#How to remove splinters

[bongreviewbd]

স্প্লিন্টার কীভাবে শরীর থেকে বের হয়ে যায়: জানুন বিস্তারিত

শরীরে কোনো স্প্লিন্টার বা কাঁটা ঢুকে গেলে তা খুবই বিরক্তিকর এবং বেদনাদায়ক হতে পারে। এটি স���ধারণত ছোট এবং তীক্ষ্ণ বস্তুর টুকরো হয়, যা হাতে বা পায়ে ঢুকে যায়, যেমন কাঠ, বাঁশ, ধাতু, কাঁচ, অথবা অন্য কোনো কঠিন পদার্থের টুকরো। প্রায়শই, এটি নিজে থেকে শরীর থেকে বের হয়ে আসে, কিন্তু কখনও কখনও এটি এমনভাবে ঢুকে যায় যে তা সহজে বের করা সম্ভব হয় না।

স্প্লিন্টার কীভাবে শরীরে প্রবেশ করে? অত্যন্ত সরু এবং তীক্ষ্ণ বস্তু খুব সহজেই আমাদের ত্বকের মাধ্যমে শরীরে প্রবেশ করতে পারে। কাজ করার সময়, হাঁটা চলার সময়, অথবা কোনো দুর্ঘটনা ঘটলে কাঠের টুকরো বা বাঁশের স্প্লিন্টার হাত বা পায়ে বিঁধে যেতে পারে।

কাঁটা বা স্প্লিন্টার ঢুকে গেলে কি করবেন? প্রথমেই, স্প্লিন্টার শরীরে ঢুকে গেলে তা যত দ্রুত সম্ভব বের করে ফেলা গুরুত্বপূর্ণ। সহজভাবে যদি তা ত্বকের উপরিভাগে থাকে, তবে তা টেনে বের করা সম্ভব। কিন্তু, যদি তা গভীরভাবে প্রবেশ করে এবং সহজে দৃশ্যমান না হয়, তখন কিছু সাবধানতা অবলম্বন করতে হবে।

প্রাথমিকভাবে কীভাবে স্প্লিন্টার বের করবেন: ক্লিন টুইজার ব্যবহার করুন: যদি স্প্লিন্টার হাত বা পায়ের উপরিভাগে থাকে, তবে এটি টুইজারের সাহায্যে ধীরে ধীরে টেনে বের করা যেতে পারে। সেফটি পিন বা সুচ: যদি টুইজার দিয়ে না বের করা যায়, সেক্ষেত্রে একটি পরিষ্কার সুচ বা সেফটি পিন ব্যবহার করে স্প্লিন্টার বের করার চেষ্টা করা য���তে পারে। মনে রাখবেন, অবশ্যই ব্যবহৃত যন্ত্রপাতি স্যানিটাইজ করা জরুরি। ইনফেকশনের ব্যাপারে সতর্ক থাকুন: কখনও কখনও স্প্লিন্টার ঢুকে গেলে সেই জায়গায় ইনফেকশন হতে পারে। ইনফেকশন হলে জায়গাটি ফুলে উঠতে পারে এবং পুঁজ জমা হতে পারে। এর ফলে স্প্লিন্টারটি ধীরে ধীরে ত্বকের উপরের দিকে চলে আসতে পারে এবং শরীর নিজে থেকেই তা বের করে দেয়।

যখন চিকিৎসা নেওয়া জরুরি: যদি স্প্লিন্টার দীর্ঘদিন ধরে ত্বকের ভেতরে থাকে এবং তা নিজে থেকে বের না হয়, তাহলে চিকিৎসকের শরণাপন্ন হওয়া প্রয়োজন। কারণ ইনফেকশন ছড়িয়ে পড়লে তা শরীরের অন্যান্য অংশেও সমস্যা তৈরি করতে পারে।

শরীর কীভাবে স্বাভাবিক প্রক্রিয়ায় স্প্লিন্টার বের করে: মানবদেহের ইমিউন সিস্টেম বা প্রতিরক্ষা ব্যবস্থা খুবই শক্তিশালী। যখন ত্বকের নিচে কোনো বাহ্যিক বস্তু প্রবেশ করে, তখন শরীরের প্রতিরোধ ক্ষমতা সেই বস্তুকে চিনতে পারে এবং তার বিরুদ্ধে প্রতিরক্ষা ব্যবস্থা চালু করে। ইনফেকশন হলে, ত্বকের চারপাশে পুঁজ জমতে শুরু করে, যা প্রাকৃতিকভাবে একটি চাপ তৈরি করে এবং স্প্লিন্টারটি ত্বকের উপরের দিকে উঠতে সাহায্য করে।

সতর্কতা ও পরামর্শ: স্প্লিন্টার ঢুকে গেলে কখনও সেটিকে উপেক্ষা করবেন না। ইনফেকশন হলে দ্রুত চিকিৎসকের পরামর্শ নিন। ঘরে প্রাথমিক চিকিৎসা দেওয়ার আগে অবশ্যই হাত ও যন্ত্রপাতি পরিষ্কার করুন। কখনও কখনও স্প্লিন্টার ক্ষুদ্র হওয়ার কারণে দেখা যায় না। এ ক্ষেত্রে ফ্ল্যাশলাইট বা ম্যাগনিফাইং গ্লাস ব্যবহার করতে পারেন।

উপসংহার: স্প্লিন্টার ঢুকে গেলে তা ছোট একটি সমস্যা মনে হতে পারে, কিন্তু সঠিকভাবে যত্ন না নিলে এটি বড় সমস্যার কারণ হতে পারে। শরীর অনেক সময় নিজে থেকেই এই ধরনের স্প্লিন্টার বের করে দিতে সক্ষম, তবে ইনফেকশনের আশঙ্কা থাকলে চিকিৎসা নেওয়া জরুরি। সঠিক প্রক্রিয়া মেনে স্প্লিন্টার সরিয়ে ফেললে অস্বস্তি ও ব্যথা থেকে মুক্তি পাওয়া সম্ভব। আরও দেখুনঃ তোমার রক্তনালীগুলোর দৈর্ঘ্য কত?

ট্যাগ: স্প্লিন্টার বের করার উপায়, ইনফেকশন প্রতিরোধ, প্রাথমিক চিকিৎসা, ত্বকের যত্ন, স্প্লিন্টার ইনফেকশন, স্প্লিন্টার থেকে মুক্তি, স্প্লিন্টার চিকিৎসা, কাঁটা ঢুকে গেলে করণীয়

আরও দেখুনঃ ম্যাকফ্লারির অদ্ভুত চামচের রহস্য

[sluckythewizard]

YOU JUST HƎARD IT FROM [HIS MOUTH] FOR SURƎ!!!

[presswoodterryryan]

Become a Hero: Essential First Aid Tips for Kids

By Mr. Fluffernutter, Bunny Helper Extraordinaire Hello, dear friends! Have you ever been on an adventure and someone got a bump, scrape, or splinter? Even the bravest adventurers need a little help sometimes, and that’s where heroes like you come in to save the day! Alice calls me “the bravest bunny doctor,” and today, I’m excited to share my essential tips and tricks on how you can be a true…

[coolguycy]

How does Splinter go from human to rat in the versions he does that?

in 12 and 87, i believe he was walking down the street or chilling in the sewers and was mutated into a rat the same time the turtles were mutated.

in rise however.. its a longer story

Hamato Yoshi had a fuckton of childhood trauma (which i will not get into because Spoilers) he was raised by his grandfather but rejected the traditions his family tried to force on him. he moved to LA and became action star Lou Jitsu. he had fame, money, his own merch, he was living the high life.

while at the height of his stardom, he meets Big Mama and they fall in love. after dating for a while Lou proposes, at which point Big Mama revels herself to be a spider yokai and kidnaps him. She forces him to fight in her Battle Nexus, a gladiatorial death match run from BM's hotel. for a while (unclear exactly how long) Lou Jitsu was the undefeated champion and was discovered by none other than Baron Draxum

Draxum kidnaps him and uses his dna to mutate the turtles, in the hopes of creating soldiers with Lou's fighting prowess. Some of the Mutagen gets on Lou, hes bitten by a stray rat and mutates. blah blah blah big escape, lab blows up, and the rest is history

[toskarin]

most stable mutual: if you were a dog, what breed would you be? I'm curious!

💬 golden retriever

💬 gotta be a golden retriever

💬 my friends say I'm a golden retriever

💬💬 You are so beautiful like a golden retriever

mutual #2 going through it down three reblog chains: this is an ender pearl

sanguine girlfriend of mutual #2: how do you navigate your partner's echolalia without being rude? I'm looking for advice on this that's ideally backed more in personal experience than traditional therapy speak, but I'd be willing to hear out any side at this point

howling of the wild winter winds:

mutual in law whose most impactful contribution to the world may well be widely remembered by the numbers of the date on which it happened: if I were a dog, what breed would I be? I'm curious

💬 wolf

💬 gotta be a wolf

💬💬 wolf isn't a dog dipshit

💬💬 you are a tar pot

💬 golden retriefir

well meaning mutual #3 reblogging someone whose url you've been a little curious about: where is beauty in architecture? has it fled the modern world? do we still have the technology for the flying buttress?

musician mutual #8: wait is it bandcamp friday or is everyone releasing their stuff early to fuck with me

mutual in law once removed of mutual #1 who has you blocked for being annoying but you see their posts sometimes: i need that old man reduced to oak splinters or some shit like that. i need him broken in a way that only glue could reconstitute, and never quite the same, but as something wholly new. i need him altered and remade.

musician mutual #5: new album for bandcamp friday!

mutual #2: this is an ender pearl

howling of the wild winter winds:

mutual #2 but accidentally on their gimmick sideblog: this is an ender pearl

howling of the wild winter winds:

[21st-century-minutiae]

In the early twenty-first century, Magic the Gathering is a popular trading card game. The game has multiple official formats which define which cards are legal to play, to create different experiences. Pioneer is one of the newer formats, which generally allows cards that were created after 2012 to be included, with some bans.

Ancestral Recall is a card from the original 1993 release of Magic the Gathering. It allows a player to draw three cards at instant speed at the cost of "1 mana." "Instant speed" means that you can play it on your opponent's turn. This is contrasted with "Sorcery Speed" which means you can only play it on your own turn. This is generally a powerful option since you could wait for your opponent to take their turn before deciding what to do, and because it doesn't allow your opponent to react. "Mana" is a resource in the game. Generally speaking, more expensive cards are harder to cast and need to be played late in the game. "1 mana" cards are VERY easy to cast and can be used as early as the first turn. Because drawing cards is VERY useful in Magic, and because Ancestral Recall is very very very easy to cast, it is considered one of the most powerful cards in all of Magic's history and is banned in most formats, including Pioneer.

Treasure Cruise is a card from the 2014 release of Magic the Gathering. It allows a player to draw three cards at the cost of 8 mana, but it also has an ability to make it cheaper at the cost of doing some setup, to a minimum of 1 cost. If you build a deck in the right way, it is pretty easy to make Treasure Cruise a 1 mana spell that draws three cards, which makes it often seen as comparable to Ancestral Recall. However, there are a few key differences:

First, it does require setup to use. Even if it is relatively easy, this setup cannot happen on the first turn of the game (except in VERY weird circumstances). Second, using one copy of Treasure Cruise undoes your setup for the next one. Ancestral Recall can draw another Ancestral Recall which can be used immediately, as early as turn 1 or 2. But it will be somewhat later in the game before you have enough setup that you can play multiple Treasure Cruises in a row. Third, while pretty much every single deck can play Ancestral Recall (indeed, it is almost mandatory to play the card whenever it is legal), only some decks can properly setup Treasure Cruise to make best use of it. Finally, Treasure Cruise is NOT at instant speed. You have to commit to playing it on your turn. Even in the best case it is not as strong as Ancestral Recall for that reason alone. Treasure Cruise is a very powerful card, but it is not as ludicrous as Ancestral Recall. It is also LEGAL in Pioneer.

"Splinter Twin" was a powerful and popular combo from the "Modern" format in magic circa the year 2013. Modern as a format which permits most cards that were printed after 2003. The year 2013, where there were about 10 years worth of magic cards, was considered something like the height of the format, and is often compared to the current Pioneer, which also has about 10 years worth of magic cards.

The Splinter Twin combo made use of two cards. The first was the titular "Splinter Twin" a '4 mana' 'sorcery speed' card which permanently gave a creature the ability to make temporary copies of itself once per turn. The second was any creature that could let a creature use their 'once per turn' effect again. With those two cards together, you could make a copy, have the copy refresh the copier, make another copy, have the new copy refresh the copier, and keep going infinitely. This let you do infinite damage as early as turn 4 of the game, assuming your opponent couldn't disrupt you. Waiting until a later turn allowed players to prevent disruption pretty consistently. This combo was banned in 2016 from Modern, because it was very popular at the cost of other decks. Many people felt this banning was a mistake, especially in retrospect as the format only got more powerful. Splinter Twin was never legal in Pioneer.

The asker in the post above is inquiring as to why Treasure Cruise is legal in Pioneer, but Splinter Twin is not. Calling Treasure Cruise "Ancestral Recall" is a provocative effort to hyperbolize the card, and calling "Splinter Twin" a "turn 4 combo that dies to removal" (removal being a term for getting rid of a creature which would disrupt the combo) is an attempt to minimize the power of Splinter Twin and ignore the fact that it was printed before 2012, meaning it is not currently eligible for Pioneer. The implication is that if a card as powerful as Ancestral Recall is legal, than something that is weaker like Splinter Twin should NOT be legal.

Mark Rosewater, an individual who designed a lot of Magic the Gathering, denied the premise that Treasure Cruise is Ancestral Recall, implicitly stating that the probing question was made based on a flawed premise.

In the early twenty-first century, Magic the Gathering players familiar with the Modern format of 2013 (of which many older players would be) would likely know that both Treasure Cruise and Splinter Twin are being mentioned here, despite neither card being mentioned by name. They would understand the description, know about the formats, and know what Ancestral Recall does. They would know who Mark Rosewater is, and likely have an opinion about Splinter Twin (and Treasure Cruise).

People NOT in the space of Magic the Gathering, of which the majority of the early twenty-first century would be categorized (as, while popular, the card game is not universal) would have zero idea as to what is being discussed in this exchange.

Why is ancestral recall fine for pioneer but sorcerery speed infinite damage, turn 4 combo that dies to remove, isn't?

Ancestral Recall is not legal in Pioneer.

[crushmeeren]

ᝰ ILLUMI WHO FUCKS YOU BEHIND HIS PARENTS BACK .ᐟ

master list link

༝ ᭝ ༝ just a little blurb, maybe I could circle back and expand in the future? this is kind of all over the place, but i love illumi and this my first hxh work! ༝ ᭝ ༝

The rhythmic tick of the clock on the wall steals your attention, the murmuring chatter of the other three people in the room muffling as you zone out. It’s mindless, the way your fingers trace over the dark mark sticking out against the conference table like a neon sign. The rich mahogany is smooth, not a splinter in sight.

Your chair creaks when you shift your weight, eyes rolling in annoyance when your foot tingles with pins and needles, the appendage forcing itself awake.

For how rich they are, you’d think the Zoldycks could afford comfortable seats at the very least.

A much larger hand covers your own, halting your repetitive tracing, and you shift your head to the left to be met with your father’s firm gaze, his mouth set in a line. You glance across the table to Silva’s serious expression, then to Illumi’s blank one.

You lock eyes with the younger Zoldyck and something hot jolts in your belly, a deep ache settling between your legs. You linger a bit too long before returning your focus to your Father, who removes his hand from yours. You clear your throat, the sound loud in the otherwise quiet room.

“Yes, father?”

He raises an eyebrow, somewhat amused but hiding it well. “Did you hear anything that was discussed?”

Heat crawls up the back of your neck and into your cheeks, but you manage to keep your features neutral. “No, I’m sorry Father.”

“Silva and I have agreed to allow you to work with Illumi on this mission. We feel it’s best to have you both there,” your Father explains, gesturing towards Illumi. You blink twice, spine straightening, and your pride refuses to let you peak at Illumi and gauge his reaction. You know it’s non existent.

You hesitate, then nod. “I understand Father,” you assure. You turn to Silva with your chin raised. “I’ll be an asset to this mission. I won’t hinder Illumi.”

The soft rustle of Illumi shifting, like he can’t sit still, does not go unnoticed by you.

Silva looks as pleased as he’s capable of and dips his head in acknowledgment. “See to it that you are. Illumi does not fail, and if this mission falls apart, you’ll be the one who is punished.”

“She will not fail,” your Father interrupts, tone sharp at the edges. “She is just as capable as Illumi.”

Your Father and Silva stare each other down for a few tense seconds before Silva concedes, nodding once.

“Very well.”

⇣ ༝ ⇣ ༝ ⇣

“Illumi, fuck,” you moan, tightening your fingers in his soft hair as your lids flutter. Your breath hitches when he sucks the sensitive skin of your inner knee between his lips, intent on leaving a dark hickey. “You know you’re gonna get in trouble if— oh god!” You squeak. Illumi’s teeth bite down harder in an effort to stop you from continuing your sentence. “If your Father finds out, Illumi.” You emphasize his name with a pointed yank to his hair.

Said man’s warm tongue suddenly sweeps up the crease between your pussy and thigh, causing your hips jerk in the direction of his mouth, eager for what comes next.

The dingy white walls and scratchy sheets of the motel bed do nothing to curb the warmth that’s running thick and honeyed in your veins.

Illumi settles fully on his belly, placing his thumbs on either side of your pussy and spreads you apart. He distracted for a split second by how slick he’s gotten you, running his thumb over your pussy before meeting your heavy lidded stare with a bored one. The only evidence of his arousal is the dark pink flush on his cheeks.

And his rock hard cock.

“Why are you concerned with that now?” He asks, tone somewhat annoyed. “You’re aware I’m not bothered by that.” Illumi’s tongue flicks your clit, determined to refocus on the drool worthy sight in front of him. “Don’t you want me to eat your pussy?”

You curse, drawing your knees up and let your thighs fall open as wide as they can. “You know that I do.”

“Then stop whining.”

Illumi’s skilled. He’s precise and to the point, especially when it involves getting you to cum on his tongue. Then he’s in your face, leaving a few inches to separate you as his hair surrounds you, shielding you both from the outside world. When it’s the two of you, the pressure to be perfect fades to background noise.

One hand plants itself by your head, the other gripping the base of his shaft to steady himself. The slick tip bumps your clit, a brief, bright pleasure sparking in your pelvis, and then he shifts down to press forward and slide home.

Your moan is simultaneous with Illumi’s. His jaw clenches tight, eyes pinching together before flashing back open.

“Move,” you command. The assassin, who’s never this compliant, drags his hips back halfway and pushes forward smoothly. The glide is so fucking slick, so fucking hot, and you loop your arms around his neck, tugging until his sweaty forehead lands on yours. The steady roll of his hips builds to a quick pace, the filthy smack of skin colliding filling the room.

Illumi won’t last long. Not after a mission like the one you’d had. It went well, but there was a tremendous amount of fighting, and the tense line of his shoulders shows how worked up he is. He starts to whine with every other breath, dark eyes intense and locked with yours.

Illumi grips one of your legs and shifts it until your knee hooks over his elbow, cock striking your g-spot with each pointed thrust. You cry out his name, pulling him as close as you can despite the awkward angle, and he starts to twitch inside you.

“You’re gorgeous,” he whispers in a rush, breath hitching as he catches your lips in a kiss, all the emotion he struggles to voice shining through. He sucks on your lower lip and it’s over, pussy fluttering and squeezing Illumi until he makes a choked off sound, surging forward until his balls are snug to your ass. He cums with a broken moan, and you swallow the noise like you’re dying of thirst.

There’s little fanfare after, just a quiet moment where you hug him tight, prompting him to sneak his hands underneath your back to return the gesture. The embrace is sticky and sweaty, overheated.

Illumi places his forehead on your collarbone, brushes his lips over the swell of your breast and pants as he catches his breath. The knowledge that even someone as cool and collected as Illumi needs a moment to gather himself when he’s with you steadies your thundering heart.

“I couldn’t be bothered to care what my Father’s opinion is. At least, not when it comes to you.”

“Well, that makes two of us.”

Illumi’s quiet laugh is the best thing you’ve heard all night.

[littlestrainbow]

When to Replace Little Gear

💖 Little Gear is really fun! But also it get‘s damaged sometimes, so here is a rough guide of when it’s time to replace some common items:

💜 Baby Bottles: Replace the nipple if it has tears or holes, is strongly discolored, is getting gross no matter how much you clean it or starts to smell. Replace the whole bottle if the bottle has cracks or holes, starts to smell or there has been mold growing inside If you use your bottle a lot, you‘ll probally have to replace the nipple several times a year

🩵 Pacifier: You need to replace you paci if the nipple has tears or holes, is discolored, starts to smell or is gross and sticky no matter how much you clean it. You should also replace it if the shield get‘s broken or has cracks in it. If you have a decorated paci and decorations fall off, you can continue to use it if it‘s otherwise still intact If you use your paci a lot you‘ll probally have to replace the nipple (or whole paci if the nipple isn‘t removable) every few months

💚 Teethers: Replace your teethers if it has cracks or tears, starts to smell weird or starts getting gross even if you clean it Teethers are more sturdy but especially if you use it frequently, you may want to replace it once or twice a year

🧡 Plastic and Silicone Dishware in general: (for example plates, spoons, cups, bottles or lunchboxes) Replace it if it starts to smell, has strong discolorations or cracks or there has been mold growing on it. It will probally need to be replaced after a few months to years

❤️ Glass, ceramik and metal Dishware: You need to replace these if they crack or splinter or rust Otherwise these will last for decades if not centuries

💖 In general make sure to use things as long as safely possible, but always be carefull. Having to replace something because it becomes unsafe or gross to use is not bad, it happens to all of us. If you don‘t yet want to completly throw out a item, you can give it a good clean, put it into a zip lock bag and store it somewhere until you are ready to throw it away

[miniseokminnies]

you don’t own me —- c.sc

☆ pairing: choi seungcheol x fem!reader ☆ genre: club owner!seungcheol, established relationship ☆ wc: 1.2k ☆ warnings: 18+ MDNI, possessiveness, jealousy, dom!seungcheol, toxic relationship, spit kink, fingering, unprotected sex (that's a no no), multiple orgasms, creampie, name calling (slut), public sex, exhibitionism

Choi Seuncheol was not a possessive man, or so he says, however, the grip on your thigh told you otherwise.  The comments he made minutes ago dragged the silence on and you wished that he would drive faster.  If he needed space, by God you would make him regret it.

“Listen…” Seungcheol started when he was putting the car into park, unfortunately for him you were out of his grasp and out of the car as soon as it stopped moving.  He groaned and slumped in his seat. It was going to be one of those nights.  Plastering on your favorite smirk, you approached the door with your boyfriend trailing behind you.  

Your favorite bouncer smiled at you as you pushed past the entrance, you are always on the list so no need to check your ID.  He chuckled to himself as you sauntered in, knowing exactly what kind of night you were trying to have.  

“What did you do this time, boss?” he asked, trying not to laugh.

“Mingyu just do your job” Seungcheol muttered and the taller man held his hands up in surrender, still smiling.

Choi Seungcheol was not a jealous man, but he knew when something belonged to him. Watching you, his girl, from across the bar flirting with some stranger just because he made some off handed comment about needing space. His grip on his glass tightened, almost sending shards splintering across the freshly waxed bar top. 

You didn’t look at him as he approached, pretending to be interested in the one sided conversation this poor guy was trying to have with you. He was nothing to you besides a pawn in the little games Seungcheol and yourself like to play. 

Seungcheol pushed past the crowd and gripped on to your seat, spinning it towards him. His eyes were wild and you knew you had riled him up. He didn’t even give you a chance to smirk before taking hold of your chin, 

“Open up,” he commanded, not even looking at you. Confused, you did as you were told. Without breaking eye contact with the guy you were previously talking to, Seungcheol spit into your waiting mouth. “Swallow that for me,” he gives you two slightly stinging pats on your cheek. 

Choi Seungcheol knows when something belongs to him, and everyone else should too. 

With that Seungcheol turned and didn’t look back at you.  He knew he had you in his grasp now, he knows how to play your game and he beats you at it every time.  Wordlessly you rose from your chair and followed him into the hallway where the bathrooms were.  He turned to face you hearing your footsteps in the quieter secluded area.  

“You always ruin my fun” you blurted into his face, he cocked an eyebrow in response,

“Oh really?” he smirked, “I found it fun” he moved closer to you, putting one hand on the wall beside your head. 

“Well..” you avoided his piercing eyes, “I didn’t…” you knew the comment was in no way convincing. 

“Oh really?” he trailed his other hand across your soft skin, getting higher and higher.  You feel his calloused fingers drag up the length of your thigh and under your skirt. His fingers reach the apex of your thighs and you know you can’t lie anymore, “Doll, you’re so wet,” he shoves his hand on the wall into your hair and briefly massages our clit through your soaked panties.  You have to bite your lip to stop a moan from escaping your lips at the sensation.  

A whine of protest does tumble out of your mouth when Seungcheol removes the hand under your skirt.  He pulls you by your hair off the wall and positions you in front of him and pushes you into the men’s bathroom straight ahead.  Once the two of you were through the door you caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror.  The visual of yourself being utterly controlled by the man behind you filled your body with heat that rushed straight to your core.  

Seungcheol pushed you further into the bathroom before letting go of your hair and moving to check the stalls.  He all but punched each door open before returning to you. 

“Turn around,” you did as you were told once more and he wasted no time bending you over the sink in front of you, “Teasing me all night has consequences” he rasped, pulling your underwear aside.  He almost moaned aloud seeing your glistening cunt on display like this.  He easily slipped two fingers in, surprising you.  You whined at the feeling of being filled, wishing for more.  Seungcheol sets a swift pace, you know he is nervous for someone to interrupt even if he would never admit it.  “You like that?” he watches his fingers disappear and reappear.  

“Yes, oh my God” you mewl. 

“That’s right, you love my fingers,” he punctuates his sentence by adding a third finger, making you shiver with pleasure, “but you’re a slut for my cock, isn’t that right?” You nod in response, not quite able to form a response.  He pulls his fingers almost all the way out of you, “No you use your words with me” 

“Y-yes, I’m your slut” you choke out.  He shoves his fingers into the spot that drives you crazy, coaxing you to the edge.  

“That’s what i thought,” you were starting to become overcome with pleasure, “You can cum now, Doll” with his permission you let go, white spots overtaking your vision.  You cry out from the intensity of the orgasm.  

You feel Seungcheol pull his fingers out and you hear his belt hit the floor.  He pulls his pants down just enough.  You hear him spit into his hand and he grunts giving his cock a few pumps.  Lining himself up he uses the reminisce of your orgasm as lube.  Sliding in easily he gives you a few moments to adjust to the difference between his fingers and his thick cock.  

He begins thrusting into you, setting yet another bruising pace.  Despite the swiftness of his movements you could feel every inch of him each time he pulled out and slammed back into you, you couldn’t control the noises coming out of your mouth nor the squelching of your pussy each time.  

“Doll” he grips your hair in his hand and pulls you up slightly, “Look at you, getting fucked in the bathroom of my club,” he smiles wickedly between thrusts, “Look at yourself getting fucked, don’t forget who you belong to.” You look at your own fucked out face and the face behind you twisted with pleasure.  You feel a second orgasm creeping up on you.  Seungcheol is approaching the edge as well, judging by the fact that his hips are sputtering and he can barely manage to keep quiet anymore. “Gonna cum” he grunts. 

White hot spurts of him begin to paint your walls white as the coil in your stomach snaps.  You take all of it, like the good slut you are.  Seungcheol’s hips still, the two of you breathing heavily for a moment.  Slowly, he pulls out of you, staring at his seed spilling out of your perfect cunt.  He takes a moment to push it back in with his fingers as best he can before sliding your underwear back into place and putting his fingers in your mouth.  You clean them off greedily.  

“Hold on to that for me,” he pats your clothed cunt twice, “I will check when we get home later.”      

[hufflezki]

summary: meeting you, as padfoot, was supposed to be an accident. but sirius can't help himself from coming back to you. especially when its warmer in your arms.

-> sirius black x whimsical!reader, padfoot loves likes you very much, established relationship, word count: 591

In a very odd and not-so-usual way, You appeared in Sirius’ life like a fallen angel. It was an early spring then, he had spent most of his Saturday morning just snooping around the grounds of Hogwarts as Padfoot. And occasionally playing chase with Prongs and Wormtail. But it was one particular push that got him stumbling slightly into some bushes.

Now, Sirius wasn't new with playing rough—if anything it was the only way he knew how to play. But this time, however, the bushes didn't really save him. Instead, they had given him a couple of wood splinters. Most were not so hard to remove—with Remus’ help—but some were just too tiny and troublesome. Even when he turned back to his human form.

He planned to go to Madam Pomfrey later that noon, but on his way back he had stumbled upon you. With him still being Padfoot, You immediately stopped in your tracks to take a good look at him. His dark fur was all messy, and he was staring up at you—the look on his face mirroring your own curiosity. Then you got down on your knees, checked his front legs and asked. “Can I see your paw?” Your voice was so soft and gentle, that suddenly Sirius would do anything you told him to. So, of course, he lifted his paw up and you helped remove the stubborn wood splinters piercing his paws.

And he was saved, he didn't have to go to Madam Pomfrey anymore, all thanks to you. From then on, you were often seen accompanied by a big, intimidating dog that seemed too attached to you. You thought it was adorable that he likes your company so much. But little did you know, that as time passed by, Sirius grew more and more enamored by you. Until he eventually confessed and revealed himself.

And he was nervous, scared that you might think he’s weird after finding out that it was him, that it's been him begging for your attention all along. But you had taken it well, and even agreed for him to continue hanging out with you as Padfoot sometimes. And, well, Sirius did take that to heart.

In Sirius’ dorm room, you’re currently laying down on his bed. And with a notebook and pen in your hands, you write down a short description of a mooncalf you had seen after the full moon last week. While Sirius, currently as Padfoot, uses you as a pillow—or a body heater—as he sleeps.

Remus, reading a book on his own bed, glances at you and smiles, definitely amused. “Someone looks comfortable.” You turn your head to him, and he points his chin towards the sleeping dog on your chest. And you return his smile. “Well he does get cold easily, and I tend to be very warm.” You reach around Padfoot, scratching the spot behind his ear.

“Mhm, he does seem like he’s having the time of his life right now.” You turn to face your notebook once again, missing the look Remus and Padfoot exchange. The cheeky little guy had been awake all along, well not until a few minutes ago. But you didn't need to know that, as he wanted you to pamper him much longer.

It's clear that ever since you got together, Sirius has been spoiled rotten. Though his friends like to complain about it, they're still grateful for you. Especially now that Sirius just seems brighter. As if he’s genuinely content for once. And it's all thanks to your company.

marauders era masterlist ꩜ .ᐟ

[toournextadventure]

when you love it pt.3

Summary: Enid brings one of the children over for an extended career day.

Word Count: 5.9k Warnings: Swearing, flashbacks of violence Pairing: Wenclair x Vampire!Reader (part 1) (part 2) (part 3)

If one more miserable soul dared to interrupt the single hour of peace you had somehow managed to thrust into your schedule, you would end up representing yourself in court.

“I think they want to bury you,” Sara said with a pathetically insincere laugh. She dropped yet another box down in the already overcrowded corner of your office.

With a sigh, you set your reading glasses down on the desk and looked up at the young assistant. Far too young, you weren’t convinced she was even old enough to meet the strict qualifications your office had set. Not even old enough to have the tired leaden look in her eyes that life brought upon those with the wisdom to know better.

Though, you supposed Wednesday would have qualified for the position at her age. Perhaps you should curb your judgment.

“I beg of you,” you said slowly, “don’t bring anymore until tomorrow.”

“But there’s still-”

“-Don’t,” you whispered. She met your eyes before nodding once and giving you a closed-mouth smile.

“I’ll put them away for today,” she finally said.

You watched closely while she shuffled back out of the door. Her smile was more genuine before she closed the door and you could, once again, fall back into your chair and breathe. Just close your eyes for a moment, forget the disaster of a case that was haunting your every waking moment, and breathe. Deep inhale… slow exhale.

Much better.

Soft light filtered through the closed curtains on the windows. Pain pierced the dark, leaving an ache in your eyes and a rumble within the very centre of your brain. You quickly placed the sunglasses until they rested comfortably on your nose. Or not, you thought as the glasses slid down slightly. It was, perhaps, time to go home and wash your face.

No, not home. An apartment, nothing more. No, that was a lie as well. It was slowly becoming slightly more home-like. The walls were no longer bare, holding precious pictures of the younglings and their mothers. On the kitchen counter was a rusted whisk your Little Bane had dug up from the park across the street. A black hair tie sat on the bathroom counter next to the hair dye-stained sink.

Your phone vibrated loudly against the wooden desk. Pain pricked the inside of your mouth, radiating from the point of your fangs. The words “Break Over” illuminated the screen. Taunting you. Slowly, your jaw opened, pulling your teeth from the fleshy sheath they had created within your cheeks. Your mouth was filled with a throbbing ache that was quickly sated with relief, much like removing a splinter from a wound.

A cold finger swiped over the screen, turning the alarm off. So much for a chance to breathe, you thought. Perhaps you could use the busy work once again. Each moment your eyes were closed was another moment stolen by desire of the past. A useless endeavour if ever you had seen one.

Your phone vibrated on the desk once more. The image that appeared left your lip curling in disgust. Nonetheless, you picked it up and answered the call as you stood up from your desk and walked toward the ever-growing mountain of boxes.

“What do you want, Bas?” You asked, annoyance already dripping from your tongue.

“Always so hostile,” he said with a chuckle. “Can’t a brother call just to talk with his sibling?”

“No.” You pushed a box onto the ground and watched the contents spill out.

“One day, you’re gonna miss talkin’ with me,” he said. “You’ll be in a bind and think ‘Damn, I sure do wish Bas was here to help me out.’”

“What do you want, Bastien?” You repeated. Your fingers itched with the wanton desire to hang up.

“How’s your little rougarou?” A chair creaked on the other end of the line. Asshole. “Or your pretty little witch?”

“You have two seconds to get to the point,” you said gently. The bones of your spine cracked as you bent to pick up a file.

“That witch’s blood turned you rancid.”

“Good day, Bas-”

“-Hold on!” Your finger froze over the “end call” button. Something shifted on the other end of the line; you waited impatiently. “You heard from Constance lately?”

“Why would I?”

“'Cause she’s your sister.”

“I barely talk to you,” you mused. Pages flipped past your fingers. “Try again.”

“She got one a’them on her heels.”

You hissed and dropped the file. A small bead of blood engorged itself on the small papercut on your fingertip. The lack of light left the droplet appearing dark and ominous. You needed to get home and have a drink before long.

“One of what?” You asked. You lifted your finger to your mouth, licking it clean. The small cut healed over quickly.

“Daddy’s friends,” he whispered. “The mean ones.”

Your head lifted slowly. “Mawmaw Laveau?”

“Mawmaw would never,” Bas huffed in indignation. “Although word on the street is she’s achin’ to give you a whippin’.”

“What for?” You asked. “I ain’t- didn’t do anything.” You slammed the pile of paper down on a box. “Who’d you hear that from anyway?”

“You remember TJ?” You hummed in the affirmative. “He heard it from his ole lady, and she heard it when she was gettin’ her hair did.”

“Sue’s place?” You sat on a box.

“Where else?” He replied. “The ladies always talk way too loud, and one can’t help but to listen. They were talkin’ how Mawmaw’s been askin’ if you’ve been around, say she just wants to talk.”

“Mawmaw ain’t never wanna just talk,” you mumbled.

“Say she’d at least let you pick your own switch.”

You sighed. “She mad as hell.” The box groaned underneath you. “You sure she’s lookin’ for me?”

“That’s what TJ’s ole lady said, and she ain’t never got gossip wrong.”

“Shit,” you whispered. You’d need to call Mawmaw soon; you were too old to be picking a switch.

Wait.

“Who’s chasing Constance?” You asked. Feet planted firmly on the ground, you stood up and started digging through files once again. Not that it mattered; you weren’t paying attention.

“Hmm? Oh, them Hunters are after her.”

“She better not bring those classless bastards up here,” you said. “I have a reputation.”

“And your forbidden loves.”

You were drowning in the blood you had stolen. Your head lolled to the side even as you coughed again, spewing blood into the air like some demented fountain. A werewolf was across the room, hovering over Wednesday even as it transformed back into a person. Back into Enid. Her bare skin was shredded.

“If she shows up, I’ll turn her away,” you said with a shake of your head.

Bas sighed on the other end. “Family used to mean somethin’ to you, ya know.”

Your eyes squeezed shut. Bas’ words gently bounced off the inside of your skull, moving back and forth like the old DVD logo. No, he wasn’t going to guilt you into putting yourself and everyone else in danger. If Constance couldn’t keep her head down, that was on her.

“She would help you out.”

“Jesus, Bas, fine,” you groaned. “If she comes by, I’ll do what I can.”

“Knew you loved us,” he taunted.

“Good bye, Bastien.”

“Bye, cher-”

-You ended the call before he finished. A shaky hand placed the phone back on your desk before you returned to looking at the files. That you had pushed onto the floor. Like a petulant child.

“Why would I do that,” you whispered to yourself in disappointment.

Instead of picking up the papers like the sensible, mature adult that you were, you plopped onto the floor. They were going to remain a mess whether they were in the box or not, so you might as well make yourself comfortable. From the looks of it, you had at least another two weeks of nonstop work ahead of you just to sort what was useful and what wasn’t.

The passage of time marched ever forward. With your phone across the desk and all clocks removed - after The Great Skip, as Sara called it so fondly - you kept track by the drinks that appeared by your hand. As the afternoon passed, teas were left in the nicer, law firm-branded mugs. When the sun set, tall glasses of cola were set neatly on the hotel coasters you had stolen and brought back. The moment morning rolled around, steaming coffee in your personal, broken mugs brought you comfort.

You had only gone through six boxes.

Every fibre in your body stiffened when your office door opened. Janice poked her head in, blinking frantically in what you assumed was an attempt to see in the dark room. When unsuccessful, she mumbled a “for Christ’s sake” before the overhead light flickered on.

In a disgusting caricature, you hissed and lifted a hand to cover your eyes.

“You have a call on line two,” she said.

You rubbed your eyes harshly, leaving stars in your vision. “Who is it?”

“A Wednesday Addams?”

Come on, Willa, put it down.

Your mouth watered.

“Want me to push it through?” Janice asked.

Pages flipped past your fingers. Wednesday’s mug sat dutifully by your knee, nearly empty of the coffee it had held. Black, for her. You were supposed to call her a few days ago. She had made you promise after your Little Bane had finished talking with you over some sort of game they had wanted you to learn for them.

“I’m busy,” you said against the knot in your throat.

Janice looked down at the paper in your hand with a raised brow, but otherwise shrugged. “I’ll let her know.”

She slipped out of the door, leaving you alone in the overly bright, oppressive room. Perhaps, with the added threat of Wednesday calling back again - and again, and again, and again - you could work more efficiently. After all, the longer you were at the office, the more likely Wednesday would just show up.

That in itself was terrifying.

You were nearly finished with another seven boxes when the door opened once again. Janice threw it open, allowing it to slam against the wall. Nothing new for your office, you didn’t even flinch.

“Just a moment,” you said, pushing the glasses back up your nose as you searched for a particular name… ah ha, there it was.

“Go home,” Janice said.

“Mmm after a while,” you replied.

The file in your hands lifted upward.

“Hey,” you griped.

“Go home,” Janice said again.

A woman with more kids than you could count - all boys, bless her soul - and a husband who actually pulled his fair share, Janice was not a woman to be trifled with. The moment her hands rested on her hips, everyone knew they were done for.

Just as you were in that moment.

“I’m not quite done, darling,” you said softly, hoping the gentle words would ease her anger.

It did not.

“Go home now or I’m changing the locks on you.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I would.”

“I’m calling your bluff,” you threatened.

You were wrong. In reality, Janice was no match for your strength, you both knew it. However, when she packed your bag and pushed you out the door, what were you supposed to do? Fight her? Absolutely not, you were no fool. The sun was bright and you were tired, and with that, you returned home.

—---

You had just finished drying off from your shower when you heard a knock at the door. Four rapid knocks, a little heavy handed. Deft fingers tied the string on your sweats as your bare feet padded across the living room. Three more knocks.

“I’m coming,” you said just loud enough for whoever was on the other side to hear. For the love of the maker, you hoped it wasn’t Consta-

“-Hi,” Enid said with a gentle smile.

All the breath left your lungs. “Hello.”

“You two are disgusting,” Ophelia grumbled, pushing her way into your apartment as if she owned it.

Definitely Wednesday’s child.

“Don’t touch my things,” you called back to her. The Addams’ child was nothing if not a particularly adept kleptomaniac.

“Don’t tell me what I can’t touch,” she called back.

You opened your mouth to argue, but promptly shut it. Keep it together, you thought. The child was well aware of what she was doing, and she did it every single time you had the misfortune of crossing her path. She was your mortal enemy, and if she wasn’t the eldest of your lost loves, you would have slain her where she stood ages ago.

She was your favourite.

“Sorry,” Enid said, “she’s in a mood.”

“Since when is she not,” you questioned, stepping aside and ushering Enid into the apartment. She, too, knew where to go.

“You’re out of food,” Ophelia called as you entered the kitchen.

“Then get out of my fridge,” you shot back.

“I’ll put it on your card.”

The child grabbed your wallet from the counter and walked into the living room, throwing herself on the couch. You cringed when she lifted her feet, putting her shoes on the furniture. Animal, you thought with a sneer.

“Are you simply here to steal my money and dirty my furniture?” You asked.

“Yes-”

“-No,” Enid said quickly. “Ophilia had something to ask you.”

“And she couldn’t have called?” You asked.

“Ew,” came from the couch.

“Wednesday tried a few times,” Enid said. “You… never answered.”

Her smile fell slightly and the drop crushed your unbeating heart. Of course. Wednesday wasn’t one to call over frivolous matters. If you had been a sensible person, you could have avoided all of this. Including the teenager that was still flipping through your wallet.

You sighed. “What is your question?”

Ophelia slammed the wallet shut. “I’m so glad you asked.” She stood up and stalked over to you, much the same way her mother did. “I have decided to become a criminal defence lawyer and, as such, would like to shadow you for a few weeks.”

“Weeks?” You asked.

“Well a day simply won’t cover all the necessary information, and one week is barely scratching the surface,” she explained. “No, a few weeks is necessary for an optimal learning environment.”

“And where do you think you will stay?” You asked.

“Here?” She replied quickly. Sassy. “If I’m shadowing you, I need to witness every part of the lifestyle, not just the job.”

“Gomez already looked at renting an apartment for us,” Enid chimed in.

“There’s no need for that.” You gave her the most comforting smile you could manage against the onslaught of thoughts speeding through your mind.

“So you’re saying yes?” Ophelia asked.

You held your hand up, and silence fell upon the room. Deep breath in. Hold. Slow breath out. One thing at a time. The case you were working would be slow going and rather uninteresting, which would either bore the girl or excite her, you weren’t sure. Nonetheless, she would not be meeting actual criminals, which meant it was the perfect time.

Housing. Gomez had always been overly generous. One of the few people you had met that actually spent their obscene wealth instead of hoarding it. If Ophelia were to be staying for a much longer time, you would accept the rented apartment. For a few weeks? She could stay in yours, you had a spare room anyway.

You supposed you would need to stock up on more food so she wouldn’t wipe you out with disgusting takeout. And blood. She had the nasty habit of smelling like her mother…

“You cannot have access to anything confidential,” you said.

“No gorey secrets?”

“None.”

“Shame, but fair,” she said with a shrug.

“And you relinquish control of my wallet.”

You held your hand out toward her and waited. And waited. Enid giggled beside you but quickly hid it behind her hand. Well, attempted; you could still hear her. Butterflies swarmed in your stomach and up through your throat. Thank the maker you couldn’t blush.

Ophelia rolled her eyes. “Fine, take it.” She slammed the wallet into your outstretched hand.

“Thank you.” You slid the wallet into your pocket. “When would you like to start?”

“Now,” she said quickly, “I’ll go get our stuff from the car!”

Oh. Oh, they had already brought their stuff? You turned slowly and looked at Enid. She couldn’t hide her own blush, but you didn’t mind. You found it rather attractive to see her face flushed with blood. Delicious even. Fangs pricked at the inside of your lips and you quickly turned your sight elsewhere.

“She had an entire argument ready in case you said no,” Enid said softly. The floor creaked before you felt her warmth against your arm.

“I’ll have her turn it into a closing argument,” you said. “Give her a chance to practice.”

“Careful,” that warmth turned into a soft hand resting on your bicep. “She is 100% Wednesday’s daughter. She’ll have you here for a week.”

“She’s already holding me hostage in my own apartment,” you teased.

Then you hesitated. Enid’s nails absentmindedly scratched against your skin, just light enough to tickle. You had kept her at (mostly) arm’s length for a long while. If you ever snapped, you refused to allow her to be on the other end of it. Not again.

But you missed her touch oh so much.

Small gestures, you could manage that. You lifted your opposite hand and placed it over hers, fingers instantly finding the small scars that littered her skin. Not all of them were from you, which left an uneasy peace within your mind. Just the feel of her hands underneath yours brought joy back into your cold chest.

“Will you be staying?” You asked quietly, your eyes meeting hers.

Until she looked away. “I wasn’t sure if you would be comfortable with it.”

You wouldn’t. If you hurt her, if you hurt Ophelia, it would kill you. You would walk to the nearest hunter - perhaps the one chasing Constance - and offer yourself. With her being so close, it was almost inevitable something would happen. You couldn’t rely on luck to keep them safe. After all, where had luck gotten you before?

But if there was ever one person that could stop your violence, it was her.

“I would love if you stayed,” you said.

The look on Enid’s face was exactly like the one you had seen back in college. When you would bring her one of her sweet treats after a rough day. After offering to draw her a bath when she was tired. On those nights when Wednesday was out studying and you both sat watching the stars, waiting for her to come home.

It broke your heart.

“I’m not staying if you two are going to act like that the whole time.”

Enid’s face reddened. “Would you like some help with your stuff?”

“Yes please,” Ophelia said. “If I don’t keep you busy, we might end up with another Addams.”

“To your room,” you said, pointing in the direction of the guest room. Not like she didn’t already know where it was.

“My room?” She asked, looking you dead in the eyes as she passed. “Seems we get another Addams anyway.”

Enid rushed off, and the warmth of her hand vanished too quickly. Within seconds, you were craving her touch again. It left an unusual tingle on your skin that you couldn’t quite describe. Pathetic, really. And yet, surprisingly, you weren’t afraid. Not this time.

—---

The change of pace within your miniscule household was… nice. Enid slept in your room, even though she had argued for a solid 13 minutes over the fact. Yet you had prevailed, insisting on sleeping on the couch because “family does not ‘couch surf’.” Ophelia had, of course, taken notes through the entire debate, and you were thoroughly interrogated afterward.

Dinners were shared at home. No more late nights at the office, not when a child’s health was at stake. Not to mention Janice wouldn’t have allowed it anyway. Enid was a spectacular cook, Ophelia as well, and they teased you each time you attempted to help. Instead, they relegated you to grocery shopping (though they teased you for that as well).

The two of them worked like a well-oiled machine. While Enid claimed the girl was all Wednesday, you disagreed. You could see it in their humour, or the specific way they fidgeted with their hands. While incorporating a few more blacks than her senior, their fashion sense was identical.

Time at home was something to crave instead of dread. There was joy and laughter within the walls. What once was a dwelling of anguish and blood was now… bright. For the first time in a long time, you had something to look forward to again. All that was missing was Wednesday.

One step at a time, you reminded yourself each night. Wednesday’s blood was tempting even after finishing a meal. Bas had suggested what he called “micro dosing.” Small moments with her, enough to get you used to her scent again until it was nothing more than background noise. You begrudgingly agreed it was… a wise idea.

Perhaps, with Ophelia smelling just like her, you could get to that point sooner rather than later.

“Don’t forget lunch!” Enid said as you ushered Ophelia out the door. The prosecution had delivered another two dozen boxes to your office, and you needed to get a move on.

“Thanks,” Ophelia said quickly, grabbing the lunchbox Enid had gotten her. It matched yours.

Enid pressed a kiss to her cheek and rushed her forward. You gave her a small smile and thanked her for the lunch as well. Before you could leave, you felt warm lips on your own cheek. Every nerve in your body short circuited, freezing you in place.

When had you last felt the warmth of her lips?

“It’s just a kiss, let’s go.”

Enid pulled away first. Unlike the small touches she left throughout the day, this left a lingering heat. It radiated from where her lips had been to the rest of her face and… oh. Oh, that was what a blush felt like. You were blushing. She had made you blush.

Oh.

“We’ll go for a walk after work,” Enid said. “Now go, you’ll both be late.”

She pushed you - with more force than necessary for a human, but the perfect amount for you both - until you were out the door with Ophelia. Your mind was still a jumble of feelings, no words would form. Nothing but warmth.

“Mother would laugh at you,” Ophelia said. 

She wasn’t much better as she grabbed your hand and pulled you with her, leaving a second heat on your skin. It was… nice to hold her hand. Like she wanted you to be near, desired your presence. Was that… was that how Wednesday and Enid felt with all their children?

Was this parenthood?

Janice handed you both a mug of coffee on the way to your office. She had taken a liking to Ophelia - who wouldn’t? - and made it her goal to keep the girl fed and hydrated with whatever she wished. ‘Don’t spoil her,’ you had begged to no avail. It was a fruitless endeavour, you had abandoned it within a day.

No surprise in the least, Ophelia was rather good at digging through documents. You had said she couldn’t read anything confidential but… well, it wasn’t like your clients were the most upstanding citizens. After all, you simply had to tell the judge once that it was an internship, and she had readily accepted the arrangement.

The routine was rather simple. Together, you had hammered it out within two days. Ophelia would look for anything involving the criteria you had given her, and you would dig deeper to see if it was useful or not. On occasion, she would make the executive decision if it was helpful or not. Her intuition was rather impressive.

Half a dozen boxes had been searched and removed by the time lunch came along. Neither of you would have noticed if Janice hadn’t told you she was going to pick something up. She had smirked at your matching lunchboxes before leaving.

You both ate in silence. It was rather nice. It reminded you of the countless hours you spent with Wednesday. Not a single word, just enjoying each other’s presence as you did your own thing. You shouldn’t compare Ophelia to her mother as often but it was the only thing you had.

“You’re the one who tried to kill my moms.”

You choked on your tea, barely recovering before shooting a look at Ophelia. She wasn’t looking at you, just eating like normal. For a moment, you weren’t sure she had spoken at all.

She looked up at you. “I know what vampire bites look like.” She shrugged. “And claws.”

Her face remained impassive. You couldn’t gauge a single thought or emotion. A useful skill for a lawyer, not so much for someone who had somehow pieced together that damning piece of information.

“What makes you say that?” You asked.

“They didn’t tell me,” she said quickly. “I pieced it together myself.”

Her icy blue eyes stared into the spot where your soul should have been. The chill sunk deeper into your bones.

The women you loved. They were bleeding out.

“I figured that’s why you flinch when mom touches you,” she continued. “It hurts her feelings.”

You killed them both.

“Auntie Yoko says I smell just like mother,” she said, finally setting her sandwich down and forcing you to hold her gaze. “Do you wish to drain me too?”

It only exacerbated the sharp pain in your chest to see just how much you had taken from her. From your girl. Your Wednesday.

“No,” you said softly. “I would rather be staked.”

The thought of being so near to her forced a shake into your fingers. Your words rang true, whether she believed them or not. If anything were to happen to her by your hand… the thought wouldn’t even form in your mind. It was unfathomable. Nothing could cause you to lay even just a finger on her. You couldn’t.

“Good,” Ophelia said just as softly. She rolled her shoulders back and grabbed her sandwich once again. “Because mom would totes wreck your shit again.”

The day continued as usual, for everyone else. Work was completed, more boxes were removed, and the weather on the walk home was nice. Ophelia talked of the things she had discovered and you knew you should be proud of her. Her work ethic was admirable, and she was beyond clever.

At home, your girls talked of their days. Endless, animated discussions about the weather, what they had done, the cute little frog they had seen earlier. Like mother like daughter, of course. They just talked and talked and took no notice of you setting your things by the door and walking to your office.

The door closed with an almost inaudible click. Everything was in its place, and you quickly reached for the mini-fridge in the small closet. Inside were three bags of blood. Like an animal, you ripped the top off the first and devoured it, the cool liquid pouring down your throat.

It didn’t quench the pain.

You repeated the action with the other two bags, feeling engorged yet unsatisfied. The ache was still present. It was a small miracle you couldn’t see yourself in the mirror; you could feel the damp spots on your shirt and the stickiness on your lips. You opened your mouth to speak and felt the liquid spew from your lips, falling down your face in all directions. You fell into your chair, eyes glued to the red dripping from your fingers. Why did it not help?

Knuckles rapped lightly on your door, but you didn’t comprehend what it meant. The blood stained your fingers quickly. Even if you scrubbed, it wouldn’t come off. It never came off.

A soft hand rested on the spot where your neck connected to your shoulder. You flinched. Their nails scratched lightly against your skin. Fingers pushed past skin and now-exposed muscle. You would recognise the warmth even in the fires of hell.

“So,” Enid said softly. “Ophelia knows.”

“Do you believe I would hurt her?” You asked.

In the mirror, you could see Enid looking down at you. The look in her eyes was different. Pitiful, maybe? Gears turned behind those blue eyes, considering your question. Her answer would dictate the next step. If they were both concerned you would hurt her, you would leave. There was a couch in your office, you could sleep there. It was comfier than the one at your own apartment, you wouldn’t complain.

Enid’s other hand rested on the other side of your neck. Your eyes fell shut at the pure comfort from her touch alone. You could die happy with her hands around your neck, if she so wished it. It would be a rather intimate way to go.

You felt helpless as she tilted your head up. When your eyes opened, you were met with her unwavering gaze.

“If I believed that,” she started slowly, “I wouldn’t have let her stay here.”

Her nails scratched the underside of your jaw. She was close enough that you could smell the perfume she sprayed directly behind her ear. A delectable scent that was entirely Enid. Not overly sweet with a hint of citrus. After all these years, she still wore what appeared to be a strawberry lip gloss.

She was too close.

“You wanted to go on a walk,” you said quickly.

Enid didn’t move.

“Ophelia wanted to go out,” she said. “She’ll be gone for a while.”

“How do you know?”

“She took your wallet.”

You sighed. Of course she had. If she kept it up, your wallet would be kept under lock and key, not even you would be able to use it. That girl was going to rob you blind one day. And by the looks of it, you were going to let her.

“Want to watch a movie with me?” Enid asked.

“Are your parents home?” You asked.

“It never stopped you before,” she said with a smile that you couldn’t help but mirror. “Please?”

How could you say no to her perfected puppy-dog face?

“I’ll change while you get it ready,” you said.

Your undead heart raced in your chest as you both went your separate ways to get ready. The sounds from the TV echoed through the apartment. You stood in front of your dresser, looking at the options, as worried about what to wear as you had been on your first date with her. It left you as giddy as a college kid again.

It took only a moment to put a shirt and shorts on, determined to keep it cozy. You rushed to the bathroom to clean the blood from your face and hands; you needed to be presentable. Thankfully, Enid was wearing the same and already had a spot saved on the couch. A spot directly beside her. Where you would be able to feel her warmth against your thighs.

Deep breath in. Hold. Slow breath out.

“I picked a good one,” she said enthusiastically. “It suits you.”

You couldn’t hold in your laughter as she pressed “play” on Legally Blonde.

“That’s going to be Ophelia one day, just you watch.”

“She’d never be caught dead in pink,” Enid teased.

The movie started, and Enid placed a bowl of popcorn between the both of you, held in place by one of your thighs and one of hers. Strategic. It put just enough space between the two of you that you could feel yourself relax. You couldn’t hurt her over popcorn.

College flashed before your eyes. Watching movies with Enid, which inevitably ended in not watching the movie at all. Her lips on your neck and hands on your hips. Her smooth skin under your carefully controlled teeth. The movie longnce, t forgotten on even the worst of days.

Warm fingers brushed against yours. You blinked once. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Enid’s fingers brushing against yours in the popcorn bowl. Breath caught in your throat. What should you do? Enid never did anything accidentally.

Fuck it.

With buttery fingers, you flipped your hand and wiggled your fingers between hers. It was messy and childish. Enid instantly squeezed your hand owice, three times. Something the three of you had done in college when words were too much, but a gesture was just enough. Three squeezes for three words. Your chest ached.

You turned to face her. She was already looking at you with those hooded eyes that had always been a weakness for you and Wednesday. Enid would play dumb to get ahead, but it never worked for the both of you. You were painfully aware of the tactics she used. The only difference was you still fell for it.

It couldn’t happen. Your eyes searched out every scar she left unhidden. Each bite and clawmark she had received by your hands. You had marred her skin permanently; she would carry you with her until the day she died. It couldn’t happen.

She bit her lip.

Fuck it.

The popcorn bowl fell to the ground as you rushed forward to press a kiss to her lips. Almost instantly, her hand lifted to wrap around the back of your neck, pulling you closer. She tasted of fake butter and too much salt. Her lips were just as soft as you remembered. Softer even, if you were being honest. Blood rushed beneath her skin, sending an electrifying jolt everywhere you touched her. You could hear each heartbeat, forcing your own to match the erratic rhythm.

It was a clumsy kiss. Enid leaned forward to capture your lips again. Something sharp stung the inside of your cheek. Your eyes flew open. You pulled away quickly and turned your face, readjusting your jaw in an attempt to keep your fangs back in check.

“Are you okay?” Enid asked quickly, sitting up and following your movements.

You hummed in reply but started focusing on the pieces of popcorn littering the floor.

“Fangs?” She asked.

Silence. You nodded slowly.

“Performance issues aren’t uncommon in older vampires.”

Your head turned so quickly the bones in your neck cracked. Her hand was already covering her mouth, which you knew hid a smile.

“How dare you,” you whispered.

“I’m just saying, it’s fine,” she said with a shrug. Her hand finally lowered to her lap. “No pressure.”

“That’s pretty rude, Mrs. Addams,” you said.

Enid moved across the couch until she was leaning against your arm. You remained still, allowing her to do as she wished. She removed her hand from yours - you instantly missed the warmth - and pulled your arm over her shoulder until she was cuddled securely into your side.

“This works just fine,” she said. She shimmied a little more until she was situated perfectly. “Wednesday will be jealous.”

Her fingers interlocked with yours again as she fell silent, watching the movie. Your fangs still pricked the inside of your mouth, but it was manageable. Enid was horrifically warm against your side, and her fingers scratched against your skin, and for the first time in over a decade you let yourself lean back on the couch and relax with one of your girls in your arms.

[inknopewetrust]

𝐒𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐦

𝐀𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐚𝐭 𝐑𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐱, 𝐚 𝐥𝐚𝐩𝐬𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐣𝐮𝐝𝐠𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐧𝐨 𝐨𝐩𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐟𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭.

𝐁𝐨𝐝𝐡𝐢 𝐃𝐮𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐧 𝐱 𝐅𝐞𝐦!𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐖𝐂: 6.8k

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 𝟏𝟖+, 𝐌𝐃𝐈, 𝐬𝐦𝐮𝐭. 𝐒𝐩𝐨𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐈𝐫𝐨𝐧 𝐅𝐥𝐚𝐦𝐞. 𝐅𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐒𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐞𝐱, 𝐃𝐨𝐦 𝐁𝐨𝐝𝐡𝐢. 𝐕𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 (𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐭𝐨𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫).

𝐐𝐮𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐋𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐬: 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐅𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐭𝐡 𝐖𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐍𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

A distant, rhythmic pounding—one after another—echoed down the hall. Thud. Thud. Thud.

It beat down into leather. Strung from the beams of the high wooden ceilings, the chain of the bag rattled with every hit and the wood underneath its tether groaned with every sway.

Thud-thud. Thud-thud. Again, the sound captured his ears from the hallway beyond the large wooden doors.

And the sound drove him to insanity. This… impeccable sense of oblivion he felt you presented in times like these. So dangerous, so priceless. You were giving yourself away to the threats that lurked for an answer at the tips of a blade for the sake of “blowing off a little steam”, as Rhiannon had so kindly informed him.

Yet the feeling of naïveté could not escape him.

Bodhi Durran left the dining hall’s table in a fury, not unlike his cousin in such a manner. Billowing frustration palpable with the clobbering footsteps that took him straight to the training room stories below. He’d passed a few lingering first-years who’s ogling he’d grown accustomed to in his haze. The curls on his head bounced with every step; strands broke free and intruded his sight as each level he descended of Basgiath grew deeper into the chill of the ground and the night that had since fallen.

That thudding led him to the wooden door he’d walked through a hundred times. When the door flung open with a crack as it splintered on the stone, the pounding on the bag ceased immediately.

“I told you not to go to the mats alone,” the voice you’d learned to love so much ticked with an “I told you so” tone.

The bag swung into your wrapped hands as your body halted in movement. Out of breath, you looked to the intruder with a stern glare that was mutual. Staring right back with dark eyes and a hand on the door with its handle now in shards.

“How could I forget?” You countered as Bodhi slammed the door shut. “You are always right, remember?”

Her voice came back chuffed. “And that realization took you three years to make, dear girl.”

“Did you not listen to a single word I said to you?” Bodhi’s voice carried across the large, empty room in anger. “I swear you choose to ignore me on purpose. Do you know how dangerous this is!? How utterly stupid!?”

You felt a ripple cascade down the bond. “I do not make exceptions for feasting—it would do you well to remind him of that.”

The bag settled to a slow careen. You removed your dirtied hands and swiped the back of one across your mouth to collect the sweat. You eyed Bodhi’s stance. Hands on his hips, chest rising no different from your own in exhaustion.

His softness disappeared when he tried to emanate the antagonism of his family. Or, you’d just forgotten the lengths he’d go to keep an umbrella of safety above those he deemed most necessary of it.

“I heard you,” you breathed in deeply. “But I do not need a watchdog.”

“That isn’t what I said.”

“It is what you implied.”

The wraps on your hands took your attention. You knew it would drive him further into the protector that bloomed inside of him. Maybe you liked him like this. So flustered by his own sense of direction he’d lost all sense of decency. It was power you held over making a man as powerful as he in both name and task to feel flustered at your refusal to play the long game.

Your life was not a toy to be jostled with. No one, not even an assassin wielding a blade, could take away the little freedoms you were granted.

“If we’re together—“ he started but you were quick to finish his sentence.

“—then it will be less likely they’ll try to attack… I know. If it isn’t you, it’s Imogen. If it’s not Imogen, it’s Violet saying that same thing. I know.”

With his hands still planted on his hips, Bodhi’s eyes narrowed. “If you did, you wouldn’t be here.”

“If I can’t fight off my attackers alone then how can I be trusted in battle?” You looked up from your hands as the cloth unwinds between your fingertips. “We’ve all risked everything to be here and yet, year after year, I’ve managed to stay alive in far worse conditions than what we experience within these walls.”

His ire fumed. The beat of your heart was failing to slow while his fists clenched at his sides. Tendrils of his relic growing taut in the yellowing mage lights that burned as hot as he did.

“Good,” that same voice nearly purred in approval of your defense. “His arrogance is hereditary… unfortunately.”

“So is his confidence,” you retorted.

Bodhi was a quiet, ostentatious young man. He, like Xaden, did not need to be exuberant in their actions to draw eyes. They needn’t be comedic or charming beyond their abilities to seek a companion or get what they wanted even if their circumstance had led them to be strange acquaintances of vagabonds. He was enticing and exciting and self-assured most of the time. Bodhi’s soul had lifted itself from its groundings the second Rhiannon had affirmed your location and abandoned the man he’d become.

It only took something menial to throw him off the axis he’d perfected in balance. He was the balance of all things except himself.

And he couldn’t control the one thing he wanted so badly to: you.

“They’re trying to kill us.”

“I’m aware.”

“And you don’t care?”

“Ah,” you smiled slightly. “I didn’t say I didn’t care.”

Bodhi sighed deeply. His breathing exhaled into a strong huff of frustration and his dark eyes closed.

You drank the sight of him in. Still in flight leathers from a long day of maneuvers, Bodhi’s body never looked truly tired but in the evening, you could see the toll. His wide shoulders carried the weight of Xaden’s absence and the task of safe keeping within his wing. He knew you could handle yourself. He chose to ignore that sentiment for the sake of his own sanity—especially after witnessing the horrors of Solas’ power on conscription day.

And you knew that too.

Your hands became free of the cloth that was now covered in the dark painted finish of the sparring bag. They dropped into the opening of your own bag before your crouched down to sift through it. A sticky sweat began to dry on the backs of your knees, neck, and onto your forehead each passing second.

You needed a shower. Badly. Not even your own dragon would let you mount her in that state.

“Yes,” she imagined it in her own mind. “You are likely disgusting and I cannot fathom what attracts him to you in this way.”

“Human’s perform plenty of things while sweaty—well if you do those ‘things’ correctly, you just end up sweaty.” You imposed. That smile not faltering at the sound carrying through the connection.

“I must be in need of rest if you speaking in such disgust.”

“Then I will speak to you tomorrow. I wouldn’t want you to hear what happens.”

The bond between you went cold and you couldn’t help but feel a little joy in the way you spoke to her. Carefree and courageous; it made you want to be free of the bindings the college had closed in on you and the others. Bodhi felt those restrictions heavily.

“If I say I’m sorry, will you forgive me?” You asked him in a loose olive branch.

Bodhi cracked his eyes back open and spotted you squatting down. His arms hung looser as the reality of no one else being near the facility sunk in. You weren’t in any more danger than he was at any given moment.

“Knowing you,” he cleared his throat, “that apology would be empty of an actual concession.”

You shrugged. “If there is nothing to concede.”

“And you’d find a way of accusing me of being overbearing.”

“You are quite quick with your mind, Mr. Durran,” you joked, eyes turning calculated at him as the descended the small set of steps down to the maps and stalked over to you. You remained in a squat beside your bag.

“But that doesn’t mean I was wrong.” His voice was still as stern as it had been since he arrived minutes ago. With a slight tinge of worn, it’s husky nature sent a thrill down your spine in waves.

“I’ve been told the men of Tyrrendor have a hard time accepting their wrongness.”

In an instant, his tongue wet his lips. He drew his bottom lip between his teeth only to pull back and release it once a thought has passed him but remained imprinted on his intentions.

“We’re not all the same,” he eyed your crouched form. “But I think you know that.”

“No,” you agreed with a nod of your head and stood again. This time, closer to him as his approach landed at the edge of the mat the bag you’d been training on was situated.

“You’re not the same. But I can assure you that if your cousin had heard of Sorrengail training in her lonesome, he’d be out for blood. He stuck Liam on that poor girl without allowing her to find her footing first. I’m not her, Bodhi.”

“No,” he too agreed. “You’re not.”

“Good.” You reached for the strap of your bag on the floor but it was quick to be tugged away by a booted foot. “Is there a problem?” You quirked a brow in his direction.

The mat still separated the two of you from any true connection. A barrier of invisibility, it detached the hypotheticals from reality.

“That depends.” His foot dragged the strap inches closer to his person and away from the mat.

“On what?” You asked, arms now crossed.

“If you can follow orders.” He used that tone he’d grown fond of since assuming leadership in year two. Bodhi had always been headstrong but anyone in a leadership position would use their leverage against a cadet—even one three years strong and already knew all of his secrets.

“And who’s asking? You or my section leader?”

He pretended to ponder but even under the low light of the facility, Bodhi’s gleam shined through. It’s what cut him through the darkness that consumed Xaden; it’s what made him more approachable but deadly in pursuit.

“Your section leader doesn’t trust you listening to only him,” Bodhi’s voice fell low. You trailed your gaze along the strap of the bag and up his boots and to his thighs. You lingered in the space so wanton you’d felt the warmth before registering that you’d plummet into ice cold water if someone caught doing something unseemly in the training room. “But perhaps your boyfriend has better luck… he did this morning.”

He rose an eyebrow as if to remind you. You could still feel the burn in your legs. If anyone would look hard enough, they could see the slight bruising on the back of your neck from where he pressed you down into the mattress before the sun had broke the horizon.

“And what are my orders? I’m not too fond of being ordered around by a man, let alone my own boyfriend—who should know that a fresh dinner has already been threatened if he oversteps.”

Bodhi smiled slightly as a small chuckle escaped him. “Then I guess we’ll both meet Malek at the same time. I’m sure my mother would love to meet you.”

You stood back up. “Am I allowed to shower on my own or does that have to do with the orders you’re so keen on providing?”

“A shower would do.” Bodhi picked up your bag on the floor and nodded at you.

“Then I’ll see you in ten. We should be—“ you began walking off in the direction of the women’s showers when Bodhi’s hand shot out and grabbed at your bicep. “—able to get dinner then…”

“You’re not showering alone. You’re not doing anything tonight alone.” He let you go but walked in the opposite direction toward the men’s washroom with your bag.

“What’s stopping them from going in the men’s?” You asked, trailing behind.

“At least I’ll be there.”

“And the women’s is just… not good enough.”

“No.” He opened the door handle and motioned for you to enter. The mage lights that filled the training room began to drain themselves of energy as you both left the space. “They’d be expecting you there.”

“I’m sure a few people saw you storm away from dinner.”

Bodhi shrugged. He laid a hand on your back and pushed you toward the end of the showers and to one with a door already propped open. There was no one inside of the chamber because it was far too late for most who had spent all day training or learning instead. It was quiet and disarming; puddles of water grown cold littered the dry space of benches that split the room. Bodhi’s hand guided you into one and he shut the door with a harsh tug.

In the small room that separated a person’s goods from the shower itself, you stood face to face with Bodhi as he dropped your bag on the small stool. His black flight leathers were tight against his skin and unfastened at the top where his chest peaked out and the lingering lines of his marked skin remained.

“Oh,” you swallowed the lump in your throat, “you’re staying?”

“Why? Nervous?” You wanted to slap him so hard.

“I just didn’t think orders would mean this.”

“Go on,” he prompted as he opened up your bag and pulled out the towel you had stuffed in there earlier that morning. “We’re gonna be here all night if you’re just going to stand there and stare at me.”

“But you get to stare at me? Naked?”

“Nothing I haven’t seen before, baby.”

You stood for a moment thinking about his strange order. There was nothing about it that was significantly bad, nor a punishment for going off on your own and not listening to him. But then you thought, fuck it. If he was going to try to be the puppeteer of everything then he could suffer the consequences of being the protector he so badly wanted to be.

Bodhi folded the towel and set it beneath the bag as you unlaced your boots and started to strip away the clothes that had stuck to your body. He walked around you to turn on the water that came alive with a start only to settle in a spot beside you rather than across as he had been. You huffed in a laugh, shaking your head at his bombastic nature when he took the shirt from your hands and laid it within the bag.

“What are you doing?” You asked him while your fingers went to the button on your pants.

“Helping,” he replied casually.

“Oh no,” you repeated the “no” multiple times and he tossed his head back, curls going with it. “That’s not part of the deal.”

“I don’t think we really made a ‘deal.’”

“Changing terms, loose orders… I don’t think you have any idea what you’ve gotten yourself into, section leader.” You shimmied out of your pants and down to your underwear by the time he moved himself back to his original spot without complaint.

“You can stand there and watch. I think you’d be a little too distracted otherwise, right?”

Gods, he hated and loved you all the same.

“Sure,” he nodded to convince only himself. “It’d probably be a bad idea.”

You hummed in agreement while freeing your skin of everything and letting him drink you in from the space between you. He tried to keep his eyes on yours but failed miserably at an attempt to subtlety drag his gaze over every piece of you.

“Fuck me,” he muttered dejectedly. Passively, out of his own set of spite for your denial of his touch, he ran a hand over his mouth and pointed at the running water.

“Be a good girl and don’t waste the hot water.”

Your knees nearly buckled. But you obeyed and welcomed the scalding water that spewed from the small shower head against the wall. There was no difference between the washrooms that split off from the training room. The water pressure was the same and the grout between the stones in the walls and the floor were just as cracked on this side of the college. But there was still nothing but the noise of the single shower and if one were to listen closely, the sounds of two souls breathing heavier to ignore a concession that nothing about this disagreement laid within the fact you had ignored his wishes.

It was that while the world around you and the others who were either marked or survivors of Resson was closing in, Bodhi would go to the ends of the earth to keep you and the others alive. He would sacrifice everything if it meant he could feel you as he closed his eyes at night and see you the second they’d open again in the morning.

He stood there, watching, waiting. His fingers itched at his sides to roam along the curves of your skin and along the plush ruins of your body now damp from the rushing water above. You glistened in the low light; shining mounds of flesh he wanted to caress, to grope unabashedly pebbled as the water dripped from them and to the floor.

You ran both hands over your head and back down your neck over the valley of your breasts and to your stomach. He was hard. You could see the way he stood uncomfortably in his leathers as the heat filled the small chamber but also weaved its way into his bones.

out your hand, his jaw set hard with a sigh and he pulled open your bag wider. You kept your own supplies neatly tucked in the case provided to you as given by the college on the first day.

“Which one?” His voice was hoarse.

“The blue one.”

Bodhi dug into the small case and with a vice grip, clutched the blue bar in his hands. The scent of the soap was light, airy and one he’d memorized for peace of mind. He stood back upright and held it out to you.

“Thanks,” you said barely above a whisper as you took the soap from him and wet his hand with the water.

“Yeah,” he replied only to stand back to where he had been. A part of you felt cruel at his suffering but he wasn’t alone in his attraction.

The steam did nothing to mask your own arousal at the situation. You’d placed the pieces, moving them at your own will to suffer the consequences of his cavalier attempts. Soap suds couldn’t wash away the feeling that grew from your heart to your thighs. You tried to wash them away—tried to let the bubbles linger on your skin to prove to yourself, and to Bodhi, that you were more than capable of being alone amidst the chaos.

His eyes weren’t cowards as you paved a frothy path. Bodhi’s hand went to the front of his trousers and he shifted as he tugged at the bulge in them. Gods he was fucking leaking in them the longer he watched. And as much as he wanted to be mad at you for every little transgression, the way you enamored him melted every inch of the annoyance away.

“How was flight field?” Your voice asked above the spray of the water. “Imogen told me you were helping the second-years today?”

Bodhi scoffed. His teeth biting down onto his lip as he shook his head, looking away from you in a bout of disbelief.

“Really?”

“How was it?” You bent over to wash your legs. His eyes followed.

“It was… fine,” Bodhi counters. “Some of them are bound to get killed for their stupidity.”

“Oh like me?” Finishing with the soap, you reached out your hand to him and he bitterly accepted it back.

“I didn’t mean you were stupid,” he clarified. “I thought you being alone was.”

“I don’t think your logic is very sound.”

“No?”

You shook your head and turned around so your ass was facing him. You dipped your head back and let the stream wash over you and clear the soap completely away. All he wanted to do was fall on his knees and grab handfuls of you to please you both.

“Why?” He stepped a foot closer and the tops of his boots were wet now.

“There’s nothing stopping them from hunting in pairs or more. Me being alone doesn’t prevent anything from happening if Malek chooses it to see the light. If they were so keen on killing Sorrengail last year in her own room, nothing’s stopping them from killing us in broad daylight.”

“We would have the upper hand working together on this,” Bodhi said your name exasperatedly. His hand steadied him on the precipice of the shower and dry room. You peaked over your shoulder at him closing the gap.

“I’m out of your view for a mere hour and you’ve fallen to pieces, Bodhi Durran.”

“Well I can’t let anyone else get their hands on you.”

“And if they did?” You loved the way your heart pumped harder at the sight of his hand ready to tear the stone wall to bits.

“They wouldn’t.”

“Can you get the shampoo?” You asked him and he was quicker to back away this time. His frame still pent up, leathers still restricting, but faster than before.

“Do I need to—“ you began to clarify which was which but he brushed you off.

“I know which one it is.”

You closed your eyes under the water and let the heat fill your face. Bodhi’s shuffling was getting quiet the longer the seconds passed by. You heard a thud, then another only to be followed by the light squeak of worn hide hitting the floor. Before you could even turn around to face him, Bodhi was inside the shower, the shampoo roughly placed on the small corner ledge and his hands planted firmly on and around your waist.

His lips found purchase on your shoulder as you breathed in.

“I can’t fucking watch you do this shit and not touch you. I don’t care if you’re mad at me, I just want you to stay alive.”

Your head fell against his back. “I’m not mad.”

“Then what the fuck was all that?” His mouth laid claim to your shoulder and neck, teasing the skin already sensitive there.

“Maybe teaching you a lesson,” you stuttered a gasp as his hands roamed low. One cupping your pussy and dragging upwards along your clit. “It’s not me who feels like they can’t protect themselves.”

“You might not need protecting then,” his fingers steadied themselves on your clit. Your hands flung to the wall in front of you, grasping at smoothed over rock to sooth you. Bodhi took his middle finger and started with small circles on the sensitive bud. “But when you’re like this, and thinking of everything but saving yourself, at least I’m here too.”

“A bit more preoccupied than watching guard.”

“I can multi-task.”

You laughed, one hand leaving the wall to fall atop his own marred hand. You pushed back against his body and he groaned. His cock was lusty on the small of your back. Even on your toes, he’d tower over you in what was a family trait. His mother’s side had been generous with their dark hair and eyes that seemed to always know where you were and what you wanted. His finger was meticulous and slow, building a lapping wave within you as he felt you wiggle and writhe against his body.

His hair became a sopping mop as his teeth nipped the skin of your neck. He bit down, putting pressure only to lessen the ache with his tongue and a loose kiss in its place. The one finger was not enough for you once Bodhi crossed the threshold. You pushed at his hand, begging him without words for more which he’d long learned was enough of a tell that what he was doing was working.

Bodhi hummed as his finger, joined with another, slipped through your folds and filled you less than his cock would but just as tightly. Your shoulders jolted, shaking against him and he smirked against your back. Your hand went slack against his.

His voice purred in your ear. “That’s a good girl, yeah, that’s right… feels good, hm?”

It was intoxicating—the rush of bliss that ignited a fire within you. Bodhi had stormed into your space and set the room ablaze with a simple glance. He’d light the match for as long as he’d walk the earth. He curled his fingers further, pushing into you until he couldn’t go any farther. Bodhi halted once he reached that point and his other hand ran along your side gently.

“Gods,” you whined.

“Mm hm,” Bodhi affirmed your feelings. He brushed his nose on the shell of your ear. Pulling his two fingers back, he pushed them back in slowly before repeating it again and again to drive you mad.

You were trying so hard to be quiet. Each thrust of his fingers begged for sounds to escape your lips but all you could do was wire your eyes closed to see the kaleidoscope of colors he’d brought forth. Dancing swirls of delight as the bumps on your skin contrasted the hot water.

He continued to sink his middle and ring finger inside of you until he settled on a pace that made your head spin. His fingers moved exquisitely but fast. Unrelenting and breathless, your voice broke through the silent barrier of your mouth and into the space.

“Fuck,” your words came out in as a whimpering mess. Every groan that followed was broken apart by your body’s overstimulation. It’s shaking reaching beyond the physicality of Bodhi’s frantic fingering.

He kept going and going and going. The noises you made encouraged him to continue on through the burn of his wrist. The veins of his hands becoming more strained every time he pressed into the plush spot with a curl of his fingers. It was the one that made you dizzy, the one that he’d never tried with anyone else but you.

“Bodhi.”

His hand left your side and slapped onto the wall in front of you as his control was starting to waver along with you. His cock was painfully hard at the constant pressure your body laid upon him. He wanted to fuck you shamelessly where he stood.

“I hear you, I hear you,” he muttered. The water of the shower splashing into his eyes and face led his forehead to rest upon your shoulder.

“I can’t,” you squeaked out as his fingers went flat once more and moved up and down rapidly inside of you. “Gods I can’t—“

“Yes you can,” Bodhi reassured. One free hand clasped on top of his that rested on the wall in front of you and the other dug crescent moon shapes in his forearm. “You’ve done it before, baby. I know you can do it again for me.”

Your muscles in your legs spasmed as they shook. Bodhi let out a rewarding chuckle.

“Yeah… baby come on,” he urged faster. “I feel it. Come on, I feel it.”

“I—“ you let out a choked gasp as the dam within you broke free of yourself. Bodhi removed his fingers in an instant, finding your clit to rub circles around it as your body blacked out.

You forgot why he was mad at you and you him. The colors burst from your soul when your hand clutched onto his so tightly they’d surely leave a mark and the lewd reality of your finish was covered up by the sound of water splashing at your feet.

Both of his hands found themselves running up and down your back as you fell into the stones in front of where the shower head was no longer beaming down onto you. Your head relished the chill of the stone while your hands steadied you.

“Shhh,” Bodhi calmed. “You’re alright. I’ve got you.”

“If I knew you were going to do that, I would have made you wait until we got upstairs. My legs feel like jello.” Your breathing and voice was ragged. He smirked against your skin to lay a trail of kisses along your spine.

“Less clean up here.” There, his logic was sound.

He massaged the curve of your hips and back up to your arms. In his attempt to recover you, his mage light disappeared to reveal only one left. The sight of the glowing golden orb was tiring, romanticizing the little bubble of peace you’d managed in the men’s washroom. Bodhi’s hands helped you turn to face him and he pushed the shower head to face the opposite direction from your faces.

His wet black curls lay flat against his head and pushed back away from his face. He was a beautiful man, a soft and stern one who’s nature was far kinder than he let on to others.

A strong hand cupped the back of your head.

“I was an ass. I’m sorry,” he spoke honestly and the apology was clear on his face.

“I should have listened to you.”

“You’re more than capable. I was still a prick about it.”

You closed your eyes, forehead meeting his chin as your hands rested on his chest. Bodhi let you silently recover for what felt like minutes before his thumb pressed into the back of your neck.

“Baby,” he mumbled. His dick was still as hard as before and as much as you wanted to lay under the covers and do nothing more for the rest of your life, you’d be dammed to let a man as fine as Bodhi leave a shower wanting you.

“I’m fine,” you nodded as you raise your head. He studied your eyes before determining there was no lie to be shared. Bodhi Durran would never make you do anything you didn’t want. He knew you could deny him, truly push him away and he’d return to that dry spot and turn around for good. Yet you’d never lied to him in the years he’d know you, so he wet his lips, eyes targeting your own before forcing your neck closer to connect his lips with yours.

Immediately, you wrapped your arms around him, pulling him as close as possible. To feel every inch of him would never be enough. You opened wider, his tongue melting over yours as he titled you back and devoured the senses.

Gods did you love him as much as he did you.

Your hands found home on his waist before daring to lower themselves to his cock that laid sprung and leaning to the right. Bodhi broke his lips from yours in a hiss the moment your thumb stroked his tip. You smiled, nose knocking into his as you pecked his lips gently in return.

“It’s my turn now,” you clarified for him but he shook his head.

“No,” he swallowed hard. “I won’t last if you suck me off.”

“Then what do you want?”

“I just want to be fucking inside of you already.” He kissed you roughly as your hand circled his shaft and squeezed lightly. Both of his hands cradled your face now. “Fuck me.”

This smile was contagious. A beaming glow emitted from his face each time and it never ceased to amaze you that a man like him could be so joyous compared to the hand he was dealt.

“I think that’s what I’m supposed to say,” you scrunched your nose at him. However, you pumped him more the longer he took to change it up.

“Yeah,” he kissed you long. “But I don’t want to hurt you. I was rough before—I didn’t mean…”

“You were fine. Perfectly and utterly fine, Bodhi.”

“I just—“

The sound of the washroom’s door opening and closing ended the conversation abruptly. Your hand paused, not letting him go in hopes the intruder would simply enter an empty shower and it on but they didn’t. Footsteps moved in slow, showy maneuvers as the rusty hinges on stall doors creaked one after the other.

Your eyes turned frantic in a second and Bodhi kissed you quietly in ignorance.

The door opened as another assailant entered the space. Whoever had been the first dragged a blade across the stone floor. Its path igniting a loud, screech that made your ears bleed.

“This is so inconvenient,” Bodhi whispered.

“Fucking traitors!” A man shouted from the other side of the door. He was still a length or two away for safe keeping. “Come on out… secrets die with those who keep them.”

“I’m not going to fight them naked!” Your voice was barely audible.

“So you want to be impressed that I can take down both of them?” Bodhi felt his ego rise. You still hadn’t removed your hand from his cock and even if the door to the stall you shared was locked, there was no stopping the two killers beyond it.

“Keep the shower on.” He backed away from you and with it fell your hand. “Don’t say a word—I’ll be back in a minute.”

You weren’t sure if it was erotic or utterly absurd that he walked out of the room drenched in water with his dick still hard and weaponless. The shower ran as you pulled the towel from under your bag and wrapped it around yourself for decency in case of the worst scenario: he died nude on the washroom floor to leave you murdered in the shower.

But you also knew Bodhi was entirely capable.

And in a moment to appease the strife you caused, you let him take the lead. The small stool became your pedestal while the sounds of bodies colliding violently filled the air instead of steam. A clatter of a dagger falling to the floor gave you a semblance of hope he’d managed to disarm one of them.

You pulled the towel tighter to your body and lifted your hand to the door in an effort to keep it shut.

“Malek not today,” you murmured. “Not fucking today.”

Bodhi’s grunts quickly turned into a unabashed laughter. You couldn’t make out everything he said but every now and then, he’d jest to irritate.

Another dagger fell to the floor in shards.

“That’s it?” He rallied. “I know you can do better than that fucking shit. You wanna kill me, huh? Then wield your goddamn power and do something about it.”

A mistake. It was all a mistake because the second they raised their hands to wield whatever signet they had, the channel was closed. There was no chance for them in hand to hand, there were no options for them to run from him as he bested them nude and half aroused.

You felt useless. Sitting there, embarrassed by your own nudity to not do anything about the situation. Maybe Bodhi had been right. The idea that you being alone was stupid and you were risking your life by ignoring what was in your best interest. But Bodhi was also… Bodhi. He enjoyed showing off when it mattered the most and even behind the door, you could hear him kicking their ass.

And how were you to help when your legs felt like putty and the heat of the moment made you lightheaded?

There was the distinct sound of bone on bone cracking followed by a “fuck you” and a body hitting the ground. The tip of a blade chipped the stone floor as it was picked up and flew across the room to the other assailant who dropped cold in response.

Silence, besides the running water, was all that was left.

“Bodhi?” You called out tensely.

On the other side of the door, he was checking the pulse of the two second year cadets from first wing. His shoulder was burning, hand on fire from his broken bones finally having mended themselves from Resson, but the bruise on his jaw would manifest in mere hours.

There were no pulses—the threat had been eliminated—and he sighed heavily in relief.

You creaked the shower room’s door open just wide enough to peak your head out. One man’s neck was forced into an unnatural angle and the other had a dagger lodged in his heart, a perfect shot.

“They’re dead,” he said as if it weren’t obvious.

“Are you hurt?” You asked as his big brown eyes met your own. He shrugged, stepping over the body and walking back to you as if nothing had happened.

“Nothing serious.”

“But your arm—“

“—hurts but I’ll be fine.”

He met you at the door and smiled in the way he knew you couldn’t resist him. You never could, but he just memorized every tell you had when it came to loving him.

“Your jaw,” you breathed out. A hand reaching to the angry skin just at the junction of his jaw and cheek. “We should go get a pack. I’d rather not be here when someone walks in and finds those two.”

You peered over his body to look at them again and as expected, neither moved.

Bodhi shook his head. He pushed open the door inch by inch until finally he was back inside the safety of the room and shut the door again.

“What’s with the towel?” He asked.

“What?” You furrowed your brows in a suspended moment of disbelief.

“Why are you wearing that? We’re not done—I’m not done.”

“Bodhi, you’re hurt.”

“Yeah, here,” he pointed to his heart, “because now I have to jerk off by myself.”

“Oh my,” you rolled your eyes as far as they could go.

“I saved you from those fuckers and this is how you repay me?” His eyes gleamed so brightly in amusement. “I don’t know how I can go on anymore.”

He dramatically walked into the torrent alone. His hair went sopping wet again before he slicked it back and turned around.

“Have you always been this dramatic or is it just for me? You observe too much. This is too… Ridoc.”

“And now you’re thinking about other guys? After I saved you and made you—“

You were quick to step into the stream and over his mouth with your hand as if the dead would wake at the admission he made you come. The towel became soaked with water before it was far too heavy to remain on and found itself in a plop on the floor.

“Are you going to stop?” You asked him.

His eyes looked up in thought and his lips underneath your hand quirked up in a grin. Then, he nodded, gently removing your hand from his mouth.

“We can go,” he settled on honesty instead of humor. “I was joking.”

“I know.”

“It might also be rude to fuck in front of the dead.”

“How would they know?” You pondered. “They’re dead.”

Bodhi grasped your hand in his own tightly. Wordlessly, you could sense his gratefulness through his stare. How you were both alive and the threat of today was gone until the clock struck to reset the mission of the next batch of dismayed students seeking revenge. You too were grateful his imperious behavior sent him down a spiral to you. He, and the others, would have been furious had you taken on those two alone.

But he did it all in the sake of protecting you. And not even a war college could make you forget the significance of his want to do so.

“They might be ghosts… I can’t be sure though.”

You shook your head. “I don’t want to think about ghosts or dead people when we’re fucking.”

He rose a brow. “Oh, so you do want to have sex with me?”

“No,” you drew in closer until your chest met his and his arms wrangled themselves around you. One on the back of your neck, the other settled on the curve of your ass with a grope. “I said ‘fuck’ not sex, not make love, fuck.”

His smiled bloomed again and melted every piece of you away.

“My girl’s got such a dirty mouth, don’t you?”

You looked down bashfully while your hands tread the lines of his abdomen.

“I guess you’ll find that out, won’t you?”

He let you sink to your knees and show you just how much you appreciated him—both the overbearing man and the one who’d break a sweat just to see you again.

Thanks for taking the time and reading! As per usual, the best way to support your authors/creators is comments and reblogs! I thank you so much for your support.

Note: this fic has not been fully proofed! I apologize for errors in the meantime!

[yanderenightmare]

Gojo Satoru

TW: implied noncon, yandere, captive reader, blood, knife play

gn reader

Satoru doesn’t have infinity activated around you. You don’t really pose much of a threat, and he thinks you know that too—besides, you’d never actually dare do anything anyway…

The knife in his lung says differently, though.

Your hand around the hilt shakes, unintentionally wiggling the blade.

The surprise is greater than the pain. Honestly, the pain barely matters. He’s experienced so much worse, his body scoffs at the tiny kitchen utensil. Cursed technique stops the bleeding before a single drop even escapes—it works like a well-oiled machine without him even thinking about it.

You seem worse off. Tears fumble down your face as you tremble, wide-eyed and petrified, staring at where you’ve just driven the weapon through the otherwise pale and perfect alabaster muscles of his abdomen. 

He says your name, and it seems to shake you out of it. You let go of the shaft, but the knife remains inside. He pulls it out himself as if it’s nothing—not even giving it the same regard you would have a tiny splinter.

A droplet of blood slips down the blade and splashes on the cotton of your panties—the ones he’d been so eager to remove only a minute ago.

Where’d you even hide the knife? Has he become so comfortable around you that he didn’t notice you holding it?

You’re still in shock. Small whimpers escape your trembling and the erratic nature of your breaths. You’re not really breathing fast or slow, it’s almost like you’ve forgotten how to do it right—hitched both on its way in and on its way out again.

He almost feels sorry for you. But then again, he’s the one who was just stabbed.

“Lick it.” He doesn’t know where it comes from. It’s the first punishment that he could think of.

You blink like you’ve got an eyelash stuck on your lens as you adjust your gaze to look up at him. He holds the knife to your lips.

“Wah—”

“It’s dirty. Lick it clean.”

He can see the gears turning in your head. He wonders what you’re thinking about. Is it how much you hate him? Regret for what you’ve done? Or misery over how it didn’t kill him?

Would you really want to kill him? He would ask, but he doesn’t think you know the answer.

Your tongue trembles as it reaches out, gasping once it touches the blood.

It’s weird, but there’s something really intimate about it. Maybe it’s because he’s horny. He was planning on fucking you just a while ago, after all.

You whimper as you lick along the length of the blade, feeling the fresh blood soak into your tastebuds—salty and metallic and a little sweet. He turns the blade for you to finish the other side as well.

The taste stays on your tongue.

He throws the knife away once it’s clean. There’s no clatter, just a thud as it lands in the white fur of the living room carpet.

Lanky hands hold both sides of your face as he lays his forehead down upon yours. “I know it wasn’t your intention…” he rasps while his thumbs rub into your cheeks, making your lips jut out in a pout. His blue eyes are even crisper than usual. “But that really turned me on.”

♡ GOJO SATORU masterlist ♡ JUJUTSU KAISEN masterlist

[hellinistical]

in which you are trapped in a haunting pact with Caleb, bound by the pomegranates you unwittingly took. Caleb x fem. reader. mdni.

Part two here

tw: kidnapping. dubious consent/non-con. choking. manipulation. forced arrangement. coercion. scaring. panic attacks. nightmares. threatening of loved ones.

wc: 10.7k

The pomegranate orchard sprawled like a cursed labyrinth, its gnarled trees clawing at the ashen sky, their twisted branches skeletal and accusing. The bitter clouds churned above, heavy and oppressive, a leaden canopy suffocating the air with an unnatural stillness. The light barely penetrated the gloom, casting long, distorted shadows that seemed to shift and writhe, as though the orchard itself were alive and watching. 

Hanging like swollen wounds, their dark crimson skins mottled and bruised, glistening faintly in the little sunlight presented. Some had burst open, spilling their putrid seeds onto the blackened soil, a grotesque mockery of spilled blood. The ground was slick and sticky, as if the land itself bled in a silent protest. Bitter winds slice through the orchard, the howl a whispered warning, carrying the faint, acidic tang of decay. The rustling of the brittle leaves sounded almost human, like the dry whispers of unseen figures lurking just beyond sight. In the distance, a crow’s cry pierced the silence, sharp and grating, cutting through the thick atmosphere like a blade. The sound didn’t fade; instead, it seemed to linger, twisting unnaturally, echoing back and forth between the crooked trees.

Heavy footsteps crunched the brittle leaves below, their sharp sounds splintering the fragile silence like broken glass. His sandals, worn and cracked, struck the earth with a deliberate cadence, their weight unforgiving in their wait for departure. Each step left behind a faint imprint, quickly swallowed by the restless soil as if the orchard sought to erase his presence.

The ends of his robe dragged through the dirt, gathering its stain—dark, earthy smudges seeping into the white threads that might have once been pure. The fabric clung and twisted, weighted by the dampness of the soil, as though tethering him to the cursed ground.

Above, the crow’s cry came again, louder now, a guttural warning that seemed to reverberate through the trees. The sound merged with the eerie rustling of the leaves, their whispers sharpening into something intelligible yet incomprehensible, a chorus of voices too faint to follow but too distinct to ignore.

And yet...

His eyes lingered on a single leaf that had defied the rot and ruin surrounding it. Its green shimmered faintly in the muted light, an unnatural vibrancy that seemed out of place amidst the decay. It quivered slightly, though no wind stirred, as if beckoning him closer. Beneath it hung a fruit, untouched by the blight that marred its siblings, its skin smooth and taut, glowing a deep crimson that bordered on otherworldly.

How did this happen?

He was sure he had killed them all. Every last one. The orchard had been his domain, its life snuffed out by his own hand. The trees, once vibrant, now stood as withered husks, their fruit rotting where it fell, their roots choking in soil poisoned by his will. There was no room for life here—he had made sure of it. And yet...

That single leaf, green and defiant, mocked him. It was small, insignificant, but its existence burned in his chest like a splinter lodged too deep to remove. His fingers curled into a fist as he stepped back, the weight of realization settling over him. The leaf shouldn’t be there, and neither should the fruit it sheltered.

A smile almost rose to his face. Almost. But his lips hesitated, caught in the tension between amusement and unease. He could almost admire its resilience, the audacity of this life that refused to die, as though it had been waiting—challenging him.

A laugh bubbled in his chest, rising unbidden, loud and boisterous, yet devoid of humor. It spilled out of him, echoing through the lifeless orchard like a cruel specter. The sound was harsh, jagged, and wrong, as though the land itself recoiled at its presence.

“Defiant to the last,” he muttered, his voice low and sharp, as if addressing the fruit itself. The defiance only fueled his resolve.

Without hesitation, he reached out and tore the pomegranate from its branch, his grip crushing the delicate stem with a brutal finality. For a moment, he held it in his hand, the fruit’s weight heavier than it had any right to be, almost as though it resisted his grasp.

With a vicious twist of his hands, he split it open. The rind cracked like brittle bone, its blood-red juice spilling over his fingers, staining them with its vivid essence. The stark white flesh inside was veined with crimson, its beauty grotesque and unsettling. The seeds, glistening like rubies, tumbled free, falling to the earth like droplets of freshly spilled blood.

The air thickened as the orchard seemed to shudder, the ground beneath him trembling faintly. A sharp, metallic tang filled his nostrils, and the hum, once faint, now roared in his ears, a relentless rhythm that seemed to emanate from the fruit itself.

His laughter died in his throat as his smiled shifted, stifling itself into a chuckle. 

“The seed of vengeance is sown, and the promise is broken.”

The shadows around him deepened, crawling closer as if drawn to the fruit’s destruction. The ground beneath his feet cracked, a network of fissures spreading outward.

***

Your bed was unusually cold, but not so; winter had long since approached, and the snows were well into place, their heavy flakes falling in absurd elegance, a reunion with the earth that was both beautiful and terrifying in its silence. The chill settled into your bones, seeping beneath the blankets, but it was nothing new.

No, the cold wasn't what bothered you.

It was the dreams.

Each night they came, vivid and suffocating, like they were not dreams at all, but memories dredged up from some other place, some other life. They had started innocently enough—fleeting glimpses of darkened forests, whispers on the wind, strange figures lurking just beyond the light. But now, they were growing more real, more unsettling, the edges blurring with your waking moments.

You had stopped sleeping soundly weeks ago.

In your dreams, you walked through an orchard—a pomegranate orchard. The trees, gnarled and twisted, loomed overhead, their branches reaching down like the fingers of some forgotten god. The air was thick with the scent of decay, yet the fruit—pomegranates, gleaming blood red—hung from every tree, too heavy for the branches that bore them.

The dreams always ended the same way.

You would reach for the fruit, compelled by something you couldn't name, your fingers brushing its smooth surface, only for it to burst open in your hands, the seeds spilling out like blood from a wound. The voice would come then, whispering in a language you couldn't understand, its tone low, almost mocking.

Each time you awoke, you were left with a lingering taste of iron in your mouth, and the sensation that something had shifted, something had changed, though you couldn't say what. The coldness, yes, but also the weight of the dreams pressing down on you, growing heavier with each passing night.

You’d seen a priest. Three of them, in fact. And an oracle. None of them had anything useful to say.  

Sure, the priests had been polite, their hands steady as they muttered prayers over you, their voices low and soothing. They spoke of purification, of light and darkness, of the spirits that roamed the earth- the usual stuff. But their words felt empty- like they were reciting from a script they’d memorized just for this kind of thing. Their incense did nothing to clear the air, and the talismans they’d brought you did little. They were a token, nothing more.

The oracle, however, had been…strange. She’d stare at you with eyes that seemed to pierce through you, as if peeling back you skin, tissues, and muscles, down to the bones and deeper. She spoke in riddles you didn’t care to try an figure out for more than a day, words twisting in ways that made the hairs on the back of your neck and on your arms stand up. 

But you did remember one thing. 

How her gaze was almost pitiful, and the last line before she ultimately went silent.

“The pomegranate seeds have been spilled. They will find you.”

You tried to understand, you really did. The words clung to you, spinning in your mind, but they felt as if they were wrapped in shadows, half-formed and out of reach. Pomegranate seeds?  What did that have to do with anything? Aside from the dreams at least. And besides, no pomegranate would grow here; it was far too plush a land- too vibrant and thriving. Pomegranates only grew in hot, dry places. The soil was rich, the air thick with moisture, and the trees were lush and green. At least, it was that way in the summer and spring. Now it was late winter. 

Never mind that. 

Swinging your legs over the side of the bed, the cold wood pressed uncomfortably against your skin, sending a shiver up your spine. The chill wasn’t anything you weren’t used to- it always got like this in winter. 

You glance at the fireplace, untouched since the last time you managed to stoke a fire. You’d have to light it again- soon, when you had time. Eh, it could wait for now. 

The farm was waiting for you, and with it, your work. The chickens needed to be fed, the barn doors needed fixing, and the well was still frozen over.

With a heavy sigh, you rise to your feet, feeling the weight of your body against the cool air. You step carefully, avoiding the floorboards that creak underfoot, and cross the room to the window. Snowflakes continue their relentless descent outside, drifting in and out of view as the wind picks up, swirling around the empty landscape.

Grabbing your coat and gloves, you sluggishly tug them on, the motions stiff and uncoordinated from the lingering cold in your joints. You hold the sleeves of your nightgown tight against your wrists, trying to keep them in place as you slip your arms into the thick wool coat. It doesn’t quite work. The fabric bunches awkwardly beneath the layers, twisting and pressing against your skin, the discomfort a small, irksome distraction in an otherwise bleak morning.

Your fingers fumble with the buttons, the chill making them clumsy, and you tug your gloves on with the same sluggish effort. The leather is stiff and worn, the seams stretched from years of use, but it’s enough to keep the worst of the cold at bay.

You exhale sharply, your breath misting in the icy air of the room, and glance toward the door. The world beyond it waits, indifferent and unchanging. The tasks ahead loom large, heavy in your mind, but there’s no avoiding them.

With a final tug to straighten your coat, you steel yourself and step forward, boots scuffing against the wooden floor as you make your way to the door. The cold greets you like an old adversary the moment you open it, biting at your face and creeping past the gaps in your layers. But you push through. You always do.

Outside, the snow continues to fall, the landscape quiet and heavy beneath its weight.

***

The chickens squawked and flapped in a frenzy as you tossed the feed onto the frozen ground, scattering it with a hurried motion to keep the snow from clinging to your coat and gloves. Their frantic clucking rose in a chorus, a cacophony that only deepened your irritation.

"God—hey—no! That’s all you’re getting, you freeloaders," you snapped, shaking the nearly empty bag at them for emphasis. One particularly bold hen pecked at your boot, and you glared down at her.

Flipping them off with a gloved hand, you added, "I’m gonna turn you into a soup just for that. Matter of fact, who’s got eggs?"

Your voice echoed in the cold air as you scanned the coop with a narrowed gaze. Most of the chickens scattered at the sound, pecking furiously at the feed as though they hadn’t eaten in days, while a few stayed huddled together near the corner, unbothered by your threats.

Grumbling under your breath, you made your way to the nest boxes, brushing a layer of frost from the wooden edges. Carefully, you reached inside, your fingers brushing against something warm. A small victory, you thought, as you pulled out a freshly laid egg.

"One of you finally decided to be useful," you muttered, holding the egg up as if showing it to the flock. The hens clucked indifferently, entirely ungrateful for your ongoing tolerance.

You shook your head, pocketing the egg in the folds of your coat, and moved to check the other boxes. "Soup," you repeated under your breath, the word a half-hearted promise. "Mark my words. Soup."

"She laid an egg?" Josephine’s voice called out from the window, muffled slightly by the frost-covered panes. She peered out, her gray hair tucked under a knit cap, the lines on her face softened by the faint light streaming through.

You turned, clutching the egg carefully in your hand, and squinted back at her through the falling snow.

"Yeah, one of them decided to be useful for once," you said, holding the egg up for her to see. "The rest of them are freeloading."

Josephine chuckled, a dry, raspy sound that carried a warmth the cold couldn’t touch. "Don’t be too hard on them. It’s a miracle any of them are laying at all in this weather. Poor things probably feel like they’re in the Arctic."

"They’re fine," you replied, brushing snow off your sleeve. "I feed them, don’t I? Besides, they’re tough little things."

Josephine leaned further against the sill, her joints too stiff and fragile to be out in the biting cold. "Well, don’t break that egg before you bring it in. We might need it for supper."

"You think I don’t know how to handle an egg?" you shot back with a mock glare.

"Not with those gloves on," she teased, grinning despite herself.

You rolled your eyes and turned back to the coop, muttering under your breath. "I’ll bring it in safe. Not like we have a whole flock waiting to replace it or anything."

Josephine’s laughter followed you, soft and fleeting, as you went back to your work. It wasn’t much, but even her small remarks made the cold day feel just a little warmer.

Not even a second passes before you hear it: a faint, wet crack. Your heart sinks as you freeze, slowly looking down at your hand. 

"Gods..." you mutter under your breath.

Sure enough, the egg is broken, its yellow yolk oozing between your gloved fingers and dripping onto the snow below.

"Cursed chickens," you hiss, shaking your hand instinctively, though it only makes the mess worse. The yolk clings to the wool of your glove, smearing like a bad omen. You curse again, louder this time, kicking at a nearby patch of snow in frustration.

You wipe the yolk off your gloves quickly, making sure Josephine doesn’t catch sight of it—she'd never let you hear the end of it. You brush the remaining mess onto the snow, hoping it’s out of view before she can see the disaster.

"Grandmother?" you call, turning back toward the house. "I'm, uh—I'm gonna go to the market. The horses are good, right?"

Your voice comes out a bit more strained than you intended, but it's enough to keep her from asking too many questions. The market is a short walk, but it’ll take you most of the day. And truth be told, you don't relish the thought of another day with only the chickens and the endless chores for company.

Inside, you hear a faint groan from the other room before Josephine responds. "Yes, yes, they’re fine. Just make sure you get back before dark."

"Of course," you reply, trying to sound more confident than you feel.

You hesitate for a moment, then glance back at the coop. You can’t help but wish for just one more egg, a small consolation for the misfortune of the morning. But you know it’s pointless. You’re not going to get any more today, no matter how hard you try.

"Fuck," you mutter under your breath, glancing down at your now-eggless hands. "Guess I’ll just have to buy them."

You head back inside quickly, pulling your coat tighter around you, and grab your purse from the hook by the door. The cold is starting to seep through your layers again, and you can already feel the chill nipping at your fingers.

Still, despite the morning’s mess, a small part of you is eager for the trip. Eggs are a rarity these days, and you haven't had a decent meal in weeks. The market might be a small reprieve—at least for a little while.

***

The market was...gross. Gross, crowded, wet. Mud clung to every surface, pooling in the uneven cobblestones and splattering onto hems and boots alike. The air was thick with the scent of damp wool, unwashed bodies, and the acrid tang of smoke from hastily lit fires.

The man didn’t like it—not that he was a fan of humanity to begin with. They moved like insects, a swarm of noise and chaos, bartering and shouting, their voices clashing in a discordant symphony. He towered over them slightly, his presence noticeable but not quite commanding.

His clothing was woefully out of place for such weather. The himation draped over his figure was far too thin, the edges soaked and clinging to him as if mocking his indifference to the cold. Snow clung to his sandals, his feet chilled but steadfast against the biting frost.

The crowd parted instinctively as he walked, some murmuring complaints at his carelessness as his steps splashed muddy water onto their garments. He ignored them. He always did.

His eyes scanned the bustling market with vague disinterest, a predator among scavengers. Stalls lined the streets, overflowing with goods: baskets of wilted vegetables, carts of salted fish, bolts of cheap fabric in dull, washed-out colors.

And yet, as he moved through the throng, his attention drifted—not to the wares, but to something far more elusive. Something that lingered at the edges of his awareness, like a scent carried on the wind, or the faint echo of a memory just out of reach.

He stopped suddenly, his gaze narrowing on a stall piled with winter fruit. Among the pale oranges and frostbitten apples, a single crimson pomegranate sat, its skin glistening unnaturally in the dim light.

His lips curved into a faint, humorless smile.

"Well," he muttered to himself, his voice low and rough, "isn't that something?"

"Excuse me!"

The voice startled him—not the sound itself, but the sheer audacity of it directed his way.

You stumbled past him, nearly colliding, your basket of produce wobbling precariously in your hands. One of the eggs inside cracked, a faint, sticky wetness starting to seep through the cloth lining, though you hadn’t noticed.

His eyes followed you, narrowing slightly.

You didn’t look back. Your focus was entirely on the fruit stall ahead, where the winter fruits were piled high. He watched as you approached, your fingers brushing over frostbitten apples and oranges with practiced ease, checking for firmness, for ripeness.

Curious.

You paused at the pomegranate, the same crimson fruit that had caught his attention. For a moment, his breath stilled, waiting.

But you didn’t take it.

Your hand hovered, then moved on, picking up an apple instead.

The man’s gaze lingered, his curiosity piqued despite himself. You left the fruit untouched, walking away as though it meant nothing at all.

His fingers twitched at his side. Strange. Most would have taken it, drawn by its unnatural allure, even if they didn’t know why. But you? You walked past, oblivious.

His gaze sharpened as realization dawned. No, not oblivious—wary.

You had seen the fruit. He was certain of it now. The way your hand had hovered, hesitated, before choosing something else—it wasn’t chance, nor indifference. It was deliberate.

His fingers flexed at his side as he watched you, taking note of the subtle tension in your shoulders, the way your eyes darted briefly toward the pomegranate and then away, as though avoiding something dangerous.

You knew.

Not in the way others might. Not with clarity or understanding. But something within you had recognized it for what it was—or, perhaps, what it wasn’t. And instead of succumbing to its allure, you had chosen to move past it.

The man’s smile grew, faint but unmistakably sharp, curling at the edges like smoke. This was unexpected. Most people stumbled through life blind to such things, ignorant of the strange and the unnatural, even when it was placed right before them.

But you? You saw it. And you chose to walk away.

He tilted his head, considering you as you handed a coin to the vendor and turned to leave, your basket shifting with the weight of your purchases. Snow clung to the edges of your boots as you moved with purposeful steps, casting one final, fleeting glance back at the stall—and, inadvertently, at him.

That fleeting glance. Wary. Appraising.

His smile vanished, replaced by a flicker of something darker.

And so, he followed.

Silently at first, blending into the crowd, a shadow among the many. He kept his distance, his footsteps measured, not too fast, not too slow—just enough to remain unnoticed. His eyes never left you as you wove through the market, your pace quickening as you made your way toward the edge of the town.

He watched as you passed by stalls, the vendors' shouts fading into the background, the market’s noise muffled under the steady rhythm of his own heartbeat. Your unease was palpable, your steps purposeful, as though you knew you were being watched, yet you refused to acknowledge it directly.

He admired that about you. Most would have fidgeted, glanced over their shoulder, or given in to the primal fear that comes with being hunted. But not you. You walked with the sort of quiet determination that made him all the more curious.

Through the alleys and narrow paths, you moved with a sense of knowing, a sense of urgency that tugged at him.

There was something in your movements—something sharp, something instinctual—that made him feel as though you weren’t just trying to escape, but were leading him.

And so, he kept his distance. Close enough to see you, but far enough to remain just a presence in the background.

The market’s noise faded as the streets narrowed. He could feel the chill creeping in with the wind, but it wasn’t the cold that had his attention now. No, it was you—wary, sharp, unknowingly playing a game with him.

"Let’s see where you go," he whispered under his breath, the words barely audible.

As he passed the fruit vendor, the farmer at the stand smiled. “Sir, would you like a pomegranate? It’s the last of this season.”

He looked at the farmer, at how he leaned over the stall, holding the pomegranate out to him. It gleamed in his hands, its skin rich and flawless.

The last of the season, huh?

"No," he replied quietly, his voice cold and precise. "Not today."

"Granny? Granny, I'm home!"

***

Your boots crunched in the snow, the sound sharp and clear against the muffled backdrop of the winter day. The path beneath you shifted from the soft powder to the slush of the thawing ground, then to the thick, stubborn mud of the dirt road that hadn’t frozen over yet. It clung to your boots, stubborn and sticky, each step making the journey feel slower, more deliberate.

The words spilled from your mouth, half-relieved, half-frustrated, as you made your way toward the warmth of the house. Your voice cut through the cold air, but there was something strange in the way it echoed—almost too still, too empty, like it was bouncing off walls that shouldn’t be there.

You pushed the door open, the familiar creak of the hinges greeting you, but something felt off. The warmth from the hearth didn’t reach you, the air inside too still, too quiet.

The house seemed empty.

"Granny?" you called again, stepping further inside. Your eyes swept the room, landing on the empty chair by the fire where she should’ve been, knitting or reading or simply gazing into the flames. But there was nothing there—nothing but the faint, cold smell of the earth creeping in through the door, the faintest trace of something… wrong.

The kitchen was untouched, the table bare, and the silence was thick, almost oppressive.

Your heartbeat quickened as the feeling in the pit of your stomach began to rise. You knew the house was old, but it had always felt alive, warm with the presence of your grandmother. Now, it felt... hollow.

A strange shiver crawled down your spine, as though the house was holding its breath, waiting for something. Or someone.

"Welcome home."

The words sliced through the heavy silence like a knife. You whipped your head around, your heart skipping a beat as you saw him standing there, just inside the door. The man from the market.

His smile was too warm, too wide. His eyes gleamed with an amusement as he closed the door behind him with a soft click, shutting you in.

You took an instinctual step back, your hand tightening around the handle of the door you’d just entered through, but it was no use. It was already too late.

He was too close now.

"Your coat?" he asked, extending a hand, his smile lingering, unbothered by the tension that crackled in the air.

You froze, staring at the hand he offered, as if it were a venomous snake. Every nerve in your body screamed to refuse him, to turn and run—but there was no escape. The cold, oppressive feeling from earlier intensified, filling the room, the walls suddenly closing in.

"Get out." Your voice was firm, but your body felt rooted in place. You tried to gather your bearings, but the unsettling calmness of the moment was too suffocating.

His smile didn’t falter. He stepped closer, the warmth of his body too near, too intrusive.

"Not yet," he murmured softly, his eyes never leaving yours. His hand remained outstretched, waiting. "You and I have much to discuss."

“Where’s my grandmother?”

The door was behind you, but the air in front of you seemed to thicken.

Your breath catches at his words. "Where's my grandmother?" you demand again, a trembling edge creeping into your voice. Your fists clench involuntarily at your sides, desperate to hold onto something solid, something that might keep you anchored in this strange, unsettling moment.

He tilts his head slightly, a smirk curling at the corner of his lips. "You mean Josephine? She's fine, I promise you."

But the way he says it—the way his eyes gleam—makes your skin crawl. The lack of any real warmth, the forced calm in his voice, sends a shiver down your spine.

Before you can react, before you even have time to process his words, he’s already taken your coat from your shoulders, his fingers brushing against your skin as he pulls it from you. You freeze, the realization that you hadn’t even felt him move causing your heart to race.

"No..." you mutter, shaking your head. "No, where is she?"

Your voice rises, cracking with the tension building in your chest.

But his smile only widens, almost pitying. "Don't worry," he says, his voice low, smooth, as though trying to calm you with his false assurance. "She's not far. Not far at all."

You can’t tell if he’s mocking you or telling the truth, and that uncertainty claws at you, drowning out the rest of your thoughts. The room feels too small now, and every corner is crowded with his presence, his waiting.

"What do you want with me?" you finally force out, your voice barely a whisper.

His words hung in the air like a dark cloud. "Like I said. We have things to discuss."

He gestures toward a chair—your chair, or at least, it should have been. But it wasn’t. It was far too fine, far too pristine for the rest of the crumbling shack. The wood gleamed like freshly polished mahogany, the fabric soft and deep in color, too extravagant to belong in a place like this. It was as though he had placed his own stamp on your home, turning the room into something that didn’t feel right.

It wasn’t his chair.

But that was exactly how he acted. Like he belonged here. Like this was his space.

You hesitate. The room is too heavy, too thick with his presence. Every instinct screams for you to run, to bolt for the door, but your legs feel like lead, your body unwilling to move.

Your gaze flicks from the chair to him, and for a moment, you see something in his eyes—something dangerous. Something that wants you to sit. Wants you to comply.

The smile on his face is patient, too patient.

"Take a seat?" he repeats, his tone smooth but carrying an underlying edge.

Your pulse quickens, but you force yourself to breathe. You know he’s trying to manipulate you, to force you into submission, but you won’t give him that satisfaction.

"No," you reply, voice firmer than you feel. You take a step back, trying to create distance between you and the chair, between you and him.

The air in the room seems to darken with his response. His smile never wavers, but the coldness in his eyes sharpens, as if he were enjoying your defiance.

"You misunderstand," he murmurs, his voice low and almost amused. "This isn’t a choice, love. Take a seat. I insist."

The words are like an invisible force, pressing against you, pulling at your very core. You can feel something—gravity?—something heavier than air itself, pushing you down, urging you toward the chair. Your muscles scream in protest, your mind races, but your body moves against your will.

You clench your teeth, the sharpness of the motion grounding you against the force that threatens to break you. You sit, but it’s not voluntary, not a choice. The chair feels foreign beneath you, the fabric too soft, the arms too well-formed. It's his chair now, and you hate it.

As you settle, the man steps closer, the air thickening with each movement. His smile stretches wider, an unsettling satisfaction behind it. His eyes gleam with something predatory, though it’s hidden beneath that calm, almost bored exterior.

He doesn’t answer immediately, his gaze flicking over you, almost like he's savoring the moment. Then, slowly, he steps back, his expression thoughtful.

"What do you want with me?"

"Everything," he says, his tone deceptively gentle, as if speaking to a child. "I want everything you have."

His fingers are cold as they grip your chin, turning your face toward him with an unsettling gentleness. You can feel his gaze weighing down on you, as if he's studying you, dissecting every reaction, every twitch of your body. The question is a strange one, unsettling in its simplicity:

"You didn't take the pomegranate. Why?"

Your breath hitches, but you force yourself to remain still, your eyes meeting his despite the overwhelming desire to look away. The way he speaks, the way he presses into your space—it’s like he’s daring you to defy him, but the weight of his touch, of his presence, is too much.

You swallow hard, your throat dry. You didn’t take the pomegranate, yes, but the reason feels almost insignificant now. It’s not about the fruit anymore. It’s about him. The way he’s here, in your home, making demands, insisting on control.

The silence stretches, thick with tension, as his thumb runs lightly over your skin, a strange, almost affectionate gesture that makes your stomach churn.

His eyes never leave yours, waiting. Expecting.

You know the answer should be simple, that you should give him something that satisfies him, but you don’t want to play his game. You can’t play it.

The cold touch of his fingers presses harder, forcing your jaw to tighten in an involuntary response.

"Answer me," he says, his voice turning slightly darker. "Why didn't you take it?"

“I didn’t want it. Not enough coin.” A pitiful excuse. But, a half-truth. You bought eggs. 

The grip on your chin tightens, and your breath catches in your throat as his fingers dig into your skin, cold and unyielding. "Lies." His voice is a low growl, soft but cutting through the air like a knife.

You wince, your jaw aching under the pressure, but you refuse to look away. You fight the urge to squirm, to pull away, to lie your way out of this. The coldness in his eyes, though, leaves no room for hesitation, no space for escape.

"I didn’t want it," you repeat, forcing the words out despite the sting of his touch. "I have enough already."

But his face twists in disbelief, the smile fading entirely, replaced by a cold, calculating intensity. His thumb brushes across your skin again, but it no longer feels gentle—it feels as though he’s searching for something beneath the surface.

"You don't get to lie to me." His voice is quieter now, dangerous in its softness. "Why didn’t you take it?"

A heavy silence settles between you, thick with something you can’t name—an urgency, a power dynamic shifting with every breath. The weight of his presence is suffocating, pressing down on you, and the realization that he isn’t going to let you leave until you comply makes your heart race in your chest.

He knows you’re holding something back. He’s not asking because he wants an answer; he’s asking because he wants to break you.

His fingers, ice-cold and unrelenting, drift across your jawline, and you instinctively flinch at the touch, the intimacy of his proximity overwhelming. His other arm braces against the chair, closing the distance between you, and his breath brushes against your skin, the sound of his words a low whisper, too close.

"I'm familiar to you, hmm?" His voice is thick with something darker, almost possessive. "Caleb."

The name hits you like a punch to the gut. Caleb. You blink, trying to make sense of the words, but the sound of your name from his lips sends a jolt of recognition through you. You’ve heard it before—somewhere deep in the recesses of your mind, in a place you can’t quite place.

"What?" You force the word out, disbelief crashing over you like a tidal wave. You don't want to understand. You can't.

"My name." His voice is cold now, almost amused at your confusion. "My name is Caleb. And you broke our promise."

The world seems to tilt on its axis, your breath freezing in your chest. Promise? What promise?

A thousand memories flash—disjointed fragments of a time long past, faces that don’t quite fit, voices that are just out of reach.

But none of it makes sense.

The way he says it, the way his eyes darken, hints at something deeper, something long buried beneath the surface.

"Promise?" you repeat, your voice barely a whisper. You don’t know what he means. You can’t know what he means.

He leans closer, the heat of his breath on your neck sending another wave of discomfort through your body. "You promised me you wouldn’t forget."

Forget? What was he talking about? Your heart pounds in your chest, and suddenly the room feels smaller, the walls pressing in on you.

The only thing you’re sure of is that whatever this promise was, it’s something you never agreed to. Something you never even knew you had made.

Your breath catches in your throat, and before you can even process the shift in his movement, his lips are on yours, cold and forceful. The shock of it seizes your body—an electric jolt of surprise, of horror. The pressure of his kiss is suffocating, overwhelming, and you feel trapped under the weight of it.

You try to pull away, to break the contact, but his grip on you is unyielding, his hands keeping you firmly in place, as if locking you into the moment. Your heart races in your chest, pounding against the cage of your ribs. Every instinct in your body screams at you to fight, to push him away, but the force of his kiss disorients you, blurs your thoughts.

Everything in you fights against it. You don’t want this—you never wanted this.

The coldness of his lips, the sharpness of his fingers gripping your jaw, the way he dominates the space between you—it all feels wrong, like a violation of something you can’t quite define.

His tongue brushes against your lips, demanding entry, and the part of you that still has control tenses in resistance. Your breath quickens, heart thundering in your ears, as you turn your head, the strain of your muscles pulling against his hold.

But he’s relentless, insistent, as though this was always the endgame.

And it’s then, in the midst of the storm of confusion and anger, that it hits you: He’s not just Caleb. Not the Caleb you thought you knew.

This... this is a different man entirely.

The world around you blurs, your senses drowning in the sharp pressure of his lips, the roughness of his hold on you. One moment, you're sitting—frozen, fighting, overwhelmed—and the next, your back hits something soft and plush. The bed creaks beneath you, and you realize, too late, that you've been moved. You don't know when it happened, but now you're lying there, the softness of the bedding contrasting with the harshness of his body pressing against yours.

Your chest tightens as his kiss returns, insistent and suffocating. His presence feels like a weight, pressing down on you from all sides, a physical force that you can’t escape. His hands roam with a practiced familiarity, like he’s done this before, like he knows how to break you, how to keep you in this moment. Your heart pounds in your chest, and every instinct screams at you to push him away, to run, but your body betrays you, frozen in place, unable to muster the strength to move.

It’s like he’s taken control of everything—your thoughts, your body, the space around you—and you can feel yourself slipping into a fog, disoriented, trapped in this strange reality where nothing makes sense anymore. The soft sheets beneath you feel wrong, a dissonance with the terror swirling in your chest.

His lips move from yours, but it’s not relief. His breath is hot against your skin as he traces a path down your neck, his grip tightening, and you can’t shake the feeling that everything you thought you understood, everything you thought you knew about him—about you—is slipping away, piece by piece.

“Do you understand now?” he whispers against your skin, his voice low, almost mocking. “Do you remember?”

But you don’t. You can’t.

“If you can’t remember, why did you take them?”

Your eyes only held confusion. Frustrated, he asks again.

“The pomegranates were supposed to be dead,” he all but hisses, his hand moving to your throat, squeezing. “But you brought one back. How?”

The pressure on your throat tightens, sharp and relentless, and your body tenses as you gasp for breath. His words are barely audible, but the venom in his voice cuts through the fog in your mind, and suddenly, everything is clearer. The question—How?—echoes in your head, your pulse hammering against his fingers as if to answer him, but your throat betrays you, unable to form the words.

His eyes, dark and furious, bore into you, and the weight of his gaze feels like a brand on your soul. There’s an urgency in his touch, like he’s desperate for an answer that you don’t have. His grip on your throat tightens further, and you can barely think, only feeling the constriction in your airways, the frantic beat of your heart.

"Pomegranates..." you manage to whisper through clenched teeth, barely able to speak, your voice rasping in the thick tension of the moment.

He doesn’t release his hold, not even a little. The threat in his touch is clear, and something deep inside you knows he's not just angry—he’s frantic.

"How did you bring them back?!" His voice is a low growl now, filled with a chilling sense of desperation. "You had no right."

You choke on your breath, the weight of his question landing like a hammer. You know the pomegranates he’s talking about—how they weren’t supposed to be here, how they were dead. You never should’ve found one, never should’ve brought it back. But it’s not the how that you can’t answer.

It’s the why. Why is he so invested in them? And why are you suddenly the one in danger over them?

The world spins, but his hands on your throat ground you in place, trapping you in a moment where the answer is just out of reach.

“Did you think I wouldn’t notice? I walk through that hellish field every day. And every day, they are all dead. So what did you do?”

The cold grip around your throat tightens again, and your breath becomes shallow, each inhale a struggle. The urgency in his voice, the desperation, the fury—it's almost enough to send you into a panic. He’s so close now, his breath mixing with yours as he presses into you, demanding answers, demanding something from you that you don't even understand.

The mention of the hellish field sends a shiver through you. You know exactly where he means—the barren stretch of earth where the pomegranates are supposed to lie dormant, rotting, where no fruit should grow. It had been a place of silence, of dead leaves and dust. The pomegranates had always been gone, and you thought nothing of it when you found one that had somehow survived.

But now, he is asking about it, and something in his words tells you that this is more than just a passing curiosity. He’s not asking because he’s wondering how the fruit is growing. He’s asking because he knows. He knows it shouldn’t be possible, and somehow, you’ve made it so.

“I didn’t…” you gasp, your voice weak, struggling against the pressure of his hand. “I didn’t mean—”

“You didn’t mean?” he interrupts, his fingers digging into your skin, forcing you to look him in the eyes. “Do you think I care about your good intentions? Do you know what this means? What you’ve done?”

You try to focus, but his eyes are too intense, and you can feel the world around you closing in, everything blurring except the sharpness of his words, of his grip.

He knows. He knows, and that makes you realize you’ve stepped into something far beyond your understanding.

“You... you were the one... who killed them...” Your words come out haltingly, the pieces falling into place—his anger, his fury, the strange obsession with the pomegranates. “You—You’re the one who made them die.”

The realization hits you like a bolt of lightning. This isn’t about the fruit. This isn’t about something that grew in the wrong soil. This is about something much darker, something he’s tied to, something you can’t comprehend.

And yet, as the words leave your mouth, you wonder—how could you have known? How could you have guessed?

The pressure on your throat burns, every second stretching into an eternity as you feel yourself slowly suffocating under his gaze. His eyes, dark and furious, make you feel small, insignificant, like nothing more than a mere insect beneath his heel. His grip tightens further, the reality of his anger closing in like a vice around your neck.

Your thoughts are clouded, your body trembling, desperate for air, for release from this moment that feels like it might swallow you whole. The world around you blurs, and the edges of your vision darken, but you can't afford to lose consciousness—not now, not when everything feels like it's slipping through your fingers.

The field, the pomegranates, the months since you wandered through that cursed stretch of earth—they all seem like distant memories now, as irrelevant as the flutter of a bird's wings in the storm of your present. What did it matter? You never meant for any of this to happen.

Months? Yes, it had been months since you came across the field, since that moment of discovery. The fruit had been so alluring, so strange. But now, it doesn’t matter. It doesn't matter at all.

All that matters is this: the suffocating weight of his hand on your throat, the rage in his eyes, the sense of power he holds over you in this very moment. It’s not about the pomegranates anymore, or the field, or anything else you’ve done. It's about survival, about whether you can stay conscious long enough to find a way out.

"You have no idea what you’ve done," he hisses through clenched teeth, his voice low and venomous. His fingers dig into your skin, making it feel as though your very breath is being stolen from you. You can feel the blood rushing to your head, the pressure mounting, and for a moment, you wonder if this is how it all ends.

It’s hard to focus, hard to think. And then-

The realization hits you like a cold slap to the face. Your breath catches in your throat, the air refusing to fill your lungs, even as his grip loosens just a fraction, as if sensing your sudden understanding. The seeds. Those damned seeds. You had taken them, thinking nothing of it. Just a curious moment, a strange instinct to keep something from that cursed field. They hadn’t grown, though—at least, you’d thought they hadn’t.

But one of them had.

The cold weight of it settles in the pit of your stomach. You must have dropped one, somewhere between your hurried walk and the spill of your water satchel. Perhaps on the way home, or somewhere in the market. It could have fallen unnoticed, but it had taken root. And now… now, you know exactly what that means.

It wasn't just the fruit that was alive—it was the seed itself, brought back from the dead, blooming in a place it shouldn’t. In the wrong soil. Under the wrong conditions. And he must have sensed it, felt the change, the unnatural resurrection of something that was supposed to stay buried.

It wasn’t just a seed anymore. It was something else. Something that had no place in this world, and definitely no place in your hands.

Your pulse spikes, your breath still strained but clearer now. You can’t let him know you’ve figured it out. Not yet. Not until you can find a way to make this right—or at least survive the next few moments.

"I didn’t… I didn’t mean to," you rasp, the words stumbling out, barely audible. "I thought they were dead... I thought I was doing no harm."

His eyes narrow, a sharp flicker of something darker passing through them. He doesn’t speak at first, his fingers still lightly brushing your skin, but there's no mistaking the shift in the atmosphere. The air thickens, tension pulling tighter, and the room itself seems to darken in his presence.

"You didn’t mean to?" His voice is dangerously low, but there’s an edge of disbelief in it. "You thought they were dead?"

The mockery in his tone is almost worse than his rage, as if everything you’ve done—everything you thought was inconsequential—has led to this. The pomegranate, the seed, the field… this has been waiting for you. Waiting for someone to make the mistake of finding it, of bringing it back.

"I didn’t know," you whisper, your eyes darting to the edge of the room, anywhere but his burning gaze. "Please... I didn’t know."

For a moment, there’s silence—heavy, suffocating silence. And in that silence, you realize just how much danger you’re really in. This isn’t just about the seeds. It’s about what you’ve awakened. What you’ve released.

And he’s not done with you yet.

“That doesn’t matter. You owe me. You owe me everything. The pomegranates are a contract. How many seeds did you take?”

His grip on your throat has tightened again, though not as much as before. He’s holding you in place, forcing you to face him, to answer him, to acknowledge what you’ve done.

Your pulse quickens, fear seeping into your veins. He’s right. You owe him, but what he doesn’t know is that you hadn’t taken them for any grand purpose. You’d been foolish, reckless even, thinking that the seeds were just something to keep, something harmless. But now, his words cut through you like a blade—those seeds were never meant to be collected, never meant to be used. They weren’t just fruit, they were a binding, a covenant, a contract you hadn’t understood.

You swallow hard, trying to focus, trying to keep your voice steady. "I—I only took a few... just a handful," you whisper, your words hoarse as they tumble from your mouth. "I didn’t think they’d… grow. I didn’t think it meant anything."

Which hand? The right or the left? It’s such a simple thing, such a small detail, but you can feel the gravity of it. He’s making a game of it. Toying with you. You wonder if this is his way of breaking you down, piece by piece.

“A handful, huh? So I should decide how many then?”

“No!”

“So how many?” Caleb’s voice is almost playful in its mockery. “Actually. I’ve decided. Which hand did you take them with?”

Your breath catches in your throat, a lump of dread settling in your stomach. You can barely think, your mind reeling from the weight of his question, his control, his power over you.

A lie wouldn’t do you any good. He’d know. He always knows. The truth is the only way out, even if it feels like a betrayal of your very self.

You try to steady your breath, your hands trembling at your sides as you force yourself to speak, though your voice is barely a whisper. "The right," you manage, the words feeling like acid as they leave your mouth.

“So should I take it? Or break it?” His voice is laced with amusement, yet the question itself is far from playful. There’s a menace in his tone, a quiet assurance that whatever choice you make will only lead to more pain, more consequence.

Your right hand trembles at your side, feeling like a weight you can’t escape. It’s as though he’s already decided your fate, and the moment you answer, it will be sealed. The choice—take it or break it—feels like the very foundation of your existence teetering on the edge. One wrong move, and you’re shattered.

It’s not just your hand he’s talking about. It’s everything. The lies. The theft. The contract. And you have to make a choice.

"Well?" He presses, his smile widening slightly, his patience wearing thin.

His grip tightens around your mouth, pressing down hard enough to stifle your breath. The weight of his hand is suffocating, and your thoughts are scrambling to make sense of everything. His words from earlier echo in your mind: You can thrive with no hands.

Calebs gaze shifts.

“Nevermind that.” he takes your right hand, kissing it. “You can thrive even with no hands, I’m sure, so that would be pointless.”

You try to push through the panic rising in your chest, but it only gets worse when one thought cuts through everything—Josephine.

Your grandmother. Where is she? What has he done to her?

You open your mouth to ask, but his hand clamps over it with more force, cutting off your words, your breath. You struggle, your pulse thundering in your neck, the terror building with every passing second. You can’t think of anything else but Josephine, and the fear of what might have happened to her.

"Shhh," he says softly, almost patronizingly. His voice is too calm, too cold. "No need to speak right now. We'll get to that later."

“Caleb-”

“You took a few. It doesn’t matter. Your hands will know how many it was, even if you forgot. And your tongue will know how many you’ve eaten.”

"Six," he repeats, his voice cold as he watches your hands, as if counting them. The weight of the word presses down on your chest like a heavy stone, and your throat tightens. Six. The number echoes in your mind, a cruel reminder of what you've done, of the mistake that’s now spiraling out of control.

"Please-" his hold goes to your hands, and his eyes close. you struggle to break free, try to kick at him, but he's firm.

"Six."

Dread fills you.

"Six?"

"Six seeds. You ate six seeds."

You struggle against him, your breath quick and uneven as you fight to break free, but his grip is ironclad. His hands are everywhere—on your wrists, your throat, your arms—and no matter how hard you kick or twist, you can’t escape. He’s too strong.

"Please..." you gasp, the word slipping out in a broken whisper, but it’s more out of desperation than anything else. You can feel the weight of the seeds in your gut, the aftermath of your recklessness settling like a poison in your veins.

"Six," he repeats again, the word dragging out in a way that makes it sound almost like a verdict, as though he's already decided what will happen because of it. The dread in your chest deepens, and the air around you feels thick, heavy with an impending sense of doom.

His eyes close for a moment, like he’s savoring the knowledge of your mistake, the fact that you’ve already crossed a line you didn’t even understand until now. When he opens them again, they’re sharper, more piercing than before.

"You don’t understand the consequences," he says softly, almost too calmly. "But you will."

You try to steady your breath, to gather yourself, but everything inside of you is shaking, fear and confusion clouding your thoughts. What did it all mean? Six. Six seeds, and now you're trapped, tangled in a contract you barely remember signing, but which he is now holding you to.

"Six," he repeats one last time, his eyes scanning you like a predator eyeing its prey. The word is both a warning and a promise. 

His voice is a low, chilling whisper, a cold wind sweeping through your mind with every word.

"Six seeds in the winter. Six months. Every year."

The weight of his words sinks in slowly, painfully. Six months? Every year? A feeling of dread floods your body, a cold sweat breaking out across your skin as the meaning starts to claw its way to the surface. The pomegranates. The seeds.

The finality in his words cuts through the air, sending a cold shiver down your spine. His hand remains on your jaw, pressing down, his eyes never leaving yours. He leans in, his presence suffocating, his breath hot against your skin.

"You... you will be bound to me. Me. Every year."

The implication of his words settles over you like a weight too heavy to bear. Each year, you’ll have to answer to him, every winter, every cycle, every six months, until... until what? The uncertainty gnaws at you, but the truth is undeniable: you’ve made a pact. And now, you are bound, tethered to him in ways you don’t fully understand yet.

The reality of what he's saying—what it means—sinks in like ice, creeping through your veins. Your breath catches in your chest, and the urge to run, to escape, is overwhelming. But you know better now. You know you can’t escape him. You’ve already given too much away, unknowingly, thoughtlessly.

"You won’t be free," he continues, his voice a low, venomous promise. "Not for as long as you live. Every year, you will return to me. And you will serve your purpose." His thumb traces your lower lip, slow and deliberate, as if savoring the taste of your fear.

"Every year." The words ring in your ears, a constant reminder of the contract you’ve unknowingly entered.

You open your mouth to protest, to plead, but nothing comes out. What could you say? How could you explain that you never meant for this to happen, that you had no idea the consequences would be so... severe?

His eyes gleam with something darker now. Something almost... triumphant.

"You’ll learn the price of what you’ve done," Caleb murmurs, his grip tightening around your wrist, holding you firmly in place. "And when you do, you’ll understand why you belong to me."

His lips crash against yours, urgent and hungry, as if trying to consume you whole, each kiss more fervent than the last. But in that brief, fleeting moment, as his hands grip at your body, you see it. The truth in the shadows of his touch.

His fingers, stained with something dark. Black and red. It’s not just dirt. Not just the earth.

Juice.

The realization hits you in an instant—what you thought was just a product of the field, of his rough nature, was something far worse. Something tied to the very fruit that had been the cause of this entire twisted encounter. His hands, stained with the dark liquid of the pomegranates, blood and juice entwined together. You could smell it faintly—a sweet, acrid scent that clings to him like a curse. It coats his palms, dripping as he touches you, as if his hands were forever stained by the fruit’s sacrifice.

A chill runs through your spine as his touch lingers, his grip tightening. The pomegranates, the seeds—he’s been part of this too. His very essence is tied to them. He’s not just a man, not just some random stranger from the market. He’s part of the cycle, just like you. He’s no god, hes a curse! A snake! 

You try to jerk away from his touch, but the force of his hands holds you firmly in place. The stains on his skin are like a brand, marking him, marking you. It’s as though the blood of those fruits courses through him now, and through you.

The softness of the bed feels foreign against your body, like you’re sinking deeper into a pit you can't escape. Your nightgown clings to you, the fabric damp and uncomfortable against your skin. You can’t remember when your boots came off, but the cold from the snow on your clothes lingers, biting at your skin as if it’s refusing to let go. It’s a strange contrast—how you feel trapped in this bed of softness, yet every part of you is screaming for escape.

Caleb’s presence is overwhelming, suffocating. He follows you, his weight pressing down, his breath hot against your skin. His hands are still stained, dark and red, as though the pomegranates’ curse has been embedded in his very touch. Each time his skin brushes yours, it's like you can feel that stain transferring—marking you, binding you further to him.

You try to shift, to find any escape, but his hold is unyielding. Your heart races, your mind scrambling for any way out. But everything feels wrong—like this is the inevitable result of a choice you didn’t even consciously make. The blood on his hands is no longer just the pomegranate juice; it feels like it’s becoming your blood too, intertwining your fates.

"Stay still," Caleb's voice murmurs in your ear, his tone low, almost soothing in its malicious calm. "You’ve already done enough. Now, you just have to accept it."

The weight of his words settles heavily on you, the reality of it all pressing in, making it harder to breathe. You close your eyes, trying to block him out, but you can’t escape the feeling of being completely consumed. He is everywhere—his hands, his touch, his scent.

And you are trapped.

He opens his mouth to bite, and there, you see it- fangs. Horrible, horrible fangs, like a snake. And when he bites-

Your breath is erratic, each inhale sharp and frantic, as your chest heaves with the remnants of the nightmare. The warmth of your bed clings to you like an unwanted weight, your body still tense from the terrifying images that danced in your mind. You blink rapidly, trying to focus, the disorienting haze of sleep still clinging to your thoughts.

It wasn’t real. It couldn’t have been.

But as you scramble out of bed, panic surging through your veins, your legs barely hold you up. You stumble, almost falling as you rush through the dim hallway toward Josephine’s room. Your heart pounds in your ears, and your hands tremble, brushing against the walls to steady yourself. Every step feels like it takes forever.

You reach her door, your breath caught in your throat. You hesitate for just a moment, but the terror, the urgent need to see her safe, pushes you forward. You twist the handle and burst into the room.

"Granny?" you call out, your voice trembling. The room is dark, the shadows in the corners unnerving, but the familiar smell of Josephine’s comforting herbs fills the air. You can hear her slow, steady breathing from the bed, the soft rustling of blankets as she shifts in her sleep.

For a second, you just stand there, listening. Waiting.

Relief washes over you as you realize she’s still there, still alive. The nightmare, the horrible fangs, seem to retreat into the dark corners of your mind as the reality of the moment settles in. Your mind fights to differentiate dream from reality, the lines so blurred, you almost can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.

You collapse onto the edge of her bed, your hands trembling as you reach out to brush a lock of gray hair from her face.

She stirs slightly but doesn’t wake.

Your heart stops. The basket, innocently placed beside Josephine’s sleeping form, feels like a jolt of ice through your veins. Pomegranates. Red, ripe, gleaming under the dim light filtering through the cracks in the curtains. You blink, your vision swimming for a moment as you try to steady yourself, but there they are—those cursed fruits, as if mocking your worst fears.

The world seems to tilt as the realization sinks in. You hadn't brought them inside, had you? The dream... had it been a dream? Your eyes dart from the basket to Josephine, your breath catching in your throat. Her soft, even breathing remains unchanged, oblivious to the dangerous gift that sits at her side.

You step closer, as if by instinct, as your fingers tremble at the edges of the basket. Each pomegranate gleams like a secret, an omen you can’t understand, yet it feels all too real.

You stumble away from Josephine’s side, the unease gnawing at your gut. The sight of the basket, so innocently placed, is now burned into your mind. But the chill is not just in your bones; it’s in your very skin.

Racing to the mirror, you meet your own reflection. At first, the face staring back is foreign—disheveled, pale from the cold, with eyes wide in panic. But as your gaze drifts downward, you freeze.

There, just below your jawline, is a mark. The skin is raw, bruised, angry red. It’s a bite. Caleb’s bite.

Your hand reaches up, touching the tender spot. The scar doesn’t just throb with the usual tenderness of a bruise; it burns.

What had been a dream now feels like a slow, suffocating reality that’s slowly tightening its grip around you. You feel his presence lingering like a shadow just outside, and you know deep down that he's watching you, even from a distance.

Outside, the first rays of sunlight are breaking through the clouds, spilling over the snow. You watch as it melts, revealing the earth beneath, yet it feels wrong. Almost like the sun, so pure and innocent, is powerless in this moment. The air feels thick with something you can't name, the stillness broken only by the slow, steady drip of melting ice.

Everything feels wrong. And with each passing second, it becomes clearer: you are no longer in control. The pomegranates have bound you to something you can't undo. The bite on your neck, the basket by Josephine's side, the promise... it’s all real.

And you have no idea how to stop it.

©hellinistical 2024 do not copy, translate, distribute, plagiarize, or reproduce in any form without permission, and do not share to any media outside of tumblr.

[freshllamapeace]

Till the sun burns out

Remmick x reader

I posted the snippet earlier this week this is the finished product!

Warning - Dead dove do not eat, Gore, Noncon/smut, this is a rough read so you have been warned, probably not my best written smut if I'm honest

Stupid, pathetic, maybe even… desperate. The words described you well enough, wouldn’t you say? A lonely girl with nothing better to do than throw her life away. You do this because you think you're special, you think you're destined for greatness, You think one day you're gonna wake up and be the main character but you aren't. I mean how could you when you’re not even the main character of your own story. You aren't special, you aren’t destined for greatness. The only thing you're truly destined for is to die in this forest. Body broken and mangled while he loomed over you. 

It was clear you were going to die here. No way you get out of this, worst yet you could see the white walls of the house where you grew up in, the soft porch light admitting a warm welcoming glow. If you could have run a few more feet you'd be home safe. But you were just shy of that and he revelled in that. Walking circles around you like a wolf who had just cornered his prey. You hadn't even known what you'd done wrong. What made you deserving of this treatment but it didn’t matter, not anymore. 

Your leg was broken, the bone splintered in half, a jagged end poking out through the skin where your knee was meant to be. Blood leaking down the wound onto the forest floor. Your left arm was gone, ripped apart. The only evidence of it ever being there being the blood and tendons that leaked out of your bicep. The pain was unbearable, indescribable it ached everywhere. You could do nothing but cry and scream. Even your stomach suffered some blows, a large laceration planted diagonally through your chest, your internal organs threatening to spill out. The palm of your right hand was degloved, a sea of red covering the skin that was once there, tendons and muscle clearly on display for you to see. If you’d looked long enough you’d even be able to see the muscles moving, slow and concise. 

Grabbing you by your hair you were lifted from the ground and pressed into the cruel bark of a tree. A screech moved past your lips as broken body parts started to move and bend. “I told you, didn't I? That we’d make sweet sweet music together.” He pressed his mouth against your ear, hot breath assaulting your skin. “I ain’t say how but you were so eager… I ain’t wanna spoil the surprise for ya.” Using his body to keep you stationed against the tree Remmick started to fiddle with his belt. Taking his time to remove it, his eyes stayed stationed on you. Red like an amber sea and teeth glistening in the moonlight, it had been ages since Remmick had played with his food to this degree. Kissing your neck, Remmick allowed his pants to fall to his ankles, his cock in hand. 

“Please, you don't have to do this.” You cried, the cherry colored fluids dripping from your lips onto his chest. Remmick smiled, a smile he often did. It was mocking, cruel and yet the smile looked almost kind… almost. “I know little dove. ” Remmick wasted no time lining himself with your cunt. Pressing his body further onto you, you heard the sound of something stabbing into fresh. It was your bone piercing into his stomach. “Fuck.” He moaned. “You get me all hot and bothered looking like this.” Your gored body turning him on. He was disgusting, a freak of nature. Slamming himself inside you, Remmick gave you no time to prepare before setting the tempo, thrusting at a rough and savage pace. Remmick paid no attention to the bone that pierced his flesh with every thrust. Blood leaking down the wound he had created. Moving his hand down your body Remmick started to play with your clit. The rough circular motions pressed into your skin. You were in pain, your body was aching, the wounds burned and yet your body still reacted to the orgasm forced onto you by him. Your nails digging into his shoulder as you held onto him . You were trembling beneath him, breathing heavy, eyes half lidded. The blood loss was going to catch up with you, soon rather than later. “Fuck.” He groaned, his breathing uneven and his thrust getting impossibly quicker. “Don’t die yet darlin’ I'm almost there.” He whispered in your ear. “There ain’t no God above but if there was he made you just for me.” Soon his thrust started to stutter and slow, his nails began to dig into your skin creating new wounds on your broken body. A groan leaves his lips as he releases all his love and affection into you, the white liquid carrying a red tint to it. Not quite ready to pull himself out of you Remmick thrusted a couple more times making sure that you were filled with every last drop of his cum. 

“I'm going to break you over and over again.” Far too tired and dying from the blood loss the words didn’t register in your mind as anything other than gibberish. But what did register was the sharp pain you felt in your neck and the way he licked at the wound lapping up the blood. When he was done he allowed your body to crumple in on itself, you dropped to the floor. The world went black.

[moonlight-prose]

smoke and ash

a/n: this is based entirely on a post made by the amazing @cavillscurls and i was given permission to write it for her cause the idea actually made my brain go numb. plus just the thought of this man having an oral fixation paired with someone who also has an oral fixation?? beautiful. filthy. spectacular. it's quickly written cause i had the inspo at the time and really didn't want to lose it. so enjoy!

summary: cigar smoke trailed after him with every step, his mouth always desperate for something to wet, something to bite down on. and you with the match between your teeth indulged him every which way.

word count: 1.4k+

pairing: old man!logan howlett x f!reader

warnings: EXPLICIT SO MINORS DNI 18+ ONLY!!, oral fixation, spit kink, choking, dry humping, desperate!logan, overstimulation, cigars, they're fucking messy, dirty talk.

A dark stain of saliva coated the base of a match as you sat sprawled on his leather couch. Your teeth dug into it, creating an indent that would last until you decided it was time to strike the phosphorus and let it burn down. Sometimes they snapped. Other times you tossed them in the trash. Tonight you were intent on lighting it up—solely for the cigar currently stuffed in between his own lips.

He sucked at the end thoughtfully most nights. Glasses perched on the edge of his nose, a book he'd read a hundred times over propped in one hand—whiskey in his other. Half of it was already burnt through. Used within the span of a few days before stubbed out and saved.

“Interesting story?”

The soft hum was all he offered, his eyes flicking back and forth between the lines even though he could recite the words from memory. The pages were worn from use, spine cracked every which way, and you often considered buying him a new copy. If just to give the story a chance to breathe in his mind. Sink beneath the depths of memories that still floated along the surface—seeking to ruminate in the cracks of chaos.

“Logan.”

“Bub?”

“What does it taste like?”

At last he looked up, eyebrows lifted and fingers moving to drag the sticky wet cigar out of his mouth. “This?”

You nodded. “Good or bad or…”

“Better than those fuckin’ matches,” he scoffed, pointedly glaring at the splintered wood between your teeth—a nervous habit you had yet to kick. “C’mere and find out.”

Scrambling off the couch a bit too quickly, you found yourself perched in his lap, legs straddling his hips with a smile painted across your lips. He removed the match, flicking it into the discarded ashtray with contempt—happy to have your mouth empty and waiting. Only to place the soaked butt against your tongue, his tongue swiping across his bottom lip at the sight. You always imagined what the flavor resembled. Until it finally dawned on you.

This is how it tasted to kiss him. The bitter tang of the cigar muted by the flavor of the whiskey he drank and the mints he chewed in his spare time. You sucked on the remnants of his saliva, your mind lighting up at the feel of it. Of having something stuck between your lips, a thing you could fixate on.

“Taste’s like me don’t it?”

You nodded, shifting against his body as the first spark of heat began to slowly meld with the rest of your senses.

“Good girl,” he mumbled, the book forgotten to the side in favor of his hand sliding along your throat, thumb catching just beneath your chin. “Suck on it harder yeah? Want it to taste like ya when I smoke it again.”

A whine cracked in the back of your throat, your hips catching on the zipper of his jeans. “What about you?”

The mumbled words caused spit to drool down to your chin, his eyes tracking the slide of it with a heavy gaze. He wanted to lick it up. Swallow down what you offered. But the sight kept him transfixed—your tongue sliding along the end of the cigar as if it were his cock. Soaking it in your taste enough to drive him a bit closer to the edge, his other hand suddenly a harsh grip on your ass.

“I got what I need,” he replied with ease. “Yeah?”

You nodded, catching the glaze of desire in his dilated pupils. He wanted more than an empty mouth. The cigars appeased a side of him no one saw, a man who ached for something to bite down on, someone to taste even in the most mundane of ways. He was your guard dog looking to chew, to gnaw, even if spit flew out of his mouth with a feral edge of desperation. And with a grin, you stuffed three fingers into his mouth right down to the knuckle.

He took them with a moan, tongue laving over the length of them as his hips bucked up into yours. The hot cavern of his mouth and wet slide of his tongue drew out a sound you never knew you could make. A biting grunt that made spit fly everywhere, splattering against his cheek to mix with his own.

Ripping the cigar from your mouth, you hastily licked around his full mouth. “Suck harder for me baby.”

They met the back of his throat, choking him enough to force his head back. His eyes rolled, nostrils flared, and for a moment you felt the power dynamic shift. You were in charge. Telling him what to do to appease the ache of pleasure growing in the pit of your stomach. And it might have lasted. He very well could have given you complete submission if it weren’t for the lack of the cigar in your mouth.

A growl rumbled up from his chest, eyes flashing dark enough to send a thrill down your spine, and before you could fix your mistake he rectified it for you. Three fingers—to match your own—were pushed harshly against your tongue, hooking behind your teeth to drag your face closer to his. You didn’t need to hear him to know what he wanted.

The intent blazed in his hazel eyes well enough: suck.

Through the haze of wanton lust you felt his hand begin to guide your hips along his crotch. The bulge of his cock straining against denim, pushing the metal zipper up for your clit to catch on each time. Clad in his flannel and cotton panties, you found yourself plummeting towards the burning ache that built faster than you could comprehend.

You ripped your hand from his mouth, burying the spit soaked fingers into his hair to grip him close. But it never remained enough. He wanted to delve beneath your skin. Seek the warmth that seeped from your body where his fingers kneaded and pushed to drag you to a fro. His teeth latched onto your shoulder, the sweater pulled to the side while his fingers met the back of your throat, choking you with their size.

A cry slipped past his knuckles as you humped his clothed cock—dragging yourself inch by inch towards the release you could practically taste. It clung to the tip of your tongue—the saccharine flavor intertwined with the tobacco musk of his fingers. You swallowed around them, drool spilling down your throat and pooling at the top of your breasts.

“That’s it,” he gasped, a line of bites trailing right to the juncture of your neck, his spit smeared across your skin. “Gonna cum for me?”

You whined harshly, body going taut as your clit pulsed rapidly with the impending wave of bliss that tugged sharply on your spine. The pain of his teeth puncturing hard enough to draw blood dragged a knife through the thin strand  of resistance. And you came with his name at the back of your throat and white bursting behind tightly shut eyelids.

“Yes. Fuck–” His growl ran down the length of your spine, body trembling in his tight grasp. “That’s my girl.”

Unconsciously your nails punctured the skin at the back of his neck and with a jolt, he groaned long and ragged against your throat. A dark wet patch formed beneath his jeans as you soaked him with a spit filled cry. The pleasure wrung your body dry, pulling the final dregs of your energy straight from the source. Your chest heaved, mouth a gentle suckle at the very base of his fingers, and Logan could feel you begin to collapse forward into his chest.

“You really like when your mouth is filled,” he mused, lips curling into a smile.

Nodding, your voice was a content hum—his fingers dragging at the back of your teeth, tracing their shape. A kiss was pressed to your head, body slumping further into the chair with you atop him.

“Gonna get you some more matches in the mornin’,” he mumbled lazily. “My pretty girl needs a treat for being so good.”

Your heart fluttered, eyes glistening with the devotion you’d never dare to hide. The love that burned with the power of an eternal flame. Settling into his body, you felt his hand drag along the expanse of your thigh. Calming the storm in his mind—a catastrophe you longed to weather with him.

You were the balm to his weathered soul.

A permanent fixation of smoke and ash that surrounded his charred and splintered heart that burned for you.