#I guess both are rather implied

[chimchiri]

Happy Easter! Harrow and Pal both tied in the Patreon poll! Nothing too explicit with the both of them. Also, pretty sure Harrow would kill Gideon before she'd ever wear something like this, but that doesn't stop Gideon from thinking about it. Pal on the other hand would probably wear it without hesitation. -> Patreon for tips, support, or some NSFW

[deviousdiesel]

family outing masterpost so i can be happy forever and ever

[didsomeonesayventus]

hey engage fans you ever think about the firene v brodia and zofia v rigel parallels I sure do

[lightlyteal]

I thought atheism included a simple "lack of belief". Like, I call myself an atheist, but it's not a disbelief, it's a lack of belief. It's not an "could be, could not be" either, it's just... there is no belief. So I'm still open to being wrong even though I am an atheist.

There's something about atheism that I've repeatedly tried and failed to put into words on several posts on this blog but I think I finally got it.

Atheists are the only religious minority who, even (or sometimes even *especially*) in ostensibly progressive spaces are not allowed to ever act like they're sure of their beliefs.

[yanderenightmare]

♡ TW: implied nsfw, implied noncon/dubcon, poly yanderes, sprained ankle, captive reader, apocolypse au, talk of fertility and pregnancy

♡ FEM reader

♡ P1: The Bunker

Your ankle feels better after a little over a week.

The one initially against you staying has been giving you medical check-ups every day—something about wasteland toxins and underlying, possible contagious sicknesses he’d like to keep a weathered eye out for. 

You hadn’t refused. After all, such precautions were only warranted.

When you first encountered them in the wasteland, they were both wearing hazmat suits and gas masks. And though you had already been put through the standard disinfection and the basic check—eyes, teeth, and tongue—before they’d even let you in, you can’t blame them for taking extra measures—no matter how meticulous the check-ups have been since, comprising of endless spit, blood, and urine samples.

Somehow, you actually appreciated the thoroughness. It was just one more thing that reminded you of the past. The way he sat there, behind the desk like a doctor, and you opposite, like a patient, waiting for your results.

You’d gotten more or less used to it now, so it didn’t feel as awkward anymore. And, if you were to say so yourself, you think he’s even warmed up to you a little bit too.

“You’re all clear. No detectable toxins,” he states after a moment, mulling over the data, more or less the same outcome he’d come to for the last four or so days. He scribbled a few things into the file he’d been conducting, a focused furrow between his brows as he worked. You felt inclined to inquire about what exactly he’d been jotting down all these days of running tests but then decided against it—explaining things to you would probably only vex him. He was a man of as few words as possible, after all.

He sighs, then informs, “We can stop checking every day now.”

“Really?” you light up—feeling excited for some reason. Suppose you took it as a sign of improvement even without knowing entirely what any of it actually meant. In any case, lesser checks must be good, right?

“Yeah. You’re way healthier, thanks to all our produce and not consuming any of that wasteland trash.” He pulled a grimace before his face settled back into that constant look of dour solemnity. “Blood pressure, heart rate, vitals—everything looks good.”

It almost seems like such a silly thing to even bother caring about. Only a few weeks ago, you hadn’t cared for any such thing as health as long as it meant you weren’t starving or freezing—and here you are, celebrating such a privileged thing as blood pressure.

You sniffle, can’t help yourself, balled fists quivering in your lap as a few tears start to drop, “Thank you—truly. I’d have died if it weren’t for the two of you.”

He must think you’re ridiculous, too, crying over something so small. You wipe your eyes, only to notice him holding out a tissue for you. You can only laugh at yourself while accepting it.

“You’ll help me in the greenhouse today since your ankle is all better,” he states while getting up.

You spring to your feet, too. This would be the first time you’d been asked to help out. “What about—”

“He’s busy doing inventory,” he answers before you get the question out. “We’ll have to change a few things since you’re staying.”

This stills you, breath caught in your throat. You look at him wide-eyed, scared you’d heard him wrong. Voice weak as if scared to ask, “I’m staying?”

“Tch—” It’s his turn to chuckle, though he does so much differently from you—mockingly, a way he often does at both your and the other's expense. Though, you’d taken to find it rather endearing. He gives you a look—it’s very almost soft. “You didn’t think we’d waste our resources on something we planned on chucking back out again, did you?”

A tug pulls your wobbly lips back into a smile. “I guess that would be silly...” you sniffle again. “Still, thank you.”

This time, as you say it, you rush to hug him—tightly, with both your arms wrapped around his tough midsection and your head tucked against his broad chest.

It’s him who falls still now—stunted by the action and left both speechless and frozen in place. His arms hover mid-air, unsure of where to rest, before slowly lowering to settle atop your narrow shoulders—so much smaller in comparison. It’s crazy to think you’d endured out in the wasteland for so long.

He’s sure you’ve done things in order to stay alive you’re not at all proud of. Still, your survival is no less than a miracle.

He clears his throat. “Let’s hurry up,” He dismisses, then proceeds to nudge you off as if the hug was unwanted, but even you can spot the blush dusting his cheeks as he looks away with another grumble, “We’re making dinner before he’s done.”

The smile on your face is a sight for sore eyes, he thinks. You didn’t smile like that a week ago.

“Yes, sir.” You salute, following him in stride.

You’d said it innocently enough, but by God, if only you knew how it takes everything in him not to bend you over the medical desk right then and tell you all about how you’re in the perfect window for conceiving. 

He manages to steal himself. 

After dinner, he promised himself soothingly, calming the hunger in his gut—after dinner, they’d decided, tonight would be the night they’d finally make use of you the real way they’d intended—have you earn your keep.

When you’re done tilling the gardens, about a couple hours later, the two of you move on to the kitchen. You’d learn that the brash one was in charge of making most meals, as the other one was more than hopeless in the kitchen. It seemed you were replacing him as the helper, given simple tasks such as cutting, measuring, and fetching things.

It felt nice to be doing something again, especially something so trivial. Housework and domestic chores were something one could only reminisce about, and yet here you were, doing just that—cutting carrots as if the outside world wasn’t a badland of people killing each other for a can of expired dog food.

You really were so lucky you could hardly believe it. The tears start bubbling again.

“If you’re finished cutting, go to the cupboard over there,” he jolts you out of your thoughts. Not looking away from stirring the pot, he points with his other hand toward the far side of the kitchen.

You pad over and open it to find two dozen or more bottles of wine, all neatly shelved.

“Pick one out,” he calls out.

You blink, looking between the wine and him. “You mean—”

“Anyone of ‘em is fine,” he says. “Feel free to read if you’re looking for something special, though. It’s you were celebrating, after all.”

This time, you can’t stop the tears as they trickle down your face one after the other, soaking your cheeks.

Hearing you sniffle makes him sigh with rust. Scolding you with military toughness, “Quit cryin’ already—it’s getting old.”

You wipe your eyes and stiffen your lip. “Yes, sir.”

Turning your head back to the shelf, you can hardly believe the sight. It had been all moonshine and slop out in the wasteland. Dangerous stuff you were better staying well away from.

You can’t believe you’re going to drink actual wine again—your mouth waters just at the thought as you pick the first bottle you set your eyes on. But then you stop yourself—a guilty knot in your stomach twisting.

“Is it really okay?” you ask. “Shouldn’t we save it?”

“Tch—” he scoffs disapprovingly again. “You gotta stop doin’ that.”

You’re left looking at him even though he keeps his back turned, still busy stirring the pot. He lifts a spoon for tasting, then adds more spice to his liking before continuing as though he could tell you were confused just from the silence.

“You’re not in the wasteland anymore—” he states. “You can afford to live a little now.”

A concept like that had yet to have reached you. 

Suppose you were still settling in. 

“Besides, there are more in the cellar,” he reveals. “Even if we drank a bottle every day, it would take years for us to finish. So don’t worry your pretty head ‘bout it, a’ight?”

Your grip around the bottle tightens—trying to toughen up to keep the tears at bay. But today was an emotional day, and it seemed there was no end to the blessings you were given. It was all so overwhelming, your heart swelled with happiness—a feeling you hadn’t felt in such an awfully long time.

“Something smells good!” comes a call.

It seems he’s returned from doing inventory.

“Oh no, why are you crying?” He instantly rushes over to you, holding your face to inspect the damage, then snaps his head to the other, who’s still busying himself with perfecting dinner. “Are you being too harsh on her?” he accuses. “You know, not everyone can live up to your cooking expectations—”

“Tch—I haven’t done shit,” he denies. “She’s just emotional ‘cause I told her we’re lettin’ her stay.”

“What!? You told her without me?” he cries then. “We were supposed to surprise her together.” His pout is instantly replaced with a blank look of surprise as you wrap your arms around him like you’d done with the other earlier—hugging him tightly.

“Thank you,” you repeat to him as well.

You still couldn’t believe how nice they had been to you. 

After dinner is eaten, the three of you end up sitting there, chatting—about the past, most of all, how things used to be—how people would live in little houses with next-door neighbors they’d invite over for game night—little families with kids and backyards and pet dogs—college, marriage, careers.

You helped the stoic one clear the dishes while the chipper of the two opened another bottle of wine. You can hardly believe it when they bring out the record player and slide a vinyl on.

You end up crying again as the music plays. You even dance. Laughter fills the bunker while you get completely swept away with the feeling of utter bliss. And as the wine finishes and the conversation turns sloppy, the hands twirling your body to the music get a little touchier, a little greedier, until you’re suddenly kissed.

Between the two of them, the air becomes hot—steamy as you share breathes. 

Busy hands, large and strong and callused from labor, work on your button-up shirt. It’s gone before you know it, then the hands move on to your pants.

Honestly, after all the emotions joined by the wine and dance and being spun between the two, you can’t say you’re completely without lust, but at the same time, you’re just a bit confused. 

Despite not having seen them kiss in front of you, you’re certain they both go to bed in the same room every night—so all this time, you’d been under the impression that they were involved with each other and not interested in you that way. 

Not that it matters much what you thought, you think, you’re not against what’s happening so much as you’re a little hesitant about how it’s about to happen. It’s been a while since you’ve slept with anyone—willingly, that is—you’ve sort of forgotten how to enjoy it. 

If it were just one, you’d maybe find it a bit less overwhelming, but given there were two, you quickly found yourself feeling somewhat claustrophobic.

“Wait—” you stutter. Blocking the advance with your own hands, looking up into drunken and heated eyes and the soft look of arousal painted on the face before you. 

“Don’t worry,” he comforts with that kind smile. “You’re the most valuable thing we have—we’re gonna be gentle.”

You almost bite, almost give in, almost let it soothe you. But even in the drunk haze, the choice of phrasing finds you a little odd. And you’re unable to disregard that feeling that’s been nagging at the very back of your head ever since you stepped foot in the place. 

Something’s not right.

“Valuable?” Sure, you could choose to understand it as them saying they care for you, but somehow, it just doesn’t feel as if that’s all. “What does that mean?”

“You know…” he utters softly—his kind smile curling into something different. His eyes fall downward as he licks his lips before finishing, “This.” 

He’s laid a hand atop your belly where his gaze is set—his palm flat and firm as he rubs tentative circles into the softness.

It takes you a moment before you shudder. “You…” 

You needed to be rational about this. Some part of you always knew there was something going on, didn’t it? Why else would you be here? Why else would they let you stay? The cameras in the bedroom, in the showers, all those medical checkups—you’ve known there was something. And still, you hadn’t left. You hadn’t even so much as humored the thought even once.

There is no life for you out there. You don’t just want to stay—you have to—you need to.

And is it really so bad? Hadn't they been nice? Haven’t they been more than generous? Don’t you owe them so much more than what they’re asking in return?

But what are they asking? It’s not just intimacy. It’s something else—something premeditated.

“You want to use me to…” The realization makes you shudder. “To make you a child…”

Like an incubator.

They don’t deny it.

You want to back up—create space—room to breathe, but the other is just behind you with his big chest pressed stiffly against your back, keeping you close, trapped before the one in front.

“It’s true…” he confesses at your ear. “That is all we wanted from you in the beginning.” 

It sends a chill down your spine.

“It was almost too good to be true when we found you,” he continued while playing with your waist in big hands. “How a perfect candidate fell right into our lap mere days after we decided to go lookin’ for one.”

You suck in a hitched breath as the well of tears breaches, dribbling down your cheeks at the clinical word—candidate.

“But you’re more than that now,” the other reassures, bowing and fishing for your eyes as you’d taken to look down—too horrified to look him back in his. 

“We figured you’d be a savage, havin’ lived out there for so long,” the one behind says. He’d been the most skeptical at first, but he’d come to learn it was rather the opposite—your time out there hadn’t toughened your skin or hardened your heart but only made you timid and soft.

“In all honesty, we weren’t sure we were gonna keep you after the pregnancy…” the one in front whispers upon your lips. “But that’s all in the past now.”

He lifts your chin, taking in the all-too-soft look of despair on your face. It’s a strange thing to say he’d missed. It nearly makes him feel guilty for the hard-on in his cargo pants. But then again, tears are the allure of the gentler sex. It’s only natural for a man to enjoy the sight.

“We want you to stay.” He strokes your cheek, catching the tears on his thumb. “After all, it would be best for the baby to have a female presence—especially one as soft as yours.”

“And, well…” You flinch at the stubble being dragged upon your shoulder and neck, a kiss placed in the nook there along with his words, “We’ve grown to like having you around.”

His hands had fallen from your waist down to rub your hips, swaying you back against his crotch—and the bulge there, that now felt a little more like a gun being poked against your back. 

“It’s been a long while since we’ve had the company of a woman,” he continues while pressing himself against you. “It was unfamiliar at first, but… it’s nice.”

Something urgent takes over your body then—even though it’s beyond stupid. There’s no plan, no further thought than run—despite having no solid clue as to where. And yet, it ends up not mattering in the slightest. You don’t make it far.

You scream as their hands snag you. The grumpier one locks your arms, the chipper one grabs your legs—and they both lift and carry you back—laying you down on the little round table you’d had dinner on.

You struggle, but your wrists are pinned down to the metal with a strength you can’t hope to match.

“Don’t be like that.” He clicks his tongue dismissively like he so often does when you say or do something stupid. “There’s nowhere to go.”

“No—” you cry. “Please—don’t.” Shaking your head while squeezing your thighs shut. 

Never mind having sex, you could endure that much—but having a baby in this mess? They’re the ones who lost their minds down here. 

“I can’t—”

“Of course, you can,” the other insists, prying your thighs apart to make space for himself between them, already with his hands returning to undo the button of your pants, zipping down the fly and tugging them off.

“No—”

He’s back to console you just as quickly, “Shh-sh, don’t cry,” he soothes, cupping your face in both palms. He gives you that kind smile again, but it no longer serves as any source of comfort—now just a mouth full of teeth. “We’ll be gentle.”

♡ BNHA – KiriBaku, BakuDeku, ShinKami, DabiHawks, EndHawks, ErasurMic ♡ JJK – SatoSugu, ItaFushi, SukuIta ♡ HQ – Miya twins, KageHina, BokuAka ♡ CSM – AkiDen, YoshiDen ♡ BLLK – NagiReo

♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist

[trashytracktales]

Poking the bear | OB⁸⁷

🧸 summary ──── They say poking the bear never ends well, but after Ollie’s incident at the Brazilian Grand Prix, both him and his girlfriend find out that silence hurts more than anger.

🧸 pairing ──── Oliver Bearman x she/her reader

🧸 rating ──── mature

🧸 warnings ──── 16+, angst, emotional distress, description of racing incidents, passive-aggressive arguments, guilt and vulnerability, implied sexual content.

🧸 word count ──── 3k

🧸 date ──── May 28, 2025

🧸 a/n ──── Had this idea tap dancing in my head since Brazil 2024. It came back in my dream last night. I cleared my schedule so I can write a quickie. Enjoy 💋

📍 São Paulo Grand Prix, 2024

“OFF THE ROAD into the tarmac runoff for Oliver Bearman!” the commentator’s voice cuts sharp through the rain static on the broadcast.

It’s Sunday at Interlagos, and the weather tests everybody’s nerves. The skies are heavy and grey, brooding with thunderclouds that haven’t stopped spilling for hours. The asphalt has a darker shade, smoother, but far from forgiving; it offers little grip and even less predictability. Where there should be confidence in traction, there’s second-guessing and white-knuckled steering.

On-screen, the Haas is already facing the wrong direction, half-stranded in the runoff at Turn 10, its tires carving muddy streaks through the damp tarmac. With worn inters and a gust of crosswind hitting off the Senna S complex, it just snapped under braking, enough to slide, to lock up, to go straight off and miss the corner entirely.

Because that’s what rain does: punishes the smallest errors. And the lack of experience becomes a curse rather than an excuse.

Inside the cockpit, Oliver’s first reaction is confusion, his brain trying to make sense of what just happened. All it took was a fraction of a second, and the car pirouetted like it had a mind of its own. His heart jumps into his throat in an instant and, luckily, the young driver manages to keep it out of the wall, just barely. As the adrenaline fades, disappointment crashes in like a wave, forcing him to grip the steering wheel, only to give him the impression that he’s still got something to hold on to.

In the garage, the helplessness of his error settles into her chest. “No,” she breathes sharply, hand flying to her mouth instinctively.

The camera shifts from the replay of the spin to her. She’s standing by the monitors, arms crossed so tightly around herself now that it looks like she’s holding herself together by force. Her eyes are wide, and she is visibly horrified. She doesn’t blink as she stares at the screen, like if she looks away, something worse than that might happen.

Next to her, Oliver’s father reaches out gently, placing a comforting arm around her shoulder. His voice is calm, as he tells her something that the cameras aren’t able to pick up, but she nods stiffly, agreeing with the man, even though her body doesn’t seem to relax one bit. She’s not the kind to show her panic so publicly, never was. However, everything happened too fast for her mind to process, and now her nails are digging little crescents moons into her arms, and the camera captures it all.

She’s aware that the world is watching — she feels like throwing up the second she sees herself on the monitor — but at this point it doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters is her Ollie.

As if summoned, his radio is displayed next in the right-hand corner of the screen.

“I’m such an idiot, man,” his voice comes through strained, full of self-loathing. For a little while, there is no response from Slade. Just the deafening static, his heavy breathing, and the weight of his disappointment that hangs between the words.

That’s what breaks her the most, not the spin. Not the fact that he lost so much ground or that he deprived the team of a potential finish in the points. Hearing him so defeated and unforgiving of himself, like he’s not allowed a single mistake in the same conditions where even the most experienced drivers are put to the test, it’s impossible for her to make peace with.

What’s worse is that she knows there are hours that separate her from him after the race is over, and she won’t be able to beat some sense into his pretty head that will for sure overthink every single second of his mistakes.

Two and a half, to be exact, when she finally sees him from the Haas hospitality. His shoulders are hunched, head slightly down, and though there are cameras following him, there’s nothing urgent in his steps, just exhaustion.

He knows he’s about to lose them when he enters the building anyway, but right before he can do so, Ollie hears his name. His team principal intercepts him just a few paces from the door, and the cameras shift and pivot like vultures drawn to movement; a few journalists still hang around, hoping for scraps of reaction.

The girl catches everything, her heart reducing to atoms when she sees her boyfriend suddenly so tense. She wants to run to him, to put herself between him and the noise, like Belle stepping in front of the Beast when the village came with pitchforks. She wants to shield him and tell them all to fuck off. But she can’t. Not without tarnishing his reputation, anyway.

“We talked about just keeping it on the track,” Ayao reminds him, and even though the man’s tone isn’t quite accusing, there is a hint of scolding behind his voice. “That’s what you had to do today.”

Oliver doesn’t speak, just nods once. Tight. Only to show his boss that he understands, he gets the message, but has nothing else to add. Not now, at least. Unfortunately, like it or not, his body language talks for him: it tells them he wants out of the conversation, away from the cameras, away from the moment he keeps replaying in his head.

At this point, he is just embarrassed. He doesn’t smile, and doesn’t give a quote. Just turns, opens the door, and finally disappears into the hospitality unit.

She’s catching sight of him right before he disappears down the corridor toward the driver’s room. His steps falter slightly when he hears her behind, and he glances back over his shoulder, waiting with his palm around the door knob.

When their eyes meet, he’s still silent. It’s as if he has lost the right to words, as if they can’t describe what he’s going through now anyway, so he chooses not to give them any power.

“I’m okay,” he says at last, his voice sounding mechanical, like he’s just repeating the same lie he told everyone until he got to her.

It makes her stomach twist.

She exhales a shaky breath, steps closer to reach up and touch the side of his face, ignoring the dampness in his curls. Or the fact that he just flinched at her gesture.

“Ol…”

He doesn’t look at her when he adds, “I just need a minute, okay?”

She nods, even though he’s not looking. “Right,” she says, her heart breaking a little at the way he’s pushing her away. “But is that all? Just a minute?”

For a moment, he looks like he wants to turn around and just let her fix whatever it is that needs to be fixed. It’s not as if she didn’t do that before. For him. But this time is different; everybody saw. He can’t physically move. Just stands there, hand still on the doorknob, his back still facing her.

“Can you just wait in the car?” asks Oliver as he opens the door, then disappears inside without waiting for her answer.

SHE FIGURES THE room is way too quiet the second she steps out of the hotel bathroom, towel wrapped around her body. The lights are turned off, and there’s just a tiny lamp on the bedside table that casts some of its poor rays across the walls.

Oliver sits up in bed, back against the headboard, eyes tracking her silently; he watches her as she moves around the room in silence, going through her routine like muscle memory. Moisturizer. Hairbrush. Towel switched for one of his old Ferrari Driver Academy shirts, its worn fabric hanging loose on her frame with the sleeves too long and the faded logo barely visible now. She always wears it when she’s trying to feel close to him, because that’s the first shirt he gave her back when they started dating.

And he knows that.

Even though they’re about to share a bed, they are currently miles apart.

He wants to tell her that he is still present, because he notices how, in her routine, she’s not leaving space for him anymore. But she keeps going, unbothered, plugging in the blowdryer and flicking the switch on. The low hum fills the room the next second, and it makes Oliver close his eyes at the noise, like it breaks whatever opportunity to speak he’s had left.

Her reflection in the mirror doesn’t look at him. Not even a glance. And it hits him once again, the same sick twist in his gut from earlier, when he just sent her away. He didn’t mean to, but he needed to be alone for his own sanity.

Looking back, Oliver realizes how wrong and heartless he was towards her, the only person in the entire paddock who didn’t deserve that treatment from him. He hates himself for it, and that’s one of the reasons why he desperately wants to at least try to get inside her head. To snuggle there and apologize until they fall asleep and forget that today existed in the first place.

But it would be too easy that way.

When the blowdryer clicks off, the room falls into silence again. Until he finds the strength to finally speak.

“Can you stop ignoring me, please?” asks Ollie, his voice breaking through, rougher than he intends. “I’m sorry.”

She’s still in her own world, avoiding to look at him. Just hangs the dryer on the hook and smooths her shirt down over her legs.

“For what?” she asks with a calm in her voice that sends shivers down his spine. “You didn’t do anything.”

Ollie narrows his eyes. “Come on, now. Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Pretend.”

“I’m not pretending,” she shrugs, walking to her side of the bed and pulling back the covers to slip under them. “I just want to sleep, Oliver. We have a ten-hour flight tomorrow.”

His full name sounds unfamiliar in her mouth. It makes his face twist in disgust, physically cringe, because it’s so wrong coming from her. Too distant.

“So that’s it?”

She shrugs again. “I’m just tired. That okay with you?”

He lets out an unamused chuckle. “No, actually, it’s not,” he snaps, sitting up straighter. “I am just trying to apologize so we can move past this.”

She turns her head toward him then, finally meeting his eyes. There’s no heat in hers, just quiet exhaustion. “Well, I waited in that car like a neglected dog for forty minutes, Ollie. After waiting for you to come back from the media pen. And after sitting through two hours of a race that never seemed to end. Respectfully, you can take your apology and shove it deep down your—”

“Baby, I’m sorry,” Oliver cuts her off. “I’m so bad at this, I know. But I’m sorry,” he insists. He runs a hand through his curls, eyes closing for a moment, enough to try to put his thoughts in order. When he opens them again, she’s already turned onto her side, facing away. “I just… I didn’t want to dump it on you, alright?”

Her brow furrows, and wants to ask him what he means by that. But then she feels the bed shifting slightly, and his arm slides around her waist, hesitant, like he’s unsure if he’s still allowed to touch her. Then firmer, Ollie pulls her back into him until there’s no space left. His body curls around hers, big and warm and familiar, as his face finds the curve of her neck, his nose pressing into her hair like he needs to just breathe her in, in order for everything to be right again.

He tangles their legs together beneath the sheets, his hold tight, too afraid she’ll slip through his fingers if he’d give her the chance.

“Don’t ignore me, darling,” whispers Ollie. “Please.”

Her heart starts racing at the sound of his mellow voice. She loves it and hates it at the same time, that a single word has the power to melt her so quickly.

His hand slips beneath the hem of the shirt, until his fingers find the warmth of her bare skin. They brush gently over her stomach, covering it completely, a soothing touch in the midst of desperation. It sends a jolt straight through her chest, and her heart stutters against her ribs once again, every nerve suddenly wide awake, hyperaware of the way his fingertips trace lazy, featherlight patterns like he’s playing the piano.

“I saw your face on the replay,” he finally explains with a defeated exhale. “You looked like the ground had just been ripped out from under you, and I am…” he pauses, swallows hard, then continues, “I’m supposed to protect you from that. From feeling like that.”

As if an arrow passes through her heart, she closes her eyes and just waits for it to go through to the other side, hoping that it will do as little damage as possible.

“I’m the one in the car,” says Ollie. “I signed up for this. I don’t care about the risks, because I chose them. But you didn’t. You chose me. And seeing you like that, like you’d just watched something awful happen and couldn’t do anything… Yeah, I don’t know how to handle that yet.”

She stiffens slightly in his arms, her fingers tightening around the edge of the blanket.

Oliver presses a kiss into the back of her shoulder. “I’ve been trying so hard to keep things normal between us. Same as before it got official, you know? Same stupid routines. But this is already changing things. Doesn’t it?” he asks, leaning in again to brush his lips over the curve of her shoulder.

She’s about to reply when she feels the tender heat of his tongue as he presses another kiss, on her neck this time. Her eyes sting, tears welling despite herself, and she turns in his arms, unable to keep her indifference intact. Her hands wrap around his torso, clutching him tightly, burying her face in his chest like she needs to feel every heartbeat to believe he’s here.

“I hate that you’re going to worry about me now,” he keeps going, as if his words have just returned from a long vacation, and he really needs to tell her everything. “Like, really worry. Not ‘what if his car breaks’ worry, but ‘what if he doesn’t come back in one piece’ worry. And I get it, because if this job ever made you regret being with me—”

She cuts him off before she even gets the chance to think of how to assure him best. “Ollie,” she breathes, shaking her head as her fingers press lightly against his chest. “That’s never going to happen. I could never regret you,” her voice is steady, in contrast with how fast her heart’s still beating. “I know what comes with loving you. And yeah, it scares me sometimes. But that doesn’t mean I’d ever walk away because of it. All you can do is be the best you can every time you’re in that car. That’s all anyone can ask of you, including Ayao. Including your team. And including me.”

He’s quiet, his eyes searching hers like he’s still not sure he deserves to hear that. But she doesn’t waver.

Instead, she reaches up, fingers threading gently through his curls, brushing them back from his forehead, her touch delicate. “I’m proud of you, my little cub. Not just when you get it right. If anything, it was pretty impressive what you did today.”

His eyes close for a second, her words settling into the cracks he’s been trying to hide all day. When he opens them again, they’re glassy and full of shame. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “For shutting you out. I didn’t mean to.”

She doesn’t need to say it. It’s in the way she leans in, closing the distance between them as her lips meet his, like they’ve both been holding their breath for too long.

As they kiss, his hand moves instinctively, sliding down her side until it finds her thigh. With one gentle motion, he lifts her leg over his hip, needing her closer than close. Her body pressed against his gives purpose a whole new meaning, the tension in his shoulders finally softening under her touch.

When they part, she studies him. His face is pale under the soft light, freckles stark against the skin that’s still slightly flushed from the day. His eyes are rimmed in exhaustion, but there’s something else beneath them that makes him look even younger than he is.

“By the way, just so we’re clear,” she begins, “I don’t need you to protect me, Ollie. I just need you to talk to me. Like we always do.”

He smiles now, brushing the tip of his nose against hers. “Can I now?”

As a response, she shakes her head, eyes dark with desire. “Nope, you missed that train, I’m afraid. I have other plans for that big mouth of yours,” she whispers, her voice laced with all the love that’s been hanging by a thread today.

She kisses him again, deeper this time, her hands sliding up his chest, fingers curling around his shoulders as she guides him, rolling them gently until he’s above her. Then, with a push, she urges him down, beneath the covers and between her legs, where her need for closeness matches his.

Oliver lets out a breath of a laugh, eyes never leaving hers as he disappears beneath the sheets. His hands glide along her thighs, parting them slowly, his smirk lingering as their eyes lock one last time before the world narrows to just the two of them.

And for the first time today, he doesn’t feel like he’s spinning out. Shame turns to lust. Exhaustion to hunger. His breath ghosts over her smooth skin, leaving goosebumps behind while savoring her quiet whimpers.

Impatient, she lifts her hips slightly, nudging his shoulder with her knee, “Keep taking your sweet time, and I’ll poke the damn bear if it gets him to move.”

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ MASTERLIST . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

Thank you for reading!

None of my works are available for reposting on other platforms. Reblogs, likes, and comments are deeply appreciated ♥︎

© trashy track tales, 2025

[beannoss]

I love this analysis! You're totally right that it's remarkable 🥹🥰 To your note about Yor, I'd say this does happen equally with her (though not demonstrated in these particular screenshots)! Where Twilight is softening alongside Yor's influence (or as you've wonderfully framed it, her influence is "smoothing out some of his edges but not to the point of dullness"), Yor is gaining self-confidence and self-worth alongside Twilight's influence. A thing I love about them as a pairing is that they're having similar experiences but inverted. Where Yor is essentially making softness (home?) safe for Twilight, Twilight is making boldness (community?) safe for Yor. They're making life liveable for one another.

To that end and as regards the above, I think a part of what's happening as embedded in what you've explored, is a shift around viewing people as expendable For The Cause. Yor previously recommitted to her assassin work in a self-sacrificial way: "Even if I die or lose everything, the outcome/goal is worth it." Twilight's shift seems to be away from that mentality: Why should someone die, why should someone lose everything, when they can live instead? So where once he told Nightfall that they were expendable... that's no longer the case. There's some tricksiness there because I don't think Twilight has ever considered himself expendable: in and of himself, that is. He very much has all the evidence ever that many institutions consider him expendable. He has an extremely finely honed sense of self-preservation. But it's clear that, in the least, he believed that WISE considered spies expendable.

And he's certainly openly and reiteratively espousing differently now. We'll have to see if Yor's view for herself is changing, too 👀 or if this, perhaps, is something that can't be addressed fully until after reveals 👀👀

Hmmm

114.1:

and 114:

and also 103:

Still fully anticipating a Yor arc upcoming and the maths are mathing, is what I'm saying

(More seriously, it gave me vibes from 58.2 when Twilight and Bond save Daisy the pup from the fire, and Twilight gives his "You have to take care of yourself because there's someone waiting for you at home" speech - more specifically to the theory that 58.1-58.2 are the concluding chapters for the Cruise Arc*, and so is in direct dialogue with Yor's speech "Even if it means living a life that could end at any moment... even if it means leaving the Forger family," recommitment to self-sacrifice... Do you see the dots?)

*I alas don't have access to this theory: I read it summarised somewhere (reddit?) that it's a popular theory on the Japanese side of fandom and haven't been able to shake it since. But if anyone has links, pls drop 'em!

[bones4thecats]

Them Crushing on their Opponent's S/O

Characters: Beelzebub, Apollo, Thor, and Poseidon Inspired By: Idk... random thought I guess? A/N: Apologies for not posting anything in a while, I have been trying to get everything set up for the next few days (I have a dog-sitting job lined up here soon and school starting has been making it a little more stressful) but I do hope this was worth the wait for you guys! ⚠️ Spoilers/Trigger Warnings for: Swearing, mentions of fighting, world-wide destruction, mass death (implied), and implied wish to kill another, attempting homewrecker Apollo + implied yandere behavior on each (not bad on Beel and Thor's, worse on Apollo, and horrible on Poseidon's) ⚠️

Disclaimer: The Reader is quoted on being a female

Reader's Outfits ; Beelzebub - Apollo - Thor - Poseidon

╔══════════════════════════════════════════╗

╚═════ Beelzebub ═════════════════════════════╝

🪰 Beelzebub was not excited for his fight. He just wanted to get this over with as fast as possible so he could get back to doing his own things

🪰 He watched as Nikola stepped out and into the ring, and he noticed how the human looked back at the other inventors. But he was looking at someone specific, at a human that stood alongside the Valkyrie sisters above

🪰 You smiled gently and waved at your husband, your short-sleeved dress moving alongside your shoulders while the rest of your dress accented your frame in amazing ways, much to the amazement of some deities and humans, and in most to the amazement of the two fighters below

"Kick his ass, Nik'!" You yelled.

🪰 Nikola chuckled as you cheered, the youngest sister jumping alongside you. You were such a flamboyant woman back during your lives, and it was hard getting used to life without you when you passed, and it was amazing when you both joined hands again

🪰 Beelzebub saw how much you adored your husband and just scoffed, trying to push the odd feeling of butterflies in his stomach away with the flush on his face

🪰 When this fight ended with a God's victory, the Lord of the Flies needed to find a way to speak to you...

╔══════════════════════════════════════════╗

╚═════ Apollo ════════════════════════════════╝

☀️ Leonidas was ready for his fight, after all, he was going against the man he blamed for the deaths of not only his and his men's lives, but the death of his wife via the domino affect

☀️ You were so saddened when he passed that after your son, Pleistarchus, finally aged up and began his rule, you decided to finally end your life, much to your people's despair

☀️ As your husband looked back at you, you smiled and hugged him, wishing him luck. You the heard an eruption of applause, making you look up while Leonidas scowled silently

☀️ Standing before you both was a youthful-looking god, specifically Apollo, the Greek God of the Sun and Music. Much like the others close to Leonidas, you knew how much he despised this guy and how much he blamed him for the deaths of his men, himself, and in result you

☀️ The God of the Sun looked around and winked at his nymphs in the audience, which caused you to roll your eyes and kiss your husband's arm before leaving him to enter his fight

☀️ It was when you finally made it up to where Brunhilde and Göll were that the fight was about to begin. You could see that the two males were speaking, or rather Apollo was speaking to the King of Sparta standing before him

"You know I always wondered what my opponent looked like, wondered if you truly were just a brute, but..." He looked in your direction, causing you to flinch slightly.

☀️ Apollo smirked as your long blue sleeved moved and how your traditional Greek dress hugged you. It accentuated your chest perfectly and allowed your perfect skin to shimmer in the light that Apollo controlled. Not that man you called yours

"I must admit, you found the most gorgeous ray of life I have ever seen. And I'm a well-sought-after god."

"Shut your fucking trap and fight me like the powerful man you claim to be." Leonidas said, readying his weapon.

"Simmer down there, Leonidas! I meant nothing offensive towards your beautiful wife up there." He said as he winked at you, much to everyone's annoyances. "I just merely wanted to commend you on your taste. Maybe after my victory I can take that flower out for a walk? Yes, that sound delightful."

"Kick that motherfucker in the balls for me, honey!" You screamed.

"Planning on it."

"Well then, I guess we can begin our fight. Now... let's dance, your majesty."

╔══════════════════════════════════════════╗

╚═════ Thor ═════════════════════════════════╝

🌩️ Lu Bu was against leaving you alone in this afterlife. He died in front of you long ago and he didn't plan on doing it again. And if you had any say in what Brunhilde decided for this fight, you would've made he pick another warlord

🌩️ But, fate was cruel and it always landed you both in extremely tight spaces. It cursed you with the arranged marriage to a man you despised while Lu Bu's gave him the strength nobody else could match, leaving him alone for many years

🌩️ Thankfully, your fiance was stupid enough to get himself crossing paths with the rough-man, landing him six-feet-under. It was only after that day that you finally found the man you loved, to which you married and, while not having any biological children, you treated all of your shared subordinates with the love of a mother

🌩️ As the fight began, you shivered. Raising your hands, you gripped your upper sleeves, causing Chen Gong to look at you and wrap an arm around your shoulder, attempting to comfort you while your husband readied himself against the notorious God of Thunder

"Human. Why do you intend to beat me?" Thor asked.

"My wife and soldiers have faith in me, though I don't expect an arrogant monster such as a god to understand that. So why bother?"

🌩️ Thor cocked an eyebrow slightly as he looked over at the many soldiers that Lu Bu led, he gazed over them all before settling on you. You were the most beautiful woman he had ever laid his eyes upon in eons

🌩️ You looked at Lu Bu with worry and determination in your eyes. It almost made Thor... jealous. But why would he, an all-powerful being such as himself, be jealous of some mortal's luck with picking a spouse?

🌩️ Eventually you felt Thor's gaze on you, making you stare into his yellow-colored irises. He blinked as you shifted slightly in your hanfu, which only made Chen wrap his arm tighter around you, determined to keep you at-bay

🌩️ Thor looked back at your husband before sighing and starting the walk that would mark the start of Ragnarok. He glanced back at you, only to see you focused, watching Lu Bu with both love and hope despite your furrowed eyebrows

🌩️ And while they began their fight, there was one thing plaguing Thor's thoughts; why did he wish for you to look at him in that way?

╔══════════════════════════════════════════╗

╚═════ Poseidon ══════════════════════════════╝

🔱 As a god of few words and one that showed far to much pride for even his own brothers to handle, Poseidon was the opposite of your husband. And you hated that

🔱 Your husband was none other than Sasaki Kojiro, History's Greatest Loser. And as you were close to a couple immortals such as Buddha and Brunhilde, you knew just how dangerous the God of the Seas could be. And it made you concerned for your husband's outcome in this battle

🔱 Sasaki looked back at you as he raised his now-broken sword, and he could tell by the subtle look that you were beyond pissed. And that was the thing he loved most about you, your fieriness

"Why you arrogant bastard! How much of a fucking asshole do you have to be to not even blink an eye at killing such a magnificent man?! Why if I was down there, I'd smack the ever-loving shit out of you!"

🔱 Poseidon was internally shook at hearing a mortal woman yell at him. Every time any human tried voicing their opinions to him, his mere glace would shut them up. But not this human. This one was different

🔱 Looking up slightly, he saw you standing with the other supporters of your husband. One of the males, Musashi Miyamoto, was holding one of your arms to keep you from jumping down and attacking the god with your bare hands while his son, Iori, was watching in shock at how strong you were

🔱 The one thing that Poseidon noticed other than your attitude was how you moved. You moved so delicately and swiftly despite your fury, and it was, dare he think, alluring. It was almost like you were an embodiment of the silkiness of a piece of the softest fabric ever

🔱 You raised your fist and slammed it on the nearby seat, causing Iori to jump and your elderly-appearing husband to chuckle. Poseidon merely watched stoically as you screamed once again

"You win this match and show Humanity just how amazing your old-ass is, Kojiro!"

"Alright, sweetheart. I understand what I must do." He replied, a chill-smile on his face while yours portrayed pure hatred towards his opponent.

🔱 The God of the Seas then saw you lower your fist back down as Musashi had his son wrap it up, as it was bleeding from the impact of cement and your fragile-hand. He saw your hanfu, it looked very blue, like the seas he ruled over for centuries

🔱 After this fight was over with his winning and a step closer to the destruction of those pesky worms down on Earth, Poseidon was going to need to pay you a visit. Maybe said visit will lead to something else? But, for now, getting rid of this hunk of waste was the first step to said future

[targaryenluvs]

REAL LOVE BABY! / CLARK KENT

PAIRING: Red Kryptonite!Clark Kent x Fem!Reader

SUMMARY: To make your ex jealous, your best friend suggests the two of you work together. But it’s not like you knew, he was never planning on letting you go.

WARNINGS: Fake Dating Trope, Obsession, Jealousy, Dark themes, Cursing, Non-Consensual Kissing/Touching, Implied Sex, Baby Trapping, Red Kryptonite Clark

WORDCOUNT: 1,390 Words

A/N: Hello folks! This fic is apart of the lovely @lady-ashfades collab event! Here is the masterlist, go over and give it a look and read with a lot of great writers and tropes ❤️ You can imagine this with any Clark but I was leaning towards Smallville Clark!

Your teeth were bound to be ground into nothing if you kept going at this pace. The drink in your hand was warm, despite the ice inside. Your entire face was flushed as you watched your boyfriend, ex-boyfriend, stand around and laugh.

His footsteps surprisingly weren’t heavy, “The longer you stare, the creepier it gets.” Clark laughed as you turned his way, eyebrows knitted together in anger. “Who cares, why the hell is he allowed to be so happy. If a girl moves on that fast it’s a shit show.” You downed your drink before turning to the barkeep, he didn’t even need to ask, nor did you.

Another glass slid your way.

Clark was quicker than you, he always was. “This isn’t how you get over someone Y/n/n.” You couldn’t help but whine as you stared at the small glass, it wasn’t small but Clark made it look tiny. “You want me to switch to ice cream Kent?” Clark scoffed, his teeth as white ever.

His hand came to hold yours once he’d placed the glass out of your reach, “Anything, as long as it won’t hurt you.” You couldn’t help but smile at him, “Always looking out for me aren’t you?”

Oh you have no idea.

“Always, you’re my best girl.”

“And you’re my best friend too.” You stood on your toes to kiss his cheek, not noticing how time seemed to stand still to him. His hand came to your waist to steady you, “What if we could make him jealous?” Clark kept hold of your arms, which you found odd. “Uh, how do you mean?” You couldn’t bring yourself to meet his eye, so you glanced at his hands taking note of the tacky red ring. His hand rose to your cheek, cradling it before leaning in, “I mean this.”

Clarks lips connected with yours as your eyes widened, this was definitely not how you expected your night to go.

You pulled away after what felt like a lifetime to be met with a wide smile, “I— you,” Clark’s head was turned towards your ex Jake. “Well he’s definitely noticed you now.” Taking. a quick glance, you viewed an angry man not taking notice of the girl clinging on his arms.

Shaking your head to try and clear your mind did nothing. What the hell was going on? Pinching the bridge of your nose, you looked back to Clark, “You kissed me to make him jealous? You’re my best friend Clark and this isn’t a movie.”

“Oh come on, a macho guy like him never thinks before getting angry. And would you rather use some random friend or your best friend? You know I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you Y/n/n.” Tucking your hair behind your ear you nodded along, maybe this would pay off. Either it would help you get over him or get him back.

“Alright, let’s do it.”

Clarks eyes shifted, whether it was just the lighting or something more, you didn’t take notice.

“Baby I’m gonna treat you so good—,”

“Don’t quote Pretty Woman on me Kent!”

Bliss. The next few weeks with Clark by your side were pure bliss in your opinion. Almost every day you woke up to a nice message from him wishing you a good morning. Before, unluckily for you, your ex worked with both yourself and Clark. But now it was the best thing since it was undeniably easy to rub your glee in his face.

“Coffee M’lady?” He had a mug in his hand, outstretched in your direction as you took in the lovely smell of the love of your life, and Clark was there too. “I love you.” Your hands practically snatched the mug from his grip, “Oh I guess I like you too.”

Clark shook his head as you giggled sweetly before taking a sip of heaven to start your day, “You wound me.” You raised your eyebrows, “I keep you on your toes baby.” The word slipped so easily you didn’t even notice, but Clark did. So did Jake as he entered the break room.

You used to call him baby.

Taking your coffee, you mobilised and left the room, leaving your ex and best friend fake boyfriend with tension galore radiating from the room. “Kent.” Jake grunted in acknowledgement, “Jake.” The smirk on Clark’s face was infuriating, “Stop.”

He played dumb as he twisted the Ruby like ring, “Stop what?” Clark tilted his head as he questioned him, “Rubbing her in my face.” His laugh screamed superiority somehow, “Trust me, Y/n wouldn’t want to rub herself on you any-day or anyhow. She has me for that anyways.”

“Oh you fucking—,”

“Clark!” Your shout from down the hall caused both of the men to turn immediately, “Watch yourself Kent.” Clark snickered in his face, “Yeah, cause I’m so scared of you right? Chin up Jakey.”

Jake watched as Clark walked away, jaw close the to the floor at the audacity and arrogance around the sweetheart that was Clark Kent. How the hell was he your best friend?

For some reason you just keep going. Never announcing that you were dating but falling into this calm stage of friendship? A relationship? You were fake dating, or supposed to be, but it felt almost normal now. And whenever you’d bring forwards the topic of what you were Clark would always shut it down.

Especially when it came to the two of you returning to friends.

So after a consultation with Lois, you ended up taking him out for a night on the town. Drinks, fun and hopefully enough time for a talk.

You wiped your eyes as Clark laughed at your wheezing, “I can never imagine you acting so confident! Not in a bad way but— oh god, half the time when your food is too salty you just buck up and eat it. I don’t know why you confronting someone is so foreign!”

Clark shook his head as he crossed his arms, “That’s the old Clark. Don’t you like someone who takes control?” Suddenly the jacket you had on was far too warm and restricting as you choked on air, “Uhh, sure.” You absentmindedly answered before ordering another drink.

Not realising it was already your fourth, Clark hadn’t touched his drink.

“It’s so dark.” Clark nodded as you clung onto bicep, “Luckily I’m here no?” He glanced down at you with a sinister smile and he couldn’t help but admire the glee on your face. “Lucky you’re here.” You agreed.

He was in for a good night.

The sun was harsh in your eyes, attempting to roll over to escape you were met with a human blockade in the form of, Clark?

“Oh you’re fucking kidding me.”

Clarks eyes fluttered open at your exclamation, “What’s wrong Sweetheart?” You shot up, clutching the sheet to your chest as he laughed at your actions, “I’ve already done that to you Y/n/n.” Clutching your head in your hands you tried to make sense of how you ended up in your best friend’s bed naked after a normal night out.

You shook your head vehemently, “That’s— that’s not the point Clark! How the hell did we end up at your place when we were walking to mine? And how… please tell me we didn’t.” Your eyes were beginning to gloss over as guilt pinched at his heart, “Hey, hey I’ve got you. I’m so sorry I don’t know either. We both drank a lot but I would never take advantage of you I swear. It was mutual but you trust me right?”

You didn’t have the energy to argue, especially not with the soreness resting in your body, “I just, I’m confused Clark. I don’t know why I got into bed with you, or you got in with me. Don’t you think this would ruin our friendship?”

He sighed as he managed to slowly lull you into his arms with a gentle smile, “Sweetheart, I think we’ve been more than friends for a while. Tell me you’ve hated these past few weeks and I’ll stop. This is Real Love Baby. He never deserved you.” Having someone with you, constantly doting on you. Especially when it was so easy to talk to them since they were your best friend.

You gave in that night, and gave in again.

[butterbabyflapjack]

✧˖° Brian Moser x serial killer fem!reader

✧˖° summary:

The Ice Truck Killer’s back in town, and somehow he's stuck babysitting you; Miami's newest would-be killer.

Helping you out wasn't at all his original intention–he'd rather see you dead, you know far too much–but he supposes he could spare an evening to undomesticate that hungry beast inside you. Show you how to really live your life.

In which Brian helps you kill someone who utterly deserves it, and the kill room turns into a horny sex-fueled bloodbath.

✧˖° wordcount (chapter 1): 5k

✧˖° chapters: one, two, three, four, five

✧˖° ao3

✧˖° warnings: serial killer fem!reader, reader insert, explicit sexual content, rough sex, passionate sex, fucking in a kill room, dark romance, dark comedy, canon typical depictions of blood and gore, enthusiastic consent, mutual pining, impact play, playing with your food, serial killers in love, banter, dirty talk, voice kink, trauma bonding, babysitting a serial killer, implied sexual abuse of a child (you're killing this mf don’t worry), torture (you’re torturing this mf don’t worry), Brian is his own warning, enemies to lovers, biting, daddy issues?, blood play, a bit of angst a dash of bloodlust & a heavy splash of spice, Brian loves to fluster you and he won't shut the hell up going about it, Brian survives season 1 in this house

✧˖° author's note:

This is ridiculous, horny, bloody, silly and dark (in essence, a very dark romantic comedy), so please heed the tags!

Starts after season 1, but with Brian escaping. Sorry if there’s any rough spots, I kinda rushed editing this.

ch.1 is from Brian’s POV, and the rest of the story is from yours. And there aren't nearly enough problematic female characters in the world so I'm making you one 😃

✧˖° chapter 1

Hello again, Miami. 

Didn’t think I’d see you again this soon.

What’s it been? Eight months? Since I was your most highly wanted criminal?

Guess I just couldn’t stay away.

Time flies when you’re laying low.

Guess I just missed you.

But really, my reason for coming back to dear old Miami–my home, both my real and spiritual birthplace–has a name, a life, and a face. Your name, if you’re really so curious. Your life. Your face. And I intend to leave what remains of all three of those things behind to the hungry bellies of gators before once more absconding stage left. 

But why, you might ask? Why do I want to kill you? Horrified, scandalized, even. For what reason had you to die by my skillful hand? And the answer to that is simple: death doesn’t need a reason. Death simply is, and I simply enjoy it. 

Though…

Regardless of that irrefutable fact…

I’ll admit. 

This particular death–your death–has a slightly more personal reason. And that reason, or at least its causation, was currently chit-chatting with me on the phone.

“Your plane lands at eight?” Dexter asked, and I didn’t waste time with a nod when he wouldn’t see it. Simply staring out across the coast of Costa Rica, the sunset reflected within the dark shadow of my gaze.

Costa Rica… and I’d really wanted to retire somewhere cold.

Not that this was retirement.

It was more of an… unplanned, involuntary vacation. Just until the heat from the feds cooled down.

Then again, I wasn’t waiting for the temp to drop before planning this little excursion back to Miami. But you’d sorta forced my hand in that regard, now hadn’t you?

“Hope you don’t mind if I crash on the couch,” I said, good-natured, and I knew he wouldn’t object. My brother couldn’t feel much–much more than myself–but I sensed a sort of guilt in him for how he’d previously driven me off those eight months ago. Choosing a fake sibling over a real one, one who actually knew who he was… I’d say the guilt had good cause.

I could hear him at his quaint living room/office combo’s computer, typing away at something. Perpetually Distracted Dexter.

“Yeah–yeah, that’d be great,” he said. 

I exhaled a little sigh whilst listening to the soft waves roll in beside me. “Why do I feel there’s a but coming?”

“No buts,” said Dexter. “I just, uh…” He seemed distracted, but not by whatever he typed. “I’ll just have a friend over tomorrow. She’ll probably be here when you arrive.”

Ah.

The friend.

The one I’d been silently wishing Dex would just kill himself. Grow suddenly bored of you.

Wishful thinking.

He seemed quite fond. 

He wouldn’t shut up about you. Always and forever droning on.

It wasn’t romantic, this interest, or so I’d come to suspect over all these past droning months. I didn’t exactly ask about that, though, half because I really didn’t care and half because of how much the subject of you annoyed me, raised over and over again and ugh, just give it a rest already. 

Dex shouldn’t have ‘friends’. The mere concept a fairytale, a mask to people like us. It should be just he and I, two hunters against the world, hunting whomever we like.

“Ah,” I voiced aloud, with the sugar-flaked pleasantry of someone who wasn’t at all picturing severing your aorta with an icepick. “Your little friend will be there to greet me. How nice.”

Dexter must have misread the edge of sarcasm as some sort of concern. “She already knows you’re coming. Don’t worry, she can be trusted.”

Just more proof that my do-good, misguided brother is far too trusting.

“Well,” I said, as though accepting this point as fact. You really can be trusted with my and my brother's secrets–such relief! “I look forward to finally meeting her.” And carving and slicing and dicing her.

I must have forgotten to include that last part out loud, and thus Dexter had no objection–even sounding strangely relieved by my show of good faith in at long last having this introduction.

“See you tomorrow night,” he said, and my lips formed a little smile–instinctual, without any warmth.

“See you then,” I said, then hung up.

And now; here I am. Back in the ever-enchanting sunshine state. My former playground of frozen, meticulously broken toys, and it feels much more like home to be back than I even expected, with just the small matter of ridding you from these sentimental, familial walls.

Walking the concrete pathway to Dex’s Palm Terrace place was nearly surreal, assaulting the walls of my person with waves of distant memories. I’d broken into his beachfront apartment so many times before. Snooping around, getting to know him. Leaving gifts tied up with little red bows. I was basically murderous Saint Claus.

I had only one bag, having traveled here light–a black leather crossbody, which I thumbed the broad strap of whilst knocking with mild knuckles against the door.

Silence. Then, footsteps. Then–

Dexter throws open the door, a smile formed ear to ear like a big, goofy animal. 

“Brian,” he says, and somehow it melts me. Chips slightly away at all that frigid, cold frost round my cruel, vacant heart. And his eyes dip over the state of me. The longer hair, dark curls well past my ears, now; just long enough to tuck back but not long enough to stay there. The dark scruff which coats my angled jawline in the absence of shaving for so long.

“Dig the beard,” Dexter says. “Quite the disguise. Bet the ladies love it.”

I smile at the compliment, though if he'd hated the look I'd feel much the same. “One does what one has to to effectively blend,” I return. And it’s hard not to feel somewhat warm, somewhat seen, understood, by my brother before me. The only person in this world who accepts who I am.

Well, not wholly.

Thanks for nothing, Debra.

Still. Since the death of our mother, Dex is the only place I’ve ever belonged, and seeing him now I’m abruptly struck with just how long it’s been.

I don’t wait for him to welcome me in–he’s probably too cordially stunted to properly welcome me, anyway. I just step right up and throw both my arms around him, my baby brother, my other half; cuffing him firmly on the back as I breathe him in.

“It’s been too long,” I say, holding him there for a moment, before pulling back.

Dexter’s expression is torn into a million indecipherable things, but amongst them is his affection for me. The brother who’ll always see him for who he really is. Who truly fathoms that insatiable beast inside him.

The bliss of our reunion’s forced to end, however, because this house has a rat problem. And as I hear a small, feminine throat being cleared from the fluorescent-lit depths behind my brother, my curiosity gets the better of me.

Time to finally put a face to the name I’ve been loathing for weeks.

And there you are. Standing before a metal-limbed armchair nuzzled inside the living room, like you’d sat there then stiffly stood up; uprooted at the sound of my knocking. Frozen, now; lingering. Like you’re caught in a trap you don’t know your way out of. Hands fidgeting as they twist at the hem of your shirt. 

It’s like you know you don’t belong here–that this moment is Dexter’s and mine–and for the cleverness of that, at least, I must inwardly applaud you. Though that’s decidedly where all my praise ends.

This is one of those social situations I’ve learned so well to navigate through life in the foster system, masking my aberrance. Awkwardness. Other people’s–not mine. And though I could so effortlessly put you at ease as you stand there fidgeting, I find it more entertaining to draw that part out. For a while, at least.

I must admit, I hadn’t pictured you at all in my head. What you’d look like. Not as anything more than an aggravating, compromising blip I’d soon snuff out the threat of. But if I had pictured you, I wouldn’t have imagined you looking, so…

…Well.

You’re not…

Unnatractive. 

I feel one dark brow slowly raising.

And you’re only a friend…?

Whatever must poor Rita think? Seeing the two of you together?

Dexter. You dog.

My eyes trace your expression as you awkwardly hover there in the length of my speculative pause. Myself perfectly content to allow you to hang there in a noose of discomfort all night, and then some. Though eventually I know one of us will have to say something.

This is our fated and much anticipated formal introduction, after all.

So at what feels like long last, I throw you the lifeline that is my smarmiest smile. Knowing full well you won’t know it’s not real. No one but Dex ever does.

“And you must be the friend I’ve heard so much about,” I greet you pleasantly, my deep voice threaded with warmth. Though, peculiarly, that unsure tension in you remains stubbornly in place. Seems if anything only to grow, despite my intent to disarm it. 

Huh.

Oh well–it doesn’t deter me. Killing you will be so much easier if you don’t see it coming, so I’m keen on you liking me, letting your guard down. Thus, I graciously continue:

“You have no idea how much I’ve been looking forward to finally having you right in front of me.”

Maybe a bit of truth will lube you up. And I watch as your lower lip’s sucked in between your teeth for just a moment whilst you eye me; the motion drawing my studious gaze like a shark’s to blood. 

“And why is that?” you ask, which admittedly I wasn’t expecting. Such a nervous mouse, yet you’d put me on the spot.

I can’t place your nerves. I’m perfectly charming. And yes, you’re aware I’m the notorious Ice Truck Killer, but I’m not sure why that would be alarming. Not with the company you keep; namely, my murderous brother. So it must be something else.

And I so hate not knowing things.

“So I can be introduced to you in person, of course,” I say, like it’s obvious, and it should be. Striding in past Dexter as he steps aside to allow me in, shutting and latching the door behind us all; a roomful of killers, or so I’ve been told.

Our eyes never stray in my steady approach; not yours, not mine. My height soon towering over yours, which isn’t unusual for me when meeting new people, nor when standing near almost anyone. Offering my hand and a smile I’ve been told is quite dashing. “Dex has had such wonderful things to say about you.” And I’m sure he has, I just couldn’t be bothered to remember any of them.

My smile could melt steel as if it was butter.

“I’m Brian.”

I won’t lie, I expected you to crumble. Most women love this move. The confidence, the approachable self-assurance. But you eye my outstretched hand as though I might pull you into the fires of hell with me were you to take it, before craning your neck to meet my gaze once more.

“Charmed,” is all you say; unmoving.

Something about that irks a small ripple up my nape, but I just allow my hand to drop graciously back to my side. All practiced, svelte charm still in place.

“So,” I say, by all appearance unconcerned by the lack of civility in my brother’s ill choice of friends. “It almost feels like I already know you, what with the way Dexter’s gone on and on.”

Your gaze steals over to Dexter, hovering there in the distance behind us, before you smile up at me again in a way which feels forced. And I suppose you’re not the talkative sort, though why you keep glancing at Dexter as if waiting for something from him, as if he’ll swoop in and save you, I’m uncertain about.

In due time I’ll figure it out.

“But there’s still one thing I’m curious about,” I say, turning to make myself comfortable. It has been a long trip to get here, after all. 

I plop down like a wolf amongst sheep atop Dexter’s hideous couch, legs spread like I own the damn food chain. One arm draped out along the length of its backrest as I eye you somewhat expectantly, still rigid in how you stand. Imagining what you might look like strung upside down by your ankles with a lengthy strap of duct tape kissing those soft lips, holding them shut for me. 

The shadows beneath my eyes pinch.

It’s a lovely image.

Maybe you’ll see for yourself.

“And what’s that?” Dexter asks–bravo, Dexter–at least one of you’s courteous enough to ask. And I tilt my darkly curled head at him.

“How exactly did the two of you get to know one another?” I ask. Watching him. Eying you. Hoping my focus might rattle you–just a little. “I’m sure it’s an interesting tale.”

“I’ve already told you,” Dexter says, and he probably has, at least in his unabbreviated sense. “We work together at the precinct.” He dons his playful tone I often find so silly but right now I find I detest. “The lab geek and the cop~”

“Right. But that’s not what I mean,” I slice into his futile comedy routine, “What I mean, is: how did our friend here come to know you’re one of Miami’s most heinous, uncaught serial killers?”  

The other, of course, being myself; excepting the whole uncaught thing.

Dex is lucky I’m so forgiving.

I put it forth bluntly, with little room for either one of you to wiggle out of answering. And though my radiance of charisma remains, my intensity’s keen. ‘Cause I must admit; now that I’m here, I’m curious about you. Especially when you seem like such a rabbit in a household of jackals. Weren’t you supposed to be some like-minded killer or something? Perhaps I should have paid closer attention whenever the unwanted topic of you had come up in mine and Dexter’s conversations, instead of bitterly tuning you out. 

Strangely, Dexter doesn’t seem to know what to say, and neither do you. Like the story’s too long, too elaborate. As though there's pieces the two of you’d rather omit. 

Fascinating.

“She helped me out,” Dex says at last; monotonously shallow, like the words aren’t even his, like he's rehearsed this. “In a time of need.”

I quirk a subtly mocking brow at him from where I’m idly lounged on the couch. 

“Why do you sound like a generic thankyou card?” Why, indeed. “C’mon, baby brother–I want specifics. You can tell me.” My dusky gaze passes from him to his lovely, curious friend, hovered opposite the ugly coffee table before me. “We’re all friends here, right?”

It would seem that my smile unnerves you. Which might be annoying if it wasn’t so entertaining a thing to see.

Dexter sighs before trying a more human answer, leaning one bulky shoulder against his white, open-backed bookcase that separates his living room from the office attached. 

This whole effectively communicating thing is hard for him.

“It was sort of an accident,” he says, like that’s far more telling. The lacking details seeming to spur you to chime in. 

“It was really just me being in the wrong place at the right time,” you elaborate, with the passive front of one pretending the ice they walk on won’t at any moment begin to splinter. Folding your arms against that pensive look I toss you, which I tilt my head in silent question of. Why so nervous? I’m far from daunting, aren’t I? 

“I was called to check out an anonymous tip,” you continue, averting your gaze from me far more often than one normally does. “Some sort of suspicious activity at an abandoned storage shed near Palmetto. Myself and my parter.” 

You glance at Dex, as if he might continue the tale for you, might rescue you from this, but when he merely quirks a little smile with a similar shrug, you’re forced into proceeding.

“It was supposedly related to a case–which it wasn’t, not that that matters, but…” You let out a breath. Seeming to steady yourself, the recollection, though for all your nervous fidgeting your tone is surprisingly calm. “I walked into the storage shed, it was unlocked, and… And I saw Dexter. Sawing someone’s arm off. Someone who was strapped down to a table in a plastic fucking tutu.” 

You glance at Dex, as he detachedly watches you. 

“Someone I knew from a previous case,” you continue. “Someone who deserved whatever it was Dexter was doing, and much more than that, too. Which is exactly when I shut that fucking door and assured my partner there was nothing to see here, and we left. Left Dexter to do what he does, undisturbed.”

That’s the end of your story, and I picture the scene, all while some predatorily protective part of me insists on clarifying, “So… That’s it? You saw my brother chopping a man into pieces, and were immediately okay with it? Go Team Dexter? Just like that?”

I try very little to hide my disbelief, ‘cause I don’t buy it. In my experience with cops, and I’ve had plenty, you all tend to be such sticklers when it comes to casual bloodshed and carnage. What’s more, your uptick in nerves isn’t exactly selling me.

My lashes lower in my deliberate examination of you. “Why’d you really not turn my dear brother in?”

In lieu of answering, you once more eye Dex, and that look between you says something.

“It’s complicated,” you say at last. Like you’re waiting for Dexter to speak, but he’d rather wait on you.

The pair of you. Really. You’re like a couple of tongue-tied, helpless kittens. Must I string this conversation on for you?

“Enlighten me,” I say, with something of an edge.

Perhaps I should’ve kept the disarmingly fake smile, because if anything you thrust your guard up.

“Look, I don’t owe you a full explanation of what Dexter and I have been through, okay?”

“Oh, I beg to differ,” I viperously put forth, my pretense of pleasantry slipping. “Seeing as how you know so much about myself. And all without my express knowledge or permission.”

An impermanent issue. One I won't leave Miami without personally seeing resolved. You know far too much–you’re an issue. For Dexter’s sake and for mine, we must unfortunately bid you bon voyage.

“I’d say it’s only fair I know a little more about you,” I continue, cordiality slipped back in place. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

The delicate line of your jaw tautens, eyes wavered with wariness and doubt. Refusing to spit out any more, though the longer you’re subject to my critical appraisal, the more the twine of your stubbornness unwinds.

“I… I need someone dead,” you admit at last.

Ah.

There it is.

“And, after seeing Dexter doing… what he does…” You bite your lower lip, as though struggling to recollect straying thoughts. “I need his help. I need his help to kill someone.”

I take my time mulling about your words. Piecing together the part you still aren't saying.

“So… You won’t turn Dexter in, so long as he helps you kill someone. Did I get that right?” 

You bite down harsher–immediately shake your head. “No, it’s–it’s more complicated than that!” 

But by now I’m barely listening. Turning instead to lift a wry brow at my brother, who’s watching this whole fiasco with a can-I-please-leave-yet look plastered upon his face.

“This is the friend you’ve been telling me about?” I wonder vaguely. “The cop who’s blackmailing you into helping her kill someone?”

“I’m a detective,” you cut in, like that matters, like I care, and I feel my eyes already rolling.

“Detective,” I sarcastically amend, with a scathing glance at you. “So sorry to offend, Detective Whoever-You-Are. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m talking to my brother.”

When you mutter back your name under your breath, I make a show of ignoring it.

“So, what?” I instead ask my foolish, good-hearted kin. “You’re actually going to help her kill someone?” 

His lack of answer’s enough. And at his arms-folded silence, I ruminatively tut my tongue.

“Doesn’t seem like you, Dex… Not the edict-ruled brother I know.” I try not to let my tone grow too ingratiating whilst goading, “What about your beloved code?” 

Dexter exhales a stiff breath. Putting forth, “It’s more than that.”

“More?”

“Like she said, it’s complicated.”

“Has the word ‘complicated’ been redefined as ‘indescribably moronic and impossible to explain’ sometime in the last fifteen seconds?” I return, incredulously flat. Eying their strange and stilted silence with dwindling patience. “What aren’t the two of you telling me…?”

You’re biting your lip like you’re biting back words, and I watch, waiting, biding my time for those bit-back words to get the better of you–though surprisingly, it’s Dexter who breaks first. 

“It’s nothing about that, it’s…” He rubs the back of his sand-colored head, roughing his hair up with tense distraction. “Well, it is about that, in a sense. I didn’t know how to bring this up. I just… I have to leave town for the weekend,” he finally gets out. “First thing tomorrow morning, I’m headed out.”

I’m too nonplussed to hide the creeping edge of my bemusement.

That’s what he’s been having trouble saying?

He drops this like it’ll land like a bombshell on our entire reunion, before rushing at whatever my bland expression, “It’s just for a few days. I’ll be back Monday bright and early.”

To be honest, I’m mostly confused about why this seemed so hard for either one of you bumbling idiots to tell me. Or why you’re bumbling about it at all. Why should I care if he’ll be gone for forty-eight more measly hours after we've been separated for almost a year? And for many, many years before that? Does he actually expect me to mourn him till Monday?

“Big plans with the family?” I venture coolly, and Dexter’s broad shoulders bunch into a shrug, as though he’s cornered and a shrug is all that might save him.

“It’s a whole thing,” he explains. “Cody has a scouting trip, then Rita wanted to make a whole weekend out of it with the grandparents–I’ll spare you the details.”

Yes, thank you for that.

Dexter the family man. It’s so sweet it’s nauseating.

“So you’re taking your fake kids camping so you can keep playing domesticated dad to a woman and children who’d hate you if they knew who you really are?” My smile’s so feigned it hurts. “Sounds like a great time.”

My brother, the shrugger, shrugs once again. Doesn’t even try to defend my interpretive accusation. “I gotta be there.”

“Well have fun on your little adventure,” I muse; side-eying him. “Not sure why it took you this long to tell me. I’m sure I’ll find some way to busy myself in the meantime.”

You and Dexter exchange that look again. That look which betrays how you still haven’t shared whatever’s so lodged down your throats and wherever this is really going, and by this point it’s driving me toward wanting to just rip open your necks to drag whatever it is out, myself.

“Well, actually,” my brother begins, struggling once more with saying things. “I’ve already got an idea that’ll keep you busy in mind.”

I steady him in the crosshairs of my vision. Well. Now we might be getting somewhere. And I can’t deny my interest, much like my frustration, is piqued. 

“Oh?”

“A favor, really,” he adds, without elaborating, and I really am going to rip the words right out of him.

“Are you going to tell me what that favor is?” I’m finally forced to ask, before glancing exasperatedly at you. “Or perhaps I should defer to your translator?”

There you go, nervously rubbing that elbow again, though I find myself oddly mesmerized by the motion of it. I can’t say for what cause, other than I’m not blind, and you’re obviously attractive. Watching you anxiously stand there is becoming one of my favorite pastimes.

“I, um,” you mumble, so quietly I almost can’t hear you. A nervous mouse again, one my nature is stirred to chase. “Well. Dexter was going to help me with–you know… What I was saying before. We have everything planned for tomorrow, and it has to happen tomorrow.” You seem strangely adamant about this, and I don’t care enough to question the ‘why’, just as I don’t care for the ‘who’–I’ll take your word for it. “But, um, with Dexter out of town…”

Helpless, as if to say any more’s an impossible task, you glance to Dexter for support.

“Really, the two of you,” I lowly muse. Eyes glistening between the pair of you, alight with my wicked amusement. Stretching out more broadly on the throne of Dexter’s hideous couch. “You could almost put a full sentence together so long as you tag one another in after every breath.”

The taunt’s enough to unlodge wherever Dexter’s tongue’s at. 

“I need you to help her kill this guy while I’m gone,” he finally says bluntly. Arms folded, expression stern, yet hinted by what may as well be him begging me, which in itself, is…

Well. He’s never asked me for anything. Not like this. Though I certainly don’t owe him any favors…

“I know you know how to set up a proper kill room,” he states, and he should–he’s seen my imitation of his plastic-drenched kill room, firsthand. I’ve studied his work more than anyone. Emulated it to perfection, and all for a happily-ever-after he refused to take part of, spat cold in my face.

For a moment, I feel almost human in how I can’t seem to react or respond to this request. Though as I watch the mirrored hope in you both, as the idea of this slowly settles, I find that it doesn’t completely bore me…

My eyes drift to you. Singling you out. Stringing round your anxious expression. And you’ve mettle, at least, to not look away from the barbs of my musing intensity.

So. This is why you’ve been acting so sheepishly inept. You need big bad Brian’s help with something.

It’s laughably cute, the idea of you killing, and already I know I’m going to do it. But I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t make you sit in it a little. Take my time in toying with you, first.

“You want me to babysit your blackmailing little friend here,” I say to Dex, with raven-dark eyes still on you, “while she attempts–and correct me if I’m wrong here–her first kill?” 

I can tell you can feel how my gaze is dissecting you. Pulling apart, piecing together, assessing every piece and shape and shade of you. It makes you squirm, and I love it; sparing a moment to slide my tongue over the sharpness of my teeth as I feast on such a beautiful reaction. 

I turn back to Dex. “What makes you think she’s even capable?”

“I’m capable,” you insist, drawing my gaze again. And even through those nerves roused in my presence, you appear quite convinced of it. 

Interesting. 

“I can do this,” you again allege. With such frail confidence, but confidence nonetheless. “I just… need a little help.”

I tamp down the rearing head of my inquisitiveness. Ensure my interest remains vague in how I lackadaisically eye you. 

“Help with what, exactly?” I slowly ask. And it’s not a no, which I’m amused to see is so surprising.

You blink a few times, eyes growing wider, more determined–before you’re explaining, quickly, as though whatever luck this is may run out.

“Getting him to the kill site,” you say succinctly, with all the puffed-up bravado of a fluffy little rabbit pretending that they’ve slayed a fox before, and it really is amusing. “Moving the body. Clean-up.”

I let my watchful silence drag on. Held in supposed indecisive contemplation. Should I? Should I? Until, when I can nearly hear your fretting heartbeat, I feel one corner of my lips slowly quirk up. Watching every minor movement of you like a fox might a meal, might a rabbit, and find I really wouldn’t mind taking a bite. 

“Don’t need help doing the deed, then?” I subtly ask you.

Your eyebrows flicker to a knot. Lips pressing flat, before you shake your head at me. “No.”

“You sure?” I further goad, with silken smoothness. Loving those little cracks of hesitation along your lovely surface so much I’m inclined to hammer in even more of them. “‘Cause I won’t kill him for you. You have to do that, yourself. And what’s more, if you for any reason chicken out on me and can’t follow through with all this…” I calmly smile. “I’ll simply leave you there all alone with whatever maddened mess of whoever this man you’ve left behind.” The idea of it sparks a delicious flame somewhere deep below my cavernous lack of heart. “After ensuring he’s woken up, first, of course. Aware. Pissed off. Untied.” 

I smile my cheshire smile as that resolve in you flickers in place; the smallest glow, so nearly snuffed out already. 

“So?” I spur in your uncertain silence. “Do we have a deal, little killer?”

And still, you hesitate. Seeming to weigh my words with care, along with the cost of your own, which I certainly appreciate. You’re not as stupid as I’d originally believed, in any case.

At long last, you nod, but I don’t move, don’t even blink from how I wolfishly watch you from my throne of Dexter’s couch. Not until you say the words out loud. And you will, if you want my help. You have to.

If that’s a flash of resentment within those pretty eyes of yours, it only causes my broadening smirk.

“Fine,” you say at last, after thickly swallowing. “We have a deal.”

And surely light must dance in my entertained eyes as I bite back just how pleased I am by this answer. 

This should be fun.

✧˖° chapter 2

[mangocurist]

hiiiiiii jet @jumped-for-the-yaoi @daylilie (idk which acc to tag so i just did both) . guess who decided to write wincezam (i fucking love that name so damn much can you Tell)

cw they do like makeout and wemmbu is implied to have a boner at some point? idk lol i wrote most of this in a rage last night while i was still post limited it hasnt been edited

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖥧⚶⋆⭒˚｡✧𖦹✮𖤓✮𖦹✧˖°⋆⭒˚｡⚶𖥧𖥧𖤣.𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖥧⋆⭒˚｡✧𖦹✮𖤓✮𖦹✧˖°⋆⭒˚⋆

“Ugh. Dude, this is like, the third time this week, Wemmbu. Can you like, try and be a little more normal about me?” 

Zam rolls her eyes at him when his guards drag Wemmbu into the throne room, the clothes he'd borrowed (well, stolen, but on Lifesteal, there really wasn't much of a difference) from his doppelganger slightly stained with soot and redstone. 

Zam’s smiling as he looks down at Wemmbu, a brilliant light glowing from the sunny halo that encircles his head. He wants to rip it from Zam’s skull and use it to slit his throat— but Flamefrags is standing just a block away with a netherite sword, and while Wemmbu could probably survive it with the same exploits that got him on here in the first place, he'd really rather not reveal his hand immediately. 

Also, Zam’s rather nice to look at when he’s acting all confident like this. It makes Wemmbu wonder if he could've pushed his own Zam into acting a little more like this, if he just turned up the pressure a little more, pushed her buttons until she could no longer deny the blood on his hands.

Hm. Well, maybe not, on second thought. 

Wemmbu wasn’t sure if he liked that pacifist Zam who refused to raise her sword at any cost, but would send her guard dogs at any person who crossed her. At least this Zam was willing to get his hands dirty.

“You're— you're like, embarrassing yourself at this point. Seriously. Give it up, you're not gonna do anything with your… what was it? Orbital cannon? That’s a stupid name.” Zam blinks, one hand sweeping a strand of curly golden hair out of his eye, and stands up, walking closer and closer to Wemmbu until she stops right in front of him, motioning for Flamefrags and Manepear to leave them alone.

He's expecting the sword to his neck, sure, but the point of the blade pressing into his skin and the warm feeling of her fingers against his face, gently tracing the length of his cheek are unexpected variables— and, oh god, is that fucking perfume or blood? It smells like iron, so it could be either, but there’s also a tinge of some floral scent that he can’t quite place. Either way, Wemmbu shifts uncomfortably on the ground, silently hoping and willing Zam to come just a little closer. 

When she does, another unexpected thing happens. The sword falls to the ground, completely forgotten, as she settles on her knees, lowering herself to the same height as him. Oh, wow. It usually takes longer than this, but Wemmbu certainly won’t complain. “You are actually so stupid. Did you know that?”

To Wemmbu’s credit, he doesn't immediately jump forward and try to eat Zam’s face off. He’s not quite sure the prince-emperor would appreciate it if he ruined his makeup this early into the day. Then again, he did try to bomb the Prince Zam Empire earlier this morning, so surely she wouldn’t be too mad about her makeup compared to the attempted nuking? 

He doesn’t have to worry about that, though, because as it turns out, it’s Zam who ruins it first, yanking Wemmbu forward by his fitted shirt collar and smearing lipstick across his mouth as she cups the back of his head, teeth nibbling on his lower lip as he tries to wear down Wemmbu’s defences. At some point during the kiss Wemmbu thinks he can taste blood, and when he dares to look at Zam in the eye she’s grinning like the little yellow smiling freak she is. 

When Zam finally pulls away, Wemmbu is left practically reeling, glaring up at the prince who just smiles sweetly at him, pulling a handkerchief out of her pocket to dab at the blood staining her face. “You lost this time,” Zam says, then, as an addition, “And also twice before that. Three in a row is a pretty bad track record, dude.”

“Oh, shut up,” Wemmbu rolls his eyes. 

He’s about to say more— point out the fact that he’s never really actually won, because that would require him to level the Prince Zam Empire to the ground and honestly he doesn’t really want to do that, not if it means that Zam won’t be around to match him anymore; or maybe the fact that he hails from a server where murder is the norm and it would be so much easier than Zam thinks to shove a sword between his ribs, make him choke on a poisoned meal or gouge his eyes out with Wemmbu’s bare hands— but then Zam is sitting on his lap, soft, ungloved hands pulling his face down to level, and Wemmbu—

Well. It’s pretty hard to think with a prince in your lap. 

It’s harder (haha) for Wemmbu specifically because this isn’t just any prince, this is Zam, and his blood is still crusted at the corner of her lips where the handkerchief hadn’t reached, and it’s just difficult for him to do anything but stare up at Zam reverently.

“You’re the one who’s going to shut up,” Zam says, voice dripping with honey, and then he bites Wemmbu again, tongue darting out to lick away the blood before she’s on him again, practically trying to smother Wemmbu with the taste of his own ichor. He can honestly barely think with the weight of Zam in his lap and the feel of her touch on his face, but Wemmbu is a self-saboteur in the best of times and he thinks himself a comedian, so when Zam reaches behind him to undo the chains binding his hands, seemingly bored by his limited reciprocation, the first thing he does is reach into his inventory for a small stick of TnT and put it in his hotbar.

Zam doesn’t notice what he’s doing immediately, which is good, if a little worrying. Seriously, for someone who faces so many goddamn assassinations (and he would know! He’s been the attempted assassin no less than 28 times, and it’s been only a month or so since he’s found his way onto Unstable) she really has no sense of self-preservation when in the middle of a makeout session. 

Speaking of. Wemmbu snakes his hand underneath Zam’s shirt, revelling in the fact that she shivers at his touch. He traces along the flat planes of Zam’s back, then slowly inches his way back to the front of her shirt, and— oh, God. Is he not wearing a fucking—

Okay. Cool. Wemmbu has his hands on Zam’s boobs. That’s… cool. The prince doesn’t seem particularly nonplussed about it, either, he actually sounds quite happy about it, but this is a little bit too out of Wemmbu’s depth, and when he’s feeling a little bit out of his own depth, he makes stupid decisions.

He switches his hotbar item, and it takes only a second before Zam is wrenching himself away from Wemmbu, an unreadable expression on her face.

“Wemmbu,” Zam says slowly, as if she's sounding out his name. He blinks at her, trying to emulate that kicked puppy look that always worked on his Zam. It's a losing battle, but he figures he may as well try. At least he’ll look cute while dying with a sword stuck in his gut. Or maybe Zam will put it in his dick, which will look less cute, but it’ll be funnier, for sure. “Did you just try and put a stick of TnT up my shirt?”

“Well, I wasn’t actually going to do it, I think, but I kinda stopped thinking when I touched your boobs,” Wemmbu says, shrugging when Zam turns an almost murderous glare onto him. He sounds much more casual than he feels, still reeling a little from the unexpected experience. A little voice in his head mocks him for getting so riled up at touching boobs for the first time, and Wemmbu ignores it to try and face Zam properly. He’s going to pretend that TnT slipup was on purpose, starting now. “Give me a head start?” 

“You have ten seconds to get out of my sight,” Zam says, the rage in his voice practically palpable. Wemmbu laughs shakily, even as he stumbles his way out of the palace, weaving past each and every guard Zam sends running after him.

“Bye-bye, your highness!” He blows a kiss to Zam as he leaves, grinning when he notices the begrudgingly amused smile he sees her trying to hide. Hey, at least he didn’t fumble as spectacularly as that other him did. Speaking of which… he hadn’t framed his doppelganger in a while, had he?

Well. At least he had that to take his mind off things.

(Somewhere halfway across the world border, a different Wemmbu sneezes. “Please don’t tell me I’m about to be banned from another country.”)

[tackykachowch]

Hey guys remember that terrible letter in s2? Well, how about I tell you that it's actually worse than it seems?

Alright. For the purpose of my point being more clear I'll recite it here. *barely held in gag*

"Silco. I've looked everywhere, but it's clear that you don't want to be found. Oh, God, I'm shit at this (THEN WHY ARE YOU EVEN WRITING IT YOU STUPID IDIOT. Sorry). I'm sorry. When she died, I lost my head. I told myself that what I did to you was for the greater good, that you deserved it. But the dirt was on both our hands. Anyway, you know where to find me. Blisters and Bedrock"

So, it is obvious that Vander regrets what he did to Silco and that he doesn't view him as a "villian of the story" anymore, so to speak. His murder attempt was purely emotional rather than motivated by ideological opposition or something else. Great.

Buuuut let's rewind to the very start of the series. Right to episode one. There. Take a look at these screenshots.

So Vander says to Benzo that there's someone on their side (the Undercity) who is worse than enforcers. Not even someONE, but someTHING. This implies quite a big level of resentment if you ask me. While he's saying that, he looks at his right hand and touches his uhh...I don't. Know how this thing's called I'm sorry. Let's call it a leather cover. There's clearly a reason why he wears it now, and this seems to be connected to the "thing" they're talking about. Alright. I guess we'll find out more about this later.

Fast forward to episode three. Heeeeey, what is THAT??

So Silco cut his hand?? Well, that all makes sense now then. Something brought Silco and Vander to a conflict, which resulted in Vander trying to kill Silco, and Silco cutting Vander's hand when he was escaping from him. For now (💀) we don't know what exactly caused such a rift between them, but it apparently was something pretty serious considering that Vander even stopped referring to Silco as a person. While he does later says to Silco that what he did to him was wrong, but nothing indicates that Vander changed his opinion on WHY he did it.

Now, there could be an argument that Silco did something that made Vander hate Silco AFTER the river scene, and this is why Vander thinks so badly of him. But earlier in the same episode we see THIS reaction from Vander when Silco appears.

So here's the question: why would Vander react like that to seeing Silco if he knew of something horrible he did post their fallout? What's more likely, he hasn't heard anything about Silco AT ALL, whether he's dead or alive or what he does. So Vander's opinion of Silco ("something worse than enforcers") formed prior to their falling out and it didn't change over time.

Now that we have all that information let's go back to our dear, favorite letter.

Uhhhh so. Vander is an incredibly awful person???? Either that, or he has an extremely severe case of amnesia. Because why would he go from wanting to reconcile with Silco and not blaming him for what happened straight into thinking that he's worse than enforcers and not even a person?? Or in his mind these things can coexist somehow?? And to add to all of that, apparently he never told Benzo the truth about their falling out, and made him think that Silco is an "animal". What, was Vander so butthurt by Silco never contacting him that he went full 5-year-old-mode "Humph!! I hate you now!!" and proceeded to lie to everyone about Silco?? So much for a reasonable and peaceful leader of the Lanes, huh.

But we all know that's not the case at all. The case is, of course, that writers forgot to rewatch season 1 and made up a reason for Vander and Silco to fight which is not at all aligns with what we knew about them and their relationship before. This is, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, one of the biggest cases of negligence in storytelling that I've ever seen.

[hhdolly]

Reassurance

Boyfriend!Ghost x Fem!Reader | 1.1k words | Fluff to Smut

Content Warnings: Light pussy slapping, creampie.

It had been a fortnight. Two weeks since you’ve started distancing yourself from Simon.

Instead of going into detail about your day like you usually would, all that would be said was a deadpanned “It was fine.”

And that drove Simon crazy. He pondered while watching you cook, cleaning, or even just sleeping. What did he do to make you so aloof and dismissive? When he told you about the halfwitted joke Soap made, you didn’t even care to laugh.

He missed the way you would ramble on about how stupid your coworkers are. He missed the way you would jokingly make fun of his sense of fashion, and he most certainly missed when you would stay up late talking to him until you fell asleep, even if eighty percent of your words were indecipherable when it came to that point.

He tried to give you the space you needed, but when you didn’t even acknowledge your one-year anniversary, that broke the straw on the camel’s back.

He strode up to you, “What’s been up with you?” He furrowed his brows, cornering you in the corner of the counter, leaning in so far you thought your spine would crack from how far it was bending itself. You slid to the right, attempting to slip out of this confrontation.

But he stepped alongside you, tilting his head, “Hm?” He looked down at your eyes, you’ve never felt so captivated—or is it that you felt like you were being garroted—by his overawing eyes. Brown eyes are the most common and deemed the most ‘plain-looking’ of all eye colors, but could other eyes reflect the worry his eyes reflected?

You shrugged. And that irritated him further. “How am I supposed to make you feel better if you just fucking ignore me?” You stayed silent, opening your mouth like you were going to say something, but your vocal cords felt frozen. You stared, trying to outstare him; Maybe he’d back off then.

But no… he kept staring, leaning closer and closer, until the tips of your noses touched, and his palms, he placed them both onto the counter. Now, you really couldn’t escape.

“Why won’t you tell me?”

What is this? A romcom? When did the lights get so dim, and when did your heart start beating so fast? When did the sun start setting and casting a golden light, painting the kitchen a daffodil shade of yellow? When did he get so beautiful? You don’t recount his lashes being so lush, in which you more or less felt jealousy rather than attraction towards, and him smelling so redolent, like a forest after a heavy rainstorm.

“If I tell you, you’d definitely get mad.”

“Love, it’d be impossible to piss me off more than I already am.” His palms lifted, and he leaned back, crossing his arms, waiting for your response.

You couldn’t think of an excuse. So you let it out, “You don’t love me anymore.” You bluntly stated, like it were a fact.

The fact that you stated it like it was a fact and not a thing you were accusing him of, truly did piss him off more than he already was. “When did I say that? Or imply that?” His eyes squinted in confusion.

“I felt it—and you said you weren’t getting offended.”

“No, love, I said I wouldn’t get pissed.” He chuckled at the hilarity of the situation. “You don’t even know your own emotions sometimes, and you want to try and guess mine? You’re fuckin’ ridiculous.”

“Same thing.” You got quiet again. “So… you do love me?”

“I would’ve kicked you to the curb if I didn’t.”

Your arms enwrapped his body, relieved as you felt his warmth. He leaned his head down, kissing your neck and picking you up to the bedroom.

He threw you onto the bed. You protested, “Don’t you want dinner?” He hummed, “No. I’ve missed ‘er— and you, of course.” He leaned down, kissing your inner thighs, and you softly sighed. A light slap came down onto your pussy, earning a whimper from your lips.

“Want this cock?” He asked, rubbing your pussy through your pants. You nodded, shaking from how long it’d been since he’d been intimate with you. “Yeah?” He condescendingly asked again, “Gonna stretch you out, and fill that womb up, love.” He said as he unbuckled his belt and unbuttoned his pants. He pulled your pants down, pulled your panties to the side, and fingered you to keep your walls stimulated, his cock dripping with pre-cum, maybe it was your heat radiating off of your clit.

“If you can’t handle two fingers, maybe we shouldn’t make love today.” He teased. “No, noo…” You whined. “Please, don’t. I can take it,” your orgasm crashed over you, and you held back the moan. “I’ll take your word for it, love.” He lined up his eight-inch cock, the girth making it more menacing.

You were lying, it hurt, it was only half way in, and the tightness of your cunt was even making him weak. “Fuck, baby.” He groaned, rocking his hips back and forth, his palms tight on your waist. You couldn’t speak; if he went any deeper, he would be in your guts, or it felt like that.

“Oh, oh my gosh, Simon!” You choked out, repositioning yourself to straddle on top of him, still only taking in half his cock. Your hips moved by themselves, not wanting to stop the immense pleasure coursing through your body. Your clip rubbed against his shaft as you bounced up and down, doubling the stimulation.

His hands reached your hips, roughly pushing you down, making you take all eight inches. “Take it all.” He roughly spoke. He chuckled at your loud mewls, it was more amusing to see you quietly oblige, your body shaking.

“Just like tha’, baby.” His head tilted back, he tried not to moan as well. Your divorced neighbor wouldn’t appreciate your loving sex at midnight.

“I love—I love you…” You breathed out, leaning forward as your reached yet another climax, kissing his lips as his dick moved in and out of your walls, hitting your G-spot as it slipped back in.

“Now you love me, mm?” He pulled you back as you leaned back up, opening your mouth and passionately French kissing you. You noticed he started to pant raggedly. “Are you close?”

He nodded, grabbing your hips once again, lifting you and roughly pushing you down onto his cock, your tits bouncing, a weird sensation to feel.

“Oh..!” You closed your eyes, leaning back as he spilled his warm seeds into your womb. He pulled out, lying next to you.

“Talk to me next time, yeah?”

[val-of-the-north]

Most of the "lesser" Nightlords are creatures who think differently from humans, with the clear exception of Fulghor, Libra and Caligo.

Among the three, Fulghor is the odd one out, as he is a warrior and champion of an ancient age who lacks the inquisitiveness of the other two. He is there to fight on behalf of the ancient gods he worshipped, and I am not sure if he is on the side of the Night or if like Adel he has simply found himself in this position due to his sheer power allowing him to claim the title. He did gain a new arm out of it, but he is also not the "Champion of Night" but the "Champion of Nightglow", in stark contrast to everyone else. He even wields a "sacred form of the Night's power", which is interesting since the true Nightlord and Gladius, his personal companion, are both really weak to sacred power... he is also the only Nightlord visibly affected by the Night's power, as his skin features blueish spots all over it. Perhaps he isn't as willing as the others to see the world vanish, but he is too prideful to side with the people who replaced his pantheon. After all, it seems the Nightfarers are drawing from the power of Grace left behind by the dominant culture of the time. Maybe he could have been an ally, but he couldn't forgive the changing of the ages.

This leaves us with Caligo and Libra, who are both very intelligent beings with a wealth of knowledge, acquired for vastly different reasons. Caligo seeks to know and remember, observing history and committing everything to memory, while Libra seeks to reach balance and enlightenment, walking a thin line between blessing and madness. Both also have the ability to pretend to be human, but while we see it for Libra, it is only implied for Caligo, since she is an Ancient Dragon, judging from her appearance, and they could all shape-shift into a more humanoid form if they wanted. However, I believe they are kind of opposites in the way they operate.

Libra, as the Baphomet-inspired creature that he is, gives me the vibe of someone who was there for many points of history, and maybe even interacted with some of the more important people when they meant nothing yet. I can imagine him knocking at Midra's door or meeting a young Marika before she is pulled away by one of her elders who knows the guy is bad news lol. However, he does not seem to be on board with the whole "Lord of Frenzied Flame" thing. He is just as susceptible to madness himself, and something like that would tip the scales on one side rather than the other, which goes against his desire for true balance. Libra's choice to peer into madness is simply a way to reach enlightenment, as it brings you closer to the concept of the One Great.

I think Libra is a force that tips the scales in favor of whatever power is lacking at the moment in an attempt to reach balance. So in an Age where Frenzy is at its lowest, he'd stir up chaos and madness, while in one where Frenzy rules and begins melting the world away, he'd show people the boons of gold and order. He wouldn't necessarily be the one who shapes the course of history, but rather someone who can guess based on his calculations, simply "nudging" others towards the direction he thinks would be best for achieving true equilibrium, which he finally found in the Night that he views as the equalizer of all things. He basically wants a world of unity but without individuality being destroyed, believing balance can exist in the current state of the world without having to renounce it. Quite an insane thing to aim for, but it's respectable in its own right, especially since he did manage to marry order and chaos into his own form of alchemy.

Meanwhile, Caligo is a watchful eye that has probably been around since time immemorial, possibly even being a contemporary to Metyr, or someone born very soon after her arrival on their world. She has observed history and sometimes shows up for its most important events so that she may remember them. In stark contrast to Libra, who feels like he'd be considered a mythological figure, historians would know of Caligo and her importance. And again, unlike him, she would show up when events are already in motion and worth memorizing. She could even show up in her human form to converse with the current world leaders, hear their side and maybe even impart wisdom if they choose to listen to her words. But maybe her years of witnessing cycles upon cycles have made her detached, which just leads her to make either cold or sardonic remarks on certain things she knows for a fact will happen, and they often do just as she predicted. Because she has learned the pattern of history and can correctly identify how things will go.

Maybe in endings that aren't the Age of Fracture, Stars or the Lord of Frenzied Flame, the Tarnished protagonist would be visited by her, curious of the new developments. Maybe she even paid a visit during the Shattering, if only to laugh at how predictable the civil war between Demigods was. The Night, however, seems to be something new and worth investigating, which is no doubt a source of great relief for someone who must have been growing weary of the stagnant nature of Marika's reign.

-

Now I am wondering if Gideon Ofnir looked for either of them in his quest to be all-knowing... he seems smart enough to have found a way to peer into the mind of Marika and discover the truth of the Fingers, so he could have communed with either Caligo, or Libra, or both in an attempt to expand his own knowledge. Cool to think about.

[this-is-exorsexism]

Just came across a binary trans content creator that said the following:

Xenogender cannot exist, because gender is based on sex, and there's only two sexes + some "anomalies" and "medical issues" (referring to intersex people, I guess exorsexism and intersexism go hand in hand)

Immediately claimed that non-binary was different (for reasons not even explained), and that non-binary people did exist

Didn't say it, but strongly implied that non-binary afab are man-lite and must be androgynous while non-binary amab are women-lite and must be androgynous

Most non-binary people are faking it because they don't even try to look androgynous

Xenogenders are mental illnesses

You can't be a demigirl if you're afab, otherwise you're just a cis person invading trans spaces. The only people that can be demigirls are amab people

Apply the logic above for demiboy

Demigender people are either non-binary and faking it for attention, or cis people trying to infiltrate trans spaces

You cannot be agender, because humans cannot biologically not have a sex

Genderfluid people are either confused trans people or cis people trying to infiltrate trans spaces

Being genderfluid isn't possible because you cannot biologically change your sex

Neopronouns are also mental illnesses and they mock "actual trans people"

People using it/its are both traumatized and mentally ill, and they should "learn to love themselves" because the only reason they use it/its is to dehumanise themselves because "they're used to it because of trauma"

The comments were full of other binary trans people agreeing, while non-binary people calling out the exorsexism were silenced and called many... things, to say the least; I refuse to write what was said. And I'd rather not talk about what happened to intersex people in the comments, it was so much worse. It was absolutely disgusting and now I feel horrible.

this is exorsexism.

"there are only two sexes and gender is based on sex, but some nonbinary people are valid" make it make sense, you don't support any of us. also "gender is based on sex" would literally imply that no trans person exists. it's literally terf logic. "you can't change your sex", i guess medical transition isn't real? this person just seems to hate trans people in general and it's wild how many binary trans people agree, ignoring the harm is causes them just because "someone's finally telling the nonbinary people what's up" i guess.

[hollowed-theory-hall]

Hello!! So, I saw an argument about Harry's uhm looks? I guess. A lot of people basically headcanon him as someone buff. I digress, I'm part of the uhm more realistic? group. Harry's been starved and abused his entire life. I doubt he'll gain the weight and the height everyone else wants him to have. Years later. maybe. But in 6th year? While on the run? 3 years after the war? Doubt. do you think he would be able to get super tall and buff? Also, do you think its possible he used the same methods the dursleys used to punish himself?

I mean, anyone can headcanon whatever they want, but, I'll try to explain via quotes, what Harry's height and muscle situation is likely to be. I believe the reasons some headcanon him as buff and tall are:

Harry had pinned Mundungus against the wall of the pub by the throat. Holding him fast with one hand, he pulled out his wand.

(HBP)

He lifts Mundungus by his throat with one hand easily, and he practices Quidditch like 3 times a week at least. This implies that Harry has some muscle on him.

And he's mentioned to be James' height when he's 17:

James was exactly the same height as Harry.

(DH)

Which was supposedly tall, according to both, Harry:

tall and untidy-haired like Harry, the smoky, shadowy form of James Potter

(GoF)

And Voldemort:

the tall black-haired man in his glasses

(DH)

Now, let's put Harry's height in the context of other character heights. Particularly of interest are characters taller than him, to get an image of how tall is "tall." And some shorter characters to help figure out his exact height.

Sirius, Ron, Voldemort, and Dumbledore are all taller than Harry and exceptionally tall in general. They are each likely to be over 6 feet tall, making Harry likely less than 6' (183 cm). Supporting this is this quote:

Once the painful transformation was complete he was more than six feet tall, and from what he could tell from his well-muscled arms, powerfully built.

(DH)

This means Harry is less than 6' and isn't super buff. But, I want to get to his specific height, because I have a lot to say about character heights.

Like, Dumbledore is probably the tallest character who isn't a half-giant because he's towering over everyone except Hagrid and Maxime. In book 6, he's literally taller than all the inferi in the cave:

Dumbledore was on his feet again, pale as any of the surrounding Inferi, but taller than any too,

(HBP)

And Abeforth (who's as tall as Dumbledore) is taller than Ron, who's one of the other tallest characters in the books:

Ron looked slightly sick. Aberforth stood up, tall as Albus, and suddenly terrible in his anger and the intensity of his pain.

(DH)

Making the Dumbledores really tall. My estimate is around a whooping 6'5 (195 cm).

Sirius is mentioned to be taller than Snape, and the tallest Marauder:

said Sirius, standing up. He was rather taller than Snape

(OotP)

To Sirius’s right stood Pettigrew, more than a head shorter

(DH)

A head, in height, should be around one foot (30.48 cm). As the average height of a man in England in 1998 was around 5'8 (174.4 cm), this would make Sirius around 6'2 (188 cm), therefore taller than average, and Pettigrew around 5'2 (157 cm), shorter than the average, but still both at a reasonable height.

Ron is almost as tall as the twins at 11:

“Shut up,” said Ron again. He was almost as tall as the twins already and his nose was still pink where his mother had rubbed it.

(PS)

And, just, really tall in general:

He stepped forward. Not as tall as Ron, he had to crane his neck to read the yellowish label affixed to the shelf right beneath the dusty glass ball.

(OotP)

So I estimate Ron at around 6'3 (190 cm).

Voldemort who grew up on war rations is still described very consistently as tall, regardless of childhood malnourishment:

He was his handsome father in miniature, tall for eleven years old, dark-haired, and pale

(HBP)

tall, pale, dark-haired, and handsome — the teenage Voldemort.

(HBP)

Taller than Bellatrix (who's taller than Harry). Voldemort is also considerably taller than Pettigrew, as he has to bend to reach Pettigrew's arm when both are standing:

Voldemort bent down and pulled out Wormtail’s left arm; he forced the sleeve of Wormtail’s robes up past his elbow

(GoF)

I usually place Voldemort at around the same height as Ron, so 6'3 (190 cm).

Fred and George, though, are mentioned to be shorter and stockier, more similar to Molly's build:

Charlie was built like the twins, shorter and stockier than Percy and Ron, who were both long and lanky.

(GoF)

but are mentioned to shrink to become Harry in book 7:

Hermione and Mundungus were shooting upward; Ron, Fred, and George were shrinking

(DH)

I actually place the twins around 6' (183 cm) so they could be taller than Harry, but shorter than Ron. The twins are likely taller than Charlie.

Bellatrix, as a woman, should also be shorter on average, but considering how tall Sirius is mentioned to be, it appears the Blacks are just considerably taller than the average, even the women:

a tall dark woman with heavy-lidded eyes, who had stood at her trial and proclaimed her continuing allegiance to Lord Voldemort

(OotP)

She was taller than he was, her long black hair rippling down her back, her heavily lidded eyes disdainful as they rested upon him;

(DH)

So I place her at around 6' (183 cm) as well, as an exceptionally tall lady.

So where does this place Harry?

During the first 4 books, Harry is short and small for his age. When he's 13, he and Hermione are bit shorter than Pettigrew:

He was a very short man, hardly taller than Harry and Hermione.

(PoA)

(Ron, noticeably, is taller than Pettigrew at 13)

So, so Harry at 13 was around 5'1 (155 cm). And so was Hermione.

Then in between books 4 and 5 puberty kicks in and probably causes a slight growth spurt that makes him more attractive to girls around him:

He was a skinny, black-haired, bespectacled boy who had the pinched, slightly unhealthy look of someone who has grown a lot in a short space of time.

(OotP)

Parvati Patil and Lavender Brown, the last two of whom gave Harry airy, overly friendly greetings that made him quite sure they had stopped talking about him a split second before. He had more important things to worry about, however:

(OotP)

And then he has another, larger growth spurt between books 5 and 6:

“You’re like Ron,” she [Molly] sighed, looking him up and down. “Both of you look as though you’ve had Stretching Jinxes put on you. I swear Ron’s grown four inches since I last bought him school robes.

(HBP)

“And it doesn’t hurt that you’ve grown about a foot over the summer either,” Hermione finished, ignoring Ron. “I’m tall,” said Ron inconsequentially. [Ron is objectively correct]

(HBP)

Post book 6 growth spurt, we know Harry is below 6' (183 cm) but close enough to 6' to be above the average of 5'8 (174.4 cm) and be considered "tall", and grow "about a foot" after said growth spurt.

I personally place his height at 5'11 (180 cm), to make all of the above make sense.

And while he is physically fit, he is likely very thin from years of malnourishment. So, he likely has some muscle on him, but he's very lean with little to no fat during his Hogwarts years (he'd likely gain more weight as an adult living peacefully with regular meals). So, Harry in the books isn't what I'd call buff, but he has some muscle and can definitely throw a punch. As he grows older post-canon, I think he could get buff if he set his mind to it.

(I actually have notes about the height of a bunch of other characters. Hermione is shorter than Harry and Ron, but noticeably taller than Ginny (5'1 or 155 cm - edited Ginny's height since I think she's shorter than the former estimate of 5'2. Bellatrix says “Very well — take the smallest one,” with Hermione and Luna (who's also short) present, so Ginny is really short) and probably around 5'4 (162 cm) by book 7. Draco is said to be slightly taller than Harry "Harry did not dare look directly at Draco, but saw him obliquely; a figure slightly taller than he was" - DH, placing Draco at around 6' (183 cm))

For your other question, no, I don't think Harry self-harms, definitely not in any way related to the Dursleys, but that's a different post because I went off about heights.