#and can always stand to be more understanding

[lost-in-fiction-like-ur-mom]

A Double Negative

Snotlout Jorgenson X Reader

Summary- Engaged to Snotlout, you're fed up with his flirting. You decide to get back at him with his own medicine.

Warnings- Sweet ending, axe swinging lol, fluff, minor angst

A/N- Well this is so awkward... I have like zero excuses. I just saw the HTTYD Live action and I knew I had to lock in. I present to ya'll my first fic in like 6 months....... :D

Word Count- 1,777

"I'm going to kill him." You say, roughly yanking an axe off of a nearby stand. If you weren't so angry, it might have made you lose balance by the sheer size. Your inexperience with weapons made you less intimidating, but every man on Berk knew not to mess with an enraged woman.

Adrenaline drove you.

Astrid followed you close, trying to calm you down from your previous conversation.

"I just don't get it, he always says that I am the only one for him. That he loves me. But there he is, running his mouth with some other girl. I don't think he realizes that no other girl would put up with his crap." Just venting to Astrid made your blood boil.

"Have you talked to him about how you feel?" She reasoned, knowing that deep down you did love him, and wanted peace.

"Why should I! Isn't it obvious that you shouldn't flirt with other girls while you're engaged!" You were increasingly frustrated, popping your knuckles to ease some kind of tension.

She sighed and threw herself back onto her bed. Neither of you planned that your sleepover would turn into a therapy sesh. "Men are stupid. We even have to tell them when they are being stupid. That's how stupid they are."

You contemplated her words, "And if Hiccup was flirting with another girl?" You queried.

"I'd gouge his eyes out so he couldn't even look at another." She said, calm as ever. Though, it was true that Hiccup would rather die than make Astrid feel that way.

Defeated, you puffed out a frustrated gust of air. "Maybe I should just talk to him..." Astrid laughed at the contrast. Your emotions ran wild, regretfully doubting him. You beat yourself up on the fact you thought him disloyal.

"I think that's a great idea." She said, getting comfortable in her pillow, hoping the conversation would end. That way the two of you could do something more fun or relaxing.

As much as you wanted to move on, your gaze didn't leave the ground. Astrid shot you an understanding look. "You can go now..." You looked up.

"Astrid we've been planning this night for weeks! I'm not going to leave you over some petty feelings." Astrid would love to argue how your feelings were valid, and not petty. But she was too busy ushering you out the door.

"Look, after- you can come right back over. We will have more fun when your conscience is clean." She desperately wanted this to be over with, for her best friend to be at ease.

You knew she was right. Still, she made her way with you to the mead hall, where most of the men were bound to be eating.

Just as you walked in, you located Snotlout. With a freshly dropped face and cold eyes, you watched him. He was sat next to a girl you'd seen around. She was the complete opposite of you. She was visibly strong, taller than Snotlout, and loud.

He had his head thrown back in laughter, the very laugh you loved to hear. The laugh that was only reserved for you. His real laugh that only came out when talking about your future, dragon riding, or joking about Hiccup's leg.

That laugh was for you. No one else. Definitely not this random girl.

"I'm going to kill him."

The next thing you know, you are running across the hall to him. Axe raised above your head. You weren't aware if you were screaming or not, but the looks people gave you implied you were.

"SNOTLOUT!" The girl quickly jumped out of the way, but Snotlout was caught off guard by your voice.

He let out a yelp, quickly throwing himself to the ground. "ARE YOU CRAZY?" He screams back at you.

"Only because you've made me so!" You swing again, narrowly missing his ear. A shred of his hair was caught in the crossfire.

His voice raised a few octaves at your shrew rage. "What is your problem!" He was too worried about you to care about his voice cracking.

"YOU are my problem!" Onlookers knew better than to interfere with your relationship.

"Woah, woah, what did I do?" He tried to grab the axe from you, but risked losing a finger.

You thought about not responding, but stopped swinging to catch your breath. "What haven't you done? Or better yet, WHO haven't you done?"

His demeanor changed immediately, swiftly wrestling the axe from your grasp. "We need to take this outside."

You glanced back at Astrid, who held an all-too-proud look. She nodded with crossed arms.

"Gladly." He went to put his hand on your back, like he typically would when guiding you somewhere. You stopped him, slapping his hand away before walking ahead of him.

As the two of you briskly walked out, you pulled off your engagement ring. "Does this mean nothing to you?" You whisper-yelled at him, shoving the item you held dear, in his face.

He grabbed onto your hand that held out the ring. “What’s gotten into you! If it meant nothing I wouldn't have given it to you.”

You were no longer concerned with where you were going, focusing on your reasoning. “If you’d prefer to stay ‘available’, then you should call off the wedding. It would save me the heartbreak.”

“You are so dramatic!” He threw his hands up, frustrated. “Its just being nice! They mean nothing to me!”

Stopping in your tracks you slowly turn to look at him. "I see how it is." You fake a smile, an idea striking you. His face grows regretful and disturbed.

"Have a great night Snotlout." You leave him confused and alone in the darkness.

The next morning Snotlout was praying that you would have slept off whatever was making you cranky. He had no idea what he was going to walk into...

He, like every morning, confidently strutted into the mead hall. Though, what stopped him straight in his tracks was you.

Typically, you'd wait for him. Always taking your seat by his side, everyone knew of the engagement. Everyone knew for you acted and proclaimed it out proudly. Though, today was different.

You laughed at someone. No, with someone. Now, that usually wouldn't be a problem. But you weren't just laughing.

You were sat next to some dragon trainee. Snotlout had seen him around the training grounds, he had helped care for the dragons while their riders were gone.

The man played no real physical threat to Snotlout. He knew that, but seeing you gently rest your hand on his shoulder. One hand covering your growing laughter. Leaning over him when reaching for the pitcher of water. It was all too much.

Sure, he was smaller than Snotlout. Weaker. Naive. Inexperienced...... More handsome? Funnier? Smarter?

He stormed over, slamming his fist down onto the table. The small man jumped at the sound, intimidated. But you paid no mind.

"Good morning Snotlout, when did you get here?" You mindlessly fiddled with your engagement ring. His eyes were locked on it.

"Not important. We need to talk." His tone suggested he was not asking.

You smiled at him, "Can you give me a moment, it would be rude to leave my friend so quick." Truthfully, the conversation was dull, he was nothing like your beloved fiancé. You were just desperate to prove your point.

"Now." He said, fist hitting the table once more. The poor dragon aid was paralyzed with fear.

Your head snapped in his direction, eyes piercing. "Excuse me?"

He stared back for a moment, but then backed down with a sigh. "Please?"

You smirked at that. "Of course."

He doesn't try to guide you with his hand this time, it saddened you more then you thought it would.

With a newfound cocky attitude, you ask "So, where are you taking us?"

"Just stop, okay." He halts on the pathway.

"I've no clue what you're talking about." You reply.

He steps forward, gently grabbing your hands in his. He looks you in the eyes, his filled with sorrow. "You've proved your point. You can quit the act, okay?" His tone is pleading.

You nod, his plea touching your heart faster than it should have. "...Can we take a walk to the shore?"

"Anything you want." He was dead serious, he might have given anything up- just to have the normal you.

The walk was silent, shoulders bumping together, fingers brushing. It was nervous, like a first date.

Once you reached the water, you sat down onto the sand. Fidgeting with it at your side. Snotlout joined you.

"It didn't take long..." You started light heartedly.

"Is that how you feel?" His gaze looked out onto the water.

"Hm?"

"When I saw you with him... I mean, I know you'd never betray me like that but I..." He licked his lips. "It feels awful." His face scrunched up, a hand hitting his chest.

You took a deep inhale of courage. "Every time... Every time I see you even look at another woman, my heart jumps. I- Snotlout, I don't think you'd actually... Y'know... but it still hurts." You shifted, turning to look at him.

"I just don't understand, why you would need to flirt. I mean, am I not enough?" You were finally able to breathe out your deepest fear.

Snotlout lowered his head into his hands, disappointed and upset. But not at you, never at you.

"I'm so sorry. This is my fault, I've been so amazingly stupid." You let out a chuckle at his words, remembering what Astrid had said.

"I swear it, I swear I won't even talk to another woman if it's your will." He pulled you closer to him, conveying how serious he was.

"Snotlout-"

"No, please just listen." He lifts up your right hand, pressing your palms together. "I should have never let you feel a shred of doubt for my love. I know I am the last person to deserve you, and if it will truly make you happier- I would break the engagement off. But there is no part of me that doesn't want to marry you, and have you for the rest of my life. Just as you already have me."

"Are you done?" You lightly laughed out. His eyes looked glossy, a slow nod erupting.

You said nothing, just pressing forward to feel his lips on yours. It was a familiar action, but just as intimate as the first time they touched.

"You're so stubborn."

"Says the woman who ran at me with an axe.

"That was well deserved."

"Yeah... it was wasn't it?"

[starpeachjelly]

Kindred Spirits ₊˚⊹⋆

prologue part 2

prologue part 1

summary: Your worries about changing the story have started to fade. You've only interacted with her and Caleb so far. As long as you don't bump into anyone else you believe that everything will be alright.

warnings: accidental injury. stab wound. brief mention of blood.

word count: 1.3k

a/n: thank you to everyone who read, liked, reblogged, and commented on part one! i'm so glad you're enjoying this story. the prologue will be split into three parts that focus on reader's childhood with some characters. the official chapters will take place when reader is an adult! but for now enjoy! constructive criticism is always appreciated too since im trying to work on my writing!!

When your family tells you that you're all headed to Josephine's for dinner you don't really think much of it. After all, your family has been invited over countless of times before due to your shared closeness with her. It should be just another regular shared super. But when you walk up to the house, your feet instinctively starting to drag on the pavement, an uneasy feeling washes over you. Nothing seems amiss as you're welcomed inside. The only noticeable difference is the couple who are sitting on the couch. There's a sense of familiarity in their features that you can't quite place your finger on. Josephine introduces them as friends of hers. And you can't help but wonder if they're from EVER. You barely have the time to get introduced to them before you're probed by your parents to go play with the others with an eagerness that reveals how impatient they are to start drinking.

Three pairs of eyes land on you the moment you step foot into her room. There, sitting on the floor is who you immediately recognize as a young Zayne. You suddenly understand why you felt so anxious when coming over, as well as where the familiarity of the couple (who you now know to be his parents) comes from. If you weren't so shocked you'd mentally slap yourself for not being more careful in keeping your distance. You knew Zayne would make her acquaintance at around this time in her life. You're a bit startled when she grabs your hand and sits you down between her and Zayne. His gaze is filled with such seriousness that you wonder if he knows that you don't belong in this moment. Instead, he greets you with a formality that catches you off guard. Even as a child he's stoic and pragmatic. It's impossible to stop an endeared smile from tugging at your lips. You tell him your own name. He only nods, not talking much after that as you all play whatever game she wishes.

Zayne remains silent throughout dinner. You're sitting next to him again, just as quiet as he is. Everyone else at the table is talking enough for the both of you. Your mom and Zayne's mom are chatting about what they do for work. Josephine is discussing with Zayne's dad about something you don't quite understand. And your own father is talking to Caleb and her about his adventures as a pilot, both of them listening intently with wide eyes.

In the corner of your vision you notice the carrots that remain on Zayne's plate. The orange sticks standing out on his otherwise empty dish.

"Can I have your carrots?" you ask, breaking the silence between you both, wanting to save him from being scolded for being a picky eater.

Hazel green eyes widen ever so slightly, a barely noticeable hint of surprise written on his face. He nods and turns his plate to give you easier access to the vegetables.

Silence quickly settles back between the two of you, but you catch him looking in your direction a few times throughout the rest of dinner.

Eventually the night comes to an end, and you pat yourself on the back for handling this unexpected surprise pretty well. For once you don't even feel anxious about impacting the story. A single chance encounter with twelve year old Zayne surely won't change anything.

Unfortunately for you, nothing is ever that simple. Zayne officially becomes part of your group a few days later. He doesn't talk much, and you don't either, wanting to let the three of them enjoy themselves together. However, whenever she notices you being quiet for too long she seems to go out of her way to make sure you're involved in conversation. She even goes as far as to brag about how smart you are to Zayne, telling him that you two should talk about "smart stuff" together. Which leaves you laughing awkwardly because you know that even with your past memories you're not nearly as smart as he is. But to your surprise he starts talking to you a little more often after that. You assume it's because he doesn't want to disappoint her. No one wants to be on the receiving end of her puppy eyes, they're lethal.

Time passes, the last couple months of school come to a finish. Summer break comes and goes. Your days are filled with you four hanging out nearly every day. Unfortunately your fun comes to a halt when the last week of summer rolls around. You know that things are going to change. Based on the events of the story, Zayne will soon lose control of his evol and hurt her. So you start to mentally prepare yourself for what's about to happen. In your mind you know they'll both be okay, but your heart aches knowing that they'll both end up hurt, and that you can't stop it. But that key moment doesn't happen. At least not in the way it's supposed to play out.

She's not even in the room when it happens, having gone to the kitchen to get more snacks. It's just you and Zayne, and a sudden chill that starts to creep across the room. You watch as his usual calm demeanour slowly shifts into one of panic as frost begins to spread across his hands and arms. Everything happens so quickly that you barely have time to process it. One moment you're watching with wide eyes as frost turns to crystals that are now inching up all the way to his neck, the next shards of ice burst and fly across the room. You try to shield yourself, but one manages to pierce into your abdomen. Maybe it's the shock, or the cold, but you don't really feel anything except for a numb tingle. Your eyes are glued to your wound, watching as red starts to dye the bluish ice. The sight should panic you, but for some strange reason you know you'll be okay. When you look back up, Zayne is staring at you in shock. His eyes filled with guilt and fear. You immediately reassure him.

"It's okay," you tell him with a calmness to your voice that surprises even you.

Josephine enters the room. She's quick to call the paramedics. A pair of footsteps can be heard coming back from the kitchen. You immediately ask Josephine to keep her away, not wanting her to witness what's happening.

Zayne is still looking at you with that same heart wrenching expression.

"It's okay," you assure him once again, "It was an accident."

You don't look away from each other. Even when the paramedics arrive. Even when they wheel you to the ambulance. Your eyes are on him until the very last moment.

Zayne is gone by the time you get out of the hospital. You've tried so hard not to impact the original story as best you can, only to end up taking her place in a key moment in their story. Unfortunately there's nothing you can do now since he left without so much as single word. You're left hoping that this hasn't changed too much of their future.

Luckily she remains unaware of what happened, having been told you were simply not feeling well. (Which technically isn't a lie since being stabbed doesn't feel good.) However, despite being oblivious to the incident, every time you two are together you notice that she looks at you with something akin to worry. Thankfully her concerned gazes stop after a few weeks, so do the mentions of Zayne.

Things go back to normal, as if the event never happened. All you're left with is a faint scar from where the icicle had stabbed you. You don't mind it. It's small, and always hidden under your shirt. But you can't help but trace over it whenever you get undressed. A chill runs down your spine every time you see it. A reminder that you're now written into a story that you shouldn't be a part of.

tag list: @moonchildjae00 @elegantdeerlady @hon3yydew @chocochip-gaia @solmanel1 @wooasecret @peachystea @seung185 @mcdepressed290 @whimsiecat @shadowypeachsweets @animegamerfox

a/n: thank you all sm for your comments they mean the world to me!! 🥺💕

[yuwritesstuff]

Headcanons about Satoru as a Girl Dad 🌺✨

He cried the first time he held her. Not in front of anyone else — he was joking and cocky and obnoxious at the hospital, trying to hide all the worries. But when it was just the three of you and she curled her tiny fingers around his pinky, he broke. Quietly. Tears were streaming down his cheeks as he cradled her and smiled happily. He had the whole world in his arms, given to him by his loved one.

She’s the only one (except her mom, of course) who can boss him around. “Daddy, sit.” And he does. “Daddy, today I choose what you’re gonna wear!” And these are the most mismatched pieces of his wardrobe, an absurd combination. But he puts these on and goes to meet with the higher-ups. “Daddy, put me on your shoulders!” And the world becomes even more interesting for her from the perspective of his height.

He’s obsessed with her laugh. He’ll spend hours doing the dumbest things just to hear it — ridiculous dances, jokes, and parodies. That sound is his favorite in the world. It means she’s safe. She’s happy. She’s so real, his little sweet baby. He hopes that this will be one of the things she’ll remember best from her childhood. That laughing is always allowed, even for adults.

She’s just as sharp as him — and it terrifies him. One time, she tricked him into giving her dessert before dinner. A four-year-old. He was both horrified and deeply, deeply honored. “She’s definitely my kid,” he said, wiping away a proud tear. But of course, he often falls for her tricks just because he likes to spoil her.

He teaches her how to stand up for herself. From day one, he tells her: “You don’t have to shrink for anyone. You don’t owe the world softness unless you choose to give it.” And she listens. She learns. It’s like a protective mantra that he whispers to her as she falls asleep, hoping that these words will stay with her and she will realize its meaning later.

He has zero resistance to her tears. If she starts crying, his whole world stops. No jokes. Just soft panic and immediate scooping up. “Who do I have to fight?” he whispers. “What made my baby cry?” His heart is aching, and he’s ready to do anything to make her feel better. It’s hard for him to say “no” if it’s tears of demand, so she’s already spoiled by him from a very young age.

He sees her mother in her constantly. Sometimes he quietly watches her, observes her gestures and behavior, and sees you in her. Mom’s features are intertwined with dad’s, and it strikes him to the core — this is a little person made of both of you. You soulmated so hard that you created another heart, a cute little friend for both of you. She’s everything.

Oh, but she definitely has his temper too. She once looked up at him mid-lecture and said, “Is this gonna be long? I have blocks to build.” He nearly exploded with laughter. “Siblings? What are the pros and cons of that?” she wonders seriously when you ask if she wants a brother or a sister. “If they’re as cool as me... hmm, I’ll think about it!” she sticks out her tongue and giggles. His little smartass.

He keeps her drawings in his wallet. Folded, worn, cherished. Even when he’s across the world on duty, her crayon versions of the three of you remind him why he fights. When he comes back from work, they draw together, and his own drawings are no better than a child’s spontaneous doodle, but she praises him so sincerely that he melts.

They have wild inside jokes no one understands. Even you, her mother. It drives you crazy sometimes because they act like real idiots. But they’re your favorite idiots. Like synchronized “dramatic faints” at the breakfast table. Or gossiping about you quietly with a sly smile on their faces. Or their secret handshake that takes 40 seconds (you counted). Sometimes they just treat life like a game they’re winning together.

She shares his love for sweets. He buys her all kinds of goodies and treats her with the best desserts in the city, on weekends he pampers her with custom-made sweets from a pastry shop. So when it’s time to visit the dentist, you send him with her to the doctor as a lesson. He taught her to brush her teeth well. It’s nobody’s fault she has a sweet tooth like him!

He loves to put her to bed. He reads her fairy tales and tells her funny stories, assures her that there are no monsters under the bed and checks it several times if she’s scared. “Your daddy is the strongest monster fighter!” he winks. And when she falls asleep, he kisses her on the forehead and just lies next to her for a while before going to his beloved wife to make another such cutie pie.

He talks to her like an equal — always. He doesn’t baby her thoughts or shield her from the truth. He explains the world gently but with honesty. She asks hard questions. He never lies. It’s not easy when she realizes what a complicated world she lives in. Every time something inside him breaks when she gets a little more mature. But he knows that this is part of the journey too.

He’s incredibly protective, but in stealthy ways. He won’t be the loudest dad at school (surprisingly). Instead, he’ll silently ward off anyone who makes her uncomfortable — a quiet glare, a sudden presence. Nothing gets past him. He doesn’t want to get into things that she has to experience on her own, but he also doesn’t want to be on the sidelines if something hurts her.

He’s terrified of failing her. Beneath the jokes and playfulness, he carries a deep fear — that the world will hurt her the way it hurt him. So he watches closely, listens deeply, holds tighter when she sleeps. He knows that there will definitely be challenges and pain in life, but while she is so young, he will protect her and her childhood with all his best. She will have a different, better life.

He tells her every day: “You’re loved. Always.” Not just “I love you” — but “you are loved”. By him. By her mom. By the universe itself. He wants her to know it, feel it, believe it in her bones. Despite all the hardships, there is so much beauty in the world, and it’s a true miracle that we are all here, so fragile and eager for love and validation. He deeply realizes it when he becomes a father. And he wants her to feel it too.

He dreams of seeing who she’ll become. Whether she becomes a sorcerer or an artist or a chaos gremlin scientist — he’s there. Sometimes he forgets about all his bravado and feels something that he hasn’t felt much before. Fear of leaving this world too soon, not being a present father and partner. He wants to have a future in which he will see his child grow up. Happy, no matter what path she chooses. “This is her story now, and I just wanna be a part of it for as long as possible!” he smiles.

[starrbishops]

⟡Filthy Mouth⟡

(Bob Reynolds x Reader)

Summary: Bob finally lets you give him a blowjob. - prequel to Sidelines based on a request from @princess312

Word Count: 1.4k

Notes: Oral sex, blowjob, established relationship, Post-Thunderbolts*, porn without plot, so much swearing, Bob Reynolds curses like a sailor,

a/n: Uhhhh yeah this is just pornography. Straight up written word porn. With some Bob character study mixed in on his background and behaviors in a relationship. But mostly porn. Enjoy!

Bob wasn’t used to being powerful.

It was strange, having his new abilities. He felt stronger, healthier, but he still felt like himself. Robert Reynolds, the vagrant drug addict dropout. He did his best to keep his powers at the forefront of his mind after remembering what he’d done to New York. He didn’t want to hurt anyone, especially not his new friends. And especially not you.

Bob tried to take things slow with you, always leaving you chances to back out. He knew he wasn’t an easy person to be with, and he honestly didn’t fully understand what you saw in him. But you stayed everytime. No matter how much he pointed out his faults, his flaws, you’d just smile and tell him you liked him anyways, as is.

It’s part of why he likes you so much. More than anyone he’s ever known.

Still, he tries to not come on too strong. He always makes sure to put you first. All the bare minimum boyfriend tasks; walk closer to the street, hold doors open for you, remind you everyday how incredible you are. In bed, it translates to making sure you cum at least once, preferably twice or more, before he does. Which is why it takes so long for him to let you blow him.

When it comes to sex, Bob is first and foremost concerned with not hurting you. He still gets nightmares of when you beat up you and the rest of the team as Sentry. You all laugh it off as a funny memory, tell him you forgive him, but it nags at him. He could hurt you so easily, and he would sooner die than do that on purpose. Anyways, he much prefers the way you look when he eats you out, eyes rolling back in your head, hands gripping his hair while he raves at you. He prioritizes your pleasure over anything else. The fact that you even let him have sex with you is the win from his perspective. Apparently, you don’t see it that way.

You’re seated in his lap, the two of you making out in his bedroom while the rest of the team is away on a mission. You palm at the grown bulge in his pants, breaking the kiss. “Can I please blow you?” you ask, with just a hint of a pout on your face. “I’m good at it, so I’ve been told.”

Bob is about to reply before you cut him off. “And if you say you just want me to have a good time, I will have a good time. I like taking care of you Bob. I just want you to let me.” 

He shuts his mouth, looking up at you. It feels like a fever dream, a beautiful girl in his lap who desperately wants to suck his dick. It’s not like he hasn’t imagined it before. There’ve been plenty of long missions where he’s had to deal with his erections himself, and thought of you while doing so. Imagine it was your hand rather than his, how it would feel to have your lips wrap around his length, taking all of him into your mouth and down your throat. Just thinking about it now makes it even harder.

So instead of his usual deflection, he nods. “You sure? I don’t want to hurt you.”

You just grin, already tugging at his waistband. “Bob, we’ve had sex before. I know your dick is big. Congratulations, I will survive.”

He chuckles as he assists you in removing his pants, lifting his hips so you can pull them off along with his boxers before tossing them across the room. You settle yourself between his legs, licking your lips as you take in the image before you. 

Bob’s cock stands at attention, red and desperate for touch, precum leaking from the tip. You glance up, waiting for consent before you make a move. Bob nods, awkwardly settling his hands by his sides, not wanting to touch you too intensely at first.

Bob Reynolds is no blushing virgin. He’s had sex, and had blowjobs before. He’s trying not to be too loud. He really, really does. Still, the moment your tongue swipes over his tip, he’s already groaning. “Fuck, baby.” he gasps, one hand flying to your head while the other grips the sheets beneath him in an attempt to ground himself. “So good, fuck.”

You take the base of his cock in our hand, getting a firm hold before you lick up the underside of him, taking your time to coat him with your spit. He does his best not to hold too tightly onto your hair for fear of pulling too hard. He keeps his eyes on you, memorizing the sight of your tongue sliding along his length, the feeling of you against his most sensitive parts.

“Tell me how it feels, baby.” you mutter, looking up at him with lust darkened eyes. “Don’t hold it in.”

Bob’s always been the talkative type. Before you, he tried to tone it down, considering most of his sexual experience was just flings. When you said you liked when he made noise, he took it to heart, letting his inner monologue escape his lips as you ravished him. 

He nods, another moan escaping him as you take him in your mouth, at the heavenly feeling of your lips around his cock. 

Try as you might, you can’t take his whole length in your mouth. You compensate with your hand on what you can’t fit, stroking him as you begin to bob your head on him, Bob groaning at the sensation.

“Holy shit, babe, oh my god.” he rambles as you take him in and out of your mouth, his knuckles beginning to turn white with how hard he grips the sheets. “You’re so fuckin’ beautiful like this, mouth full of cock. Should’ve let you do this sooner, fuck-”

He interrupts himself with another moan as you manage to take him ever deeper into your throat, his tip just touching the back of your throat. You continue at your pace, laser focused on his every move and sound, noting what gets the most reaction. You do it again, take him just that much deeper, and Bob almost cums on the spot.

“Oh my god, you’re so good. Holy fuck, you’re perfect, your mouth is fucking incredible.” He can feel your own moan vibrate around him, and he groans at the feeling in turn. He’s becoming convinced you’re trying to suck his soul out through his cock. He’d let you, if it feels this good. He’d let you do anything you want to him.

He’s still talking aloud, he realizes as you make a sound that at first verges on a laugh, shifting quickly to a moan as he accidentally jerks his hips up just a bit. “Shit, I’m sorry, a-are you good? Okay?”

You nod, wiping your mouth quickly and smiling innocently as you lower your mouth back onto him, one hand moving to cup his balls beneath his cock. Yet another string of curses escapes him at the feeling, the combined sensation of your mouth and hands becoming all too much. He can feel himself hurtling off the edge, towards absolute ecstasy.

“Oh, god, baby I’m gonna cum, where should I- can I cum in your mouth? Please? Wanna fill you, let you taste me.”

You moan around him, and Bob takes that as the affirmative. You continue, eyes closed as you concentrate on maximizing his pleasure.

“Fuck, baby, ‘m gonna cum, fuck, fuck!” he practically yells out your name as he finally cums, you taking as much of him as possible as he does, hot spurts of cum sliding down your throat. You take it like a champ, holding your position, still stroking the base of him and massaging his balls beneath that.

“Jesus fucking Christ.” Bob groans as he tries to collect himself, eyes coming back into focus to see you sit up, swallowing before licking what’s left of his cum off the tip of his softened dick. “You’re amazing.”

“You have a filthy mouth.” you chuckle, crawling up his body. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you curse that much.”

“The things you do to me.” he smiles, leaning in to kiss you. He can taste the salty flavor of himself on your lips. “We should do that again sometime.”

You brush some fallen hair out of his face, grinning with satisfaction. “Told you I was good.”

“I never doubted you.” he assures you, pulling you into his arms as he flips you onto your back. “But now it’s my turn.”

a/n: i'm gonna be fr blowjobs are not my specialty but i did my bset here and honestly it was good practice. Insane thing to say about writing about blowjobs but damn here we are. uhhhh bob fans enjoy!

[unikhroma]

rambton, or idk fucken. puppetsocket if you like those wacky ship names that last drawing isn't their actual standing height difference btw, ramb is sitting

can an email and a power strip find love? yes. i have a lot of thoughts on these two interacting

so my theory for these two is that both of them have come in contact with DEVICE_FRIEND. they both were exposed to forbidden information through FRIEND, and although it affected them to different degrees, they both kinda.. lost it. obviously it's much worse for spamton, but it's still the case for ramb as well. he just tends to hide his issues.

the horror of the information they possess is something that they bond over, and something they feel like only the two of them could understand (maybe jevil can but spamton doesn't get along with him ;;). they also see themselves in each other, having been outcasted by their fellow darkners and kept in solitude. maybe together they could be less lonely?

they also think lowly of tenna, having to deal with the side of him that's not great. when they first met again, spamton got extremely angry when he was brought up, which startled ramb, but he broke down sobbing soon after the anger (which is the context for the first drawing).

that moment was when ramb fully understood that this mailman that tenna's always complaining about had more going on than just a big ego. of course he already figured, but yknow it's different seeing the guy show symptoms right in front of you

it's also just nice to spend time with another guy from the same dark world too. ramb doesn't have to feel like a fish out of water anymore, and even though spamton is scary, he's fun, he cares about him, and he doesn't judge. they kept spending time with each other and began to catch romantic feelings.. and that's how they became a couple

though i haven't figured out in what context they met again. something something the knight really did take ramb after kris gets the shadow mantle and they chuck him into castle town for some reason (maybe so he can do that "work to do" he was talking about after the shadow mantle fight)

[salem-s]

can you please write a rafe fic based on the song “back to friends”?

like they were exes turned to strangers but there’s sooo much tension and they’re obviously still sooo in love with each other. just angst vibes with maybe some suggestive fluff? idk

just a suggestion though totally understand if it’s too specific for you!

yes! when you sent this in i had no idea what song you were talking about LOL but now ive heard it and it’s so good. love this prompt!

BACK TO FRIENDS — RAFE CAMERON ONE SHOT (18+)

SYNOPSIS you and rafe have been broken up for months, and despite not seeing him since, you haven't stopped thinking about him. then, out of the blue, he's suddenly there at one of your parties: coy yet shy, a presence yet a ghost, looking at you as if he's never seen anything prettier. and all you can think is: what the fuck?

WARNINGS aaaannnngst (miscommunication tendencies is very high here, they’re both idiots), fluff, suggestive content and descriptions of smut. post-grad au, living in a city of your choice. ex!rafe is fun to write, but apologies because this isn't super edited.

WORD COUNT 8.1k.

SONG OF THE CHAPTER back to friends by sombr

You've been single for six months.

Has it been easy? Absolutely not. Was it necessary? That's a bit subjective depending on who answers on the matter, but - of course - most of the time you'd argue no. Your ex would argue yes in a self-depricating sort of way. Part of you knew it was coming to a close in those final weeks, taking into account the way you drifted apart as one of life's natural tendencies.

You were heading in one direction. He was heading in another. There are so many things that he probably thought that he never spoke, especially with the way he hinted towards not being good enough for you, not being good enough to follow you into the next stages of your life. You, of course, knew that wasn't true, that it was his mind sending him into a spiral, not his heart. It ruptured your soul when the last image of him was his back towards you, not even having the gall to face you as he said goodbye. You never thought you'd see him after that.

So why the fuck is Rafe Cameron standing in your living room right now?

He looks good. Too good. The long locks that you used to toy with between your nimble fingers are gone, replaced with a slightly grown out buzz that suits him, makes him look more mature and grounded. A simple t-shirt adorns his torso, snug tight at the seams around his biceps, looking a little bigger than you last saw. He's clean cut, sleek in a way that makes your heart pound, and a head taller than everyone around him, commanding the room without even meaning to.

But his eyes tell a different story.

When those pretty blues meet yours, you see what he really feels: an emptiness and search for something to fulfill his soul, radiating a sadness to them that emulates the look of despair he had the last time you were with him. No one notices. He hides it well. But you were always able to read him like a book, to be able to pin point his emotion like it was your day job, to know how to approach him through various emotions to get him to feel better.

You, apparently, still can.

It's absolutely debilitating when you lock eyes across the room, and you can't even describe the weird feeling that settles in your gut. Is it anxiety? Dread? Excitement? It's a kettlebell in your stomach that only weighs more and more the longer you look at him, the more you register that Rafe Cameron, your ex and probably the only person you'll ever love, is standing in your living room in a state you never thought he'd be in with people you never associated him with.

First you feel shock. Then confusion.

How the fuck is he here? Who does he know? Did he - somehow - stumble upon this party in a stroke of pure luck and humiliation (on your part) or is this intentional? Does he know this is your apartment? Did he recognize the same decor that you had in your old place? Smell your favorite candle? See the furniture and overall mood of the house and think of you? Did he even know? How could he have?

It isn't until (some) of your questions are being answered when you spot another friend of yours, Wyatt, clap Rafe on the shoulder and whisper something in his ear, nodding in your direction and tugging him towards—

Fuck.

Tugging him towards you.

You wish you could move. Or do anything. Pretend to be caught up in a conversation with a friend or sneak out onto the fire escape that you can only access through your room. Anything would be better than this: simply standing in place and waiting for the inevitable. You're angry. Yet sad. Confused. You're mad that he's still looking at you like he's in love with you. You're sad that he's still looking at you like he's in love with you. You're confused that he's still looking at you like he's in love with you.

Before your brain can turn on and make a move, Wyatt's suddenly there with an audacious hand clapped on Rafe's shoulder and gently shaking it to emphasize the presence.

"Honey!” Wyatt chirps brightly (curse his ability to literally befriend a brick wall, and curse the fact that you can't hate him for doing this to you right now if you tried). "This is Rafe, the friend from Coastal that I was telling you about."

"Honey?" Rafe murmurs in surprise, and you nearly stop breathing at the fact that you're hearing his voice again. "This is Honey?"

Before your friend can explain the horrifically embarrassing story as to how you got that nickname that your friends use more than your actual name, you miraculously find your voice.

"And this is the friend from Coastal you were telling me about?" Your tone matches your ex's of surprise.

If Wyatt notices the clear apprehension between you two, he either doesn't notice or simply doesn't care enough to address it. With some sort of magic, he manages to smile wider.

"Yeah! Figured since you both went there, you might know the same people?" He offers innocently, darting his gaze cheerfully between you as if he's waiting for something magical to happen.

But it...doesn't.

Because you fucking laugh.

Right in Rafe's face. And it's out of disbelief (and slight drunkenness) that this is actually happening right now. Your good friend is introducing you to your ex, the same ex that you haven't spoken to (or much less heard from) in six fucking months. The same ex that you've been absolutely devastated over losing. The same ex that you've been attempting to find fragments of in different people, yet coming up short every single time and thus ruining the progression of your love life.

It's comical, really, it is. Because what are the odds of this happening? Of Rafe Cameron standing in your apartment, in a place you thought hidden well enough to shield you from the ghosts of your past? Of the mere concept that this is how you're seeing him again: flushed and drunk and having a great time at a party you organized. It's out of left field, completely throwing you off your game (if you even have one).

"Yeah," you manage to get out, "we know of each other."

Wyatt beams, and Rafe frowns, portraying the happy-sad theatrical masks to a fucking T.

Yet your friend takes that as a cue to pat Rafe's back, sending another knowing glance your way as if to say you're welcome! before disappearing into the party, chatting up another group of friends as if he didn't just cause a rapture in your brain. You let your gaze settling on your friend morphing into the crowd before glancing back at your ex.

Who's staring right at you.

The seriousness in his expression makes you falter slightly, not because of the intensity of it but because you just...miss him. You haven't seen him in so long, haven't been this close to him. If you wanted to, you could reach out and grab him, tether yourself to him, cling onto a bicep like you used to love doing, or sit snug under his arm and relish in the warmth he always unintentionally provided. But you can’t. Not anymore. He made that clear when he ended things with you: he wants nothing to do with you anymore, and that includes your touch.

"Why did you say that?" He asks gently, as if it's plaguing him. "Why didn't you tell him?"

Your expression must look whack, because you manage a confused smile and an arched brow, as if it's obvious. "Because I'm not about to re-hash the semantics of our break up in the middle of the function right now?"

The tone isn't nice, but it isn't mean either. It is indifferent. Tired. As if you've just picked up the pieces of your heart that shattered with him leaving you, only to have the cracks form again and threaten to burst through the seams of the fragile tape you used to stitch your heart back up. It's a bit crazy for him to ask that, you think. Because why would you bring it up? Wyatt doesn't know any better, as the faux introduction was done out of pure innocence, so why damper the mood with the truth?

Rafe pauses at your words, and the longer he's silent the more you feel stupid. You feel stupid that you're essentially backed into a corner, drawing shapes in the wooden floors with the tops of your toes to keep from slipping, swishing around a drink that has one small sip left in it. It's almost worse that he's silent. You want him to scream. To get mad, for whatever reason. Because then it'll be easier for you to pull away, to detach, to fucking move on.

But he doesn't. He's gentle with you. He always was. Never raised his voice or acted out. He was just...Rafe.

He still is, apparently.

"How have you been?" He manages to ask after a moment's silence, opting for the safe choice of not going on a tangent based on your snotty response.

What do you think? You want to snap.

But you don't. You simply shrug. "Fine. You?"

Rafe furrows his brows, as if his answer is obvious yet prolonging the response to see if you really know, or are asking out of courtesy. You're asking because it's the script you normally follow, when someone asks how you are you typically ask them back. It's not rocket science. It doesn't need to be complicated. God, why is he making it complicated?

Why is he looking at you like that?

"Are you going to answer, or..?" You trail off, searching his eyes for any sort of answer but coming up short.

Your tone is detached, as if you're talking to an old friend who you can joke and kid around with. Not the guy you've loved for years. The wince on his face reminds you of that, that you’re not joking around with just anyone. You’re with him. You’re acting like nothing is wrong, like these past few months have been a walk in the park. It’s funny that you’re going at him as if you haven’t shared your deepest vulnerabilities with him beneath soft sheets that smell of him.

Although Rafe has absolutely no room to guilt trip you right now. He orchestrated this. He wanted this. Not you.

You speak before tears can start brimming your waterline. “Whatever. See you around.”

You’re quick to duck around his audaciously broad figure, beelining towards…anywhere that isn’t here and anywhere that doesn’t have him infiltrating your senses, dulling you down. A flicker of anger crosses across your heart, because how dare he? How dare he show up here (even if he didn’t actually know this is your place, the meaning still applies) and send you all these weird signals? How dare he look at you as if he’s in pain?

Because this is his fucking fault. He broke it off, he separated himself when he didn’t need to, he lost faith in himself as a partner. You loved him through his faults, and you still do, yet that still wasn’t enough to make him change his mind. All him. Not you.

Rafe says your name quietly.

Like an idiot, you turn. Despite the thumping bass and the high pitched laughter wafted through each room, you hear him loud and clear. His blue eyes are too pretty, too intently focused on you, too…everything. It’s almost painful to look at, to see the reminder that you lost him, you lost the privilege of staring shamelessly at those pretty, pretty blues.

“You look beautiful,” he says ardently, low in a tone just reserved for you.

But it only upsets you further, makes your heart split in quarters after he split it in half six months ago. You hate how sincere he sounds, as if he’s been itching to say it all this time. Instead of a compliment, it comes across as a reminder that he left.

All you can do is shake your head. “Fuck you, Rafe.”

And you’re disappearing into the party before he can object.

You’re grateful that your room is somewhat secluded from the communal spaces.

It’s especially forgiving in this instant, when you’re cozied up alone on the fire escape that someone can only access from your bedroom, hugging your knees and staring out onto the cityscape with a scowl so deep one may think the horizon wronged you. A joint that was supposed to calm your racing heart lays untouched next to your lighter, and you don’t even have the gall to light it and try and forget about the events of tonight. Knowing yourself and knowing your brain, the weed will only tenfold the nagging emotion.

You fucking miss him. And you fucking hate him. And you fucking love him.

It caught you immensely off guard to see him again, much less standing in your living room and talking with your new friends without them even knowing who he is, without knowing what he did. The result in your brain is immediate: you miss him. You didn’t realize how much you did until you saw him.

You miss the way he’d always wake up before you, either getting up to brew your favorite coffee blend or simply waiting for you to wake in his arms, tracing idle fingertips along your smooth skin or kissing your hairline. You miss how he always made you laugh, no matter how grumpy or irritated you were at him or at the world. You miss his charm, the way he’d always flirt with you regardless of how long you’d been together, pretending to not know you in public just to ask you out all over again. You miss how he knew you, how he knew your favorite things and brought you your favorite foods and candies, how he’d buy you silly trinkets he saw in a store window simply because it reminded him of you, how he’d know how to approach you when you’ve had a bad day. You miss how he loved you, like there was nothing else around him worth his time.

The tears don’t come. They almost do, but when the time comes for them to fall, they just…don’t.

Perhaps it’s because you’ve already used all of them on him. Or because you’re tired. Or because you’re simply sitting with a pit in your stomach about the fact that he’s here, he’s actually here, probably making friends and slowly integrating himself in the life you wanted him to be in from the start.

God, feelings fucking suck.

“Hey.”

The voice (the all too familiar voice) startles you, snapping you out of your thousand yard stare to whip your head around to face the culprit. You blink dumbfounded when your eyes meet his pretty blues, yours definitely blown wide simply at the mere thought of someone disturbing your fire escape time, a fire escape hidden from the party.

Of course, it’s him. How did he even find you?

You didn’t even hear the window crack open. Nor your bedroom door. You didn’t think someone would have the audacity to enter someone else’s bedroom without knocking, or perhaps he did and you simply didn’t hear it. Regardless of the way in which the events played out, he’s still leaning through your window frame and still too fucking close to be considered apprehensive.

At your silence, Rafe clears his throat with a cautious glance. “Can I sit?”

I don’t know, can you? You almost snap childishly, disastrously still wanting to put on the front you had on earlier to attempt to show him your indifference, but it proves unlikely that you’ll have an ounce of that spark you had from before.

Because now you’re just tired. Worn out mentally. Re-hashing the details of your breakup over and over and over in your head to torture yourself. You have little fight left in you, and the mere thought of trying to stay strong only settles more of a kettlebell in your gut.

Wordlessly, you nod.

It’s a bit awkward when he actually realizes you’ve said yes (gestured it, actually), registering that you’ve given him the green light instead of the red that he had been expecting, especially since your venomous words about an hour ago. His limbs are long and lanky, and it takes him a bit of time to actually situate himself next to you and find a position comfortable enough to accommodate his stature. It’s not the most forgiving fire escape, but you’ve gotten used to the harsh ridges and crates that are now a source of comfort.

Rafe notices the unlit joint. “Were you gonna smoke?”

You shrug, because you don’t even know. You brought it out here just to have some sort of outlet in the beginning, but realized it actually might make your spiraling worse, so you left it untouched. Perhaps for later. You didn’t even bring your phone out here.

The stubborn silence coming from you makes him antsy, you can tell. Because there’s one thing that always made him nervous, and that was when you shut down. When you closed yourself off and drifted into the confinements of your mind that aren’t forgiving. When you are silent, because he’s said before that he loves your words, and life without them always hurt no matter what. He dealt with your quiet as best as he could, and for the most part he always handled it well.

Obviously, his method of coddling you back into speaking isn’t going to work now. So instead he sits, picking at his nail beds that confirms he picked up his bad habit again. You almost instinctively reach out to get him to stop, but catch yourself before you can further embarrass yourself.

“You can have it, if you want,” you offer tiredly, voice quieter than you intended.

But despite the volume, his shoulders visibly relax at the sound of your voice.

“No, I’m…” Rafe clears his throat. “I’m okay. Thanks.”

Then, more silence.

He’s so close yet so far, just barely brushing shoulders and you almost don’t want the connection because it’ll simply remind you of how good it feels to touch him. You don’t want to know it again only to have the rug swept out from beneath you once more. So instead you keep your distance, and don’t lean into him as your heart achingly wants you to do so.

You speak before you make a stupid decision. “How’d you find me?”

In your peripheral, you see Rafe’s head tilt quizzically towards you as if he wasn’t expecting you to speak, to initiate the conversation after the drought. He’s quiet for one, two beats, finally registering that, no, he didn’t imagine it, you asked him a question.

“Wyatt,” he responds simply. His eyes feel like lasers boring into your profile, but you don’t give in, keeping your gaze solely on the city. “Gave me directions.”

You hum. Of course.

“This is nice,” Rafe adds after a few moments. “The place and the…view.”

Again, you hum, ignoring how he’s only looking at you.

“What’re you doing here?” You ask gently.

His brows raise at you bringing out the one million dollar question earlier than you both anticipated, but of course it’s the only one that’s been on your mind for the better part of an hour. He’s here, in the place you initially planned for you two to be in, the place he said he couldn’t follow you to because he didn’t want to bring you down. It feels like one big joke, as if your breakup meant nothing because, despite it all, he’s here.

“Wyatt’s helping me get on my feet,” he answers quietly. “Dad cut me off.”

That piques your curiosity, facing him briefly. “He did? Why?”

Rafe almost looks relieved you’re meeting his gaze. “Backed out of the family business.”

“What?”

He nods. “Put myself in it for a few months and it…” He sucks in a harsh breath. “Fuckin’ blowed. I freaked out, got in a huge fight with him and he just…kicked me out. Cut me off. Told me to go do whatever it is I wanted to do without him.”

Your face must be puzzled as all hell.

He…stepped away from his father’s company? The business he’s been groomed to rule his entire life? Every single major step of Rafe’s life was done to accommodate his eventual take over once his father passes or retires. He majored in business and commercial real estate. He picked up ungodly hours during the holidays or whenever he went home or even logged in from miles and miles away from home to help his dad out with a deal. It’s the only path he’s ever known, only thing he’s ever planned for, only subject he’s been focused on since the responsibility of being a predecessor was high.

And now he’s not doing it anymore?

You want to pry, of course you do, and ask if he’s alright after suddenly dropping the one thing his life seemingly amounted to for the entirety of college. You’ve seen how stressed it made him, how business deals tampered with his mental health and the fear of fucking up weighed on his conscious. More so the fear of disappointing his father.

But Rafe looks content…relaxed, even. It’s as if a massive weight has clobbered to the ground off his shoulders, giving him a newfound lightness to him that you haven’t seen before. Sure, his eyes still brim with a hurt that yours surely reflect, but there’s an easiness to his posture and overall demeanor. It’s almost foreign to see on him.

“And what are you doing now?” You ask incredulously, still wrapping your head around the fact that his life has completely flipped.

Rafe looks down briefly, at the ring you still wear that he gave to you on your birthday one year.

“Working at Wyatt’s dad’s construction site.”

Your brows skyrocket.

He laughs boyishly. “I know. Totally rogue, right?”

Despite it all and despite your aching heart, you manage to laugh with him.

“Rafe Cameron in construction?” You joke. “Never thought I’d see the day.”

He hums low and amused, eyes trained on you. “Me neither. But it’s been good. Steady. Keeping me busy enough so I can save up for school.”

You furrow your brows at him for the umpteenth time. “You’re going back?”

Rafe confirms your suspicions when he nods slowly, earnestly. “Hopefully next fall.”

The words ring through silence for a few moments as you study him, really study his face. It’s soft, still laced with the etches of hurt that isn’t seeming to go away anytime soon, but there’s a firmness to his expression that encapsulates his goals for his future. He looks certain of himself, unsure of himself emotionally, but focused with the way he’s talking about his future.

Because he never really had to deal with that uncertainty. Rafe was always going to move back home after graduation and work with his dad. That was always the plan, nothing more or less to it. He never gave second options a chance and always chased the noble pursuits that would aide him in his future with the company.

But now he’s… free? If that’s the right term for it?

You remember how he used to talk about it sometimes as if it was a prison, as a wheel he’s caught on and never not spinning away from his actual dreams and desires. It was always his path, so Rafe never wanted to think about the possibility of doing something different, because it felt like a lost cause. He’d never be able to leave, so why day dream about doing so? It would only hurt his soul.

Now he’s freed from the burden. And he’s never looked more content.

“That’s…” You try and find the right words. “Good for you.”

You say it as genuinely as you mean it, one hundred percent earnestly. Because he does deserve it, the chance to find himself outside the confinements of what he was bred to be.

But it still doesn’t answer the grand scheme of questions, the big kahuna that’s been plaguing your conscious. Not the question of how he found your room, or your private rooftop, but more so you. Your apartment. Your city. You.

“Why here?” You ask gently. “Out of all the places to start over, you…”

You came to me, you almost say.

But refrain. Because that’s fucking stupid to assume.

It must be a coincidence, no? He has friends here, people to fall back on and places that someone else can introduce him to. He’s not completely alone in his endeavors, like he’s said that Wyatt is helping him get back on his feet. That’s no reason for you to assume that his presence, his uproot, is all because of you. You can’t. Because you’ll spiral more than you already are.

And his answer is worse.

“Because you’re here,” he says simply as if it’s law.

Wh—?

You can barely respond. “Bec—because I’m—?“

Rafe laughs quietly at your befuddlement. “I didn’t know you’d be here literally. Wyatt never told me your name when he told me about the party, only called you Honey. So that was…unintentional.” He hums. “What does Honey mean anyway?”

Your panic spikes. “Uh, nothing. It’s not— There’s no reason to— Semantics.” You’re still trying to wrap your head around the fact that he’s here for you. “You’re here— You— For me?”

When he nods, it literally sucks the air from your lungs.

“It’s strange,” he says quietly after a moment of relishing in your panicked demeanor. “Seeing you with people who are calling you a different name. Seeing pieces of you around the apartment. I knew as soon as I walked in, it just…fucking killed me.” His fingers twitch in your direction, as if his body is involuntarily drawing himself to touch you. “I didn’t realize it would hurt so fucking bad.”

You can’t help but frown. “You’re the one who did it.”

Rafe squeezes his eyes shut, almost pained. “I know. I know.”

“It’s not fair.”

“I know, baby,” he says, the name slipping out like a second nature that stabs your gut. “None of what I'm doing is fair, I- it's selfish. I know that. But I..."

Rafe trails off, scoffing at his own inability to form the words he wishes to speak. You can recognize that, understanding the frustration is not with you but rather the internal turmoil in his own mind. He's constantly fighting with himself, teetering between what feels wrong and what feels right and almost always self destructing in the end.

Words never came easy to him. It's something you learned early on with him, realizing that his actions spoke a lot louder than he ever could. At first, you thought he was odd for shutting down after arguments with his father or after the two of you would disagree on something. But once you saw the laundry neatly folded after one of your classes or the fridge restocked without you asking, you realized that this, the wordless acts, were his versions of mending broken amenities.

You also know that Rafe was probably never taught to properly emote. Orchestrated by the faults of his father.

So you wait patiently. You let him take time to find his words. You allow him to make up for the blunder of his break up.

Playing with the ends of your hoodie (you changed into comfort clothes an hour ago once you promptly decided you will not be returning to the party), you watch as Rafe studies the ring on your finger, brows knit as his eyes narrow in an attempt to ground himself, to focus his thoughts carefully and calculate what he wants to say, how he wants to say it. Trying really, really hard to articulate his bubbling feelings.

"There hasn't been a day that's gone by where I don't think about you," he starts slowly, tone low to articulate his seriousness. "Every fucking day, all I can see is how I hurt you."

The instinct to say something, to say anything, is stronger than you've ever felt. But you hold back, you bite your tongue, instead sucking in a deep breath with the anticipation that whatever he's about to say is going to fucking hurt. Not because you've already been through this before, but because he's probably about to break your heart without even knowing.

He continues. "It wasn't— When you told Wyatt we knew of each other, I... To look at you and pretend you were someone I've never met as if you aren't the only thing keeping my life together at this point.”

Rafe trails off, squeezing his eyes shut momentarily to avoid going on a tangent, to focus on what's important to him in this moment, to not get hung up on semantics from earlier when you were being an asshole.

With another deep breath, he continues.

"I thought I was doing what was right by distancing myself from you, because I knew I'd be suck at home working a job that would've made me miserable, and I..." He sucks in a harsh breath, shaking his head.

But you're yearning for an answer. For anything. "You what?"

Rafe briefly meets your gaze, almost shyly, because you're still here hanging onto every single one of his words. And the look on your face is fucking killing him, because you only look more hurt than before yet prettier than ever.

He swallows harshly. "I know what I'm like. Especially around my old man, and I didn't want to subject you to that."

"Rafe."

It's said as a plea, so earnest and heartbroken that he didn't think you would stand by him, through his wide range of emotions. Because you love him. You know the mental struggle he deals with whenever his father is involved in anything, and you knew that going into your post grad lives. Still, you were going to stick by him, no matter what.

Rafe says your name quietly. "I don't like who I am when I'm around him. I'm mean, and self destructive and...and a total fucking head case."

You whisper his name once more.

But he only shakes his head. "Please, I—I know it sounds stupid, alright? I just didn't want you to see that, to see that part of me. The thought of being long distance with you already fucking killed me, and I didn't need my temper adding onto it."

Rafe's eyes leave yours and settle downwards on the metal crate you're practically both sitting on. His fingers immediately fly to his hand, incessantly picking at his nail beds as a tell that he's on edge, close to panicking. He probably doesn't even realize he's doing it, but his eyes dart back on forth as he shakes his head, almost to himself, as the gears in his mind turn and turn and turn to desperately search for something more to say.

The act is muscle memory when your hand goes to cover his, stopping his bad habit immediately.

His head whips up to meet your gaze, jolted by the contact he surely was not expecting.

But you hold your own, gazing at him gently to stop the horrific insecurities you know he's spewing to himself in his head. For once, you need him to stop listening to himself and listen to his heart, listen to you, to stop trusting the devil on his shoulder and self sabotage in fear of others doing it first. You'd never. Not with him. He must know that.

"I know you," you say quietly. "And I know you would never hurt me without meaning to."

He winces.

Yet you continue. "I know you push people away before they can do it to you. But you need to understand something, Rafe, that I wasn't going anywhere. I'm not going anywhere now. When will you let yourself believe that?"

Rafe frowns impossibly deep, brows furrowing at the notion that you're still here. Despite everything he's done to you, said to you, made you think, you're still here. Wanting him. Caring for him. Being too damn sweet for your own good as you always were. And still are. You're still you, through fragments and a smile that doesn't reach your eyes quite yet, but you're still you. Looking at him like you still love him.

When your hand leaves his to cup his jaw gently, it feels like he can breathe again.

Holy fuck. You've almost forgotten what it's like to touch him. To feel him. To run your fingers along the smoothness of his skin and ground him to a moment so emotional that it nearly sends you flying away. Your palm is practically molded to the sculpture of his bone structure, as if it's been without a puzzle piece for so long, spending so much time incomplete and half of a whole.

Subconsciously, he leans into your touch.

"It feels wrong," he murmurs, eyes boring into yours so deeply that you're getting whiplash. "Having someone care about me like you do. It's not... No one has ever... I don't know how to deal with it."

"By talking," you hum low. "By telling me how you feel. Telling me what you need." Your thumb rubs an absentminded circle over his cheekbone.

He nearly sighs at the sensation. "I don't want to be a burden."

If possible, you frown even more than before. "You're not— Why would you say that? You're not a burden. At all."

Rafe doesn't answer you immediately. His brows pinch at the concept, as if it's foreign, as if what you've said is two plus two is five. His cheek is hot under your palm, hot with nerves and vulnerability that makes him temporarily speechless, and all you do is watch him. You wait for him to come to you. You've said (partially) your piece. His mouth opens and closes once, twice, as if the words are on the tip of his tongue but he refrains last minute, recalibrating his thoughts into something more cohesive.

"My worst fear is disappointing you," he says after a moment of considering your words. "Bringing you down with me. I can't... I won't let that happen."

"You're not," you say almost immediately.

"But I—“

"Do you remember the first week we met?" You blurt out suddenly, rudely interrupting him.

Confusedly, Rafe's head tilts slightly at the anecdote. Nonetheless, he nods slowly, almost egging you to continue.

And you do. "When I cancelled the dinner date at that fancy restaurant you set up? Because I had the flu?"

It was only one of the worst days of your life. Bedridden. Immobile. Practically death without the actual dying part. Too frail to even pick up a water bottle and too stubborn to ask for help. Teetering between being buried under six blankets to cranking the AC on full blast. It was grueling. Debilitating. You missed a plethora of assignments and social gatherings (despite it only being a few days).

He says your name gently. "What's this got to do wit—"

Again, you interrupt him. "You dropped everything, and I mean everything, to take care of me. And then you spent so much time with me that you fucking got sick too," you reminisce, adding a soft chuckle at the end when you think back on the don't be mad text that came from him just days after he was with you.

But he's still not getting it, blinking wordlessly at you in hopes you'll tell him what you mean, why this story has something to do with anything that's going on right now. What he doesn't realize, though, is that it is exactly the kind of thing he sees past. He probably doesn't know how much that meant to you, despite it probably being mindless for him.

How could he even think of himself as a burden? As wasted air? When all he's done is loved you in every way he knows how? How could he even think he's disappointed you when his love has been unlike anything you've ever experienced before? How could he think that low of himself?

"You could never disappoint me," you continue to further add your point. "Never. When all you've done was love me."

“I still do,” he answers almost immediately. “I haven’t stopped.”

You’re moving forward before you both can process it.

Wrapping your arms around his neck, your body is instantly taut to his, chest to chest and cheek to cheek as you find your mold against his body. It’s familiar yet agonizing, almost mind blowing that you’ve gone so long without him, without his touch, without his embrace that you quickly grew to love the first time he held you. You feel like you can finally breathe, finally remember the beautiful feeling after losing it.

Rafe’s nearly — if not more — relieved than you are, wrapping his arms around you immediately with one hand butterfly splaying on your back and the other on the back of your head, keeping you close. The deep exhale that emits from his mouth tickles your ear, and you let yourself close your eyes at the warmth of him, of how he smells the same.

“Fuck,” he murmurs quietly, almost to himself. “I missed you. I missed you so fucking much.”

Tears brim your waterline. You’ve been without him for so long, loving a shadow of a man without ever seeing or hearing from him. You wanted to be angry, to hate him, to say fuck it and move on with your life. But you couldn’t. Not when he’s the only one who has ever made you feel alive. Not when he’s been hurting in his own quiet way and self sabotaging at the fear of hurting you.

Rafe sucks in a large breath and, with that, his chest bumps impossibly taut to yours. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I made a mistake.”

“Don’t leave,” you plead, your voice ghosting the shell of his ear that makes the hair on his arm stand up. “Please. Not again.”

“I won’t,” he answers immediately, sounding absolutely wrecked. “I won’t, baby. I promise. I’m here. Not going anywhere.”

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, readjusting your grip around him to pull tighter — if possible — and practically seating yourself in his lap. It’s not comfortable at all, and you can’t imagine it’s comfortable for him against the grate-like fire escape. But it’s when you need, it’s what he needs, and neither of you can fathom how long you spent away from each other, almost like a sick joke.

And you just stay like this for a bit, holding onto each other as if you’re gripping onto a balloon threatening to float away. Despite his shorter, new hair, his cologne is the same as you first met him. The ring adorning his finger, the family ring, is missing from his hand, instead replaced with a similar looking one. The shirt is sleek and thin and you can feel the ridges and hills of his muscles underneath it. He may look a little different, more mature and in different clothes, but he feels the same as he’s always been, he’s still the person you know through and through.

“Inside,” you say after a while. “Please?”

“Yes,” he whispers immediately, certain. “No need to beg, baby. I’ll do whatever you want.”

When you untangle limbs, it’s slow, calculated, appreciative. His hands linger on your body longer than they should, mapping regions he hasn’t touched in months, re-familiarizing himself with the dips and crevices of your body. You do the same, pressing the pads of your fingertips along his shoulder blades and on the columns of his neck, skimming gently over the single earring adorning his left ear that definitely wasn’t there before. His skin is hot, almost burning for you, yet inviting in a way that makes you never want to let go.

It takes a little while to mobilize. You’re so caught up in feeling each other that you don’t realize how much time has passed. Not that it matters anyway. Because all you can focus on is the man in front of you, putting his heart on a silver platter and serving it to you hot. It’s all limbs and incoordination when climbing back through your window, soft laughter echoing off the alley walls and reverberating into your bedroom. His hands attempt to help you, drifting down to your waist as you climb through and you assume it’s a gesture just for him to cop a feel. But you don’t mind. You’ve missed it. You never want his hands away from you again.

When you change into pajamas and you slither into bed, your eyes brazenly watch him. The way he peels his t-shirt off his body, or unbuckles his pants to leave him solely in his boxers, in his preferred sleep wear. Yet he does it because he knows you: he knows you don’t like “outside clothes” in your sheets, wordlessly respecting your wishes without even being told so.

Rafe climbs under the sheets like he owns it, and you’ve already designated that side of the bed to him long ago, so seeing him here doesn’t feel so foreign. It’s muscle memory when his hand seeks refuge on your waist, shamelessly settling under your sleep shirt to let the pads of his fingertips dig into your flesh to almost stake a claim, but also to tether himself.

Your hand, on instinct, ghosts the skin of his chest, palm skimming over his heart. Despite not pressing fully, you can practically feel how fast it’s beating, how hard it’s thrumming against his ribcage. Though his content expression is a contrary to the feeling, looking more relaxed than ever.

The sensation makes your lips twitch. “Your heart is racing.” You let your palm press gently onto the rhythm.

His smile is impossibly bright.

“Remember when I kissed you for the first time?”

“I remember you being so nervous that you missed.”

“Alright.” Rafe laughs. “Not what I was referring to, but I guess.”

It’s devastatingly refreshing to see his smile, almost forgetting how pretty he looks like this: happy, unguarded, mind quiet of its vulnerabilities and allowing him to enjoy the moment, to slow down and indulge in the simplicities yet complexities of love.

“Then what?” You hum teasingly, his blue eyes piercing despite the dim lighting. “If not that?”

The laughter dies down. His gaze softens. His thumb traces shapes on your skin.

“Thought my heart was gonna burst out of my fuckin’ chest,” he murmurs casually as if that doesn’t make yours skip a beat, even more so when his hand comes up to caress your face, thumb skimming over your bottom lip. “Every single time.”

“You should probably see a cardiologist.”

“Don’t need a diagnosis, baby. ‘S just you.”

You try not to smile. You really try. But it’s really fucking difficult when he looks so pretty, staring at you like you’ve hung the stars yourself and holding you here in place so firmly yet gently at the same time that you couldn’t move if you tried. And he knows it. He knows you’re trying not to give into his charm, the same charm that you’ve been falling for for as long as you’ve known him.

“And now?” You dare, pressing your hand into his beating heart. “How’s it feel?”

“Like it’s gonna burst outta my chest,” he says before kissing you.

Instantly, you’re arching into his body, palms pressed firmly on his chest as a feeble attempt to ground yourself, to remind yourself that this is happening and, no, you’re not dreaming. Rafe’s here, in your bed, kissing you like his life depends on it (and it probably does). Your brows pinch even though he can’t see your face, furrowed in focus to narrow in on the passion.

Rafe makes a noise. A sigh? You think. Regardless, you reciprocate and deepen the kiss by slightly parting your lips, allowing him the access he’s been craving. And he takes advantage in less than a second, a large hand splayed on the column of your neck to keep you here against him, feeling the way your jaw slightly opens to accommodate him.

“I love you,” he praises between breaths as if it’ll kill him if he doesn’t. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

You say it back. He says it again. You tennis-match the phrase over and over and over until the phonetics are burned into your tongues. He murmurs it against your skin against your lips, you beck, your chest, your stomach, the inside of your thighs. You whisper it into the air as if it’s prayer, an incantation that, strung together, produces a spell unlike any other.

And he’s hypnotized. It isn’t until you finish twice on his tongue that he’s even thinking about himself, and it’s only when you, in a daze, paw at his chest as ask for him, for all of him. He nearly double takes, caught up in the moment of simply pleasuring you, and if you hadn’t stopped him, if you hadn’t asked so sweetly, he would’ve went down on you ‘til sunrise.

The whole ordeal is slow. Unhurried. Deep and sensual that rattles your bones to shake. When he slips inside, it’s fucking euphoric, with an overwhelming sense of longing, nostalgia that causes a pleasure tear to slip from your eye, a tear that falls without you knowing. Not until he brushes it away with the pad of his thumb, anyway.

You’re sure you’re a babbling mess, spewing out incoherent sentences and mumbles of an I love you that probably don’t make sense. But he hears you all the same, going as far as repeating the phrase over and over against your skin like a mantra, telling you how nice you feel, that you’re made for him, how beautiful you are despite probably looking like a hot mess.

When all is said and done, Rafe is right there to tend to your needs. He’s kissing your stomach as he cleans the mess from your inner thighs. His thumb is smoothing over the hickies he peppered over multiple regions of your body, praising how beautiful you look, how good you were for him. He patiently waits for you to go to the bathroom and get ready for bed before he’s welcoming you back with open arms, and you’re not hesitating to fall into them. His embrace is warm and familiar, and you find it easy to breathe, to feel like you can relax. Rafe must feel the same, because his breathing is deeper, more evened out. Calmer and more sure of himself. Content.

“Stay the night,” you plea gently as you’re halfway to falling asleep.

You know it’s pathetic to ask, that he probably was going to anyway. But there’s that small sliver of doubt, the tiny voice in the back of your brain that’s haunted from the first time he left, driven to separation by his insecurities. You say it to be sure he knows, that he could stay for the rest of your life and you wouldn’t mind.

“I’m not leaving,” Rafe reassures against your hairline. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. Not again.”

And you fall asleep like that: entangled limbs and sharing the same pillow despite a whole arm’s length of space. Your even breaths are what lure him to sleep, waiting for the crazy thumping of his heartbeat to die down before you can wake up to it. He relishes in the sensation of your breathing, how your chest rises and falls against his, and how you practically nuzzle into his embrace that confirms that you missed him just as much as he missed you.

Rafe pulls you a fraction tighter, refusing to let you go again. It’s a wordless promise that he’s going to try to be better for you, to stop listening to the vulgarities of his mind and listen to his heart. He’s going to allow himself to be loved by you and he’s going to let himself believe he deserves it.

Because if you say it? It’s as good as law.

© salem-s please do not copy or replicate work unless given permission.

notes hope this request is what you envisioned???? hope you enjoyed!!

[kdh-tally]

Hi! If your requests are open, is there a chance you can write a oneshot about Mystery and Zoey from Kpop Demon Hunters? They're my favorite characters. I know all of the Saja Boys, except Jinu, are unfeeling demons, but I'm choosing to disregard what's canon. For the story, I was thinking of a scene where Mystery notices Zoey ogling Abby's abs. Seeing this makes Mystery jealous and self-conscious, and he asks himself, "What does he have that I don't have?" I would also lol if Mystery then starts barking at Abby.

Prompt : Mystery is a tad bit insecure

Author's Note : A tad bit on the longer side maybe?

Mystery didn’t intend on enjoying the idol life so much. Jinu had to spend most of his time persuading him out of the four other boy-band members. Mystery had enjoyed his home in hell to some degree. There was nothing to do really, and he wasn’t disturbed as long as Gwi-ma remained focused on someone else.

Of course there were still voices. The voices were always there. Well, they were. Jinu, the idiot, had the bright idea to debut their little boy band sooner than needed.That’s how he and the other 3 boys found themselves being shoved into a sketchy alleyway. 

“Look good!” he whispered yelled orders at them. The boys groaned in unison, annoyance visible in their tones but they listened anyway. 

Mystery was the first one turning the corner. He heard silent squeals coming from the other end but couldn’t see what was going on. He tilted his head slightly, hair flowing gracefully in the wind. The other boys seeing this copied his move, making it look synchronized and purposeful.

He took note of the three girls. Two of them seemed to be fangirling over Abby’s muscles, he didn’t understand why Jinu gave them such basic names, and the other girl looked so done with the situation. 

The girl that stood in the center, short with little space buns, began to turn red. She was the first human he’d noticed and, not that anyone could tell, he couldn’t take his eyes off her. But there were more important things than a cute human girl. Especially when she was a hunter that killed his king for a living. 

Killed them with her voice. Her beautiful, gentle, siren… 

“Mystery?” someone interrupted his thoughts. The man hadn’t even noticed that they had passed by the girls already and were standing near the center of the market place.

“What is it Baby?”

“You need to lock in”

“What the hell does that even mean?” Mystery scoffed at the new terminology the youngest demon had begun using. Baby seemed to really enjoy human humor.

“We’re about to perform so focus you idiot”

—

Jinu never seemed to run out of dumb ideas. None of the boys knew how they found themselves camping outside of the fan sign hall. All Mystery could remember was playing this game called Valorant or something of the sort, only to be summoned away to the front of a line. 

As they were letting it Mystery understood everything. Jinu wanted to flirt with his girl- enemy. Yep. Ignoring the sudden fuss when the purple lady said the groups would sit together, Mystery quickly found himself sitting beside the girl with the space buns again. 

He quickly learnt that her name was Zoey and she was the main rapper of the group. This shocked him slightly seeing as she was so bubbly and sweet. He’d honestly thought the scary pink lady was the main rapper, but seeing as Baby was their rapper he should've known better.

Eventually, Mystery mustered up the courage to ask her a question only to be interrupted by a fan. How dare they interrupt him? He didn’t even notice he was barking at them to scare them away until Zoey began to chastise him for it. 

“No! Bad Saja Boy!” she shamed, tapping his head with the pen until he calmed down. Mystery slouched back into his chair, what was coming over him?? From just two seats across, he could hear Baby snickering at him.

As he watched Zoey reassure the fan that everything was alright, why did she have to hold the fans hands???, he realized this feeling might have started to become a bigger problem than he thought it would be. —

The battle was over. Gwi-ma was finally defeated and the underworld was closed up for good. With the odd stillness that followed, Mystery found himself in a strange place. He found himself at peace. Well.. kinda?

He still couldn’t sleep properly as he wasn't used to the silence of the overworld at night, and his hair still got frizzy and big when it was humid, and sometimes Baby stole his earrings, but all in all, it was fine. Livable. Manageable. Different.

The dance practice room was empty aside from him and Zoey. The floor-to-ceiling mirrors stretched across the front wall, reflecting the two of them. Zoey in her grey sweats and a tiny white crop top (which was so unfair), and Mystery, slouched on the floor, playing dead.

“You’re not even trying to learn the moves,” Zoey said through a laugh, twisting her water bottle open.

“I am,” he groaned. “Just give me a week to actually get interested first.”

Zoey rolled her eyes at his dramatic behaviour, something that only ever seemed to pop out around her. “That choreography isn’t even that hard.”

“Says the girl with demon hunter blood and abs. This must be so easy for you.”

Zoey blinked. “Excuse you?”

Mystery sat up, one knee drawn up, resting an arm on it as he spoke, “It’s distracting.”

“You’re distracting,” she said pointedly, and then immediately flushed when she realized what she said. “I mean..!”

Mystery smirked, tying his hair up into a bun. He was fully aware of the fact that Zoey believed he was ‘just her type’ and took full advantage of it whenever he could. “You think I’m distracting?”

“I meant your weird slouchy pose was distracting,” Zoey huffed, face red, eyes looking everywhere but his face as she sipped her water too fast.

He liked this. The way her cheeks puffed when she was annoyed. The way she was clearly trying not to look at him while fixing her buns. The way she…

Stopped. Right in front of the mirror.

“Oh my god,” she said, squinting at the mirror.

“What?”

“I look jacked,” she whispered, checking her arm. “Is this what Abby feels like all the time?”

Mystery’s smile faded. “Abby?”

“Yeah. Look at this.” She lifted her arm slightly, flexing, and raised a brow in approval. “No wonder people like his stage presence. He’s a wall of charisma and strength.”

Mystery’s eye twitched. “What does he have that I don’t?” he muttered.

Zoey turned. “Hm?”

“Nothing!” Mystery said too fast. “Just… practicing the dance moves.”

Zoey snorted. “Sure you are. Just like how you were 'barking to protect our image' at the fan sign.”

Mystery’s eyes narrowed. “That fan was sketchy. Their aura was weird.” Aura was a word Baby taught him.

“Uh huh. You were jealous,” she teased, walking past him to grab her towel.

“I was not,” he lied poorly. “I’m incapable of jealousy. Demon, remember?”

“Right,” she dragged, throwing the towel at him. “And I’m incapable of sarcasm.”

She left him there on the floor, towel over his head, ego bruised. But even as she walked away, Mystery found his eyes trailing her again. He hated how soft he’d become.

Hated how often his thoughts drifted back to that first fan sign. To the first time he saw her in the overworld. Laughing. Blushing.

She'd been so red when they passed her in the alleyway, her and Mira swooning over Abby’s opened shirt while she looked like she wanted the ground to swallow her whole. He’d noticed her immediately. And it wasn't just because she was cute. (Okay, that was part of it.)

It was because she was human. So very human. Something he, at the time, didn’t realise he would want so bad. And yet she’d stayed in his mind like a song he couldn’t stop humming.

Even now, months later, with the world no longer ending and his contract with Gwi-ma gone, Mystery still found himself aching whenever she looked at someone else with even a fraction of the warmth she gave him.

Abby. Abby.

The name echoed in his mind again like some cursed chant. Summoning courage, he stood and marched up behind her. “You didn’t answer me.”

Zoey glanced at him in the mirror. “About?”

“What does he have that I don’t have?”

Zoey blinked. “Wait. You were serious?”

Mystery folded his arms. “I barked at a fan for you. I gave up my spot as center for that weird duet stage. I let you touch my hair. That’s practically marriage in demon culture.”

Zoey’s jaw dropped in laughter. “Mystery, I pat everyone’s head when they’re being a weirdo.”

“You don’t call everyone a good boy.” he pointed out.

Zoey flushed bright pink. “That was one time! I was trying to calm you down!”

“It worked.”

“Stop being dramatic.” Zoey laughed, softer this time, walking closer.

He hated how fast his heartbeat got when she stepped into his personal space.

“You’re not Abby,” she said gently.

“I know that,” he huffed.

“But you’re Mystery,” she added, poking his chest, her eyes peering into his. “You’re weird and intense and accidentally funny and overly stylish. And I like that.”

Mystery blinked. “Wait. What?”

Zoey turned, clearly trying not to look at him anymore. “Don’t make me say it again.”

“You like me?”

“Don’t push it.”

“I’m pushing it,” he said, stepping beside her. “You said you like me.”

“Fine,” Zoey grumbled. “I like you.”

Mystery grinned.

“I knew barking was the right way to go.”

“Don’t make it weird.”

“I’m going to bark at Abby next time I see him.”

“No!”

But Mystery was already planning it.

If he had a heart, it would be doing cartwheels.

He glanced at her reflection again, her cheeks warm, eyes shy, and something settled in him.

“Hey,” he said suddenly.

Zoey looked up.

“I like you too. Even if your abs are unfair.”

Zoey broke into laughter, her head tilting back.

And for once, Mystery didn’t mind the quiet that came with the over world. He didn’t mind the quiet anywhere as long as it meant he could listen to the girl he probably shouldn’t have fallen for, laugh her heart out.

[mydeimoed]

It wasn't Mydei's plan to walk you home. But the decision was pretty much made for him when you began stumbling and twirling between different people's arms, clearly looking for the right set that would carry you away.

His only guided you to steady yourself as he nudged you away from stumbling on a crack in the pavement.

The sneer in his face was obvious, and something you couldn't help but laugh at, even if it made a pang of something hit in your chest. "You act like you've never been drunk before. Don't you know how to have fun?"

Mydei huffs, and doesn't stop you when you stumble next. You catch yourself just fine- maybe he knew you would. "I haven't." His voice is deep and smooth like always.

"Haven't? Haven't what?" You ask, utterly distracted with the buzz in your skin and ... everything about Mydei being the one to make sure you got home safe.

The prince gives you another look. "Haven't gotten drunk before. I don't know why I would do that to myself."

At this information, you balk, slightly swaying as you stop walking to look him in the eye. "You haven't? Why?"

"It's bad for you. Keep walking." He doesn't like the idea of stopping, and his hand is baren from its usual gauntlet when it holds your elbow and moves you forward to keep walking beside- or more so in front of him. You feel like you're being patrolled by an officer.

"But you drink wine. Whenever we go out, you've got a glass full. I've seen it."

"...It's juice."

You can't help but snort, and then you chortle, and then you laugh. All one after the other, unable to keep your entertainment at bay. You hold a hand up to your flushed face.

"You're a child," you try to slander him, but he merely raises an eyebrow at you.

"The only one acting childish is you. Why are you walking?"

"Because you told me to?"

"We're at your house already. Are you really so helpless?"

You blink, and when you look up, you realize that Mydei is right. He's already brought you all the way up to your porch, which means the night is over. Your body sags in realization. "Aw... I don't want to be home yet." The words slip out thoughtlessly.

Mydei doesn't seem to understand, his eyebrow furrowed. "Why not? You look exhausted. Come on." Seemingly out of nowhere, the man jangles your key in hand and unlocks your door, waiting for you to step inside. When you make no move to, he just sighs and opens the door himself, his hand on your back as he nudges you forward.

It doesn't help with the prisoner feeling, like he's your warden who's bringing you back to your cell- but how would Mydei know just how uncomfortable you are at home?

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

You blink. "Like what?" You ask, and Mydei doesn't look pleased. That same scowl as always that you like to pretend doesn't bother you.

Wordlessly, he steps in, and you can only stand dumbly in place as you watch him take a seat on the footstool you have set up in the doorway. He begins to take off his boots- ever the respectful boy- and then he looks up at you expectantly as he holds out his hand. "Your foot," he says, voice low.

It's rather hard for you to think because of the alcohol in your system, and you're grateful for that. It's much easier to do as you're told, and he seems pleased as well, helping take off each shoe with a gentle touch that's hard to process at the moment.

"Get to bed. I'll bring you water and medicine." Mydei says once he's finished, coming to stand and towering over you once again. The way he so easily orders you around feels strange, but perhaps it's just simple work for him. He's a Prince, after all, more than used to commanding people much more stubborn than you.

But he doesn't treat you like his soldiers, you know that. It's much easier to think of it that way, because it stops the flutter in your stomach that can easily be confused with nausea if you're not careful.

When you find yourself in your bed, successfully coddled and cared for, Mydei leaves only after he gives you a stern instruction to finish all your water before going to sleep. Maybe you won't remember this in the morning, but you don't think you're that far gone.

In fact, you don't think you drank nearly enough to justify this amount of care from Mydei, but maybe you'll exaggerate a little further to convince the both of you that you needed it as much as he seemed to think. You'll pretend to forget in the morning, and that will be the best way to thank him.

[undyingdecay]

helloooo, this is my very first time requesting anything on tumblr, but your writing is just too good to pass up the opportunity.

i cannot, for the love of all mankind, get dark!bucky barnes out of my brain. it’s like an itch that can’t be scratched, no matter how hard i try. and i’m talking about some straight up dark shit that would potentially make me look fucking insane if i said it out loud.

(non-con) WHO SAID THAT? 👀

(tw: very heavy non-con, translation: khoroshaya devochka — good girl)

ok everyone sit down and listen, so ideally — and this is so bad it’s good — i’m thinking very freshly post-hydra!bucky. the kind of fresh where he still moves like a fucking predator without realizing it. where his hair’s still got that dry, greasy texture because he hasn’t figured out conditioner and tony’s too much of a prick to explain it to him. where his eyes are still vacant half the time, like there’s a stel trap wrapped around his head, but then — then there’s moments. quick flashes. like his gaze catches on your neck a second too long when you tilt your head or his jaw ticks when you laugh a little too loud in the kitchen because sam’s being a dick. little cracks in the armor.

and here’s the kicker, steve asked you to look after him. not like he was a rabid dog. no. steve wouldn’t call him that. steve would never say it like that. it was more in that… do-it-for-me tone, that boyish all-american pleading like he’s just shy of getting down on one knee. it wasn’t fair. you were good at saying no. you were good at keeping boundaries. but when he asked, when those big stupid hands were scrubbing sweat off his neck post-run and his biceps were gleaming under the LED lab lights?

you agreed. because you’re an idiot.

and bucky, bucky didn’t talk to you.

not much, anyway. he barely talked to anyone, truth be told, and you weren't about to make him. you’d still check in. you’d talk at him, mostly. about dumb shit — what kind of cereal was on sale, how tony’s AI fridge locked you out for putting a can of off-brand soda in it, how nat had somehow learned to crochet and was currently making sweaters for the knives she kept under her mattress. normal stuff. and maybe you wondered if he was listening but only sometimes.

you kinda forgot who he was, to be honest. like, yeah, there were moments you remembered — like the time you were standing in front of the fridge, reaching for the leftover pasta you’d been thinking about all day, and he just… picked you up. didn’t say a word. just lifted your entire body out of the way like you weighed nothing. set you down a foot to the left. opened the fridge. pulled out a bottle of water. left. no ‘excuse me’. no ‘move’. just manhandled you like a fucking doll and dipped.

but then came the night. and you swear on your life you didn’t hear him come in. you didn’t. you always did before. you could hear the way his boots dragged a little or the click of metal fingers against the wall. not this time. one second you were half asleep, the next you were on your back, bedsheets twisted around your ankles and something cold and heavy pressing your wrist down into the mattress.

you knew it was him. even in the dark, even before you opened your mouth, you knew.

“bucky—?”

his hand was in your hair, not pulling but holding, fingers twisted so deep into the roots it made your eyes sting. the words didn’t register. he was speaking, low and harsh in your ear, and you couldn’t understand a word of it but you knew it was russian because natasha would curse under her breath in that same jagged way when she was pissed off.

he was grinding against you. fully clothed. all rough denim and stiff tactical gear, and you could feel the press of him through it. the sick, hot friction of fabric on fabric like it was enough for him. like he didn’t even care about getting his cock out, just needed to rut against something warm and soft and unwilling. his breathing was so fucking loud, low grunts slipping out every time his hips jerked forward.

you were pleading. of course you were. because what else do you do when a supersoldier’s on top of you with a metal hand around your throat? you were asking him to stop, babbling out whatever you could think of — please, bucky, you don’t wanna do this, you don’t wanna hurt me, please, please— but it barely mattered. didn’t even look like it registered.

and some part of you — some deep, shriveled, awful instinct — told you to stay still. like maybe if you didn’t move, didn’t scream, didn’t make it worse, he’d finish faster. like maybe this was the least you owed him. not as a person, but as a thing. a thing that had been torn up and stitched back together wrong. like maybe this was how you repaid the debt you never owed in the first place.

and it made you sick to your stomach.

he muttered something sharp in russian again, voice rough like gravel and whiskey, and his hand moved from your hair to your neck. not squeezing — not yet — just pressing down enough to make your throat work harder.

“stupid things,” you caught, because that was in english. “never listen.”

and then quieter — almost tender, which made it worse — “zhenshchiny ne mogut plakat', yesli oni mokryye naskvoz'.”

you didn’t even understand what the fuck that meant at first. not until later. not until you found natasha at the gym and repeated it in a shaky whisper and watched her face twist, real ugly and mean.

and she told you. told you what it meant.

'women can't cry if they are soaking wet'

and you’ve never slept right since.

you should’ve known better to.

the first time it happened, you thought maybe it would be the only time. some awful, one-time, trauma-fueled mistake. a sick, violent need in him that would burn out and leave you in peace. you even tried to tell yourself he didn’t know what he was doing — the way he’d snarled in russian, the cold clamp of vibranium fingers around your throat, the sharp rut of his hips into yours like an animal. the way he kept you pinned under him, fully clothed, grinding himself into your cunt through your shorts until your body betrayed you, slick gathering no matter how much your mind screamed. you thought maybe, maybe it would end there.

it didn’t.

he stayed after. lay there beside you in your own bed, that metal hand still curled around your wrist, eyes wide open and unblinking in the dark. watching. like a predator deciding whether to finish the kill or let the wound fester. he didn’t speak. didn’t explain. didn’t leave.

the next night, you thought about locking the door. stood there with your hand on the knob, heart pounding in your throat. and then you let it go, because what was the fucking point? a lock wouldn’t stop him. nothing would. not when the winter soldier still lived in his bones, moving his hands before his brain caught up. and sure enough, sometime past midnight, boots heavy on the floor, the oppressive presence of him filling the room — and this time, there was no hesitation.

he undid his tactical pants just enough, the harsh rasp of the zipper making your stomach twist. there was no slow approach, no pretense. his hand knotted in your hair, wrenching your head back, and then your face was in the pillow, his grip like a steel trap around your neck.

“stop—” you tried, and that was the last word you managed.

he spit on your cunt first. a thick, cruel thing, then smeared it with his fingers, muttering something in russian that you didn’t need natasha to translate. the intent was clear enough. then he shoved himself inside you, one brutal thrust, tearing you open like he owned the place. no prep. no care. the stretch was merciless, thick and unrelenting, your breath ripped from you as your whole body jolted forward.

and the worst part? you felt yourself get wet.

it wasn’t want. it wasn’t arousal. it was your body’s betrayal. terror slicking your skin, nerves on fire, every cell screaming and still — still the ache built between your thighs, heat blooming where it shouldn’t. he noticed. of course he did. leaned down, breath hot and ragged against your ear.

“khoroshaya devochka,” he rasped, rough and pleased. “knew you’d stop fighting.”

he fucked you like he didn’t need to be gentle, like your body was just a place to bury himself. every thrust brutal, grinding your hips into the mattress. teeth in your shoulder hard enough to bruise, to break skin. and every time you made a sound — a sob, a plea, a ragged whisper of his name — you felt him twitch inside you. like it turned him on more.

by the time he came, it wasn’t soft. a sharp snap of his hips, a guttural snarl in your ear, his teeth sinking into the muscle of your shoulder as thick, hot ropes spilled inside you. his hand never eased up on your neck. he kept you pinned there, limp and wrecked beneath him.

and then — he didn’t leave.

he rolled you onto your back, head resting on your stomach like it was some sort of goddamn prize, one hand lazily stroking your thigh while his cum leaked from you in slow, hot pulses. he stayed until dawn, and you lay there, eyes fixed on the ceiling, praying for death or daylight, whichever came first.

when the sun finally broke through, you got up, made coffee. looked at yourself in the mirror. bite marks and bruises trailing your neck, fingerprints mapped across your skin like a claim. you didn’t tell anyone. not steve. not nat. not sam. what would you even say? that their broken weapon was breaking you?

he came back again the next night.

and the next.

each time worse than the last. new ways to bend you, to mark you, to drag desperate, shamed pleasure from a body that didn’t know how to stop responding. every night his cock inside you, his voice in your ear, muttering in that dead, cold russian.

you stopped begging. stopped trying to fight.

because deep down, you knew he’d decided you were his.

and stupid things never learn.

(ive officially lost it)

[hitomisuzuya]

erm... so... uhm... facesitting... with fatui scara... please... :3

fatui!scaramouche x fem!reader. smut. cunnilingus. face sitting. some degradation cause this is fatui scara. delusion/electro play. fingering. squirting. god complex!scara

let's face what we already know. scara would be a god at oral. thank you everyone for the encouragement earlier.

you are understandably confused whenever another subordinate came to fetch you with a message from scaramouche, saying that he is hungry. you didn't think you ever heard him say that he is hungry.

scaramouche has been having a tougher day than usual. the way he chooses to vent his frustration is shutting himself in his office with you, lying back on his desk with his face buried in your pussy, ruthlessly tongue fucking you.

he can hear the shy hesitation in your moans, and he smirks into your cunt.

"sc-scara," you moan shakily, glancing at his office door. "are you s-sure we should be doing this?" you knees ache from being pressed against the hard surface of his spacious, fancy desk. honestly, you didn't know how you are holding yourself up, his tongue felt so fucking good swiping on your clit.

"are you questioning me, slut?" his fingers tighten on your thighs. he concentrates electro on his tongue, feeling your thighs quake on either side of his head as it jolts your clit. "such insolence."

"no! no sir, i am not!" you cry out. scaramouche groans into your cunt. he doesn't give a shit that anyone of his subordinates could just walk in, getting a full view of you naked and riding his tongue, your fingers pinching your nipples.

it's a show he is enjoying underneath you.

he honestly wouldn't blame them if they were listening outside the door, hands on their cocks, listening to you moan. and it is pretty much a guaranteed death sentence if anyone dared to come in and interrupt him.

scaramouche does what he wants, when he wants, tongue fucking you or otherwise.

swirling his tongue around and around your clit, he scoops the throbbing bud into his mouth to suck on. his tongue is brutal as he teases it with electro. you can more than feel the greed of his mouth on your pussy.

trembling, you grind shamelessly on his tongue, your fingers clutching as you pinch your sensitive nipples. whimpers bled into your moans. "a-archons!" you cry out, the dizzying pleasure of your orgasm is snapping so tight you can barely stand it. his teasing with electro bringing you close to the edge.

scaramouche rolls his eyes, his mouth slick with your juices. "your god is right here with his tongue on your cunt," he vibrates a moan into your pussy, smacking a hand across your ass when all you can do is whimper from the mind numbing pleasure. "answer me, i know you can use your words."

he dips his tongue inside you to feel you clench around it. your back arches as you seek more friction from his tongue. his demanding tone only made your pussy soak more on his mouth. "i'm gonna cum! oh archons, i'm gonna cum!" you are ashamed at how loud you are being.

"that's my good girl," he coos, soothing his tongue around your hole, electro licking at sensitive nerves. "let them all know how good your god is tongue fucking you," the tip of his tongue is unrelenting on your clit. he pushes two fingers inside you to see you squirm.

the combination of electro on your clit, and his fingers scissoring your gummy walls apart as he bullies your sweet spot is overwhelming you.

"make me cum, sir! make me cum, please!" you babble, tears gathering in your eyes as he abuses your clit.

he always breaks in his favorite subordinate in the filthiest ways.

your pussy gushes on his tongue without much warning. your shameless and shy moans only make his cock that much harder as he laps greedily at your release. "that's it, cum like the weak slut you are," he clutches your hips to hold your pussy on his mouth.

[dotpointping]

I was indifferent to Phainon at first but now when I look at him I have to resist the urge to write the most gut wrenching tragic love story for this man. Seriously, it's too easy to torture the men of Amphoreus.

Spoilers for 3.4 down below.

This is based entirely on my understanding of the leaks. That being said, I didn’t understand them very well because I only brushed over them lol. 

You were probably just a randomly coded npc made to fill the population of his hometown and just another kid he used to play with. But as the cycles went on, you grew more and more attached to him and subsequently he grew attached to you as well. Or maybe, you didn’t even originally exist in Amphoreus until Lygus determined Phainon was seriously too emotionally unstable and kept fucking up some of the earlier cycles due to his wrath and genuine disillusion with who he should be and what he’s fighting for. 

Either way, you were crafted to be Phainon’s. 

Phainon adores you. You have always been by his side and you have always supported him. You are who he fights for, you are who he returns to after war, you are the one who greets him warmly and kisses the crown of his head. You are the one to tell him that he is doing a wonderful job, that no matter what happens, you will stand by his side and support him. While he may bring about dawn to the world, you are the only one to embrace him when his dawn gives in to night. With you, he is not a hero, but a man. He is the son of a simple farmer and the son of Aedes Elysiae. With you, he does not bear the weight of the world, does not need to placate the people with smile and charm, and can cry as often as he needs. You are always there to hold him gently, caress his face, and kiss his tears away. 

You are the only one to call his name. Not the name he adorns as the Chrysos Heir, but the name his mother and father bestowed him years ago. The one he shed to ascend his role as hero. You say his name so sweetly, as though you were caressing every letter and breathing life into every drawn syllable, until it became unrecognizable from your lips. You beckon him with your gaze, and he can never say no when you bat your lashes at him so sweetly. 

“Rest, my sun,” You would say to him, kissing the curve of his nose, brow, and cheeks. But, never his lips. No, you always made sure to save his lips for last. Instead, you straddle his hips, and cradle his face gently in your hands. You whisper his name again and again, as though it was the only prayer you had ever been taught, as though he had already ascended Godhood and you were his patron worshiper, left behind on the altar as an offering. Perhaps you were— an offering, that is. He is unworthy of your love, unworthy of your warmth and affection, and unworthy of your loyalty. 

And I imagine the first time Era Nova is brought about, Phainon didn’t know everyone had to die. You are no exception— you may mean the world to him, but to this simulation you are no more pieces of code meant to ensure he will bring about the new world. He screamed and begged, cursed the Gods until his voice died and it was nothing more than a pathetic rasp. He had grown so used to fighting monsters and spilling his own golden blood, that he forgot the color of human death. What remains of you soaks his hair and smears across his skin, seeping deep into his pristine white armor. You are the final nail in the coffin that ensures he will destroy the current world, because if not for freeing the souls of his friends, then at the very least, finding a way to be with you.

In those thirty million cycles, he tries to flee his destiny. He takes you far away to the edge of Amphoreus borders, where you live peacefully together, untouched by the Black Tide and Fate. In this life, the floor creaks beneath your bare feet, the sheep bleat in the morning fog, and the cattle graze lazily while he clings to you as you hang the linen. The dogs will bark at every passing bird and the cats will curl like soft shadows in every sunlit corner. There is never silence in your small home, only laughter-- yours and the children's. He will give you as many as you ask for. They will cling to his legs, cry in the night, and tug on his cloak as he sharpens the scythe. You will hum as you work the soil, dirt underneath your nails and sweat on your brow, singing to the clouds until even the sirens fall quiet, greedy for a voice they'll never have. But of course, he should know that Heroes do not get happily ever afters. In these timelines, you always die young. Either you are killed by the Flame Reaver, the Black Tide, or even just Lygus trying to start the story, Phainon is unable to pursue this blissful existence with you. These deaths are the most horrific— where your body is mangled beyond recognition and carelessly tossed aside. Sometimes, he fails to find you at all. Even your children are not spared this gruesome fate, wretched from his hands and into the mouths of beasts.

The world mocks him for daring to dream of happiness.

No matter what he does, you will always part from him. Just as you cradle him to sleep every night, he must bid you farewell in a warm casket of your blood. Once you arrive in his arms, he knows that the dawning of the new world has come. What point is there in this world, when you no longer exist? Thirty million, sixty million, one-hundred million. He will traverse as many cycles as need be. In all timelines, you are his. You saved him from his never ending misery, you are the brightest light of his life, you are an angel sent from the heavens, you are the breath he takes at dawn to keep himself alive. You are his and he is yours.

He will stop at nothing until you are safe in his arms. One day, he will witness the hair on your head turn grey and your face adorned in wrinkles from all your laughter and joy. One day, he will take your hand into his own and he will never have to fear your warmth being taken from him. One day, he will awake in your shared bed as nothing more than your husband. 

But until then, he will continue to rebuild the world anew. He will take your corpse with him as he ascends to the skies, the smell of burning flesh accompanying him every step of the way. Even now, he cannot weep for you, for the tears die the moment they touch his body. He is the bearer of the world, the dawn that shines upon kingdoms and the light that they worship, but he is left behind, left to wander the darkness, searching for the dawn that once called his name. 

In all broken cycles, he will hold you close. From the foundations of your remains, he shall craft anew the world.

[happyk44]

[ID: Text reading: And Cain talked with Abel his brother: and it came to pass, when they were in the field, that Cain rose up against Abel his brother, and slew him.

And the Lord said unto Cain, Where is Abel they brother? And he said, I know not: Am I my brother’s keeper?

2. Text reading: What is evil anyway, a sad soul infected with devils who take his will, or a man thinking of all his mother’s children he loves himself the best?

3. Illustration. Two figures watch a flaming car from a safe distance. One of the figures is completely yellow, like a bright light. The other figure is dark and shadowed beside them.

4. Text reading: The first thing God made is love then comes blood and the thirst for blood

5. Text reading: Two brothers are fighting by the side of the road. Two motorbikes have fallen over on the shoulder, leaking oil into the dirt, while the interlocking brothers grapple and swing. You see them through the backseat window as you and your parents drive past. You are twelve years old. You do not have a brother. You have never experienced anything ferocious or intentional with another person.

6. Text reading: Brother, my brother Oh, now the darkness comes alive It comes for me and I come for you

7. Text reading: This is my brother and I need a shovel to love him.

8. Text reading: [Roman:] You fucking bastard.

Kendall: I love you, man.

Roman: I fucking hate you.

9. Text reading: They are the same and they are not the same. They are the same and they hate each other for it.

10. Painting. Abel lies on the ground, trying to shield himself with one hand while Cain stands over him, one foot on his brother to keep him down, arms raised and ready to swing his club. The colours of the piece are mostly dark and muted, but Abel is coloured much more lightly, as though a beam were shining down against his chest and face. Cain is heavily shadowed, save for part of his face displaying focused intent, the length of his arm as he prepares to kill his brother, and the leg he’s used to keep Abel pinned.

11. Painting. Abel lies splayed out on the ground. Gripping a stick in one hand, Cain leans against a nearby rock and stares at his brother.

12. Text reading: and I killed my brother I had to and only wish I hadn’t washed my hands in the river the water remembers so long

13. Text reading: I really love you, but I can’t fucking stomach you.

14. Text reading: “If you have a sister and she dies, do you stop saying you have one? Or are you always a sister, even when the other half of the equation is gone?”

15. Text reading: there is something wrong with you

There is something wrong with you that is also wrong with me

16. Tumblr post from @/vampowers dated July 22nd 2023: sibling relationships are so strange… like I love you. You will never understand me in a way that matters. We are the same person in drastically different ways. We are sewn together. We don’t talk. We are attached at the hip. You wish I was never born. Can I call you. Let’s eat together. I forgive you. Etc

17. Text reading: You ask would I have done it for a husband or a child my answer is no I would not. A husband or a child can be replaced but who can grow me a new brother.

18. Text reading: Your sister haunts you. Your sister was wounded, long before she was killed. Your sister has always been wounded.

19. Text reading: Roman: Why do you love trying to hurt me do you think?

Shiv: It’s something to pass the time I guess?

20. Painting. The version of the painting has been cropped. In the full version, three women, anthromorphised depicts of Courage, Despair and Anxiety, hide behind a large rock observing a battle. What is visible in this cropped version is Anxiety gripping her shawl while Courage holds her wrist. Courage leans away from the other two. Despair sits further behind them in the shadows.

21. Text reading: You who I called brother How could you have come to hate me so? Is this what you wanted?

22. Text reading: And Cain says, “When you split me and my brother in the womb, you did not divide us evenly. He got kindness, and I got longing. He got complacence, and I got ambition. I want to kill him sometimes. I think sometimes he wants to die.”

23. Text reading: Who kills their own brother? Well, someone who loves him very much.

24. Tiktok comment from corinne reading, “I was so selfish. I was just a kid. I was so mad. I’m so sorry”

25. Text reading: And what can I tell you my brother, my killer What can I possibly say? I guess that I miss you, I guess I forgive you I’m glad you stood in my way

26. Text reading: hello, brother, hello? hello in there, brother, can you hear me? it’s a long tunnel to the grave

27. Still from the TV show, Succession. The three Roy siblings - Roman, Kendall, and Siobhan - stand in a room. While they're standing beside on another, there's decent space between the three of them.

28. Text reading: Oh, I could call you names now. List a hundred reasons for why you were awful. But what would that do? Where would it leave me? [highlight] I still loved you. I still have to live with that. [end highlight]

29. Text reading: In the Field, the ground warms as blood seeps into the dirt.

/end ID]

MY BROTHER / MY KILLER

"The King James Bible, Genesis 4 / "Black Leopard, Red Wolf" by Marlon James / "Car Crash" by Jenna Andersen / "Stratis Thalassinos Among the Agapanthi" by George Seferis (tr. by Edmund Keeley) / "You are Jeff" by Richard Siken (1) / "Brother" by The Rural Alberta Advantage / "A Brother named Gethsemane" by Natalie Diaz / "Succession" Script (1) / "You are Jeff" by Richard Siken (2) / "Cain Killing Abel" by Pietro Novelli / "The Death of Abel" by Gustave Doré (1866), recolored / "Lupa" by Matthew Nienow / Succession, S04 EP 10, "With Open Eyes" / "My Sister's Keeper" by Jodi Picoult / “Mirror Traps” by Hera Lindsay Bird / post by tumblr user vampowers / "Antigone", tr. by Anne Carson / "6 ways to draw a circle" by tumblr user filmnoirsbian / "Succession" Script (2) / "Courage, Anxiety and Despair Watching The Battle" by James Sant (detail) / "The Plagues", Prince of Egypt, dir. by Brenda Chapman / untitled poem by tumblr user nathanielorion (1) / "After Abel" by Dante Émile / comment from tiktok / "Famous Blue Raincoat" by Leonard Cohen / "For my unnamed brother" by Toi Derricotte / Succession screenshot / untitled, Sue Zhao / untitled poem by tumblr user nathanielorion (2)

[scannainscanrula]

shadowed corners (ii)

part one here

author's note: did not expect this to come as fast as it did but wow a preroll can work wonders! this is much sexier than part one so grma as always and enjoy warnings: horror elements, vampire violence, fingering, vibrators, masturbation (fem and masc), and grinding

PART TWO

You tap your toe nervously as the sun rises and you sit in the building that serves the dual departments of police, and fish and game. You feel colder than it is, as the morning sun is rising and illuminating the gray-white linoleum tile of the floor.

You hear your last name and stand up on shaky legs, walking to the counter.

“Just sign here, honey,” the older woman behind the counter tells you, pointing a manicured finger at the dotted line where you can sign the official report you filed with both departments. 

Chris, you learn, was not from this tiny coastal town. He’s actually from Santa Ana in California, and comes up here during the winters because nobody wants to do the lifeguarding job then. 

“You okay to head home?”

“The um… the fish and game officer drove me.”

“Are you far? I can give you a lift.”

You shake your head.

“No, thank you. I’m gonna walk. Try and… get some fresh air.”

“That’s a good idea. Here,” she starts, ripping a paper from a notepad and jotting down a phone number. “This is me, honey. I was a school counselor for a long time, if you think you need to talk.”

“Thank you,” you breathe out. 

You can’t understand how everyone today has been so kind and gentle with you. As you walk home slowly, the town is still hardly awake. You can remember Chris telling you about the other shark attacks, and how they devastated the town up the coast. Your heart hurts for any impact this event will have, emotional or economic.

And you just came here for a getaway.

You arrive back home and fumble for your keys, dropping them and sniffling when you lean down to pick them up. You unlock the door with shaky hands, opening and closing it to lean against the back of it. You feel your eyes get teary as you slide down the back of it, sitting on the floor. You cry there, knees close to your chest as you sob out your feelings. After a few minutes you sit up, exhaling deeply. You feel selfish and nauseous and above all, exhausted. You have to sleep. 

You approach the stairs, kicking your shoes off before you go up. You start up the stairs slowly, tossing your coat over the banister and your hat on the floor, peeling off your sweater and unhooking your bra in the back. You undo your jeans, shoving them down and stepping out of them. You maneuver your bra out from under your tank top and flop onto your bed, face in a pillow. At some point, you fall asleep.

Your body rocks in waves on a creaky bed in a derelict room. It’s so dark, only the billowing and shredded white curtains blowing in the soft breeze glow blue in the moonlight. You feel the familiar and addictive sensation of thick, rough fingers filling your cunt, and you moan. The red eyes stare at you in the darkness, murmuring still in words you don’t know. Only this time… you feel like you do know them.

“Mo ghrá,” the creature huffs through dripping fangs. 

My love. 

“Mo bhrídeog. Mo bhrídeog gnaíúil.”

My bride. My beautiful bride.

You don’t feel any fear, only adoration as clawed fingers brush up your bare thighs, skimming your side and tracing the outline of your breast, reaching up to frame your chin. You meet the red eyes and see the corner of the monster’s maw twitch. 

“An dtuigeann tú mé?” it speaks again. The voice chills you. It doesn’t sound like it comes from the mouth, but from the room itself, like the dark corners are speaking to you.

You nod, unable to form words. You do understand. The hand between your legs presses the heel of its palm against your clit, making you cry out. You feel oversensitive and under-stimulated, hips canting for more attention than the beast seems keen to give. 

Not that it isn’t looming over you, its free hand tracing every part of your body. It offers a thumb for you to suck as it touches your face lightly. It pulls the hand back, tracing down the opposite side. Brushing that wet thumb over your already pert nipple and looking up at you when you gasp. It squeezes your breast, pinching your nipple and examining you like you’re the first woman it’s ever seen. But that can’t be true, because the fingers inside your cunt have their claws retracted, and are driving in-out, in-out with expert speed and precision. When they curl upwards, they lift you with them, making you whimper as your hips rise. This creature is so strong, it can lift you with the two broad fingers in your cunt?

You jolt awake, your phone ringing and buzzing on the bed next to you. No time to think about how sick in the head you are, having a sex nightmare the day a guy you like got eaten by a fucking shark.

You pick it up and see your agent calling you.

“Hello?”

“Good morning to you too, sunshine.”

“Um… I’m so sorry, if you’re looking to talk contracts I just… this place I’m staying in had a really brutal shark attack this morning-”

“Oh my God.”

“The guy was um… was dead when they found him. And, fuck, um, I… I was the one who f-found the body.”

“Holy shit, kid. Are you okay?”

“Um, I will be. Just um… forward anything to the publisher in the meantime, please?”

“Yeah, of course. Shit. I’m so sorry, I know you went out there to relax. Do you want me to find you another place?”

“Maybe. I-I’m gonna rest for today and I’ll… I’ll circle back on that idea.”

“Okay. You get some rest. Please.”

“I will.”

“Right. Call me back.”

“Yeah, I will.”

“Feel better, kid.” She hangs up and you sigh. Sitting up reveals that you’ve soaked through not only your underwear but the topsheet that had bundled between your legs that you were no doubt humping while you dreamt about a monster finger-fucking you. God, you really are sick. You text your therapist, asking if she can schedule anything sooner than your next appointment or if she has a moment to talk.

Hi Stevie do you have a moment to talk? I’m totally in crisis mode and I really need to talk it over with a professional

Absolutely. I have a free slot right now if you need.

You press the call button.

She greets you warmly with your name.

“Hi,” you answer weakly.

“What’s going on?”

“Um… the town I’m in I… there was a shark attack last night, and I-I found a dead body on the beach.”

“Oh my God,” she answers. 

“And I… I knew him. W-we were actually supposed to go on like, a first date last night but he stood me up and now I’m thinking that he was… already dead?”

You’re word vomiting, and she uses her calmest voice to say your name until you stop. You breathe weakly and she leads you through a calming exercise.

“I want to hear you say that this wasn’t your fault.”

“It… it wasn’t my fault. I know. I’m just… he was a lifeguard. Like… why would he go out in the water that late at night?”

“Okay, right now, what isn’t going to help you is trying to understand what someone you knew for one day was going through or their thought process. I know you’re really empathetic, it’s one of the things I really admire about you as a patient. But you are not responsible for understanding why this happened. Understand?”

“I understand.”

You pause.

“When I went home and tried to sleep I had another one of the nightmares.”

“They’re still a problem?”

You nod, but you realise she can’t see you.

“Y-yes. Yeah. Um, I had another the other night, so… the coast hasn’t gotten rid of them.”

“I’m not a nineteenth century doctor, I didn’t expect sea air to suddenly fix all your problems.”

You chuckle at that, and sniffle.

“But this one was so much worse.”

“Scarier or…?”

“More um… more sexual?” you say cautiously.

Stevie specialises in sex therapy, which you’ve been eternally grateful for when dealing with these nightmares.

“Sexually violent?”

“No, it was… it felt good. Like, really good. Like… ‘new crush sex dream’ good. I was so aroused. I think I came, actually.”

“Huh.”

“And it called me… a bride?”

You hear her hum thoughtfully as she sighs.

“Do you think any of that has to do with your upcoming bridesmaid duties?”

You have two friends who are getting married, and you were asked to be a bridesmaid. It just seems to be that season in life, where people you know are getting married left and right. It made you feel a little uneasy about the progression of your love life alongside your career.

“Why the fuck would my subconscious be worried about that now?” you snap, angrier than you want to sound.

“The mind is a very strange little computer. Certain keywords can trigger emotions that logically have nothing to do with one another.”

You huff, trying to calm down.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be, please. I’m going to email you some grief processing material. And I want you to keep documenting these dreams so we can really analyse them at our next session. Okay?”

“Yes.”

“And as for the arousal, you are going to be so much worse if you don’t address it, so please, please just… ride out the feeling.”

“Okay.”

“And I am so sorry, but I have to get to my next patient.”

“Thank you. Thank you so much, Stevie.”

“Hey, no worries. Please feel free to text me anything else, and I’ll see you on Saturday.”

“See you Saturday. Thank you.”

“Bye now.”

“Bye.”

You set your phone down and sigh, sitting at your desk. You look at your reflection in the little mirror on the vanity of the bedroom. You need a bowl, a shower, and lunch. In that order. You open the drawer and take out both the scent-proof bag and the vibrator as you pack yourself a bowl, lighting up and smoking on the cute balcony outside your bedroom. You look at the dark, unforgiving ocean and your stomach turns. You finish, sufficiently numb and floaty, and take the vibrator to the shower with you. 

You decide to have a bath instead. You sink into the warm water and look at the vibrator at the edge of the porcelain tub. Ride out the feeling. You scroll through audio tracks, looking for something that suits your needs. Soft dom boyfriend roleplay. No. Boss stuff? You’ll just think about your publisher, and as much as you love her Miranda Priestly energy, that is not the vibe. You cringe at a lifeguard story and quickly scroll past it. You just decide to close your eyes and pick one at random, putting it on top of your towel and snatching up the vibrator. 

You listen closely to the exposition and your eyes shoot open.

“I was just making sure you got home safe, babygirl. Don’t you wanna let me in for being so kind?” 

You peek over at your phone and see the page opened. The audio is called “Just Around the Corner” and you see your pen name and SC mentioned in the description. 

It always comes back to Milo, you think as you listen intently, eyes closed happily. You so ride it out. You ride it out three times before you’re shaking so hard the water is sloshing over the side of the tub. Your hand is gripping the side of the tub as you lean forward on your knees, following the narrative of the story. Your hand moves the vibe at a pace that would bruise your cervix– if this was the girth and length you imagined Milo to be– but the three-incher coaxes another orgasm out of you despite its size. You spasm as you frantically try to shut it off, wincing softly. You sit back on your knees, twitching and sore. It’s a good sore, though. 

At your desk you fill out two pages of your dream journal, trying to be as descriptive as possible. Stevie said it was a good thing you wrote erotica, because you always wrote them in a tantalizing way, even when the sex appeal was vague.

You press your thighs together and remember your writing notebook. You think you should rip out the page where you wrote HOT LIFEGUARD. Would that be insensitive? Stevie would call it protecting your peace. You search for it and find it’s not at the desk. You search your room, then the pockets of your winter coat and nothing. 

You definitely took it on your little tantrum stomp last night, and you know you felt it in your pocket by the lighthouse tower.

“Shit.”

It’s either on the beach or up by the lighthouse. The beach is closed and the absolute last thing you need is Remmick seeing you creeping around his lighthouse. You can go tonight, you guess. You just hope it doesn’t rain. You had the makings of a really good book in there. 

Since you can’t enter the beach just yet, you have another bowl and drift off watching a public access nature show on the TV. The dulcet Mainer tones have you sleepy and you fall asleep drooling on the arm of the sofa. You have a dreamless but strangely hot and sweaty sleep, and wake up when the moon is high. Perfect.

You rise and dress, picking darker colours so you can sneak on the beach carefully. Your phone flashlight should do, you think as you climb down the ladder and into the alcove. The tide is rising, so you better make this quick unless you want to come back the long way. 

You follow the paths between the lifeguard towers, searching for your notebook. It’ll be easy to spot, especially with the few holographic stickers on the cover. 

“You missin’ somethin’?”

You squeak and flinch, almost dropping your phone. Remmick walks over to you, holding out your notebook.

“You found it?”

“Yeah. Figured I’d just take it on my run with me, case I saw you.”

He grins, toothy and white. His teeth aren’t particularly white, but they are animal-like.

“And I saw you.”

“Thanks.”

“I heard about this mornin’,” he says when you grasp the book in your hands.

“Yeah.”

“That’s just awful. I’m so sorry.”

You stand there for a moment. His hands rest on his hips as he leans against Tower Three.

“You uh… you want some company?”

You think about it for a second.

“Yeah. I do, actually.”

“Mine or yours?”

You want the comfort of your sofa right now, but you also know that your sanctuary is important. You never let boys into your room the first night, content to share your cozy sofa. But this isn’t a date. He’s literally going to have to leave at some point to go and run the lighthouse.

As if reading your mind, he stands up, pushing himself off of the tower.

“It’s my night off, y’know.”

You blink at him.

“Did that sound forward?”

“A little.”

“Did you like it?”

“A little,” you answer honestly.

How is this guy real?

“Um, the back way to my place is probably sealed off. I think the tide is too high.”

I'm too high too, you think.

He thinks for a moment and he squints at you.

“Shit, you stayin’ in that cottage over there?” he says, pointing. “There’s another way to get in, you don’t mind gettin’ a little dirty.”

You’re floored. Does he know how he sounds?

“C’mon.”

Remmick takes you up the rocky cliff, which is easy enough to climb. You falter at one point and you feel your knee and shin scrape open on the crags.

“Shit!”

He looks back at you and takes your hand, pulling you up another rock so he can help you up by the waist. Unnecessary, but those hands feel right at home on your waist. They’re big and they grip you protectively. 

You don’t know that he’s holding on for dear life, attempting to steady his breathing as the delicious copper tang of you fills the air around him. You are bleeding, the blood pooling and starting to run down your leg.

“Y’alright?”

"Yeah, I’ll clean it inside.”

You step over to your back porch, opening the sliding door you left unlocked. Dummy, he thinks. Anything could get in like that. Not him, though. It has his cold heart beating fast. He likes being nervous, it’s something to feel. He hasn’t felt anything but hunger in a long time, and eating your lifeguard loverboy was a really special treat. 

Chris stumbles down the beach, cross faded on shitty New Hampshire flower and five too many Buds. He feels like a frat boy again. He left his phone in the lifeguard tower, and he’s on his way back to grab it.

He doesn’t know what’s just under the tower. Among the discarded inflatables and trash people throw down there is Remmick. 

Hungry, horny, ruthless Remmick.

As the lifeguard looks on the floor by the chair, Remmick takes his chance to strike. 

He hooks his claws up on the platform and raises himself up, digging his talons into Chris’ arm and tossing him off of the tower. He lands with a sick cracking sound, right on his arm.

“What the fuck?! You broke my arm!”

“Don’t get loud now, Chrissy, you don’t want anyone to hear.”

Remmick stalks him down, chasing him into the water and grabbing him by the neck. The other man is taller, but Remmick is everything else. Stronger, faster, and ready to fucking kill this lifeguard.

“Now, I don’t want you in my fellowship. Fact is, I don’t want you in this town, kid.”

Remmick holds him below the water as the lifeguard kicks and thrashes, drowning. 

“Shh, shh. That’s it. What were you any good for anyhow? Tepid conversation over shitty drinks and a second rate fuck on her sofa? As if you deserve that pussy. I’m puttin’ in the work, buddy.”

Chris stops twitching below the water and Remmick pulls up dead weight. He has to work fast before the blood cools, dead man’s blood is no good for a thing like him. He goes to work gnawing at his arm around the elbow, drinking up that hot, irony blood as he thinks about you. You were so disappointed about this meal bag standing you up.

“Shit, look at you now,” he laughs to the body cruelly. “You just meat, s’all. Ain’t nothin’ else.”

He spits out a chunk of muscle and smirks.

“Pathetic.”

You watch him linger at the doorway, looking around in your house.

“Should I take off my shoes?” 

It’s a lie that works sometimes, a perfect little prompt to be let in.

“It’s not my place,” you shrug. 

He hesitates again and you tilt your head at him.

“You coming in or what?” you joke.

He tries to hide the clench of his stomach. He wants to. But you still have to say it.

“Remmick, I’m fucking bleeding, can you just come in, please?”

Your please has him swallowing hard. He chuckles as he passes the threshold. Close call. He leans against the opening into the kitchen hand on the wall. You produce a bottle of isopropyl alcohol and wet a paper towel, cleaning your little scrapes. You wince and he grips the doorframe tightly, his nails digging into the white paint.

You are such a fucking treat, He knows you’ll taste so good. He knows what you like now, the words to say and places to squeeze a little harder. You finally let him in so nice in your dreams, finally understood him. His pretty little bride. You’ll look so good in a pool of blood.

“Do you want a drink?” you ask, spreading some antibiotic on your leg and applying two bandages.

“I’m fine.”

You want more boxed wine, but you’re still a little wobbly from that second bowl, so you pour yourself some water in a cup, not your bottle. 

Remmick follows you to the sofa and sees a book on your desk.

“This yours?”

“That’s my firstborn,” you joke.

He holds up Ivory Fortress, your first title. A mafia romance with a tall, dark, and psycho mafia fixer who falls for a pianist for the New York Philharmonic. Once, while waiting for the subway, you saw a girl lugging a keyboard in the station. She glanced at her phone and looked around, and suddenly the biggest guy you’ve ever seen appeared. He picked up the keyboard like it was nothing and greeted her with a hey, baby. You whipped out your phone and drafted a concept in the time it took between two stations. 

“This is a pen name, huh?”

“Oh, yeah. That’s mostly for safety.”

“Right.”

Safety, he thinks. You’re about the furthest thing from safe after letting him in, but you remain cool. He knows he’s plucking the right cords. He just has to play your pretty song well enough and you’ll let him croon his way to your bedroom to ring wedding bells in your mind.

He’s starting to feel desperate as you shrug off your coat and peel off your sweater, left bare to him in a tiny little tank top. The visible bit of your tummy has him biting back a groan as you sit down.

“You can sit, y’know.”

“Right.”

You squint at him.

“Do you need permission to do everything?” you half-joke, watching him stiffly sit on your sofa. “Actually, you sound like a perfect man.”

“Do I?”

“Oh my God, in the city you would not believe how many fucking… alpha male podcaster manosphere freaks there are who literally will scoff at the idea of consent.”

He doesn’t know half of the words you just said, but he nods anyway.

“Do you like podcasts?”

“I like music,” he offers, hoping those are similar things. 

“Well, yeah. Everybody likes music. Like what?”

“I got some records at my place.”

“You’re into vinyl?”

Are there other ways to listen to music? He nods again, dumbfounded by your words. Maybe it’s just how long it's been or the place he chose to hole up in, but you’re the most modern woman Remmick has ever met. 

“Was this your first time… with a shark attack?”

“Yeah. I mean, they’re so rare, I thought?”

Not wherever he is.

“More common on the East Coast,” he lies.

“Where are you from?” you ask him, curious about his accent.

“This is North Carolina you’re hearin’,” he answers, artfully lying.

A little part of him wishes he could say Ireland. He wants you to be one mind already, so he can show you Killary Fjord and Connemara.

You hum in realisation, you know the sound of the state, more or less. 

“Were you here with the ones up the coast happened?”

“Nah. I was still down south,” he lies. 

Lifeguard Loverboy was a fucking motormouth, as he is discovering. 

You both talk for a little bit longer, and eventually he can relax a little bit at the smell of your blood and your heartbeat in your leg. Your legs are crossed, your bandages one bouncing as you tap your other foot on the floor. It’s a charming little tic, but he wants to rip off your bandages and lick his way up until he can part your legs and finally fucking eat. He’s so hungry, and he’s feeling stupid about it. 

He says something to make you laugh, and you lean over and touch his thigh as you do. 

“Oh, shit,” you laugh, sighing. You notice your hand. “Oh, shit. Sorry. That was uncool.”

“N-no. It’s fine.”

You catch the stammer in his voice and lean in, smirking at him.

“Are you nervous, Remmick?”

“Be lyin’ if I said I wasn’t.”

You pat his knee.

“Do you ever get lonely up there?”

“Sometimes. There’s another guy, so we switch off every couple days.”

“But you’re just like… nocturnal, right?”

“Sorry?”

“I just mean, um… in college I worked night shifts at the front desk of this hotel in New York, and… even on my days off I’d still wake up at like, five PM.”

“Somethin’ like that, yeah.”

You lean in further, too close for comfort now.

“You tryin’ t’count my freckles?” he mutters, shifting in place.

“I’m trying to make you squirm.”

His girl, thinking with her pussy even after she found his bloody work. 

“You ain’t makin’ me squirm, darlin’,” he husks, glancing from your lips to your eyes.

You hover there for a moment, breathing in each other’s air. You lean in– carefully, tentatively– his head tilts to the side slowly when he realises what you’re doing. You kiss, your lips meeting briefly before you pull back. His eyes are closed, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows.

“Did you like that?” you ask softly.

He doesn’t respond. He just kisses you again, cupping your face with his hand. It’s deep and sloppy, sloppier than you’d like. You squirm back and a thick strand of spit connects your mouths. He quickly wipes at his mouth and covers it, looking away.

“I’m sorry,” he apologises, his fangs out behind his hand.

“No, it’s okay. Do you wanna… maybe try again?” you offer gently, a hand on his thigh. 

You see a stiff tent in his shorts, even through the compression layer.

“No, I-I… I should go,” he babbles.

“Are you sure?” 

Your hand slides closer to his cock and he makes a choked whimpering sound. 

“Has it been a while?”

“Y-yeah,” he admits, lowering his hand as he finally manages to get his fangs back up.

His legs are spread wide, one hand planted on his thigh as he catches his breath. He scrubs a hand down his face and looks at you. His face is sweet and needy.

There’s a nagging voice telling you you’re insane for making out with the town weirdo three days after meeting him, but something else wants this. Something deep and old.

You climb into his lap, bracketing his thighs with your own. 

“You’re cold.”

“It’s cold in Maine in the winter, baby.”

You raise a brow at that pet name and trail your hand up his chest, up his neck, lifting his chin with your thumb.

“You are so cute,” you coo, admiring him.

Remmick doesn’t even know what to do with himself. Any other woman he’d have them undressed in the bed already, but you? He’s like a puppy, lost and confused.

“It’s really been a while, huh?” you tease him, scooting up to sit on that bulge in his pants. 

He can’t hold back the groan at your words and movement. Everything about your notebook made you seem like another type of girl. Like one who was looking for a dark man to be the boss. But you’re the boss now.

Your hand trails back down and lingers at his taut stomach, your pinky finger teasing the waistband of his shorts. He curls a hand in your hair and pushes you down to kiss you again, not caring if he drools. He feels you rocking on him, a hand on his chest. His other hand grips your thigh and slides around to hold you up by the small of your back.

“Fuck,” he groans.

“Oh, shit,” you breath, grinding down on him. “Y-you’re so hard…”

“S’all you, darlin’. Shit, fuckin’... playin’ all nice ‘n sweet when you dirty as fuck.”

“You’re drooling,” you tease him, kissing his neck.

“Only cause I know this pussy’s droolin’ for me, baby,” he murmurs, nipping at your ear.

He feels you stiffen and laugh nervously. 

“Yeah, there’s no way you get to meet her your first time here.”

“Even if I ask real nice?”

You sit back.

“Um… I-I’m sorry, I-” you start.

“You wanna stop?”

“Yeah.”

He nods and you climb off of his lap, sitting next to him.

“Sorry.”

“You’ve had a pretty fuckin’ bad day, so…”

“Yeah.”

You sit in that awkward silence for a moment, both shifting around as your respective arousal wanes.

“Are you working tomorrow?” you ask him softly, tracing a shape in the palm of his hand.

“Nah.”

“You wanna come over and watch a movie or something?”

“I can do that.”

You sigh and stand up, stretching your back.

“I think I should get to bed.”

He nods, standing slowly.

“Right.”

“Goodnight, Remmick.”

“You sleep well, okay?”

“Thanks.”

He exits and you cover your face, growling.

“Fuck!”

You had him right there and you still fucked it up.

Remmick snarls to himself as he climbs down the cliff, jogging back to the lighthouse. He had you right there. He could smell you, feel how wet you were through those stupid yoga pants. 

After hunting, he climbs up the rock and sand stairs, going to his small room. He lives like a monk in a small and simple room with boarded up windows. The other man, an older man named Jones, thinks that Remmick is on drugs or drinks too much. He sleeps all day and when he is awake, he’s completely wired, and always complaining of stomach pains. He has a haggard look about him like someone who’s whacked out and looking for their next fix.

In his bed in only his boxers, Remmick can think of the smell of your house. Home cooked food, the blood on your knee, and your wet cunt tensing up around nothing. He snarls and slides his hand down his stomach, gripping himself tightly at the base. 

“Fuck,” he whispers, turning over to hug his pillow tightly. 

He fucks into his hand, imagining the girl from his dreams each night. The bride in white cotton, the willing bride who opens her legs sweetly. The bride who can’t speak, who’s just learning to understand him. His thumb rubs over the tip, making him twitch at the roughness of his own hand. He brings his hand up to collect his drool and darts his hand down again, twisting it in a tight grip and imagining your cunt. That slick, tight, fuck, fuck, fuck feeling that has his hips stuttering as he bites into his pillow. He grunts, whining and hiccuping as he slows himself, bringing his cock to the edge and pulling his hand away. 

“Ah-h-hah…” he breathes out, face in the mattress. He sees that his teeth have ripped the pillowcase and his drool has soaked into the interior. He takes a shaking breath and strokes himself again, wincing at the oversensitivity. 

“Mo bhrídeog. Mo bhrídeog gnaíúil,” he chants, canting his hips again and again until he spills over his hand and makes a mess of the fabric.

His pretty bride. Not much longer now.

[whumpetywhumpwhump]

Maisie's guide to disguised AI

If you've been anywhere near AO3 recently, you've probably encountered AI writing at some point. As somebody who writes for, primarily, the ER fandom (and occasionally the Pitt, too), I've noticed a concerning trend over the last few days: AI-generated fanfiction clogging the tags.

Firstly, I'd like to say that if you ARE posting fics on AO3 that were AI-generated, and you're passing them off as your own, please stop. I know this is not likely to actually resonate with you if this IS you, but on the off-chance that you do see this- please use tags as intended and make it clear that you're using AI.

Secondly, before I go into some AI tells in detail, I want to preface this with a warning- just because you see one or two of these in a fic, there's no guarantee that it was AI-generated. Please approach the matter of flagging fics with care, because the last thing I want is to incite a witch hunt against innocent people just engaging in fandom.

However, when seen in tandem, these signs should act as a warning to think a little more deeply about what you're reading, and ask the question- was this human written?

1. Em-dashes

I'm getting this one out of the way quickly because it's something easily identifiable, but it should by no means discredit a fic on its own. Real people can use em-dashes, but ChatGPT uses them a LOT. Like, a distracting amount. And they're often used in conjunction with...

2. 'Not' qualifiers

ChatGPT doesn't do 'yes, and'. It seems to work off 'no, but' instead (sorry @pagingdoctorcarter , like an AI, I am stealing your phrase here. But I do have the decency to credit, I suppose!).

Take this sentence I've come up with right now:

Carter was so exhausted he was struggling to stand, legs trembling with the strain of keeping him upright.

AI might write something like this (using my own creative license here because I don't want to feed the beast):

Carter was exhausted— not the regular exhaustion that came with twelve hours on his feet. Something deeper. Heavier.

3. Repetitive phrases.

AI is not original, so it can't come up with anything original, of course. This means that it relies on basic phrases it uses over and over and over again e.g 'the kind of (blank) that (blank)'

4. The classic 'concrete noun' + 'abstract noun' combo

For reasons that I can't quite understand, AI adores this. Some humans include this combo in their work, too, but AI does it even more frequently. Some real phrases I've encountered so far include:

"a story about meatballs and betrayal"

"champagne and anxiety soaked into the upholstery"

5. Anachronisms and inaccuracies

This is especially present in a fandom like ER, where most of the time we're writing about the 90s, and this CAN be attributed to genuine human error... but if Carter is repeatedly 'swiping' on his phone screen to open a call, and everyone's always texting... could be AI.

In a similar vein, if someone is shouting 'code blue!' for things that AREN'T cardiac arrest, or mixing up names and even hallucinating random characters- think 'maybe AI'.

6. Short sentences, short paragraphs, short chapters.

AI doesn't have the ability to understand how paragraphs are structured for ease of reading and flow. So it likes short sentences. Snappy sentences.

And not just when the situation suits it. But always.

If there's a hell of a lot of paragraphs, it could be AI. AI doesn't like including many clauses. At all.

7. Generic similes and phrases that don't mean anything at all

This relates to the 'concrete noun + abstract noun combo' but, more generally, AI produces writing that veers away from specifics. It won't often describe places in too much detail, and when it comes to similes, it uses simple, overused ones OR spouts a series of words that are meaningless. If you see an abstract simile in a fic, take a second. Is it abstract because it's complex and has several layers, or is it utterly meaningless?

8. A crazy update schedule

This one is less reliable because it IS possible to bank chapters and then post a lot in one go, but if an author is posting many thousands of words in the span of a few days, consider this a small red flag- especially in conjunction with the other things mentioned. It could mean they're just pumping out AI-generated writing, and this allows them to move far quicker than any human.

9. Overly mushy dialogue

AI is a thief, but it's a happy-go-lucky thief. Characters speak like they stepped straight off Sesame Street at times, lacking any kind of emotional complexity.

10. Awful, awful jokes

AI cannot write jokes. It simply cannot. If you read a joke in a fic that feels Disney-Channel esque but also doesn't make sense at all? It very well could be AI.

For instance:

Nobody talks like this.

Also, note the 'concrete noun + abstract noun' combo again here! (This actually was an AI fic as confirmed by author before deletion, not naming them here): 'gauze and intuition'.

Conclusion

Be vigilant. Don't fall for AI crap and, if you disagree with the concept of AI work clogging AO3 tags, definitely don't leave kudos.

And if you're posting this stuff, yet again I ask you politely, please STOP.

Thank you.

[orellazalonia]

Hii, i have a request. I recently just started reading the shatter me series again - idk if you know it - but the main character has a lethal touch, every person she touches - but one man - dies if she touches them, and I was wondering if you could hse that concept but the only person reader can touch is Bucky Barnes. So like, the avengers find her at hydra, and she's settling in at the tower, and gets close with bucky, and then she accidentally touches him, but nothing happens. Idk if you understand this but i hope you do!<3

Hello there! I absolutely loved this idea, has so much potential for angst to be honest. It fits well into the Whispers of the Gifted series as well. So, thank you for the request and I hope you enjoy! Happy reading!!!

Safe in His Hands

Summary: After being rescued from Hydra, you struggle to adjust to life at the Avengers Tower, haunted by your lethal touch that kills anyone you make skin contact with until Bucky Barnes catches you, and nothing happens. (Bucky Barnes x reader)

Disclaimer: Reader has the power to end the life of anyone she touches. Mentions of death & labs/experimentation. Angst. Hurt/Comfort.

Word Count: 2.4k+

Main Masterlist | Whispers of the Gifted Masterlist

You were seven years old when you first killed someone.

It wasn’t on purpose. You were just a kid. Scared, hungry, and cold. They’d come into your holding room. One of the guards, you didn’t recognize him. He was probably new. He knelt in front of you and told you to stand. You didn’t, so he grabbed your arm.

He didn’t even scream. He just dropped, went limp, and his life was gone.

They ran so many tests after that. Hooked you to wires, sliced open skin, injected chemicals, brought in more test subjects. They wanted to understand you. Your blood. Your skin. Your curse.

Because all it took was one touch, skin to skin. A brush of fingers, a hand on a wrist, a graze of your palm against someone’s cheek all resulted in instant death. There were no explanations. No control. You were death in the shape of a human. And Hydra thought that made you useful.

So they kept you, caged you. Covered you in thick gloves, containment suits, and glass walls. “For your own safety,” They always said. But you knew better. It wasn’t about protecting you. It was about protecting everyone else from you.

You stopped speaking eventually. What was the point? Words couldn’t undo what your hands did.

But then, one night, everything exploded.

You didn’t know who they were at first. The power cut out and all you heard were screams and gunshots that echoed through the halls. You stayed in your corner, knees pulled to your chest, not daring to move. You knew better than to open the door anyways.

But someone else did.

Blinding light flooded your cell, and a figure stood in the doorway, silhouetted by sparks and smoke, a shield strapped to his back. Others moved behind him. You thought you saw a red glow and a flash of metal.

Then his eyes landed on you. You couldn’t move, didn’t breathe, just waited for the orders, the fear, the recoil.

But none came.

“Hey,” He said gently, crouching just enough to be eye-level. “You okay?”

You stared back, not answering.

Another stepped beside him. A man with brown hair and a metal arm, tense but watchful. “She’s not chained,” He murmured. “But look at the gloves. She’s not here by choice.”

“She’s scared,” A third voice said. Female, distant, but knowing. You felt her inside your head like a whisper. “But not of us.”

They didn’t grab you, didn’t drag you. Just offered a hand and waited. You didn’t take it, of course. But you stood slowly and followed.

You didn’t know who they were yet. But you did know one thing: They weren’t Hydra.

Days passed in a blur after that. You were moved to a new facility, high in the sky, full of windows and white light. They called it the Avengers Tower. They gave you a room, food, and clothes that didn’t itch. There were no cells and no experiments.

But still… no touch.

You kept the gloves on and never sat too close to anyone. You didn’t speak at first and they didn’t push. But you could feel the caution in the air, the curiosity. They didn’t know. No one did. And you didn’t want them to.

Because you knew what would happen. They’d lock you up again. Maybe not in a lab, but in some new kind of prison. For their safety and for yours.

So you kept your head down. Ate your meals in silence. Avoided the common room when too many people were there. You stayed quiet and small.

But he kept showing up. The one with the metal arm. Bucky.

He never asked questions. Never pried. Just… existed near you. Sat with you across the room. Passed you a glass of water. Nodded when you acknowledged him. Said goodnight sometimes, soft and gruff. You didn’t know why, but it didn’t scare you.

In fact, he was the only one who didn’t make you feel like glass. Like a threat. And soon, you weren’t avoiding him. You began waiting for him.

As time passed, you had just started feeling like a person again.

You still kept your gloves on, still flinched when someone got too close. But you were sleeping more. Eating with the others, sometimes. Sitting in the common room without being asked. And you were talking to Bucky. Really talking.

He had this quiet way of making you feel seen without shining a spotlight. He didn’t ask invasive questions or try to dig up your trauma like it was some kind of prize. He let you sit beside him in silence, let you borrow his books, or let you eat the cherry from his drink when you thought no one saw.

You’d started laughing again. Just a little, especially with him. Which is why it hurt when everything shifted again.

It happened on a late Tuesday morning. You’d just made tea, still in one of those oversized sweatshirts Pepper had given you, trailing quietly into the common room with your gloves on.

The team was already there. And the air felt thick. It was too quiet. No jokes. No arguing. No music playing in the background.

You paused near the doorway and noticed everyone’s behavior and body language. Steve was sitting stiffly. Natasha leaned against the wall with her arms crossed. Sam looked like he was trying not to look at you. Wanda and Bruce wouldn’t meet your gaze at all.

And then there was Tony. Standing in front of a projection screen, a file hovering behind him in holographic light.

Your file. Hydra’s file. You didn’t need to see the text to recognize the red lettering. The Hydra seal with your photo and warnings stamped across every page.

“Subject shows consistent and immediate lethality through direct epidermal contact.” “High fatality rate confirmed through controlled experimentation.” “Extreme caution advised. Gloves required at all times.”

The word “Thanatos” was printed in bold near the top. Your old title, the one they gave you, and the one you hated.

“Right,” Tony said, exhaling as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “So. Now that everyone’s caught up, I figured we should have the ‘Don’t-Touch-the-New-Girl-or-You’ll-Die’ talk.”

Your heart stopped. No one looked at you.

“Well, technically, she’ll still be the last one standing,” He added, more to himself. “Silver lining.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t know what to say as you just stood there. The tea cooling in the cup still in your hands. The weight of the scene before you sinking in your chest.

Natasha was the first to say anything, sighing. “Tony, seriously?”

“What? Did I lie?” He snapped. “You all needed to know.”

“Not like that,” Steve said, his jaw clenched. “She has a right to her privacy–“

“She has a death-touch!” Tony said, throwing a hand toward the screen. “If any of you brushed her arm on the way to the coffee machine, you'd be dead, Rogers! I’m not saying kick her out, I’m saying awareness matters!”

They argued. You didn’t hear most of it.

You turned around before anyone could stop you. Walked straight back down the hall, the sound of their voices fading behind you. You didn’t cry. You just felt cold. Like your skin didn’t belong to you anymore. Like you were back in that white room at Hydra, gloves stapled to your wrists.

You didn’t see Bucky in the room. But hours later, he found you sitting on the floor of your room, knees pulled up to your chest.

He knocked once before entering and sat down slowly across from you.

“They know,” You said flatly, not looking at him.

He nodded. “Yeah.”

“I’m not safe.” You swallowed. “Not for any of you.”

He didn’t respond right away. Then: “You’ve been safe the entire time I’ve known you.”

You looked at him then, really looked. “You didn’t read the file, did you?”

“No,” He said honestly. “I didn’t need to.”

You blinked. “Why not?”

He leaned forward slightly, eyes calm, and voice even. “Because I’ve seen the way you move through a room. I’ve seen how careful you are, how you never slip or let your guard down, not even by accident. You think I haven’t been watching? You think I don’t get it?”

He lifted his metal hand slowly, carefully.

“I’ve lived with hands that kill, too.”

Your throat closed.

“And for what it’s worth,” He said, his voice quieter now, “I want to be the one you trust to take that risk to be around.”

You couldn’t speak. Not yet.

But later that night, after everyone had gone quiet, you stepped into the kitchen and found him waiting. You sat beside him in silence.

Your gloved hand rested on the counter beside his. And even after everything… you didn’t pull away.

But then it happened three nights later.

You weren’t reckless. Not intentionally. You never were, but the compound was darker than usual. Backup generators hummed, and flickering lights made every corner look unfamiliar. You were alone in the library’s upper balcony, reaching for a book too far up. You thought you were alone and with the AC not working well, you had pushed your sleeves up for once.

You didn’t mean to fall. Because you never let yourself be careless. Never let yourself slip. Because you knew what happened when you did. Every part of your body was a loaded gun. Every uncovered inch of skin was a threat.

But you had reached too far and your footing gave way. You didn’t even scream. You just reached out, an instinct burned into your body since before you could remember, and then–

Hands caught you. Strong. Steady. One metal but one flesh. And you felt it, the bare skin on yours.

You froze. Air jammed in your lungs as panic rose fast.

“No–” You choked. “No no no no no– let go!”

You shoved him back hard. Harder than you meant to. You hit the floor on your side, gloves scattering across the room as your eyes went wild trying to find him.

But Bucky didn’t collapse.

He stumbled, yes. But he caught himself, and looked at you. Hands still open in the air where they’d caught your arms. Still alive.

Your vision tunneled. Breath stuttering, chest too tight to expand.

“You–” Your voice broke like glass. “I touched you–“

“I know.”

He said it too calmly. Like he didn’t understand the weight of what just happened. Like he hadn’t just died.

“I didn’t mean to–I didn’t… I wasn’t thinking, I wasn’t–“ You curled in on yourself, dragging your sleeves back down over your hands, trying to find air in a room that had too much of it. “I don’t want you to die–I always kill them–“

“Hey.” His voice was closer, lower and solid. “You didn’t kill me.”

You shook your head violently, barely hearing him. Your hands were trembling so hard it hurt. Your whole body buzzed with panic. Your mind raced ahead to things that hadn’t happened. Memories of bodies falling, the smell of burned skin, the lifeless weight of people you'd only brushed.

“Look at me,” Bucky said again, firm this time. “Look at me.”

You did.

He was knelt in front of you, not touching you now, but not afraid either. Still breathing. Still alive.

“Nothing happened,” He said, slower this time. “You didn’t hurt me. You didn’t even make me dizzy.”

“I’ve never…” You voice cracked. “No one ever survives it.”

“I did.”

You stared at him, unable to believe it. Skin still crawling like you were seconds away from watching his eyes go blank, his heart stutter and stop.

But he stayed there, breathing evenly, watching you with calm in his storm-blue eyes.

“I don’t know why,” He said, not trying to sugarcoat it. “But you can touch me.”

And somehow, that was the thing that finally broke you. Not the fear. Not the guilt. Not the flashbacks.

Hope.

Because if there was one person in the world you could touch… then maybe you weren’t a monster after all. And that was almost harder to believe.

You didn’t move for a long time and neither did Bucky. He stayed close but not too close. Never crossed the line, never reached out. He just waited. Like he knew you were still one breath away from bolting down the hall.

But he did shift just slightly. “You don’t have to talk,” He said quietly. “Not yet, but I’m not going anywhere.”

Your voice was raw when you answered: “It’s not supposed to be possible.”

He said nothing.

“I’ve killed people for less,” You whispered. “Brushed their wrist, bumped a shoulder. They all…”

The words fractured. Your breath hitched too hard to finish. And still, he didn’t speak. Not in that moment.

But then he exhaled slowly. “They did that to me, too, you know,” He said. “Hydra. Taught me my hands could only cause hurt. That I wasn’t allowed to have anything good, not without ruining it.”

Your gaze flicked toward him, blurry and sharp at once. He looked tired. Not pitiful, not fragile–just… weathered. Like he understood.

“I got used to keeping distance,” He went on, gaze softening. “Figured I didn’t deserve closeness anymore.”

Something tight pulled in your heart.

“I never thought I’d be the one someone like you was scared to hurt.”

Your throat tightened. “That’s not what this is.”

He tilted his head. “No?”

You looked away, unable to meet the weight in his eyes. “I wasn’t scared of hurting you,” You admitted, voice quieter now. “I knew I would.”

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy. It wasn’t judgment. It was understanding. The kind you’d only felt a few times in your life, and never like this.

Eventually, you managed to crawl forward, slowly, moving with the hesitance of someone reaching across a minefield. Bucky stayed perfectly still, not guiding, not pushing.

You reached for his hand. Skin to skin. And still… nothing.

No death. No pain. Just warmth.

You let out a shaky breath.

“I’ve never touched anyone like this,” You admitted, more to yourself than him. “Without hurting them.”

Bucky’s fingers curled gently around yours.

“You’re not hurting me,” He said. “You never have.”

The sob built in your throat before you could stop it. Ugly, sudden, and sharp. Bucky didn’t flinch. Just waited, fingers still gently holding yours. Like it wasn’t dangerous. Like it was normal.

Like maybe, for once, you were allowed to be human. And for the first time since the day Hydra named you a weapon, you believed that might be true.

[noirscript]

Inked Possession | part two

pairing: yandere artist x erotic book writer!reader description: At his exhibit, Eleazar’s jealousy ignites with a stranger’s laugh—and by nightfall, you’re blindfolded, bound, and painted in his studio, every touch a possessive reminder that you belong only to him. warning/s: Yandere behavior, possessiveness, explicit sexual content, bondage (restraints), blindfolding, jealousy, emotional manipulation, exhibitionism (implied), power dynamics, obsessive love, rough sex, worship/adoration, noncon/dubcon undertones. note: enjoy!!! the pre-order for Callixto's ebook will end next week (Monday) so make sure to reserve a copy of the ebook PLUS the exclusive freebies that comes with it! The freebies will only be available during the pre-order period.

It begins with a laugh.

Not yours. And definitely not Eleazar’s.

The gallery hums with polite chatter and soft music, all of it bleeding into the undercurrent of hushed awe and too-hungry eyes. It’s a private preview of Anatomy of Devotion,

Eleazar’s newest exhibit—his obsession rendered in brushstrokes. You. In shadows and warm light. Draped in his shirt, curled into his bed, arched across canvas like you belonged there more than in your own skin.

And you do, don’t you?

You feel exposed, not because of the nudity or the rawness of each painting, but because you know he painted them while you slept, dreamed, moaned. The audience doesn't see that part. But he does. And you do. And it burns beneath your clothes.

From across the room, you sense his eyes on you. He’s dressed in black again—casual in a way that still looks powerful, shoulders straight and jaw tense. His dark hair is slightly messy, a curl brushing the edge of his cheekbone. He watches you with an intensity that borders on unnerving. You offer a small, reassuring smile, a signal: I'm fine. I'm just talking.

He doesn’t smile back.

You turn to excuse yourself politely from the nearby crowd, but someone steps in.

“This one,” a voice says beside you, male, amused, too relaxed for your comfort. “Damn. That’s my favorite.”

You follow his gaze and immediately regret it. He’s pointing to the massive oil painting of you in Eleazar’s studio chair, one leg folded under the other, wearing nothing but his ruined, paint-smeared shirt. The same one that now hangs like a shrine in your shared bedroom.

“The way you’re looking in this?” the assistant says, sipping his champagne with a crooked grin. “Like someone just dragged you out of a fever dream. Fucking raw. He nailed it.”

You offer a tight smile, holding your glass a little too firmly. “He captures what matters.”

He leans in slightly, voice dropping as if you’re already conspiring. “If I had someone like you in my studio, I’d never stop painting. Or touching. I mean… ever considered posing for someone else?”

The comment slides across your skin like rot. You pull away a fraction, breath caught in your throat—but it’s already too late.

The man doesn't notice. “I’ve got a setup. Nothing big, but I can be a lot more fun than your guy.”

The flute nearly slips from your hand.

It doesn’t shatter. It doesn’t have to.

Because Eleazar is suddenly behind him.

The temperature of the room changes. The quiet turns heavy. The gallery’s background noise continues—oblivious—but here, where Eleazar stands, the world becomes razor-sharp.

The assistant laughs nervously, stepping back as if he’s only now aware of the storm forming inches from his face. “Oh—hey. Didn’t see you there, man. Just a joke. Your wife’s stunning, really. You must be proud.”

Eleazar’s smile is slight and sharp. It looks polite. It isn’t.

“I’m always proud of what’s mine,” he replies, calm and low, too calm. “But you strike me as the kind of man who doesn’t understand boundaries until he’s bleeding.”

The man blanches, and you can practically smell the fear start to rise off him. You reach out to place a hand on Eleazar’s arm, grounding, a silent plea not to cause a scene here.

He doesn’t need to.

He takes your hand instead and guides you through the crowd, slow and silent, his grip firm but not harsh. You follow without protest.

---

The drive home is quiet. Not cold—just sharpened into something that leaves no room for distractions.

Eleazar keeps one hand on the wheel, the other resting on his thigh, flexing every now and then like he’s holding back something primal. His jaw is tight, his profile locked in shadow, and even the air feels afraid to stir.

You try once, softly. “Eleazar—”

“Don’t.”

You flinch. Not because of the volume—he doesn’t raise his voice—but because of the meaning behind it. He rarely interrupts you. When he does, it's because he's trying not to unravel.

“I could smell him on you,” he says after a while, his voice calmer now but laced with restrained venom. “Like a stain.”

“He didn’t touch me,” you whisper. “He was being inappropriate, yes, but I didn’t engage.”

“You laughed.”

“I didn’t mean to. It was uncomfortable. I was trying to be polite—”

“You laughed.” His knuckles tighten around the wheel, the leather creaking. “Do you know what that does to me? Hearing that sound, knowing it wasn’t for me?”

You stay quiet.

“I won’t punish you for his stupidity,” he says, more to himself than to you. “But I will remind you what your smile belongs to. What you belong to.”

---

He doesn’t even wait for you to enter the apartment. He leans down as he opens the car door, presses a soft kiss to your temple, and murmurs, “Studio. Now.”

You obey.

Inside the space where he paints you daily, the scent of varnish and oil hits you like memory. It’s thick in the air—intimate, private. You notice immediately the cloth and basin of warm water, the soft silk rope, and the blindfold folded neatly on his stool.

It’s not a punishment.

It’s a lesson.

He enters a moment later. Locks the door behind him. Doesn’t say a word as he moves behind you and begins unzipping your dress. It slips from your shoulders like surrender, pooling at your feet.

You don’t fight him when he lifts you into the studio chair—the one you’ve posed on countless times, the one he’s immortalized you in. He moves slowly, methodically, securing your wrists behind the chair with the silk rope, then spreading your ankles to tie them to the legs.

The blindfold is the last thing. He slides it on gently, fingertips brushing your temples.

Darkness falls.

You can feel the shift in the air as he steps back. The silence lengthens. Then you hear it—the sound of his fingers dipping into paint.

When his touch returns, it’s cold and deliberate. He draws a line across your collarbone, slow and thick.

“This one’s black,” he says near your ear. “Do you remember what black means?”

You nod, throat dry. “Mine.”

“Good girl.”

He paints over your chest, dragging his fingers in spirals around your nipples until they harden. Down your ribs, across your stomach, then along your thighs—everywhere but where you need him most. He avoids your core deliberately, punishing you without pain.

The next color is red. “This is for shame. For forgetting—even briefly—that your smile is sacred. That it belongs only to me.”

The red stains your inner thighs, the underside of your breasts, your throat.

Then comes gold. He doesn’t speak as he paints a streak from your heart to your navel, a line of reverence amid chaos.

You sit there—tied, blindfolded, dripping in black and red and gold. Helpless. Waiting.

And still, he doesn’t touch you there.

He disappears briefly, and when he returns, it isn’t with fingers or paint.

It’s with warm cloth.

He parts your thighs and presses the soft towel to your center, cleaning you with the kind of care that borders on sacred. Each pass is gentle, almost worshipful, as he murmurs, “You think I’d risk your body for a lesson? No. I’d never hurt what’s mine.”

The moment the cloth drops away, so does his restraint.

He goes to his knees, and when his tongue finally touches you, it’s not tentative.

He eats you like a starving man—devouring every moan, every shudder, holding your thighs in place as you buck and cry out against the ropes. He doesn’t stop, even when you beg him to, even when you sob that you’re close.

Especially then.

He forces it out of you like confession, like sin.

When you fall apart, trembling and sobbing, he rises slowly. His belt unfastens. His zipper follows. You can hear the scrape of fabric, the rustle of movement, and then he’s there—pressing into you, filling you with a single, brutal thrust.

Your scream echoes.

He groans above you, voice rough with need. “You’ll never laugh for anyone but me. You’ll never write another smile that doesn’t belong to me.”

“I won’t,” you cry, already breaking again.

“You’ll write me into every draft. Every kiss. Every fuck.”

“Yes—yes—only you—”

His pace is merciless. The chair creaks beneath your bound frame as he drives into you, each thrust branding, each moan a claim carved into your bones.

You lose track of how many times you come. It blurs into rhythm—him, you, the ropes, his voice, the heat. You sob out his name, not from pain, but from surrender.

When he finishes, it’s with a growl pressed into your neck.

He unties you slowly. Carefully. Then carries you to bed like something fragile and beloved, laying you down in clean sheets even as your skin still bears his paint.

You don’t need to speak. His hands say it all. So do the kisses he trails across each bruised thigh, each paint-streaked breast.

---

The next morning, your coffee is hot, the sheets are clean, and your laptop is open.

There’s a new document saved on your desktop.

Eleazar – Part I

Beneath it, in the document’s header, a single note:

“Only I get to read you, darling. Write accordingly.”

TBC.

noirscript © 2025

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