#God these tags will be the death of me...

[tobeholyistobeempty]

you’re drunk - simon ghost riley

part two. find part one here.

“y’think i haven’t been losin sleep over you?” he continues, dragging his mouth along your jaw. “think i didn’t cum with your name in my mouth last night, after you begged so nice n pretty f’me to fuck y’senseless?”

sober you is a lot less bold, but simon is a man of his word. 18+. insane amount of dirty talk, reader afab, PIV. smut smut smut smut. size kink.

——————-

the headache you wake with is devastating.

biblically so.

and not in the sunday service, water‑into‑wine sort of way. this is old‑testament vengeance. locusts and brimstone and a hammer slamming the earth between your temples. divine retribution for every godless thing you said, every blurred line you crossed - like some higher power watched you drink yourself stupid last night and said let there be suffering.

and fuck, suffering you are.

you’re barely coherent, hardly sentient, when you squint into the cold morning light and find the realization of what happened last night dawning in on you in fragments. out of order, scrambled like eggs - simon’s arm around your waist. you calling him big. military‑issued. ruin‑her‑life‑in‑a‑single‑night kind of hands. been into you for ages. god yes. please. y’don’t know what you’re askin for, sweet’eart. the way he said you’re makin me hard like it physically pained him.

practically moaning into his motherfucking palm.

wait - practically? no. you did.

you spend majority of the morning with your head buried under blankets and pillows mourning the death of your past self because you know your soul must be charred. burnt like the edges of hell where your feet are now firmly planted.

“you, wakin up with my dog tags round your neck and nothin else.”

fuck sakes.

you’ve known hangovers, you’ve known embarrassment, but this - this is some divine hybrid of the two. a cocktail of humiliation and mortification laced with whatever residual high you’re still riding from him saying come say it t’me sober like a goddamn dare.

and of course it only gets worse when you finally make it to your feet - teeth brushed twice after two whole water bottles and a shower hot enough to burn the devil out of hell - and notice something silver glinting on the table by your door that most definitely wasn’t there yesterday morning.

“oh…god.” your heart flips up into your throat.

his dog tags.

you’ve known simon long enough to know what this is. he didn’t forget them. he didn’t misplace them. he left them there to tell you he heard every fuckin word you said and he’s not letting you off the hook for it. it’s a test. if you meant it - which you did - you’ll bring them to him. you’ll say it to him sober like he asked.

a man of morals. who knew war criminals had it in them.

you spend what has to be a full ten minutes just staring at them - like maybe you’re still drunk, maybe you’re seeing things and they’ll vanish if you focus hard enough. maybe you can unsay every devastatingly honest thing you said with sheer mental fortitude alone and they’ll magically fly back to him on their own.

spoiler alert: they don’t move. because of course they don’t. and it takes another ten before you finally stuff them into your pocket.

it’s probably best to just rip the bandaid off. bring them to him before you have to face him infront of the others in mess or briefing - damage control before the rest of the world finds out about the stunt you pulled. you don’t even know what you’re going to say - sorry? thanks? let’s just pretend i never told you i fantasize about fucking you when i can’t sleep?

fuck. it doesn’t matter. you know you owe him the return. a peace offering, a penance, a silent white-flag kind of knock on his door.

and so you walk the hall like it’s the green mile. you’ve never done a walk of shame but you imagine this has got to be as close as it comes. his door is shut when you reach it, and you stand in front of it like a coward for another unnecessary amount of time - complexion almost ill. ghostly. like you could float right through the fuckin wood if the wind blew hard enough.

finally, you knock.

it’s a moment, and then he answers, filling his doorframe with those thick shoulders stretching a tight black t-shirt, looking right as rain besides damp hair and bloodshot eyes.

you wonder, fleetingly, if he even slept. but then his gaze drops over the length of you and you busy yourself with fighting the urge to run for your fucking life.

you clear your throat. “can i..uh. can we talk?”

he nods and pops the door open, gesturing for you to come in. you take a few steps into his room - dark, organized, rather sparse - and nearly jump out of your flesh when the door shuts behind you. the click of a cell door closing, announcing your sealed fate.

you spin to face him once his boots have stopped dragging across the tiles, and find him leaning back against his desk - ankles and arms crossed.

you swallow, and pull the tags from your pocket. “i um. i think you forgot these.”

his brow twitches, barely, as he takes a glance at your hand. a flash of something behind his eyes you can’t name.

“did i?” he doesn’t move.

you shift your weight. the mortification could eat you alive. you’re certain it currently is.

“figured i’d bring them back.” you add, quieter now, trying your fucking hardest to sound normal. like you didn’t just spend the night saying all kinds of unholy things into the palm of his hand. “incase…uh, you were looking for them.”

he still doesn’t take them.

“strange,” his lips tilt. the first sign he’s shown that he's enjoying this. “coulda sworn i left em’ somewhere on purpose.”

your stomach flips. you try to laugh but it’s brittle. “right. sure.”

he shrugs. “not the kinda thing i usually misplace.”

you bite the inside of your cheek so hard you think it might bleed, unsure how to respond to that. it’s hard to even breathe with the way he’s watching you - like he’s taking notes - reading everything you’re not saying in the line of your mouth, in the way your fingers tremble around the chain of his tags.

“shaky this mornin, yeah?” he says, just casually knocking the rest of the wind out of your chest.

“i-“

you falter, because what the fuck are you even supposed to say? no, i’m fine. i’m totally good, actually. i definitely didn’t spend all morning curled fetal, praying to gods who’ve certainly damned me for a head injury so i can forget the mental car crash that was last nights events.

simon waits, eyes blazing like you’re a twitchy little experiment. trying to see which wire makes you spark the hardest.

you clear your throat. try again. “m’just tired.”

“mm.” he hums with a lazy nod. “musta been all that talkin you were doin.”

and there it is. here it comes.

“can’t really remember, but i’m sure it’s part of it.” you lie with a forced laugh. lie so awkwardly it hurts. “tequila. you know how it is.”

“do i ever.” he replies, dragging a hand through his damp hair.

silence stretches thick, after that. it’s so thick it makes the walls feel closer, the floor feel further away. you avert your gaze, and realize almost immediately how big of a mistake that is because the motion pulls your eyes across his forearm - his bare, inked forearm, tendons flexing with the movement he’s making.

you remember that arm last night, wrapped tight around your waist. pulling you close before you moaned god yes and please beneath the big hand attached to it like fucking gospel.

when you flinch, he smirks. not even pretending like he didn’t notice. “y’remember nothin from last night, then?”

your eyes snap up to his. you hate yourself for the fact that all of last nights confidence seems to be no where in fucking sight.

“well, uh, it’s fuzzy but…i remember bits.”

“bits.” he echos. nodding. “yeah. must be a shame.”

oh god.

“shame?”

“shame t’forget all that detail.” he lets the words sink in, watching your face as he leans a hand on the desk behind him. “pretty interestin things. real deep. could write a bloody novel, the way y’were goin on.”

“oh.” you choke, again, and mentally slap yourself. get it together. “well. thats-“

he hums again. “suppose i could walk y’through it.”

“walk me-“

earth tilts. he doesn’t let you finish. “y’know. help piece it together. fill in the gaps.”

“you don’t-you don’t have to-“

he lifts a hand to gesture vaguely toward his bed. your pulse races to the moon.

“your room, y’were right there. lookin at me like i was gonna eat y’alive.” his voice lowers. you swallow and it tastes like sin. his finger shifts to the space before his bed. pointing at the edge. “and i was right there, tryin’ like hell t’be a fuckin gentleman.”

you could laugh, maybe cry, or just absolutely combust right there on the floor because it all floods back in an instant. the way you moaned his name when he knelt over you to undo your boots. the way your thighs tensed as you told him you think about him. the way you stared at him while your brain short circuited and your mouth betrayed every secret you thought you’d die with.

part of you did die, you suppose. the part with your dignity. right there on the floor of your room, next to your boots he took off.

“look, simon-“

he steps closer now. just a step. “y’said you’d been into me for ages.”

you blink, holding your breath.

“said y’think bout me when y’cant sleep.” his voice is a rasp now, the muscle in his jaw ticks. “i asked y’a question, then. d’you remember it?”

fucking hell.

“yes.” you exhale.

“what was it.”

your heart is a jackhammer, breaking through your sternum.

“you-you asked if i think about you when…” you hesitate, and he cocks an eyebrow. “…when i touch myself.”

“yeah.” he says lowly. a breath, not a word. “tha’s right.”

your skin is burning and your limbs feel foreign, at this point. you feel nerve endings pulsing in place you didn’t know you even had nerves.

“d’you remember your answer?” he continues, taking another step toward you.

and it’s then that the anxiety takes over - you blink twice and bite down until you taste blood, shaking your head no. not because you’ve forgotten - fucking hell you remember everything - but because saying it out loud feels like jumping out of a plane without a parachute.

he doesn’t buy it.

“mm, sure y’do.” he calls your bluff, says it so soft it’s almost a coo. “y’know i know your tells - two blinks while bitin the inside of your cheek.” his eyes gleam as his lips twitch. “y’can’t lie t’me, princess.”

christ, you can’t help but laugh at that. it’s exactly the reason why you’ve been into him - he’s perceptive and cunning and cocky all at once.

this is the man you’ve thought about fucking for months.

“yes.” you whisper in admittance. “i said yes.”

“god yes.” he corrects with another step until he’s so close you have to kink your neck back to meet his eyes. his shoulders swallow the edges of your vision until all you see is him. “…still true?”

you nod. a broken thing. “yes.”

“yeah?” his head tilts, the heat of him sweltering. “y’think bout me when y’put hands on yourself?”

“simon-“

he hushes you with a shake of his head, eyes dipping to your lips. “tell me.”

it’s then that you realize dragging this on is for nothing. whatever drunken confession you made last night clearly cracked open whatever restraint simon’s been exercising for months.

clearly whatever you feel, he’s feeling it too.

“yes.” you confess, as firm as you possibly can. nothing coy in it now. “yes, i think about you when im alone. when i touch myself…doesn’t even feel right unless im picturing you. your hands. touching me.”

it all comes out of you in a rushed whisper, desperate and dripping sweet from your lips like it’s been saturating behind your teeth for too long. when he doesn’t respond right away, you realize you’ve stunned him, and pull on whatever courage you have left to press forward.

“i’ve wanted you for so long ive stopped tryin to figure out when it started.” you murmur, lost in his eyes. “and you?”

his breath catches. just the faintest hitch, like he wasn’t prepared for the edge of your honesty to turn and face him instead. it’s delectable, the slight composure tilt, but it doesn’t last long. because slowly - slowly, his mouth curls into something wrecked. something that says fuckin hell, it’s on.

his knuckles come up to graze your jaw, he lowers his head until his lips find your ear—

“y’askin if i think bout you when i’ve got my fist wrapped round my cock?” you inhale sharply, then choke on it when his mouth brushes your lobe. “course i fuckin do.”

your hands lift timidly to find his shirt, curling into it, dog tags still clinking between your fingers.

“y’think i haven’t been losin sleep over you?” he continues, dragging his mouth along your jaw. “think i didn’t cum with your name in my mouth last night, after you begged so nice n pretty f’me to fuck y’senseless?”

your lashes flutter. his free hand slips around your waist. “fuck, simon-“

“i know, sweet’eart.” he murmurs it, almost gentle, like it’s something you share. “tha’s what y’need, ain’t it? f’me to admit you’re not the only one losin mind here.”

you nod, partly frantic and partly delirious, and he exhales something strained - something from somewhere deep, catching on the parts of him dying to stay patient.

“good.” his hand slides up the back of your shirt, while the other finds the one of yours still holding his tags. “y’really come here just to return these, then?”

“no.” it chokes out of you instantly, mouth tilting toward his. “you wanted me to say it to you sober. made a promise bout what you’d do if i did?”

something feral flashes over his face, at that. translated through the grip he tightens on your waist, the exhale he washes over your jaw.

“yeah.” he says, tight. “i did.”

his mouth is barely a breath from yours.

“well here i am. sober.” you whisper. “wanting you more than i did while drunk.”

he makes a sound you’ve never heard before. not a groan, not a moan, something deep and feral punched straight out of his chest.

“fuckin hell.”

and then he’s kissing you.

no more waiting, no more games. simon’s a man of his word and it shows in the way his mouth crashes into yours - hungry and bruising and impatient - teeth knocking, one hand fisting in the back of your shirt and tearing it off you while the other pulls you in. he spins you both so your ass hits the edge of his desk, and then breaks away - trailing spit slick lips down your jaw and throat, thick fingers working to tease the band of your sweats.

“tell me where y’want me, sweet’eart.” he growls into your pulse.

you blink, dazed. “i-what?”

his teeth graze just enough to make you whimper, before his mouth drags back up beside your ear - ruinous in the inflection.

“tell me how you’ve imagined it,” his finger tips slide under your waistband, just teasing. “what you’ve pictured when you’re thinkin’ of me like this. right ‘ere.”

“oh god, simon.” you moan by his words alone, too wound to be embarrassed, fingers cinched tight in the fabric of his shirt. “your-your fingers. your mouth. your cock-“

that sound again. deep and devastated. restraint being ripped out by the roots.

“fuck. filthy thing f’me, aren’t you?” he says, as two fingers slide lower, slipping under heat soaked fabric and finding your slit, pressing in no further than they need to before circling back up - spreading the mess you’ve made just to feel it. “you’re fuckin soaked.”

you whimper as he teases your clit. his mouth finds your throat again, teeth grazing where your pulse stutters wild beneath flushed skin. you don’t trust your legs to hold you upright under the weight of it all - his touch, his voice, the feral gleam in his eye when he looks at you like you’re some prophecy being fulfilled.

“s’this what i do t’you?” he murmurs. “just from talkin t’you like this?”

you nod, a frantic little thing. “yes-god, yes.”

he exhales hard like it's kicked out of him, tugging your sweats down until they slide off your ankles before he lifts you back onto his desk and parts your thighs with hands so big they nearly span the entire width of them.

you fucking moan at the sight.

and of course it only fuels him - braces you back on your elbows, spine arched, breath caught in your throat as he steps in close between your legs. his eyes drag down to where you glisten in the dim light - slick, flushed, waiting - and he lets out a curse before returning his fingers to your aching cunt.

he presses in one digit slow, then adds another. knuckle deep until your eyes roll, hips jerking at the stretch.

“oh, fuck-“

he hisses through his teeth. “tight little cunt. fuckin meltin f’me.”

his thumb catches your clit in the same motion - rubbing soft circles, pushing you closer, dragging you toward the edge with every brutal curl of his fingers inside you.

“that feel good?” he growls against your jaw. “touched y’self in bed thinkin bout me between your thighs like this?”

you’re panting now. shaking.

“i-“ you gasp. “yes, simon-yes-“

“yeah?” his thumb speeds up, his fingers pump deeper, your head spins. “and did y’cum like this? like you’re about to f’me now?”

you don’t answer fast enough. he bites at your jaw.

“tell me.”

“no-n-never like this—”

he growls something vile under his breath. “poor thing. s’okay. i’ve got you.”

your walls flutter around him, your thighs shaking where they frame his hips, and he feels it - feels the beginning of the end stutter through you.

“simon-“ you whinge.

he cuts you off. “look at me.”

you do. barely.

“tha’s it,” he breathes. “cum on my fuckin fingers. show me what i’ve been missin.”

you’re starved for it, beyond saving, and its only a couple more deep pumps before you break.

it floods through you - white hot and searing. you cry out his name as you clamp around his digits, trembling apart on his desk while he watches you like you’re art - jaw clenched, pupils blown - his fingers still moving, dragging you through it until you’re sobbing into his shoulder.

“there we go.” when it passes and you’re limp, blinking up at him stunned - he withdraws slowly. “attagirl. s’fuckin good.”

you swallow, watching wide eyed as he brings those same fingers to his mouth and sucks them clean.

“been dreamin bout that taste, knew it’d be sweet.” he purrs as he leans down, wiping his spit slick digits over your cheek. “gonna need it proper soon.”

you don’t even have time to question or respond to that, because then he’s unbuckling his belt.

when you finally look back up, his eyes are wild.

“s’this what y’want?” he murmurs, tugging leather through loops before undoing the button at his waist. “when you came t’me this mornin, all flushed and pretendin t’be innocent. was this it? wantin’ me to bend y’over and take what y’fuckin offered?”

you choke as he tugs himself free - thick, leaking at the tip and throbbing - bigger than anything you’ve ever seen, nevermind taken.

the nod that follows is compulsive desperation. “holy fuck-yes-“

he smacks light at your thigh. “stand up. bend over f’me.”

you do as you’re told without hesitation - legs shaking as you stand spin and lean forward over the desk - breath still stuttering in your chest, heart going a mile a minute. your hands barely meet wood before he’s on you - no preamble. no breath between. grabs your hips like it’s instinct, like his hands were molded to hold you like this, and yanks you back against him with a roughness that steals whatever’s left in your lungs.

you shudder when he slides his cock against your slit once - twice - dragging the head through slick and stalls notched just shy of your entrance, breathing hard like it’s killing him to wait.

“y’remember what else y’said last night?”

you barely manage a nod. your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. he exhales something like a laugh.

“not compliments. not the fantasies. not the whining.” he drags through your mess again, slower this time. deliberate. “you said—“ his hips press forward just enough to make you gasp. “—you wondered if it’d hurt.”

you whine, embarrassed, but god it shoots straight through you. he bends low now, chest flush to your back, mouth to your ear.

“truth is, it might.” his lips curl into a smile. “so don’t fuckin run now.”

and then - only then - he pushes in. you gasp so hard your chest deflates on impact, thick head stretching sopping walls wide and dragging deeper than you’ve ever imagined - too much and not enough all at once.

“ohfuck-simon-“ your head drops toward the desk, eyes stinging.

“mm. tha’s it.” he groans, loud, burying himself halfway before pausing there. “tightest fuckin—bloody hell.”

he presses forward a little more - just enough to make your knees shake as he steadies you with one hand at your hip and grits his teeth. he pulls out just to feel you clench, then shoves back in - hard enough to jolt the desk and feed you all of him before you can even brace for it.

“ffffuck-ohfuck-“ you wail, knuckles bloodless where they clutch the desk. “you-you’re-“

“deep.” he bends over you, grabs a fistful of your hair, and drags your head back to his mouth, voice hot on your skin. “i fuckin know.”

he thrusts once. hard. then again. slower. deeper.

“jesus christ,” he undoes your bra with his free hand, paws at your tits until it hurts. “walked around this whole time with this cunt made f’me and didn’t say a fuckin word.”

“fuck simon-“

“yeah.” he grits against your ear. “tha’s how you moaned it last night. just like that.”

it’s punishing, the pace he sets. each snap of his hips smacking against your ass drags stars down into your retinas - body rocking and cervix kissed with each thrust - his grip is bruising and his mouth works at your neck, forcing noises out of you loud enough to rattle the fucking walls.

it doesn’t take long before your chest collapses onto slick wood, drool coated cheek pressed to the desk - vision bleeding white around the edges. he’s relentless - driven, brutal in rhythm, like he’s trying to fuck the memory of your voice out of his head, the memory of your thighs pressed together last night when he walked away instead of dropping to his knees and giving in.

he groans, open-mouthed, flushed everywhere. he’s not just fucking you. he’s wrecking you. dragging you across the edge by the throat and holding your broken pieces together with his own.

“mmf-fuck.” he snarls, burying his fist back in your hair. his palm cracks hard across your ass before snaking around your thigh to find your clit. devastating. “this. this is what i thought of for months. you. fuckin boneless f’me.”

he pulls out slow with a shuttering exhale, just enough for you to whine before he roars back in - hard and fast, fingers never slowing.

you shriek, squirming with no where to go.

“y’got no fuckin clue what y’did to me last night.” he’s panting, fingernails burning your scalp. “sat there slurrin filth. darin me t’do somethin bout it. tested every fuckin moral i’ve got.”

your second orgasm is a charging tide - and god, you know he feels it. you know by the way he rolls his fingers faster to chase it, moans in your ear when your walls flutter around him, fucks you deeper and slower just to drag you over by your hair.

“cum f’me. give me another.” he grits. “let me fuckin feel it sweet’eart.”

“ff-fuck simon! yes-yes-“

you sob, and then it hits you - violent and wet and cataclysmic - like every single one of your fantasies brought to life, like every pathetic orgasm you gave yourself to the thought of him and his fuckin hands all combined to create this. it’s stratospheric depths of bliss, all the colours of the rainbow erupting behind your eyes as he fucks you through it, not stalling his fingers until you’re sobbing.

“mhm. messy little thing.”

he growls with it before pulling out just enough to slap his cock against your soaked cunt, watching the slick stretch, the way you whine and arch out of pure fuckin instinct.

“look at this pretty cunt,” he rasps, teasing his tip over your clit. “drippin. tremblin. fuckin cryin f’me.”

you try to say something, try to catch a breath, but that all falls void as he thrusts back in without warning - one brutal, complete thrust, pushing everything out of you. screams, his name, your fucking soul. he groans as his hand finds your jaw, forcing your head to turn just enough so he can see your face. cheeks flushed, tears caught in your lashes.

“shh. don’t run��don’t fuckin run,” he growls against your mouth, arm cinched tight across your waist when your hips jerk away like it’s too much. “y’asked for this. said it t’me sober.”

“si-simon. please.” it’s breathless, ruined, wrecked beyond meaning, your mouth falling open on another sob when his hips grind deeper, when the head of him kisses a spot that has your knees giving out entirely. “fuck. s’good. s’m-much-“

“yeah?” he snarls. “s’good, huh?”

you nod something pathetic, lost for words. broken around him.

“want y’to think bout this when you’re alone.” his free hand drags down to your stomach, rests just high on your pelvis, feeling where he’s drilling. “how deep m’buried in this tight little cunt. how good my name feels in your fuckin throat.”

another nod. another hiccuped moan dragged out of you. “y-yes-yes i’ll think about it-mmff-“

“mhm,” he kisses you once. fleeting and viscous and hot. “good. s’good.”

a few more ragged thrusts and a sound gets torn from him, pulled from somewhere deep, feral and hoarse and ragged. his hips punch forward one final time, burying himself to the hilt, and then—

“fuck—fuck.”

he lets go.

he groans, voice breaking at the edges, forehead falling to the space between your shoulder blades. he pulses deep inside you, all of his pent up heat flooding you full until he’s spent, until he’s got nothing left to give and collapses against your back in one shuddering, boneless exhale.

and when it’s over, it’s just breathing - a long quiet moment full of everything neither of you know how to say before you register that he’s moving - leaning over you to grab at where his dog tags were discarded on the desk.

he slips them around your neck, and then pulls out.

“man of m’word, sweet’eart.” he whispers against your jaw. “this isn’t over.”

———————————-

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[rosemaryhoney27]

Death and Taxes

Title: Death, Taxes, and the Fenton Exception

Gotham was a city used to chaos—supervillains, vigilantes, the occasional alien invasion. But for one day a year, fear reigned over even the most hardened criminals. That day was April 15th—Tax Day.

And there was one man who became a model citizen exactly once a year: The Joker.

“Oh, you can gas the mayor, blow up the zoo, or replace the city's water supply with lime gelatin,” the Joker once told Harley, lovingly licking a stamp. “But you do not mess with the Internal Revenue Service.”

Danny Fenton didn’t get it.

“Why is everyone so freaked out about taxes?” he asked, lazily floating upside-down in the Batcave, sipping a soda. “It’s not like they’re gonna send hitmen after you or something.”

Jason, perched on the edge of the Batcomputer, stared at him like he’d grown a second head. “They literally will, Danny. That’s exactly what they do.”

Bruce, arms crossed and trying to make sense of Danny's W-2s—which were somehow written on ectoplasm paper thank you ghost writer and referenced “liminal hazard bonuses”—grunted. “Everyone pays taxes. Everyone.”

Danny shrugged. “Not me.”

Tim looked up from his tablet, eyebrows slowly rising. “What do you mean, not you?”

“I mean,” Danny said, setting his soda down with a slight fizz of anti-gravity, “the Fentons don’t pay taxes.”

“…You’re evading federal law?” Damian asked flatly, already reaching for the Bat-phone. “Father, allow me to call the IRS.”

“No no no,” Danny said, raising his hands. “We’re not allowed to pay taxes.”

Silence.

“What.”

It took less than twenty minutes for Oracle to hack the federal database and confirm the impossible.

The Fenton family has not paid a single tax in six generations.

There was a note on their file. A glowing, pulsing, red note—signed and sealed by multiple high-ranking officials and stamped with a Department of Defense warning tag. It read:

FENTON EXCEPTION ACT - CLASSIFIED DO NOT ENGAGE. DO NOT CONTACT. DO NOT AUDIT. THEY ARE TO BE LEFT ALONE. [Subnote: In the event of unsolicited contact, consider immediate relocation and witness protection.]

“Why?” Dick finally asked, trying not to sound hysterical. “Why in the actual haunted tax-code hell are they exempt?”

“I dunno,” Danny said. “Mom said something about Great-Grandpa Jack accidentally collapsing a dimension when he filed with the wrong form. The IRS has left us alone ever since.”

“What form?” Bruce demanded, looking more distressed than he had when Gotham was overrun by Fear Toxin.

Danny scratched his head. “I think it was called... uh... Form 66-Ectoplasm-B? Or maybe that was the one that summoned a wraith accountant? Oh, wait—that was Grandma Fenton…”

Meanwhile…

At an undisclosed IRS location deep under D.C., in a steel bunker reinforced with both magic and nuclear shielding, a red light began to blink.

The agents in the room froze.

“Is that…?” one whispered.

“Fenton ping. But it’s passive. Someone looked them up.”

The lead agent, an old man with a cybernetic eye and an exorcism tattoo burned into his hand, swore under his breath and lit a cigar with trembling fingers.

“God help them. Someone in Gotham must’ve tripped the file.”

Back in Gotham…

The Joker, halfway through filling out his Schedule C, saw the alert pop up on his monitor: Fenton Account Flagged – Gotham Search. He dropped his pen.

“No… No no no no no.”

He reached for his emergency bag: clown nose, fake passport, and a one-way ticket to Fiji.

“Harley!” he screeched. “Pack the hyenas—we’re going off-grid! The Fentons have surfaced!”

That night, Batman received an anonymous, trembling message from the IRS:

“Please, for the love of all that is holy, tell your newest ward to never attempt to file a tax return. We still haven’t recovered from the last time. The Department of Dimensional Finance sends its regards.”

Bruce turned to Danny. “What did your family do?”

Danny shrugged. “I mean, one of our fridge magnets is a minor god of debt collection, so maybe that’s part of it?”

Bruce just groaned and added “Fenton Family Finances” to the Batcomputer’s Top Threats—right between “Joker’s Laughing Gas Variants” and “Demon-Summoning TikTok Teens.”

And so, the truth became legend in Gotham:

There are two things certain in life—Death and Taxes.

Unless you’re a Fenton.

Then even the IRS fears you.

[ender-the-insomniac]

I'm doing my full user because I have so many songs I love :]

Everybody's Fool - Evenescence

Numb - Linkin Park

Dynamite Mine - Murder By Death

Evil Fucking Wizard - Conepoem

Red Stars - The Birthday Massacre

Toccata and Fugue in D Minor - Bach

Hoist the Colours - Hans Zimmer

Escape in Style - Loren Balfe

I Don’t Wanna Be Me - Type O Negative

New God - Moon Walker

Sacrifice - London After Midnight

One Hundred Years - The Cure

Monopoly Money - Moon Walker

Nightmare King - Christopher Larkin

I'm Shipping Up To Boston - Dropkick Murphys

Alexander Hamilton - Lin-Manuel Miranda

Chop Suey! - System of a Down

Open tags!

MOOT / TAG GAME !

mission— spell your real name / name you use on tumblr with songs you like >< ready, set, go !

m — my love, mine all mine (mitski)

i — i love you, i’m sorry (gracie abrams)

c — coraline (lyn lapid)

k — killshot (magdalena bay)

i — i know you (faye webster)

e — either way (ive)

tagging— @puma-riki @flwrstqr @liwinly @woniefication @lilificationn @stvrriki @okwonyo + anyone else who wants to join !

[shelovesosa]

CTRL + ALT + LOVE

paring: Fictional!Satoru X F!Reader

art credits to scarlettismm on X!

sum!! After staying up late reading an emotional fanfic, a college student wakes to find the fictional love interest—Satoru Gojo—somehow real and lying beside her. Confused and out of place in the real world, Satoru begins to unravel. As they grow closer, they share laughter, secrets, and something deeper… even as time threatens to take him away. But sometimes, endings aren’t what they seem.

CW: MDNI, Romance,Contemporary Fantasy, Soft Sci-Fi, Magical Realism, Bittersweet, Angst with comfort, Temporary Love, Borrowed Time, Soft Smut, First Time Together, nerdjo cameo, soft dom, Memory Loss / Fading Reality Unexpected Second Chance. WC: 10.9k

It’s 1:41 a.m., your eyes are puffy, your nose is running, and you’ve just finished sobbing over a fictional man named Satoru who doesn’t even exist. And yet, somehow, he broke your heart like he did.

You’re curled up on your side in bed, blanket cocooned around you, the glow of your laptop screen still burning into your tired, emotional retinas. You knew what kind of fic it was going in—CEO AU, enemies-to-lovers, workplace drama. Classic. But nowhere in the tags did it say “character death.”

You sniffle loudly and scroll back to reread the last paragraph, as if torturing yourself again will somehow dull the pain.

“I should’ve said it sooner,” he whispered, blood soaking into the snow, eyes never leaving hers. “It was always you.”

The lights from the city faded behind him. And he didn’t blink again.

[End.]

You slam your hands on the keyboard.

“You’re kidding me,” you mutter out loud, nose stuffy and voice cracking. “You killed him? Seriously?! You made me sit through twenty chapters of slow-burn sexual tension, one shared bed trope, three almost-kisses and a forehead touch—just for this?”

You groan, throwing your arm over your face dramatically.

“God, I hate you, Satoru,” you whisper into your pillow. “I hate your stupid perfect face, and your ice-cold business demeanor, and your secretly soft heart, and the way you just died before you even got to live.”

You roll over, flinging a crumpled tissue at your desk.You sniff, dragging your fingers cross the keyboard to angrily type into the comments.

You:

@shelovesosa HOW DARE YOU.
Fix it. Fix it right now or I’ll manifest this man into my bed myself.

“Stupid author,” you add bitterly. “Oh Sosa. May your coffee always be lukewarm and your favorite show get canceled on a cliffhanger.”

You slam the laptop shut and toss it aside.

With a final sniff, you curl deeper into your sheets. Your brain is spinning in post-fanfic grief. You mumble one last thing, more out of sleep-deprived delirium than real intent:

“…I wish he were real.” You fall asleep with the ache of unfinished stories in your chest.

The morning comes too fast. You’re groggy, head foggy from too many dreams and too little sleep. Your alarm bleats somewhere in the background as you reach to turn it off.

Except your hand doesn’t land on your phone.

It lands on something warm. And solid. And breathing. You freeze. Your eyes fly open.

There’s a shape beside you in bed. A weight. The blankets are shifted, your mattress slightly dipped like someone else is laying there. Slowly, you turn your head.

And the world tilts. There’s a man in your bed. White hair. Pale skin. Shirtless. Lean muscle. His face is turned toward the window, but even from this angle— It’s him. Your heart lurches.

Satoru. Not cosplay. Not a dream. Not just similar. It’s Satoru, exactly as he was in the fanfic. Down to the small scar above his brow the author described in chapter six.

Your lips part, no sound coming out. You're frozen. Shaking.

He stirs. Brows knit. Eyes flutter. And slowly, his lashes lift. Blue eyes. He sees you. And everything happens at once.

He jolts upright, sheets sliding off his bare chest. You scream. He flinches.

“Wh—what the hell?!” he chokes, eyes wild. “Where—what is this?! Who are you?!”

You scramble back, nearly falling out of bed. “Me?! Who are YOU?! This is my room!”

He stares at you, chest heaving. “No. No, this isn’t… This isn’t right.”

He looks around, dazed. Confused. His voice is raspy, like it hurts to speak.

“I was in Tokyo,” he murmurs, more to himself than you. “It was snowing. I was bleeding. I was with—” He swallows, eyes darting toward you again. “Where is she?”

You blink. “Who?”

He stares. His voice breaks.

“…You’re not her.”

Something cold seeps into your spine. Because you know who he means. The her from the fanfic. The girl he loved before he died.

“But you’re not real,” you whisper. “You’re fictional. You died. I read it last night—I read your death—”

“I remember dying,” he snaps, voice shaking. “I felt it. I saw her crying. And then I woke up here.”

You both sit in stunned silence.

He presses a palm to his forehead. “This is a nightmare. I’m dreaming. Or— Or I was rewritten. Or this is some kind of punishment—”

You crawl slowly to the edge of the bed, still watching him like he might vanish.

“I think I summoned you,” you say weakly. “I cursed the author. As a joke. I said I wished you were real.”

He glares at you like you’re insane. But underneath it all—his trembling fingers, the way he keeps glancing around the room, the panic in his breathing—you see it:

He’s terrified. And it makes your heart hurt.

“…I want to go back,” he finally says.

Your throat tightens. “I don’t know how.”

He stares at you like it’s your fault. Maybe it is.

You clutch your sheets and whisper, “You’re not supposed to be here.”

His voice is flat.

“You’re not supposed to be her.”

You’ve never wanted to faint so badly in your life. He’s still sitting in your bed—your stupid college dorm twin XL bed—with your blush-pink blanket slung over his lap like that’s the most offensive part of all this.

His chest rises and falls in shallow breaths, and he’s still staring at the wall like it might open up and take him back to wherever he came from. Fiction. Paper. Imagination.

But now he's here. And he’s not pixelated or made of words. He’s real.

“I need to go back,” he mutters again. “She’s waiting.”

You chew your lip. “She’s not real.”

He flinches like you slapped him.

“I mean, she was real to you,” you add quickly. “But… she’s just words. I read her. She’s a reader-insert. She’s a blank space.”

“No,” he says, voice firm. “She was real. I loved her.”

You fall quiet. What are you supposed to say? Sorry, she was just me with better confidence and no student loans?

You sit down slowly on the edge of the bed. Satoru tenses, but doesn’t move.

“This is going to sound absolutely insane,” you start carefully, “but I think I pulled you out of your story. I was mad at the ending, I said I wished you were real, and then… this happened.”

He scoffs. “So I’m a pity project. Great.”

You frown. “No! You weren’t supposed to actually show up! I thought maybe I’d dream about you or something, not… wake up with you in my bed, very shirtless and very confused.”

You realize you’re staring at his chest. You immediately look away.

“This is a glitch,” he mutters. “Some kind of cruel rewrite. I shouldn’t be here.”

You glance at him. “Do you… remember everything?”

He nods. “Every scene. Every chapter. I remember dying.”

There’s a long pause.

“God,” you whisper. “That’s so messed up.”

He finally laughs—but it’s not a happy sound. It’s dry. Hollow. “Tell me about it.”

You rub your eyes. “Okay. Look. We have two problems.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Only two?”

“One,” you hold up a finger, “we don’t know how you got here. Two… you’re glitching.”

He stiffens. “What do you mean?”

“You were flickering,” you say, voice soft. “Just for a second. Like… your edges blurred. Like a dream.”

He doesn’t respond. His jaw clenches, like he felt it, too.

“…So I’m not stable.”

You say nothing. After a moment, he exhales and slumps back slightly.

“God, this is pathetic,” he mutters. “I was the most powerful man in the city. I could ruin a company with one phone call. I had private jets. Now I don’t even have pants.”

You try—try—not to laugh.

“I can get you pants,” you offer.

His eyes narrow. “Don’t pity me.”

“I’m not pitying you,” you lie. “I just don’t think walking around shirtless in a college dorm is going to help your situation.”

He mutters something under his breath but doesn’t argue.

You grab a pair of sweatpants from your drawer and toss them at him. “Bathroom’s down the hall. You’re gonna have to sneak.”

He catches them with ease and stands, still moving like he owns a twenty-story skyscraper. You try not to stare at his back as he walks to the door.

He turns the knob, then pauses.

“…What’s your name?” he asks, glancing back at you.

You blink. “Y/N.”

He stares for a beat.

Then says, quietly, “I don’t remember that being in the story.”

You smile a little. “That’s because I wasn’t in it.”

He hesitates. Then opens the door and vanishes into the hallway.

You spend the next fifteen minutes pacing your room like it’s about to burst into flames. There’s a fictional man in your dorm bathroom.

You summoned him. You broke something. Maybe the universe. Maybe yourself.

He’s glitching. You don’t know how long he has. And he’s desperate to get back to a girl who doesn’t exist. But for some reason, he’s still here. Still real. And you don’t know what that means yet.

You’re sitting on the edge of your twin bed, clutching a lukewarm cup of instant coffee and trying not to spiral. Because this is real.

It’s not a dream. Not some grief hallucination brought on by staying up too late reading slow-burn fanfiction and eating sour gummies. There’s no typo, no delete button, no author’s note to reverse what’s happened.

Satoru is here.

The fictional man you loved and mourned and cursed the night before is now somewhere in your dorm’s communal bathroom, wearing your ex’s old sweatpants and the expression of someone who’s been yanked out of death and dumped into a college campus like a tossed USB file.

You stare at the door until it creaks open.

He steps inside cautiously, drying his hands on the front of his hoodie. His white hair is still damp, falling slightly in his eyes. He looks softer like this, like less of the towering CEO you met through carefully crafted prose and more like a very lost man who’s trying not to shatter.

You clear your throat. “Everything okay?”

He looks at you, nods stiffly, then glances around the room again like he still can’t quite believe where he is.

“I counted six women brushing their teeth in one bathroom,” he says, sitting on the desk chair like it offends him. “One of them offered me dry shampoo. I don’t know what that is.”

You snort into your cup. “Welcome to dorm life.”

He doesn’t laugh. He just studies you with unreadable eyes. Sharp and searching. Like you’re an answer he doesn’t want to need.

“This place…” he murmurs, gesturing vaguely to your walls cluttered with sticky notes and fairy lights, “this isn’t… scripted.”

You raise a brow. “No. That’s kind of how real life works.”

He leans back, rubbing a hand over his mouth.

“You said I’m not supposed to exist here. So what does that mean? Am I… fading? Am I going to just—stop?”

Your throat tightens. You’ve been wondering the same thing.

“I don’t know,” you admit quietly. “But you’re still here now. That has to mean something.”

He exhales, head tilting back to stare at the ceiling.

You watch him in silence. His hands are resting on his thighs, long fingers twitching slightly like he’s resisting the urge to reach for something. A phone. A pen. Her. You put your coffee down.

“Look,” you say softly, “I know I’m not her. And I didn’t mean for this to happen. But until we figure out what’s going on, maybe you should just… stay.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Here?”

You nod, cheeks warming. “Just for now. You clearly have nowhere else to go. And I don’t think you're ready to navigate student housing or explain why you don’t have ID.”

Satoru stares at you like the concept of help is foreign. Which, based on the version of him you read about, it probably is.

Finally, he murmurs, “I don’t want your pity.”

“It’s not pity,” you say gently. “It’s a blanket and some time to breathe.”

He looks at you, expression unreadable. But he nods once.

You set up a sleeping bag on the floor that night. It’s the best you can offer in a room barely large enough to fit two people standing up. He lies stiffly on top of it, arms crossed, staring at the ceiling like sleep is a stranger.

You lie in bed, eyes open.bYou think about how he held the love of his life while he died. And now he’s here. Not holding anyone.

“Do you miss her?” you whisper.

He doesn’t answer right away. But when he does, his voice is soft.

“I think I miss the way she made me feel. Like I wasn’t just a weapon in a suit.”

You’re quiet.

He adds, a beat later, “But maybe that feeling wasn’t even mine. Maybe I only loved her because someone wrote me that way.”

You turn to look at him. But he’s already looking at you. Neither of you says anything after that.

You wake up to the smell of something burning. Your eyes shoot open, heart already sprinting.

You stumble out of bed, nearly tripping on the sleeping bag where Satoru isn’t anymore. You hear the clatter of pans, the groan of the microwave, and a very muffled, very confused “Why is this machine yelling at me?”

You rush into the kitchenette area down the hall, still barefoot, to find Satoru standing in front of the microwave, poking at the buttons like they insulted his mother.

“What are you doing?” you hiss, half-laughing, half-panicked.

He points at the microwave indignantly. “It said ‘popcorn’ but there were sparks! Sparks, Y/N!”

You grab the bag—oh god, the foil kind—and toss it in the trash before it sets off the building alarm.

He stares at you, wide-eyed, hair slightly messy, wearing your oversized hoodie and sweatpants like he’s a very lost, very pretty houseguest.

“Have you never used a microwave?”

“Why would I?” he asks, completely serious. “I had a private chef in Tokyo.”

You stare at him. He stares back. And then, maybe for the first time since he showed up… you both laugh.

Real laughter. Yours high-pitched and breathless, his deeper, more surprised. It crackles in the small space between you. And for just a second, he doesn't look like a man unraveling.

He looks like a boy. New. Unwritten.

Later, you’re sitting on the floor together, eating cereal straight from the box. His hair keeps falling in his eyes. You reach out without thinking and brush it back.

He freezes. So do you. His eyes meet yours. And for a second—just a second—there’s something like electricity in the air. Not sparks from microwaves. Not glitchy fiction magic.

Something real. You pull your hand back quickly. But he doesn’t stop looking at you.

“…I didn’t feel this way in the story,” he says quietly. “Not like this.”

You glance at him, heart thudding. “Feel what way?”

He doesn’t answer. But his knee brushes yours, and neither of you moves.

That night, he glitches. You're the first to notice. It’s small, at first. You're talking about breakfast cereal—how you mix Frosted Flakes and granola together like a heathen—and he tilts his head, eyes clouding slightly.

“I’ve never had cereal,” he says.

You blink.

“Yes, you did. This morning. You ate like half the box.”

He frowns. “No, I didn’t. We went to that place. With the… tiny pancakes.”

“…Satoru,” you say softly, “that was from Chapter 11. Of the fanfic. The Paris trip.”

His expression blanks. And then something in his face glitches. Like static behind his eyes. It only lasts a moment—but it’s long enough.

He exhales, hand pressed to his forehead. “It’s happening, isn’t it?”

You don’t know what to say.

He looks at you, voice quieter now. “I’m not built for this world. I’m already forgetting.”

You kneel in front of him, gently placing your hand on his. “Then we don’t waste time.”

His breath catches. You hold his hand like it’s the only thing anchoring him here. And maybe it is.

You don’t go to class the next day. You don’t even pretend to.

You tell yourself it’s because you’re “monitoring the anomaly” or “preserving the fabric of reality.” But really, it’s because Satoru wakes up on the floor with the most lost look on his face and whispers, “Where am I again?” and it breaks your heart clean in half.

You sit with him until he remembers. Your name. The coffee spill. The dorm microwave. He laughs about the popcorn again, a little shakier this time. But it still counts. After that, you don’t leave his side.

The two of you walk the campus late at night when no one’s around. He keeps staring at trees like they’re the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen.

“I didn’t have these,” he murmurs. “Not like this. The ones in the fic were always perfectly sculpted. Background props.”

You smile softly. “These ones grow crooked. They drop leaves. Sometimes birds poop on you.”

He tilts his head. “I like them better.”

You take him to the library next. He walks the rows of books with reverent hands, trailing fingers across every spine like he’s scared they’ll vanish.

“I thought I knew words,” he says, voice low. “But this is different. These were made by people. Not an author playing God. Just… people.”

You nod. “People with lives. Mistakes. Ugly handwriting and messy endings.”

Satoru turns to you.

You don’t know what he sees in your face, but it’s enough to make him pause.

“You’re not what I expected,” he says.

You raise an eyebrow. “Expected from what? Fanfiction?”

He shakes his head. “No. From reality.”

You teach him how to use your phone. He FaceTimes the pizza place by accident and panics when someone picks up.

You try to explain memes, which leads to you both scrolling through TikToks on your bed for an hour straight. He becomes obsessed with cooking videos.

At one point, your head drops onto his shoulder. He doesn’t move. His breathing slows, steadies, like he’s memorizing the shape of you. Neither of you says anything about it.

You stay up one night talking. Really talking. You're lying side by side on your bed, not touching, but so close your arms are brushing.

“I used to think I was in love with her,” he says.

You stare at the ceiling. “The version of me from the story.”

He nods. “But she didn’t challenge me. She didn’t argue. She was soft in all the ways the author needed her to be.”

You don’t say anything. You’re not sure how to feel.

He turns his head to look at you. “You’re not soft.”

You blink. “Gee, thanks.”

“I don’t mean it like that,” he murmurs. “You’re… messy. Complicated. Real. You snore.”

You shove his arm lightly, and he grins.

But then his smile fades.

“I’m scared I won’t remember this,” he whispers.

You turn your head slowly. He’s staring at you like he’s memorizing you.

“I’m scared I’ll forget you.”

Your chest tightens.

You whisper, “Then I’ll remember for both of us.”

Something shifts in the space between you. Like gravity pulling tighter.

You don’t kiss. Not yet. But his hand inches closer to yours. And this time, when your fingers touch— You hold it tighter.

It starts small again. A pause mid-conversation.

A moment where Satoru tilts his head and says, “Remind me what this is again?” while pointing at something he’s already asked about twice.

You want to pretend it’s nothing. That he’s just distracted. But then you catch him standing by the window later that evening, staring out at the streetlight like it’s the only thing anchoring him.

“Do you remember this morning?” you ask quietly, stepping beside him.

He turns slowly. “…Was there cereal?”

You nod.

He gives you a sad smile. “I forgot the flavor.”

You don’t know what to say. So you walk over, wrap your arms around his torso, and press your cheek to his chest.

His breath catches. You feel his arms come up, slowly, hesitantly. Like he’s afraid he’ll crush you. Like if he holds you too tightly, he might disappear completely.

His chin rests on top of your head. His heartbeat is loud beneath your ear. Neither of you moves for a long time.

That night, he doesn’t want to sleep on the floor.

“I know I said I would,” he mutters, eyes flicking toward the sleeping bag. “But I just… I don’t want to feel far from you right now.”

You nod. You move over. He climbs in beside you. He stays on his side at first. Doesn’t touch you. But eventually, in the dark, his fingers find yours beneath the covers.

He holds your hand like it’s the last thread connecting him to the world. And maybe it is.

You dream of water. A soft tide pulling you away. Something fading. When you wake, he’s already looking at you. His hand is on your cheek. His thumb brushes just under your eye.

“I had a dream,” he whispers.

You hum sleepily, not opening your eyes. “What about?”

“I was back,” he says. “In the story. She was there. The office. The desk. The skyline.”

You open your eyes. He’s quiet for a long time.

Then: “But I didn’t feel anything.”

You turn to face him. “What do you mean?”

“I saw her. But she didn’t look like you. She looked like a blank space. Like a fill-in. She smiled at me, but it wasn’t you.”

He reaches for your face again.

“This world is loud. Messy. Exhausting. And I still want to stay in it.”

Your throat burns. “You might not get that choice.”

He leans in, forehead resting against yours.

“I know.”

Silence. Just your breath and his. Then he whispers:

“But if I’m going to vanish, I want to remember you.”

It’s quiet in the room. The kind of quiet that hangs between words never spoken. Between goodbyes that haven’t happened yet.

You lie beside him, breath soft, chest rising and falling in rhythm with his. His hand is still resting over yours beneath the blanket, fingers loosely entwined like a tether to reality. His thumb brushes gently along your knuckles.

“Satoru,” you whisper, your voice nearly lost in the hush of the room. “Are you okay?”

His eyes are already on you. He doesn’t answer for a long time. Then: “No.”

Your heart twists.

“I feel like I’m slipping,” he says, voice low, a little raw. “Like parts of me are coming undone. I try to remember the story, the office, the people... it’s all fog. But you—” His hand tightens around yours. “You’re the only thing I still feel.”

You swallow, throat thick. “Then hold on to me.”

His gaze drops to your lips.

“Can I?” he whispers. “Really hold you? Just once. Before I forget?”

You nod. The moment stretches. And then he leans in.

The kiss is slow. Uncertain at first, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish too. But when you sigh against his mouth, it deepens—his hand sliding to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, tilting your head so he can kiss you fully. Thoroughly.

He kisses you like he wants to taste your memory. Like he’s carving the shape of you into whatever part of him still exists beyond the glitch.

You shift closer, and his hand slips beneath your shirt, splaying across your waist. His palm is warm. Steady. You shiver at the contact.

“Tell me what you want,” you whisper.

He pulls back just enough to look at you.

“You,” he says. “Slow. Real. I want to make it count.”

You sit up slightly, letting him pull your shirt over your head. His eyes trail over you, and something in them breaks. Reverence. Hunger. Grief.

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathes. “I can’t believe I almost didn’t get to see you like this.”

You press your hands to his chest, feeling his heartbeat thudding beneath your palm. His hoodie comes off next, followed by his shirt, and you press your lips to his skin—his collarbone, his sternum, the small scar just under his ribs like the one described in the story. But it’s different seeing it here. Seeing him here. Alive. Real. Yours, even if only for tonight.

He lies back and pulls you with him, hands exploring your body like you’re something precious—trailing down your sides, across your back, fingers gripping your thighs with quiet desperation.

When you grind against him slowly, feeling the thick press of him through his boxers, his breath catches hard in your ear.

“You’re killing me,” he murmurs, lips brushing your jaw. “You’re so soft—so warm—I didn’t know this part of the world could feel so… good.”

You roll your hips again, and he groans deep in his throat, hands locking tight on your waist.

“Need to feel you,” he whispers. “All of you.”

You shift your weight and reach down, guiding him free from his boxers, his cock hard and hot in your palm. His breath hitches as your fingers wrap around him gently, stroking once—slow and curious.

His voice is ragged. “Please.”

You press a kiss to his lips, then rise just enough to line yourself up.

And when you sink down onto him, he gasps—eyes fluttering shut, head falling back against the pillow.

“Oh god—”

You’re both breathing heavy now.

You pause, adjusting to the stretch of him, the tightness between you. His hands slide up your thighs, then settle at your hips, holding you still as he tries not to lose control too soon.

“You feel… perfect,” he chokes. “Better than anything I’ve ever known.”

You begin to move, slow and careful, your bodies rocking together in a rhythm that feels older than either of you. His hands roam—palming your breasts, sliding up your spine, gripping your hips as you roll against him with aching tenderness.

“Satoru,” you whisper, leaning over him, your forehead pressed to his.

He opens his eyes. And in them—desperation. Need. Love.

“I don’t want to forget this,” he says again, voice breaking.

“Then remember me like this,” you whisper. “Remember the way I feel. The way I look at you. The way you make me feel so full, like I was meant to hold you.”

He groans at your words, thrusting up into you with more force. You gasp, clinging to his shoulders, meeting him with matching urgency.

It builds between you—need turning sharp, trembling, sacred.

You come first—tightening around him, breath catching as you moan his name through clenched teeth, nails digging into his back.

He follows you seconds later, holding you tight to him as he spills inside you, your names tangled in breathless gasps.

Afterward, you lie on his chest, both of you still shaking. His hand runs gently down your spine. You feel him press a kiss to your temple.

“You’re the best thing I never got written for,” he whispers.

You don’t answer. You just hold him. Because you know what’s coming next. And he’s slipping again.

you lie with him for a long time. His body is warm, tangled with yours beneath the blanket, his breath steady against your shoulder. One hand rests lazily over your stomach, like he’s anchoring himself to your skin.

You’re not sure how long you stay like that—wrapped in the kind of silence that only comes after something true.

But eventually, you feel his fingers twitch. Then still. Then again.

“Satoru?” you whisper.

He blinks slowly, then furrows his brows like something's wrong.

“…What was your name again?”

Your heart drops.

You sit up, brushing hair out of his face. “Don’t joke.”

“I’m not,” he says, voice quiet. Distant. “I know you. I feel like I know you. But it’s slipping. Like I’m trying to hold water in my hands.”

You press your palm to his cheek. “You’re still here. You’re still with me.”

He nods, but he doesn’t look convinced. That’s when you realize—This is it. He won’t last much longer. Whatever brought him here—whatever magic, glitch, miracle—it’s running out.

And if he goes like this, half-glitched, half-lost, it’ll break both of you. So you do the only thing you can.

You get out of bed. Pull on a hoodie. And sit at your desk. The words don’t come easy at first. But then your fingers move. Not on your phone. Not in a fanfic comment thread. On paper.

With a real pen, real ink, real hands. You write him an ending. A soft one.

Where he’s not a CEO haunted by guilt. Not a tragic man doomed to die before he can fall in love. You write him waking up in a quiet home, sunlight through curtains, coffee in a chipped mug, a cat that curls on his lap. You write him laughing. You write him safe. You write him at peace.

And you write that he gets to say goodbye. When it’s done, you read it aloud to him. Your voice shakes.

He listens, seated on the edge of your bed, blanket wrapped around his hips, eyes full of something that doesn’t feel like a glitch anymore. It feels like gratitude.

When you finish, you look up. He’s smiling softly.

“You did it,” he whispers.

“I gave you an ending,” you say. “You deserved one.”

He stands. Walks to you. And kisses you again. This one is slower. Full of something final.

“Thank you for writing me something better,” he says against your lips.

Tears well in your eyes. “Thank you for being real. Even just for a little while.” His fingers linger on your cheek.

He vanishes in the morning. Not with fanfare. Not with light or thunder or spark.

Just… A flicker.

You’d gone to brush your teeth. You’d left him tangled in your sheets, watching you from the bed with sleep-soft eyes and a crooked smile.

You came back— And the sheets were cold. You say his name once. Then again, louder. But there’s no answer. No trace. No indent in the pillow. No warmth in the blankets.

Just a silence so sharp it cuts. You don’t cry at first.

You sit on the edge of the bed, fingers curled around the hem of your shirt, blinking at the place he had been just hours ago. You try to replay his voice in your head, his laugh, the things he whispered against your skin. You press your face into your pillow and breathe deep, desperate to find even a trace of him.

But all you smell is fabric softener and loss. He’s gone. Like he never belonged here at all.

You grieve quietly. You carry his memory in the scribbled pages of your notebook, worn at the edges from being opened again and again. But you don’t write for him anymore. You write for yourself.

You don’t talk about it. How could you? You go back to class. You go back to microwaving leftovers. You scroll past fanfiction tags and never click again.

Some nights you still whisper his name in the dark, just in case he hears it. But he never answers. You begin to believe maybe he was just a dream after all. A beautiful, impossible dream.

Three months later, on the first warm day of spring, you’re sitting outside the library, notebook open, headphones in, sunlight catching in your lashes.

You almost don’t hear it.

“Excuse me—,” someone says.

You look up. And your heart stops.

A young man stands hesitantly before you, holding a crumpled campus map. His glasses slip slightly down his nose, his hair tousled from the breeze.

He looks unfamiliar yet somehow familiar.

“Could you help me? I’m completely lost,” he says, voice gentle but uncertain.

“Do you know where the science building is?” he asks, sheepish. “I’ve been walking in a circle for like twenty minutes.”

You stare. He’s different. No polished arrogance. No CEO swagger. No tailored suit. But it’s still him. That face. Those eyes. That voice.

You slowly take out your earbuds.

“…What’s your name?” you manage, breath shallow.

He smiles at you—confused, but kind.

“Satoru,” he says. “Satoru Gojo.”

Your lips part. His gaze lingers on your face for a moment too long. Then—

“Have we met before?” he asks, tilting his head.

“No, we haven’t met,” you whisper.

He chuckles, eyes bright.

“Maybe it’s a good thing. A new story.”

And as the sunlight pools around you both, you realize some endings are just beginnings in disguise.

[despairots]

MINISKIRT, chapter two of bite me!

baby saja x fem! reader | okia, this ones gonna be longer than the first one bc i realized i made it too short 💔💔 dw guys baby shows up he was originally supposed to show up in chapter three but yknow ❤️

story contains | thoughts of death but it’s nothing serious also reader’s actually personality cracks a bit

tag list | @enerofairy, @zomqiez, @ffcfffr, @mysteris-things

website. prev chpt … next chpt

A yawn escaped your mouth, stretching your arms over your hand as you left the tower to walk. If they wanted to find you, they’ll just give you call, and if they scolded you for walking out at night when demons come out, you’ll just wave them off.

You always liked this part after a concert, unlike the others who like resting on the couch while watching a movie, too tired to move. You often went out to walk, dead at night, with demons, unarmed, and coming back knowing you’ll get scolded.

‘It’s just comforting,’ you waved off, ‘I’ll be fine.’ you crossed your arms. You liked that they cared for you, it’s just sometimes it’s too much. You just want them to lay off your back for awhile. Yes, you know how dire the situation would be if you died, it’s all you think about whenever you’re out.

Scratch that, you think about it everyday. A crazy fan could sneak inside and straggle you, a stalker could threaten you, a demon could steal your soul, you could fall off a building. It’s not rare to not think about it, people think about dying everyday rather it be suicidal or not.

You’re just as scared at dying like any other human. It’s normal, it’s uncommon, it’s nothing bizarre. Fearing death is humane, that’s what often distinguishes humans and demons. The thought made you froze, since when did you start comparing humans and demons?

You never once did. Yes, your whole job was to slain demons to protect the world, but you never compared the qualities between humans and demons before. Some humans were more demonic than demons, but you didn’t have anyone—any demon—to back up your claim.

Maybe this whole job was getting to your head, and to think you wanted to go out on a walk to clear your mind but instead got compromised with the new thought.

You pulled your phone to check the time before noticing a notification about a new song. Furrowing your eyebrows, you clicked it, revealing the one song that was supposed to be released after your 2 weeks hiatus. Annoyance filled your body, sighing angrily and pinching the bridge of your nose.

Went out on a relaxing walk just to not be relaxed. God, sometimes you hated this job.

You loved the girls and Bobby, they’re the family you’ve always wanted but they can be a bit… how do you say it? They’re sorta irritating to be around? It’s just they change things so many times, and when they do, it brings you so much annoyance and anxiety. You have to work overtime, and it’s hard to balance this life and your personal life.

You’re not perfect, the opposite of that actually. You’re rude, snappy, and easily agitated, you clearly got it from your family. Despite being a sensitive soul, you are a terrible person, it’s written in stone and you never once bothered changing it. You only acted docile to survive, you never wanted to act like that but acting stupid helped you up to this point.

It’s not that you’re ashamed, you couldn’t care less about it. If someone came up to you and said that you’re a shitty person, you’d just laugh because they’re right. You don’t hide it often, it slips through the perfect facade you’ve crafted sometimes and all of a sudden you said something that earns you blinks.

Rumi’s contact photo appeared, sliding the button to the side and holding the phone against your ear. You took in a deep breath, ridding any snark you wanted to say to her because it’d be the opposite of what they’d known you as, also because you knew she just wanted to keep the demons down there forever.

“Rumi, hi! I saw the song, we’re already releasing? What about our relaxation?” You greeted, a tense smile on your face as you crouched down a lamppost, Rumi awkwardly chuckled on the opposite side, scratching her cheek, “Yeah, I know we’re going too fast, but the sooner the honmoon turns gold, the better. Just come back as soon as possible, promo starts tonight!” You gapped in surprise, grasping the lighter in your hand tightly.

You didn’t even get to sleep, or eat, or anything! Promo starts tonight? Are we serious? Biting the inside your cheek, you responded tensely, “Great, love it. Coming back now, bye!” You hung up before she could say anything back, a disgusted look on your face.

None of what you’re feeling is directed towards her, she’s the last person who deserves your rudeness. It’s just your fans knew you were going to take a hiatus, so dropping a song after a big world tour would throw everyone off. They would be happy, sure, you love to see them happy, but why now?

You groaned, slamming the side of your head into the metal lamppost, an unlit cigarette clutched in your hand, “No one appreciates the schedule anymore, great.” You let out a breathy laugh, running a hand over your hair. Fuck, you were going insane.

“Wow, you look pathetic.” A boy with teal hair commented, coming out the shadows with crossed arms. You looked him up and down, “Coming from the Wreck-It Ralph Sugar Crush fuck.” You snapped back, standing up to head back to the tower.

The boy huffed, either amused or offended by your comment, “Didn’t expect the angelface of HUNTR/X to be rude.” He mumbled underneath his breath, loud enough for you to stop in your tracks, “And you are?” Raising an eyebrow, you turned around to see him again, a smirk on his face.

Now taking a good look at him, his voice did not match his face. What is Gwi-Ma feeding his demons?

“You didn’t figure it out yet? You’re more slower than you look.”

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. I know you’re a demon, why are you here?”

He just shrugged before disappearing back into the shadows. You stood there for a few seconds, staring at the spot he was just at, “Weird crackhead.” Last thing you commented before actually heading back.

You were exhausted, even after coming back from the walk. The new outfit you had to hastily put on scratched your arms and the boots were hurting your toes. The promo was done, for tonight at least, you still had the entire week to promote the song and you aren’t sure if you can handle it anymore.

Zoey plopped herself down next to you, eyes blinking at different times as she continued to sink into the couch. You blinked at her, looking around the room to find something for her before she groaned loudly and placed her head onto your lap, “I want kisses.” You sweatdropped at her words, twirling a strand of her hair.

“Zoey…”

She whined like a child, kicking her legs up, “Why are we promoting this song so early? I like how it’s trending and our fans love it, but I wanted to couch.” Zoey pouted, wrapped her arms around your waist, and buried her head into your stomach.

You sighed, taking out her space buns slowly and gently, “Me too, Zo.” She looked up at you with puppy eyes, making you tense up and sweatdrop.

She wanted something from you, you know it…

“Can I use your iPad?” The question made you blink, doesn’t she have one? Why ask you? Sensing your thoughts, she sat up, still looking at you, “I didn’t charge mine.” Sighing, you nodded, heading up to your room and coming back with your iPad in hand.

She squealed, snatching it away and instantly pressing youtube to start watching a video about sea animals. Honestly, you’re more surprised that she’s able to do all that in this uncomfortable outfit, “You’re not gonna change…?” She shook her head, her hair shaking along with it.

“Nope!”

“…You’re not uncomfortable with it?”

“Nuh uh.”

“…Okay.”

You left her alone, pulling the collar of the jacket away when it scraped the bottom of your chin. Whoever made this outfit uncomfortable will be fired, almost all your other costumes weren’t remotely close to how itchy this one is.

The quietness of your room kept making you drift back to the demon you saw, why the hell was he so rude? What was he doing there in the first place? How did he find you in the first place? Was he not gonna attack you? Why did neither of you attack eachother when you first found out?

You shrugged at the thoughts, throwing the jacket off and making yourself comfortable on your bed. The ceiling seemed to swirl together the longer your eyes stayed open, there was no reason a demon was clouding your mind, and not in a weird way.

More in a way of like; why was he in a human disguise? And why in the everloving fuck was he dressed like that? To be honest, you’re glad you got the last word in, there was no reason for him to call you pathetic when he looked like that!

Groaning, you threw a pillow at the door, Zoey being knocked back with the pillow falling down. The appearance of the girl made you sit up immediately, “Did you knock?” You snapped before taking a deep breath in and asking your question again calmly, “I did, for the past like 5 minutes.” She made herself comfortable on your bed.

“Do you like barging into my room?” Zoey just smiled with her tongue peeking out, “Do you like sulking in your room?” You snorted, shoving her aside gently when she started laughing. Zoey turned away when she saw you pull out pyjamas, getting knocked back onto the bed when you threw a pair at her.

She jumped up and down on your bed once she changed, letting you pick out a movie while sending her glares. You loved Zoey, she was like your little sister, but sometimes she can be a bit overbearing.

‘Little Women’ started playing which caused Zoey to let out a dramatic gasp, “Change it!” She tried snatching the remote out of your hand, pulling yourself away from her scratching nails while giggling, “Okay, okay—Zoey, stop it.” You held tightly onto her shoulder, seeing the guilty look on her face, making you feel immediately embarrassed.

“I’m sorry, I know you were just joking but your nails are sharp.” You apologized, looking around the room to avoid looking at her. The tension in the room was a bit awkward before she just tackled you into a hug, repeating apologies into your neck, “Zoey, it’s fine. Just watch the movie.” You sighed heavily, letting her just make you into a pillow when she didn’t move.

Fuck that stupid demon. He quite literally is impacting your mood ever since he called you pathetic. You weren’t pathetic. An asshole, maybe, but pathetic? Now you were just catching strays from a demon you could’ve killed easily.

Matter of fact, why didn’t you kill him? Why didn’t you summon your weapon? Why didn’t he kill you? Whatever the case was, you’ll call him pathetic when you see him again, or not, to be fair, you don’t really care.

“[Name]?”

“Yes, Zoey?”

“Why’d your heartbeat increase?”

“Uhhh…”

Yeah, she never got an answer.

GOLDEN was trending all around Korea, you and your friends waking up early this entire week to do interviews about the song which caused you to be more snappy than usual. There was no reason for the song to be released so early, you understood Rumi’s reason, but you never understood why she would do it without consulting with any of you first.

All of you were exhausted after that last tour, just wanted to sleep and not get up for any dance practices or tv reality shows, or anything actually.

It was just promotion, promotion, day after day. You could barely get a twinkle of sleep without someone waking you up about an interview that you all need to run too. So yeah, the reasoning behind your attitude was justified.

“The first live performance is tonight!” Zoey announced, you tried to calm down the annoyance that was slowly bubbling inside, a fake smile on your face as you heard the cheers from the crowd and the honmoon glowing brightly. This day could not get any worse…

Turns out it can get worse.

Rumi kept coughing mid dance practice, earning multiple confused stares whenever she stopped. This was her third time, your concern for her shoving the irritation away as you handed her a waterbottle, “Rumi, I told you to take it easy.” She just smiled softly and took the water, “I just need 5.” She left the stage, shocking everyone.

“We go live in 10!” The three of you looked at eachother before following after Rumi, not finding her in the dressing room. You frowned, pinching the bridge of your nose, “What do we do?” Zoey and Mira looked at eachother and shrugged, also confused on what to do.

“Let’s just cancel it.” Zoey said, voice small as she rubbed her hands together. It wasn’t professional, canceling a show that was gonna happen in 10 minutes, but without Rumi’s voice or Rumi in general, you couldn’t perform the song.

Mira looked down with furrowed eyebrows, “How are we gonna tell Bobby? Or the fans? They’ll be mad at us.” Her comment made Zoey curl into herself, she was right. Fans would be mad, and they’d have a reason to, but it’s better safe and sorry.

“We’ll refund them, let’s tell Bobby and the rest before we head back to the tower.” You gestured for the three of you to leave the dressing room, explaining to Bobby who tried to keep himself calm when he was sweating bullets. When you offered to do it for him, he just waved you off, saying he’ll man up and do it.

On the drive back, your annoyance came back. It wasn’t Rumi’s fault, but she shouldn’t have pushed the release date so early if her thought wasn’t doing so well, “Another reason why we shouldn’t have released it.” You whispered under your breath, biting the thumb of your nails.

Mira and Zoey looked at eachother with concern. They’ve never seen you like this before.

The three of you waited for Rumi to head to a private ramen shop, dressed in comfortable clothes and waiting in the living room. She came down from the elevator, holding her arms close and a conflicted look on her face.

“I.. I’m sorry about the show.”

Rumi swirled her spoon around in the broth, “Rumi, it’s okay. I’m sure everything will be fine. Bobby can handle it.” Just as she ended the sentence, Bobby called claiming that he can’t handle it before Mira hung up when Rumi seemed to get more stressed out, “It’s okay, we can reschedule.” You smiled at her, “By the way, we pay Bobby 3%?” They seemed to ignore your question.

“I don’t know if that’s gonna be possible.” Rumi’s words seemed to confuse you all, “My voice, it’s in trouble.” She pointed out, all of your eyes widening, “Wait, in trouble? Then why did you push up the GOLDEN release?” You drank for your cup of tea, whispering an ‘exactly’ into it.

“Because we’re so close, and it’s so important.” Rumi answered, guilt laced into her words. Zoey sat up straight, “Okay, how do we handle this? What do we tell the fans? Maybe we should call Celine?” Zoey offered, an awkward smile on her face, “We’d know what she’d say, Zoey.” Mira blinked blankly at her.

“Oh, right, right.” Zoey cleared her throat.

“We are Hunters, voices strong. Your faults and fears must never be seen.” Mira and Zoey quoted, only the three of you chuckling while Rumi smiled at the attempt to cheer her up, “No, but that’s really bad. We got to hide it. We got to hide it and fix it.” Those words did not reassure Rumi.

“Rumi, why don’t we take a break? We’ll skip the Idols Awards this year and—“

“No, no way. It’s our most important show. It’s when we strengthen the honmoon for the entire year. We can’t skip it, we just can’t… Not when I’m so close.” She objected, eyes glossy. The three of you looked at eachother with worry, “Hey, we’ll get through this. We can get through anything, together.” Your hand placed itself over Rumi’s, reassuring her.

“Okay, we have 2 weeks to fix Rumi’s voice. Any ideas?” Zoey buzzed in her seat, “I do have 1 idea,” She trailed off, and knowing her, she did not have 1 idea.

You giggled into your cup, “Just 1?”

“Actually 57, but let’s start with my favourite! Don’t worry it’s totally legit.”

Didn’t seem like it…

[seresinhangmanjake]

His Choice

Remmick x reader

Summary: You never wanted to be what Remmick is, and you made him promise not to change you under any circumstances, but when death comes for you, he makes his own selfish decision.

Notes/Warnings: Lots of blood talk. 

Words: 2500

Sinners Masterlist / Main Masterlist / Tag List

He’s always known you didn’t want it. You told him so the very first time you heard the offer leave his mouth. 

“I’d make it quick, darlin’,” he said, an uncharacteristic dash of hope in his blue eyes. You bit your bottom lip, pretending to consider the possibility of agreeing because you didn’t want to hurt him with your pre-primed rejection. He smiled as he waited for your response. Your heart plummeted into your stomach, knowing you were about to wipe that smile from his face. 

You were anticipating it, had been for a while—it was only a matter of time before he’d ask—but in all your preparation, you never once mulled over what your answer would be. It was a firm ‘no’. You loved him, you’d always love him, but “I am not meant to be what you are” is what you told him. 

Despite his poorly hidden disappointment, he nodded, and it was never brought up again. It didn’t need to be. He accepted your decision on the matter, and ever since, you've believed with your whole heart that regardless of what may come your way, he would never betray your wishes. 

—

He proves you wrong when you are struck by a stray bullet from a duo dueling over a petty theft in town one night. The metal pellet sinks into your abdomen before you even have a chance to see it ricocheting off the steel rim of a nearby vehicle's tire. 

You look down. Your shaky palm pulls back red. You stumble, and as your body gives out, you fall into Remmick’s arms. 

A wave of blood is coating, drenching, staining you. It pours and pools under your clothes, not ceasing even when the fabric of your dress can soak up no more. Townsfolk are too preoccupied with the two-man battle to bother noticing. Only Remmick is by your side, the both of you trapped in your own little world of horror.  

His arms sneak under your knees and behind your back, and he lifts you against his chest. You whine in protest. It’s too much, like he’s digging into your skin and plucking your sensitive nerves the way he would the strings of his banjo. 

When you cry out again, he softly shushes you. “I know, darlin’, I know,” he coos as he carries you behind a building and sets you down onto the dusty ground out of others’ sight. 

You’re fading fast, blackness edging into the corners of your vision, breaths becoming shallower by the second, skin clammier. You can feel your life draining as your blood rapidly evacuates. Remmick brushes your hair out of your face.

“Darlin’, look at me,” he says. There’s a shakiness to his voice that you don’t recognize. “Look at me.” You try, but you can’t turn your head. His hands on your cheeks force you to meet his eyes. “On me.” Then he says, “It’s gonna hurt.”

Your brow pinches. “W-What’s gon–”

“I’m so sorry.” He leans down and presses a kiss to your lips and repeats, “I’m so sorry, darlin’,” before he gently eases your head to the side and buries his fangs into your neck.

He was right. It hurts like hellfire. Like the repercussion of sin. Like the world is opening up so the devil can swallow you whole. Whatever life you have left in you does not slip away naturally as God intended, but is instead yanked from your body in one swift motion. Stolen. And only darkness remains.

When you awaken, you are you, but you are not you. You see the world and her scenery in vivid colors that should not exist. You trace the scents and sounds of creatures too far away to be hunted with honor. You crave flesh and iron and thick liquid to fill your mouth until it’s spilling down your chin. 

In your mind, you see what he has seen. There are flashes of your face, memories of your features molded in ecstasy as he moves in and out of you. Then those memories shift, and you are suddenly flooded with the image of your eyes and brows and mouth twisting unflatteringly from the pain of moments before. 

You feel what he has felt—lust, desire, love…then fear. The kind of fear that the victim has no control over. The kind that slips like sand through your fingers before you have a chance to take hold of it and cast it aside. You feel the panic. He was about to lose you. Surely you weren’t expecting him to let that happen.

He did what he had to do. So, just before the last golden grain of that fear tumbled off of Remmick’s palm, just before your lungs released their last exhale, just before the last red droplet expelled from your body, he acted in his own self-interest. And now your life is irreparably changed.

—

You refused the doe, you refused the fox, you refused the hare, the squirrel, and now, as Remmick sits in front of you, you refuse the mouse. 

“Darlin’,” he sighs for the hundredth time in two weeks. Leaning forward in his chair, his elbows brace on his knees as his head falls between his shoulders. “I know, alright? I know you’re strugglin’, but you gotta eat somethin’.” One hand runs down his face before sifting through his toffee-tinted locks. “Please. I need you to–”

His words die on his lips when he glances up at you. You know you’re a sight; one you’re sure no one could get used to, no matter how many times they’ve already looked at you. Sunken eyes, cracked lips, ashy skin. Remmick struggles to contain his wince at the reminder of what he did to you. He manages, but just barely. Then his eyes soften, the same as they’ve always done, with the same love, the same adoration. 

He sets the mouse aside. His hand settles on your cheek, thumb stroking along your cheekbone. You try not to lean into his touch. 

“Just have a little,” he whispers.

Your eyes flick back and forth between his. When you don’t respond, he reaches for the mouse again, bites into its stomach, and holds it out to you. Rivers bleed through his fingers, beads of crimson splashing onto the wooden floor of the shack you’ve been living in. 

The smell is unbelievable. So intoxicating it almost has your eyes rolling to the back of your head. You’re desperate to take the innocent creature from him, slide your fangs into the punctures he already made and drain the tiny body dry, but you can’t bring yourself to do it.

Turning your head away, you swat the mouse out of his hand. It lands on the floor with a light thump, and Remmick’s chair pushes back as he stands and goes to pick it up. He wipes the dirt from the body but gives up when he realizes it has infiltrated the holes his teeth inflicted. 

Moving to the window, he tosses the mouse into the night. Then he twists around, crosses his arms, and leans against the wall. You still won’t look at him. You don’t want to see the anguish on his face.

“Darlin’, I know you hate me,” he continues. Your lungs seize in your chest at the broken, melancholy tone. “But you can’t do this to me.”

A frown lowers the corners of your lips. Your eyes whip to his. “To you?” you snap—the first you’ve spoken in days. Fueled by anger, you muster the energy to rise unsteadily from your seat. “I’m doing something to you? You’re the one who ruined me.”

Remmick’s features rapidly mutate into the epitome of fury. Irises darken, the low candlelight in the room pulling forth a ruby glint from the pit of blackness. 

“I didn’t ruin you,” he grits out between clenched fangs.

“You killed me.”

“They killed you!” He points his finger in the direction of the town that sits about a mile away. “They did! I saved you!”

“For yourself!” you bite back. 

Remmick lets out a deep groan, a crease forming at the center of his brows as his palms press against his closed eyelids. You’ve been through this before, the first run-through of the very same conversation ending in the last time you would speak to him for close to four days. 

“You were selfish!” 

His hands drop from his face. His eyes are wild when he shouts, “Because I love you!”

“If you loved me you would’ve respected my wants, my choices!” you tell him. 

In the dead air that lingers, you take a breath, inhaling deeply through your nose, exhaling out your mouth. 

“But you couldn’t do that, could you?” you continue. “It was only a matter of time anyway, wasn’t it?”

Remmick huffs. “What the hell are you talkin’ about?”

Shaking your head, you say, “You were never going to let me go. You weren’t going to let me grow old without you. Die without you. Being shot gave you an excuse, not a reason.”

As your words settle over him, the tension in Remmick’s shoulders releases. He stares at you, unblinking, like he’s been caught red-handed and is now lost for a reply. 

Perhaps he assumed you weren’t smart enough, that you would never figure out how he thinks, or recall the mischievous glint in his irises that screamed he would agree to your wishes in the meantime, but in the end, he would take what he wanted—something you foolishly ignored. Perhaps he’s spent the last two weeks believing that concealing from you the piece of his mind where his true intentions reside would keep you in the dark. But you don’t need to see into his head to know the truth.

However, doling out the truth has its consequences in more ways than one, and you have to take responsibility for your part in this, perhaps a part larger than his. You must accept that this is a disaster of your own making. Remmick is not a mystery. You know him inside and out, that he takes more than he gives, and yet, from your own selfishness, your own need for him, you stayed. The anger, for as much as it festers for him, burns for you. 

“Love means saving. It means sheltering. It means protecting. And that’s what I did,” he says. “I ain’t losin’ you. Ever. Not for anythin’.”

When you swallow the dryness on your tongue, it strains your throat. Your eyes fall to your feet. 

“You’re lyin’ to yourself if you’re thinkin’ you wouldn’t’a done the same,” he says. The floorboards creak from the weight of his steps. With a knuckle crooked under your chin, he tilts your head back up. “‘Cause you love me, too.”

Your jaw ticks. More of the truth. A fair punch to the gut. You hate that, how you still love him despite the broken trust. But you can’t help yourself. Something inside you shuns so much as the simple proposal of continuing life—or whatever your existence is now—without him.  

Remmick’s thumb rubs over the split in your parched bottom lip. He tsks. “And this is gettin’ real stupid.”

Before you can question him, he puts his wrist up to his mouth, stabs fangs into his flesh, and sucks the nectar of his own body. Blood dribbles over his chin to his neck to the collar of his shirt. The same hand then fists into your hair to hold you in place as the fingers gripping your chin pull down, opening your mouth. 

He kisses you. The first kiss since he turned you. 

You push against his chest, but the fight dies once the thick liquid begins to flow across your taste buds. It’s surprisingly sweet and hearty. And yet, at the same time, there’s a distinct essence of earthiness to it. You expected sour and death and rotten insides, but instead, he tastes as if he were assembled and born from nature, from dirt, from roots, from trees. He tastes as if he is not some abomination, a mistake in God’s formation of man, but rather an intentional creation that’s a little more connected to the soil than humans ever could be. You don’t understand it. Maybe it’s because his kind—your kind—spend so long traversing this planet’s terrain that it starts to seep into their bodies. Whatever the reason, it brings you a twinge of comfort, however minuscule, to think you might taste the same.

Tongue exploring his, you search to claim every bit of that sweet earthiness. The blood races down your throat into your stomach, where it spreads, warming and reawakening each shriveled organ one at a time. The rough patches of your skin start to soften. Suppleness returns to your lips. Your muscles shed some of the weakness that accompanies starvation. 

Remmick’s hands slide around to cup your cheeks. Now that he knows you aren’t going to pull away in disgust or rebellion or both, his touch is gentle. He kisses you how he wants to, with tenderness instead of force.

When he breaks the kiss, he nudges his nose against yours. “Look at you,” he says with a grin full of red teeth. “Gettin’ all healthy again.”

It’s impossible to deny that you feel significantly better. Even at half-strength, you can already tell you’re stronger than the average human. You sense what you’re capable of, and what you could be capable of if you drank more. You understand for yourself the power that comes with vitality and the night, and yet find strangeness in knowing that in a few hours, that power will cower and hide within the shadows in the face of the sun. 

“You’re so beautiful like this, darlin’,” Remmick says, interrupting your thoughts. 

“I wasn’t beautiful before?”

“Of course, you were.”

His words, which have a history of melting you, don’t mean much at the moment. With a sigh, you back out of his reach and wrap your arms around your middle.

Remmick’s eyes narrow. “What’re you doin’?”

“I’m still mad,” you mutter. 

Recollection dawns over Remmick’s face, his mouth parting as if to say, ‘Ah, right, that.” An insignificant detail he’s already forgotten about. 

“I can outlast your stubbornness, darlin’,” he replies. 

A smirk curls his lips. Walking forward, he backs you up until your bottom hits the edge of the table in the center of the room. His hands plant on the surface on either side of your hips, and he leans down, bringing you face to face, eyes to eyes.

“Be mad,” he says. “Be as mad as you want, for as long as you want. But be alive.” He catches your lips in a kiss that comes and goes so quickly, you don’t have time to reject it. Not that you would have. “You ready for more?”

You gulp. That smirk of his returns as you glance lower at his already-healed wound. Reaching down, you grab his wrist and run your thumb over the slightly shimmery skin of the scars, the only indication that the punctures ever existed. 

Remmick stands upright as you bring his wrist to your mouth. His eyes are locked onto you, patiently awaiting your next move. Inhaling his scent, your brain swirls with pleasant dizziness. Your canines elongate. Your tongue flicks in anticipation. You part your lips, and then you break through the thin barrier of skin.

---

A/N: thanks for reading <3. If you liked it, let me know. It always makes my day :)

Taglist: @blobbytheblobblob @daisydark

[bullet-prooflove]

The Wishing Fountain: John Carter x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @anna-bailey @ofsoapsuds @queenslandlover-93 @gemofspace

Summary: John reflects on his life before you.

Companion piece to:

Dreamer (NSFW) - John dreams of you when he's with someone else.

Little John - You try to keep John's mind off the task at hand.

The First One Is Always The Hardest - You comfort John after the death of a patient.

Forget-Me-Nots - John wakes up hung over in a strange bed and with an unexpected memento of the night before.

Speak Your Truth - John speaks his truth in the aftermath of a tragedy.

Trauma - John makes a realisation after his confession.

Fever - John gets more than he bargained for when he attends a friend's stag party in a Chicago Speakeasy.

Minx (NSFW) - John had no idea he had such a deviant little minx on his hands.

Always - You and John discuss the reasons behind your dancing.

Diamonds - John's friend and rival makes you an offer you can't refuse.

The Stethoscope - John's world is turned upside down when he finds your stethoscope in his locker.

Elderberry Wine - You come home to find John waiting for you.

Sex, Lies and Cocaine Dreams - John takes his revenge on the man that shattered your dreams.

By The Grace of God - An unexpected ally goes to bat for you during your beard hearing.

Choices - You and John discuss your options moving forward.

The Sexual Revolution (NSFW) - You decide to give John a private show before the event.

A Love Story - Your performance sparks an unexpected conversation with Gamma.

The Problem With Winning The War - The problem with winning the war is that you don't expect the second attack.

Mack The Knife - You come face to face with a nightmare in John's apartment.

The Merry Go Round - Reality starts to crash down on you in the wake of your recent trauma.

Rounds - John's his first thoughts are of you upon waking up from surgery.

Love & Duty - John's recovery at Gamma's leads to friction in your relationship due to a laundry disagreement.

The women before you were asinine.

Silly, vapid things that only cared about one of two things. John’s money or his privilege and that was ok because that’s the way the game was played in his world. People want you because you can give them something, and John, he was used to that, in fact he was bred for it.

Blood, bone marrow, whatever his brother needed to fight his leukaemia, John gave because he was expected to, because it was his purpose. The problem is once Bobby died, he stopped being useful and his mom and dad they stopped caring, so John he stopped caring too.

About himself, about his own sense of agency.

It’s the reason he went to business school, the reason he never challenged the discussions about him taking over The Carter Foundation.

At least he didn’t until the met the girl at the wishing fountain in Grant Park, the one wearing a white Blondie t-shirt over a denim skirt. He isn’t sure what draws him to her, there’s just this connection when their eyes meet, a spark he hasn’t felt in the twenty two years he’s been on this earth. He watches her toss a handful of quarters into the depths before he roots around in his pockets for his change.

“What are you wishing for?” He asks her offering one of his own coins. She takes it from his palm before gripping it tightly in her fist and clasping it to her heart, as if she’s trying to force all the luck in the world into it.

“A scholarship.” She tells him before throwing the coin in along with the rest. “It’s a longshot but you gotta have hope you know?”

No he doesn’t, his hope died along with his brother.

Her gaze lowers to the quarters in his gloved hand as they glint in the fading orange of the sunset. “Why aren’t you making a wish?”

“I don’t have anything to wish for.” He tells her and her pencil thin, dark eyebrows furrow into a frown.

The truth is the things that John wants never align with the things his family want. He’d had this notion as a kid that he’d become a doctor, heal Bobby. It had still been there after he’d passed but father had reminded him that he was the heir now, that it was time to stand up and do his duty.

“That’s incredibly sad.”  The girl tells him, staring at the coins glittering under the surface of the water. “It sounds like you’ve forgotten how to dream.”

“I had a dream, it just didn’t suit my family needs…” John finds himself telling her. This conversation right here, it’s the most real one he’s had in a long time. People don’t usually talk to him like this. They’re not open, or honest, they’re just surface level discussing things like finance or politics.

“Do you always do what your family wants you to do?”  She asks him as she sits down on the marble wall of the fountain, patting the space beside her. “You don’t ever think about rebelling?”

“Sometimes.” John admits as he sits beside her, his shoulder gently nudging against hers. “Sometimes it feels like I’m drowning under the weight of the whole thing, that there’s all these decisions being made for me and I don’t get a say.”

“Then maybe you need to make your own decisions.” She counters, crossing one leg over the other as she takes a pack of nicotine gum out of her pocket and pops one into her mouth. “Become culpable for yourself.”

“It’s not that simple.” He says helplessly, looking down at his hands.

“It never is.” She responds, jerking her thumb at the water feature over her shoulder. “Do you think I’d be standing here throwing coins into a fountain if it was?”

He laughs at that and the girl laughs too. That sound, it unlocks something inside of him, it shatters the walls of the prison he’s been keeping himself holed up in for all these years.

It’s that night that he returns to the estate and tells Gamma he wants to attend Med School. It’s the first time he makes a choice about his own future, and he can’t express how freeing it feels.

It’s a few months later he runs into that girl again. She’s sitting in the front row for his first lecture at Northwestern, still wearing that Blondie t-shirt, still making his heart beat a little faster in his chest.

“I see you got that scholarship.” He says as he takes the empty seat alongside her.

“And I see you started to dream again.” She teases him, making space on the desk to unpack his things.

John thinks about all of this as he stands outside your door tonight, listening to the sounds of Kula Shaker emitting from the other side. What his life would be like if he hadn’t run into you at the wishing fountain. He’d be numb, sad, alone, drowning a career that he had never wanted in the first place, the same way that his cousin Chase is.

He raises his fist, knocking on the cheap wood and the noise echoes down the empty hallway as he hears the locks being drawn back. The door opens a crack before you peer through the gap taking him in with his walking stick and long woollen coat.

“I was an asshole.” He says simply. “I became complacent again, let myself fall into old patterns. I know that you were there out of love, and I’m sorry that I acted as if it didn’t matter, that you didn’t matter.”

The door opens up wider and you stand before him, wearing that same t-shirt from the day you met and nothing more than a pair of his socks. “You mean the world to me Crys. The estate, the wealth, the stupid Faberge eggs, I would give every single one of them up if it made you happy.”

“You don’t need to give anything up for me.” You tell him as you lean in close, your curves brushing against his firm chest as your fingers lace at the nape of his neck. The scent of honey and orange blossoms floods his senses, the shampoo you get from the dollar store down the street. He’s missed that smell, he’s missed the way you fit so perfectly against him, the feel of your heart thundering against his. “You just need to stop Magda washing my panties and folding them up into weird tiny squares.”

 A ghost of a smile crosses your lips and he can tell all is forgiven as he wraps his free arm around you, gathering you even closer. His cheek comes to rest against yours, his lips grazing over your ear as he whispers. “Maybe we don’t stay at the estate for a while. Maybe we stay right here at home instead.”

Love John? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[pinescent-and-gingerbread]

CHAPTER I

Modern AU.

- Pairing: detective!Arthur x barista!Reader

- Summary: It's early autumn in Bozeman, Montana. The curtain rises on the daily lives of Arthur Morgan, a police lieutenant, and you, a barista in the café across the street. Impromptu returns of friends in your lives and a strange mystery could lead you to meet at last...

- Warnings/tags: (for this chapter) death, corpse, angst as grief and loneliness are mentioned.

- Words:6k

series info, warnings and disclaimer here. AO3 link here.

Arthur Morgan looks at his face in the mirror. Bags under his eyes. Scruffy stubble that grew in just one night, only God knows how. His short hair, with this golden brown color he never could describe himself, matches the caramel leaves of the trees outside his window. He grabs his razor, a vintage one, just a resealable blade. His shaving brush, his cream. He smears his face, blue pupils staring at his cheeks, and then his throat in the glass. That familiar, everyday smell fills his nostrils. The blade feels weird every time it passes on his chin, his scars oddly sensitive there. Damn he looks aweful. His nose, broken from a fight years ago. A cut, way lighter and fresher than his other wounds, provokes him on his cheek. The two big wrinkles digging into his cheeks on either side of his lips, that never cease to grow year after year. The sunspots staining his skin, marks that would never leave, no matter how hard he would wash his face.

At least he's always had the physique to impress: severe features, broad shoulders, a body strengthened by years of training and physical work. At least his ugliness served him well for his work, which was something to be taken for granted. He sighs for a few seconds.

Today is going to be a long, hard day.

His face roughly shaven and clean, he dresses without paying attention, slipping on a pair of jeans, a black T-shirt, and his eternal leather jacket; pockets filled with crushed cigarettes and empty packs of them. He adds his badge to his big belt, like a soldier adds his banner before going into battle. Like a condemned man holds the axe over his own head. But maybe, on some days, also like the crown of a man's pride.

His service weapon is waiting for him on the kitchen table, almost as loyal as Copper. The good boy is up and excited, thinking he's going on a walk with him, like every morning. And like every morning, Arthur takes a few minutes of his time to pat him and coo at him, the old German shepherd collapsing heavily on the ground with a blissful happiness, showing his belly for him to flatter. "That's my good boah." Both of his hands scratch him vigorously. "You're almost as old as me now, ain'tcha? Two old basterds we are."

A few last licks from his companion on his calloused hands and Arthur gets up, grunting, more from frustration than actual effort. He closes his door, taking his gun and leaving Copper behind.

The cool autumn air swallows him up as soon as he leaves his apartment building. The streets, still almost deserted at this early hour, are quiet, as if on standby, the dead leaves on the trees gently falling in silent, forgotten dances. He heads for the police station, only a ten-minute walk from his place. He likes this little bit of peace and quiet before arriving at work. Before facing reality, and its demons.

He walks up his street, St Tracy Avenue, a heterogeneous mix of new family homes and apartments in Bozeman's typical red-brick buildings. He passes the little local church, St James, still asleep. The tall trees framing the road overlook dozens of cars and pick-ups lining the sidewalks. At the crossroads, he turns right onto Main Street. The rising sun illuminates the shiny windows of the post office, the US flag proudly raised, welcoming the workers, the only ones he usually meets on his way. Beyond the post office, dozens of stores, cafés, restaurants, and banks. The main street is flooded with them. Sometimes he wonders if they were there when the town was founded, when the first red bricks were laid on the ground. He makes a quick stop at number 117, The Treeline, mainly because it's one of the only ones already open at this hour, but also because he knows that the old manager will make him his espresso without making unnecessary conversation. Simple, efficient, silent. What he needs, especially in the morning.

Finally, right after the Comedy Club, he reaches the last crossroads. There, another café stands on the corner, much more welcoming than the Treeline. The window display, featuring a jovial otter drinking a cup of tea, reads “The Green Otter's Café” in round, amusing letters. He turns his head. He doesn't know why, but always does, every morning. Maybe it's the irresistible smell of baking pastries, butter croissants, cinnamon rolls, and loaves of all kinds. Maybe it's the one of coffee beans being roasted, or the energetic music he can faintly hear from inside. But mostly, and surely, it's because it's just about that time you are cleaning the counter. Your hair in a messy bun, your green and orange apron, the colors of your establishment, tight around your waist. Today, you're wearing a beige shirt underneath. He knows so little about you, like what your name is or where you're from; only that you're always there, at 6 a.m., and you always look up, showering him with your death-defying smile.

He smiles back. Tries not to think about his ugly teeth as he does, and grants you a two-finger salute before continuing his walk. You return his greeting, your cheeks so round and reddened by your smile, your eyes crinkled into two crescent moons. You're so beautiful. And you look so sweet, that by repeating this little ritual every morning, this esoteric habit between the two of you, he's ended up nicknaming you Peach —just like that, just in his head.

He knows this is the last peaceful moment before work, and he loves it. He turns left around the café, finally arriving on Rouse Avenue. The police station is only a few steps away, almost directly opposite the Green Otter's building. It was maybe, with the Hospital, one of the only buildings that never ever slept. The impressive brand-new building, large but flat with only two storeys, spans a long stretch of the street. He enters the beast's lair, clocking in his entrance out of sheer mechanical habit, and approaches the reception desk.

"Hello Miss Jackson. How're ya today?"

"Not bad, Arthur. Like a Monday, that is."

"Is Dutch here already?"

"Mmmh, I don't recall him checking in. Mr. Williamson's here, though."

"Fine. Thanks, Miss."

He walks past the civilian zone, leaving Tilly behind, and goes to the Crime and Investigation Unit department. Bozeman isn't a big city; therefore the place isn't as grandiloquent as the beautiful wooden offices there are in thriller films and series. The big room is shared by four of his colleagues, his own workspace in the back separated by a glass wall. The bare functional minimum, lack of budget. Reality. He passes between Micah and Javier's desks, the first one unkept and covered in layers of trash and soda cans, the second, clearly neater and tidier, with just a few discreet guitar picks still lying around. He stops between the other pair of desks, those of Hamish and Bill. The veteran's, always the neatest of all, probably some remnant of military rigidity, have recently had an annex added to accommodate the team's rookie, Lenny Summers. The poor kid had only been there a few months and had already seen more horrors than adults twice his age. At least it taught him a thing or two. He nods in Bill's direction, greeting him nonchalantly.

"Williamson. Remember our 8 a.m. appointment."

"I do, boss."

"Don't call me that." The blue-eyed officer sighs and enters his office.

At least he had the incomparably royal luxury of windows. He sits back in his chair, looking for a pen that works, and goddman how could this fucking place not have a single pen that does, rummaging through the dozens of files he hasn't yet sorted. His own desk is just a bit bigger, and a strange mix you could call an "organized mess". An ashtray that he hides in one of his drawers when a superior shows up. Several coffee cups, of which he throws away the cardboard ones. Files, files, more files, all colors, all sizes. Somewhere on top, the leather-covered journal in which he draws and writes all his thoughts, and never leaves him, especially when he's on a case. There's also a pencil for it, under all those papers, he's sure of it. There are a few elements of decoration too, mainly typical cowboy and rancher things. A horseshoe, some feathers, a wooden buck figurine Charles had offered him. On the wall behind him, a huge painting of Mount Helena. And next to his computer, whose slowness was like a snail in glue, a few framed photos.

The oldest shows him at eighteen with his high school diploma, not a single hair on his face, his features slimmer, more youthful. His lips are stretched in a smile as big and proud and ferocious as a tiger. Damn, he really didn't think he would actually get it, at the time. How he fucking hated maths. A spotty, pissed-off John stands next to him, and around both of them, a younger Dutch and Hosea look on, smiling.

Another one, three years later. His 21-year-old self is showing his police diploma, uniform on. He was so proud of it, too, that day. Yet, his smile is more reserved. It looks like he has aged much more, already. This time, there's just Dutch, only wearing a mustache, holding him around his back, a hand on his shoulder.

And of course, a portrait of him and Mary. The picture frame is pink, kitsch and frilly, with glitter and red hearts, but she chose it for him. So he kept it. And even after all this time, the photo still sits there. It was just a year after the last one, if he recalls right. Mary had bored him into visiting her parents, who couldn't stand him, in San Francisco. At least he'd been able to see the bridge, he who rarely left the Middle West. The photo showed them standing right in front of it, Mary beaming so sweetly as she was wont to do, holding the camera. He, laughing because she had just pinched him to make him smile for the photo. She had managed to capture that rare moment. And for that alone, the picture and its hideous frame would never leave the desk.

He signs some papers, reads others, tries to go and check his mails, but the goddman computer is once again too slow. A few hours pass, call after call. He painfully writes a report from a previous case he had just finished a few days ago, saluting Javier through the glass when he arrives at his post. How he hated writing that kind of formal stuff. Eevery sentence and word had to be thought through. Sometimes, holding back from writing what came from his heart as he did with his diary made his fingers burn and his computer mouse clench. His chore finally done, he searches for his lighter and a cigarette in his pockets, and quickly smokes one. He lets the fume burn all the way from his mouth to the back of his throat, then his nose, almost tickling his eyes. He tries to imbibe this sensation, this familiar and relaxing burning feeling, to remember it later. He knows he will have to dig deep into his roots. 

"Bill. Let's go." He throws at his subordinate, closing his office door.

"A shame the kid isn't here yet, could learn a lot this mornin'."

"Yeah. Or maybe get that final warning that this job really is a shitty one."

Just a few meters away from there, a stove is burning. And not in the metaphorical way of describing that it was functioning. No no. A wreath of flames is shooting out all around the door, like a literal window to Hell, plumes of black, charred-smelling smoke filling the entire space.

"Beau! Quick, hand me the fire extinguisher!"

"Here!"

"Alright, alright, it's fine." You ease him, and yourself, and maybe try to ease the fire too thanks to the Holy Spirit. You quickly turn the stove off completely, before splashing the creamy substance a first time all around the door, and a second time inside it.

The stove turns silent, beaten, having burned as brightly as it could, and now exhausted, out of action, as if it'd given the best performance of its short life on stage. You sigh heavily, pearls of sweat on your forehead from the warmth inside the little kitchen. You turn to your employee, an only eighteen-year-old boy, brown locks falling on his face as he looks bashfully at the ground.

"What were you doing, Beau?!"

"Well, you see, there's this girl, Penelope, and she really likes to write letters, and t-to receive some, not texting or stuff, so I started-"

"Stop, stop." You cut him, a hand on your hip, the other hanging in the air towards him. "Were you watching the muffins? Yes or no? I want a simple answer."

"… N-no."

"Alright. You understand we've got a problem, here?" You try to modulate your voice.

"I understand, I… I won't do that again, I promise."

"Go and take care of the tables for a few minutes, will you?"

He complies without another word, leaving the kitchen, the door squeaking. You look at the state of the infernal device in front of you. The whole thing had turned entirely black, and you're sure the smoky scent will stick to your pastries for at least a month. This isn't ideal. At all. As you grab a few towels and cleaning products to try and save what is left of it, your thoughts are focused on your little café's bank account.

A stove, especially an industrial one, is way too pricey for you to buy right now. And yet, how you wish you could. Just like the dishwasher that threatened to explode with each new use, or the fridges that were starting to date and for which you prayed every morning that they wouldn't let you down. Or the croaky kitchen door, those scratches on the worktops...

Yes, the Green Otter's Café really needed a little refreshment. And yet he had been standing, since its very creation the day your grandpa had decided to quit everything and open his own place. Initially a restaurant and a bar, it had quickly become a renowned city venue with a loyal following and an excellent reputation. Now that it was yours, even though its face and appearance had changed, the beers replaced by your coffee or tea creations, the French fries dinner trays by delicious and appetizing pastries, the clientele was as loyal as ever. And you had been able to keep the spirit and heart of this place so dear to you, but also to all the inhabitants of the neighborhood; through your own will, the values of sharing, conviviality and joy wanted by your grandfather were persisting. Almost like a lighthouse that would guide people through time instead of the waves.

As you scrub the burnt from the stove, muffins turned into charcoals shoved in the trash, you silently brood over your frustration. This place deserved all the love and money in the world. Unfortunately, the debts were starting to pile up. The cost of living was getting high for everyone. Raw materials were harder and harder to find, and prices were rising. As for the poor inhabitants, wages didn't always keep pace. It was the beginning of a difficult period, and you hoped more than anything that your small local business could withstand it; how could you, when you wanted to guarantee products that were always as good for the same price, while competing with big chains that produced quintuple your work much more quickly and for much less…? It's like fighting a full-armed knight with a toothpick.

"Miss, there's someone here for you!" You hear Beau call from the big room, pulling you out of your worrying thoughts.

You leave your cleaning there, some foam mixed with dirt on your gloves and forearms. In this job, you can't be fussy about the state of your clothes.

The sun had finally risen outside. It was one of those very crisp fall mornings, blinding sun but fresh wind balancing the temperature. At the door, a figure from your past is waiting, dark hair in a braid, ultramarine eyes shining in this golden-brown atmosphere, simple but elegant dress highlighting her slim figure.

"Abigail!" You scream in both joy and surprise, walking to hear to hold her in your arms.

The young woman reciprocates the hug, and chuckles a bit a she notices you've let your hands hang in the air not to dirty her clothes.

"It's been a while! You're in town for a few days?" You ask out of curiosity, but her face isn't one of someone who's there on holiday for tourism.

"It's, uh… It's more complicated than that." She looks happy to see you, but her tired gaze holds so many silent things. You feel like there's something more serious stopping her smile from being genuine. Without thinking about it, you do as you would have with any of your friends in need: A hand on her shoulder, you look right at her face.

"Do you want to talk about it?" She nods, you smile gently, happy she's letting you help. "Still into teas? I just received a wonderful blend of spices for a Chai Latte…"

She nods once more, grateful. As you quickly prepare her comforting beverage, you order Beau to finish the cleaning of the consequences of his lack of attention and to bake another batch of blueberry muffins. He doesn't complain even once.

Both sitting at one of the wooden tables, you give her the Chai and listen, careful, empathetic. She's curled up in her chair, looking like she's about to boil over. Abigail had always been strong; a vase into which too much water had kept being poured. Still, she'd managed to grow the most beautiful and precious sprout in it. Today she was going to let the water spill out. And you listen. You listen when she talks about life, about Billings, the big city where everything was supposed to change. About John, and Jack. About how the so-called father of her child was unable to take any responsibility for her and him. To build a normal and stable life for them. About the utter bastard he had been, how her hopes of him becoming a better man now that they had a child had soon vanished. The apartment they couldn't afford. The wasted savings. The tears on Jack's face when she said they weren't coming back to their beautiful place. How she ended up kicking John out, trying once and for all to make him understand. An ultimatum. You catch the little sparkles gathering on her eyelashes, and grab a few towels from the counter. She loves him still, it's obvious. Maybe it's what makes her that angry, most of all.

"Did you find a place here?" You ask, more and more worried for her and the boy.

"Yeah, don't worry, a nice small apartment." She wipes her eyes and some of her beautiful dark makeup smudges on her cheeks, a witness of her lonely tears in her rage. She continues with difficulty, her words sometimes interrupted by little hiccups and sniffles. "But I need to find a j-job if I want to keep it and provide for Jack on my own." Her eyes look up from her half-empty cup to look at yours. Her pained but still gorgeous face now looks embarrassed. "That's also why I'm here -I wanted to ask if you... Maybe had something for me, here?"

You don't answer right away, but still grab her hands in yours. Thoughts rush and collide in your brain. You're hesitant. Not because you think she isn't good enough. All the contrary, you had already worked with Abigail when you were younger, and what a great worker she was. No, the problem was once again the money. Would you be able to pay her a decent wage? Was it really the better option in your current situation? You think for a few more seconds and remember the stove. The burned batch. Beau is an adorable boy, and you don't have the heart to fire him even if he has his head in the clouds most of the time. One more actually experienced worker wouldn't go amiss. You could even change the opening hours and guarantee more rest time for everyone.

It's decided.

Abigail's face lights up and her whole body melts in a wave of relief when you present her a green apron, embroidered with a familiar tea-sipping otter. The delicious, wonderful smell of perfectly baked blueberry muffins emanates from the oven.

Arthur and Bill are standing beside a corpse.

A corpse that used to be a teenage boy.

For now, hidden under a sheet, its waiting for its moment of glory.

The weird white lights from the neon lights glow surrealistically, illuminating its curves, shaping the human form with shadows and brightness. Why on earth do mortuaries always have to be sordid places? The white and grey tiles on the floor, the horrible smell of naphtalene, the coldness, the lockers stretching across the walls, neatly lined up on top of each other, standing at attention like soldiers... On the other hand, would making the place more welcoming really help? He could hardly see himself right now in a room decorated with balloons and bright colors, McDonald's children's birthday party mode. The Death's call is both immaterial and material. The rhythmic gait of Dr. Strauss's little legs snapped him out of his reflexion. He's accompanied by a second person, heels clicking on the floor, breaking the macabre silence of the gloomy room.

The mother.

Strauss, wearing his white coat and usual small round glasses, walks a few more steps and stands behind the body lying on the long table reserved for it. The three men remain silent, facing the woman. In her forties, her hair flowing around her shoulders, a gray suit holds her in place, maintaining her in an expectation that was as burdensome for her as it was for the other three.

Arthur greets her silently, nodding solemnly. It's not the first time he's witnessed this kind of thing. Not the first time he'd heard the cries of a mother torn apart by the one thing a parent cannot endure. Nor the last time, surely.

Arthur knows all this.

And yet.

His heart tears apart as Strauss lifts the sheet, still in the most terrible silence. The few seconds of shock, the poor woman's face twisting in slow motion like in a bad action movie. His bones boil, he doesn't really know from what, rage, sadness, frustration, at this unbearable spectacle. Yet his face remains impassive. He has learned to stay that way. He has learned to keep this bubbling inside him, this fire that consumes and burns and makes his guts writhe. He thought he'd put it out; he thought he'd hardened himself. In most areas, he remained coldhearted. But God forbid, when it came to a kid… He couldn't help but feel it rekindling.

There is, in the screams of this woman facing him, this mother who had just recognized her 14-year-old son on a hospital table in a seedy morgue, an inevitable resonance that reverberates in every cell of his being. Arthur knows exactly how she feels right now.

He closes his eyes for just a few short seconds, invoking for help the sensation of the cigarette burning his lungs from earlier. He focuses on the smoke dulling his senses, his chest, then his throat, his mouth and nose and eyes. The feelings are hidden behind, the bubbling fire masked by this smoke that blended with his own in a perfect decoy. He's ready.

"Mrs Anderson. Do you recognize today, October 1, this body as that of your son, Joshua Anderson?"

He hates doing this so much. It's obvious she does. Or else she wouldn't be crying the premature loss of her own flesh. Another goddamn formality. Arthur slowly takes a step closer to her. He pulls out a few tissues from his leather jacket and hands them to her.

"You can simply nod, Ma'am."

She does.

Arthur's shoulders fall down. He wants to say something else, something comforting, but she suddenly snaps her head to him, eyes accusing, murderous.

"How did he die?"

"He's been shot in the chest, we think by-"

"We all know who did this. And it's all your fault!" She accuses, finger pointing successively Arthur, then Bill. "You, and the joke you call a colleague! You are all supposed to protect us, you knew this gang was prowling around in our neighborhood, we've warned you a hundred times!!"

The blue-eyed detective doesn't say any other words. Dry-mouthed, he takes it in. He'd rather take it than watch her contort helplessly from pain before him. If at least taking the brunt of it would help her in some way, so be it.

He was used to taking it.

"You're all going to rot in hell for this!! You bastards!" She goes on, her curses turning into cries and groans of despair mixed with anger. With injustice. She's the flag-bearer for all these broken families. All the ones they could never save. Through her, Arthur, Bill and even Strauss, usually detached, feel the full wrath of the human race.

"Fuck you!" She screams again and suddenly words aren't enough, and her hand flies directly to Arthur's cheek, wanting to slap him with all her might. 

He stops her in mid-swing with a firm but benevolent grip, the two others hissing in surprise and shock. He hasn't moved an inch, barely disturbed. Face stoic, he must be the rock on which she can lean, even if it's to destroy him, even if she hates him with every fiber of her being right now. His tired, sad eyes stare intently at her, deep blue reflections shining like the waves of the Styx. Bearer of Death he was.

"I'm sorry Ma'am... I really am."

His only words to her, before saying Bill's last name, ordering him to take care of her. He takes her away, trying to stay gentle but he's not the best at treating people carefully. He grabs Mrs. Anderson by the shoulders to pull her out of the morgue. Strauss sighs loudly, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his coat and handing one to Arthur. The lieutenant looks at the poor woman and his colleague one last time as they walk along the glassed corridor.

"Are you going to p-

"Of course I ain't going to press any charges, Strauss." Arthur anticipates his question, rubbing his temples with his right hand, cigarette still in it. The coroner lights his own and holds his lighter for Arthur to light his. "Ya know am a lieutenant now, doc'. We're not supposed to smoke like that in a morgue."

"You're not supposed to let a woman take it out on you with impunity either." The red ashes reflect in Strauss's glasses, his long mouth stretched out like a frog's in a grimace of disapproval, devoid of all compassion. Mortuaries attract strange morticians.

"I know."

The two men smoke in silence for a few more moments, the intensity of what just happened still hanging in the air. The dark atmosphere is only pierced by the burning of their cigarettes and the medical glow of the neon lights. Strauss pulls the sheet back on Joshua Anderson's body.

At lunchtime, Arthur munches on a club sandwich with a chemical taste. In the "machine room", as he likes to call it, these good old steel companions deliver life-saving coffees and industrial foodstuffs to all and sundry, just like they feed cattle in those big intensive livestock farms. The smell of old carpet and sweaty cops is omnipresent. He's up at a stand-up table, insipid espresso already graciously purchased by Sadie, standing next to him. On Mondays, she pays. He listens to her talk about her morning in the patrol division, something about an altercation in the Valley West neighborhood. Her uniform, slightly different from the ones of the crime investigation department, with short sleeves instead of long, but still a very dark blue, contrasts nicely with her blond hair hung in a ponytail. Arthur has always liked Sadie. Since the first day they met at the police academy. He can still remember her beating the shit out of most of the guys there, and smiles when he sees their terrified faces. She was simple and direct, unadorned, like him. He had the impression that fewer and fewer people were nowadays.

Right now, Sadie is tired of hearing him crunch the dry crumbs of what he has the audacity to call his meal, her nose scrunching between her freckled cheeks. She cuts her speech, "Hey, why don'ya go to the Green's like everyone?"

"The Green Otter's Café?" Peach's coffee shop, he thinks to himself. "I don' know, why don' you?" He asks back almost defensively with a nod of his chin in her direction.

"Because you're always there eating this shit and I wanna spent my goddamn breaks with you, dummy."

Arthur snorts as he folds the plastic wrapper of his sandwich without thinking about it. He then takes the tiny little cardboard cup from the machine and brings it to his lips, the taste as disappointing as ever.

"Well, y'know what? We could eat there tomorrow. There, ya happy?"

"Very much, thank you kind sir."

Arthur grumbles as all final words before noticing the rest of his team eating together at the other side of the little restroom. Javier, Lenny, Hamish, Bill and Micah, all in uniform. What catches his eye is the way Bill behaves, silent and withdrawn, while his voice usually carries around the room.

"Wait a sec." He asks Sadie. He approaches them, greeting those he hadn't seen already. A good old handshake for Hamish, a pat on the back for Lenny. Nothing but a cold stare for Micah.

"Bell, I want you in my office in twenty minutes. Williamson, come here a bit." He commands, the tallest of all men walking to him. Arthur brings him to the less crowded part of the room.

Arthur's gaze settles on him, not wavering for a bit. "Are ya alright?"

There are a few seconds before his answer. "It's uh… It's Mrs Anderson, y'know. Made me feel real bad and shit this mornin'."

"Did ya bring her back to the reception?"

"Yes, boss."

"Did ya explain the procedure and advise her to see our psychologist?"

"Y-yes, boss."

"Ya did treat her kindly, right?"

He nods slowly, visibly nervous.

"Then you have nothing to blame yourself for, Bill. We have bad days, but we have good days too, right? Remember when ya saved that little girl from the fire last year, with that Irish MacGuire boy from the fire department?"

The tall bearded officer nods once more, as a child listening in silence to a parent comforting him. He was one of the few people Arthur had to look up to catch his gaze, which he always did with everyone. Some say his eye contact is what made him so good at interrogation, sometimes making the worst criminals break under a punishing silence and the weight of that gaze.

"You saved a child that day. Y'see, that's the thing; we do bad things, sometimes. We screw up. But most of the time, we do what's right, Bill. We do what most wouldn't, to protect people." Arthur reaches for his subordinate's shoulder, palm settling on it. He delivers his words slowly, eyes deep into his."That poor woman's pain isn't yours to carry."

"You… You're right, boss." Bills sighs, shifting from one foot to another, shaking his nervousness out of him. "I guess I… I just forget it sometimes, y'know?"

"I know, I know. I do too." Arthur concedes, patting Bill's shoulder a few times. He then walks away, going back to Sadie, adding an annoyed, "And stop calling me boss for Christ's sake," as he does.

"Sorry boss -Shit!- I mean Morgan!"

Arthur walks up the stairs to his apartment. It's already late. For a normal person, at least. Goddamn Micah. He's still reeling from the discussion he had with him, locked in his office. This incompetent, filthy snake. If it were only up to him, he would have fired this scumbag a long time ago. He screws up an investigation, doesn't do what's necessary to protect a family that should have been placed under protection. Hell, he didn't even know about the whole thing until Strauss called him at the morgue the day before. What is he even paid to do, for God's sake, other than degrade the profession and pollute the air Arthur breathes?

He has just turned the key in the door, and already hears the only one who can bring him a little comfort on a day like this. Ecstatic barks already ringing through the walls. A furry, drooling form jumps out at him instantly.

Copper is so delighted that his old bones don't even seem to hurt anymore. Arthur cuddles him, caresses him all over, on his head, on his sides, his belly. Every time it's like he's been gone for ages. Dogs don't care if you're good or bad as long as you're theirs. Words whispered just for him fill his happy ears. "That's my good boy." A few more scratches. "Must have been bored t'death all day, huh? Sure did."

Hungry, he walks to his open-plan kitchen and looks inside his fridge. He doesn't know why. The damn thing couldn't have magically filled up on its own while he was out. He didn't really like cooking, even less for himself. The solitary pickle jar sadly returns his gaze, desperately surviving between a few slices of cheese and abandoned bears."You wanna go for a walk, buddy?" The dog's ears perk up at the word. He closes his fridge, swaps the satchel he uses for work for a smaller leather one. He slides his journal and a pencil inside. He looks up around his apartment, chest tight. There's only one pull-out chair, only one cushion hollowed out on his sofa. Only one plate, on the rare occasions when he eats here. Only one toothbrush in the bathroom cup, only a used spot in his bed. Only a sad man in it.

When Mary left him, the night before their wedding day, Arthur was hit twice; once in the heart and once by the weight of his failures.

It's been eight years now.

It's so odd; this feeling. Those days seem so long ago, and yet so vivid. It feels like a juvenile lifetime. A very long yesterday. He could still remember the color of her favorite lipstick. But not the one of their sheets, in their old house. The caress of her lips on his forehead. But not how it felt to have her fingertips on his palm. It's all like a paradox; an everlasting, immaterial presence. A painful absence.

He hasn't stayed ten minutes inside his flat, and he's already walking down the stairs, Copper happily running next to him.

In this quiet piece of forest at the edge of town, Arthur is sitting on a bench. A plastic plate of greasy French fries on his side, he pecks at a few from time to time between drawings and writing. Journal on his thigh, the dog chasing after some moths or an unknown bug, he draws what he can remember of Mrs Anderson. The dawning night forces his eyes to adapt to the darkness, so that he can make out the exact contours of the lines he draws. He remembers her perfect suit had ended up disheveled at the end of their encounter. Her eyes, crinkled and thin, then so red and gaping, filled with such terror...

Arthur's buzzing phone in his jacket makes him look away from the drawing. He pulls it out, checks the name.

John

That was unexpected. John had stopped giving him news some time ago, when he had left with Abigail and Jack, his child he didn't want to take on, his bullshit piling up endlessly.

He picks up.

"Hey."

"Arthur," The raspy voice of her brother at heart tickles his ears from the phone's speaker. "How you doin'?"

"I'm fine Johnny-boy, as always." He answers, his own tone a bit annoyed, holding back a sight he knows is coming really soon. He plays with his pencil in his other hand. "What d'you want?"

"What, you think I can't jus' call my old friend to… Check up on him?"

"No."

"Shit you're right." John's words come out more directly now, free from politeness and manners. Arthur can hear him fidgeting on the other end of the line. "Listen, Arthur, I need ya help."

"For God's sake John, what have you done again?" Arthur lets out the sigh he had been holding back since the start of the conversation, his hand tightening on his pencil he stopped twirling in his hand. That phrase. That phrase he'd heard a hundred times after John's bullshit. Arthur, I need you to hide my weed. Arthur, I need you to lend me $500. Arthur, I need your help to take down these guys. Arthur, I need you to cover for me so I can take a chance on Abigail.

"I… I screwed up things with Abigail and the… the boy. She kicked me out and moved back to Bozeman."

"Really? This woman definitely has more balls than you've ever had." His unhurried voice lingers on the words in that pungent tone he so often has towards his little brother.

"Shu'up, would ya?" John hustles; he's clearly doing something while calling. "So, can I stay at your place for a while? Not for long. Just long enough for me to win back Abigail's heart."

"Yeah, so basically an eternity then."

"Shut up!"

There's another silence, and the older brother spins and twirls his pencil between his fingers again.

"So? Arthur"

"Yes." His eyes close slowly as he speaks those words. "Yes, of course ya can."

"Great. Cause I'm on the way already."

"Jesu- Don't fucking tell me you're driving right now."

"Naw, never."

"Hang up that phone or I'll hang you up, John."

"Copy that, sir." He sarcastically answers, as if Arthur were his mother telling him to stop climbing up the girls' balconies.

Alone again in the newborn night, Arthur let his mind get used to this new reality and to all the habits that John's presence would destroy. That boy had always been more chaotic than a raccoon.

"Well, at least old boy," Arthur tells Copper, "We won't be as much alone at home anymore."

In the trees, somewhere.

Not far from a lived place.

There is a moving shadow.

It's discreet at first. Just a few rustles in the thicket.

A crack of a branch.

It is a now moonless night. The kind where, in the old times, children would have been warned not to go out and men not to come home too late. A night when even the cattle get nervous, when the dogs bark and howl with the coyotes, like a horn blown before a hunt. When all the light vanishes, and all the silhouettes of objects, animals, humans, and nature become so black and shapeless that they appear to blend into an impenetrable ebony fog.

It waits.

Its presence is odd. The sheep can feel it. It shouldn't be there. What is it, exactly? They can't recognize its smell. They can't really distinguish its form. They don't hear a single sound coming from it. All that they can understand is that it isn't normal. How could it be so big and be as silent as a graveyard? And why is it… hiding?

One of the sheep moves away from the edge of the forest, on instinct, perhaps? It doesn't take much for all the others to follow. But there are, as always, stragglers.

A few more naive individuals. Or inattentive.

It's getting closer. Slowly, silently. The dark form is now bigger than the bushes. Way bigger. Like a massive cloud would blind the sun, its abyssal mass spreads throughout the forest's edge.

It chooses.

The prey is casually grazing. Unaware. Until the very last second.

Large claws shine as they're drawn…

And it jumps from the bushes. Blood falls on the grass. A screeching cry of pain and death, then suddenly cut out in the night, making every other animal go silent.

Too silent.

The shadow leaves just as silently as a cold breeze.

a/n: yeaaaah so a lot going on in this first chapter. I wanted to introduce a lot of stuff, and I'm really sorry if it's too much info. I hope I'll get you all as interested into this story that I'm excited to write it!

(as alwasy I'm relying on @/papaue00 for this gorgeous Arthur's pic)

tag list: @sadieadlersnecktie @cloudywithachanceofcrisis, @redwritr, @stottlemorgan, @arthurmorganist (please let me know if you want to be added to the tag list!)

[nicksfrenchtoast]

hold me tight and dont let go

cuddling session with nick

Nick’s room was dimly lit with the soft glow of fairy lights strung above the bedframe. The scent of vanilla and laundry lingered in the air, a comforting mix that made it easy to relax especially when it was just the two of you.

You were wrapped around him like a koala, arms locked around his waist, cheek pressed against his chest. Nick was lying back on the pillows, scrolling through something on his phone with one arm lazily slung around your shoulders.

“You comfortable?” he asked softly, glancing down with a half-smile.

You nodded against him but didn’t move an inch. “Mhm. Not letting go.”

Nick chuckled, the sound vibrating in his chest. “I can tell. You’ve been stuck to me like Velcro since dinner.”

“I just like being close,” you mumbled, voice slightly muffled by his shirt. “You’re warm.”

“You’re clingy,” he teased, squeezing your side gently. “But... I like it.”

You smiled, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. “You better. I’m your clingy little problem now.”

“Correction,” Nick said, leaning his head down to press a kiss to your hair. “You’re my favorite problem.”

His thumb started tracing slow, lazy circles on your shoulder, soothing in a way that made your muscles melt even further into him. There was silence for a few minutes, the good kind the kind where words didn’t need to be said because just being next to each other was enough.

Nick looked down again after a while, about to say something sarcastic probably about your death grip on him but the words caught in his throat when he realized your breathing had slowed.

You were asleep. Right there on his chest, arms still wrapped around him like he’d disappear if you let go. He smiled, soft and fond, brushing a bit of hair out of your face. “God, you’re cute,” he whispered.

Nick didn’t dare move, not even to reach for his charger or finish his TikTok scroll. Instead, he just settled deeper into the mattress, wrapped both arms around you, and rested his cheek on top of your head. You shifted slightly in your sleep, cuddling closer if that was even physically possible.

Nick grinned, holding you tighter.

Yeah… he was definitely keeping you forever.

tags @jacksonsturniolo @kier-with-a-k @maliaforstvrns @httpssturns @chrattsbrat @sturnboos

[soluversworld]

About that one post

In the tags of TKATB post, I saw a post and before things go too far, I would like to address about it.

post https://www.tumblr.com/tenderlyfracturedscheme/787382689005240320/exposing-a-racist-and-predator-artist-in-tkatb?source=share

Before anything else, please note: The person being discussed is an artist in the (TKATB) fandom who goes by the username kazueisaloser. (Please make sure to read the Twitter post in question first—but also be aware that the post is entirely fake and misleading.)

In short, the person behind the post is accusing Kazue of racism and other serious STUFF. I want to clarify that, based on my personal interactions with Kazue, these claims are false. From what I’ve seen, Kazue has always come across as a kind, funny, and respectful person.

To be direct: the screenshots being circulated are fabricated/faked. This appears to be a group of minors attempting to “cancel” Kazue simply because she reminded them that they shouldn't be engaging with 18+ content or spaces.

This is well informed in X/twitter than here. So I'll link the people who spoke about it This post is just making people aware about the post before People go crazy.

1.

IVE 🎀 on X: "I don’t usually address things like this publicly, but for the sake of clarity — we have confirmation of her actual Discord account. This impersonation is false. Please stop spreading misinformation." / X

2.

Lalaluna on X: "We have plenty of evidence of you people making channels just to hate on Kazue, even if you’ve already deleted the server. It’s clearly one of you staging it because why is the conversation at the start different? And fyi Kazue’s actual discord has a toilet pfp frame btw. https://t.co/nvroF2SH94" / X

3.

emi🩶 semi-hiatus! on X: "Kazue NEVER behaves like this. We are friends with her in discord and all her socials are linked in her profile. I hope you know this is literally a cybercrime because this is already too much." / X

4.

Lalaluna on X: "Please explain how she’s the horrible one when you are saying all this about her including wishing physical harm and death upon her and now impersonating her too. All because she rightfully scolded a minor for being in a 18+ space. https://t.co/sKQq95AVGp" / X

Kazue responded to these allegations too. With evidence.

1.

Miss KAZUE! on X: "I refuse to take this poor impersonation attempt lightly. The first ss shows the fake account falsely claiming to be me, even copying my Tiktok profile description. The second ss displays my actual discord acc. I'll also show further evidence of this situation. (1/5) https://t.co/9ML0zjZbne" / X

More posts might come, exposing them as the time of posting this.

Please, for the love of god—don’t jump to conclusions based on so-called “evidence” without knowing the full context.

This is social media. Things can be faked. Screenshots can be edited. Narratives can be twisted. What looks like proof isn’t always the truth.

But the truth does come to light—eventually. So before you choose sides or spread accusations, take a step back. Ask questions. Look deeper.

Because once someone’s reputation is ruined, you don’t get to undo that damage just because you didn’t wait for the full story.

Let’s be clear: minors should not be in 18+ communities. Those spaces are labeled that way for a reason—because the content, discussions, and themes are not appropriate or safe for underage individuals.

And now, instead of respecting those boundaries, some of these same minors are creating fake screenshots and trying to cancel an someone—all because she gave a reasonable and necessary warning about staying out of adult spaces.

That is not okay. Minors are still responsible for their actions. Falsely accusing someone and faking evidence is serious, harmful behavior—no matter your age. Being young is not a free pass to lie or ruin someone's reputation.

[justin4me]

ʕ •́؈•̀)

Neil follows him, still too rattled by the idea of the phone to feel any relief. Kevin, this time, tags along, falling into step beside Neil. He is close enough that occasionally their arms brush, and Neil only realises it is an attempt at comforting him when he turns to look at Kevin and Kevin looks away. 

“I’m fine.” Neil says preemptively. 

Kevin shrugs. “ I’m fine too.”

“Neither of you are fine.” Andrew calls over his shoulder.

It startles Kevin so bad that he trips over his own foot and Neil catches him by the elbow as he stumbles. They both stare at Andrew, wide eyed and bewildered.

“Since when do you speak French?” Kevin asks.

“I don’t, but the two of you aren’t subtle and you always talk about the same three things. I know Exy, fine, and bitching” There’s a note in Andrew’s voice that Neil is beginning to identify as somewhere between smug and amused. It’s the Andrew equivalent of being petty, an enjoyment of catching other people off guard. 

Neil can feel that fondness bursting in his chest.

ʕ •́؈•̀)

The words are taken from the fic "Put Me Back In It (Darling, I'd Do It Again) " by @httphimbo, chapter 7.

Gorgeous, gorgeous fic that makes me feel. There were lots of scenes that i wanted to draw, but i decided to choose this one, it's just so wholesome and funny(i love Kevin × Neil friendship here, they are made for this). I'm tired of making "serious" art pieces, i'm just not that kind of person. However i'm not good at drawing funny faces either, so :D

Sad again because Neil doesn't look like Neil here (FHDHDGHDHFHFHDHDHHFHFHF GOD WHY CAN'T I MAKE HIM LOOK FINE😭 HE LOOKS LIKE HE'S TWO SECONDS FROM DEATH HERE IN A BAD WAY) But ig i pictured Kevin pretty well :)

also laughed hard when i drew THIS. BUT NEIL DOESN'T LOOK LIKE NEIL AGAINNN(((

anyways, hope you liked the post! ♡(and i hope that someone reads them too)

[manicmanuscription]

BINGO - Stuck (preferably angst if you’re willing)

Feysand x reader

Thank you!!!!

Holding On

Bingo Ask Game! See the original post & rules here

Word Count: 950+

Prompt: Stuck

Pairings: Feysand x Reader

Summary: Reader was poisoned and Feyre and Rhys just can't seem to let them go.

Tags: ANGST, mentions of wanting to die, poison, its a fantasy magic world ofc theres medical inaccuracies, stuck in body, no happy ending, dead dove do not eat.

A/N: *muttering to myself in the dark while chewing on my hair.* angst, i can write angst.... also thank you for the request!

Distantly I heard the bedroom door snick open and shut. Footsteps thudding across carpeted floors until the bed dipped on both ends as my mates slid in right next to me. 

“A Healer’s coming tomorrow don’t worry love.” Feyre whispered, trying to be comforting but it only made the all encompassing pain even worse. My rotting heart twisting up even further as it beat uselessly in my chest. She settled herself tucked in my arms, Rhysand cautiously positioned himself behind me.

I didn’t have the energy to open my eyes much less respond. I’d been poisoned only a few weeks ago yet it felt like lifetimes instead. It had already eaten through all of my magic, now settling for whatever pieces of my body I had left to give. 

Rhysand trailed comforting fingers up and down my spine yet the increasing numbness made it hard to feel anything. 

It hurt. God it hurt so fucking bad. Sharp blistering pain throughout every single inch of me electrifying my insides. It had gotten too intense now for a daemati’s touch but I still felt Rhysand poking around in there gently, his touch only increased the burn, scorching me and I whimpered, too tired to push him out even though he was slowly ripping my headache and remaking it worse.

He eventually pulled away and I let out a ragged breath. Feyre was still whispering soothing things to me but I couldn’t hear her. My hearing still fuzzy from Rhys’ failed attempt to soothe me. 

I couldn’t move, couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. The poison zapped my energy and what little I had was spent fighting the raw burn attacking my senses. 

The healer’s couldn’t do anything, nobody could. It had moved through me too hard and too fast. Madja told them I was going to die, but with magic transplants, blood work, old spells and strange healer’s with strange fascinations they had only prolonged my suffering. 

At first I didn’t mind, I didn’t want to die and I understood how painful it was for all three of us. I just wanted to make them happy, to fight even though I knew it was a losing battle. I wanted to stay with my mates and seeing the heartbreak on their face when they looked at me? I couldn’t take it. 

But now…

As I could do nothing now but stay in bed and just feel, no energy to even cry or beg for mercy as it ravaged upon my very bones. 

I was already dead. A living breathing corpse held together by string and glue.

Feyre curled herself into me further as if she somehow heard the barely coherent stray thoughts of a dying female, asking me questions I couldn’t process. I wish they’d just let me die. Let my exhausted heart stop beating, it was only causing me pain, only causing them pain.

The bond between us was slowly unraveling each day, violently ripping away my mates sanity with it and I let out a dry tear into Feyre’s hair. 

The last few parts of the bond still forcefully breathing oxygen into my body whispered from the shattered pieces of my soul to stay. To hold on, just to protect them from the inevitable pain of my death, it wanted me to stay here wrapped up in their arms and fight. 

But I was tired, the only time I slept was when I passed out from the intensity. Every waking moment was filled with nothing but excruciating pain, my mates moving along the room in a frantic scatter each day begging for the healer’s help when they all told them the same thing. 

Let them go. 

They didn’t listen, no, they bit at their shredded leashes and barked orders. Even my family wasn’t allowed to see me anymore, Feyre and Rhys had banned them after they all pleaded them to do the same thing, taking one look at me and knowing what had to be done.

When I could use my voice I begged them too. Begged from the darkest parts of my torment, each word itched up my throat and laced with the agony I was left with. But they couldn’t hear me over the sound of my heart slowing and my mind breaking into pieces.

I was a living, breathing corpse, stuck in a body that had no function other than to be emaciated with the truest and uncut form of suffering.

Rhysand moved his arm so it lay across my body, intertwining his fingers with mine and Feyre’s. The soft sounds in the room were our shuddering inhales. Better memories of us laying like this flickered through my mind in a dull light before the poison stole that thought away from me too. Every thought sluggish and dragged as consciousness took an effort I didn’t have anymore. I missed the people we were, the relationship we had before this tragedy.

I tried to enjoy their touch, trying to seek the familiar sensation of holding and being held by them that had been by my side for more than half my life, what once was light now was tainted. Haunted by the ghosts of the people who existed before this poison had torn me apart.

Still they soothed only the littlest part's of me they could. A pebble in an ocean of agony.

Truth is I was already dead, and I had taken Feyre and Rhys with me. 

They fought every unraveled thread of fate and when it got worse they turned just as lifeless as I did. Unknowingly tormenting me because they could not face the reality. 

I wish I was dead. 

Actually I wish I had died sooner so we had not turned into the husks of ourselves we are right now. Laying in this bead with our hearts technically beating, yet I know our souls left this realm of living long ego.

Endless torment and I would endure it just for a little while longer. I had too. I couldn’t run or hide from it. I had no choice but to stay still and experience it.

It wouldn’t be too long hopefully before I go, but in my frozen state it would feel as if the stars had decided to take the time to reshape themselves. 

I would do my best to just try a little longer. 

If only to save this world from their pain when they finally realize they cannot fight for me any longer.

Feyre shifted so she was facing me, I could tell because of the way her breath tickled my skin in a gentle caress.

Her voice finally broke through the haze, holding the weight of a women breaking behind her words. "We love you."

I love them too.

I just didn't have the energy to say it back.

[marshemillow]

So I'm like 30 or 40 years old and I have been reading fanfic since well before A03 was established. I have read thousands and thousands of fanfics in my life, possibly tens of thousands, possibly hundreds of thousands. I don't know. Across all the different platforms where I've read fic, it adds up to exactly...a hell of a god damn lot of fic.

And since the birth of tagging, I cannot tell you a SINGLE time I have EVER come across a fanfic that had any significant content that was untagged. Not ever. Not once. I have NEVER been jumpscared by untagged gore, or untagged noncon, or untagged sexy underage shenanigans, or untagged incest, or anything. And it's not like I read exclusively G-rated soft fluffy stories about baby puppies or anything, I'm a big reader of all the "bad" icky wrong nasty stuff like dark romance and psychological fuckery and characters of dubious morality.

And yet, I apparently cannot get through one single day without seeing someone on social media (twitter, tumblr, tiktok, etc) loudly complaining about how much they HATE being constantly assaulted by untagged fanfic. About how much they HATE all the authors who "never tag their fics"

And I don't know. I'm sorry, but I just can't delude myself into believing that untagged fics are anywhere NEAR as common as these people claim. I genuinely do not believe that ANYBODY is getting jumpscared and assaulted by untagged incest or untagged rape multiple times a day. You just cannot convince me that's a thing that happens. Because the way these people tell it, it's as if a solid 60-70% of all fanfic on the internet exists with 0 tags and 0 summary and poor little readers are simply forced to roll the dice and are therefore constantly exposed to untagged incest lolicon porn all the time, in a never ending cycle.

And what's funny is I've ASKED these people about those so-called untagged fics. I've responded to their posts and said "Oh no, if a fic had something like that untagged it's a problem. Where was this fic posted, what was the title of the fic, and who was the author?"

And they never, NEVER have an answer. They either ignore my comment and pretend it doesn't exist, or they respond but refuse to actually answer the question. Sometimes they even hide or delete my comment, which tells me everything I need to know.

Obviously there will be the occasional fic missing a tag, possibly even an important tag. Of course that's something that happens. But in my entire 20+ years of obsessively reading everything single fic I can get my filthy little hands on, it's happened so rarely that it barely warrants being notable. And even then, 9 times out of 10 it's because the author just genuinely made a mistake and they will happily fix their tags if you politely point it out to them.

Maybe other people have different experiences than me and come across untagged fic more often. Sure, okay. But there is NO world that exists where explicit extreme incest gore smut is being sprung on readers multiple times a day. The literal children on Tiktok making videos complaining about "I thought it was gonna be a cute Bluey fic but the UNTAGGED INCEST AND PEDOPHILIA!!!!" are simply lying about this being a thing that happens to them often enough that they've had to make over 400 videos about every single time it's happened to them.

There isn't even ENOUGH underage incest rape porn on A03 for this to possibly happen as much as these people cry about it happening. Like it's statistically literally impossible.

I'm willing to believe that untagged fics exist maybe 1% as often as people say they do. Maybe even 0.5%

You just cannot sell me the lie that there are millions and millions of spooky scary untagged dad/daughter rape porn fics floating around out there. It's simply not true. Hell, in my experience, excessive OVER-tagging is a much more notable occurance.

It's ironic because I'm far more triggered by real death and rape threats towards real people than I am by fictional misdeeds, and yet that's never tagged or warned for in the slightest. If noncon fiction is really such a threat that it needs extensive tagging, then you'd think these people would think twice about sending real gore and actual CSAM to proshippers in order to "own" them and "prove" that fiction is actually real.

But wait, that would require admitting they have an egregious double standard that values the fake lives of fictional characters over the very real lives of actual flesh-and-blood human beings. And it would require admitting that they care more about being offended and uncomfortable than they do about other people being able to process their trauma and find community.

And we can't have that now, can we?

[coddda]

I wish we could have met in some other way.

Lawlight Week Day 2: Soulmates

If you saw me repost and re-edit this several times uh No you didn't </3

Still frames/Individual gifs:

If you know what every frame is from you get a free cookie. by the way

[sesamestreep]

it’s wild to me that like every modern adaptation of Sherlock Holmes (and by modern I mean “made recently” not “set in modern times”) is like Hell Bent on coming up with a Reason™️ that Watson stays with Holmes and trots around with him on adventures all the time despite the inconvenience and the danger and all, and so it’s like “oh, Watson’s a gambling addict, he loves uncertainty and mystery” or “oh, Watson’s an adrenaline junkie, he gets off on being constantly in danger from criminals” or even like “Watson’s atoning for sins of the past of BEING IN THE WAR by solving crimes with Holmes now” or WHATEVER. And it’s like, girl, maybe he’s just in love! Did you think of that?? Maybe he’s got a crush and it’s making him do stupid things. Maybe he’s just got bad taste and his type is guys who don’t know how to refold newspapers properly but can identify different types of cigar ash by sight, smell, and taste. And wrote a monograph on the subject. Maybe he’s down bad is all. I mean, Keep is simple, stupid!!!

[babacontainsmultitudes]

RIP Will Campos the only person who was murdered this episode.