#Darkest chap yet-

[starry-dream-moonlight]

:D tis the banner for the rp blog :>

#mod aliza rambles #Just eh pfp and the name #And i’ll rewatch chap 1 & 2 since i just finished chap 3 and hoooo #Darkest chap yet-

[into-the-very-fires-of-mordor]

Do you think…

That in private, in the deep dark recesses of their bedroom, the night before he sailed away for war, he took her face in his hands and smoothed away the tears, his cool palms soothing her hot cheeks, her anguished eyes meeting his longing ones. Do you think he kissed her forehead with his soft yet slightly chapped lips, bringing his lips to her ears and softly whispering that if he didn’t return, he wouldn’t blame her. He truly wouldn’t. Telemachus would need a father after all. This was a thought that could not be said except in the darkest recesses of night. After all, the queen had to keep the throne safe for the king, everyone knew this. But Odysseus knew what the lonely nights would be like, and he ached for the same fate to befall his Penelope. The dearest person to him, the deepest he’s ever loved, the joy of his life. All these applied to his son too, of course. But in a different way. 

Do you think she jerked away from him then, shock and betrayal flashing through her eyes a moment until, coming back an instant later she took his head in her hands, her slender arms wrapping around her husband as she nuzzled deeply into his face and neck. Do you think her husband’s voice broke as he repeated this sentiment to the fierce shaking of his wife’s head as she emphatically retorted “no nO NO! Never, Odysseus, NEVER. You are ᾰ̓γᾰπητός. Most beloved.” And do you think that that’s when Penelope feels Odysseus let himself go, when he starts trembling and shaking and surrendering to the feeling of total wrongness and terror and despair at this entire situation. That Agamemnon’s delegation of men slept soundly downstairs, waiting to rip him away from his life for the next however many years of war there would be? And do you think then that Odysseus and Penelope clung to each other then, in the darkest recesses of the night, their desires and minds and hearts all tangled up together as one as they felt the fullness of each other’s love for the last time in twenty years?

And do you think that, twenty years later, far greyer and far more aged, that they sprang into that very same bed again, together, rejoicing and worshipping in the revelation of their reunion. Clinging to each other with the same longing as before, now tinged with the disbelieving ecstasy of one whose life had been over but now had just begun. Do you think that their lovemaking lasted long into the night and far into the morning? And do you think that more importantly than that they learned each other’s hearts and minds again while learning each other’s new bodies again with the same glee and abandon that they’d had when they were young and carefree. 

Do you think every kiss after their reunion was as full of surprise and hope as their first had been, behind the great tree that they had eventually formed into their bed. Do you think that, blushing and stammering as children, they were shy with one another at first, until, as in the beginning, one of them cracked a joke or said a line that just set them off laughing…and then it was all as it had been before. 

Do you think that they loved one another through it all?

Yes. 

Yes, I really think they did. 

#odypen #penelope #odysseus #odysseus x penelope #the odyssey #homer #true love #lovers

[shotmrmiller]

tw: mentions of simon's torture and SA so heed my warning plz

this is unfinished idk which way to take it, either a weird redemption or just keep him mean so here you go

I like to think that instead of Simon taking off his mask as a show of trust, it's his gloves.

He hates physical contact.

Back during his torture, Simon would have both eyes swollen shut more often than not, completely robbing him of his sight.

He'd bitten through his tongue through the worst of it, leaving him with a constant metallic taste of blood in his dry mouth.

There was never a moment of silence for him either. An insistent ringing in his ears, loud like a stirred-up hornet's nest. Buzzing in the canal, stinging in his ear drums.

Yet the one sense that only nothing could ever stop, unless unconscious, was touch. Simon couldn't stop feeling. Chapped, thin lips over his own. A grubby hand fisting his hair, pulling so hard he'd feel the pop of strands coming off of his scalp. The piercing pain of his broken nose, burning on his split lip; the crippling, blinding agony of the cold, metal hook in between his lower ribs. Delicate fingers leaving a searing trail across his bruised flesh, down to his—

Simon Riley does not like touch nor be touched. He covers himself from head to toe to avoid skin-to-skin contact— the gloves never come off. He grits his teeth when Johnny hits his shoulder, clenches his jaw painfully when Price taps his arm.

The only sensation he doesn't mind is the blood that soaks the fabric of his gloves when he digs his blade into an unsuspecting neck.

But that didn't mean his needs had faded from existence. Much to his disappointment, Simon was still of flesh and blood. He still felt a stirring in his loins whenever he laid eyes on a piece of fuckable meat. It's all he saw them as; just a hole for him to use.

He didn't get much of a chance to satiate the thirst, however, because of the one restriction Simon had.

Hands to yourself.

From the ones he'd chosen to take to a no-tell motel, only a handful had stayed. Not that it bothered him any, they had always thought themselves special enough for him to change his mind.

"Rules are rules, sweets. Take it or fuckin' leave."

And then he meets you at some dingy bar. You'd flitted your way over to him, like a moth to a flame.

If only you knew that he was an all-consuming fire; he'd burn you to ashes.

You'd been quick in agreeing to let him fuck you, too. His gloved hand grabbed your elbow in a tight grip, harshly dragging you into the men's bathroom. "Only one rule. Don't touch me. You keep your hands on anythin' else other than me. I take what ya give me, and in turn, you'll take what I give ya."

With your hands tightly gripping the edge of the porcelain sink, he'd taken you from behind viciously. Hungrily. Deliciously. He'd then left you in the bathroom with your number and his cum dried on the cleft of your arse.

It was like this for months. Always dropping by your house for a visit when the night was darkest.

"Hands on the headboard." His covered hands would rest right next to yours on it as he filled you up with his heavy cock.

"Hold your legs open f'me." The rough material of his gloves on the underside of your thighs never failed to bleed a little pain into your heady pleasure.

And then he'd started pulling the balaclava he wore up to rest right above his lips and settle his head between your quivering thighs. Ghost would drag his smart tongue through your folds and flick your slippery clit.

You'd ripped a hole into the bedsheets to keep from digging your nails into the thick muscle of his shoulders when you climaxed.

You also never brought it up after. He ate pussy like a man starved- all lips and tongue, occasionally a nip or two. This proverbial horse's teeth would never see the light of day.

Over a period of time, Ghost started staying a little longer after the hookups, and began to show up a tad earlier than the usual witching hour.

now this is where we choose the ending

is it a, he grabs your hands and chooses where you can touch? he stays in control the entire time because that's what he needs. control. a choice.

he'll blindfold you so you don't see him, only feel. feel the stubble on his strong jaw, the contours of his waist, his hips; feel how rough his bare hands are on your own smooth skin.

or

do you eventually question why he doesn't let you touch him? he'll snap his teeth at you like a rabid dog? you're not privy to his back story. he'll aggressive shrug his shirt back on and jerkily pull his pants up. doesn't even tie his bootlaces, just walks out your front door. you don't hear from him again.

it hurts, honestly. you'd only asked a simple question and he didn't even give you a chance to apologize.

[pomegranate-red]

After the Lights Go Out

Leon Kennedy x Reader

Warnings: hurt/no comfort, angst, reader is dead, depression, alcoholism, male masturbation, and suicide. Maybe Dead Dove: Do Not Eat.

A/N: If you’re struggling with your mental health, please reach out for professional health. Remember it is always darkest before dawn. MIDNI

Title from After the Lights Go Out by The Walker Brothers.

Leon was surprised he could even get hard anymore, with all the cheap alcohol he’s put in his body, not only should he be impotent, but also blind. Yet life always had new ways of surprising him. God he hated surprises, he didn’t always hate them but he did now that you were gone.

All he thinks of is of those moments when you’d surprise him coming home from a mission, you were just as corny as him. Red rose petals making a path towards the bed in which he rots now, some candles with a tasteful scent that he loved, he tried buying them when you were gone at first, but the scent makes him gag now. He finds his hand palming the annoyingly painful erection that throbs in his boxers. He disgusts himself.

She won’t say it, but he knows it, Claire is tired of his bullshit. She tried at first, god knows she tried, but a part of him died when you were gone, the part that prompted him to get out of bed every morning, wash his teeth, the part that helped him enjoy the few pleasures he could enjoy in life thanks to his line of work, he doesn't even shower now. You took that with you. He remembers the last time he saw you, god you were so beautiful, and just the thought of you makes his cock jump, he groans, he doesn’t know what he’s feeling, but… does he ever? He tries not to think of those last moments and of your smile.

He thinks of the times you’d have sex on the telephone, which was more often than he’d like, hearing you moan and whimper, probably the squelches of your cunt as your fingers digged as deep as they could, desperately pressing into your own g-spot, trying to replicate the pleasure he used to give you. To him every form of intimacy with you was heaven, your body his temple and your pussy his altar, he could’ve worshipped you for hours on end, and he’d never get tired of the taste, your moans, or the way you’d pull at his hair and beg for him to stop, out of overstimulation. “Come on baby, you can give me one more, can’t you?”

He’s not sure how, or when but he’s crying, it had been a few weeks since the las time he could cry, another surprise. He is full of self hatred, he thinks he always was, except this time it is painful just how much disgust he can feel towards himself. You would have been sad if you saw him, now he’s ashamed too, fantastic. But what was he to do? You were his sanity, you were his whole world, and you took all his light with you, all his dreams. He wanted to have a family, highly unlikely, since you both worked putting your lifes in danger for a government that pretended too give a fuck. Ah, the mere thought makes his tip drip precum and he groans at the thought of his wife all pregnant, round and swollen with his seed, he was getting desperate.

He whines, as he squeezes the base of his aching cock, he can’t help it, the image of your tits bouncing on his face comes to his mind and your name falls from his chapped lips in the same way his tears roll down his face, he doesn’t really notice when but he’s stroking. He thinks of the moans that would slip from your lips into his own and how he greedily looked for more, rutting into his fist the way he would rut into your pussy desperately, except his fist doesn’t suck him in the way your walls did. His balls contract and with a pathetic, strangled moan (or was it a sob?) he spills all over his abdomen and fist all the seed he should’ve shot inside you. He doesn’t even wipe himself, filthy as he is, he curls up on his bed, hugging your pillow, which no longer smelled like you, more like a mix of stale tears, cum, sweat and his own body odour, all traces of you gone. He throws it, he could rip his hair out. His phone rings, Chris, bless him, probably checking up on him, Leon ignores it, he curls up and cries.

He doesn’t know how many hours go by, but it looks late. He gets up and eyes your gun on your nightstand, he sighs and goes down to the kitchen, and fixes himself another drink, the whiskey’s cheap, and it burns. It’s not that he can’t afford any better, he just doesn’t drink to enjoy it, he downs the cheap whiskey and grimaces a little, the landline’s ringing, but again he ignores it. He thinks back to that one mission two months ago. He had a bad feeling, that maybe you shouldn’t have gone, and he told you, but you were headstrong, stubborn, and so you went anyway “it’s just an extraction” you’d said, yeah right. Things were going amazingly, almost no B.O.Ws, the few you did find, were dispatched swiftly. He loved how quick you were to put them out of their misery, “they were people once too, they deserve it…” you’d tell him often, you were a compassionate soul, he never would understand what a person like you was doing being an agent. You were almost done, you almost had him, but the terrorist had a shotgun and that shot was for Leon, if you hadn’t pushed him out the way, he would’ve died, but instead he just watched your head burst open, your brains covering his face. It was as if a switch flipped in his mind, and when he came to, his fists were bloody and a picasso would’ve looked more like a normal face than the man’s face, he must have smashed every bone in his face. But no amount of vengeance would bring you back, he had some of the remains of your brain in his hair and face.

He wants to puke, so he does, he throws up all over himself, he looks at his shirt, stained with cum and puke, and sighs. He downs another drink and then another, he goes back to his room, your room, 45 missed calls, Claire and Chris, but Leon can’t bring himself to care at all. He goes up to your nightstand and grabs your gun, it’s cold and heavy, he eyes it, you would keep it in pristine conditions, now it is dusty, he places the barrel in his mouth, he closes his eyes, he somehow likes imagining it is you who threatens him. He loves you so damn much he wouldn’t even try to persuade you, he’d close his eyes and let you decide if his brains stayed in or out.

He takes the gun out of his mouth and sits on the bed, his back to the headboard, his phone rings again and in an impulse he shoots it. He sits there in silence after the loud shot, and sighs, what the fucking hell, he cocks the gun again and places it in his mouth again, going as deep as he can without gagging, had he been in another situation he’d make a joke, but you’d taken his humour with you. In those moments he wonders if he’d go to heaven with you, because there’s no way you’d be anywhere else, his angel. He wonders if he deserves heaven, and he knows he doesn’t, but maybe god would let him be with you.

Those are the last thoughts going through his head before he pulls the trigger, leaving a mess on the wall for Chris and Claire to find the next day.

#leon kennedy #leon kennedy x reader #resident evil #fanfic #resident evil vendetta #smut #angst #no happy ending

[shebunie]

𝐁𝐚𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐁𝐥𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐬

𝗠𝗶𝘇𝘂 𝘅 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝗶𝗻𝗷𝘂𝗿𝗲𝗱 𝗺𝗶𝘇𝘂, 𝗰𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗿 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗲𝘆𝗲𝘀 𝗗: 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 𝟮.𝟭𝗸 𝐀/𝐍: 𝗜 𝘄𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗮 𝗺𝗮𝗸𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗮 𝘀𝗲𝗿𝗶𝗲𝘀

"I pray for the day you’d finally choose someone else to treat you. "

The man's eyes lingered on you for a while, he let out a sigh and took a seat on a rock by the river’s shore facing you. A grunt came out of his pale lips from the sting of his wound, breath wavering "Shouldn’t you be doing the opposite? You would go out of business without me." 

You stood there, contemplating. Whether to help this man or not, he seemed capable enough but the wound seemed to look like it needed stitches. Without a word, you neared the swordsman with careful steps. Pulling out your handkerchief from your kimono, dipping it in the warm waters of the lake, squeezing out excess water as you kneeled beside him.

"May I?" head tilting up to look at him to which you noticed more details about the samurais' appearance. An angular yet soft face, straight brows, and heart-shaped lips. The swordsman hummed turning his head away from you and his wounded shoulder. Slender yet calloused fingers grasped the hem of his yukata and slid it off of one side.

The air around you felt heavy with unspoken words, and as you worked on his injury, you couldn't help but wonder about the man in front of you. How did he end up like this? What battles had he fought, and what demons was he running from? But those questions lingered in the back of your mind, overshadowed by the more immediate task at hand.

“We’ve been crossing paths quite too coincidently, and I must ask, where you are headed?”

Silently grimacing at the sight. With hesitation, you carefully tried to dab the cloth around the wound. The swordsman flinched instantly and went to constrict your frail hand from disinfecting the gash, the other squeezing the side of your hip in an attempt to push you back "Aghh!" he seethed, licking his chapped lips, glaring at you.

"I'm sorry that was not meant to hurt."

You pulled your hand away, maintaining a composed expression despite the sharp pain in your hand. His grip loosened on your hip, and you resumed cleaning the wound, this time with even more caution. The tension in the air lingered as you worked, the only sound being the soft lapping of the river against the rocks.

"Your apology doesn't mend my wound," he muttered through gritted teeth. "But I appreciate the effort."

You continued your task, skillfully cleaning the wound and examining it closely. The gash was deep, and stitches were indeed necessary. You glanced at the swordsman who had been observing the entire scene with a mixture of curiosity and concern.

Their gaze remained fixed on the horizon, his eyes clouded with a distant intensity. "I'm headed to fill a vow," he finally replied, his voice carrying a weight that mirrored the burdens etched into his features. "A man that I’ve sworn to kill."

Your hands paused in their ministrations, the gravity of his words settling over the scene like a sudden storm. The air grew thicker, and the gentle rustle of leaves seemed to hold its breath. You met his gaze once more, the flicker of the river reflecting the turmoil within his eyes.

"A vow to kill?" you echoed, the words hanging in the air, heavy and pregnant with the weight of untold stories. The swordsman's jaw tightened, a subtle nod confirming the gravity of his quest. "He's taken everything from me," he continued, his voice low, a storm of emotions hidden beneath the calm facade.

The river's current seemed to echo the turbulence within his soul, a silent witness to the pain that fueled his journey. In that moment, understanding evolved into a dance with the shadows of his past.

"Vows can be shackles," you mused, breaking the silence that stretched between you. "But they can also be the flame that guides you through the darkest nights." The swordsman's gaze flickered, a subtle acknowledgement of the truth embedded in your words. The river murmured in agreement, its rhythmic flow a backdrop to the shared understanding that wove its threads through the night.

The revelation hung in the air like the heavy mist rising from the river, a revelation that shifted the atmosphere between you. The weight of your words settled over the landscape, casting a shadow that stretched across the rocks and water, intertwining with the encroaching darkness of the night.

"What drives a person to such extremes?" Eyes met his, searching for the story etched in the lines of his face.

The wielder's gaze held yours, a mixture of determination and a weariness that seemed to transcend time. "Betrayal," he spoke, voice a low murmur, as if revealing a secret that had long been guarded. "A betrayal that carved scars into my soul. I made a promise."

The revelation echoed in the quiet night, the river's soft lapping against the shore forming a backdrop to the swordsman's tale. His wounds, physical and otherwise, became more apparent in the dimming light. As you absorbed his story, a realization dawned - his journey was not merely one of aimless wandering, but a quest fueled by a profound purpose.

The silence that followed was pregnant with unspoken empathy. You contemplated the weight of his words, the burden he carried, and the path he had chosen. The makeshift bandage you had prepped seemed insufficient, not just for the gash on his shoulder, but for the wounds that lay hidden beneath the surface.

"Why carry this burden alone?" you questioned, your words soft but earnest. "There's strength in shared struggles, in the companionship of those who understand."

The swordsman's brows furrowed, as their eyes flickered a vulnerability surfacing once again. For a moment, it seemed as though the walls he had built around himself wavered, allowing a glimpse of the person beneath the stoic exterior. "I've walked this path for so long," he admitted, "that it became easier to carry the weight alone."

You listened in silence, the stillness of the night amplifying the weight of his story. You gently placed a hand on his uninjured shoulder, offering a wordless gesture of understanding. The swordsman's gaze shifted from the horizon to you.

"Why are you helping me?" he asked, a note of vulnerability cutting through the layers of his stoic demeanour. "I've walked this path on my own accord, but tonight, you chose to ease my burden. Why?"

Eyes holding a quiet resolve. "Because vengeance can consume the soul, and sometimes, a moment of respite is needed," you replied, words carrying wisdom that transcended the simplicity of their arrangement.

Your gaze met his briefly before returning to your work. "I may pray for you to find someone else to treat you, but that doesn't mean I'd leave a man to bleed out."

The swordsman chuckled, wincing as the movement pulled at his injured shoulder. "Quite the contradiction, aren't you?"

"I prefer to think of it as balance," you replied, finally satisfied with the wound's cleanliness. "Now, let's get those stitches in place, and wrap it up."

Without a word, you resumed your task, the man watched as you skillfully threaded the needle, your hands steady despite the tension in the air. While you worked, the swordsman winced occasionally, but he didn't protest. His wound now carries a weighty significance. Once the last stitch was in place, you leaned back, wiping your hands on the damp handkerchief. 

The swordsman flexed his shoulder experimentally, a hint of relief crossing his face. After wrapping the makeshift bandage on his injury. Each fold of the fabric became a silent promise, a pledge to stand beside him in the face of the darkness that clung to his every step. The night deepened, and the stars overhead bore witness to the quiet exchange unfolding between you.

"Balance," the swordsman mused, his gaze drifting towards the stars as if seeking answers in their distant glimmer. "A rare concept in a world that often feels tipped towards chaos."

You nodded, your eyes following his to the celestial tapestry above. "Sometimes, balance is found in unexpected alliances and moments of kindness," you remarked, the rustling leaves and the distant hoot of an owl providing a natural backdrop to your words.

The swordsman's gaze lingered, contemplating the truth in your words. It was a truth he had seldom encountered on his solitary journey of vengeance—a journey marked by blood, betrayal, and a relentless pursuit of satisfaction.

"You're not like most people I've met," he confessed, his eyes returning to you, seeking a glimpse into the enigma you presented. "Most would either turn away or try to exploit my vulnerabilities."

A small smile touched your lips, the moonlight catching the subtle curve. "Perhaps, I see something beyond the surface. We all carry wounds, visible or not. Sometimes, a shared burden makes the journey a little less lonely."

The swordsman's gaze held yours, a silent acknowledgement passing between you. The night, now draped in a velvety darkness, seemed to hold its breath as the unspoken connection deepened.

"Thank you," the swordsman said, gratitude layered in his voice like the petals of a blooming flower. "I didn't expect to find this on my path."

With a hum and quiet understanding. "Paths have a way of converging when least expected. Perhaps, this encounter is a reminder that even in the pursuit of vengeance, there's room for compassion and shared moments of relief."

The night pressed on, and the river's gentle murmur accompanied the shared silence between you two. Companionship, ignited by a chance encounter by the river, continued to glow, casting a comforting light on the uncertain road ahead. The swordsman, his wound tended to and burdens shared, found himself tethered to a presence that promised more than mere stitches—it promised a companion on the winding journey that lay ahead.

You looked up at Mizu with a playful glint in your eyes. "Well, now that I've saved your life and mended your wounds, I suppose you owe me a favour or two."

Mizu raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing on his lips despite the lingering soreness in his shoulder. "Oh, is that how it works? I didn't realize healing came with a price." The sword wielder chuckled, a hint of warmth softening his stoic features. "I suppose I do. A debt of gratitude, and a pair of nimble hands with a needle."

"Ah, yes, the nimble hands that saved you from bleeding out. Quite the valuable asset, wouldn't you say?" you retorted, a playful smirk gracing your lips. Mizu's gaze met yours, a spark of amusement in his eyes. 

"A healer with such a sharp tongue. It's a rare combination."

"Well, one must keep things interesting, especially when dealing with brooding swordsmen on a quest for vengeance," you replied, feigning an air of nonchalance.

The tension from earlier dissipated like morning mist. "I suppose I should be grateful for the unexpected twists on this journey."

"Gratitude suits you. Perhaps it will become a regular companion on your quest," you quipped, a playful glimmer in your eyes.

Mizu raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing on his lips. "So you say? I'll have to get used to it, then."

You chuckled, the sound echoing in the quiet night. "Consider it a down payment for future rescues. Who knows when you'll need another skilled healer by your side?" Leaning back on the rock, his gaze meeting yours. “Fair enough. But I hope your future rescues involve less blood and more pleasant conversations.”

You grinned, the moonlight catching the mischievous glint in your eyes. "I cannot promise that maybe just some casual chatter and tea." Mizu scoffed, the tension of the night dissipating in the warmth of the moment. "Tea sounds good. I could use a break from the constant clash of swords and the sting of wounds."

As the night embraced its darkest hours, a playful smirk graced your lips. "Trouble seems to have a way of finding you. Maybe it's time you start offering it some tea instead of drawing your sword."

"Tea might perhaps be the key to resolving conflicts. A cup of tea and a good conversation."

"Who knows," you replied, a mischievous glint in your eyes. "Maybe you'll find your sworn enemy sipping tea at a local tea house, and you can settle your differences over a matcha ceremony instead of a duel." 

The swordsman shook his head, a smile playing on his lips. "A novel approach, but I doubt my sworn enemy has a taste for tea."

"Well, then," you said, rising from your spot by the river. "We'll just have to introduce him to the finer things in life. A well-brewed tea might just be the key to unlocking a truce."

Mizu followed suit, the night now alive with the shared promise of an unexpected encounter. The moonlit path ahead seemed less daunting, and the weight of vows and vendettas felt momentarily lifted. 

And maybe that tea ceremony would come sooner than expected.

#blue eye samurai #mizu brainrot #blue eye samurai x reader #fanfic #mizu blue eye samurai #mizu x reader #mizu x you #bes #fic #series #slow burn #banter #thirsty for some action in this economy #fluff #comfort #writing #bes mizu #bes x reader #blue eye samurai fanart #bes x you #mizu bes #medic reader #mizu blue eye samurai x reader #i want this #i need #let me free from my confines #balling my eyes out #look at her #she is so pretty #shaking crying throwing up

[lovelettersforthedamned]

frat Peter for the sick fic cos I just know he would be utterly clueless on what he’s doing or how to take care but would just be doing the most to help xxx ❄️❄️ + hope ur better now!!!

in sickness & in health

◦ paring: frat!tasm!peter parker x gn!reader

◦ word count: 0.5k

◦ warnings: mild sickness, mention of alcohol, one little smooch, fluff all around.

The rain outside your window reflected how you felt. Your runny nose, sore throat, and body aches kept you bedridden, your body too exhausted to go anywhere else. If it weren’t for your dear boyfriend Peter, you think you would’ve died in this bed. Maybe you’re exaggerating a bit, but you certainly feel like death. 

You looked like death too, you’re certain of that. The last time you looked in the mirror was when you went to pee this morning. The person looking back at you had the darkest under eyes you’ve ever seen, a puffy and red nose from the constant tissues, and dry chapped lips. Honestly, how you looked was the least of your concerns. Peter’s seen you blackout drunk during the infamous Halloween bar crawl, and if he could still love you after that night, then he could love you now. 

You haven’t gone to the doctor yet, and the wait time for urgent care was ungodly long. So that leaves Peter to play doctor for a few days, and with the help of the internet and your local drugstore, he has one mission in his mind: make you feel better. 

The woman behind the checkout counter looked at Peter like he was insane, and honestly rightfully so. He bought two different types of cold and flu medicine, a heating pad, and three bottles of Gatorade, and he threw in a bouquet of flowers just for the hell of it. 

Walking into your room, you’re sprawled out on the mattress, your laptop reflecting a random movie onto your face. “Hey bug,” he’s out of breath while he frantically puts the bags onto the floor, “I got a few things, but I’m not too sure what you have.” Reaching into one of them, he pulls out the medicine, “The internet said you have a rare form of throat cancer, but I didn’t find any throat cancer medicine, so this will have to do!”

Peter sits beside you on the bed, reading the directions before taking off the cap pouring the right measurements into it, and handing it to you. “Thank you, Pete,” you sit up on your elbow as you toss the thick liquid back, wincing at the taste, “but you really shouldn’t be sitting this close to me right now. I could be contagious.”

“I’m practically immune to all bacteria and viruses babe. The frat flu should be scared of me,” he takes back the cap from your hands before placing it on your bedside table, right next to the tissues. He leans down and kisses your forehead deeply, “In sickness and in health, right babe?” 

You pull back from his touch, confusion written across your face, “But we’re not even married.” 

He stands and walks to the bathroom to wash out the remaining medicine still lingering on the cap, leaving you baffled. “Not yet!” 

◦ author's note: WOOOOO frat!peter strikes again!!!! yes, i am back to normal! thank you so much for asking<3 don't forget to like, comment, and reblog my work if you enjoyed! my 300 follower celebration is still happening, so come hang out! ok, bye ily<333

#tasm!peter x reader #fluff #marvel #peter parker x reader #andrew garfield peter parker #tasm!peter parker #college au #frat!peter parker x reader #frat!peter parker

[myalchod]

Silrah and 32 pleaseee

Bringing back the "what the fluff" tag for this one, methinks, though I very nearly went in the precise opposite direction.

32. a kiss to wake up - [ also on AO3 ]

“But curses don’t exist.”

“Just try,” Bloom urges from the doorway, where she and the rest of the Winx hang back in a knot. There is a undercurrent of concern from them, quiet murmurs aloud and in her mind alike. “It can’t hurt, can it?”

Oh, but it can. It can. To kiss him would be to admit so much that she’s held back through their years together, to cross the line they’ve danced around for as long as she can remember without ever acknowledging it. They are friends, partners, have been bedmates, but somehow this is so much heavier, especially when the stories of old are all too clear about what can break a curse. (Assuming it’s real. Which she’s still not admitting.)

And maybe they don’t exist, but reality is Saul lying still but for the too-shallow rise and fall of his chest, completely unaware of the world around him in a way that feels entirely unnatural, curse or not. Even in sleep he has always had a readiness born of years in dangerous situations; the war had only deepened his naturally light sleeping habits, and she can remember many a night when she’d started awake to find him already upright, head cocked as he listened to the woods around them. None of that is present now; his lashes fall dark against pale skin, mouth slightly slack, breath nearly silent. His mind, when she reaches for it, feels impossibly distant.

If she is to do this, she will have to be honest with herself. That doesn’t mean he has to know, however — all that matters is having her specialist at her side again, whatever it may cost her. With everything she carries, one more secret should be nothing, especially when she has locked those feelings away for so long already.

“Girls — out.”

They protest — no surprise — but subside in fairly short order, and it isn’t long before the door clicks shut somewhere behind her and the worried mutter of their thoughts retreat. Alone, Farah sinks down on the edge of the narrow bed, cupping a hand against his face. Even now, he remains warm. It would be so easy to pretend, if she closed her eyes, sinking back into the memory of those rare times she’s woken up beside him, soft and relaxed before all that they are intrudes once more, but she cannot allow herself that. If she is to do this, to try, it must be without illusions.

The truth, then: she loves him, not only as the friend and partner and lifelong companion he has been. She’s in love with him — at least, as best she can understand such a thing. Rosalind’s voice rings in her ears even now, reminding her of how similar they are, of all the times she’s pushed aside the weakness of emotion to become unyielding steel. And yet through it all Saul had been there, a steady glow at the edge of her thoughts even when things were darkest. How can she not do whatever it takes for him, after everything? How can she not, when she knows he would do nothing less for her?

(Curses may not be real. This may be an exercise in futility. But she loves him, gods help her, and nothing remains but to try, and to acknowledge that this has nothing to do with what she may owe him and everything to do with …)

His lips are soft when she traces her thumb across them, chapped enough to catch slightly against her skin. She wets her own as she looks down at him. He’d laugh if he saw her sitting like this, so unsure about such a simple gesture — or perhaps he wouldn’t, but if she doesn’t do this, she’ll never know. That is, in this moment, the only certainty she has.

Come back to me, she thinks — pleads, nearly, if only within her own mind, and then closes the distance between them to set her mouth to his.

If it’s a curse, then surely she should feel something. Every time she has felt magic break, there has been some sort of physical sensation, from the faintest of shivers to a sound like a thunderclap. But she feels nothing besides the warmth of his lips against her own, the faint shift of his ribs and the even quieter flutter of his heart and the prickle of stubble against her palm, and her own heart sinks in her chest. They must have been wrong. Life is not a storybook; she should know that by now, after all that she has seen.

But when she pulls back blue eyes are looking at her, still hazy with sleep but open, present. As she watches, disbelieving, the corners of his mouth pull up.

“Breathe, Farah.” The words are rusty, sleep-rough. Her hand is still against his face. As he covers it with his own, air shudders back into her lungs and something slides back into place inside her.

Always, he answers, to that earlier whisper of a thought, and now it is her turn to smile.

[ ask me another ] [ all answers ]

#fate the winx saga #silrah #farah dowling #saul silva #winxsource #ftws #farah dowling x saul silva #charis writes #asked and answered #kiss prompts #what the fluff #i suppose i contain multitudes

[cherubispunk]

BITE MY TONGUE - Joel Miller x AFAB! Reader

summary: everything is kind of a mess. And it hurts when he sneaks in each night to see you as merely a warm body to sleep with. Never next to.

a note from lucy: I got emotional on my birthday and wrote this drunk on pinot grigio. I don't recommend unless you want to read your writing back in the morning and debate therapy.

wc: 1240 warnings: 18+ MDNI! unedited, smut, angst toxic relationship, dom!Joel and sub!reader dynamics.

Joel was a silent lover. His footfalls were as ghostly as the kiss he pressed to the column of your throat at night. You spent every moment painting the walls of your mind palace with colours of him. The brown of his eyes, the greying highlights of his hair. The red of his temper. A vivid image of him to keep you company in the colder mornings. The empty mornings. 

He moved with the precision of a killer. A smuggler. Not a lover. You were the lover. He was the fighter. It was oddly poetic how he would steal away into your bedroom like Eros did to Psyche. His face; a known incarnation to you while it sought you out. Muscle memory took its hold of him, a storm raging in his gut and you were the heat that needed to burn it off. The heat between your thighs that is. 

The way he loved you was poison. So self-destructive. Yet so comforting. You never knew pain quite like it, even with what he did in the darkest of the night. The secret he kept between him and the rain riddled, smog smothered, dirty, darkened streets his mind, and the sheets of your shared bed. How his growl could quite literally wrench your heart from your chest and tear it to shreds, but piece it back together like it was a delicate piece of china.

His hips would thrust with fever, letting his words fall short, shy of your ears. Decay into nothing but stale air. You’d crumble and decompose to mulch before he confided in you. But he cared, right? He still made you fall with a yelp of his name like clockwork. A well oiled machine. 

Because he was that. A product of conditioning. A man of stone, set shoulders sloped in their broad frame only when he stilled to release. Bones groaned and muscles laid a well trodden route into soil. The soil and earth of your body that shivered like branches under him. Limbs splayed out and twisted into sheets while a fire of guilt pitted in your stomach.  A gaping hole unfillable in his chest, a life of something messy. Something unsaid. 

Dragged to the undertow, tangled in pondweed and drowned by stagnant water. Your lungs breathed him, absorbed him. What noise he gave you, nonsensical as it was, it was a relief there was something. Something you could do. Part your thighs. 

It was; “Open your legs.” Never; “open your heart.” 

The feeling of his fist colliding with skin shot hot thrills through his spine. The bruising peppered over his knuckles would have been a sign to reign it in but he just couldn’t. Not when the feeling of a man’s bone cracked under his own clenched, balled hand was screaming to be felt again. It was electrifying. Blood. Saliva. The mixture lacing gums and teeth that looked darker in these specific shadows.

Not all people crave physical contact in the same way. Some people seek it out in violence. 

Lips, the texture of gravel, wind chapped, stayed parted to exhale puffs of air. But no word came. Just the steady build of pleasure, lights off to not see the grey of his lies. His silence. Seeping into the shadows…hiding from himself. 

The way he fucked you, was like holding a knife to your throat. It grounded you in the most harrowing way to each of his breaths. His panting in your ear. That hot breath. Lost in the fog, lung hollow, now filled with him. His smell that snared your senses. Too late, not early enough. Burning wooden bridges passion encased with fire, like mere kindling. Surrounded. Trapped. But free. Missing him. Too late to come home. Anchoring him to you, in a silent pleading motion. A way to beg him not to leave. But it never stopped him shattering your heart into pieces when he did. Leave fragments on the floor like a destroyed glass.  A heart of glass. Where were you when he was still kind? 

Long pauses between words. Going and going until one spoke. Never him. Always you. Saliva in your mouth, pooling while his thumb pressed your tongue down. It slipped past your lips, dribbled down his digits making a sticky mess. Moans of pleasure and fear of losing him to the young daylight again. 

You started to close your curtains sooner in the hope he wouldn't notice light and leave you soon. 

Hums, moans, on your own. Biting your tongue to the words as you slipped from lust to love and then back to lust, teetering to love. His lust. Your love. Torture to the mind, medicine to the body. Struck by lightning. Hanged to him as if he was a branch, connected by rope to neck on body. Separated, severed by mind. Showing him where he fit and hands tailed between your thighs, parting your legs to see the gleam of your cunt in the low light of your bedside lamp. Street Lights put out. But just him. Just you. His messy kisses. His hurried movements. Racing you at visceral pace to a peak of pleasure unknown to others, A vast wasteland of discovery, To all but you it was untold. Unhinged. So painfully unkind.

Begging, pleading to feel like you were loved, Making you fall apart in good ways and bad. Heaven and hell no longer just words. They had meaning now smothered to them like the scent of rich perfume. Or rotting earth and mulch after torrential downpour. Not seeing, feeling. Smelling. Not hearing. Waiting. 

Wasting. 

No thinking it over before he tangled with you in the dead of night. In the haven of the dirty mattress, bare naked and sweaty desperate bodies of animalistic innate passion. Lust. Not love. Never love. A need. A release. A waiting game. Lust not love. A feeling. A reverend in church to preach his belief with a sermon of hips clashing with hips and teeth clashing with teeth. Tongues mingling in heat. Yelps, groans. Shrill cries for him. Nails in Joel's back, his teeth in your neck. Daggers. Digging in silk flesh. Making the two of you almost bleed in every hyperbolic and metaphorical sense. Every vowel, consonant, syllable. It was left unsaid to the room. Rattled in your mind, caving in your chest.

‘Stare at me with the lights out.’ You told him when he refused to be seen. “To escape.” “Touch me to be loved.” you wished to add. Pleaded to tell. To whisper through the slam in skin on skin and rustle of sheets through frantic speed. 

Joel never shed his skin. Always held it close. It was hardened, an armour. Scars told a story. A tapestry you felt under fingertips. Fingers that grasped onto him, legs that hitched to his waist, pulling his hips closer, at his hilt inside you. Silent are his heartstrings. Lonely is your hope. Icy is your body. 

One day, you’ll be nothing but dust. Bronchioles in lungs will mimic roots. Navels will copy trunks. Organs will feed worms. Ribs will fossilise and lips that are kissed will mould back to Mother Nature. Its all you had ever been. Quick. Convenient. Easy to please, eager to help. Waiting lips, wanting cunt. Warm, never warm enough. 

“You should tell me.” You would murmur once rolling to your side, not face him while your skin crawled like fire ants. 

If we return our matter to the ground, if all that was to come…what is the point in trying?

And he would gruffly reply. “No.”

To do it all again in the twilight shadow of your heart.

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x y/n #joel miller x you #joel miller x #the last of us #the last of us fic #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller smut #joel miller fic #tlou hbo #the last of us hbo #joel tlou #lu’s little bookshelf

[idontknowreallywhy]

Estera - Ch 20 - Thread

Things are ticking along nicely aren’t they? Could so easily leave it there… but… nah, life isn’t that easy chaps.

It’s been a while since we last saw the rambling chaos that is (in my imagining at least) the inside of Scott’s head. So we shall have a little catch up with that. And a smidge of Estera’s too, just to keep it even.

Recrudescence (to which this is a sequel) and earlier chapters are here.

✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

The interior designer had done everything possible to make it not feel like a clinical setting but you only needed to come a couple of times before the high-end-hotel-lobby look developed an association with the reasons behind the reason you were there.

Scott sat in the waiting room and tried to lose himself in the wallpaper. John had managed to spend 7 minutes tracing a continuous line through the swirls from one side of the room to the other but frankly Scott didn’t have that sort of patience.

He sighed and looked up at the ceiling, casting his mind back to the time they had come to see Patricia together. It had been good. Awful. Genuinely awful. He shivered. But objectively a good thing. As she often said “It usually needs to get worse before it gets better”. He couldn’t help worry that sitting there and telling his younger brother of some of the horrors had made things more ‘worse’ than they needed to be, however. And then hearing John’s calm but clearly emotional description of witnessing his elder brother relive that time while feverish and incoherent…

Scott hissed quietly to himself. It went against everything he stood for. He was supposed to have been the strong one, he was supposed to have shielded them from all of that.

Too late now. His clear cut role as the protector had shifted irrevocably. He knew John, Virgil too, would now always feel more of a drive to look after him because they’d seen him at his worst, his weakest. He hated it. He hated it so much he wanted to burn the last three months from history and restore their innocent belief in their big brother’s invincibility again.

But.

The revelation had been what he saw in John’s eyes that afternoon.

The horror, he’d expected.

The simmering anger, yes.

But it was what he didn’t see but had dreaded for a decade if the truth ever escaped in this way - the disappointment, the pity. They were missing, miraculously, gloriously absent from his brother’s reaction. What he saw instead was respect and admiration and acceptance and it had blown his mind. The idea that he could so utterly fail to be what he was supposed to be and John would still look at him that way was… well. He guessed he’d be processing that one for a while yet.

Scott hadn’t told him everything though. Not the very darkest part. He’d said only what was necessary to explain what his little brother had been forced to endure with him. He hadn’t mentioned Her: His first great failure.

Then she’d exploded back into his life and it turned out that she wasn’t.

He hadn’t.

They… hadn’t.

Ten years of nightmares as his subconscious picked through what they’d told him and treated him to the lowlights. What she’d endured because of his arrogance in thinking he could make a difference. How much more painful and humiliating her death was thanks to him. He’d seen it so vividly he’d sometimes woken believing he’d somehow been the perpetrator, having to race to the bathroom as his stomach let him know it was as disgusted with him as his mind was.

He knew now his mistake had been to show weakness. His reaction had clearly tipped them off that this… THIS was a way to torture him where more conventional methods had been less than effective. He should have spotted the story became more embellished each time. Should have realised what they were doing. They’d even brought an interpreter to his cell, just to make absolutely sure he understood every last detail. The man had looked so sick, so disgusted by the words he was forced to say. He wondered what happened to the guy… if it ever kept him up at night too.

If only Scott could let him know it wasn’t true. They hadn’t… he hadn’t.

She wasn’t.

Because it meant everything. He blinked back tears as the relief washed over him yet again. If they’d only known it was much easier to make him cry with relief than with pain.

Nothing was immediate though, not even Thunderbird One and especially not the process of persuading his unconscious mind that things had changed. Probably 75% of the times an image of her came to mind it was… not a good one. As Virgil had suggested, every time it happened he tried to imagine her face as she’d sat across the table and teased him about the action figure. The little grin and flash of mischief in her eyes. But that memory was weak and fleeting compared to how reinforced the decade old ones were.

Which was why he was here to see Patricia.

Because he wanted to see Estera again.

Yes, of course it was partly to check she was ok… he was still worried about her. She still seemed very alone, although she had at least opened up a little in her messages he was concerned that might be her only outlet beyond the weekly half hour session with the state-provided counsellor. Oh, and the dog. Seemed like she talked to the dog a lot.

But the real, selfish reason was he needed to see her with his physical eyes again. To reinforce his belief she was real, that he wasn’t imagining it. So he could more easily picture her alive and happy. Hopefully then his subconscious would catch up and maybe sleep would be less… complicated. Was it ok to want to do something just because it would make him happier? People often said it was… he’d just never been convinced.

If she hadn’t been keen, he’d forget it. He wasn’t THAT selfish. But she seemed keen last time he mentioned it. She’d even seemed pretty pleased to hear from him when he’d accidentally called her in the middle of the night, once she’d gotten over the very Virgil-esque half-awake grumpiness. Scott had nearly called again several times since but couldn’t quite think of a good enough excuse and so had ended up channelling his desperation to know she was alright into another silly joke or a jibe about the British weather or asking after the kids in her class.

He had spectacularly failed to follow Patricia’s previous advice about not letting himself feel responsible for the woman. He already felt as though the fact Estera was alive was an invisible thread holding him together, keeping him steady, keeping him here. That… might not be ideal.

It was certainly going to be a different Patricia conversation to the usual. For once, he knew exactly what he wanted. The question he needed to get straight was: was it a good idea?

✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

The sky was a brilliant blue.

So very close to the shade she loved most of all, toned down perhaps a little by the faintest wisps of cloud lingering in the stratosphere. As she let the surgery door swing shut behind her and paused at the top of the ramp, the wind dropped to the merest breath as if the world was pausing, waiting for her next move.

“Look, see? The UK can manage sunny weather after all.”

Ah, she was doing it again. Chatting away in her head to the imaginary blue-eyed friend she’d carried with her so long he felt closer than family. Not that he ever spoke back… she wasn’t that far gone.

It was still a bit of a shock every time she realised she could actually communicate with the real life version now - she took a quick photo of the sky and a seagull swooped into shot just in time. Nice. She sent it over and watched for a few moments to see whether it would show as received. It didn’t. She pushed back the tendril of panic that edged up her spine. He was just busy. And he’d said Dawn would let her know if anything happened and she hadn’t heard anything so logically everything was fine. Everything was fine.

The gull wheeled, seemingly aimlessly, far above and she watched it for a while before shaking herself and striding purposefully towards the footpath for the main road and the bus stop. She’d booked herself a treat for after the appointment today and didn’t want to miss the bus that would get her there in good time.

That had been the 6th session of the 12 she would get, and so in theory she should be half way there to sorting herself out. It was always hard to know immediately afterwards, as she generally came out feeling as though she’d been run over by something large and extremely weighty… perhaps Virgil Tracy’s big green behemoth… but things were improving. The dreams were still an issue, but she wasn’t losing focus on the present nearly so often during daylight hours and that was definitely something to be thankful for.

The guilt, ‘survivor’s guilt’ as the counsellor called it though Estera hated the phrase because, as she’d pointed out on at least two occasions, she had done far worse than just survive, was perhaps the heaviest thing. She understood and mostly agreed on an intellectual level that it was irrational and, particularly as the supposed victim of her actions didn’t appear to blame her, it was something she should let go of. She knew it in her head. But the knowledge hadn’t made it as far as her heart and she accepted it likely never would. Perhaps she was just supposed to carry the burden… as a way of redressing the balance somehow.

She jumped backwards as a seagull dived to snatch a discarded piece of pastry from a few feet in front of her. She wondered if it was the same one she’d photographed and proceeded to distract herself from more unhelpful trains of thought by trying to work out whether it had been pasty or pie it had scored. A small piece of filling remained behind on the pavement - probably apple? Or potato. Bez would have happily eaten it either way of course.

The bus tracking display on the shelter clicked over to “due”. She straightened up and pulled out her phone in readiness to pay but it vibrated suddenly, slipping from her hands and skidding into the road. She saw the message notification pop up just as the bus swung around the corner.

✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds #thunderbirds fanfiction #tb estera #Scott Tracy #estera #tw: ptsd #Tw: therapy #idontknowreallywhy fanfic

[kassiekole22]

Take Your Meds, Josh

Pairing: Josh Washington X Fem!Reader Description: Josh wakes up to see his girlfriend gazing down at him lovingly, and in this moment, he realizes just how lucky and happy he is to have her in his life. Warnings: Fluff, Angst, Mention Of Mental Health Issues, (Prescription) Drug Use. Word Count: 1k Josh Washington MasterList: 🖤 Main MasterList: 🖤 TagList: @lorebite, @house-of-kolchek, @koexchange, @yesitsloulou, @mistmoose, @jasonexo, @mornandil, @fortune-fool02, and @raven-the-cryptid. (If you want to be added to the taglist, let me know in the comments! 🖤)

》《》《》《》《》《》《》《》《》《》《》《》《》《》《》《》《》《》《》《》《》《》《》《》《》《》《》《》《

Josh woke up and the first thing his eyes met was the gaze of a gorgeous girl — his girl. She smiled kindly at him as she raised her hand to his cheek and caressed it gently. Her touch felt so soft against his cheek, which was covered with stubble that he had forgotten to shave off the morning before. But she didn't seem to care.

"Good morning, beautiful." She spoke softly. Her voice sounded like an angel that had just been sent down from heaven to protect him from the darkest places of his mind. And Josh firmly believed that that was exactly why she was brought into his life; she was his protector — his guardian angel.

"Good morning, baby." He said in a hoarse voice, his throat dry from lack of hydration. "Can you get me a glass of water, please?" He asked weakly.

He noticed that she already had one in her grasp as she handed it to him with a warm smile still on her face and love in her eyes. He took a sip and then peered around his room as his vision slowly came back into focus.

Everything was the same — the walls were still painted a nice shade of crimson, posters of every horror movie you could think of pinned upon them; even the pictures of Hannah and Beth, that he had taken on their last summer vacation were still in their place.

Though everything appeared the same, Josh couldn't help but feel as if something was different. It was like everything had been moved one inch to the left or everything was a slight shade off from the color they used to be. But Josh decided to pay no mind to it for the time being.

"Sweetheart?" His beloved girlfriend murmured beside him, catching his attention almost instantly. "I have your medication here. It's time to take them."

Josh sighed. He hated taking his depression medication. It was just a painful reminder that deep down he was never fully ok — he was never naturally happy.

"Take your meds, Josh." She pushed firmly and yet in the softest tone Josh had ever heard anyone speak. Although he hated it, the worried look in his love's eyes was enough to convince him to take them.

He took the pill bottle from her and noticed that there was only one left in the bottle. He made a mental note to get more later but something told him that he wouldn't have to worry about it. He placed the bitter little pill in his mouth and took another sip of his water before swallowing it reluctantly.

He then handed her the glass which she set on the bedside table. He sighed again as he laid back, waiting for the medication to kick in. His girlfriend laid down beside him on the bed and placed a gentle kiss on his lips, which he gladly returned. After parting from their short but sweet kiss, she placed her hands upon his cheeks and gazed into his eyes.

The look in her gorgeous (E/C) orbs was loving and passionate, enough to make him want to cry — for the first time ever, not from sorrow but from happiness.

He realized that he did not need the medication to make him happy — he needed her. She was what was fixing him and no pills or therapy of any kind could ever compare to her.

He felt the tears finally break free and fall down his cheeks as the corners of his chapped lips turned up into a genuine smile. She returned the smile as a soft giggle broke free from her lips while she gently wiped his tears away with the soft pads of her thumbs.

"It looks like those pills are finally working." She commented happily. He closed his eyes and leaned into her sweet and tender touch. Josh silently disagreed with her words. They were not working.

Or were they?

"Joshua?" He heard a male voice say from across the room.

His eyes shot open to find that he was no longer in his bedroom. The walls were no longer crimson but a dull shade of white that felt unsettling to him, the posters were no longer pinned to the wall and Hannah and Beth's photos were gone as well. He looked over to the door to see an older man standing there, wearing a white doctor's coat with a clipboard in his hand.

"Who are you talking to?" The man spoke with a hint of concern laced within his deep voice.

"(Y/N)." Josh croaked out, his voice much more scratchy and worn than it was before. His worried eyes searched around the room, but she was nowhere to be seen. He looked down at his hand to see a small cup within his grasp — a cup that once contained a small pill.

"Joshua," The man took a few closer steps towards Josh, where he was laying on a bed that had bars on the sides. "Did you forget again?"

"F–Forget what?" Josh felt tears filling the corners of his eyes again. But this time it was not due to happiness, but pure fear of learning the truth.

"(Y/N) died one year ago at your lodge — right after your prank."

As those words echoed through his mind, Josh felt as if his whole world was collapsing. It couldn't be real. It just couldn't.

"I'll have to up your dosage of your medication and get a nurse to take you to Dr. Hill as soon as possible." The man said as he took a pen out of his pocket and scribbled something down on his clipboard.

"The medication won't work! It doesn't! I need (Y/N)! The only thing that will cure my depression is her, not the fucking medication!" Josh yelled while tears finally began to stream down his face, as the last thread of sanity within his mind had come undone.

"Joshua, you only saw (Y/N) because you need the medication." The man explained. "You're Schizophrenic."

》《》《》《》《》《》《》《》《》《》《》《》《》《》《》《》《》《》《》《》《》《》《》《》《》《》《》《》《

#until dawn #josh washington #josh washington x reader #KassieUntilDawnFanFics

[poetic-child-of-night]

Papa,

I never had a cognition of such before but today when i looked in the mirror i felt as if i was seeking something. maybe something profound i can write about, maybe something pretentious i can brag about, maybe i was looking for my own faults or maybe i was looking at a bleak 20 year old chap looking for meaning from nothing.

Amidst all these maybes i saw a reflection not entirely my own. It met my gaze with kinder eyes steeped in wisdom. It was a warm soul yet a cold exterior, a bold authoritarian with tenderness of a nurturing forest - a paradox, one might say.

It was reflection of days yet to come and yet of days that have gone by, much like the timeless rhythms of the river. Inside the mirror stood a man - blurry to my vision yet unmistakably clear to my heart. It embraced my blue with his somber simple arms. A perpetual radiant smile evermore brushed around as if his face were a canvas upon which the bold strokes of vibrant colors danced, like a meadow painted with the hues of lotus.

The man in the mirror bathed with the grace of moonlight, glowing even in the darkest hours. Someone with Shiva’s unwavering resolve interwoven with Vishnu’s playful innocence in his soul.

I looked at the man, we were moulded of the same mud and blood. I looked at the man long enough till tears swelled up. I beheld you, dear Father, with an intensity that brought tears to my eyes, tears of reverence, much like the sacred rain of Indra. I beheld the man who bore the weight of responsibilities and, in the same breath, offered solutions with unwavering resolve,

And yet, despite being etched from the same fabric, I knew our threads would forever weave tapestries distinct. Our tapestries, though similar in hue, would hold unique patterns, intricate designs born from the tapestry of experiences we called life. I may never fully grasp the tapestry you have woven, the struggles you have faced, the joys you have savored.

Our thoughts, though born from the same wellspring, might never converge, mirroring the paths we walk, ever diverging even as they run parallel.

But Father, know this, even if I cannot walk in your shoes, I see the footprints you have left behind

I looked at you just like you did for your father before. I looked at you just like you did for your father before.

#nocturne writes sometimes #for letters that are left on desk #dark academia #dead poets society #dark academia literature #dark romanticism #saltburn #grunge #typography #inside bo burnham #bo burnham #dad #father’s son

[apollosgiftofprophecy]

6, 7, 10

WOW THAT WAS FAST

6. What is your darkest fear about writing?

whew getting right to it, huh?

hmm...i guess there's always a sense of imposter syndrome, you know? like i've had people tell me "you're such a great writer!" and "i can totally see you publishing one day!", from family, friends, and teachers. i was even voted "most likely to write a book" for my sophomore year yearbook.

and yet. there is always that lingering sense of what if i'm not that good? What if nobody likes it?

believe me - i know the saying "write what makes YOU happy" and i stand by that! but there is also going to be that itty-bitty feeling of hurt if somebody doesn't like it (and tells you it. which is very rude btw don't do that.)

I guess it stems down to the fact that while I like writing for myself, I also like that positive encouragement from the readers.

which does happen a lot XD i'm flooded with comments the next morning after i post a fic and i rarely - if ever - see a rude/criticizing one. Screams? Oh yes. I savor those screams. But I haven't read a criticizing one on any of my ToA fics (BT? A fair few. Lolling usually got there first though and deescalated the situation much quicker than I would have.)

7. What is your deepest joy about writing?

MAKING MY READERS SUFFER!

...jk. but also not haha <3

I really like piecing together all these myths and getting a coherent plotline out from them. Also, absolutely love writing Apollo he's the best <3

also, the enjoyment of the readers are always great too. there's bonding to be done in the comment sections of fics, and i love to ramble about the fic process XD

10. Has a piece of writing ever “haunted” you? Has your own writing haunted you? What does that mean to you?

absolutely.

there's been many things that have occupied brain-space. But Trials of Apollo has taken the cake.

I tried to write fanfiction for PJO in middle school. dropped it after a couple fics. deleted them too because i was very cringed out by them XD

attempted a PJO/HP crossover. trashed that too.

tried just HP. nothing ever came of it.

Warrior cats i made a cracky Time-Travel AU but also Lolling and I smacked out heads together and made Burning Thistles (still in progress btw - 170 chapters in) but it didn't exactly...haunt me, ya know? I love BT, and I really should get to the next chap soon, but it wasn't quite haunting me.

Star Wars infected me during Quarantine and I pumped out like. 30 fics in Whumptober plus a few others, but then steam kinda died out.

Until...ToA.

It haunts me. No other series has done this. It occupied my thoughts. My actions. My homework. My music. Everything I see, do, or think has some thread of ToA in it.

As for my own writing...heh. anything Copollo. they have permanent headspace and i have no intent of giving them the boot anytime soon.

Also...my Hunger Games AU is very very juicy. i can't wait until it's all done so i can finally share it! about 10 chapters left <3

and well. ^ i think it's pretty obvious what I think haunting means lol

it never leaves your thoughts

#the oracle speaks #ask game #anon ask

[djbeatz]

Dazai and Guns

.I’m not sure if anyone’s ever said this or thought about it before, but I just realized that there is a distinct difference between the gun he used in the mafia and the one he uses in the agency. Specifically it’s color.

Whenever I think of guns, I think of the standard color, black. He did use a black one in the mafia, but when we see him in the agency, his gun is gray, a little on the lighter side. Now we know that even the smallest details have meaning so I thought that this was incredibly interesting.

So, here are my thoughts on it, which are pretty basic but right to the point.

I think that Dazai using a black gun in the mafia gives it more of the feeling that he will hurt someone and is not hesitant to do it. Black has a revolting and dread feeling and incites the emotions of uneasiness and fear. It’s dark and unsettling and that’s how Dazai is portrayed as. He was meant to fill people with dread and fear, he was meant to be someone who made other’s sick and uneasy.

A black gun shows that he is truly a dark and depressing or dreadful person. Dazai has no qualms to harming or killing, at times he even enjoys. He enjoys making people afraid and sick of him and it shows visibly in the scene where he had shot that GSS soldier even when he was dead, he was joyful and excited. There was also the scene where he had punched and shot at Akutagawa, he was disappointed and not at all worried whether Akutagawa would’ve died or not, he even threatened to do it again but to a slightly higher degree; this shows his lack of care for killing even his apprentice.

In the agency, his gun is gray, I can only assume that this is because of his changed goals. A gray gun feels friendlier in way, not so daunting anymore but it is still a gun, it is still dangerous. The only thing that really changed was what it was used for.

Instead of just outright killing someone or hurting them, that gun is used to protect people and help them. It’s also interesting that while Dazai has the gun, he hasn’t actually used it himself (in the anime at least, I’m not sure about the books). It’s as if that gun is there to be used, but not by him, it’s like he carries it for others and not himself.

The gray gun is meant to show his present. He’s one of the people who makes others feel safe now, people like him and feel protected by him. He no longer makes people feel uneasy but rather as if they are in good hands. He doesn’t kill people anymore or does much with the intention of harming; but there is a reason why the gun is gray and not white.

If it were white, that would mean that Dazai’s views have completely changed, he would no longer find the joy in hurting people of making them fear him, he would no longer find killing acceptable and would never do it again. If that had been the case then the gun would’ve been white, but it’s not.

He doesn’t really kill anymore, but he doesn’t ever leave it out as not an option, last resort sure, but still an option. This is clear in the manga, Chap 101. He doesn’t do it really, but if he needs to, he can still make people uncomfortable, he can still hurt or kill or scare someone if it is most beneficial in the end. The gun is gray because he still has a similar mindset as he did in the past, but he doesn’t act on that unnecessary violence anymore. He doesn’t create that image for himself and his views are slowly changing, they have been since he left the mafia and that explains the shade of gray, why it looks light, but not all that light.

The easiest way for me to summarize this is by saying that the change in guns represent his morals. Black had been the darkest that his views ever had been and gray shows that, while he isn’t quite there yet, his morals are shifting, they are becoming more... I wouldn’t strictly say ‘good’, but, maybe more like ‘fitting of societal views’.

He’s molding himself and his view of the world into that of a good man. Slowly yes, but he still is. You can see this more in the last ep in S4 where he laughs in Fyodor’s face about his view of God and speaks his own mind on it. The two of them are very similar, but what differs mainly are their views and the moral codes that they follow.

Okay, I know I say this alot but if this doesn’t make any sense, it’s because I literally thought of all of this on the spot and my brain is not fully online yet.

(I will also be hopefully posting a fic for Chuuya’s birthday later!)

#Dazai Osamu #bsd #bungo stray dogs #I don't know how to tag atm please bare with me- #dark era bsd #dark era dazai #armed detective agency #ada dazai

[meaninglessblah-writes]

Happy Nano! ☁️🐦😈🧊

Thank you for helping me work towards my Nanowrimo goal! 💙

"I always wondered," Clark muses aloud. His hand is resting on Dick's head, inky locks scattered through his fingers. His grip is loose, but could become firmer in a heartbeat. Dick hasn't forgotten.

The man is on his knees, nose pressed to Clark's pubic bone in a desperate bid for his favour. The hands he has fisted in Clark's pants, knuckles pressed to the muscles of his thighs, tremble. The tremors climb down his bare arms, setting into his shoulders and creeping into his chest.

Dick can feel the cold in his lungs, sticking them together like a tar. Every sharp breath aches like a knife.

"I always wondered," Clark repeats, not that Dick had interrupted him. He shifts his weight on his knees and tries to ignore how they throb and tingle in equal measure. "Why humans pioneered the poles. All this perfectly hospitable, arable land, and you choose the darkest, coldest ends of the planet to settle."

Dick thinks of survivors, fleeing north to evade Superman's encompassing claim. Dick thinks of miles of flat ice, of open skys so far beyond reach. He's not so sure he's suited to it.

Clark ruffles Dick's bangs, scattering the snow that's fallen there. It melts on his shoulders, little teardrops that sting like needles.

"Your resilience is remarkable. Even at the end of the world, you find somewhere to make your home."

Dick sits back on his heels, pulling off Clark's cock with a gasp. His lips ache, chapped and pulsing with blood. The saliva dries in the corners of his mouth before he can even swallow it, stiff and uncomfortable.

He sucks down a breath, and winces through the flash of pain. "Sir," he entreats, soft because he knows Clark will hear him no matter how quiet he tries to be, "can we please go inside now?"

"Not yet," Clark answers, shifting his weight. His boot kicks up a small blanket of snow. It immediately soaks through Dick's pants, burning into his skin. "I think the cold is a good motivator. Besides, I'm enjoying the view."

Dick shudders, his gaze dipping low. His eyelashes feel stiff, but he doesn't think he could cry even if he wanted to. His cheeks feel raw and bare.

"May I please have a jacket?" Dick tries for. It's a hopeless endeavour, but he has to try.

Clark huffs, like Dick has said something foolish and amusing. Those fingers card through his hair, and Dick fights back another shiver. "You wore less than this when you were Robin. I think you can take it for a few minutes longer."

Minutes. Dick winces at the thought, but at least there's an end in sight. He flexes the blood back into his fingers, shuffling forwards on uncooperative knees to take Clark back into his mouth.

Its perverse, that Clark should feel so warm when everything else around Dick is so cruelly cold. The weight on his tongue is scorching, the salt in the back of throat a promise of heat he can't afford to scorn.

Clark's hand settles back on his head as Dick returns to his task, lips flushing with more blood the closer he gets to Clark's heat. Thawing, with the proximity.

"I think you chose the cold," Clark says, and Dick does his best to let the words wash over him unmarked, "because it makes the heat that much sweeter."

10,029 / 50,000

Help me reach my goal!

#meaninglessblah answers #meaninglessblah conquers nanowrimo #captain-ursula

[princesseevee06]

can u plz elaborate on hinako and maples sisterly relationship! i would love to know more.. especially cuz it'd make the fact they swapping the yabusames even sadder 😯

for sure! they’re a super sweet (and super angsty *sweats*) dynamic to me, so i’m happy to elaborate!

sort of the main ‘kick off’ for their interactions is in the first trial. basically, hinako has the same first main trial (having to cooperate with someone else over another floor) but instead of being paired with alice, she’s instead paired with maple who handles the situation a lot differently. maple is very adamant on finding a way out for the two of them together, and so they’re both able to make it out alive! hinako is utterly baffled that someone actually wanted to help her so she’s stuck halfway between being grateful and being upset. meanwhile, maple is super concerned when she then wakes up with everyone else and hinako isn’t there (she went to hide in the locker 😔) because she thinks something must’ve happened.

when they do meet, though, maple sees this young girl who is clearly frail and struggling and her Big Sister instincts instantly kick in. she’s already used to caring for others in her daily life, so helping hinako out sort of helps her feel more ‘in her element’ (plus, she heavily empathizes with the girl)

hinako, on the other hand, is also in desperate need of a Big Sister figure as she’s been estranged from her actual big sister (fake hinako, who i dubbed hana) (because i didnt realize there was a manga character Also named hana.) (do u guys think i should just keep it or change it to something else 😭), and like. she was literally in the middle of running away from home when she got kidnapped. she’s overall just having a rough go of it

so they get along really well, and sort of end up being each other’s comfort as the death game progresses ^^ maple ends up being really protective of hinako when hana shows up (because she takes the place of ranger) and acts really cold, because she’s like “hinako doesn’t deserve any of this >:(“ (she doesn’t know hana was basically psychologically manipulated into suppressing her true emotions)

when maple gets switched out in the room of lies, hinako is the first person to notice something is off, but sort of like alice she brushes it off and chalks it up to maple being rightfully stressed in a dire situation. she figures, maple is maple, and she’s still a super kindhearted lady, so obviously nothing must be wrong.

aaaaaaand that of course brings us to the chap 2 subgame. i haven’t really talked much about the maple/hinako split route, but i think it’s interesting to me because of how Emotionally Devastating it is.

on the route where maple lives, she has to watch this 14 year old girl she came to see as her little sister Die in front of her. and of course she blames herself for it. because hinako was worried and coming to look for her, and she literally couldn’t do anything. i don’t think maple is ever really “the same” after this point, obviously she’s not a different person or anything but hinako’s death really alters her because it makes her realize her prior mentality of looking at the bright side just…doesn’t work in a situation like this. she is Super angry and vengeful against the floormasters, specifically (i haven’t really worked it out yet, but there might be a similar scene with her to the one where alice attacks gashu)

but the hinako route does Not lead to any salvation for these girls either because hinako has to watch both 1. her twin sister and 2. her big sister figure die in the span of…a minute, maybe? the girl she grew up with and always longed to reconnect with, and the girl who believed in her even in her darkest hour. she’s definitely Not happy about it. i do think the route takes a tiiiiny bit more of a positive spin though, because this marks the turning point of hinako steadying her resolve to fight for herself and others just like maple did.

sorry anon you probably wanted to know more about the fluffy parts of the dynamic and i just ended up supplying angst again 😔 i swear i’m not always this sad it’s just easy to make angst. but they really do have a sweet relationship (somehow i feel like it would be similar to what nao and kanna would act like together if they…ever actually had many interactions together.), it’s just cut short by the Narrative being the Narrative.

#princesseevee answers #yttd #your turn ryoko #maple yttd #hinako mishuku

[muffindaddystyles]

I don’t know if you’re accepting requests but if you could write something with a sick Harry x reader?! Maybe he wakes you up in the middle of the night cause he’s not feeling well but in the morning he says he’s fine to go to the studio with the lads but later in the day you get a call that he’s been throwing up and needs to be picked up? So you get him and take care of him and lots of fluff and cuddles I would simply pass away your writings are amazing!!

HII! THIS IS ME WRITING AFTER AGES I HOPE YOU LIKE IT :)

Two scoops of raspberry chocolate chip ice-cream, one spoon, one bubble green coloured blanket and two people snug into eachother’s warmth whilst a short Marilyn Monroe mystery death tapes documentary channels on the telly.

“Hu? what’s wrong sunny?” Y/N’s concern reflects in her does eyes, creamy pink melting down the spoon as it halts between the thin distance of Harry’s pillows lips that’s seems to be chapped and dry for some reason.

“Can’t throat’s sore..” He shakes his head with sadness of a puppy and Y/N coos putting the sherbet crystal bowl aside, giggling at the hiss he eliminates from being with her cold hands. She caress the soft ringlets sitting at the nape of his neck and snuggles a little kiss to his cheek, “How about we have chai? it’ll help soothe the ache away.” We. Just a tiny word or two syllables makes Harry weak in his stomach. If he’s not having an ice-cream she wouldn’t have it either. Moments like these makes him fall in love with her harder than ever before.

“You are me little heaven.” He all but fishes out a small smile for despite of how shitty he’s been feeling, his soul instinctively going to plant a glimmer of his love for his sweetheart against her temple.

So, Y/N made chai. Filled two mugs till the brim and tucked two packets of biscuits under her armpit. Having a laugh whenever his biscuit would fall and sink deep down into his chai, he has yet to master this sorcery.

.

The next day. Nothing was alright. Harry left to the sets of his upcoming with just a note sticked to Y/N’s daily morning smoothie and when she got a short text from his assistant that he’s unwell she literally fled to the place in all worry.

“Sunny..” Her high-pitched octave stutters into low embarrassment when she enters his cubby and finds his co-actors and even the director of film surrounding him in pure concern, Y/N’s eyes simmers with gloss seeing him all flushed and red cheeks and layered under blankets, “Just want my girlfriend, can ye’ please call her for me?” His voice husked and gruff when they ask if he needs anything. He winces, shutting his eyes tight and resting his head on the back or sofa.

“I’m right here, love.” Y/N walks past the crowd giving everyone a shy wave, they fawn over the couple with great admiration advising Harry to go home and rest.

“I need you. Don’t feel good..” Harry pouts coughing out a grown as he takes his arms out of the duvet to grab both of Y/N’s needily like his health depends on her.

“Shh. My poor baby, les get’ya home hmm?” Her fingers stretches down the expanse of his head giving a little message to relive some kind of pain, “You’re my strongest boy.” She keeps him hugged to her side while walking them to his car, and if it’d be possible to envelop him whole in her sweet hibernating warmth she’d.

He flashes a pique smile hiding under her hoodie she made him wear once they were engulfed into car’s heat when Y/N’s glares him for speaking, she just coils her arms around him and brings him into chest messaging his head with one hand while the other remains aware that he doesn’t detaches himself from her.

“No talking sunshine. Try taking a nap, yeah? I’ll be still here when you wake up.” She rocks him. A precious human being he’s for her. It reminds of her the times she fell sick and Harry would do the same. He’s always been her anchor, her pride, her sunshine in the darkest of times.

She beams down at him when he snores lightly against her neck, wiping a string of drool from the corner of his lips and bundles him tightly and securely - kiss upon kiss all over his face and to his curls not caring if he’s sick and cuddles him some more when he whines into his sleep.

“I’ll always protect you, sunny. Whatever, it’ll take me to.” She whispers pecking his shoulder with outmost affection and love.

#harry styles fluff #fluff #harry styles imagines #harry angst #harry styles blurb #harry styles fanfiction #sick harry