Adhelm continued to rant, the hatred in his voice bringing your focus back to the present. In a final attempt of self preservation, your hand went to your belt, as if it remembered what your terrified brain couldn't; father's knife! What happened next was mostly a blur. Warmth pooled over your hand and Adhelms words were replaced with a gasp and a wide eyed look of disbelief and anger.

His hands slid from your throat and you coughed violently as much needed oxygen rushed into your lungs. When his body hit the ground your eyes travelled to the knife lodged in his chest. Blood continued to pour as his chest stilled and the life in his eyes dimmed until they just became empty, glazed over orbs fixed on the sky. You're frozen! Light headed and you're certain you will throw up any second. Your chest is clamping down on itself, making it near impossible to breathe. You'd just killed a man! Yes, he was cruel and dangerous, but he'd died by your hand. A hand that had never exacted violence against anyone before.

Reality itself seems to have distorted; maybe it's all just a bad dream? You cannot tear your eyes away from the corpse at your feet and at the same time you can't bare to look. You think you hear your name being called over and over, but it's irrelevant. Tears spring to your eyes and begin to roll down your cheeks. At first you barely register the weighted feeling on your shoulders as you are turned around to a demanding and authoritative voice. "Hey, look at me, look at me! You did what you had to do. It's okay," Marcus tried to sound reassuring, but in the moonlight he could see you weren't actually there, a blank teary stare is his only response.

"Get on the horse before someone else comes!" You stagger forward as he pulls you with him and it's then it really hits you. You yank your wrist from his hand and clutch your stomach as a wave of sobs wash over you. "I k-killed him! What have I done?! Oh Gods!" Marcus turns back to face you, gripping both of your upper arms now. "You defended yourself," he asserted forcefully. "There's no wrong or shame in that, you hear me?" But you don't hear him. All you can hear are the echoes of Adhelms laboured gasps just moments ago. You're certain the wretched sounds will haunt you forever.

Marcus can see that his words will not help you right now and precious time is wasting away. Any minute you could be discovered. You continue to cry, lost in your own mind and Marcus curses himself for what he's about to do. "I'm so sorry about this," he mutters, shaking his head, then slaps your cheek - not hard enough to really hurt, but it's enough to shock you back into clarity. The moment he hears the slap is the moment he sees recognition and coherence resurface in you, along with a look of shock and vulnerability. Marcus buries the instant remorse he feels. He can feel bad about it later. Right now you both have to get as far away as possible.

In a no nonsense tone he says, "Get. On. The. Horse. Now... Or this was all in vain." That seemed to have knocked some sense and urgency into you as you nod and rush back to Inga, who's stomping a hoof in frustration. You untie the reins from the tree and Marcus helps you up onto her back. Once seated you extend your arm to pull him up. Between his heavy weight and lack of strength it takes a lot of effort to pull him up. Eventually he settles behind you, wrapping his arms tightly around your waist. With a kick to Ingas ribs, she speeds off into the forrest and the dead of night.

Series Masterlist Chapter 1 Chapter 3

@myownwholewildworld @imherefordeanandbones @picketniffler @h0w-1-wanna-l1v3 @chrissy-forfucksakes-wakeup @meetmeatyourworst @yorksgirl @joeldjarin @echo-ethe @whirlwindrider29

[rockwgooglyeyes]

In and of itself, Nowhere is the prophecy that Ivan has written for himself, one of self destruction. Fitting for one of the most tragic characters in this show, the one whose love was requited but who never let it be anything due to his own stubbornness and blindness. Not only that but the way that he thinks of himself, as a monster who only serves to hurt those who he loves, is something that proves not to be true, necessarily, but it proves to be true through Ivan's twisted worldview as he hurt Sua by making fun of her sacrifice and he hurt Till by kissing him at the worst possible time. This song, Ivan's first solo since Black Sorrow, echoes that in being another self-fulfilling prophecy of Ivan's, another lie that he told himself so many times that he made it come true.

The repetition of musical elements such as the lifting scale of chimes, the swing of the instrumentals, the snare and percussion being pretty much the same every time only adding to the sensation of mounting foreboding up and up, a rising action that continues to rise but never truly reaches a climax, no culmination, no conclusion until death. My friend Zen (@verdantlights) called it eerie, and I agree. The way that the song all comes together, it feels like a tragedy unfolding in front of you, over and over, one that you know will happen and yet you can do nothing to prevent. It's almost like the "tainted history" that Ivan talks of, the repetition of events again and again over time, the way that history seems to be cyclical and we, as humans, never seem to truly learn.

In certain ways, the song is about the way that the perceived reality of the world and the world's actual reality are very, very different things. Considering the line about "a stiff dream dyed in rose-colored hues" that slowly changed to a dream dyed purple, to a dream dyed black, it is the way that when we are children we are able to hope for a better future than the one we think will actually come and how as we age, we are traumatized by the world to the point where we can no longer hope for anything better. Becoming someone who dismisses hope because you've tried hoping before and you only ended up with a kick in the gut and a punch in the face, well, that's a trauma response. We are all slowly traumatized over time into believing that the world can't get better, our rose-colored dreams becoming purple until they finally fade to black, blotted out by the corruption of memory, those times when we dared to dream and we were shot down from out of the sky, our wax wings not even given the chance to melt. We are beaten down by life, over and over again, until we are simply forced to go through the routine that society demands of us and say that we are content (wake up, wake up to the usual routine & wake up, wake up to this beautiful life, is it for real?).

The worst part is that Ivan knows better (a dustlike existence can't open its eyes to look. I close my eyes). The whole reason why Ivan admires Till so much in the first place is his willingness to fight, his hope for a future without slavery for humans, his unadulterated and true love. Ivan knows what hope feels like and he knows that he just can muster it anymore, too exhausted to be anything other than apathetic (the wounds that kept reopening just became numb), but he can still love Till's vivacity and drive for change. Ivan views himself as something dirty, something broken that only serves to break others. He thinks that he's a monster who can only do the people he loves harm, and to a degree, that's true, his belief a self-fulfilling prophecy.

Ultimately though, Ivan is an immensely unreliable narrator, someone so biased against himself and towards literally anyone else but someone who is so stubborn that he is unwilling to believe anyone else's opinions on him because they have never met his "true self" only the mask that he wears that he ends up digging a deeper and deeper hole. He thinks of his story as one that's already written, the repetition of the line "this always happens to me" echoing that, especially with the way that eventually that song ends with it repeated again, "yeah, it's always like that, this always happens to me." Ivan isn't trying to fight it because his dream has long since been stained black, despite the fact that he knows that he could break out of this cycle of despair. He knows this prophecy that he is submitting to is one that he wrote himself and yet, where he stands right now? He has no will to change it.

note: My friend Ish (@chevalperd) screenshotted @/ivantill7089 (on twitter)'s english translation of this song for me, which is what I am referencing for the lyrics! I love you Ish thank you again so much :3

[willowed-wisp]

it was just supposed to be drinks… [ soap | ghost ]

Johnny MacTavish x you, Simon Riley x you

It’s all fun and games hosting a party, but when two of 141 don’t show up and it’s just you, your husband Johnny and Simon Riley… things don’t go as planned.

You didn’t know how he got you to say yes. Could have been the fact his tongue was in between your legs as he asked, or you had blunt force trauma to the head after his long he’d been crashing you against the headboard.

But nevertheless you had agreed to host a drinks and board games night with his squad members (the most he was allowed to tell you). You had social anxiety and are very selfish conscious, why it was your worst nightmare but if he made your broad, rash and rough Scotsman happy- you had an obligation. And you were in the comfort of your own home.

You picked out something pretty to wear- nothing too flashy.

Much to your husband’s disappointment, two members hadn’t been able to make it… so it was just you, Johnny and this guy in a balaclava and a sexy voice.

You and Ghost hit it off immediately, roasting Johnny and speaking about rock music as a conversation topic as you were stuck on how foreboding he looked. Then again, something about him made your body feel electric. Maybe it was the tattoos or the military rank.

The night dragged on, you and your vodka turning into you and your wine. It was like floating on a millpond, giggling- causing your significant other to follow suit. Ending up in his lap, beside Simon. Pecking Johnny on the lips before turning to those dark eyes- a desire raged… “Johnny do I get my free pass now?” He clocked onto what you were thinking- your tongue licking against your bottom lip- teeth scraping at it trying to hide the moan from grinding against his blue jeans. Thinking about those brown eyes staring you down.

Your man nodded, lust dripped from that lopsided grin. “Y’ alright with that, Lt. ?” A finger ran across Simon’s broad chest; his physique aching all over as your leg crossed his lap- before you settled into it.

He sucked in a laboured huff, “I s’ppose so…” There you were, able to feel a growing hardness in Simon’s jeans. Him relishing in the plumpness of your thighs. The warmth of your core- feeling everything because of the lack of a gusset. “Naughty one you’ve got ‘ere, Johnny…” Revealing your ass, garter straps anchoring your stockings over the flesh of your thighs. Finger touching along your folds, “Crotchless…” His fabric gloves left static along your skin, pinging the straps.

A set of tanned hands joining in the grabbing, “Sweetheart, are you okay with all this?” His wide eyes, looking worried about you. When you were the one who crawled into Simon Riley’s lap. The pink of your lips swollen- Johnny giving your lip a graze with his front teeth. All the while Simon ground against your centre, hands all over your body.

Simon was more gentle than you thought he would be, your skin tingled and you left a wet patch on his lap. Your husband behind you- caressing your covered breasts… leaving trails of purple down your neck. Everything about these men was hard, chiselled and rugged. You couldn’t get enough.

Johnny raised the dress above your head, Simon assisting. About to ravage your breasts, “Nuh-uh, the mask comes off, Simon…” Johnny winced at your words, that was his superior.

But all Simon did was chuckle, “Wanna take it off yourself, love?” It was difficult, but you managed. A scar on his lip, passed his nose and uncovering brown hair. A single finger- his index - drew your chin closer towards him before claiming your lips. He didn’t even realise you had unbuckled his belt until your hand palmed his cock under his boxers. Simon was big- not thicker than Johnny but… fuck, you needed it inside of you and you hadn’t even seen it yet.

Pressure on your stomach as robust arms thrust you backwards against that all too familiar chest, a hand at the base of your back- arching you forward, “I’ve got y’ first, sweetheart…” No need to work your underwear down, you heard his zipper. Teasing you with the tip, running it up and down your heat. “You should see how wet she is, Lt.” Your husband mused to the man rubbing the tented fabric between his legs.

“I know, my jeans are soaked…” Simon was like shadows while Johnny was like the Sun… even in the way sex looked on them. Simon’s eyes were hooded and frenzied… like the shivers sprinting down your body.

You should have gotten used to the way he splits you open, but your pussy could never seem to adjust to such a brute inside of it. “Oh my, god…” Eyes rolling back, you were coming there and then. Johnny was lucky he didn’t lose his cool at that.

You saw how Simon’s cock bounced against his clothes stomach, looking you dead in the eyes as he stood up. “Got somethin’ for you to such on, lovie…” But that’s when his pace picked up behind you… fingers a vice at your hips. Flesh on flesh… how red were your thighs? You didn’t care, numb all over- clawing at something. Johnny’s name moaned like a fucking prayer, muffled screams. Mouth vibrating around Simon’s length. “You feel like Heaven. Keep her moaning’, Sergeant,” the military talk making you even wetter and mouth gaped. Mumbling in tongue neither could translate but Simon counted his blessings… it had been so long since he had touched a woman let alone had his cock down their throat.

You tasted the saltiness and felt him twitch, his hands in your hair. Pulling you all the way on it. Releasing with a pop. Though when you looked down, he was still hard as rock. Without a second thought, you swallowed being guided onto his lips before thoughts bubbled. Teeth clashed, Johnny’s hips waved sporadically. “You’re up, Lt.”

“Johnny you didn’t finish- ,”

“We’re only finishin’ the other end,” if you’d known any better they had planned this out before hand… then it hit you.

Unable to sway away from the giants stood beside you, “You both planned this out, didn’t you?” Simon’s gloves came off as you spoke, intent swept his demeanour.

“Lovie…” pulling you against him, Johnny at your front, “You’ve got no idea…”

————

masterlist

[sugurouge]

— call her my obsession : ghostface! ex boyfriend! endo yamato x f!reader

content warnings! DARK CONTENT, mask kink, slight stalking, hunter/prey, possessive topics, lovesick endo, lots of praise, marking, biting, public sex, pet names (doll, good little thing/ thing, darling, bunny, princess, sweetheart, he rambles), dubcon, yandere themes, slight strangling&asphyxiation, hair pulling, remnants of conditioning, toxic relationship, cunnilingus, rough sex, manhandling

summary: endo would do anything to please. even if you have scratched him out of your life months ago, he would never give up on the person he loves that easily. when will you learn that he lives to make you happy? maybe if he brings your wildest fantasies to life, you will let him in again. in the end, he is nothing but hopelessly devoted to you

wordcount: 2.8k | my kinktober masterlist

a/n: this is my piece for the tokyo station ghostface collab! i hope you will enjoy <3

──── ✧*･ﾟ*✭˚･ﾟ✧ ────

by clicking read more you are agreeing to consume dark content. don't interact if you cannot differentiate fiction from reality.

It all began at a silly Halloween party. You showed up dressed provocatively, in a skin-tight black bodysuit and a laughable excuse for cat makeup, topped off with a pair of fake ears. It looked cheap, but in the best way possible, a pair of icy blues noted amused. His brave little bunny hiding in cat clothing.

Throughout the night, you felt his presence, like a chilling gust of wind that had shivers crawl up your spine. Yes, someone was watching you—someone hiding behind a rubber white mask. You saw many of said mask that night, but he stood out. The tight fitting black turtleneck, muscular build, gloved hands. Everything made him look too hot to be at this shabby party. 

He knew you were watching him, lusting after him. You were probably halfway gone the moment he first touched you. Strong hands hovered over your hips as you swayed to the playlist's songs. Despite the booming of the music, your pathetic mewl rang through to his very core. The tremble of your glossy lips told him all about the dirty thoughts that were racing through your pretty mind.

Naughty little thing.

How dare you leave him alone on the dance floor after eyefucking him as much as he did you? You were an open book, playing hard to get like the princess you are as your heels carried you through the crowd. Yet, that longing gaze over your shoulder was all he needed to keep following you. He could almost smell your arousal. The thought of your wet pussy made him salivate, made him miss everything you two once had even more. Sharp canines dig into his bottom lip to keep him grounded. 

He had to focus; he couldn’t lose you now. 

Not when you finally made it outside the abandoned house, moonlight casting you in an ethereal glow, making you look like an angel.

But where are you taking him? Why are you so certain he’ll follow you? 

With only one goal in mind, your feet follow the pathway until you reach the edge of a little forest. You can’t help the curiosity that screams at you to just give all this a try. Those scenes in horror movies that make you unconsciously press your thighs together, make you bite your nails until your old company pointed out your adorable reactions. It was embarrassing back then, realising that such twisted scenes turn you on, and even more so, the wish to be chased for once. You never expected this to actually happen. 

So this is all your own fault. Because of your stupid social media and movie obsession. What kind of idiot would actually want to play catch in the woods with fucking Ghostface? With a stranger of all things. Your ancestors would be so disappointed. 

The forest looms ahead, dark and foreboding, each shadow seeming to stretch out, eager to swallow you whole. Your breath quickens, heart pounding in your chest as you venture deeper. The moonlight barely pierces the dense canopy above, casting eerie patterns on the forest floor.

It all seemed like child’s play, until actual fear settles in your bones. Until your heels make your escape harder, getting stuck in the dirt or caught on roots again and again. The game has turned dangerous, as adrenaline surges through you. The echo of your pursuer's footsteps grow louder, closer.

He teases you with the cracking of branches beneath his heavy footwear, he must have an easy time stalking behind. “Sweetheart, where are you bringing me?” His raspy voice rings through the trees, as clear as if he were to stand right behind you—looming above your smaller frame like a starved wolf. Your mind races, torn between the intoxicating excitement and the creeping terror as a whimper seems like your pathetic answer to his question. You have fantasised about this moment, but reality is far more intense. The fear is real, and so is the man chasing you. “I thought you wanted to play with me as much as I wanna play with you, bunny~” 

How dare you try to get away from him?

Maniacal laughter echoes through the woods as Endo watches you stumble through the dark, refusing to speak with him, you seem unable to think. Are you really that scared? "Stop trying to run from me," he warns, impatience starting to lace his voice. "You were such a good little thing, got me all riled up. Now let me catch my reward."

The forest seems to close in around you, shadows dancing and whispering secrets as you desperately search for a way forward. But the footsteps of your pursuer only grow louder, the sound of leaves crunching underfoot mixing with your staggered breaths. Endo revels in the chase, the joy of witnessing your fear, and the promise of what comes next.

"I want the woods to hear your pretty moans, all for me," he nearly moans the words as he tears off the Ghostface mask to see better. His crazy blue eyes lock onto you, the moonlight illuminating his face, twisted with a mix of lust and madness all for you to see. 

You stumble upon the initial scare, heart pounding wildly in your chest. How? Why? Out of all the people in the world. “No backsies~” Endo warns, as you lose sight of him in the trees. Anyone, anyone but him. You hide behind a tree, eyes heavy from the tears you were fighting back now spilling free. The forest, once a place of curiosity for your dark fantasies, feels like a trap. And Endo is closing in on you. 

It’s an eerie atmosphere as silence holds your body still like a ghostly embrace. You are too scared to speak, move, or look. You should really be on the lookout for your surroundings, but your eyes remain tightly shut, tears seemingly unending as they ruin your makeup and taint your cheeks.

The stillness is unbearable.

Until Endo reaches you. His strong frame overwhelms you in an instant. Somewhere along the way he rid himself of the constricting sweater, freeing his heated skin to let his signature tattoos greet you. The sudden proximity of his body wraps a blanket of intense, nearly unbearable heat, around you. It battles the stark contrast of the chill that clings to your body. His hand grasps into your hair recklessly, yanking you back until you have no choice but to stumble into his broad chest. The tattoos that snake along his arms are suddenly around your neck, his fingers pressing into the delicate skin to successfully constrict your breath.

Endo hums cheerfully, much unlike the given situation, his sugary voice vibrates against your ear as he whispers, "Found ya!" The sweetness of his words contradicts sharply with the crude actions that follow as he presses you against a tree, his teeth bruise your shoulder before he nibbles along your neck.

His canines break your skin with ease as his nails dig into your hips, to perfectly hold you in place. You feel your body break beneath his strength, effortlessly being handled like Endo's favourite toy when he arches you into the tree, your ass out for his cock to rut against while he abuses your skin, littering it with love bites. "Fuck me, you smell so good, pretty thing," he murmurs while shamelessly inhaling your scent, just as sweet as he remembers. “I’ve missed you so much, you can’t imagine…”

Deep, raspy moans of your name and filthy mumbles are a haunting symphony of his deep love. 

He can no longer contain his excitement. The need to have you, to feel you, to taste you again reigns over him. Endo's large hands run along your outer thighs before moving to the insides to let his fingertips tease your overly sensitive skin. Greedily, he cups your pussy in his palm, his fingers brushing against your clit through the fabric. Oh, he loves how much you leak because of him. He has no other choice but to rub in just how much your body reacts to him. 

You fulfil Endo. The pathetic cry that escapes your lips? Heavenly. The plea of his name? Delicious. And the nimble fingers trying to push against his strong hand? "Fuck, you’re so cute," Endo whispers in a most lovesick way possible.

But enough playing around. Enough hiding from him. Endo focuses back onto the task ahead, onto the flimsy bodysuit you’re wearing. Which is, by the way, so easy to tear, to conquer what he needs, just like that: His fingertips dig into the fabric between your thighs and the harsh ripping sounds have you jolt awake, have you pull away from his grasp like a spoiled brat—he hates brats.

"Stop putting up a fight," he murmurs, "You asked for this." The sharp sting in your scalp is a brutal reminder of your place as Endo yanks your hair once more, pulling you back into his grasp. Your head rests on his shoulder, his crazed gaze locking onto your widened eyes, fear evident in your pretty pupils. Two fingers pump deeply into your cunt, scissoring your walls to prepare you for his own twisted desires. "Look at you, clinging to my fingers like a cockhungry little monster," he chuckles, relishing in his own words and your ashamed reaction as you struggle to maintain eye contact. 

"Why don’t your pretty lips beg for me as well?" he whispers into your ear before his teeth graze your earlobe, sending shivers down your spine. "Beg for me to fuck you out in the open. Beg for me, come on, pretty girl, I need you to tell me how desperate you are for me right this fucking moment." His eyes widen with excitement, a manic grin spreading across his face, making him appear almost unhinged—yet, to you, insanely hot? 

His maniacal love brings back memories you repressed. No matter how sick his affliction was, it filled you like nothing else. And now that he’s back, Endo will make sure he never messes that up again.

This is all you wanted, isn’t it? The hunt, the chase, the inevitable claim of the prize. You nod quickly, lips pressed tightly together before they part again, though you can’t stop grinding against him like an animal in heat. "Please, fuck me, take me, I’m all yours, you won, I really, really wanna—" Your pleas are cut off by a high-pitched moan as he thrusts a third finger into you. Your eyes roll back from the intense stimulation, but a sharp spank to your arse drags you back to reality.

"Didn’t say it was enough—go on," Endo urges, his eyes searching your face, desperate for praise. "Can’t think of anything but getting fucked by you tonight. Please, please, please, I need you!" Of course you do. And he needs you just as badly. He knows you so well, knows exactly how to make your sharp tongue forget how to form words, how to make you chant his name like a prayer. The sounds falling from your lips fuel his madness, his eyes frantically searching yours for every scrap of affection you can offer him in this obscene display.

Your back meets the rough bark of a tree as Endo lifts your legs effortlessly, placing them on his shoulders as he kneels before you like a man devoting himself to his goddess. You barely have time to catch your breath before his mouth is on your pussy, his head buried between your thighs as he laps at your folds with fervour. His tongue, hot and insistent, drags along your puffy lips before pushing against your throbbing flesh, circling your clit with maddening precision. His groans vibrate through your body, and you clench your thighs around his head, your fingers tangling in his hair and tugging violently at the roots—just the way he loves it. He savours the shivers running down his spine, the tightening in his gut, the aching weight in his trousers.

"Fuck, you’re driving me insane, doll," he moans into your pussy, his teeth grazing your clit until you jerk, too sensitive yet craving more. You could never get enough of him. Why did you even bother breaking up with him?

"‘M so close, can’t take more, Ya-Yamato~" You gasp, but he won’t let you falter now. You can take more—just a little more of his love. The pain you cause by pulling his hair only spurs him on, driving him further into his frenzy. Until you’re trembling against him, your legs shaking around his head under the relentless patterns of his tongue circling your clit. Your increased volume drives Endo to the brink of madness.

"God, bunny, you taste so fucking good," he mutters into your folds, the vibrations of his words adding to the overwhelming pleasure. Your moans are like music to him, a symphony he could listen to endlessly. His fingers slide back into you, curling to reach that perfect, gummy spot inside while he devours your slick like a man starved. He pushes you harder against the tree, his free hand roaming your thighs, tearing your bodysuit further apart for easy access to everything he craves.

This is his reward, his obsession—his twisted love made flesh. And you, trembling and whimpering under his touch, are exactly where you belong.

You’re rutting against his face, pulling him deeper into your pussy, thighs squeezing around him, muffling his groans as your moans echo through the dead forest. Just as the crest of your release approaches, he suddenly pulls away, and your feet land on the ground. His palm meets your puffy cunt with a sharp, stinging slap, pushing you over the edge with a burst of pain. You tumble into his strong chest, fully engulfed in Endo, surrounded and protected by him as you come undone in the palm of his hand.

"Good little thing, playing so well with me tonight," he murmurs, his voice a mix of praise and possessiveness. "You deserve to be fucked until your legs give out, leaving a trail for all the perverts to lick up on your way home." He inhales your scent deeply, arms holding you steady as you teeter on the edge of consciousness. You’re halfway gone, lost in the aftermath of your release, so it’s no surprise you don’t register the sound of his zip being undone.

Endo manoeuvres you like his personal plaything, turning you around with a practised ease. A flat hand between your shoulder blades pushes you forward, but he doesn’t let you fall. He’ll always hold his princess up. His biceps flex as he snakes an arm around your waist, positioning you perfectly to slide his needy cock inside you. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, drowning himself in your scent as he thrusts deeply, each push driving you forward in his embrace. Your body jerks with the impact, on the verge of giving out.

"You wanted this," he reminds you, his breath staggered, drawing out each word as he battles his own exhaustion. "You know I’ll make any of your wishes come true, no matter how fucked up." Another harsh thrust nearly drives you into the tree, but Endo pulls you back, refusing to let you drift too far from him. He will always hold you as close as possible. "I’d do anything for you," he rambles, his voice thick with devotion. His brows furrow in concentration as he leans back, his eyes raking over your subdued form.

His hands grip your upper arms, his thighs spreading you open as his hips bounce against the soft flesh of your arse. He’s so close—so fucking close. Mumbled adorations spill from his lips, "My perfect girl," and hushed "I love you"s pouring into your fucked-out mind. He doesn’t mind your muted responses; not when your walls clamp around his cock with every word of praise. His beloved is tired, after all. "Gonna cum inside ya, fuck, I’m so close," he groans, his breath ragged, moans raspy. The heat of his breath and the drops of sweat the only sensations grounding you while he fucks you with growing desperation.

Endo's movements slow down for him to only grind into you once his neediness makes a return. "Let me hear it again, pretty thing, tell me." His voice is a desperate pant, needing your words to anchor him. Perfectly conditioned, you remember what makes him fall apart in the palm of your hand. No matter the bile biting your throat upon the messy memories you hold for him, you give him what he needs. "I-I love you, Yamato, I love you, can you cum for me, please?" you pant, your voice trembling.

His eyes roll back, a near-maniacal grin spreading across his face as his head falls back to gaze at the bright moonlight above. "Don’t have to ask me twice, doll," he promises, and with a final thrust, he finally lets go, freeing himself from the pent-up need that consumed him.

dividers by @/cafekitsune

[dokries]

you need some soup!

pairing: lee seokmin (dokyeom) x gender neutral reader

genre: fluff, established relationship

word count: 1.5k

warnings: sick fic™, mentions of medicine, food and you know…being sick (having a fever/being tired), a kiss on the cheek, minghao is a saviour pharmacist, seokmin is loud

author note: basically, i want a seokmin. this is so funny because i wrote this before i became kind of sick…did i predict the future again…anyway, i hope you enjoy my rambling turned fic ♡

masterlist

seokmin wishes he got to know you earlier. he tells you this often actually, almost to the point where you’re tired of hearing it—you could never be sick of seokmin though; that would be near impossible. 

however, you can literally be sick, which is exactly what your warm forehead and cold hands are telling you. you would ask your boyfriend to bring you home some medicine but seokmin’s at rehearsals for his upcoming musical, and you don’t want to burden him—he had been stressing about his voice the other day, and you know how hard it is for him in general. you’re not planning to add onto his already heavy load, considering that you’re seokmin’s comfort movie, as he affectionately likes to call you. he always talks about how he could watch you all day, and—yeah, you need to get up for some medicine and stop dwelling on the love of your life, no matter how fun it may be. 

you check the bathroom cabinet despite knowing that what you're looking for isn’t there. you sigh before rubbing the heels of your hands in your eyes, mentally preparing yourself to make the much needed trip to the local pharmacy. 

after a painstaking walk that feels much longer than three minutes, you enter the cool air conditioned building. you wave at minghao, making your way to the front counter. 

“hey, minghao,” you say, taking shallow breaths to calm yourself after your short walk—yikes, something’s definitely wrong—and minghao notices.

he frowns at your demeanour, calling your name softly. “are you alright…? do you need me to call seokmin?” minghao asks hesitantly, already pulling out some medicine from underneath the desk to place in front of you.

“no!” he raises an eyebrow at your immediate refusal before you continue, looking down at the options he lays out for you to take. “i…you know how stressed he’s been with the opening show coming up, right? i don’t want to worry him more.” 

minghao sighs, moving his hand slowly to your forehead to check your temperature, so you don’t get startled. he pulls back after a second, adjusting his glasses and wincing. “you definitely have a fever, though it’s not too bad…yet. i would recommend taking this one.” he pushes one bottle closer to you than the others, concern in his eyes. 

“tell seok—” he corrects himself with an eye roll at your glare, “call our number if you need anything, okay? i can deliver it to you if needed. make sure to rest, okay?” he gives you a pointed look, ringing up the bottle for you after you nod, and lets you pay before handing you a paper bag with your purchase inside. you smile wearily at minghao, giving him a wave as you leave, making your way back home. 

once the medicine goes down your throat, you flop down onto the bed. you check your phone for any messages from your boyfriend, and can’t help but smile slightly at what he sent earlier.

seokmine 🌻 ❙

SWEETIE IM SO SORRY

the staff said i probably have to stay longer so i can get my clothes fitted again :((

i’ll try to get home as soon as i can though 🫡

see you soon my love ♡

you ❙

take your time minnie <3

i hope your rehearsals went well though! i’ll be waiting at home for a full recap >:D

you groan, your phone suddenly too much to look at. yeah, maybe you should do as minghao says—he does have a degree after all. you place your phone on the nightstand beside you before closing your eyes. 

seokmin’s panicking in the dressing room, his eyes more focused on the foreboding text from his pharmacist friend than the tailor trying to get his measurements. 

first of all, the fact that he has to be notified of your health from minghao offends him. do you not trust him to be there when you’re sick? he shakes that thought off, as well as the tailor that had (sadly) been assigned to him, who sighs. seokmin apologizes frantically to them, before letting out a breath. he hasn’t been able to police you about taking care of yourself recently because of how busy his schedule’s become but he didn’t expect you to get sick. what would you do without him? …okay, seokmin knows you would do a lot without him but still. he wants to do everything he can for you, even if you can do it yourself. 

he texts you, his hands working as fast as they can, and frowns when you don’t respond right away like you usually do.  

seokmine 🌻 ❙

honey you alright??

hao texted me saying you’re sick ☹️

i’ll be home in a few i promise

honey?

seokmin’s tailor notices the worried expression on his face, and gestures for him to just leave; they could always take measurements some other day. as soon as they finish talking, seokmin’s face lights up and he bolts. he’s gone before his fellow cast members can wish him a good day, and he calls you as soon as he turns his car on. when you don’t pick up, he bites his lip and his leg shakes up and down quickly.

did you take the medicine minghao promised he gave you? are you not picking up because you’re asleep? are you collapsed on the bathroom floor, weeping about how if your minnie was there with you, you would be fine and actually able to walk to—okay, that was probably a bit much. however, seokmin can’t help but think of the worst possible scenario as he waits impatiently for the car in front of him to move so he can make that final turn into your neighbourhood. 

he unlocks the door as fast as he can, and as soon as he walks in, he finds it too quiet for his liking. he hurriedly takes off his shoes and throws his bag onto the couch in the living room before checking the bathroom to see if he was right in thinking you’re in there. seokmin lets out a breath when he doesn’t see you, thankful his overactive imagination isn’t reality.

he peers into the bedroom at first, and as soon as he sees your sleeping figure, he just about sobs, pulling the door open dramatically—he is a musical actor after all. “MY LOVE! I THOUGHT YOU FAINTED OR WERE CRYING OR—” your boyfriend yells, falling onto the bed and cutting himself off as he presses his face into your outstretched arm.

you rub your eyes sleepily with your other hand, slowly registering that it isn’t a dream, and your boyfriend really is grabbing onto you, about to sob. you cover your mouth and yawn before placing a kiss on his forehead with a smile. “i’m fine, minnie!” 

seokmin looks up at you with a pout as he checks your temperature with a peck on your cheek. you giggle at the gentle motion as he leans back to look at you once more, his voice whiny as he calls your name. “your face is so hot! you’re definitely not fine.” 

you roll your eyes before pushing him away softly, not wanting him to get sick too. seokmin glares at you jokingly before getting up with a sigh, realizing that he can’t risk getting sick, even if he wants to cuddle with you all day. 

his shoulders drop before he sighs again. dear god, someone would think he’s the one who’s got a fever. you push yourself up to a sitting position, and seokmin’s immediately by your side, fixing the pillows so you’re comfortable. you give him a look, and he backs away to the other side of the room. 

“since i can’t cuddle you like i want to, i’m going to make some soup! you look like you need some anyway.” seokmin smiles softy as he backs away toward the door, blowing you a kiss because he can’t actually give you one. 

you grin before blowing one back, and he smiles before frowning in frustration. “oh, i wanna kiss your sweet face so bad, this isn’t fair!” he groans as he walks back to the kitchen. all you do is giggle before grabbing your phone from where you kept it before.

you ❙

minghao i love you

thank you for sending min my way ♡

haohao 🤞 ❙

???

oh right

you’re welcome

tbh seokmin would’ve been really upset if i hadn’t

you ❙

HAHA yeah…

minghao i’ll be a loyal customer until the very end !!

you are my one and only pharmacist for life !!

minghao for president 🫡

haohao 🤞 ❙

…okay? thanks for the support i guess

you two are so in love with each other aren’t you

[zorosdimples]

obey me brothers x reader⌇ tw: yandere elements, pseudocest, dubcon/noncon (it isn’t clear), tiny mention of monsterfucking. reader is initially gn but forced into a female role.

You’re mysteriously whisked away to the Devildom and forced to live with the seven avatars of sin; however, you aren’t there under the guise of an exchange student program, and you certainly aren’t enrolled in classes at RAD. Instead, you take up the role of the brothers’ departed and beloved sibling: Lilith.

Through Diavolo, Lucifer discovered that you are one of Lilith’s descendants. To appease his twisted desire for a “complete” family, he convinced the demon price to allow you to take up permanent residence in the House of Lamentation. And though none of the brothers actually share flesh and blood—nor you with them—they insist that they feel a kinship with you.

Lilith’s perfectly preserved bedroom is yours. They call you by her name and throw away all of your possessions so that you have to dress as she once did. In a home full of demons, you look like an angel, her pearly robes the only bright spot amidst the foreboding interior, the gauzy garments much too revealing for your taste. But you look just like her, Asmo croons. Beel licks your cheek (you taste just like her, too).

But perhaps even stranger than the brothers forcing you to fill the role of their dead sister—forcing you to walk like her and talk like her and act like her—is your mandated “bonding time” with the brothers.

Every day, they each get an entire hour with you to do whatever it is that they please. It often goes like this: Lucifer chats with you in his study over coffee and classical music; Mammon shops with you online or turns on a movie; Levi ropes you into two player games; Satan reads books to you; Asmo gives you makeovers; Beel drags you either to the kitchen or to the home gym; Belphie naps in your lap as you tell him bedtime stories.

But things look different when the brothers are feeling pent up. And for some reason—biological or calculated you have no idea—their sexual frustration always seems to always coincide. Then, you have seven hours of uninterrupted “playtime,” the duration of which you’ve never remained fully conscious.

Because each demon intends to use his entire allotted hour down to the millisecond, pushing your delicate human body to the limit. Whether it’s on a tongue that resembles a tentacle, clawlike fingers, or a cock bigger than your forearm, you will come so many times that all you can remember—all you can dream of—is how they call you...

Lilith. Sweet, sweet Lilith.

[lizzaneia-elizalde]

Yandere! Stereotypical! Emo x Stereotypical! Popular bitch! Reader

Okay, so this is a songfic... NSFW at it's most, a lime at it's least.

Not the songfic that has lyrics on them, but fics that are heavily inspired by songs. And this time, it's Emo Boy by Ayesha Erotica.

I'm not that knowledgable with Emos to be fair... I'm only doing it in a way where the fic reads like a stereotypical late 90's and early 20's teen flick! I think. I hope.

Also, the bitch here means someone who sleeps around quite a lot, and not the mean type. Just wanna put that out there.

So, I do apologize if I offended someone ಥ‿ಥ

Like any song fic, I recommend listening to Emo Boy while reading.

Yandere! Emo name: Ashton

TW: stereotypical Emo, stereotypical popular bitch

Ashton always had a fascination with the Emo lifestyle. He loved the music associated with it, especially the people indulging in the lifestyle. He loved how emotional and in tune they are with their emotions and is not afraid to show who they are.

When the got the opportunity to study senior high school in a small yet lively town, he knew he had to grab it.

And when he finally got out of the grasps of his conservative family, he felt free.

No more people calling him demon worshipper, finally (although, now that he thinks about it, aren't the goths the one being called demon worshippers?)

So with black skinny jeans, long, dark black hair that covered his eyes, rings, piercings, chains, sneakers, and a graphic tee shirt, he knew he was ready.

But what he didn't expect was being ostracized by being Emo.

But then, don't people like him always get bullied?

With a grumble while sitting on his chair, all alone, he gripped his pen while in the middle of writing a poem.

"Nobody understands me." Ashton muttered, his dark eyes a stormy grey.

This school he's in is filled with stereotypes, he just realized. Mean Jocks and Cheerleaders, two faced popular bitches, pushover nerds, slobbery otakus, social outcasts... He wonders if his life is a real life teen flick.

So rather than dive into the complicated social hierarchy, he just sits in his seat, reading and listening to MCR and P!ATD just like a true stereotype.

His life filled with such deep melancholy as he trudged in this hormone filled prison that he calls a school.

Hmm. He should write that in his journal.

But then he woke up in his bedroom, his hair having a cowlick he can't put down.

Okay... That's weird.

Then, when he tried to tease and straighten his hair, it won't budge, forcing him to let it stay wavy/curly and covet his eyes just like that.

Then, his favorite graphic tee was eaten by rats...

And his sneakers were accidentally bleached...

Then, as if the day was mocking him, it was really sunny and hot, smiling and cooking him in his dark ensemble.

"What the fuck..."

He suddenly felt a foreboding dread inside of him.

When he got in the school and sat down at his seat at the back, he heard whispers of a new person transferring to this school.

The talk of the town, y/n, was now being speculated which clique they will belong in.

And when they rolled in a pink rover, the school crowd knew they're going to be in the popular rich kids.

Immediately, you integrated into the clique like it was a natural thing to do.

With your quite the revealing clothes, your bimbo/himbo like personality, and your knack for bedding people if you wanted, you got into the social hierarchy just like that. Labeled as the slut, you paraded around the school with that title with your newfound friends.

Trendy, social, quite the airhead, yet charming in your own right, and such a seductive figure too. Nobody can resist your charms.

Not even Ashton.

He tried to fight back the attraction he had with you, and your fashionable pink fit, and fluttery eyelashes.

But he can't.

The hierarchy said no, and his brain also says no.

Yet his heart sings yes.

And he always follows his feelings and his heart.

It was small efforts at first. Poems, love letters filled with such romantic words.

All slipped in your locker, in a cute pink envelop and a sweet sampaguita smell on it.

You knew who it was from, and you loved it.

"Are you really interested in that Emo boy in the HUMSS department?" One of your friends asked, sipping on a disguised flask of alcohol.

You and your friends are in the rooftop, hanging out and skipping classes. Gossip flies out of your mouths and recent "relationships."

"Yeah I am. He's cute and funny... And him being soooo in touch with his emotions is soooo hot." You said, a typical valley accent on your tone.

You twirled your hair and bit your lip, a hot feeling in your body.

You really don't know why you're so attracted to him.

"I just really want to see and feel how good in bed he is." You nonchalantly added, fanning yourself a bit.

Your other friends grimaced a bit.

"... Really? But he's so..."

"Dark."

"Weird."

"And so complicated with his words."

"He's also always alone and listens to those sad emo bands."

You huffed and cocked your hips to the side.

"Hey! He's emotional and deep!" You rolled your eyes. "Besides, I just want to fuck him. I mean, I haven't been with an emo boy."

You thought back to how Ashton walks away from you in those tightest skinny jeans, his ass round and his legs toned.

You wondered really as to why you're so... Desperate to fuck him. Because most of the time, other people are the ones who want to fuck you.

Frustration welled up inside you as you groaned.

"Yeah I truly wonder why myself." You grumbled.

You grabbed the letter from your back pocket, reading Ashton's poem for you.

I burn for you. Your lips so tantalizing, So pillowy and so sacred. It's something I, so lowly am I, Cannot dream of locking with mine. I do not need to know if you're the devil, Tantalizing as you are, Or the deity you claim to be in my dreams, Bringing retribution to my dark and dreary life. Your body so tempting, I want to embrace and bury myself within you. I want to claim and mark you as my own, My bleeding heart corrupting your alluring self. But I know I can't. So I only look at you with starry eyes, As you shine the most beautiful in a pedestal that I molded in your visage.

You understood the poem a bit, and it irritated you.

"What do you mean you'll not pursue me?!" You yelled, gripping the letter. "I can't believe he'll confess like this and not... Go for me?!"

Your friends chuckled and read the poem and was surprised to see how whimsical this confession of lusty attraction is.

"Wow... Okay, I give you my blessing to bed him." One of your friends said and you rolled your eyes and snatching the poem away from him.

"I know. And I'm trying." You spat out. "I need a stress reliever. Let's go shopping."

What you didn't know is that Ashton is listening to your confession, and is fighting the urge to take you then and there.

He smirked and tried to calm his fast beating heart as he slowly unbuckled his pants, lust filling him as he continued to replay your confession of wanting to fuck him.

Maybe next poem will be an invitation to his house.

The sound of bed creaking filled the dark room, along with the pants and moans of two people indulging in the desire of flesh.

"Hmm fuck... Ashton..."

"Y/n you're so tight..."

You moaned as Ashton continued to thrust inside of you, his throat audibly clearing as sweat trickled down his throat.

Your eyes trailed down his body, loving the feeling of being under this man.

The hot and damp air encased the two of you, giving a secure and secret paradise, away from the prying eyes.

"Harder Ashton!" Your raspy voice demanded, gripping his arm as he pushed your thighs to the sides of your torso, bending your back as he went deeper, faster, and harder.

"God you make me feral..." Ashton groaned out, feeling your walls squeeze around him stubbornly, not wanting to let go as he pushed you into a mating press in an animalistic need to bury himself deep within you.

The bed creaked violently, accompanying the orchestra of your moans and groans as you both desperately reached your high, and when he spilled inside of you, you knew that you wanted more.

So you kissed him on the lips deeply, interlocking your tongue with his as you both worked into getting into it again.

Yet, as Ashton smirked and gripped your thigh once more, ready to go, a stray perfume bottle rolled under the bed from the movement, a label on the bottle printed "love potion" on it.

A sweet smell of sampaguita permeating as a drop fell on the floor, glowing.

So if you don't get it, Ashton sprays the love potion on the poems he gives you, making you irrationally desperate for him as he is for you xx.

[marvelfanfn2187a113]

All the Difference

Sam and Dean Winchester & little sister!reader

Requested by Anonymous and Anonymous (I combined to similar requests)

Synopsis: The brothers help you through one of your frequent migraines.

Warnings: migraines, pain, honestly it’s mostly fluff. I’m no expert on migraines but I had a few in high school so I’m going off that experience, there could be some mistakes.

You went to the library of the bunker with a familiar sense of foreboding. It had started with your vision, as it always did. An annoying little spot at the corner of your eyes that was oddly blurry. It continued like that for nearly half an hour, and after that was when the pain started.

“Hey, how’d you sleep?” Sam greeted as you entered the library. His jovial tone dropped when he saw the look on your face. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

“It’s happening again,” you mumbled, coming to stand in front of your brother.

“Does it hurt yet?” He asked gently, reaching out and grabbing your hands.

“Only a little,” you sighed. But it would get worse, it always did.

“Do you want to try and sleep?” Sam asked, his thumbs brushing over the back of your hands.

You shook your head.

“You wanna eat something?”

Another shake.

“Hey guys,” Dean greeted much too loudly, and Sam frowned when he saw you flinch.

“Easy man,” he chided. “She’s got a migraine.”

“Sorry,” Dean all but whispered. “How bad is it?”

“I think it’s gonna be a bad one,” you said gloomily. Bad migraines could last for days; you were in for a rough week.

“Alright, c’mon,” Dean said, grabbing his jacket.

“What?” You frowned up at him.

“No use just sitting around waiting for it to get worse. Let’s go for a drive.”

…

Dean reclined your seat before stepping back to let you get in. You did without argument, and Dean ran around the front to his own seat. The roar of the engine should’ve made you flinch, but despite how loud it was there was something comforting about the familiar sound.

Dean turned on the radio, but to your surprise it wasn’t his head-banging Metallica; instead he had one of your favorite songs, turned down low enough that it didn’t bother you.

Neither of you spoke as Dean pulled away from the bunker and started down the open road. You didn’t have to. He was humming softly to your songs, and you were relaxing in the passenger seat, lulled by Baby’s gentle purr and the soft music. Your migraine was steadily getting worse, and every bump on the road had you cringing, but all-in-all it was better than sitting in the artificial light of the bunker, moping and waiting for it to get worse.

Eventually, though, the bumps became unbearable, and so did the sunlight creeping over the hood of the Impala and reflecting past your eyes and straight into your head, like it was shining onto your migraine itself.

“Dean?” You mumbled finally, and he hummed in acknowledgement. “Can we go back now?”

“You ok?” He asked even as he swung the Impala into a U-turn.

“Hurts.” You brought your hands up to cover your eyes, but it didn’t help.

“Ok it’s ok, we’re not far, just hang in there.”

Dean lowered the volume on the radio even more, and you could tell he was taking extra care to miss the potholes lining the road. He pulled out his phone and made a call.

“Hey, Sammy? Yeah we’re headed back now. Blackout.”

“Blackout” meant that Sam would turn off all the lights in the bunker, except for some candles or dim lights to see by. You always told your brothers that they didn’t have to do it; you could always just hibernate in your room. But they wanted the whole bunker migraine-friendly whenever you were in pain, so they did it anyway.

“You doin’ ok over there?” Dean asked after he hung up. You nodded, unwilling to speak as your head pounded.

“Ok, well I want you to drink some water when we get back to the bunker. I know that won’t make it go away, but it can’t hurt either.”

You knew arguing would be futile, and you didn’t have the energy to do it anyway.

When you got back to the bunker, you waved you hand blindly for the car door, hesitant to open your eyes. You didn’t have to; your door opened up without your aid, and Dean was there, lifting you into his arms.

“It’s my head that’s broken, not my legs,” you protested even as you relaxed against your brother’s shoulder.

“Shut up,” Dean replied, and the rumble of his voice in his chest felt oddly good against your aching forehead. “I’m gonna take you to the couch, ok?”

Your head hurt too much for words or even a nod, so you just let silence be your assent.

Dean carried you into the bunker and straight to the couch, and you had to admit that it was nice without the glaring lights on.

Dean had you on the couch with your favorite fluffy blanket over you in record time, and a few minutes later he had you surrounded by water bottles as though they were guards protecting you.

“I’ve gotta head to the library and catch up on some lore,” he said finally. “So it’s Sam’s turn to play nursemaid for a while.”

“You don’t have to—“ you started, but Dean was already gone, and within minutes Sam arrived to take his place, a steaming bowl in his hands.

“I know you don’t want food,” he said before you could speak. “But you should probably get something in you, so I brought you some broth. Think you can handle that?”

You nodded wearily, hesitant to sit up. You were getting hungry, but the last thing you wanted was to give your stomach something to reject later.

“Alright.”

You groaned as Sam put a hand behind your back and lifted you to sit up.

“Yeah yeah,” he said, not sounding quite as pitying anymore. “You gotta sit up to eat.”

This brought a tiny smile to the corner of your lips, but it dropped fast as your head pounded in retribution for your movements. At your wince, Sam frowned.

“Sorry, honey,” he said softly.

“Not your fault,” you mumbled, making grabby hands for the bowl in his hands.

Once you had about half the bowl finished, you offered it back to Sam and he took it, satisfied enough.

He set it on the side table before coming to sit next to you on the couch.

“I was gonna lay there,” you protested.

“I know,” Sam said, lifting his giant hand up to pull your head down. Cradling the back of your head, he lowered you slowly to lay down, your head resting in his lap. Your eyes fluttered closed as your big brother ran his fingers feather-light through your hair.

After a few minutes, his hands left your hair, and you peaked one eye open to see him straining for a book on the bookshelf. He reached it and pulled it back, and you closed your eyes again as Sam cracked it open, before continuing to brush his fingers through your hair.

He started to read aloud, his voice loud enough so you didn’t have to strain but quiet enough that it felt soothing.

You appreciated this more than just about anything; screens were a definite no during migraines, and there were very few things that you could do to keep yourself from going insane with boredom when your head hurt too much to sleep.

That was how the whole afternoon was spent; at some point you and maybe even Sam dozed off before continuing, but for the most part he spent his whole afternoon reading to you.

After a dinner of some more reheated broth, Dean emerged from the library and came to sit with you and Sam.

“Hey sweetheart,” Dean greeted. “How we doing?”

“We have a migraine,” you mumbled sarcastically.

“Oh really?” Dean quipped as he lifted your legs, sitting on the couch and then lowering your legs back down and into his lap.

“Not funny,” you huffed even as you made yourself comfortable.

The three of you lapsed into a comfortable silence for the rest of the night. Neither of the brothers went to their beds, and they didn’t offer to bring you to yours either; they knew that you wanted to be with them when you were hurting. You were certain that you could live through a million more migraines as long as you had your big brothers.

Sam taking time out of his busy life to relax with you and distract you from the pain for a bit was the best thing he could do for you. The same was true with Dean taking you out in Baby.

Though nothing they did could take away your pain, they did everything they could to make sure you could still have good times between the pain, and that made all the difference in the world.

Taglist:

@nyotamalfoy @mrvlxgrl @chocorade @aestheticdaisies @inlovewhithafairytale

[oliversrarebooks]

The Rare Bookseller Part 49: Alexander's Task

Prev > Masterlist > Next

tw: mind control, hypnotic induction, branding, possessiveness, drunkenness

September 1925

The walk home from the ballet had been somber, to say the least. Oliver had started off the night so excited, and he knew Alexander had, too, anticipating a lovely night out. But now Oliver was terrified, and his master was simmering in fury in a way that Oliver hadn't seen from him before.

"Not at you, Oliver," he said when pressed. "I'm not angry with you. You followed my instructions; you couldn't have done any better. No, it's my sire I'm furious at."

Oliver nodded and swallowed the lump in his throat. "Is he actually going to drink from me, sir?"

Unsurprisingly, this made Alexander's fury deepen. He took a long time before answering. "My hands are tied. Certain arrangements have to be made."

"What does that mean, sir?"

"...Leave me. I'm in no state to -- we'll discuss it next evening."

And Oliver had no choice but to comply with his master's wishes, as the waves that usually drew him closer to Alexander were now pushing him away. 

Alexander stormed off to his quarters the moment they arrived at home, and Oliver didn't dare follow. Instead, he did his best to comfort himself with a mug of warm milk and a supper of buttered bread. Afterwards, he retired to his own chambers early, curled up in his soft warm bed but unable to rest, flipping listlessly through books, unable to focus on any words and looking only at the illustration plates.

It was as if he could still feel the ancient vampire's unnatural grip on his body. He didn't want that vampire to visit, and despite all of his conditioning, he certainly didn't want him drinking his blood.

His blood was his master's alone -- and that thought certainly was the conditioning, stronger in his mind than any of his own convictions.

It was well past morning when he finally sank into a restless sleep, tossing and turning and waking up halfway from nightmares. By the time he fully awoke, it was already evening again, his room dark and foreboding, reminding him of his fears. Alexander's sire was arriving tomorrow evening. 

He had to talk to his master. He had to know what to do, how to behave, to avoid being harmed. But when Oliver emerged from his room, flickering gas lamp in hand, his master was nowhere to be found. Oliver checked every corner of the library, the music room, the parlor, a dozen disorienting spare rooms filled with more books and storage crates and bits of random furniture. Either Alexander had left the manor or he was still confined to his room. 

Even Oliver's need wasn't enough to overcome his fear of knocking on the door. One of the few rules of the manor was that Alexander's room was off-limits without permission, and the last thing he wanted was for his master to be angry at him when he so desperately needed his protection. All he could really do was wait, and worry, and take a long hot bath in the hopes that it would ease his worries, and inevitably end up worrying in the hot bath.

If only he didn't have to worry about any of this! If only he could simply be Alexander's thrall, spending his days in the library and providing his master with blood. He was meant to be loyal to Alexander, the perfect thrall, wasn't he? When he closed his eyes and imagined, he could almost hear the song calling to him.

His master needed his help, and Oliver wanted so badly to be helpful.

He toweled off from the shower, making sure to apply lotion to his face and neck, just as they'd done in the auction house. Back in his bedroom, he rifled through the wardrobe to look for something suitable, finally settling on a tasteful red frock. After all, if he couldn't solve his master's problems, he could at least try to cheer him up.

Suitably dressed, he had emerged from his bedroom and was gathering up the courage to go knock on Alexander's bedroom door when he heard a commotion in the foyer and rushed to see.

"Ugh, just drag me to the library and leave me to die," said Alexander, precariously wrapped around Miss Lily, who was dragging him into the manor with a long-suffering look on her face.

"I'll take you to the library, but I'm not going to leave you until you've done what you need to do," she said.

"Screw that. Screw all of it. Screw my goddamn sire and his goddamn rules. Sick and tired of him touching my thralls." It was obvious now that his master was drunk, as he grasped onto Miss Lily for dear life. "He was touching Oliver, my Oliver. He's gonna drink from my Oliver. Put his goddamn fangs in my thrall!"

Oliver's heart clenched at the way his master was talking about him. It was strange, to be wanted, to be possessed, but not at all unwelcome. It gave a strange sort of pleasure to Oliver that his master didn't want anyone else to drink from him.

"Welcome home, sir," said Oliver, emerging into the foyer, doing his best to look like a proper thrall. "Is there... um. Is there anything I can help with...?"

"Oh, now, isn't that just precious," Miss Lily cooed, while Alexander looked as though he were about to pass out.

"Look at him, Lily," he said with a tone of pleading. "He's so loyal, so goddamned perfect. I don't want to hurt him. How can I..."

Oliver's eyes widened. "How can you what, sir?"

"Don't you worry about it, dear," Miss Lily cooed at him, and Oliver could feel his mind soften. "Don't you worry about a thing. Why don't you go make yourself comfortable in the library? Your master will be joining you shortly after I give him a little pep talk."

"Yes, sir," he said. The calm he had managed to carve out for himself had evaporated. What was his master going to do? Was he simply referring to allowing his sire to feed on Oliver? He fussed with his dress -- a garment he still wasn't at all used to -- as he settled onto a couch and waited.

Perhaps ten minutes passed before Miss Lily arrived, carrying an old white tin. She was followed by Alexander, who looked forlorn as he sat down next to Oliver on the couch. Oliver could smell the alcohol on him, and his master wobbled slightly as he regarded Oliver.

"Can't you do it?" he said to Miss Lily in a tone that was nearly a whine.

"You know you have to be the one to do it."

"He won't know."

"He will and you know it."

"I helped you with Miriam."

"And I'll help you with Oliver, but you still need to be the one to do it."

"Do what, sirs?" said Oliver with growing fear. "What are you going to do?"

"You trust your master, don't you?" Miss Lily had settled in on the other side of him, and brushed back his hair to speak in his ear. "You want to be a good and obedient thrall for him, don't you, dear?"

"I trust my master," said Oliver automatically, Miss Lily's voice and her choice of words sinking him into a helpless daze. "I want to be obedient..."

His master leaned over and began to hum in his other ear, a song which washed over his mind and soothed away his fears. "You're my loyal and obedient thrall, aren't you? And you trust me." 

"Yes, Master. Completely loyal and obedient."

"You love being obedient," Miss Lily coaxed. "Obedience is pleasure. You wish to serve."

With Miss Lily's voice and Alexander's song hypnotizing him so thoroughly, he almost felt like he was back in the soft leather chair in the auction house, his sleeping mind open and pliable and oh so very obedient. "I wish to serve," he said. "I -- I just want to help you, Master. I want to be your loyal and obedient thrall."

Alexander's hum was pleased, making Oliver feel so relaxed and so good. "And so you are, Oliver. You're just perfect. I couldn't be more delighted with you."

"Thank you, Master," said Oliver, floating in the bliss of praise.

"You're just so... you're too perfect. That's why I can't bear the thought of my sire drinking from you." His master was leaning his head on Oliver's shoulder.

"I understand, sir. My blood should only be for you."

"Only for me, yes, that's right," said Alexander fiercely. "Only for me."

"But you must obey Alexander's sire as well," said Miss Lily in his other ear. A tone of warning, but Oliver wasn't sure it was for him.

"...Yes," said Alexander after a long hesitation. "You must obey him, and allow him to drink your blood, even if... Just for now, Oliver, just for now. You can do that for me, can't you? You can obey him, because you are loyal to me."

"Yes, sir, I can obey."

"Obedience is pleasure," whispered Miss Lily. "You only desire to serve."

"I only desire to serve, sir."

"Lex, you need to --"

"I know," said Alexander, and his song changed subtly. Instead of inducing obedience, Oliver felt his mind being shifted, further entranced, his thoughts becoming foggy and far away. It was like falling asleep with his eyes wide open. "You're safe, Oliver. You're safe with me."

"Safe... Master..." he slurred, his head growing heavy and coming to rest on his master's shoulder. 

Alexander was rubbing his back gently. "I need to do something now. It's important, and unavoidable. You are going to lose awareness as it happens, and when you wake, you will feel no pain."

"What..." He wanted to ask, but his mind was slipping under the waves of his master's song, the song that was now urging him into sleep.

"Shut your eyes, Oliver," said Miss Lily. "Become unaware of everything around you except for our voices. You won't feel a thing."

"Nothing but our voices and a deep, dreamless sleep," said Alexander. "Rest, now, Oliver. You're so obedient, so loyal, so good. You can rest. You can be still, so very still, as you sink into a place where you will feel no pain."

Oliver's vision blurred as his eyes began to close, leaning back against the couch as his master ran his hand through his hair. He was surrounded by song - obey, relax, go to sleep, feel no pain - and everything else was fading away until he was floating, floating in the deepest abyss of the ocean, where there was nothing but darkness and the rush of cool water and his Master's beautiful siren song.

He could obey. He could give himself over to his Master, body, mind, and soul. It was the easiest thing in the world.

Oliver wasn't sure how long he floated there in contented bliss. Time had lost all meaning, all of his senses dulled and drowsy. Finally, as if a hand was reaching down from the surface of the water, his Master spoke once more. "You can wake now, Oliver. You'll feel no pain and no distress as you wake."

His eyes opened, and he was back in the library, still feeling strangely disconnected from his body. His Master looked grim, but surely it wasn't because of him. He was a good thrall, and he had obeyed. 

His shoulders felt cool, and it took him a moment to realize that his dress was gone, neatly folded up and sitting on a nearby table. His chest was bared, and there was a bandage just below his collarbone. His head fogged again, and he felt numb, almost as if he weren't allowed to perceive all of this.

"Don't worry about that, Oliver," said Alexander, grasping his chin and drawing his gaze up. "You were just perfect."

"Thank you, sir." 

Alexander collapsed onto the couch beside him, as though he'd been through some great ordeal. "There, Lily, it's done. Now can you leave me to die a second time?"

Oliver couldn't help but reach out to him. "Sir, if there's anything I can do... any way I can serve you..."

"You've done everything you were supposed to do," said Miss Lily. "And no one's leaving you to die, Lex. You need to sleep it off. Oliver, you can put him to bed, can't you, dear?"

"Put him to bed, sir?"

"Yes, as you do each night, no doubt."

Oliver looked at Miss Lily, alarmed. "I'm -- I'm not allowed in the bedroom without permission, sir --"

Miss Lily raised an eyebrow. "Really, Lex?"

"I don't need a thrall warming my bed. Hot water bottles and steam heat suffice," said Alexander with a groan. "And I didn't want to get attached."

"...And how is that working out for you?"

Alexander groaned again. "My head is killing me, Lil, spare me the lecture."

"You're hopeless, you know that?" said Miss Lily. "Come on, Oliver. I'll hoist him up and you accompany me. Your master needs your help."

"Of course, sir, right away."

Miss Lily picked up Alexander as though it were nothing, carrying him up the stairs and into the bedroom with Oliver following at her heels. She expertly navigated the cluttered floor in the dark, freezing cold room even as Oliver tripped over discarded laundry. She pulled his shoes off and tossed them aside, pushing Alexander onto the bed and draping the messy covers over him, as he curled up like a sleeping child.

"Go on now, Oliver."

"Me, sir? What should I do?"

"Vampires are cold all the time, in case you haven't noticed. He needs to sleep, and your warmth will help him rest."

Oliver's throat tightened with the thought of crawling into his master's bed, and he couldn't tell if it was fear or anticipation. He looked to Alexander for confirmation of what Miss Lily had said. "Sir... you want me to..."

"God damn it, Lily," he swore. "Just for tonight, yes." A low hum emanated from the mound at the center of the bed, one which drew Oliver near. He felt himself stepping forward, climbing onto the bed, and in a flash, he was sucked under the covers and surrounded by the strong arms of a cold vampire. "You're so warm. It's been ages since I've had a thrall in my bed." He yawned into Oliver's ear as his arms tightened.

"I knew that'd help," said Lily smugly. "Well, I'll be taking my leave. Good luck with our sire." She walked out, shutting the door.

Oliver, meanwhile, stared out into the gloom, his heart thumping. The bed was soft and smelled of floral soap and winter winds, and his master was gripping him so tightly it was almost uncomfortable. "Will this help you sleep, sir?"

"Hmph?"

"Um, will this help you sleep, sir?"

His deep voice was groggy, sounding half-asleep already. "'m never warm. Hard to stay awake when it's so warm." He sighed. "You're a good thrall. I hope you know that."

"Thank you, sir," he said, feeling warm himself from the praise.

"Almost the best thrall."

"...Almost, sir?"

"You should go to sleep, too."

"I can try, sir."

His master's voice hummed a sweet lullaby into his ear, and Oliver was immediately hypnotized once more. The fact that his master sounded so drowsy as he sang only made Oliver succumb to its spell faster. He was so tired, so sleepy, and his master was pleased with him too, inviting him to rest...

He was helping his master, finally. It was so nice to be here.

"You're mine, Oliver," said the voice in his ear. "My thrall, my perfect thrall."

"Yours, sir," Oliver agreed as he drifted off.

Prev > Masterlist > Next

Next time, Alexander takes matters into his own hands.

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[melvisik]

Ok, we all know the Metatron needed Aziraphale and Crowley separated. It's a scene that’s launched a thousand metas and speculations like the Coffee Theory and Aziraphale Lied. So now, here's a slew of what are undoubtedly reiterations: There’s the distinct impression that Mr. ‘To-speak-to-me-is-to-speak-to-the-Almighty’ Metatron has gotten a little too big for his britches. Various reasons could account for this - maybe he thinks it's impossible for him to do wrong because he’s literally on the side of the angels. Or he’s been doing this so long hearing radio silence, he’s gotten into the mindset that the Almighty has somehow chosen to disappear, like that sense of all-importance when your boss has been gone for an infinitely long time and you’re left calling the shots. There’s also a tiny probability that Metatron has ‘vaulting ambition’… In any case, the Metatron is not shy about pushing the agenda, using anything from bribery to authoritarianism to accomplish it. He’s downright dismissive of Michael, Uriel, and Saraqael and condescending towards Muriel, people he knows he’s already got well under his thumb. With Aziraphale however, he changes tactics- bringing him coffee, the illusion of a hefty promotion, and throwing in Crowley’s reinstatement as the clincher. There’s been so many beautiful posts and analyses illustrating Metatron’s deviousness, describing his actions as exceedingly exploitive. There’s a high probability that he manipulates Aziraphale not out of the belief he'll be an asset, but the fact that Aziraphale and Crowley together is a liability. The music over that dark side-eye carries a foreboding implication:

The Metatron does not care for Crowley.

Many proposals have been offered as to why this is, such as the theory that it was the Metatron who cast Crowley from Heaven for asking too many questions. Or perhaps the Metatron doesn’t necessarily see Crowley as a singular threat, but his influence on Aziraphale is another matter? Or it might be their influence on each other that his heckles raised. We've all seen it - where Crowley was ready to bolt when his mistake was caught and Armageddon seemed inevitable, Aziraphale remained steadfast in his determination to stop the War. But when Aziraphale gets it into his head that following a cause blindly is the best thing to do, Crowley snaps him out of it. They accomplish their goals together. Looking back over it, the predominant thing Aziraphale and Crowley did to help stop Armageddon was give Adam the pep talk he needed to defeat Satan. Before then, the Metatron believed he had just another good little angel in Aziraphale, a featherbrained minion who did as he was told. But then Aziraphale was gradually tempted by a demon, not necessarily into doing wrong, but into disobedience. Perhaps that is what Crowley represents to the Metatron, and the Metatron needs to be rid of it. The mix up was an honest mistake, Arthur Young being at the right/wrong place at the right/wrong time. But, of course, who was the other party involved in that mistake? Who first got it into his head that Armageddon should be stopped? Who held time to give our heroes a moment of reprieve for that pep talk? What if all the angels suddenly decided they didn’t want to obey anymore, like Aziraphale did? What if they follow his example? What if they don’t want to fight? The Metatron's got to nip that rotten apple in the bud…

Heavens, we can't have that now, can we? "The point is not to avoid the war, the point is to win it." Well, that old chestnut didn't exactly work on Aziraphale, did it? The Metatron can’t order Aziraphale about anymore as if Aziraphale were a diligent foot-soldier. Both Aziraphale and Crowley have indeed gone native, adopting the most human thing of all: free will. Now, from a rudimentary understanding, neither angels nor demons can technically force a being with free will into doing anything. But they can persuade them one way or the other. Metatron knows this, and by god, he is good at it. Dozens of posts explain just exactly how he does this reaching right into Aziraphale's heart and fears. And in true angelic fashion, never does he even bother to acknowledge that Aziraphale " ...[doesn't] want to go to Heaven," or advise Aziraphale to consider what Crowley would want when presented with the opportunity to restore his ‘divinity.’ It's almost a parallel with Sitis - does she want to give birth seven more times? It doesn’t matter. “God” wants Job to be rewarded for loyalty, and Sitis was a conduit for that reward.

Another parallel between the story of Job and Aziraphale is an upstanding individual who staunchly wants to follow the Almighty's path, but he has a companion who’s more on the independent-thinking side - when something they care about is threatened, they acknowledge Heaven’s cruel treatment. The distinction here, however, is Job had the chance to speak to the Almighty themselves, not just the ‘mouthpiece,' and he had a decent pair of guardians looking out for him. Crowley and Aziraphale did the right thing by him and his family in keeping the children safe, while the other angels (and most definitely the Metatron) were content to let them die. It’s like neither angels nor demons (barring two… well, four now) have any concept of emotional connection. But the Metatron does understand connection, and for him it's a magnificent tool. He deliberately uses it against that once good little foot-soldier who’s gone AWOL. Not once does he try and convince Aziraphale that he’s strayed, but he maneuvers him into thinking that he and Crowley going back to Heaven is his own choice. Aziraphale likes doing the righteous thing, actually having an impressive work ethic when it's something he believes in, and what could be better than working as top boss in the Head Office of the Good Place? Aziraphale might see himself not only being the source of 'doing good,' but the one who can do the best thing there is and make changes for the better in Heaven itself. As discussed many times, the Heaven Aziraphale thinks he could create is the epitome of goodness, and, most of all, it can be a safe space for Crowley and him to be together. Aziraphale already assumes that this is what Crowley would want, and that Crowley’s retains ‘unhappiness’ as a Fallen due to no longer being an angel. The Metatron knows otherwise; not one person in the fandom believes he didn’t already know the outcome- that Crowley would say no. Again, there are so many brilliant posts highlighting why the Metatron had no intention of Crowley becoming an angel again. There’s the question if he even can. In fact, can the Metatron or any angel decide if an angel will Fall or a demon…er, Rise? That might present an alternative reason as to why Gabriel was demoted instead slated to Fall, because Metatron technically doesn’t have that kind of authority. In any case, it’s a ‘bluff’ that Aziraphale falls for hook, line, and sinker, and this time not even Crowley is able to convince him to stay. Now Aziraphale is driven by a cause he believes in, and perhaps he assumes that once he can prove to Crowley that he can change things in Heaven for the better, Crowley just might change his mind. By the same token, Crowley also might be holding onto that little shred of hope that Aziraphale will eventually come to his senses. It isn’t the first time the Head Offices have had them separated after all, and for all we know it’s not like it’s suddenly forbidden for them to talk to each other (though it probably won't be encouraged either). The Metatron, however, perhaps intends for the very opposite – to have Heaven change Aziraphale, which can only be possible without Crowley. Not that Aziraphale matters to the Metatron in the Great Scheme of Things (beyond his stubbornness being a force of nature), but at least he won't be fighting against the so-called Great Plan.

Then there’s the theories on the Metatron's motivations for this - for example, he could be concerned with how powerful Aziraphale and Crowley are together. And whether or not this popular theory proves to be true (though it carries a ton of weight), he can’t risk an interfering tag team preventing Armageddon again anyway; the Second Coming is approaching, and the Metatron is trying to be ahead of the curve this time. Gabe and Beez? Probably aren’t his top concern since they just want to run away from it all, not exactly the most active threat to the Great Plan. In fact, maybe the Metatron took into consideration the small chance that Aziraphale might just take Crowley up on the suggestion of going off together (prompted by the Archangel job offer in the first place), and the problem would be solved regardless.   It's also likely that the Metaron expects Aziraphale can be pressured or swayed back on board. With Aziraphale implementing that kind of determination on the side of Heaven again, maybe this time Crowley will retaliate or even abandon Earth altogether out of anger or heartbreak. Either way, the Great Plan will go forward. It's a win-win in the Metatron's mind. Game. Set. Match.

Edited for clarification.