#currently biting my shirt and fighting tears of 'this is so cringe' to post this | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

adiwriting · 4 years

Text

Sunday Mornings 4/?

Notes: While this is the 4th ficlet in this verse, it’s technically the first thing I wrote for this verse. I was working to fill a prompt “watching them sleep” and it got away from me like most things. So I’m excited to finally get to post this part. It’s my personal favorite so far, so I hope you all enjoy! <3

Now on AO3

Week 4:

The feeling of the sun warming his face slowly pulls Alex out of a blissful dream. Not quite ready to move his body yet, he turns his head to the nightstand and opens his eyes. It’s 5:55am. He’s tired, sure, but years in the military have taught him that attempting to go back to sleep now is futile. His body is wired to be up between 0500 and 0600 everyday, no matter how little sleep he got the night before.

He yawns and turns his head to look at the source of his exhaustion. He can’t help but smile at the sight of his boyfriend. Michael spent the night last night, as he has most nights since they got back together a month ago. In fact, the only reason Michael isn’t in his bed every night can really only boil down to a stupid comment Maria had made about them moving in together. Michael still feels enough guilt over their breakup to have insisted that they are most certainly not living together. Alex would be mad at him for the entire thing, but he can’t bring himself to be. One, he too still feels how awkward things are with Maria and he loves her enough to want to be sensitive, even if she hadn’t always been sensitive towards him. And two… Michael can say he’s not living here all he wants, but the evidence speaks for itself.

Michael’s black cowboy hat is hung on the hook on the door, where Alex used to hang his favorite Air Force hoodie. The same hoodie that now permanently rests on the back of the couch because Michael always wears it like a blanket when they watch movies together. There is an ever growing pile of change accumulating on the dresser from where Michael regularly empties his pockets when he comes in to change out of his jeans. Next to Alex’s bottles of lotions and various meds is a bottle of warming gel that Michael uses whenever his hand acts up. Hanging up in the closet are several of Michael’s clothes that Alex put there when he’d pulled his laundry out the other day and realized that half of the clothes were Michael’s rather than his own. Over by the full length mirror is a pile of the only 3 pairs of shoes that Michael owns.

No. Michael doesn't live here. His things have just been slowly taking over Alex’s space… And Alex loves it.

He bought this house last year and fell in love with its character, but it hadn’t really started to feel like home to him until the day there were two toothbrushes by the sink instead of one.

Alex stretches carefully and tries not to groan at the way his shoulders pop. His body is particularly achy today, which he equates to a combination of lack of sleep and the enthusiasm that they’d gone at it last night. He’s going to have to talk Michael into a massage later.

Once his body is decently stretched out — or at least as stretched out as it can be without waking Michael — Alex rolls over onto his side to watch his boyfriend properly.

Michael is always beautiful. It’s a fact. But the truth is, there’s something particularly entrancing about the way the morning sun hits Michael’s tanned skin. Alex allows himself to stare in a way he can’t get away with when Michael is awake. Not without Michael teasing him for it.

He starts with his hair. Frizzy and all over the place. A combination of Alex’s hands constantly threading through and pulling whenever they have sex and the fact that Michael moves when he sleeps. A lot. The sun makes his hair glow like a halo, which is all too fitting. He reaches out and gently pulls a curl away from Michael’s face so that he can focus his attention there next.

Alex watches the quick, constant movement of Michael’s eyes underneath his lids. He’s always thinking. Calculating. Planning. Inventing. When they were kids, Michael told him that his head was constant chaos that only music could quiet. Knowing what he knows about Michael’s past, he can see why Michael had chosen that word. But chaos doesn’t describe Michael’s brain. Not anymore. He’s just brilliant. He’s wicked smart and never stops thinking. Michael processes information at an inhuman rate, which Alex would equate to his alien DNA if he didn’t know that neither Max or Isobel share in his genius level intellect.

It’s not rare for Michael to wake up in the middle of the night having somehow solved some complicated problem in his sleep. It’s why Alex had started to keep a journal on Michael’s side of the bed, so that he won’t have to get up at 3am and tear the house apart looking for paper so he could write down whatever complex equation he’s just solved.

Alex runs his fingers across Michael’s forehead gently. He loves that brain. He firmly believes that Michael could solve the world’s biggest problems if he tried. And though Alex won’t risk the fight by bringing it up, he seriously hopes that Michael gets his degree one day so that the world can benefit from his genius. Roswell is too small for a brain like Michael’s.

Alex traces the line of his nose and bites back a giggle when Michael scrunches it up in response. He’s so adorable at times that Alex truly marvels that anyone can honestly believe his tough guy act. Michael is so soft and tender with Alex. Even when they weren’t together and every other word out of Michael’s mouth was a sarcastic dig meant to goad Alex into a fight, Alex had always been able to see the vulnerability in Michael’s eyes. It was part of what sent Alex running so often. He always had a genuine fear of breaking and in turn, getting broken.

His palm moves to cradle Michael’s cheek and Michael’s head leans into the touch, turning his head to kiss his palm. Even in sleep, Michael is constantly seeking him out. It’s moments like this that make Alex question how he ever felt insecure about Michael’s feelings. Maybe if he had just trusted in their love earlier…

“Stop. Sleep,” Michael grumbles, seemingly cutting off his anxiety spiral before it could even start.

“I’m not tired,” he teases, but Michael is silent, having already fallen back asleep.

Alex’s hand drifts down to Michael’s neck and he cringes when he notices a bruise to the right of his collarbone that wasn’t there yesterday. Alex has always been incredibly careful about hickeys. He’d had to be. And by the time he’d felt safe enough to risk it, he was at an age where it was no longer socially acceptable. Thankfully, this one should be mostly hidden once Michael puts on a shirt, so hopefully he won’t be too annoyed with Alex.

His hand travels down Michael’s chest. He stares at the dark hair, one of the most noticeable changes from when they were seventeen. Alex hasn’t been with a lot of men, but virtually all of the ones he’s been with manscape. Which is fine. It’s understandable. It’s not like anybody wants to worry about hair in their mouth when they are kissing their way down someone’s chest. But damn, there’s something about the dark hair on Michael’s tanned chest that always gets him going.

It’s unfair really, because it means that Alex is pretty much always turned on whenever Michael is shirtless. Which is all of the time. The man has some kind of personal problem with wearing shirts.

He drags his index finger through the darker patch of hair on his stomach and he feels Michael’s muscles tense under his touch. Before Alex’s hand can dip under the sheet currently protecting Michael’s modesty, the man grumbles something incoherent and rolls over onto his stomach, snuggling into Alex’s side.

Alex sinks back into the pillow, his one arm pinned under Michael’s head. He moves his free hand up to play with Michael’s hair. Michael hums in content, but doesn’t say anything more or do anything to signal that he’s truly awake. Alex closes his eyes and tries to relax. While he isn’t likely to fall back asleep, that doesn’t mean he isn’t content to lay here for hours while his boyfriend does. This is the kind of stuff Sunday mornings are made for.

Isn’t this what Maroon 5 was getting at? Cause, yeah. Alex never wants to leave.

He buries his nose in Michael’s hair and breathes in deep, taking in the smell of rain and dollar store shampoo that is uniquely Michael. It smells like love and safety. Like home.

God, twelve years of loving this man and Alex didn’t think it was possible for that love to continue to crow. Each day he’s proven wrong. See, he’s starting to learn that these small moments together… the quiet unassuming moments… They are a thousand times more powerful than the big, dramatic moments that rom coms are made of. Because right here? At this moment? All he can think about is the ending of the stupid Grinch movie when his heart grows three times in size.

That’s how Michael makes him feel. Like his heart is constantly growing, aching with joy but always wonderfully welcome. Waking up next to Michael in the morning is one of those painfully sweet moments that pull at his heart. And maybe it won’t always feel like this. He hopes it does. He doesn’t want to get used to this, because he doesn’t ever want to stop realizing how lucky they are that they managed to come together after twelve years of will they won't they. Alex hopes he appreciates the magic of waking up next to Michael because he never wants to grow complacent in this relationship.

“You’re being creepy again, and it’s too early,” Michael grumbles, not even bothering to open his eyes. Instead he throws his leg over Alex’s hip in an attempt to snuggle even closer.

Alex rolls his eyes at the argument they have most mornings. “Why is it creepy?”

“Because you’re studying me like you’re plotting the best ways to murder me in my sleep.”

Alex laughs at that, shaking Michael who reaches out to pinch him in his side and demands he stop so that he can rest.

“No murder today,” he promises, kissing the top of his head.

Michael’s hand moves up to rest at his heart and Alex reaches out to grab at his wrist to keep his hand in place. “I love you.”

Michael does open his eyes for that. Alex meets his gaze and the only way he can describe the way Michael is staring at him is fond.

“I love you, too,” Michael says, lifting his head just long enough to kiss Alex. “Go back to bed.”

“We’re already in bed,” Alex teases, earning him another groan.

“Go back to sleep. And get better dad jokes before we have a kid, please.”

Michael bringing up a kid is enough to stop any teasing that Alex would have likely continued with. Though his stupid boyfriend clearly doesn’t realize the gravity of what he’s just said, because he’s already fallen back asleep. Alex can tell he’s not just faking it either because he’s lightly snoring in that way that Alex really shouldn’t find adorable but does.

Dad. Him.

It’s an interesting thought. One he honestly hadn’t considered. The thought of bringing another Manes into this world is frankly terrifying. Alex would be satisfied if the family name died out with him and his brothers. But thinking of having a child with Michael? A little Guerin baby?

Yeah, that thought gives him plenty to think about for the next two hours while Michael sleeps.

Tagged: @callieramics

As always if anyone wants to be tagged, let me know!

#roswell nm #roswell new mexico #Malex fic #malex #fic: sunday mornings #alex manes #michael guerin #fluff #domestic bliss

84 notes · View notes

theladyofdeath · 4 years

Text

Rags & Riches {18}

Summary: An A Court of Thorns and Roses Fanfiction. 19th century AU. Based on the prompt sent in by @cat5313 All characters belong to SJM, I am just a fan with a plot.

Warning: Mature content strung throughout.

A/N: Two more chapters. I’ll post 19 tomorrow night, giving everyone a chance to catch up!

Leave a comment to be tagged & tell me what you think! :)

The battle had gone on for over a week.

They spent their day fighting, taking little breaks, the troops taking the field in intervals, only stopping to sleep or refuel.

Cassian and Rhysand were sitting on the edge of the camp, utterly exhausted, gunshots ringing in the distance. They each had a bowl of porridge, but neither of them took a bite.

“How much longer do you think it will last?” Rhysand asked, quietly.

“It will be over soon,” Cassian replied, “hopefully.”

Rhysand nodded.

They still had the upperhand, the battle was in their favor, but Hybern was not surrendering. It could not go on for much longer. It couldn’t.

“I got a letter from Feyre this morning,” Rhysand said. “Didn’t have time to tell you before we went out.”

“Yeah?” Cassian asked.

“Yeah,” Rhysand whispered. “She lost the baby.”

Cassian moved for the first time in twenty minutes, looking over at his friend. Rhysand’s eyes were hollow, the blood and grime covering the paleness of his skin.

“Fuck,” Cassian breathed, “I’m sorry, Rhys.”

Rhysand nodded, running his fingers through his hair. “Yeah. I hate...that I’m not there, you know? She has to go through it alone. You should have read the letter...she was apologizing. To me. Like it was her fault.” Rhysand’s eyes lined with tears, he cleared his throat. “I have to get home, to tell her that I love her, and that it is in no way her fault. She thinks it’s her fault. It’s not her fault.”

Cassian sat quietly, watching, and let Rhysand sort out his thoughts.

“I have to make it home, Cass,” Rhysand said, his voice shaking. “I have to make it back to her.”

But he was so tired.

So fucking tired.

“You will,” Cassian promised. “We both will.”

The bell rang, their time for resting had ended.

They set down their bowls, which had just as much in them as they did when they began.

“Stay together,” Rhysand said, as he strapped on his helmet and picked up his gun.

“Yeah,” Cassian said, doing the same, rising to his aching feet. “Stay together.”

~~~~~

It had been two days since Azriel arrived at the port. He went past Illyria, knowing Elain was still with her sisters. Word of the war got to him often, news was always spreading like wildfire. The latest battle was continuous with no sign of stopping.

Azriel had constant anxiety, never knowing where Rhysand and Cassian were, never knowing how they were.

But his heart eased, slightly, once he arrived in the drive of the Archeron Manor. He had only been gone a few months, but he was not the same man he had been under Isaac Archeron’s employment.

Although he knew one thing did not change - he loved Elain Archeron.

She was standing on the steps, along with her sisters, waiting for him. The moment she saw the carriage coming close, a huge smile spread across her face. She threw one hand in the air and waved, the other one cradling the little bump beneath her dress.

Azriel laughed, breathily. She was so beautiful, so radiant. He had been without her for too long.

The carriage stopped and the cab door opened.

Azriel hauled himself out with a grunt. He knew he was not in his best shape, covered in bruises and scars and stitches, his arm still in a sling.

Elain’s eyes widened at the sight of him, and he knew she was thinking the same thing, but it did not stop her from hurrying to his side.

“Don’t run,” Azriel laughed. “The baby.”

She threw her arms around him, careful not to hit his arm. Azriel tried not to cringe as her body pressed up against the wound at his side.

“I missed you,” she cried into his chest. Azriel pressed his mouth to her forehead, and when she leaned back, brown eyes shining, her lips. His fingers, shaking from the anticipation of this moment, pushed the stray locks of hair from her face.

“I missed you, too,” Azriel promised. “More than you know.”

“You look like shit,” Feyre announced.

But when Azriel looked up at her, she was grinning.

Nesta stood beside her and nodded her head in respect.

“Have you heard anything lately?” Azriel asked. “From Rhys and Cass.”

Feyre and Nesta both nodded.

“The day before last,” Feyre said, Nesta keeping quiet. “They are both well, but the battle had just begun when they wrote. I hear it is still going on.”

Nesta tensed, and Azriel nodded.

“But, the good news is that you are home,” Feyre said, gently. “Come in. Sit. Rest.”

Azriel nodded, grateful, and trailed up the steps and into the manor, where he was greeted by Alis.

“Lovely to have you home, my dear,” she smiled, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

“Thank you,” Azriel began, looking to Elain. “It is good to be back.”

Even as he said it, that guilt for leaving his brothers on the continent ate at him.

“I set out some tea and biscuits in the sitting room,” Alis continued, before hurrying away.

The four of them sat in the sitting room and enjoyed their afternoon tea while making small talk. Azriel did not know what anyone was saying, though, because all he could do was look at Elain.

“Will you tell us of how you got injured?”

Elain flinched, but Azriel looked at Nesta. Where her eyes were usually cold, they were filled with curiosity and pain. She had to be thinking of Cassian, had to be wondering. He knew what it was like over there, but he realized that loving someone who was shipped off to war was not any easier.

Azriel cleared his throat. “I - yes, if you wish to hear. The short story is...well, there was an explosion. I was not caught in the middle of it, thankfully, but it left me, well…” he gestured to his current state, before huffing a laugh. Elain’s hand tightened in his. “My side was...hurt, badly. I was unconscious. My helmet had fallen off when I flew through the air….” he looked at Elain, who looked as if she was trying not to cry, and failing. “I do not remember too much after that, for a while. I remember hearing gunshots, and Cassian screaming at me not to die. I found out later that Cassian had dressed my wound the best he could with his shirt while we were on the battlefield, then he carried me out, Rhysand guarding us the whole way back, until we had reached the safety zone. Then they both hauled me to the nurses, where they stitched me up. They said I had lost a lot of blood and if Cassian and Rhys had not acted so quickly, I would have died. They were both there, when I woke up, standing over me.”

Azriel looked away from Elain, back to Nesta. The eldest Archeron daughter sat tall, her back straight, her chin lifted high. She did not move. If it were not for the tear rolling steadily down her cheek, Azriel would have thought she looked like a porcelain statue.

“We are grateful that you are alright,” Feyre said, voice quiet. “Grateful that you are home.”

Azriel smiled, but said no more, because Isaac Archeron cleared his throat from the threshold.

Four sets of eyes jerked his way, but no one moved, no one had spoken.

Elain’s fingers dug into Azriel’s hand.

As Isaac approached, Azriel stood.

“Last week I was told of your…” Isaac began, his words dropping off. He looked tired, uncertain. He did not look at any of his daughters. “Take care of my daughter. Please.”

Azriel nodded, unsure of what to say, unsure of what had gone on within their family in his absence. “I will protect her with my life, and love her unconditionally.”

Isaac nodded, looking Azriel up and down. “I heard what happened to you. You have served your country well.”

“Thank you, sir,” Azriel said, chin raised.

“I hear you are to be a father.”

Azriel looked back at Elain, with her hands protectively atop her abdomen.

“I am,” Azriel assured him.

Isaac nodded, jaw locked. “I do hope you two will visit. With my grandchild.”

Elain sucked in her breath, as she rose to her feet.

“Do you mean it?” she asked.

Isaac did not look at Elain, but his eyes clouded over with guilt. “I should not have said what I did the other night. I will admit that, no, this was not the life that I saw fit for you. But, after your mother passed...” his breath hitched, his eyebrows furrowed. “Well, after she died, it was up to me alone to provide the best lives for you. I took that role on without considering your wishes, or your happiness. Elain, you are happy.” Isaac looked into the eyes identical to his own. “If you are happy, and this is what you wish to have, then...well, I suppose I shall have to warm up to the idea of it.”

Elain threw her arms around her father’s neck and sobbed. “There is simply too much happening for my pregnancy hormones to handle!”

Feyre laughed from where she sat next to Nesta.

“Although, I assume there will be a wedding, yes?” Isaac asked, shooting daggers at Azriel.

Azriel cleared his throat, suddenly more uncomfortable then he had been before. “Yes, of course.”

“Well, when that time comes, I hope you have it here,” Isaac said, eyes softening. “Among family.”

Elain laughed, and kissed her father’s cheek before turning around to the father of her child. She laid her palm against his cheek. “You need rest, I need a bubble bath.”

Azriel smiled as he nodded. “Very well.”

The two excused themselves, leaving the other three in a long, tense silence.

~~~~~

Nesta stared at the floor once Azriel and Elain made their departure. Azriel moved slowly, as if every movement caused him unbearable pain. She could not imagine living through an explosion to tell the tale. Although, she was certain Azriel was not the only one, but also certain that many did not live to tell the tale, either.

Just as she thought Isaac was about to leave, too, he turned to Nesta and Feyre, sitting on the couch.

“I am sorry for your loss,” he whispered, to Feyre. “I should have comforted you, asked how you were fairing. Emotional connection is not a strong suit of mine.”

Thanks for passing that along, by the way, Nesta thought.

“It is alright,” Feyre said, words clipped. “Nesta and Elain were there for me. So.”

Isaac nodded. “I know. I am grateful for that.”

Nesta cleared her throat. “Well, if we are done here-”

“I cannot say that I approve of your choices of….” Isaac trailed off, looking at Nesta. “Men. But, you are still my heir. You will always be my heir.”

Nesta gave him a curt nod.

When it was clear she was not going to say anything, Isaac bowed his head. “I love you both.” With that, he was gone.

Feyre turned to Nesta. “Are you alright?”

Nesta nodded. She was alright. Her father’s words did not mean much to her. In the back of her mind, all she could think about was Azriel’s story. I remember hearing gunshots, and Cassian screaming at me not to die.

“This battle has lasted longer than the others,” Nesta said.

Feyre slumped against the couch cushions. “Yes, it has. But, they are saying if we come out on top, the war will be over. They will come home.”

Nesta’s heart ached, her mind was a mess of emotion and she loathed it. In his last letter, he had told her he loved her, had told her he could not wait to come home, to ride Marigold together, to sleep in one another’s arms. He had told her that he loved Wordsworth, and read his work every day. You are the love of my life, Nesta. If I can never say another word to you, know that you are the love of my life. I promise to come back to you. I promise, okay?

His words had haunted her as she sat there, listening to Azriel speak.

“They better come home, soon,” Nesta said. “I need to tell Cassian that I love him.”

Feyre’s eyes softened, and laid her head against Nesta’s shoulder. “He knows, Nesta. I promise you. He knows.”

~~~~~

Azriel was lying in Elain’s bed while she took her bath.

“Are you still awake?” she called from the washroom.

Azriel huffed a laugh. “Yes, but hardly.”

His socks and boots had been removed, as had his shirt. His trousers hung loosely around his hips, one knee drawn up as he rested among the pillows.

He could hear Elain getting out of the water. “How much pain are you in?”

Azriel’s brow rose. “A fair amount.”

She came around the corner, wrapped in a towel. “Is there anything I can do? To lessen the pain?”

Azriel’s eyes followed her as she approached him, grazing her body. “We could think of something, I’m sure.” He pulled at the hem of her towel.

Elain’s cheeks reddened as she bit her lip to keep from laughing. “You are in no condition to do any such thing.”

“You would be surprised at what I am capable of after being away from you for months,” he laughed, sleepily.

She shook her head. “You should keep perfectly still. Rest.”

Azriel sighed. “But I promise, El, I can-”

Elain dropped her towel, forcing Azriel to forget every word he was going to say. She climbed over to him atop the blankets, and straddled his waist.

Azriel’s hand, the one that was not in the sling, reached to her abdomen, brushing over the small bump that had formed.

“There’s a baby in there,” he whispered, eyes bright.

Elain smiled. “Yes. Our baby.”

“Hmmm,” Azriel grinned, then whispered. “I cannot wait to meet you, little one.”

Elain picked up Azriel’s hand from her stomach and pressed his palm to her lips.

“I know you said I was in no condition to fuck, but you are truly not helping the situation, whatsoever,” Azriel mumbled.

Elain laughed, softly, guiding his hand to her breast. They had become significantly larger, Azriel thought, than they had been when he left. He brushed his thumb over her nipple, leaving her to take in a deep, steady breath.

“You should keep perfectly still,” Elain repeated, undoing the buttons of his trousers and tugging them down, until they were discarded onto the floor. “Rest.”

Azriel watched her every move, amused, enticed.

Elain leaned down to kiss him, softly on the mouth, then down his neck, to his shoulder, just below his collarbone, and down his chest. He closed his eyes as she kissed around the stitching that had been holding his side together.

Her fingers brushed down his abdomen with a teasing gentleness, then she stroked him, softly.

His eyes remained shut as her tongue slid up the length of his cock.

He groaned, having thought of this moment every day, every night, for the past two months. She took him wholly into her mouth, Azriel only opening his eyes to watch her wet, brown-haired head bobbing up and down.

Azriel muttered a curse as his head fell back down against the pillow. His free hand reached to the back of her head, fingers wrapping into her hair. He whispered her name, moaning softly. When he started to move his hips, her hands pressed down on him. “Perfectly still.”

She climbed up his body, one hand pressed against his chest, the other guiding his cock to her opening. Elain pushed him into her, her back arching, head falling back.

In Hybern, Azriel imagined being intimate with Elain more times than he could count. He would lie awake at night, remembering what it was like to explore her body. None of the times he imagined it, though, compared to the real thing.

Azriel sunk into the bed as she moved her hips, thriving on the soft noises coming from her lips.

He found himself in awe, hoping that he would never have to leave her side again.

~~~~~

Nightfall was approaching quickly.

Cassian could feel every muscle in his body straining to keep up with his surroundings. At least he had Rhysand, the two of them fought alongside one another as if they were one.

He could feel the end drawing near, he knew it. He saw much more of his men than Hybern’s, not that Hybern’s men were backing down.

“They are trying to finish off as much of us as they can before nightfall!” Rhysand called.

Cassian nodded, looking around.

It was the same thing, constantly on repeat.

Aim. Fire. Aim. Fire. Aim. Fire.

He prayed it was the last night, hoped they would not have to wake at dawn and start again.

He was ready to go home.

He was ready to fulfill his promise to Nesta.

They heard an explosion in the distance. “Fuck!” Rhysand yelled, above the chaos of guns going off and men screaming in agony.

Cassian looked around, scanning the men surrounding him. His men, mostly, those who were not came and fell fairly quickly.

Another explosion sounded. Cassian ducked away, as did the men around him, although it was across the battlefield.

This is how it would end, then. Hybern would surrender, but they would kill as many of them as possible before they did so.

Another explosion.

The ground beneath Cassian’s feet shook.

“Rhysand!” Cassian called, just as men began to run back toward the valley, toward camp. “Rhys!”

He looked around, frantically.

He couldn’t spot him, anywhere. Not through the chaos of retreat, there were too many men running around him.

Cassian joined the movement, eyes still wandering. “Rhysand!”

Nothing.

Cassian’s heart began pounding.

Another explosion sounded, this one so close Cassian could feel the impact rack through his body.

“Fuck,” he cried, looking around, moving with the crowd of soldiers. “Rhysand!”

Stay together. Stay together. Stay together.

Their mantra echoed through his mind.

“Cassian!”

Cassian swung himself around and caught Rhysand’s eyes, wide and full of terror as he, too, was pushed back by his own soldiers.

Cassian started to push his way toward his friend, but another soldier grabbed Cassian by his jacket. “The fuck are you doing? Back to camp! Hybern’s men are gone, but they will blow up every inch of this land trying to kill us all before nightfall! We won, now haul ass!”

Cassian jerked out of the soldier’s arms, still trying to dodge around everyone else, covered in dirt and blood. He did not pass one man that was not exhausted, was not ready for it all to be over, was not covered in filth.

They had won.

He had to make sure he and Rhysand made it back to camp, then they could go home.

He could keep his promise.

He would keep his promise.

Stay together. Stay together. Stay together.

“Rhysand!”

“Cassian!”

Cassian looked around, chest heaving.

Stay together. Stay together.

Rhysand was behind him, just as another explosion sent men and dirt flying nearby. Rhysand ducked, as did the men around him, arms over their heads, protecting themselves from the debris.

Stay together.

It was chaos.

Too many men, too close together, not enough room.

No direction, none but fall back.

Men were tripping over bodies, pushing one another out of the way, trying to drag their fellow man back.

Fall back.

Cassian’s world was moving in slow motion.

Rhysand was running. He saw Cassian. He was moving. Cassian was moving.

Fall back.

He had made Nesta a promise.

Cassian held Rhysand’s gaze, hazel and violet eyes meeting in silent conversation.

Stay together.

Another explosion sounded.

The world went dark.

~~~~~

@throne-of-ashes-and-beauty @mariamuses @a-happybird @amusicalbookworm @manoncrochanblackbeak @alifletcher2012 @candid-confetti @fandoms-everywhere-united @mis-lil-red@littlehoneyybee @abillionlittlepieces @impossiblescissorspeachpaper @awesomelena555 @theoverlyenthusiasticwriter @tswaney17 @jemma-nessian-and-elriel @rhysandsrightknee @gendryaforthemasses @dayanna-hatter @thebluemartini @welcometothespeaknowworldtour @julemmaes @christiashadows @sleeping-and-books @itsme-malin @agnez312 @cat5313 @amren-courtofdreams @chemica @empress-ofbloodshed @islamonna @illyrianbeauty @sleeping-and-books @queenofxhearts @sleeping-and-books @aedionashryver-wolfofthenorth @queenofillea1 @mynewdreamwasyou @levivlio @hellolenas @burritowithfeels @that-other-pineapple @girl-who-reads-the-books @raghad-50725@musicmaam @rowaelinforeverworld @negativenesta @welcometothespeaknowworldtour @gloriouspaintercreatorbandit@sannelovesreading @nerdperson524 @ireallyshouldsleeprn @nerdperson524 @mariamuses @gorl-power @booklover242 @rowaelinforeverworld @regular-nessian-trash @izou1204 @aelin-rowan-whitehorn @opheliatheemerald @eversincebeirut @musicmaam @ladybookwrm @santas-dwynwen @starryandbooks @candid-confetti @avenrebekah @awkward-avocado-s

#acptar #acomaf #acowar #acofas #nessian #feysand #elriel #sjm #fanfic #fanfiction #period au

194 notes · View notes

ashintheairlikesnow · 4 years

Text

He Could Scream: Kauri

CW: Electric shock treatment, lab whump dehumanization, pet whump, referenced past dubcon/noncon, referenced drugging, abusive relationship (from abused person’s POV)

Immediately follows The Surgery

Tagging: @maybeawhumpblog, @pepperonyscience, @haro-whumps, @burtlederp, @18-toe-beans, @finder-of-rings, @whump-chains, @giggly-evil-puppy, @whimpers-and-whumpers @whump-it, @lumpofwhump, @pumpkinthefangirl

“Okay, little man,” Tyler says, a bright, pleased smile on his face. He isn’t wearing his long white coat, today, just a simple button-up shirt with a starched collar and nice dress pants. There’s a little ID card hanging on a metal clip off his shirt pocket, a tiny little rectangular photo of Tyler smiling bright and cheerful against a plain blue background.

The smile is always the same.

Kauri spent four days in the recovery room - he could track days in there, the nurse named Bobbie checked on him five times every day every few hours, and Kauri had grasped onto that much control and information and held tight - and then it was back to the same place, white walls and 162 white tiles. Irregular feedings,

Except in moments like this one, when they bring him out to test the product.

“Hey.” Fingers snap just under his nose and Kauri jumps, blinking rapidly, pulled from his thoughts. “Hey, bud, you need to pay attention.”

Kauri stares at him with red-rimmed eyes, feeling emptied out, like a cup full of water that they had poured and poured - and still they searched for one more drop. After a second, he slowly nods. “I’m, I’m paying attention, sir,” He says softly, sitting on the examination table feeling the little paper crackle underneath him as he shifts around.

“Hey, I’m not a handler, man. You can just call me Tyler.”

“Um…”

Tyler smiles at him expectantly, and Kauri still fights the urge to smile back automatically. Tyler is always smiling - sometimes bright and cheerful and proud like now, sometimes nervous and like he’s hiding fear, sometimes a smile that is blank and empty when the Director comes to see how the tests are going.

When the Director comes, she puts on those blue gloves and touches the red, irritated healing skin around the new things they’ve put into him. Sometimes she pushes hard into the stitches and nearly breaks them, and he sees Del wincing just behind her, but no one says a word to the Director.

When he cries out, she presses harder. If Kauri takes all her pressing and prodding without a flinch, she pulls back and praises him.

He is starting to hate the words good boy.

“Try it for me,” Tyler encourages him, soothingly. He puts a hand on either side of Kauri’s face and shakes his head a little, back and forth. “Come on, kiddo.”

“... Okay,” Kauri says, finally, wanting to cringe back and away but he can’t. “Um. Tyler.”

“Good, great. I know this part’s not much fun, ‘898, I get it, but you’ve done so well up until now.” Tyler ruffles his hair and Kauri’s eyes flutter closed involuntarily - it feels good, he can’t help it. He doesn’t want the touch to feel good, but it does.

Because of them. It’s because of people like Tyler - because people like Tyler used other people like me, a long time ago, to find out how to make us different people than we used to be. They took all those things they learned and put them into me, to make me like this.

Tyler’s wide bright smile, flashing teeth, his long hair pulled back in its usual bun against the nape of his neck, the way he’s rubbing his hands together - it’s all a blur of things Kauri can’t quite focus on. His shoulders keep jumping, jerking him forwards without his consent. Fingers twitch and when they try to have him hold a pen it just drops, again and again and again.

When he was trained the first time, they trained him to be scared of holding pens - his hands shook when he tried, he couldn’t get a good grip.

It’s worse now.

Kauri wonders if the shaking will ever fully stop.

“We’re going to take things nice and slow today. This is all going on record for the Director, so you really need to work hard for me. Got it?” Tyler tilts his chin up and Kauri blinks at him, nodding slowly, his eyes skimming to the camera fixed in the corner near the ceiling, the big black circle that hangs down from the ceiling tiles. Staring, staring, staring.

They will tape his screaming. People like Tyler will study it. And then they’ll do it to someone else, too - some other Box Boy - over and over and over again-

Stop thinking. Get through this and go home. Once they’re done with tests, Owen will take you home, you’ll go home.

Thinking of Owen brings new pain, different pain - a twist inside him because going home isn’t any better, is it? If he goes home, Owen will have the little button they push to hurt him. Owen, who put his hands on his neck and pushed him onto his stomach on the floor next to the couch… he’ll have a new way to hurt him when he’s angry, and he had promised to never, ever hurt him like this.

Kauri swallows back the noise he wants to make, low and broken.

“Okay.” Tyler turns back to look up at the camera, holding up one hand to count down from five. Kauri watches, feeling dull and far away from himself.

Five… four… three… two… one…

“Disciplinary implant with electrical output,” Tyler says to the camera, his voice dropping from its usual good cheer to serious, and Kauri stares at the neatly twisted bun of hair on the back of his neck. “This is subject eight to receive the implants and the first to show success afterward. Subject is number Six-Four-Five-Eight-Nine-Eight, known by owner as Kauri, spelled K-A-U-R-I.” Tyler glances back at him. “Remind me to tell your owner sometime that ‘kauri’ is actually a whole word with a pronunciation, and what he calls you ain’t it.”

Kauri doesn’t say anything - just drops his eyes down to the ground - and after a beat, Tyler shrugs and turns back to the camera.

“Guess the owner’s never spent time ‘Down Undah’,” Tyler says with a cheerful, absolutely awful accent that Kauri doesn’t recognize and can’t place. Then he pauses. “Wait. Is New Zealand still Down Under? Shit. Aren’t those two places close to each other? I feel like… Australia’s probably pretty close… oh shit, I have no fucking clue what distance is like over there. Huh. I probably should have paid more attention in, like, geography or whatever. I’m guessing watching that show with the hot mermaids doesn’t count as studying New Zealand…” His voice trails off. Then snaps back up at the camera. “Well, shit, that’s a bad take. Okay. One more time.” Tyler sighs, holds up five fingers to the camera, starts counting again.

Kauri wonders exactly how Tyler became a scientist - or if he’s really something else entirely, and they put a white coat on him and called him a scientist to hide what he really is, what he really does, in his work on Kauri and the others like him.

Five… four… three… two… one…

“Disciplinary implant with electrical output,” Tyler repeats, in the same serious, professional voice, and Kauri doesn’t move - doesn’t even swing his legs - he just stares down at the floor and waits for his little speech to finish, for the pain to start again.

“We’ve been working with this subject during post-op and currently to set the parameters of the implant as per the owner’s instructions,” Tyler says, moving back to stand right next to where Kauri sits on the examination table even as he pitches his voice for the camera in the ceiling, giving it the occasional glance with his head slightly tilted. Angled, Kauri thinks - he wants to look good on the camera.

“Main parameter is successfully set. Example #1 is prepared. 645898, please give your attention to the board on the wall.”

Kauri tenses, blue eyes flaring just a little.

He hates this test.

“Come on, little man,” Tyler says softly, encouragingly, and puts a hand on Kauri’s back, rubbing soothing circles that make his skin crawl and wish for more all at once. “You can do this for us, okay? Just be really good for me. I really need this promotion.”

I really need you to have not torn my skin open and made me watch you do it, but here we are.

The wall is crumbling inside Kauri’s mind, and he doesn’t even try to put the pieces back in any longer. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter if he remembers things, if he gets angry inside, if Owen notices. He’s controlled, now. Owen will make sure he can’t read, or send a message, ever… ever again.

They don’t even care enough to erase it all any longer, because they don’t have to. He can be angry all he wants - he’ll still be helpless.

Tyler’s hand slides up to the back of his neck, lays heavy there and clammy. His thumb presses into the side of Kauri’s neck and Kauri shudders and raises his eyes.

“Good boy, ‘898,” Tyler murmurs, and Kauri bites down on his lower lip until it hurts.

There’s a large white dry-erase board with black letters written on it hung on the wall opposite from the exam table Kauri is sitting on. When they’d brought him in here, Tyler and Delevigne had talked about how the computer had chosen randomized words based on Kauri’s life before.

What was my life before? Why does a computer get to know and I don’t?

Kauri’s eyes land on the whiteboard, try briefly to focus on METAPHOR in Tyler’s thick scrawl. As soon as the black marks coalesced into a word, the fire lit his nerves again.

Kauri jerked forwards, crying out helplessly - it never mattered how many times they practiced, he always cried out - and Tyler’s hand tightened on the back of his neck, pulling him back.

Kauri went rigid, tears in his eyes. “Pl-please,” He breathes, in the stammer, the shock-speech the handlers call it and laugh at him. “Please, m-make it, make it st-stop, Tyler, please-”

“Look away from the word, buddy,” Tyler says, unperturbed, watching Kauri’s face. “That’s all you have to do, is drop your eyes.”

Kauri tries but he can’t, every muscle is locked against the electricity. His whimpers become choked-off sobs as tears flood his eyes, until finally the words blur enough to be unrecognizable.

The pain stops, and Kauri can finally lower his eyes. He tries to breathe through the aftershocks, curling his hands into fists to keep them from twitching and shaking too much. Tyler’s hand never leaves his neck, presses against it like a weight.

“Subject is exposed to shock as soon as focus on words is registered,” Tyler says to the camera, and the smile is hinting at the corners of his mouth again. “Subject shows marked reluctance to engage with text even when given a direct order, as the subject is aware of the consequences if he does so. We’ll do one more, 645898.”

Kauri jerks in a breath and nods quickly, feeling his curls starting to stick to the cold sweat that’s broken out across his body, the way his thin white trainee T-shirt sticks to the sweat on his back. The recirculated air washes across his arms, his bare legs and feet, and he starts to shiver. He can hardly tell the difference between the shivers from cold and the muscle shakes from the electric shock.

The little circles - the shock implants - feel hot, like when he would sit on Owen’s balcony in the sunlight too long and the warmth of the sun turned to an uncomfortable, prickling burn. When he looks down, he can just see them, glowing slightly at the bottom of his vision. Can see the stitches, the skin around them red and irritated, that travel in a perfect line from his right shoulder to the center of his chest.

Tyler steps away from him and walks across the room. Kauri keeps his head down and watches from under his dark eyelashes as the word Tyler had written is erased with the little black eraser. Tyler checks a card he pulls from his pocket and writes something new. Kauri drops his eyes so he won’t look at the word a single second longer than he has to - aware, with a twist of disgusted fear inside of him, that that’s the response he’s supposed to have.

The headaches come and go, as memories break free or sink back under the fog in his head, but they don’t care about the memories anymore.

They don’t care what he knows.

Because they know that Kauri is controlled.

“Shit, she’s gonna be so happy,” Tyler murmurs as he goes back to Kauri’s side. “She wanted us to make sure her poor sad sack kid can do this without a memory wipe, and we’re gonna give her a fucking work of art, little man. Okay. Look up.”

They put the implants under his skin.

They record the pain he feels.

They record when he screams.

They will use it to hurt someone after him.

And Tyler will be rewarded for it.

Kauri swallows hard. Tyler slides an arm around his shoulder, leans in close, and takes him by the chin. His sweaty fingers tilt Kauri’s chin up and up and up.

“I said look up, bud,” Tyler says, more forcefully this time.

Kauri’s eyes land on HERO’S JOURNEY but don’t take in that the individual letters even form words before the burn lights him up again and he starts to shake.

His eyes locked with the pain like every other part of him, and when he sees the words all Kauri can do is wail, half-choked as his muscles are forced into rigidity, a pressure that seems like it might snap bones. He can’t stop looking, he can’t stop, and it won’t stop hurting until he stops looking.

Finally Tyler grabs him by the hair and pushes down, forces his gaze back down to the floor to break his eye contact with the letters. Kauri sobs, tears sliding down his cheeks as he shakes and shakes in Tyler’s arms. His hands won’t close, the fingers keep moving, twitching, jerking little nonsense movements he can’t control.

“Success,” Tyler says loudly, happily, for the camera. Then he pets through Kauri’s hair, holding him close. Kauri leans against him automatically, eyes blank and unfocused, sobbing hoarsely through a throat that aches from screaming. “End recording. There we go, buddy, there we go. All done for now. All done, little man, all done… there we go, just let it out, there you go… God, I am so grateful for you. You're so lucky, man, we're going to be written into those fucking brochures now, you and me… you’ve done so well and the Director is gonna give me one fuck of a bonus for this, you’ve been so, so good for me, little man, so good…”

Tyler’s fingers card through black curls, scratch just a little into his scalp, run down his neck and then back up again, and Kauri shudders against something new - not the simple I-want-this he has to every touch, but the old disgust he used to feel, used to be able to access. He doesn’t want Tyler to touch him, he doesn’t want to be his very good boy and help him design something terrible to do to someone else, he doesn’t want he doesn’t want he doesn’t want.

He keeps crying, but the tears begin to change. He can feel the sick lurch in his stomach, the way his mouth wanted to pull his lips back into a snarl. He can feel the fight he’d had, a long time ago, before it was all gone. The version of him that had said you can’t take my name from me - but they did… they took his name and they took the fight, too.

They didn’t care if he remembered, any longer. Owen didn’t care what he felt - that he might feel hurt Owen broke his promise, that he might be angry about it. Owen didn’t care.

All Owen cared about was that Kauri could be controlled.

Punished. Disciplined, for thinking for himself. For having a thought Owen wasn’t in charge of. For doing one single thing just for himself.

Why didn’t you just tie me to the bed?

Kauri sniffled, and Tyler misunderstood the reason, tightening his arms around him, shushing him in a low soft sincere voice. He thought Kauri was sad - and he was - but the tears weren’t from sadness.

The tears were from anger.

“Take your time,” Tyler whispers into his ear, petting him gently. “Take your time, ‘898. Just breathe, little guy, you’re doing great. We’re going to bring in the computer next, okay?”

Kauri shivers, clenching his eyes shut, feeling a ghost of electricity just thinking about looking at the keyboard again. And they’ll make him - make him look, make him try to type, try to read, and they’ll hurt him every time he does.

Because he can’t be allowed to read or write, or think for himself, or think at all. Because he has to be locked up, closed up in Owen’s condo, kept like the cat the neighbors owned next door. Because he has to be empty, and pretty.

Because Owen is jealous of every thought Kauri has that isn’t about him.

“I know it sucks, little dude, I totally get it,” Tyler says, and Kauri wants to spit no you don’t, you don’t understand anything about me, but all he does is miserably nod, allow himself to be held, try to ignore the way his body wants to react even now, even to this, the way it was trained to. “I know. But look - once the Director is happy with the recordings, we’ll get you back home, and your owner will be so happy to see you, right? Because you’ll be totally perfect for him, exactly how he wants you now.”

Why don’t I get to choose how I want me to be? What did I do to deserve having that choice taken away? Why won’t you let me be a person anymore?

Why can’t Owen just love me back?

Kauri cries in the arms of a scientist who will not stop hurting him and he’s so hurt, and scared, and sad, and mostly he’s so angry he could scream.

272 notes · View notes

infptarius · 5 years

Text

Play With the Clown

This is the first thing I have written to post to Tumblr. I hope my fellow clownfuckers enjoy, this is NSFW. (18+ ONLY) PART 1

The sound of the door slamming shut behind you made your rattled nerves jump, and you turned to see the way into the decrepit house on Neibolt St. closed tightly behind you. ‘Just a peek,’ you had thought when you entered. A peek indeed. You were aware of the things people said about this house. You’d heard the place was haunted, that homeless people stayed here, that people had died here. Curiosity was a hell of an incentive to do the stupidest things, you supposed. Turning back to the interior of the house, cobwebs dripped from the cracked ceiling, and dead leaves crunched beneath the soles of your shoes as you pressed onward, into the dim light filtering through grimy windows. You felt anxious, sweat beaded on your skin as goosebumps raised along your arms and neck. You could feel eyes watching you, but you saw no one else. You heard no one else, either. “Hello?” Your voice sounded meek as it rang through the abandoned structure, crumbling walls sending decaying echos of your own call back to your straining ears.

As you listened intently, you found that there WAS another sound. Soft tinkling bells sounded in a room down the hall you were currently exploring. The fear that was building in your veins like a buildup of ice around your frantically pounding heart faded slightly at the sound.

It seemed so... welcoming? Wrong? Both of these things, in fact, were true. Your feet carried you forward into a room that seemed impossibly dark. The moment you crossed the threshold, it was like being blindfolded.

You turned on your heel to exit the room, but saw no doorway from whence you had come. A solid wall met you as you attempted to walk, hoping to pass through to the hallway once more.“Oh FUCK!” you scream, fists balled and pounding on this unexpected surface, your fear of confinement rearing its ugly head to make your heart ache in your chest.

A malevolent giggle catches your attention in the darkness. The sound made you cringe and twist away, sounding as though it had come from mere inches from your ear. “W-who are you?” Your voice quakes as you pose your question, betraying your trembling body even in complete darkness. “Who? Why, I’m Pennywise the Dancing Clown~!” The response comes quickly, in a false jovial tone. “Pennywise has found a friend, yes?” His uneven tone, rising and falling in strange ways make your stomach twist into knots with anxiety.

“Okay... Pennywise...” The name feels strange on your tongue as you struggle to calm yourself. “How... how do I get out of this room?” “Get Out?” he asks with a mirthful giggle, “You don’t Get Out of this room, silly. You stay, and you play with the clown~!” A soft glow emanates through the room, providing just enough illumination for you to make out the silhouette of the tall clown in his strangely designed suit standing before you. He is easily three heads taller than you, towering above with a face obscured in shadows.

The eyes, though... small points of light set deep into the darkness of the face you can almost see glimmer at you as you try to step back, pressing into the hard wall behind you.

“Ohhhh... You don’t want to play with the clown?” he asks in mock sadness, placing his hands against the wall to either side of you. He leans forward, and the rooms strange luminescence increases to bring you his visage. His chalk-white face with ruby lips and lines adorning his cheeks, rising up over his eyes of molten gold comes into focus, and you feel heat rise in your cheeks as an unnaturally long and pointed tongue snakes out from between his lips. The wet muscle drags a trail of chilly saliva from the bottom of your neck, right at the top of your collar bone up over your pounding pulse. It glides over the curve of your jaw, letting the tip flick upward as it comes away from your skin after tasting your cheek.

Sharp teeth glisten behind those plump, blood red lips, and you gasp softly when you feel the sudden pooling of tingling desire in your abdomen.

Pennywise pauses as this feeling unfurls inside you, his eyes drift slightly, his vision no longer sharply focused on your face. He huffs a few times, like a bear scenting its surroundings.

His face presses into the nape of your neck harshly and the air rushing over your skin as he breathes in makes your body shiver, nipples stiffening under your shirt.

“So you DO want to play with the clown...” he comments, a wide grin spreading over his mouth. “Play with Pennywise, yes... we can have so much fun together.” “Play with you?” You ask this with a still trembling voice, though the heat of desire slowly overtakes the terror that had originally settled into your bones. “If I do that... if I play with you, whatever you want to play, are you going to help me get out of here?”

Pennywise cackles at this inquiry, chilling your blood for a moment, before he leans himself down, nose to nose with you in the dimly lit room. “Sure, little thing. Play with me and I’ll let you go home... if you don’t break the rules~.”

“Rules?” you ask nervously. “W-what are the rules?”

Large, gloved hands grip your arms just beneath the shoulders and you feel yourself hoisted effortlessly into the air. You cry out softly in surprise, legs shaking as you feel yourself lowered to the floor again. “Rule Number One~,” the clown’s singsong voice filled with threat announces, “No screaming.” He chuckles to himself as though he finds the idea itself hilarious. You shiver and bite your lips together between your teeth.

“Rule Number Two~.” He raises a hand to touch your chin. The soft tearing of fabric meets your ears as blackened, sharp-tipped claws erupt from the glove. “No fighting.” A momentary blur of motion sends the sharp tips of his claw down through the fabric covering your body, shredding the front of your shirt, your pants and undergarments so that the clothing tumbles off of you uselessly. The cool air of the room makes you whimper softly.

The growing pressure in your belly ignites your nerves, and you feel tears gathering in your eyes at the aching need you feel to be touched, to be stimulated by this creature.

A low inhuman growl issues from Pennywise as his suit dissipates like vapor, exposing his lean, pale body to your eyes. His legs and arms appear blackened from the knees and elbows to his clawed digits. The image was strangely beautiful, before those clawed hands grabbed your arms and pulled you against that chilly, firm body.

His lips gleam with his saliva, a few cold drips landing on your collar bone and breast. You lean your head forward and press your own lips against his, eyes closing as you trust these instincts that burn and flare within your body to lead you to safety.

After a moment of shock, the vibration of his low growl of contentment makes your lips and tongue feel almost electrified, and you grind your thighs together at the heat that radiates from the swell of your slick sex.

He returns your kiss with surprising intensity, his tongue gliding around your own as his teeth prick your lips lightly, causing little droplets of blood to form and darken your lips to the same color as his own.

As he sucks and licks at your lips, a new sensation makes your core tighten and clench, a slick, smooth appendage glides against your hot slit. The aching entrance of your sex spasms as the slick tip glides over it, making its way to the throbbing bundle of your clit.

Thrusting your hips, you grind that aching bundle against him, knees shaking as jolts of pleasure crash through your terrified body. You moan into his mouth, even as he collects the tiny droplets of blood at your lips.

Struggling, you tilt your hips to place his tip at your entrance and wriggle against him. Complying with your silent plea, he bucks his hips forward. Slick flesh fills you, stretching your aching walls in sweet satisfying agony.

As he releases your mouth, your head tips back and a low moan issues from you as he stretches you around his appendage. His arms grip you tight against his chest, and his hips begin a rapid, merciless rhythm.

Your body flushes with pleasure even as your walls ache around him, the friction of his pulsing shaft against the sensitive flesh of your core sending showers of sparks and galaxies of stars through to the backs of your eyelids. Breathless whimpers are all you can manage as he holds you tight against his chest, fucking into your slippery heat in greedy, full thrusts.

He picks up his pace when your muscles spasm around him, an external hint at the mind-blanking intensity of pleasure that wracks your body as you come hard against him, eyes open and unseeing.

You feel the continued pace pick up as your senses return to you slowly. His breathing grows ragged in your ear, breath rushing over the side of your neck and ear as he pants, fucking into you like an animal in heat. His pelvis slaps loudly against your own with every thrust until you feel yourself crushed down against him, his shaft buried inside your body throbbing and hot, thick fluid seeping into you.

For a long moment, you’re held pinned against him, viscous release seeping out around him from your overfilled cunt. “Rule Number Three...” The sinister voice speaks in your ear as a sudden harsh shift in gravity sends you reeling. For a moment, you feel as though you’ve lost consciousness, until you find yourself being held above your bed, in your own bedroom. “When the clown wants to play, you play~.”

Dropping you unceremoniously on the bed, Pennywise gives you a malicious, sharp-toothed grin and vanishes with a pop!

You lay panting on your bed for a moment, wide-eyed with your heart hammering away in your chest. When you realize that you’re beginning to leak whatever strange seed you were filled with on your favorite blanket, you stand and walk toward your bathroom with quivering legs.

A mixture of dread and excitement boils within you as you wonder when the clown will be coming back to play again.

#clownfucker #pennywise #smut #pennywise x reader #dubcon #Play With The Clown

185 notes · View notes

wigglywormy · 6 years

Text

fair victory [bakugou/deku, 1.7k]

ahhhh i know i haven’t psoted anything in 10 thousand years, for which im sorry lol, but anyways! this is my squealing santa fic for @heartsywritesthethings !!!

their bnha prompt was ‘bakugou getting wrecked by another classmate’, and since i haven’t written any bakudeku for this blog yet, i went with deku as the ler 8)

merry christmas! i hope to open up prompts again soon so i can start posting more consistently on this blog again xoxo

Bakugou admits that UA has a really damn nice gym, and he intends to get a good use out of it before he graduates in the next few months. As a third year, he doesn’t have as much time to train and exercise like he used to, because his current internship and all of his finals before graduation really keep him occupied.

He finds that working out at night tends to be the only time he gets to utilize the gym, so it becomes a sort of routine for him. Wake up, go to class for half a day, take a bus over to the city to patrol and help Best Jeanist with paperwork (and occasionally - more often than not, now that he’s a third year - go on investigations and actually partake in beating the shit out of some local villains), then he comes back to the dorms, has dinner, maybe hangs out begrudgingly with his friends for a bit, then treks down to the gym below the first floor of the dorms for an intense work out.

It’s an exhausting schedule, but he doesn’t mind it too much.

What he isn’t expecting is for Deku to weasel his way into his routine, almost like he belongs there.

Their patrol routes cross streets, and after the first couple times of nodding amicably, that start actually chatting (because Bakugou’s fucking eighteen now, he has no reason to be a petty bitch to Deku anymore. Some might even say they’re friends now, though Bakugou still cringes at that word.)

Then, Deku starts hanging out with him when Uraraka or Iida were busy. And eventually, he starts following Bakugou to the gym for his nightly workout.

“I’ll spot you!” Deku says as he bounds after Bakugou, gym bag slung over his shoulder. “And then you can spot me? It’s unsafe to lift weights alone, y’know.”

“I haven’t hurt myself yet,” Bakugou grumbles, but holds open the door so Deku and his over sized gym bag can clamber in.

“Yeah, yet,” Deku rolls his eyes, and damn, the kid’s gotten fucking sassy after their second year. Bakugou’s reasonably impressed, to be frank. He blames it on all the time he hangs out with fucking Todoroki.

“Watch your mouth, you shit,” Bakugou snorts, arching his back and doing a few warm up stretches.

“Or what?” Deku shoots back, tossing his bag onto the floor and pulling an arm across his chest as he follows suit in stretching.

“I’ll kick your ass, that’s what,” Bakugou narrows his eyes, and when his gaze locks with Deku’s, he doesn’t spot any fear, not like there used to be. Now he merely sees an inviting glint of… excitement? Of a fucking challenge?

“Bet I could kick your ass now, Kacchan,” Deku says breezily, and he not-so-subtly flexes a bicep. Bakugou’s eyes zap to the defined muscle, and he desperately tries to ignore the way his stomach tightens up at the site. The fuckin’ nerd is right - he has gotten buff as hell the past three years. It’s impressive, and sickeningly attractive, and all sorts of other things that Bakugou does not want to address now, or any time in the future thank you very fucking much.

“Wanna eat those words, you fuck?” Bakugou hisses as a distraction to himself, mostly.

“Alright,” Deku rolls his eyes, walking to the center of the gym area where a large padded mat is laid on the ground. He gets into a fighting stance, and he smiles at Bakugou. “Wanna spar?”

“Do you actually have a deathwish?”

“No quirks,” Deku says, tapping his foot impatiently.

“Fuck,” Bakugou sighs, because he knows this new-and-improved Deku will just provoke him further if he says no. And yeah, sure, the excuse to kick someone’s ass always gets his blood boiling, but being in such close proximity as Deku - after realizing some things last year - isn’t exactly what he wants to do right now.

He sucks it up though, because refusal will cause even more questions than answers, so he sheds his shirt, leaving his tank on, and cracks his neck as he charges without a countdown. What? Deku’s the fucking one who started this, he doesn’t deserve a warning.

Unfortunately, Deku seems to have predicted this, and he quickly grabs one of Bakugou’s forearms and wrenches him forward, attempting to unbalance him with raw force.

Bakugou growls, because these are all moves that he knows for a fact Deku has learned from watching him fight. He manages to get a good shove in, his palm flat against Deku’s broad chest, but the next thing he knows, Deku’s on the ground, sliding behind him and elbowing the back of his knees until he buckles and falls.

“That was a dirty fuckin’ move,” Bakugou manages, impressed, as he rolls away, but Deku grabs his ankle and tugs him back, getting him face down on the mat with his wrists pinned against his lower back behind him.

“Shit,” Bakugou hisses, thrashing and trying to dislodge Deku, who’s now straddling him as he uses his weight to pin Bakugou down. “Get - off.”

“Do you surrender?” Deku says, and Bakugou can hear the smug grin in his voice.

“Fuck no.”

“Kacchan, c’mon,” Deku laughs, tightening his hold on Bakugou’s wrists. He leans down a bit, and Bakugou turns his head so his cheek is squished against the mat, his legs kicking behind him as he tries to escape. “Just give up.”

His palms crackle, and Deku tsk’s. “No quirks, remember? Just admit defeat, and then I’ll let you go!”

Bakugou feels his cheeks burn, trying to ignore the heavy weight of Deku on top of him, holding him down, his strong, scarred hands squeezing bruises into his wrists. He doesn’t respond, opting instead to growl and buck like a wild animal because the rest of his body is heating up now too and this is not good.

He hears Deku sigh, a quiet murmur of, “you asked for this,” before Bakugou feels determined fingers pressing into his ribs, right over his tank top.

Bakugou jerks as if he’s been electrocuted, a strangled noise escaping his lips, and his eyes widen when Deku starts tickling him.

Simultaneously, having Deku’s hands on him is something he’s fantasized about for months now, but not like this, holy shit. Bakugou’s biting his lip so hard it nearly bleeds, and he’s already pinned down, already practically defeated, he’s not going to give Deku the satisfaction of -

Deku slips his hand underneath Bakugou’s tank, fluttering his nails up until he can scratch right below Bakugou’s ribs, and Bakugou shrieks.

“F-Fuckin’ Deku, you sh-shihihit, get the fuck off!”

“You’re still super ticklish, huh?” Deku giggles - giggles at him, like this is funny, that fucker - before drilling his thumb into Bakugou’s ribs, causing the blonde to choke on a laugh, kicking his legs and panting.

“I’m not!”

“You aren’t?” Deku says, the teasy little fuck. “Are you sure?”

He releases Bakugou’s arms, but before Bakugou has half a mind to flip himself over and roll away, Deku grabs his wrists and pins them above his head, stretching Bakugou out taut. He slips his free hand underneath Bakugou’s tank again, this time tickling up his spine until he can scratch his nails along his shoulder blades, and Bakugou hates himself for how hard he giggles, shoving his face into his arm to try and muffle himself.

“Aww, Kacchan,” Deku coos, leaning down so his breath fans across Bakugou’s nape. “Do you give up?”

“F-Fuck you - ah - aha shit!” Bakugou gasps when Deku tickles under his arm, fingers deft and sure as Bakugou writhes underneath him. “Get off!”

Finally, Deku fully releases Bakugou’s wrists in order to bring both hands down to attack Bakugou’s waist, fingers slipping underneath him for a brief moment to pinch his hips and prod into his stomach. Unfortunately for Bakugou, he’s already pretty worn out, and steadily getting even more exhausted because every time he tries not to laugh, Deku just tickles him harder until he’s forced to wheeze out these pathetic giggles that Deku keeps cooing at god fucking damnit.

“Kacchan, you’re so cute,” Deku laughs, and when Bakugou manages to roll onto his side, Deku claws at his belly until Bakugou snorts.

Cute, Bakugou thinks deliriously, his body tingling and warm as Deku tortures him. What the fuck -

“Stop!” Bakugou laughs, rolling onto his back and pushing weakly at Deku’s chest. “Fuck - st-stop, Deku you piece of shihihit!”

“That doesn’t sound like a surrender,” Deku whispers, reaching a hand up to scratch under Bakugou’s neck. His hands seem to be darting everywhere, and Bakugou’s brain feels fuzzy, desperate for some sort of mercy but too prideful to speak it. Besides, though the tickling is fucking awful, Deku’s so warm on top of him, and his hands are like honey against his sweaty skin.

Once Deku wedges both of his hands underneath Bakugou’s arms though, Bakugou arches his back so hard it pops, his head thrown back against the mat, and god, he can’t - he can’t take it anymore, fuck.

“Deku - Deku, I’m - ” Bakugou squeezes his eyes shut, giggling wildly. “I’m gonna f-fucking d-die - ”

“You’re so dramatic,” Dekiu laughs, “you’re not gonna die, I promise.”

“Yes I fuckin’ am,” Bakugou wheezes, finally peeking open his eyes, damp with tears as he sees the fond, endeared look on Deku’s face as the sadistic fuck keeps fucking tickling him. “Fine - shit, f-fine, okay, stop, you win, you fu-fuhuhcking win, get off - !”

“Wow,” Deku says, slowing his touches but not stopping completely. He trails his hands down, tracing over Bakugou’s protruding ribs gently until Bakugou squeaks breathlessly. “It only took you nearly passing out to finally admit you lost. So stubborn, Kacchan.”

He sounds… incredibly happy about this fact, and Bakugou finds himself flushing deeper, panting as he catches his breath. Deku’s still on top of him, and Bakugou trembles when those scarred hands trail over his waist. It’s electric and terrifying, how much Bakugou doesn’t really want him to stop.

Fucking…. Shit. Stupid fucking feelings.

“So,” Deku says after letting Bakugou calm down, though his hands are still touching him, almost absentmindedly. “Wanna go again?”

“I’m gonna murder you,” Bakugou wheezes pathetically, but there’s a grin on his face, and when Deku smiles back, Bakugou knows that he’s officially completely fucking whipped. Any other person, and he would’ve blown their hands off for pulling a stunt like this, but Deku just looks at him so earnestly, and Bakugou begrudgingly admits to himself that maybe… maybe it wasn’t all that torturous.

Though, next time, Bakugou’s not above a little bit (or a lot) of revenge. He guarantees that Deku is just as ticklish as he was when they were kids, and Bakugou intends to find out very soon just how true that fact is.

#bakudeku #bnha #tickling #worm writes #squealing santa 2k17

333 notes · View notes

blackbatpurplecat · 7 years

Text

My Thoughts on “Batman and Harley Quinn”

Alright, the latest DC animated movie dropped a few days ago and I finally had the chance to watch it.

I had high hopes for this one. It looked very pretty; seeing the Batman: The Animated Series style make a glorious return immediately made me go SOLD! And while I’m aware that this movie only exists because Harley is extremely popular at the moment (and considering the characters’ screen times, the movie should be called ‘Harley Quinn and Batman’), it was a refreshing change to see her original design again! FINALLY the character that was named after a harlequin actually LOOKS like a harlequin again, not a slutty Hot Topic victim. I’ve missed red/black Harley so much, I can’t even tell you.

So is it any good???

Ehm... kinda.

Well.

It’s okay.

So what’s the story?

Poison Ivy and Jason Woodrue a.k.a. Floronic Man, kind of an evil Swamp Thing dude, plan to turn everything and everyone on earth into plant-like creatures. They need a scientist’s formula for that so they go on a rampage to hunt him down. Batman and Nightwing recruit Harley Quinn to help them track down Ivy in turn.

Harley, who’s working in a superheroine themed Hooters, has apparently gone straight and refuses to get mixed up in another costumes&tights drama. However, she’s thirsty for Dick - literally - so after almost raping Nightwing (he’s into it so they... dodged a bullet there?), she agrees to stop Ivy.

After several scenes of inconsequential padding because the movie wasn’t long enough I guess, they find Ivy and Woodrue at the scientist’s house. The man, under Ivy’s control, had already given the greenies his formula and told them they’d need water from the swamp Swamp Thing was created in to complete the process. So they head off to Louisiana after leaving Batsy, Nightwing, Harley, and the scientist to die in the burning lab. Of course, only Professor Red Shirt bites it but is able to tell the heroes where to go before he is gone.

Harley insists on going with the capes because she doesn’t want to become a plant and is convinced that she’ll make Ivy change her mind. So both parties eventually meet and fight in the swamp.

Ivy has a change of heart thanks to the Power of Love© but Woodrue knocks them all out. What follows is a pointless cameo by Swamp Thing who basically goes “bla bla bla, Mr. Freeman”, and to stop Woodrue from destroying the planet, Harley suggests setting him on fire. Batsy and Nightwing are cool with that because fire surely won’t kill a guy made out of leaves, right? And in a post-credits scene we see that Harley is now the host of a Takeshi’s Castle-like TV show... all of the sudden...

The end.

I’m still confused over who the target audience for this movie is. Is it adults because of the sexualized female characters and unfunny sex jokes (plus a weird gay joke and some almost-foul language) or toddlers who still laugh at farts and pointless song numbers? The movie’s constant shifts in tone threw me off a bit. I mean you see a guy being torn to shreds and blood splattering everywhere and later you get a scene of Harley farting in the Batmobile and Batman saying “smells like discipline.” WHAT THE FUCK?!

As mentioned above, yes, Bruce Timm makes it very clear that he REALLY wants to fuck Harley Quinn. Upskirt shots, Harley in underwear, Harley’s detailed ass when she bends over, Harley with spread legs humping the air in front of an audience. Classy. Have you ever wanted to see Harley and Nightwing have sex? No? Too bad, it’s what you’re getting. Thanks, Timm. There aren’t many female characters in this movie (2 have lines and the rest are just boobs on legs) and the only one that’s always being treated with respect is Ivy.

People who say ‘why don’t you call the Justice League for help’ will be treated to a dialogue between Batsy and intercome Booster Gold in which Booster says most of the League are busy. And the ones that are available are too annoying in Nightwing’s opinion. Yes, the entire world is in mortal danger but don’t you call JL members to save it because they talk too much... Man, what gReAt team members the Bats and Birds are.

And again, what’s with all the padding?! As if the sometimes too slow pacing wasn’t enough, was ‘we need to stretch the runtime to 75 min’ really the reason for that pointless chase scene that ended in nothing or those TWO songs that needed to be sung? Hell, the Harley eats Dick scene could have been cut as well since it served no purpose! Same goes for giant Swamp Thing. NO PURPOSE! The movie even acknowledges that his appearance was a whole bucket of nothing - SO WHY WAS IT IN THERE?!

How about you write enough STORY into the film to fill 75 minutes, how about that?! Good dialogues, character development, characters bonding, take your pick!

Thankfully, there were some nice moments too. The opening credits were adorable. The purple Catwoman costume at the beginning was lovely! 1966 Catwoman henchman dancing the Batusi and getting a fist in the face was funny. Harley’s tears being Ivy’s weakness was corny but also cute. Batman holding his finger up to silence Harley made me giggle as well as him tapping his hand to the music and stopping when Dick notices it.

I’ve already said the animation is gorgeous! Apart from Nightwing’s creepy white pupils, the movie looks awesome and had some smooth animation. It takes you right back to those glorious BTAS days.

When it comes to the voice-acting however... they apparently gave their entire budget to get Kevin Conroy. While Ivy did a great job, Nightwing sounded slightly bored, and that Harley Quinn didn’t convince me. She put way too much effort into the accent and... I don’t know, she didn’t sound like fun to me. It’s hard to describe. You felt that it was a part the actress was playing, it didn’t sound natural enough. At least to me.

All in all, I gotta say I had expected MUCH more from this. It had moments here and there but also bullshit that made me cringe. I’m still waiting for the DC animated movie that will pull the animated universe out of its current low. It’s been years since the last good animated film and that’s a shame since DC had been such a pro at those in the past. Today, their live-action movies, their animated movies, AND TV shows suck. No saving grace for DC anymore.

I can’t say that I wouldn’t recommend Batman and Harley Quinn but I also won’t tell you that you should really watch it. You can give it a try, at least for the good ol’ animation’s sake.

And one last note: Animators, Harley is wearing a mask! That black is NOT makeup! Do your research!

#Personal note #review #batman and harley quinn

16 notes · View notes

fiendfluid · 7 years

Text

i can’t believe im posting this but here we are. i haven’t wrote anything serious in 3 years so its probably not amazing but ya gotta start somewhere, and where better then the destruction of fang and kerry’s friendship?

“We're just friends.”

It shouldn't feel weird to hear that coming from Kerry. Because its true; they are friends. The best of friends hopefully, if you figured out how many years they had maintained this relationship despite their differences. Just.. friends.

It makes Fang's stomach feel queasy, his face heats up at the words even though there's no reason to have a reaction to them. Of course they're friends, what kind of question was that? Kerry stuck around through all of Fang's bullshit and whining, they had to be friends.

But here they are, sitting on the bus in excruciatingly awkward silence.

Its partly Fang's fault, they realize, after having a minor freak out for no reason and then not explaining the freak out, Kerry is giving them the cold shoulder. Which isn't too different from being around Kerry normally, but instead of comfortable silence in which Fang could rattle on about stupid things, they're both tensed up and avoiding any form of contact as if they aren't just sitting right beside each other.

“We're just friends.”

Some part of Fang rises up, petty and vicious. 'That's not what you said last night, or when you were high in my lap, whispering in my ear.'

He can't say that to Kerry, though. There's a shred of self preservation still intact inside of Fang to keep him from saying something that mean to his best friend. The bucket load of abandonment issues helps keep the words down, too.

Kerry is watching them quietly fight with themself, concerned but prideful.

Fang drags his fingernails down his arm, catching on the plastic band aids by his wrist. They almost laugh out loud at the absurdity of it all; Kerry's the one who's in love with them, not the other way around.

Kerry's staring openly, still silent as fucking ever but the concerned look has morphed into something new and raw, and it hurts to see him looking at them like that and he won't stop-

“Stop looking at me.” Is what Fang snarls, glaring venomously at Kerry. He's screaming in his head to shut up and stop making things worse but auto pilot Fang the Idiot is running the show now and its a sold out crowd to watch him ruin his one and only relationship worth a damn.

To Kerry's credit, he doesn't even stop to look hurt. No, he rises to the jab and fires straight back at Fang, voice slightly hoarse from drowsiness, “Then stop getting angry over nothing!”

It hurts. It hurts a lot and it shouldn't.

And Kerry isn't done talking yet.

“You can't just get pissy at me because something random set you off again.” Kerry snaps, “That's not fair.”

He's right.

Fuck him for being right.

What's not fair is this bullshit Kerry's dragged them into, they didn't ask for whatever this is to go this far. It was clean cut and simple for so long, why did he have to complicate it by making Fang feel things?

Fang's aware that Kerry is getting angrier and angrier the more the silence drags on without a response. A part of Fang wonders if just kissing Kerry would fix things. It worked during a few fights before, yanking him down from his high perch and knocking the wind out of him had stopped arguments in their tracks.

And it felt nice, with an arm slung around Kerry's shoulders to keep him within reach--as if he'd try to move away—the other hand weaving into his hair. Last time Fang kissed him, he was didn't see it coming at all. He had gasped against Fang's lips softly, and a little bit delighted. He was bent basically in half to meet Fang, gangly limbs wrapping quickly around them.

This wasn't helping, some miserable part of Fang pointed out.

But Fang wants to hold Kerry right now, keep him close and never let anything take him away. They want to get high together again, have Kerry sit in their lap all relaxed and laughing softly over some dumb shit. Wants to relive all those times sitting outside the hospital room on the verge of tears, but feeling safe because Kerry was there, and nothing was going to happen if he was there.

The jolt of the bus startles Fang out of his thoughts. Kerry doesn't say a word as he grabs both their bags and stomps toward the bus's exit. He's waiting on the pavement silently when Fang finally stumbles out, and completely ignores Fang's half-assed offer to carry their own bag.

If Fang thought the bus ride had been awful, the walk back home was even worse, and Kerry didn't seem to be in the mood to change it any time soon. Not that Fang was even trying to make things better, currently desperately searching through memories for some warning that this moment was going to happen eventually.

This isn't their worst fight, not even close. They've had bigger arguments over dumber things and gotten over it in a matter of minutes. This doesn't feel like something that's going to fix itself over a half order of french fries from the food vendor they pass every day on the way to Fang's apartment. There's something that's fundamentally important to their relationship just hanging in the air between them right now, and it wants two, emotionally stunted people, to delicately talk this through.

Fang lags behind, listening to Kerry's repetitive, loud foot falls, trying not to stare at his ass too much, afraid that Kerry might have some freaky third eye on his ass waiting to call them a fucking loser. Fang's procrastinating.

The chance to say something-anything is rapidly slipping away. Kerry's buzzing up to Fang's apartment and soon he's gonna leave, and you're gonna be alone again and he's not coming back-

“Why'd you say that.” Fang blurts out, it doesn't even sound like a question.

Kerry swings around slowly, staring down at Fang with a look of annoyance, but he's gone a little red around his ears. “Say what, Fang?” he sounds strained.

“You know what,” Fang says, fiddling over and over with the hem of their shirt, “'We're just friends.'”

He barely reacts to his own words back in his face. Just a raised eyebrow and a sigh that's almost a growl of frustration. He looks really pretty.

“Because, that's what we are.” His voice is clipped, “What do you want from me?”

And that surprises Fang for some stupid reason; what the fuck did he want from Kerry right now? What even was the point of bringing this up and breaking apart something that was working soundly so far.

Kerry's biting his lip, not looking at them save a few nervous glances. He decides to busy himself by buzzing the apartment to let them in again and sighs with what sounds like relief when the door unlocks.

“I'll see you later.” Kerry says, bumping into Fang as he steps away from the door to let them pass.

Say sorry, say you're sorry, say you're sorry you asshole.

“H-hey wait!” Fang cringes, that was so desperate, but it works and Kerry actually stops.

He doesn't say anything, just waves his arms in a vague, tense motion to say whatever Fang wanted to convey. Kerry's eyes are flitting everywhere, clearly uncomfortable.

“I-” I'm sorry. “I-”

“What?”

“I-uhm-” I'm sorry, just say it-

“I'm in love with you?”

Good job.

Kerry goes ridged, a blush instantly breaks out across his face. Fang wants to die and then come back to life just to die again.

“Wha-Y-you? I-I'm??-” Kerry is stuttering, arms flailing alarmingly.

Fang opens their mouth, then closes it again after a second thought. There's a ringing in their ears that's hopefully the sound of their brain self destructing so they don't have to exist in this universe any longer.

“I'm sorry-” So now you can say it?!

That was the wrong thing to say, apparently. Kerry whirls on Fang, shaking furiously, pointing an accusing finger at their face. He looks like he's about to cry and oh god, Fang fucked up.

“Sorry? What even—how do you think any of that was okay?” Kerry shouts, its slightly terrifying. “You can't just say whatever the fuck comes to your head and hope it makes things better! What is wrong with you?”

Fang wants to yell, wants to scream that he's not just saying shit because holy fuck he's in love with Kerry and he doesn't want this to be it. But his voice abandons him when tears spill from Kerry's eyes and he's glaring at Fang like they've killed him.

“Just--don't talk to me.” Kerry chokes, stumbling back, wiping his palms against his face, valiantly trying to remain stoic.

Fang actually manages to step forward as Kerry starts moving away, arms outstretched to do something.

“Welp,” Fang says to no one, when Kerry is out of sight, and everything is awful again. “I fffffucked up.”

#jack writes #if anything doesnt make sense tellll meeeee #zhu fang #kerry #writing fang is difficult because he feels things rapidly and strongly #so it gets a little all over the place w his emotions

1 note · View note