#ive certainly touched both

[eggsistential-basket]

caught between my cousin didn't get a job right out of college and it didn't kill her 😀 and my cousin went to an Ivy and also still only got the job because of a friend referral 😨

[choixsimple]

hello tumblr I'm excited to report that I'm so fucking in love with my girlfriend. in other news I am also leaving my husband

[mercvry-glow]

all that gleams (18+)

parings. jack abbot x nurse!reader

summary. everyone seems to be hitting on you tonight, and your husband doesn't seem to appreciate all of the attention you're getting.

warnings. this is 18+ so mdni, unprotected sex, p in v sex, rough/jealousy sex, half plot/half porn, sex in the work place, hospital setting, age gap (jack late 40s, reader late 20s to early 30s), reader gets hit on by men who are not jack, non-consensual touching (patient grabs reader), reader has hair, let me know if there's anything else!

notes. where the fuck do I even begin? uhhhh- so many people asked for a sequel to all that glitters and I never thought I'd actually do it but here we are! I absolutely live for their dynamic, and they're softcore rich which is truly the dream. I'm actually really proud of this, especially bc this is my second time writing any form of smut! as always any and all feedback is appreciated and please enjoy!

wc. 4700+

all that glitters

There wasn’t a person in your life who hadn’t told you getting married so young was a mistake. A newly minted nurse with a shiny new degree, a big diamond ring, and a big house in the nicest part of town—people loved to talk. And they did, especially behind your back.

“Too fast,” they said

“Too young.”

 “She doesn’t know what she’s getting into.”

But they didn’t know Jack.

He’d been your constant through it all. Through the twelve-hour shifts, the night terrors you both had but didn’t always talk about, the tangled mess of silky bed sheets and plain coffee mornings. He never missed a beat, not with you. He always made sure the front door was locked, that you didn’t forget to eat, that you never had to face a bad day completely alone.

Jack Abbot was your storm and shelter all at once.

Still, some days it felt like you were speaking two different languages. You’d grown up with champagne brunches, sorority sisters, and an Ivy League education on Daddy’s dime. Jack grew up fast though—boots on the ground, blood on his hands, and scars no one could see unless he let them. 

His world had edges, and darkness only he could understand. 

Yours had comfy throw pillows and a walk-in closet.

Falling for each other had been a whirlwind, but staying in love… that took work. 

Especially now.

Lately, every conversation felt like walking on eggshells. He was short with you. Distant. And maybe you were a little more sensitive than usual—he always said you felt deeply, cared too much. Maybe you did miss the way he used to look at you, touch you, talk to you like you were the only person in the room.

Now? Now he was somewhere else—lost in his head, behind some wall you couldn’t climb no matter how hard you tried.

And you still tried.

 You showed up to work, same time as him, hair curled, and lip gloss on as usual. Your scrubs were still fitted just right, your badge reel sparkled, and your sneakers matched your pastel compression socks of the day. You were tired, overworked, and emotionally frayed—but damn it, you still tried, for yourself, for him, and most certainly for your patients .

He didn’t even say “Hi,” when you checked in.

Just a curt nod, eyes already scanning a trauma sheet.

Fine. You had a job to do anyway.

The ER was chaotic, as usual. You floated between rooms, upbeat as always, soft-voiced with your patients, making the new interns laugh with your sparkly pens and habit of humming softly under your breath.

That’s when he showed up.

Leo, tall, handsome in a sun-kissed, ex-lifeguard in the Baywatch kind of way, and new. The latest temp nurse from another hospital, and definitely not shy.

“You always this put-together at 7 p.m.?” he said, grinning as he helped you restock the IV cart.

You glanced up from your clipboard, smiling just enough. “Only when there’s new employees to impress.”

He laughed, nudging your elbow. “Well, consider me thoroughly impressed.”

Across the hall, you didn’t see Jack. But he was seeing everything.

You caught a flash of movement in your peripheral vision—him, leaning against the med station, pretending to read a chart. The way his jaw clenched was less than subtle. So was the way he suddenly had something urgent to discuss with Dr. Reese, right behind where you were standing.

You didn’t react. Just went back to scanning meds, asking Leo if he needed help finding anything on his first night. You were being polite. Friendly. Maybe a little intentionally oblivious—but only because it felt good to be noticed by anyone today.

Jack didn’t say a word.

But every time you turned around, he was there. Close. Watching.

He didn’t like it. You could feel it.

And for the first time in weeks, you felt something that wasn’t just disappointment.

You felt giddy.

You weren’t trying to make him jealous.

But if he was suddenly remembering the woman he married? The one who lit up a room? The one who still wore t-shirts to bed and nothing else, even when he acted like he didn’t care?

Good.

Let him remember.

The next few hours passed in a blur of motion and monitors—IVs, trauma alerts, vitals to chart and families to console. You stayed busy, focused, but not so focused you didn’t notice the way Jack kept drifting into your orbit.

Not close enough to talk.

Just… there.

Lingering near the nurse’s station when you laughed at something Leo said. Answering the trauma bay calls himself when you usually did first. A silent presence, watching without watching, always just a little too close not to be intentional.

There had been so much to do between learning about coworkers drama, taking care of patients, and dealing with incoming traumas that you’d been on your feet for almost seven hours straight before getting any sort of break.

Still not having found the right time to touch the overnight oats in your lunchbox.

Typical.

You finally ducked into the break room around 2:30 a.m., practically vibrating from a bit too much caffeine and sheer stubbornness. Your sneakers squeaked on the tile as you opened your lunch tote, pulling out your jar with a satisfied “Aha”. You gave it a little shake and popped the lid, the faint scent of almond butter and cinnamon curling into the air.

Leo was already in there, lounging in the corner with a Coke Zero and half a sandwich he didn’t seem particularly interested in eating.

“That looks suspiciously healthy,” he said, eyeing your jar like it confused him.

You grinned. “It’s delicious. Cinnamon, chia seeds, oat milk, with a little bit of honey and almond butter. You should try it sometime—maybe it will lower your blood pressure.”

Leo let out a low whistle. “Oof. She’s cute and judgmental.”

You wiggled your spoon at him. “I’m not judgmental. I’m just stating a fact,”

“Same difference,”

You laughed, shaking your head as you settled on the couch. Your big water tumbler clinked softly on the table as you set it down. Leo glanced at it.

“Okay, real talk. How many cups do you own?”

“Oh at least ten,” you said proudly. “And yes, they all match my scrubs and socks.”

He chuckled. “Of course they do.”

You were in the middle of telling him about your latest homemade electrolyte concoction—something with sea salt, lemon, and maple syrup—when the door creaked open.

Jack stepped inside, silent as ever. No one noticed at first, but you felt him before you saw him. That familiar pull.

You looked up and smiled, just a little.

He didn’t smile back.

He walked to the cabinet, pulled out a pod of instant coffee, and started making the world’s saddest cup of caffeine.

“You good?” you asked, casually, spoon still dangling from your mouth.

Jack shrugged. “Fine.”

Leo gave him a nod. “Rough night, man?”

“Same as every night,” Jack said coolly.

There was a pause.

You went back to your oats.

Leo leaned over slightly, stage-whispering, “Is it true you color-code your vitamins?”

You lit up. “Oh my god, yes! You have to! It’s so satisfying.”

Jack let out a breath—not quite a sigh. Not quite anything.

Just something.

Leo turned to him. “She’s kind of a fairy, huh? Healthy, pretty, and scary organized.”

Jack didn’t answer. Just stirred his coffee with the kind of force that made the spoon clink too loudly against the mug.

“I mean, who even makes time for meal prep on night shift?” Leo kept going, still playful, still oblivious. “She comes in glowing while I’m running on vending machine Pop-Tarts and anxiety.”

You grinned again. “You say that like Pop-Tarts are bad.”

Jack finally looked up. Right at you.

“I liked you better when you were sneaking granola bars from my locker.”

Your breath caught a little—not because it was mean. But because it sounded like a memory.

You raised a brow. “You never let me finish the boxes.”

Jack’s gaze didn’t move.

“Maybe I liked the distraction.”

The room went quiet again.

Leo cleared his throat and stood. “Okay, I’m gonna grab another Coke. You two want anything?”

“No,” Jack said, a little too quickly.

You shook your head. “I’m good, thanks.”

When Leo left, the silence stretched.

You scooped another spoonful of oats, pretending not to feel the weight of Jack’s stare.

“You didn’t answer my text,” he said finally.

You blinked. “Which one?”

“The one about locking the side door this morning.”

“Oh.” You smiled faintly. “Sorry, I was halfway through meal prepping for us and my mom called... You know how she gets.”

Jack nodded, jaw tight. “You’re supposed to text me back.”

You raised a brow again, but this time softer. “Jack. It was about a door.”

“It was about you being safe.”

That landed somewhere in your chest.

You didn’t say anything for a second. Just set your spoon down and leaned back into the couch.

“I was fine,” you said gently. “I promise.”

Jack didn’t reply. But he reached for your cup, unscrewed the lid, and took a sip (not using the straw) like it was the most normal thing in the world.

You stared. “That has lemon in it.”

He grimaced. “Tastes like a scented candle.”

You laughed.

He didn’t.

But the corners of his mouth twitched—just a little.

He set your water with a quiet thud, the lid clicking into place like it was holding something back for him, too.

You tilted your head, watching him in that way you always did when you were trying to read what was going on behind those stormy, hazel eyes. “You're drinking lemon water,” you said, voice lilting. “Should I be worried?”

Jack didn’t look at you. “I was thirsty.”

You smiled. “And yet the entire fridge full of bottled water didn’t do it for you?”

He shrugged.

“Grumpy,” you said under your breath, just loud enough.

His eyes finally flicked to yours. “I’m not grumpy.”

“You kind of are.”

“I’m tired.”

“You always say that when you’re being grumpy.”

Jack gave you a slow look—flat, dry, and just a little amused. “You finished?”

“Not even close,” you said sweetly, your elbow propped on the arm of the couch. “You’re cranky, you’re overcaffeinated, and you get weirdly possessive whenever someone’s nice to me.”

That got his attention.

“I’m not possessive,” he said.

You smirked. “Jack, you nearly snapped Leo’s neck when he said I had good handwriting.”

“That’s not what he said, and you know that.”

You blinked, then laughed. “Okay, fine. ‘Prettiest charting I’ve ever seen,’ and he winked. So what?”

Jack’s jaw tightened—just slightly.

You stood, stretching your arms overhead in a way that made your scrub top ride up just a little. His eyes tracked the motion like muscle memory.

You stepped closer, toes nearly brushing his boots. “I like that you care about this,” you said, softer now. “It’s kind of hot, actually.”

He looked at you—really looked at you—for the first time all night.

“You drive me crazy, kid.” he muttered.

You beamed. “So you are jealous.”

Jack sighed through his nose, the tension melting from his shoulders like an exhale he’d been holding in too long. His hand came up, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, fingers lingering a second too long.

“I know you’re mine,” he said quietly. “I just… sometimes I forget the rest of the world doesn’t always know it.”

Your chest tightened. Not in a painful way. In a finally, you’re here with me again kind of way.

You reached for his hand and squeezed. “Well, they do. But if you ever forget again, I’ll tattoo your name on my ass”

That earned you a snort—low and surprised.

“I’m serious,” you teased, squeezing his fingers. “Right across my cheeks. Property of Jack Abbot. Think it’d go with my Bikinis when I start tanning again?”

His lips twitched. “You’re insane.”

“Mm. And you’re stuck with me.”

“I know,” he murmured, voice quieter now, as he dipped down for a soft kiss,  “Wouldn’t change it.”

And there it was.

The part of him no one else got to see—the softness under all that armor he put up. The way he looked at you like you were the only thing in this chaotic, blood-slicked hospital worth holding onto.

Before you could say anything else, the overhead crackled to life:

“Trauma en route. ETA four minutes. MVA, two patients. GSW secondary.”

Jack’s head lifted, all instinct now. You were already moving toward the door when his hand caught yours.

He didn’t pull, didn’t squeeze—just held.

“Be careful,” he said.

You leaned in again, kissing his cheek, quick and certain. “Always.”

Then the moment passed, and the hallway swallowed you both—he leading, you following, hearts synced in the rhythm of the ER. But his hand brushed yours again as you walked.

The trauma had come in hard and fast—twisted metal, broken glass, and enough blood to soak through your shoes. Jack had been in the thick of it, barking orders, steady hands moving like muscle memory while you worked across from him, suctioning, suturing, stabilizing. For a while, there was no room for anything else. No talking. No teasing. Just the two of you, back in sync, locked in the rhythm you knew so well. It was easy to forget the cracks when the adrenaline kicked in.

But by 4:15 a.m., the ER had slowed to a lull.

The kind that was never quiet, but at least breathable.

You’d just finished helping a resident clean up trauma one when they wheeled in another patient—mid-40s, minor head lac, walking wounded and very, very drunk.

You smiled politely, grabbing a suture kit.

“Alright, sir. Let’s get you cleaned up, okay? Can you sit still for me?”

He gave you a once-over that made your skin crawl. “Sure thing, sweetheart. For you, I’ll be real good.”

You kept it professional. “Thank you.”

But the longer you worked, the bolder he got.

“You married?” he slurred.

You didn’t answer.

“Bet your husband’s not half as pretty as you.”

You offered a tight smile. “Try to stay still. This part stings a little.”

He didn’t even flinch. “You ever date older guys? I got a boat, you know.”

You glanced around the bay, but the resident was long gone, charting somewhere out of earshot.

“I’m flattered, really, but I already have a boat,” you said lightly, finishing the last stitch. “And you’re gonna feel real silly about this in the morning.”

He grinned, crooked and gross. “Not if you give me your number.”

And then he reached out—his hands brushing your hips in a way that was not accidental.

You stepped back instantly, heart thudding.

“That’s enough sir,” you said sharply, your voice still steady, still calm—but colder now. “I’m going to step out for a minute, since I’ve finished. Someone else will check on you soon.”

You didn’t wait for a reply.

You slipped into the furthest supply closet you could easily find and leaned against the shelves, chest rising and falling like you’d just run a sprint. Your hands were shaking—more with anger than fear—but still. It clung to your skin.

The door creaked open a minute later.

“Hey.”

Jack.

He stepped inside and shut the door behind him, gaze scanning your face. “One of the other nurses said he got grabby.”

You looked up at him, throat tight. “I’m fine.”

He didn’t answer that right away. Just moved closer and touched your cheek, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth like he needed to ground himself.

“You sure?” he asked, quieter now.

You nodded. “Just… gross. Not the first, won’t be the last.”

His jaw flexed. “It shouldn’t be happening at all.”

You leaned into his hand. “It’s okay. I handled it.”

“You shouldn’t have to handle it.”

You looked up at him. “Jack—”

He stepped closer, and suddenly his body was pressed against yours, warm and solid and steady. His hands found your waist, rough fingers curling around your hips.

“I should be the only one touching you,” he said, voice low.

“We’ll get written up…”

“I don’t care.”

But Jack wasn’t hearing logic right now. He was standing there like he could still smell every guy you had met tonight on you, like the air hadn’t cleared yet.

“Hey.” You placed your hands on his chest, grounding him. “We don’t have to do this here…”

His hands squeezed your waist. “You’re mine.”

“I know.”

“You don’t flirt like that with anyone else, right?”

You blinked, caught off-guard. “Flirt like what?”

“Like you did with that prick.”

You frowned a abit. “I was being nice. He asked if I wanted  something from the vending machine- he asked you too and you looked at him like he offered me lingerie.”

Jack didn’t budge. His grip didn’t loosen.

You tried again. Softer this time.

“I steal your clothes. I come home to you. I wear the ring you bought me, and I’m your wife. I chose you.”

His eyes searched yours—tired, and heavy, with a mix of something else.

You rose on your toes, placing your lips to the corner of his mouth. “I’m yours, Jack.”

And then his arms were around you fully, pulling you in like he needed to feel your heartbeat to believe it. Your heart thudded in your chest, a beat behind your breath. You looked at him, eyes narrowed, lips parted.

You didn’t hear him lock the door.

You felt it.

That soft, decisive click behind you—like a promise.

“Did you just lock the door?”

Jack’s answer was a look—slow, hot, and so heavy it pinned you in place. He stepped with the kind of precision that said this wasn’t spontaneous. No, he’d decided the second he saw you walk into the closet room, cheeks flushed, lip gloss smudged, tensions high. 

The second all these guys started paying attention to you tonight. 

Jack hadn’t liked that.

He tried to be quiet about it, like always. Quiet the way a storm is—only right before it breaks.

He stopped just barely inches from you, hand coming up to trace a line along your jaw. His fingers were thick, rough, warm, familiar. His touch didn’t ask permission. It remembered.

“You keep smiling like that,” he said low, his voice a gravel-coated whisper, “and I’ll have to fuck the memory of it out of you.”

Your breath caught—somewhere between outrage and arousal. “Jack—”

But you didn’t get the rest out.

He kissed you.

Not sweet. Not careful.

Claiming.

His hands tangled in your hair, dragging you into him like it was instinct, like your mouth had always belonged to his. You melted into him, your body curving against his like you were built for this—built for him. His hips pressed forward, pinning you to the wall of the storage closet, and your head thudded back softly against the cool plaster as his lips slid down to your throat, sucking, biting just enough to make you gasp.

“Locked the door for a reason,” he murmured, tongue flicking against the skin where your pulse fluttered. “Tired of pretending I didn’t want you every second we’re here.”

You let out a shaky breath, your fingers gripping his shirt like lifelines. “You’re sooo jealous.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, dark eyes devouring. “Damn right I’m jealous.”

His hand slid under your scrub top, skimming up your ribs, palm flat, hot and possessive. “You’re mine—I can’t fucking stand it when they look at you like you’re not.”

“And what are you going to do about it?” you whispered, breathless, lips grazing his.

His answer was a growl.

Jack spun you, quick and controlled, pressing you front-first against the shelves. Supplies rattled, somewhere above you—gloves, gauze, sterile wraps—but it was the sound of his breath at your neck that made your knees threaten to buckle.

His hands roamed—under your shirt to your tits, over the waistband of your scrub pants, every inch of bare skin he found earning a new kind of heat.

“You wanna be flirted with?” he whispered, voice dragging down your spine. “Fine. But I get to remind you who makes you cum”

You gasped as his mouth met the base of your neck, teeth grazing, tongue following. “Jack…”

“You knew,” he said again, almost reverent now. 

And god help you, you did.

Because you’d walked in here to take a second, needing this—needing him. Not just his hands or his mouth or the way he made you come apart so effortlessly, but this claiming. This reminder. That under all the stress, the silence, the long nights and missed moments—the fire still burned. Hot. Unrelenting.

His fingers slipped lower, teasing the waist of your scrub pants, and you pressed back against him without thinking, needing more, needing everything.

“You’re mine,” he murmured again, lips brushing your shoulder, low and slow. “Say it.”

You turned your head just enough to whisper, “I’m yours, Jack. Always.”

And that was all it took.

He kept you facing the shelves, a hand coming down to your hips to steady you as he continued to feel you up with the other. “Yeah? You gonna be my good girl, sweetheart?” 

The whimper you let out was pathetic. A low pitched sound that came from the back of your throat, as Jack started to flood your senses. He gave your ass a quick, hard, smack. Hand going back to rub over the spot, as it snapped you out of your daze. “I asked you a question, baby.” 

You nodded, desperately. Already whoozy from the assault on your sense that your husband brought on. “Mhm! Jack-”

He shushed you, gently pushing down your scrub pants, “Gotta make this quick and quiet, or they’ll all know what a bad girl you’ve been.” 

Reaching back, you straightend up leaning into his burning touch, wanting him closer than he already was. You could feel how hard he was beneath his cargos, half chubbed as he ground his hips into your panty-clad ass. 

You would’ve felt embarressed if this hadn’t felt so right. 

Clothes barely off, lazily grinding against your husband in a closet like you’re back in some college frat house at UPenn. 

Jack doesn’t waste anymore time though, hastily shoving your panties down, rough fingers making quick work of finding your swollen clit. The tight circles he does against you, make you feel dizzy—legs already beginning to shake, as if you haven’t been working for ten hours already. 

Your moans are muffled by your arm as you lean further into the shelves, but press your hips back toward Jack. Your resolve slowly slipping, as he dips a finger in your wet heat. 

“Fuck, you’re soaked.” he groans out softly, continuing as he brings you closer and closer to the edge. 

Then he just pulls away.

Not entirely, still so close that you’ve basically become one. It’s enough for you to whine at the loss of contact, pushing back into him hoping he’ll start again. 

“Why’d you stop?” Jack can practically hear the pout in your voice. The breathy little lilt of displeasure showing in your tone. 

“Sorry, baby. We only have time for one thing, and I’d much rather make you cum on my cock.” He kisses the back of your neck, gentle and loving as ever as he reaches down to free himself from his scrub pants. 

He’s aching, he’s so hard. 

He takes a few deep breaths before haphazrdly stroking himself. Fisting his cock in his meaty hand, already slick after playing with your wet little cunt. 

Jack wasn’t going to make love to you. 

He was going to fuck you like you needed it. 

Lining himself up, Jack pushed in with a solid thrust of his sturdy hips. You just about collapsed into the shelves, already feeling so full of Jack as he started a steady rhythm. It was overwhelming, one of his hands tight against your hips as he used it to guide you into his thrusts, the other snaked over your mouth to muffle your breathy moans because the hallway was just beyond the locked closet door.

“Shit- you’re so fucking tight, baby.” you cleched against him as he drove himself further into you, trying to angle himself to hit the spot that would have you seeing stars in no time. 

Your walls hugged him tight, leaving him a mess as he watched himself slip in and out of you in a trance like state. 

“Fuck Jack-” you start mewling, hips pushing and grinding to meet his thrusts. “Ah- ah, you’re so deep.” 

He mumbles something incoherent against your shoulder, both of his hands moving to your hips and ass to get more leverage to fuck you nice and hard. 

You can tell you’re making a mess of yourself, panties clearly ruined with how you’re leaking down your thighs and his cock. Each thrust is a new shockwave of pleasure you don’t expect, but Jack doesn’t let up and you don’t want him to. 

“Too m-much,” his cock throbs, hard and heavy inside you as he stills for just a second. 

“Yeah? It’s too much for you, Sweetheart?” It’s almost mocking as he draws it out into longer deeper strokes—the ones that make it hard to breathe, the air escaping your lungs faster than you can take the chance to gasp for air. 

“You’re just so big,” you whimper out, trying to keep yourself from collapsing back against him as your legs start to feel like jello. 

Jack gives you a light scoff, “Good thing you’re being a good girl, and takin’ me so well, huh?” He keeps the pace steady, if not a bit quicker. Switching up the tempo to keep you on your toes and eager for him. 

“Mhm!” You can feel your orgasm building, that all too familiar pressure in your lower tummy bubbling over. “Fuck- fuck I’m gonna cum-”

It’s like a switch flips in his brain, kicking him into high gear as he spins you around to face him. You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him close as he lifts one of your legs around his waist. 

“Yeah, pretty girl? You gonna cum for me?” He asks you through a sloppy kiss, one that smears what’s left of your lip gloss. 

You feel like you’re about to implode, too tense and too loose all at once. Your hands find purchase on his clothed chest and the curls at the base of his neck, as he continues his loving assault on your body and senses. Jack is everywhere, and you’d never want it to be different. 

He watches as you finally let go, shivering your way through your orgasm as you cum on his thick cock. Your breath catches as he kisses you slowly, working his cock in and out of your gushing pussy still chasing his own release. 

“Fuck- you ruin me baby,” He groans into your kiss swollen lips, giving you a few more sloppy thrusts before burying himself as deep as possible. His own breathing shallow as he spills his load deep into your cunt, right where it belongs. 

Blinking slowly, you return to your body. Jack looks down at you, capturing your lips in one last sweet kiss as he gently pulls out of you. Your body shudders at the now empty feeling, “You with me, Baby?”

His thumbs stroke your cheeks, gentle and loving as you just stare at him a little dazed. You manage a soft hum, and he begins the process of putting you back together for the public. 

You cringed a bit as he helped you pull the pants of your scrubs back up, at least they were dark… right? You’d change into your backups as soon as you found the courge to leave the storage room. Then there was your hair which Jack lovingly braided as quickly as he could, before fixing himself the best he could

“Everyone’s totally gonna know… Ugh…”  you leaned your head against his chest, sighing at the thought of John or Ellis questioning where you two were for the past 15 minutes. 

“You look fine, besides who cares?” He questioned, “Do you know how many times I’ve heard the same story from other departments,” 

“Yeah but this is us,” you gave him a deadpan expression, as he reached behind you so that he could grab your stethoscope and badge reel from one of the many shelves behind you. 

He gave you a nonchalant shrug, and one last kiss on the forehead. “You ready to go get ‘em tiger?”

“You’re so dead whe we get home, it’s not even funny Jack Abbot!” 

“We still have about two more hours, so I think I’m safe, Princess.” 

mercvry-glow 2025

[clockwayswrites]

The Haunting of Danny Fenton Chapter 7, Part 2

masterpost I am not a doctor lol

“And look up,” the doctor instructed before pulling away the pen light.

Danny blinked back the after images that it left. The eye exam certainly didn’t help, but the overwhelming feeling of seeing was better. Everything was still on the blurry side—too soft, too bright, too white—but it didn’t make Danny want to hide from the world anymore.

“Well, the good news is, your eyes are dilating and have no issue with movement. They’re just far too dilated. We’ll need to get you to an ophthalmologist to be sure, but I suspect that your vision will return to normal as the side effects of the event fade.”

“‘kay,” Danny rasped. He took a grateful sip from the cup Wally passed him before he tried to continue, “Same on the hearing, or…?”

Danny didn’t much like the way the doctor frowned.

“It could be,” the doctor said. It was clear the effort she was putting in to speak loudly and articulately enough, “but hearing doesn’t bounce back the way eyes can. I think it would be good to at least be braced for bad news. The good news, even if it’s bad news, is that you seem to still have some hearing in both ears, so you should be a good candidate for hearing aids.”

Danny rubbed at his face with a shaky hand. “Right. Thank you. What do we think about the hand tremors?”

“Another wait and see. But we’ll start you on some physical and occupational therapy. You and the Flash can be be PT buddies,” the doctor said with a little smile. She really was doing her best. “I also want everyone to watch for signs of seizures, especially more minor ones. Like a lot of the cases here, you’re a one off, but that doesn’t mean that we won’t do everything that we can to take care of you.”

“Thanks, really,” Danny said. “I think I’m just here for right now, so whatever works for those appointments? You can let Nightwing know when they are if I’ve crashed again or not remembering or something.”

“The memory issues should go away as you stay awake and get oriented, but I’ll make sure that Nightwing knows of all appointments also. I know it’s easy to lose track of time when you’re healing.” The doctor stood and rolled her gloves off. “Make sure to eat and hydrate while you’re awake, but rest when you need and keep the oxygen in when you’re resting. Flash—stay put and keep that IV in.”

“Yes ma’am!” Wally chirped as Dick showed her out.

Wally hooked his chin over Danny’s shoulder and pulled him back against his chest. Danny let himself slump back into the hold with a sigh. He found the straw to sip at just so that he didn’t have to say anything right away.

“Alright!” Dick said with a clap of his hands. “Food! As long as Wally drinks his smoothies and stays on that IV, we’re not on a restrictive diet, so Danny, what are you thinking?”

“Trash,” Danny decided. “Nuggets and fries and like a shake or something. Just salty trash.”

“Deal! Shake flavor and dipping sauce?”

“Strawberry I guess and like, honey mustard? Honey something. Surprise me.”

“Can do,” Dick said complete with a little salute. “I’m going to to let the others know you’re awake awake and get their food order too, okay? But I’ll keep the horde away for now.”

“Thanks,” Danny said with a grateful smile. He liked the all the Titans, but he really just couldn’t right then, not with his senses all off. Two was just enough. After Dick left, Danny leaned a little more firmly against Wally. “Nice to be able to finally touch you.”

Wally said something then cleared his throat and said more clearly, “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Even though… just… some of those things might be permanent,” Wally said, voice almost dipping too long a few times.

“Yeah,” Danny sighed. “I really hope the vision isn’t. I’d like the tremors not to be too, you know? And the seizures would suck if they’re as bad, but I bet there’d be medication for that at least.”

When Wally sighed, it was with his whole body. “You’re so calm about it. I—Danny, you got hurt bringing me back, maybe for good. That… doesn’t that make you mad?”

Danny played with Wally’s fingers as he thought about how to answer that. “You’ve had to have been hurt as Flash.”

“I heal fast,” Wally pouted.

“Okay, lucky guy,” Danny said with a little snort. “But you have or Dick has. You know it’s part of being a hero.”

“You’re a civi right now. You’re a civi and I’m not. I know that even heroes can need rescuing, but you shouldn’t have been hurt because I fucked up!”

Ah, that was it.

Danny brought up Wally’s fingers and kissed them lightly. “Everyone fucks up. And part of me will always be that stupid teen who was a hero. I’ll deal with what this got me just like I deal with the aches and pains I already have. I don’t blame you.”

“You should.”

“I don’t,” Danny insisted. “And you have to respect me enough to know that I went into this willingly and with open eyes. If you can’t do that, then our date when we’re free from here needs to be a friendly dinner instead. I’m not going to be with someone who doesn’t respect my right to decide.”

Wally left out a huff of air like he was deflating. “Sorry. I didn’t mean too… just… hero guilt.”

“I get it, really I do,” Danny said. “But shove it aside, okay? Because both of us are here and alive and I think that’s a damn good outcome when dealing with unknowable forces of the space time continuum.”

“Nerd,” Wally teased.

“Oh like you aren’t.”

“No, I totally am,” Wally said, “but now I have someone to curl up and watch Star Trek with. I love Dick, but he’s an absolute pop culture heathen. He swings between cartoons and reality tv.”

Danny held back a laugh and nodded wisely instead. “Well, we’ll put on ‘The Voyage Home’, and he can fall asleep to the dulcet whale songs.”

“Perfect, as soon as you can hear better,” Wally promised with a soft kiss to Danny’s temple.

[pomefioredove]

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ ad perpetuam memoriam II

I II III IV

summary: you enroll at night raven college one year after the original yuu. a heartslabyul event and a mysterious letter type of post: series includes: ace, deuce, riddle, silver, sebek additional info: platonic, reader is gender neutral, reader is not yuu, this is all AU, not making predictions for how twst will end

"Leave me be,"

The hollow sound of knocking and the rasps of weary sighs end. Finally. You pull your blanket back over your head, content to sleep through the rest of the morning.

BANG!

The door splits itself apart, sparks of magic and smoke flying through the cool air.

Sebek Zigvolt, vice housewarden of Diasomnia, pushes his magic pen into the slim opening of his pocket before he comes inside.

"Up,"

He demands, curtly but not coldly, a hand on his hip. "I have no patience for your disrespect. Silver has been far too lenient with you."

Lenient. If lenient meant sending birds and squirrels through your window, then yes. If lenient meant trying to talk to you in your sleep, then certainly. If lenient meant sending his vicewarden to split your door in two, then Silver was the most lenient housewarden this dorm ever had!

...Not that you'd know.

"Lord Malleus would have torn this room apart, stone by stone, days ago," Sebek says. "You cannot shut yourself away as though you are some... sleeping princess in a tower! UP!"

Cold air touches your sweaty, crumpled body, and your blanket falls at Sebek's feet as he pulls it from you.

"You're ill," he asks, though it's more of a statement than a question.

You say nothing, and he scoffs.

Sebek leers over you, the soft gray light of morning casting his shadow over your body. "You should consider yourself fortunate, that Silver has not thrown you out of this room yet. You are making a mockery of the Housewarden,"

With some difficulty, and, surely, some disgust, he lifts your sweaty, cold body from the bed.

Fwump.

Sebek sits you in the lounge, forcing you to keep upright with a hand on the nape of your neck. With the other, he holds a cracker to your lips. His hand doesn't move until you've eaten the entire thing.

"Sebek... What are you doing?"

Both of your eyes, sharp and wide, crusty and tired, turn to Silver.

"What does it look like?" the vicewarden scoffs. "Feeding your pet."

Silver looks taken aback, crystalline eyes reflecting your sordid state, and he hurries to your side.

"Gentle," he instructs his vicewarden, taking your hand in his. You can't seem to understand why he's so kind to you. You don't ask.

"Are you ill?" he asks (genuinely, this time). "You must be hungry..."

Sebek rolls his eyes, though even he looks a little uncomfortable at the thought, shifting where he stands.

"I'll prepare something," he mutters.

"Thank you, Sebek. That would be good,"

Silver's thumb draws lines and letters over the back of your hand, soothing you. He must have learnt that somewhere. You wonder what his parents are like.

"You've missed several days of classes. I've had some of your classmates collect your work for you. But don't worry about that now,"

You look away, eyes tired and barely open. Sick, yes, that's what you are. It's not that you'd been avoiding everyone... you're just... sick.

"Riddle wanted me to give this to you," Silver says, taking a delicate, elegant paper from his pocket. Had he been carrying that all weekend?

"It's an invitation for an unbirthday party, which-"

"I don't want to go," you don't even let him explain. Though you're not sure of what you want, now. Except for this headache to go away...

Silver frowns. "You should. You should make friends, or at least... talk... to someone. Deuce has been asking Sebek about you,"

For some strange reason, that makes your headache worse. Is it obligation? Guilt? Pity? Do these people think that if they care enough, one day they'll look at you and finally see someone else?

Is it so hard to believe that you're cared for?

Yes. It is.

"You should tell him I'm fine," you snap, though without meaning to. "I don't have to be friends with him, you know."

Silver winces, and you overflow with guilt. Something about him, the only person to, so far, treat you as a human and not a shadow, makes your stomach twist and turn.

"You're right. But he's trying. Really,"

"That's what they say," you relent.

"Yes. It's not easy for everyone," Silver dabs at some of the sweat and grease on your forehead with a handkerchief. "Especially those who were close to... never mind. Don't worry yourself about it. You have nothing to feel bad for, you belong here just as much as anyone does."

His gaze becomes hazy, unfocused, as he speaks. He may as well have been talking to himself.

"Soup!" Sebek announces, as if it were some kind of culinary battle cry.

He sits at your side in the comfortable darkness of the lounge and sets the warm bowl in your lap. It smells good.

"You cook?" you ask, absent-mindedly stirring the broth.

Sebek smirks. "Certainly. We both do,"

"We learned because Lil- er, my father is a terrible cook," Silver explains with a smile. "You're lucky he isn't here. He'd insist on making you his "specialty" and you'd end up worse than before."

You snort at that. "It can't possibly be that bad,"

"It is," the two say in unison. Sebek shudders at some memory, or another.

"He'd love you," Silver says. "So would... well... Malleus would understand."

Malleus. Your stay in Diasomnia has been haunted by that name, spoken into every conversation and implied between each breath.

Something about the way they spoke of him told you he wouldn't like you. You're not sure why.

"I guess that's good enough," you relent. Silver smiles, and Sebek pats your head, not knowing how else to show his approval.

"I'm unsure if this is entirely necessary-"

You catch yourself talking in that voice and just as soon shut your mouth. Have you always mirrored the others, or is it only a symptom of mania?

Perhaps you've been locked in that room for too long, after all.

Riddle doesn't seem to notice that you were mimicking his voice, or he doesn't say anything of it, at least, instead fixing the white and red sash of your scratchy uniform over your shoulder.

"It is. It's custom to be dressed in the Heartslabyul dorm uniform for an unbirthday party,"

"But I don't think that-"

"Hush," he pins the sash in place.

Riddle takes a step back, his chin comfortably cradled in his gloved palm. "Perfect. Now, let's make haste. It'd be uncouth for the Housewarden to be tardy,"

Great. Is that what you sound like??

You follow after him, the heels of your tight, pinchy boots click click clicking on the tile in rhythm with his.

"I would have had Deuce tend to you, as the former vice housewarden would have, but..." Riddle sighs. "He's doing his best, he's doing his best..."

You glance at him as he mutters the mantra to himself, fingers twitching around the magic pen in his pocket.

He withdraws them. "Of course, Ace has been of no help, either,"

Ace. A thought of a figure in red and white comes to mind, faceless and apprehensive. He was the one who had hugged you at the orientation ceremony.

You hadn't seen him since.

"Has he fallen ill?" you ask, still sounding all too like the housewarden.

"No," Riddle says. "Yes. It's... an affliction of the mind. Ahem. Never mind that."

"Oh,"

"Yes. Well, Deuce will have you. It was he who wanted to extend the invite... ever charitable,"

Yuck. The apprehension in Riddle's voice makes your skin crawl, even if it's not entirely aggressive.

"...Right,"

Riddle leads you through a door with a mockingly smiling face engraved on the knob, and into the gardens.

In another world, you might have liked it here. The tall, handsome hedges, the perfectly kept grass, the painted roses which seemed to sing in the golden sunlight... and, of course, the tables, one set after the other, in pinks and whites and greens and gold, a spread of teapots, tarts, jams, sugar, butter, on each one.

"Hey!" a merry, little-too-loud voice beckons from behind. You would have jumped, but a sudden hand on your shoulder keeps you tethered to the earth.

"There you are! I'm so glad you could come!" Deuce Spade smiles. "You look great... the uniform really suits you!"

"You think so?" you ask, feeling more like a circus clown than a student of the strictest dorm in school.

Deuce nods enthusiastically (a little too much so) and his hand slides to your wrist. "Oh, man, I have so many people to introduce you to,"

Dread. As much as you would have liked to run back to your room, or mingle on your own terms, or simply say no, you don't.

"...Great,"

"Great!" Deuce echoes, dragging you over the manicured lawn.

There is, at least, some comfort in the confusion, apathy, and meager care of Deuce's Heartslabyul dormmates. The disinterested greetings, the humble waves, the looks of pity, as if you were anyone but yourself. Then, at least, you can pretend as if you belong here.

"And one more person!"

You glance towards Riddle, scolding a first-year for spreading his jam "offensively" (whatever that means). You haven't had any food, yet. Or water. You haven't even sat down.

The taste of Sebek's soup is still stuck to your tongue. That was last night.

"Ace, over here!"

Dread. If there was anything in your stomach, it surely would have introduced itself to the front of your shirt.

Deuce drags you through the grass, caking your pointy shoes in mud and debris. Why, you? Why? He pushes and pries himself (and you, attached at the wrist) through a crowd of ooh-ing and ah-ing first-years. "Ace, look who it is!"

A boy with spiky, red hair, not unlike the hedgehogs Riddle had introduced you to earlier, bristles. The lively cards between his fingers die on his palms, and the table falls silent.

"Yeah?" Ace asks.

He doesn't seem too excited to see you.

"Look who it is!" Deuce repeats, as if Ace hadn't heard him the first time. He definitely had. "Finally decided to come!"

Ace shuffles the deck, slotting each card together, and then separating them again.

His eyes, narrowed, dark but fiery, like molten iron, never stray from Deuce. He doesn't even look at you.

"So?"

"So?" Deuce says. "Wouldn't you like to say hi?"

You tug, trying to break your wrist free of the binding of his hand, your body making some futile effort to escape.

Deuce doesn't budge.

Ace's eyes finally lower to his cards. "Nah, I'm good,"

The table seems to let out a collective sigh of relief, but the tension isn't done with. Ace's casual response had only thrown a blanket over the corpse of this conversation.

"...Oh. Okay," Deuce says, withdrawing from the first-years. "Sorry." he says to you.

You shake your head. "I should get back to Diasomnia, anyway. Silver needs me,"

He doesn't. No one really needs you.

Deuce doesn't have to know that.

"Oh, well..." he looks at his feet. "Um... if you... need anything, Riddle and I would be glad to help, 'kay?"

"...Sure,"

His grip is gone, and cold, afternoon air embraces your wrist. His palms had been sweaty, you grimace.

You leave the dorm uniform where Riddle had given it, dressing yourself in the familiarly unfamiliar clothes that Crowley had dumped on your doorstep days ago.

Though they're not really yours, they're still something you can call your own.

"Mind yourself," the strict sound of Riddle comes from the kitchen. "I can't recall having excused you."

Your mouth dries. "Did I... need to be excused?"

He comes into the light. At least his expression is softer than his voice.

"Well, you could have at least said good-bye,"

"...I didn't think anyone would notice-"

"Nonsense," his face goes red. "I would have. Are there no manners, where you come from?"

You open your mouth, but only breath comes out. Riddle coughs, taking out an embroidered handkerchief (you swear you've seen like, eight of those so far. This school is weird) and breathes into it. His face returns to its proper color.

"...And... breathe," he sighs. "Now... as for you. You mustn't think so lowly of yourself. You were invited to this event, were you not?"

You nod.

"Then you are wanted. I have heard from Silver that you haven't adjusted?"

"No one would," you mutter. Which seems logical to you. Who would "adjust" to being magicked into another world?

Riddle looks away for a moment. "...To some, it comes easier than others. Forgive Deuce for not knowing how to behave. He's... trying,"

You raise an eyebrow. Riddle sighs and waves off your look with his handkerchief.

"Trey would have known exactly what to do with you..." he says. "He would have had you bake something with him. Explained the rules, given you that... ugh, what was it? Some kind of sauce? As a practical joke... all very immature, yes, but it worked on the first-years.

And Cater, of course. He would have treated it like a holiday. Sevens, my head hurts just imagining the hashtags..."

You snort, if only at Riddle's memories, names and faces you didn't know.

He smiles. "I suppose Deuce sympathizes with you, in that way. You both have certain expectations to meet. The difference is that you didn't ask for yours... ahem. Take care,"

You walk back to school feeling unlike yourself. Your chest is light, your feet don't seem to meet the earth, and your mind is elsewhere. Not here, but not at home, either.

Riddle's awkward words of comfort were gauze to your bleeding heart, though it bled on nonetheless.

But they gave you something to imagine. Something to soothe your mind.

What was this place like before?

Most days, the school felt more like a museum. Dates and titles, portraits without faces in golden frames, hung above your head and hands, unreachable, untouchable.

Everything, every conversation, every question, every word of solace, every smile, was a test you hadn't studied for. A funeral for a person you hadn't known.

No one has lifted the lid of the coffin. Maybe that person has been mangled beyond recognition. Maybe that person is you.

You stop.

There is the dilapidated dorm called Ramshackle, and the one light in its foggy window. The lingering smell of mildew feels like a lullaby. It sings, come in, come in and enjoy the quiet, this is your grave.

Your foot turns, the toe of your shoe dragging across the beaten cobblestone, toward the lullaby, the singing, and the quiet.

Then, there's a hand on your shoulder.

"Lost?"

You would have screamed, but you're suddenly bound by another hand, this one larger and colder than Deuce Spade's, and you're beckoned back into the school.

"Oh, don't fret," the Headmage chirps. "It's an absolutely labyrinthine campus! I've had to collect twenty-six lost students this week alone. I've considered maps, but think of the cost... print is not free, you know!"

You steady yourself, finding your breath and balance again.

It feels more as if the Headmage is talking to himself than to you, and so you don't speak, following him (not of your own will, of course) through the dark, abandoned halls of the school.

"...And I resolved to doing it myself, but it really is such a hassle... I am a busy man, you know," he says. "Though, never too busy for you! Housewarden Vanrouge has come to me with some concerns about your socializing... or, rather, lack of it. Oh- now, don't give me that pout! I'm sure you'll be pleased to know that I told him to forget it. I said, not all magicless students from another world will be spry, sociable sixteen-year-olds! And it gives you more time to focus on me- ah, your studies. But now that you've mentioned it, I do have a few cabinets that could use sorting..."

Crowley stops before a door, as tall and dark as he, but without any ability to speak, which makes it slightly more tolerable.

"Here we are," he smiles.

"Here... where?"

"The mail room," he takes a key from his ensemble and slots it in the imposing door. "Now, wait here."

You raise an eyebrow. Mail room? It's getting dark- the shadows on the walls are slanted, and the sun had given its last breath while he was monologuing. Surely, he's not asking you to sort anything now...

"You know, I thought letter-writing had fallen out of fashion," Crowley says, returning from the depths of the dark. "What, with the emails, and the text messages, and the... ah, that reminds me, I'll have to procure you a phone for emergencies... er, but later. Here, for you."

He hands you an envelope, cream-colored and smooth. There is no name, nor return address on the back. It is simply addressed to the "Residing Second Magicless Student of Night Raven College."

You feel the rich, creamy paper under your thumbs. It smells like smoke.

"Now, don't look at me," Crowley says. "I haven't the slightest clue of who might write you from outside the college. In fact, it makes me worry about our campus security... ah, I'll have someone look at that tomorrow. Good night, dear."

He leaves you there in the hall, envelope in hand, a frown on your lips.

It's dark now. The light has vanished beyond the imposing walls of the school, the shadows have become long-limbed and monstrous, and the sky is blue and red in the blood of the setting sun.

You turn the envelope over. There is still no name. A single wax seal, imprinted in the shape of a bell, is the only sign of life.

Weird. All of this is weird.

You walk home in the dark and cold.

[redr0sewrites]

not possible - Viktor x reader

🥀A/n: this was originally a request but it strayed wayyy too far off course... the writing had a mind of its own and im not sorry. but i AM sorry for not posting in a while.... ive been super hyperfixated on DC sorry

🥀Cw: fluff, non-sexual nudity, bathing, exhaustion/overworking

🥀Word Count: 1.2k words

🥀Synopsis: Viktor is overworking yet again, yet upon your insistence, finally takes a break.

Viktor was well aware that the candle at his side had long since burnt out, yet he was unwilling to find a replacement. the moon was bright tonight, and, combined with the soft blue glow emitting from the hextech he was working on, Viktor could make out the tools in front of him without any assistance.

he knew that working in the dim light was not a good idea, considering how straining ones' eyes could lead to faulty vision, but he couldn't bring himself to care. the ache in his bones ran deep, and his fingers shook with each breath. of course Viktor knew he should turn in for the night, but he found himself stuck in his chair, mindlessly fiddling with his most recent hextech project.

he was so engrossed in his work, he barely noticed your approach until you were practically on top of him. familiar hands find purchase on his shoulders and he jumps, only to melt back into your touch.

"ah, it's you," Viktor murmurs, turning around to face you. "may i ask, what are you doing up so late?"

"collecting you," you murmur, pressing a kiss to the tip of his nose. "it's already two in the morning. you've been here long enough."

Viktor sighs, and allows you to press a few more kisses to his face. the bags beneath his eyes were heavy, he was stiff and sore, and above all, he was exhausted.

joining you back home was certainly enticing, and hextech could always wait until tomorrow. and yet, the troublesome, burning itch beneath his skin wouldn't dissipate. he needed to complete just one more ruin combination, just finish this one little task, and then he'd let himself rest. at least, that's what he'd been telling himself for the past three hours.

"i can tell your overworking yourself again," you whisper, and Viktor huffs indignantly.

"overworking is, eh, a strong word. i am perfectly capable-" you cut him off by cupping his face in your hands, forcing him to look at you.

"Viktor, i am in no way denying your capabilities. however, you still need sleep. so, come back with me, and you can continue working tomorrow after a full nights rest. does that work?"

Viktor heaves another weary sigh, but agrees. you silently watch as he stands and steadies himself with his cane, not wanting to appear too overbearing but still concerned about his exhaustion. you wish you could alleviate some of the stress and burden that he carries, even though he relentlessly assured you that loving him was enough.

meanwhile, Viktor wordlessly packs up for the night. he knew you were trying to mask it for his own dignity, but the concern on your face was evident in the slightest furrow of your brow and pinch of your lips. he found it hopelessly endearing how you worried over him, and only wished that you would stop for your own sake.

after all, he was doing this for you. for the chance to live happily with you someday, after saving the lives of so many others. hextech consumed so much of his time, yet Viktor intended to make it up to you tenfold when you two would grow old together.

"you ready to head home?" your voice slices through his thoughts like a knife through warm butter, and he finds himself unable to do anything but nod. you did not hesitate to take his hand as you two walk back towards your shared abode, nor did you complain when he had to pause and catch his breath after some particularly bad pain in his leg. by the time you both arrived at your home, Viktor felt even more exhausted.

"i know it's late, but do you want to take a bath before going to bed?" your question lingers in the air for a few seconds before Viktor nods, and you begin setting up. you both know the warm water would only soothe his aching joints, and provide momentary relief from the pain he suffers from.

🥀

its not long before you and Viktor are curled against eachother in your large bathtub after washing off. he presses a gentle kiss to your shoulder as he absentmindedly washed your back, and you let out a relaxed sigh. you were both night-owls, but Viktor was much more accustomed to fighting off exhaustion.

you bite down on your bottom lip as more worries begin to seep into your mind. you feel almost selfish for missing him when he works so hard, and yet you want nothing more than to take all of his stress away. Viktor is quick to notice as you slip deeper in thought, between your tense muscles and quickened breathing, he can read you like a book.

"what are you thinking about, darling?"

another weary sigh escapes you.

"its just... you've been so stressed lately, i just wish i could alleviate some of the burdens you carry.. i know what you do is important, but i still wish i could be around you more often and help you.. y'know?" you let out another sigh. "i just.. miss you sometimes. and i worry. you know i worry.." Viktor chuckles at your words before turning you around to face him, the warm water around you both sloshing gently against the edge of the bath.

"you do more than enough already. believe me, everything i do, i do for you. for us. i love you," he murmurs, and presses a kiss to your forehead, "and nothing will change that. i can't guarantee that i'll always be around... but i will try to stop staying in the lab so late." Viktor's lips crinkle into a soft smile, and you can't help but kiss him in response.

Viktor always feels as though he's floating when you kiss. your soft lips against his, the contrast of his nimble, calloused hands against your smooth skin, your scent, your taste, it was all gloriously intoxicating. you hum against his lips before slowly pulling away, lashes fluttering against his cheek from your proximity.

Viktor leans in to whisper in your ear, his lips just ghosting your temple.

"i think it's high time we went to bed, dear. the waters getting cold, and i wouldn't want my beautiful darling to be exhausted tomorrow, hm?" you sigh at his flattery, yet agree regardless. as Viktor leans against the tub to stand up, you suddenly remember something and grab his hand to get his attention.

"hm?"

"by the way, about what you said earlier.... i love you more."

"that is not possible, my dearest."

GRRR SO HAPPY THIS IS DONE LMAO- sorry i havent been super active ive been on a huge DC kick (specifically the batfam/dick grayson) and suffering from writers block BUT HERE I AM AGAIN!!!!!!!!! ANYWAYS HOPE U ENJOYEDDDD PLS FEEL FREE TO SEND IN REQUESTS (esp dc... HEHE)

[hederasgarden]

@whatblogisthis216 has me thinking about which ATJ characters enjoy edging versus overstimulation.

Characters: Sergei Kravinoff (Kraven the Hunter), Friedrich Harding (Nosferatu), Tangerine (Bullet Train),and Ives (Tenet) Rating: Explicit, 18+ only. Edging, overstimulation, oral sex (f receiving), unprotected PIV, breeding kink, use of restraints, and a lot of other truly questionable sexual things. Please comment or reblog if you enjoyed this and want to see more. Or scream at me in my inbox. That always makes my day.

Aaron Taylor Johnson Character Masterlist ♡ Masterlist

Let's start with the KING of overstimulation - Kraven!

Sergei’s stamina in the bedroom is both a blessing and a curse because he could literally spend hours between your thighs without breaking a sweat. He likes to start off with his hands and mouth. His heightened sense of smell lets him savor the way your scent changes with your arousal and he wants to be nose-deep in the source. Plus, he enjoys slowly stretching you out, adding a third and fourth finger even as you protest and tell him you couldn’t possibly fit another. But he certainly doesn’t need his hands to make you come, his tongue is talented enough. 

Depending on his mood, he might tie you up or make you wrap your legs around his head, crossing one ankle over the other, your heels pressing firmly into the back of his neck so he can devour you whole. You’ll be trembling, shaking all over with the effort to hold that position. It feels like you’re suffocating him but he’s ravenous, his hands wrapped firmly over the top of your thighs. The sounds he makes while he eats you out are filthy and you can feel yourself dripping down his chin. He’ll easily make you come half a dozen times that way before easing your legs off his shoulders and crawling up your body. 

Once he’s inside you it’s a litany of praise, his mouth roaming over your face and neck. He loves to nip and bite with his sharp teeth, teasing your nipples until they grow hard and sensitive. He could go for hours like this but he knows your body is fragile, only able to give up a certain number of orgasms before you pass out. He’s careful to toe the line, waiting to come himself until he’s pulled every last drop of pleasure from you. 

The aftermath is almost as enjoyable for Sergei as the overstimulation part. He loves how soft and pliant you become. You’re extra clingy too and he gets to indulge in taking care of you. He’ll carry your limp, half-conscious body into a steaming bath, washing you with care. You’ll be cleaned thoroughly, though his hands are gentle when they wash between your legs - he knows how sore you get. 

Once you’re dry and clothed you’ll get some water and fresh fruit before he tucks you beneath the furs in his bed. He’ll whisper something in Russian, most of the words foreign to you except dorogaya, my beloved. The last thing you remember before falling asleep is the sweet kiss he gives you, alongside the promise of breakfast in bed tomorrow.

Friedrich doesn’t have the patience or interest in edging you. Honestly, he doesn't even mean to overstimulate you either, it's just that he gets so lost in your smell and taste that he loses track of time. Can you blame him? When he’s between your thighs each moan and gasp you let out drives him nearly insane. He loves the way your thighs squeeze his head each time you come and how your body trembles the longer he stays down there.

When you thread your fingers through his thick curls and tug on the roots he groans into your cunt. His touch grows rougher and more demanding. He needs you to come again, it’s a near compulsion at this point. Each one tastes sweeter than the last and he drinks from you like a man starved for it, as if every drop is the only thing keeping him alive. He’ll use his fingers to work you open, his thumb circling your clit while he gazes down at your swollen cunt. Watching your face as you come undone is almost as good as tasting you. 

By the time he’s fully satisfied, you’re shaking all over, begging him to stop. Friedrich calms you down with sweetly murmured words, his hand running up and down your side soothingly. He kisses you slow and deep, wanting you to taste yourself on his tongue and understand just why he had to stay down there so long. By this point, you’re so wet that you welcome him inside without any resistance and he slides home with a groan. Despite how hard he is, he doesn’t rush your lovemaking, rolling his hips in an unhurried rhythm, drawing out both of your pleasures. This is the main show after all, the whole reason he had his head buried between your thighs in the first place. He needs to put another baby in your belly. It's all he can think about.

He makes sure you come again when he's inside you. He's a gentleman after all. While he chases his own release he's praising you, talking about how warm you are, how tightly you grip him. How good you've been for him. After, he stays lodged firmly inside, gazing lovingly at you. He just needs to catch his breath and then he'll be ready to go again. Doesn't that sound good, darling?

Tangerine loves edging you simply because he can. You look so pretty when you cry, especially when your tears ruin your makeup. The more debauched you look, the better. Nothing makes him harder than seeing you at his mercy.  He likes to use his fancy silk ties to bind your wrists and ankles to the bed so you’re spread eagle for him. Throughout the whole experience, he remains fully clothed in his three-piece suit while you’re completely naked.

Because he loves to push boundaries, even when you’re absolutely certain you’re at your limit, he’ll keep going until you have to use your safe word. He keeps up a steady stream of chatter throughout, using a mix of praise and dumbification in equal measure. You may act like you don’t enjoy it when he’s mean to you, but the way your cunt squeezes the shit out of his fingers tells a different story. Speaking of which, Tangerine isn’t about to remove his rings for this. He wants you to feel them as he curls them deep inside you. 

When it’s finally time to let you come he wants you to soak his face. After all, he put in all the work and he’s going to get his reward. Then, knowing him, he might shift into overestimation territory just because (and if you happen to pass out on him at this point, when you wake up he’s going to lecture you about falling asleep on him). When it’s finally time to sink to your body he’ll demand just one more orgasm from you as he finds his own end.

After, Tangerine will take a minute to admire what he's done to you. Maybe even snap a photo or two for later when he's gone on a job. Although he’ll clean up your tears and give you a little forehead kiss, that’s as far as he’ll go. He wants you to go to bed with a mess between your thighs. The thought of his cum slowly leaking out of you for the rest of the night makes him hard enough to go again. 

Ives has a purpose for edging you. Maybe it’s punishment for disobeying him or just because he knows you need it. Either way, you’re going to be handcuffed to the bed, sweaty, and begging to come by the time he's done with you. Ives is steady and calm during the whole experience, squeezing your thighs in reassurance while he reminds you that you can and will go another 10 minutes like this. 

And when he’s finally ready to let you come it won’t be with his mouth. You’ll come on his cock or not at all. He’ll sink into you slowly, relishing how you welcome him in with a fluttery little gasp, straining against the handcuffs. You’ve been empty for so long that it’s almost overwhelming to have him fill you up. But he’s not as unaffected as he likes to pretend. You can feel a tremor work through his body as he slowly rocks into you, building to deeper and harder thrusts. By the time you’re coming around him, without ever needing him to touch your clit, the bed is groaning and smacking into the wall.   

After Ives will clean you up with a washcloth and wrap his body around yours, nuzzling into your hair. You’ll fall asleep to him telling you what a good girl you were for him.

♡

Special thanks to @ryebecca and @otaku-girl-ao3 for looking this over.

I'm curious to hear everyone else's thoughts and reasoning. 👀

[slipperyenvelope]

Ok, hands down the best fic I’ve ever read in a long while. Wow. Just WOW. It’s been so long since I’ve read a fic this well-written. I love love LOOOOVE the slow burn, LOOOOVE small things that build up over time it’s just- UGHHHH. pleaseee consider making a full on fic like this, a really good slow burn, or if that’s not your thing I’d be happy with the 10k one shots ngl like you just write SO GOOD. Haven’t been THIS excited in a long time reading a fic, and certainly haven’t had this much reaction to a fic in a long while (putting the phone down at certain times from getting embarrassed -not in a I cringed reading this way but the embarrassment the reader felt also affected me and I had to take a lap around my house and look at invisible cameras as if to say ‘you read that shit too?- PLEASE continue writing!!!

~Take Me Home~

You’re Kris’ #1 prank victim. There’s just something about your reaction that’s proven to be satisfying as hell. Whether it be your screams of terror or lashes of rage; both must be some sort of appealing for them to target you as hard as they do. But you notice something. A crack in composure. And you discover exactly what you must do to get them off your back, even if it’s temporary. But you don’t mind; you’re not exactly opposed to this technique.

~~~ !!! JUST A WARNING some very light blood descriptions if ur like REALLY squeamish stay clear of this bad boy (i barely get into it so dw)

ANON u are literally gonna make me sob omg literally the sweetest thing ive ever heard ur amazing ILYSM !!! :(( <33 full ch fics are def smt ive considered but i find i lose motivation rlly quick if im not in love with my plot. but ill def keep it in mind !!!

besides that, ive got a 9.8k baby for u guys !!! and this one is BAD. its the most self indulgent, corny shit ive ever made (somehow worse than my first one) but IDC IT WAS SO FUN TO WRITE. nothing but pure FLUFF. RANCID. EW. enjoy the cavities :)))

~~~

You may combust from boredom.

Alphys is outlining the next few days of work, and you’re too tired to register any of it. But you don’t mind – there’s a joy in zoning out to the teacher’s voice. Your arms are comfy, anyways; the fluff of your sweater cushions your cheek like a pillow.

She starts writing down page numbers on the board and you decide maybe you should be a good student. You reach into your desk (with your free hand, of course. Can’t sacrifice the pillow) to feel for your pencil case, scooping out a sticky note. But you can’t find your pencil. 

For some reason, you think you might’ve left it deeper into your desk. 

What a mistake that was. 

Your hands skim the wooden surface as you shut your eyes, trying to enhance your senses. You probably look like an idiot; arm flailing awkwardly beneath you as your head continues to rest comfortably on your other. 

There’s a snicker to your left. You pause.

You squint, glaring at the obvious suspect: Kris. 

They’re sitting almost identically to you. Hunched over their desk, sweater pillowing their chin, bored and monotone face; nothing out of the ordinary. 

But you can’t help but feel a pang of nervousness. 

They meet your eye, only for a second, and return to Alphys (definitely not listening, either).

Your ear catches something important. Test date, homework pages, something like that. You snap back into reality, continue your search, hand flailing like a maniac.

Then, you feel it.

Something wet.

Your hand flinches back.

…

The average person would probably back off, right?

You’re not slow, exactly. It’s just– your mind is much too confused to tell you to stop touching the unidentifiable moist object.

Your fingers return to it, gliding your index across the smooth surface. The substance is thicker than water, almost sticky. You apply pressure. It feels like rubber, shape morphing around your finger.

Sitting up, you pull your arm out to examine your hand. Your digits are drenched in red.

Your head goes to one place and one place alone.

Blood.

You internally panic, sent into fight or flight mode.

And for some reason, you decide to shoot your hand back into your desk, fingers finding the squishy object once again. You squeeze it like a bear trap. 

You’re just really hoping you don’t see an organ–

Some of the fluid drips onto your pants as you yank it out.

Oh my god–

You don’t think you’ve ever screamed so loud in your life. 

There’s a soul in your hand. A red, human soul.

Every eye in the classroom shoots to you, assuming you’re being murdered. But you don’t care– the blood’s drenching your arm!

…

Well, every eye but two. 

Kris’ palm shields their mouth, deliberately facing the other direction.

You immediately catch on, a pang of anger and spite fueling your very being. You wind your hand back without thinking, using all your power to chuck it at them–

–in their general direction; your head’s a bit too cloudy to aim.

They lean back just in time (curse their perfect reflexes), rubber heart bouncing on their desk with a wet splat and landing on Catti’s. Her eyes boredly scan the, frankly, disgusting sensory overload.

“...cool.” She snaps a picture of it.

Your confusion returns back to rage as you bolt from your chair, murderous intention painting your face.

They don’t flinch. In fact, they’re staring at you like you’re the funniest thing in the world. Which, to Kris, doesn’t appear like a lot. But you can just see it in their eyes. They’re getting a kick out of this.

Alphys is trying to nervously deescalate the situation, but you can’t exactly hear it over Susie’s cries of laughter, which have now morphed into deepthroated coughs. 

It doesn’t matter, anyways. All you can hear is ringing.

“I’m going to kill you, Kris!”

Some of your classmates are probably looking at you like you’re crazy. Or maybe they sympathize with you. Or they’re too busy trying to identify what the hell the fake soul is made of. You’re still trying to figure that out yourself.

The ‘blood’ feels like watered down slime. It’s nasty, that’s all it is. 

Ignoring Alphys’ (failed) attempts at scolding, disciplining, whatever, you take one look from your sticky palm to Kris’ clean cheek and decide yeah, that’s a good place to wipe your hand.

They’re unphased, but leap elegantly to avoid your dirty fingers. It isn’t until Toriel shows up – confused and horrified from the scream – that you halt your chase to scoff.

While Kris emotionlessly takes the lecture from their mother, you’re escorted to the bathroom by Noelle to clean yourself off.

Mainly to ensure you don’t hunt them down yourself. 

~*•*~

You have a love-hate relationship with Kris.

You met when you were younger, by proxy of being in the same elementary class. You wouldn’t call them a ‘childhood friend’, maybe a ‘childhood acquaintance’. You were never close with them like Noelle was, but you’re a bit grateful for that. 

While they were relatively tight and eventually drifted, you were never close enough to drift to begin with. They felt like a safe constant in your life.

Felt. Past tense. Now, it’s like they’re actively trying to torture you.

It started at movie day in third grade. Toriel had put on the most PG, friendly film to exist. Even as an eight year old, you could agree it wasn’t exactly stimulating. All it took was a quick bathroom break from Toriel for everything to spiral out of control.

Snowy and Monster Kid revealed they found a scary movie DVD from one of the supply closets, insisting they put it on and skip to all the ‘jumpscares’.

You weren’t exactly sure what a ‘jumpscare’ was, but you thought that a movie with scariness sounded fun. It wasn’t.

Maybe you missed some sort of jumpscare tolerance class, but all it took was one screamer to make you nearly piss yourself. Your lungs were more burnt out than the man being murdered on screen. 

And yeah, maybe you got some unfiltered looks from your class (who somehow weren’t nearly as horrified as you). But that didn’t compare to the absolute ghostly expression on Toriel’s face when she barged in.  

Even after school, when everyone was dismissed (except Kris, of course), you stayed perfectly content in the corner of the classroom. You picked at the frayed edges of the sickly lavender carpet, trying to let Toriel’s comforting words embed deep into your mind. You will be fine, you won’t be tackled from behind by a chainsaw murderer. Yeah.

You were so distracted, you barely noticed the considerate, almost dreamy air Kris was giving off. You wish you could’ve warned your child-self; they were plotting.

Toriel began leading you to the front, not acknowledging the way Kris lingered at your side, just close enough to seem suspicious. 

You don’t even remember what they whispered; some corny line from the movie. “Your guts are mine,” or something. But it got you. 

God, did it get you.

You howl – nearly replicating your earlier cry – and stumble as far away as your jello legs would allow. 

But, here’s the thing. Once you realized you weren’t about to die a gruesome death, you didn’t cry. You didn’t continue screaming. You didn’t keep running. 

You were fuming. 

You held your hands in front of you, clenching and unclenching as if trying to replicate strangling someone. You threatened Kris as efficiently as a child could; mostly with warnings such as ’I’m gonna get you!’ in the most serious tone you could muster. 

Now, you understand why that was such a satisfying reaction for Kris to receive. Pranks aren’t fun if the victim starts crying; that’s a given. When the victim screams, that’s what makes it fulfilling. The identifier for the best reaction depends on what happens after.

More screaming? That’s probably boring to them. Too repetitive.

Flight mode? It’s just an end to the reaction.

Rage?

…

Now, that’s interesting. 

And you hate that your first instinct is to unleash your frustration when you’re conned. It makes your reaction worthwhile, along with the fact that you’re definitely their easiest victim. You’re not scared of a lot, but they’ve learned what’ll make you jump.

You, for some reason, can’t ever see it coming. You always forget you should constantly be on edge to ready yourself, but Kris is so quiet that you’re only ever on edge after you’ve been scared.

Others learn to expect things. You can’t predict anything to save your life.

They’re like the ‘boy who cried wolf’. Except you’re probably that one villager who kept believing them every single time despite the obvious signs that they’re messing with you.

You’ve tried everything to make them stop. You’ve tried pranking them back, which garners you zero reaction. You’ve tried avoiding them at all cost, but they always find you anyway. You’ve tried upping your paranoia, turning every corner and expecting something. But instead, you end up wasting the entire day on edge, slowly lowering your guard as night approaches, only to be hit at the very end.

Nothing works. They’ve never budged, not for a second.

~*•*~

The final bell rings, signaling the end of the day. You stretch your arms above your head, joints cracking and screaming at you to take a fat nap when you get home.

Maybe you’re slow, but everyone seems to be in a rush to leave the classroom. You don’t blame them. You reach into your desk (not peeking to check for unidentifiable objects because you’re lowkey an idiot) and plop your notebook and pencil case onto the top with a sigh. 

To your surprise, Alphys leaves the room too. She mumbles something about picking up something from Toriel but you’re still trying to wake up.

…

Speaking of waking up.

Kris is knocked out on their desk. As per usual.

Actually, they’re only usually asleep for the first half of class.

…you’re not sure why you know that.

Despite who they are, you’re a good person! You won’t let them rot in this empty classroom for the night (you know Alphys is coming back but you want the good samaritan points).

Abandoning your stuff, you find yourself at the foot of their desk, bending over to whisper in their ear. “Kris.”

Nothing. Their back isn’t even rising and falling to signify the air they should be breathing.

Your eyebrows furrow. From the proximity, you can certainly say they… smell weird.

There’s a hint of apple, their usual scent (again, not sure why you know that). But there’s something else. It almost smells like… your compost bin…

…after a week.

It smells like rotting. They smell like they’re rotting.

You’re not sure why you couldn’t smell it from your desk, but you smell it now. 

“Kris…?” You mutter with a bit more urgency.

No response.

You’re not sure why, but you’re starting to panic.

“Kris?”

You poke their shoulder.

They don’t even stir.

“Kris.”

You shake their arm, fingers digging into the green hoodie, just barely brushing their silky strands. 

And your pinky dips into something.

Something. Wet.

You come to your senses, immediately comparing the substance to the one Kris used to scare you a few days ago. It’s just… different.

It’s not as sticky. It’s more watery, but still thick.

You almost laugh at the comparison. If you were to compare that gooey concoction to this, you’d have slapped your past self for even beginning to believe that was blood.

No. You get it now.

This is blood. 

It’s staining through the arms of their sweater, you realize. It’s pooling on the desk.

Your voice dies in your throat. But you try, anyway.

“Kris?”

Your eyes scan for something, anything.

…

That’s when you see it.

The pencil stabbed straight through the side of their neck.

You shriek like you’re dying.

Your heart pounds in your ears. The colour’s drained from your face. You push them by the shoulders until they’re leaning back on the chair.

Alphys trips over herself, poking her head into the classroom, but you don’t really register it. 

You’re too busy screaming at what you’re witnessing.

Their entire neck, chest, and shoulders are drenched in blood. The stains have trailed down to their arms, drying and crusting at the palms of their hands. The old green and yellow of their hoodie is ruined; now a deep, red hue.

You think you might throw up.

They’re nearly blue. All the colour’s been drained from their face, besides the splotches of blood that’ve crawled up from their neck onto their cheeks and forehead. 

Your hand gravitates to their slightly ajar mouth, hovering, checking for breathing, anything.

There’s nothing.

…

You’re going to throw up.

Alphys is by your side in an instant. If you gazed into a mirror, you think you’d have the same expression as her. 

You turn 180, feeling your stomach churn. 

But then, something changes. Her mouth defaults to a small line.

“What’re you– what–” You stumble out, voice struggling to keep up with your thoughts.

She almost looks… suspicious.

She presses two claws to their jawline– no, right below it, where the neck connects. Why? Is she doing magic? That won’t change the fact that Kris is–

“...Kris,” she raises an eyebrow, unimpressed–

Unimpressed?

…

No response. 

What is she doing?! Wasting time?

Kris is bleeding! Dead?

What the hell do you do?!

“O-one second,” Alphys addresses you, making her way out of the classroom once again.

“Where–” you gasp, clutching your head.

But she’s already gone.

Where the hell is she going?!

Kris is bleeding, potentially attacked. Left on the desk for dead. No one noticed. They always look– it was the perfect disguise–

You feel the tears before you register them.

You really can’t be in the same room as them, especially like this, you’re going to–

…

There’s two bloody hands on your shoulders, and you’re beginning to wonder if you believe in zombies.

“Boo.”

…

If you thought you strained your throat from screeching before, this one absolutely ruptured your vocal cords.

You manage to tilt yourself to face the culprit, eyes most definitely as terrified as you feel.

Kris turns you the full way, a faint amused smile gracing their lips. “Hey,” they capture your wrists to stop you from squirming. You’re squirming. Shaking, even.

Then, you slow your tremble.

…

Fucking hell.

You’re livid.

Heat floods your vision as you rip a wrist from their grasp, hand opening in preparation to slap their asshole stupid face–

They catch it again before you’re able to make contact.

You ignore how annoyingly strong they are.

“Are you stupid? Kris, you’re–” your voice breaks, but you don’t really care. You probably look like you’re sobbing right now. “You fucking moronic idiot, oh my god I’m going to bury you alive after I claw that dumb grin off your face–”

You’re rambling, just barely noticing the way their grin fades. 

…

“You’d cry for me?” They murmur, and you almost don’t catch it.

The anger almost immediately dissipates, reforming into disbelief. No, no. There’s still some anger left.

“I–” you sniff almost comically. “Yeah?? I just saw what I thought was a dead body– w-who wouldn’t?– It’s like, also definitely a trauma response!–”

Your voice dies in your throat as you stare just a bit closer at their blue-hued face. 

“...is that makeup?”

No response, and you’re almost sure they’re dying (once again) from the way they’re eyes are locked onto you. The discoloured blue of their face tints just the slightest red. It makes a deep, plum purple. You’d laugh if the mucus in your throat wouldn’t make you choke.

You forgot you’re supposed to be filled with rage.

“Whatever,” you scoff, yanking your hands once again. They release you willingly. “I hope you’ve– uhh, written your will. Because… I’m going to…”

Are you in some sort of spotlight? They’re not breaking eye contact. You’re turning a different kind of nervous.

“Bye,” you spit, shattering under the attention. You storm out all dramatically, because they better feel some sort of guilt.

Alphys stumbles into you in the hallway, Toriel following closely behind. They both gaze at you expectantly, as if already knowing what you’re about to say.

“They’re alive,” you roll your eyes. “Unfortunately.”

~*•*~

Susie trails behind Kris and their mother, trying to intently listen as Kris briefly tells the story. They’re both ignoring the way their mother’s dragging their red self across the school, trying to shield them from the innocent eyes of the children. It’s not working. Susie’s nearly sobbing of hysteria, which isn’t helping.

They intentionally leave out the part where you said you’d cry for them.

Susie happens to spot you at your locker as they continue to rush outside. You seem to be intensely ranting to your friends about something. They may have an idea as to what it is.

Their fake blood still covers your fingers. It’s also apparent you’ve touched your face, judging by the small stains of red that brush across your nose.

…

You’d cry for them?–

Susie shouts your name enthusiastically. You nothing but glare maddeningly. 

She points to her own snout. “You’ve got a lil’ something.”

Your face dusts a light pink, immediately understanding what she’s referring to. Your eyes gravitate to them, and you instantly cover your nose with one hand, flipping them off with the other.

They can tell you’ve put no heart into it, though.

“Kris,” their mother scolds when they unconsciously slow down to gaze at you.

Susie regains their attention. “Hey, Kris.” She gestures to a group of kids, wordlessly giving instructions.

They slouch their back, giving off their best zombie impression. Then, once a few of the smaller eyes point to them, they widen their eyes as much as they can, teeth poking through their manic grin. 

Susie’s howling syncs with the kids’ screams. They’re yanked by their mother right after.

They notice the smallest smile on your face, shaking your head as if saying I can’t believe I know them.

~*•*~

You’re like an evil mastermind, scheming up plots in your lair.

…if the grocery store was your home base. Only because the air conditioning in your house broke again and it’s really hot despite it being October. And the freezers just happen to work perfectly against your overheating face.

There was something off about Kris today. Although not the most talkative person, they’d usually grace you with some sort of response when you’d ask about their prank (because you can’t help but wonder how they put some of them together).

You had a million questions. How’d you hold your breath for that long? Did you try to make the perfect blood concoction for this? How’d you hold the pencil in your neck for that long? You assumed it was snapped in half and glued on, but it looked seamless.

And yet, you couldn’t even get an answer to your rhetorical makeup question.

…

Is it because you cried?

You’re actually not sure if they’ve ever seen you cry. Well, past age ten. It’s probably different seeing a child sob compared to a teenager tearing up (you’re a liar, you were definitely balling silently).

They don’t seem like they’d really mind you crying, to be honest. Maybe you’re being hopeful.

Hmm.

You tap the freezer edge in thought, eyes narrowing at the crusted red substance under your fingernail.

…

They did ask… if you’d cry for them. 

Is that what made them uncomfortable? No, that’s not the right word. They didn’t seem uncomfortable. 

If anything, they sounded kinda hopeful. Like they wanted you to say yes.

And you did.

And they… liked that answer?

…

C’mon brain. You can do something with this.

Okay. Whether they liked your response or not, it doesn’t matter. What’s important is that it did do something:

It snapped them out of prank mode. It surprised them.

That’s what you’ve been waiting for. Something to screw with their head. Something that allows you a brief window of escape. To get back at them. 

You need to… be–

…weirdly intimate?

Ew. 

…

But…

It might work. It might be what you need to throw them off their game.

After all, it’s like a plan with an unstable foundation. What’s a pranker without a stable execution?

~*•*~

You’ve been extraordinarily nervous. 

And not just because they’ve been doing more and more ‘dead Kris’ pranks. Lots of loose limbs around the school, fake blood splatters, and even some appearances with their knife. Toriel has not been pleased.

You half wonder if they’re doing it to see if you’d cry again.

But, you’re proud to say you’re only startled by the initial reveal, less scared by the gore (may or may not be a good thing that you’re becoming desensitized to it).

No, all of that’s not why you’ve been a bit more on edge recently. You’ve been nervous about your stupid plan.

It sounds like it’d make sense on paper, given what evidence you now have. Don’t get it wrong, you have been trying. A little extra brush of your finger on their wrist when they’re trying to calm you down (using the term ‘calm you down’ very loosely), longer eye contact (in which they do break away first), even complimenting their scares (despite actually hating them).

But, besides a slight startle or subtle confusion, it hasn’t gotten them to freeze up the way you want them to.

Do you need to try harder? Be even more… forward?

Although somehow more alert than you’ve ever been, you’re still startled just as much. 

You part from your friends during passing period, deep in thought on the way to your locker. Now that you truly think about it, you’re not really sure what could break Kris’ motto.

Whatever. You’re alright at improv; you suppose it mostly depends on the scenario– what you’re able to do in the moment.

You punch in the code on your master lock, unlatching the lock and–

A yelp tears from your throat.

Your notebook flops to the floor.

There Kris is, bent awkwardly around your bag like a tetris piece. Their clothes are filled with small rips, tears, and dirty stains–

And they’re about to plummet right onto you.

You let out an ‘urRGH’ as they drape themselves over your body– my god are they pushing down on you? It’s like they want you to both fall!

Your knees buckle and bend awkwardly as you try to support them by the shoulders, chests nearly pressed against each other. Their arms fall past your sides like they’re about to give you a weird bear hug.

The stares you feel at the back of your head are real.

But it’s nothing compared to the look Kris is giving you. They seem surprised beyond belief, as if expecting you’d be so paralyzed in fear that they’d immediately crush you. Of course, this only translates to a slight raise in their eyebrows, but you take what you can get.

Your elbows struggle to stabilize your arms – hands slipping from your grip on their sweater – only causing your faces to grow closer in proximity.

They’re covered in makeup again; face the familiar blue that scared you so horribly before. Except now, they’re littered in small cuts, black blotches, and an actual chomp mark on their neck (you wonder if that was susie or makeup too).

…

And your brain flickers with an idea.

Here we go.

You put on the most calm, smug expression you can manage (despite the burn pulsing through your legs).

“Y’know, if you wanted someone to bite you, you could’ve just asked.”

…

You hate it as soon as it leaves your mouth.

But–

It works.

You’ve never seen Kris’ eyes jolt open that quickly before. 

Out of pure embarrassment, you try to glance somewhere else, anywhere else, but they fill your entire vision. They intently watch you eye the bite mark, then themself, and they flush like they’ve been lit on fire.

You barely register them stumble out of your grips, half thankful for the relief your spine gives you. You watch them take long strides to the front doors (even though school isn’t over yet), not once looking back.

…

And you can’t help…

…but stand there in triumph.

It really worked! They completely shut down. No snicker in your face, no knowing smirk that you want to slap off, nothing!

Oh yeah. 

You’ve got the power now.

~*•*~

They feel like a mindless zombie. Or an automated robot. 

Why the hell was their first thought:

Wow. Your hands are really warm.

It didn’t stop them, though. You didn’t seem to suspect anything. They hope you’re not too keen on the twitches in their face. They’ve pretty much perfected their deadpan over the years.

But you–

They rub their moist palm against the fake bite on their neck. They found an old set of plastic vampire teeth from many Halloweens ago. It was perfect. Exaggerate it with a bit of makeup, and–

…

What would your teeth feel like against their neck?–

…

Wow. That is such a creepy, stupid thought.

They’ve been demoted to a new type of low.

You’re just an old friend– classmate that they know. 

Like messing with. 

Enjoy watching your reactions. 

That small upturn of your lip after you’re done cussing them out; it’s just so pretty satisfying. 

…

They feel the vibration in their pocket. It’s barely been twenty minutes; they’re surprised their mother isn’t calling sooner.

Just the thought of going back to class makes them hot. Hotter than they already are with this damn sweater in this unbearable heat. 

~*•*~

It’s been a few days. They’ve been too cloudy-headed to think of anything new to pull on you, and they know you can tell. The small glimpses they receive in the halls nearly pull at their soul; you seem almost disappointed, as if you think you upset them. 

They’re not. They just don’t want to bolt mid-reaction again. Or freeze in place. Or, god forbid, say something they'll regret.

It’s funny, ironic. You’re so keen on pretending you hate it, and yet you seem to actively want them to continue.

It’s lunch. They’re giving half-assed responses to Susie when they watch you and your friends leave ICE-E's P"e"zza, sitting on the lawn across the street.

“Wanna get pizza?” They ask, interrupting her mid-sentence. They don’t mean to, but they do.

She snarls enthusiastically. “Do I?”

Susie nearly drags them down the sidewalk, barging through the doors. She orders them both a pepperoni pizza slice while Kris asks for a fountain drink.

They press their thumb against a random button, watching the half-syrup, half-water stream pour down the built-in drain. A menacing smile works its way onto their lips.

Tilting their cup, they gather the syrup-half with little water. As a test, they bring it to their face to try.

…

It tastes horribly concentrated. 

Perfect.

They repeat the action with every button, gathering the syrups in their small cup. They whirl the concoction in a circle, hoping to mix it enough. They pop a lid on top, paired with a straw.

“I’ll be right back,” they call to Susie. 

She waves back dismissively with an ‘EHH’, far too entranced by the pizza-making process to care.

Pushing past the door, they immediately spot you planted on the grass; your back to them. They’d rather your friends not be around, but they don’t really mind an audience (they’d just prefer none). 

They debate if they should scare you, but when your friends’ eyes lock onto them – a sly upturn on their lips – you’re already turning around.

You barely try to hide your hopefulness as you jump to your feet. “Kris?”

They swear your eyes sparkle like an anime girl.

Clearing their throat, they hold the drink in front of them. “Got this for you.”

You both wince when your friends coo an exaggerated awwwhhh!

Your hand reaches out to take it, fingers brushing oh you’re still really warm–

“What is it?”

They’re startled, once again. You’ve really managed to surprise them lately. You look like you suspect something. Which is unusual, considering you never used to suspect anything before.

They put on their best innocent smile. “Surprise.”

You gaze at the straw once, expression unreadable. They think you’re about to sip it, when–

“You try it first.”

One of your friends scoff. “Just take the drink, weirdo!”

But you don’t budge. Instead, your eyes turn doe-like, quirking your head just enough. 

“Please?”

They shutter. And immediately scold themself for it.

You mirror how they held it out for you. Except now, you seem to very intentionally caress their dorsal.

They’re nearly boiling. From what? They can’t tell anymore. 

Distracting themselves, they don’t hesitate to bring the straw to their lips. You intently watch the liquid travel up the straw, pleased when it appears to touch their tongue.

And it does. And it’s one of the worst things they’ve ever tasted.

It’s pure sticky flavour. No carbonation, just a concentrated mash of the drinks they definitely should’ve identified before mixing in.

But they ensure there’s zero reaction on their face.

And you believe it. They can tell. 

“Okay,” you chirp, snatching the drink back. “Thanks, Kris.”

And you sip.

Oh, so very trustingly. 

They can feel the thrill pulse through their soul as your face scrunches disgustedly. 

“Eugh!” You cry, sticking your tongue out to spit whatever you can on the grass. They intentionally begin walking away, taking note of your friends who’ve begun laughing hysterically.

You groan from afar. “Kris!” 

They hear your footsteps approaching, speeding up to make more distance. You catch up. They let you.

There’s a hand on their shoulder, ushering them to face you. You… seem more amused, if anything.

“How the hell’d you not react to whatever this is?” The cup collides with their chest. “Drink it again!”

They nearly gawk at you. “You want me to drink it again?”

“Yes! Or did you just pretend to drink it?”

“Nope. Actually did it.”

“Then do it again!”

Although more than pleased to follow your very demanding command, you rip the drink away as they try to take it from you. “Actually, I don’t want you dumping it on me or something–”

They’d never do that to you–

“–just let me do it.”

…

…do what?

You lift the cup, pinching the straw between your fingers. And–

Their heart flutters. 

You’re holding the straw close enough to their lips that they could latch on whenever they wanted. Your confidence vanishes instantly, replaced by your shy flush.

They’re probably wearing the most dopey grin as they sip from the straw. Their bottom lip nearly touches your finger–

God damn, get your shit together.

Maybe it’s the added distraction of your reactions, but they can barely taste it. Yeah, it’s still nasty, but they’re too busy watching your eyes dilate. 

You’re not even hiding how closely you’re watching their mouth.

“Okay, that’s enough–” you stutter, bringing the straw to your own lips. They’re not sure why you’re trying it again, but they’re not opposed to following the movement of your lips.

Your face cringes once again. “My god, that’s rancid. How’d you even make it?”

They snap out of their daze. Right. You’re talking to them.

“Fountain drinks,” they mutter like they’ve just learned to talk.

“‘Drinks’?”

They only grasp the drink to smoothly remove the lid. “All of them.”

You sneer, narrowing your eyes at the brownish mixture. “I’ve mixed them all before. It does not taste like that. Nor does it look that… uh… brown.”

There's a click in their head, as if realizing something crucial. “Oh yeah. It’s just the syrups.”

“The syrups? You’re a psycho!”

You laugh like a songbird. All they can say is it’s definitely luring them in.

“What about my tongue?” You question. And before they can mentally prepare themself, they’re watching you stick out your tongue casually. “What colour is it?”

“Brown,” they squeak.

“Oh yeah? What about yours?” On command, their own tongue slithers from their mouth. You’re tapping your chin thoughtfully. “Mhm, definitely brown. Thanks, Kris. Now everyone’s gonna think I’ve been eating dirt. Or shit. But I’d rather not think about that option.”

They’re about to laugh, but something catches their eye.

There’s a flash that goes off behind you, and they just barely spot one of your friends being scolded by the rest of them. Once they all notice they’re watching, they start giggling like madmen.

You knowingly sigh, which is enough of an apology in itself. “They’re idiots. Don’t worry. I’m gonna kill them.”

You say it endearingly. It’s like a calmer, more loving version of what you usually scream while chasing them. They want this version instead.

Then turn when you do, both returning to your respective friends. They’re too busy letting their brain spiral to notice your halting footsteps, only for them to get closer and closer–

They feel your arms wrap around their shoulders–

“Thanks again for the drink, Krissy,” you laugh, shaking the cup in front of their face as if they forgot.

…

They did not forget.

They will never forget.

They’re suddenly very dizzy.

You’re gone as soon as you come, already cussing out your friends across the street.

…

They have to lean into the door to open it because of how jello-filled their arms are.

“Kris?” Susie spots them almost immediately. She’s sitting in front of two paper plates; both of which are empty. There’s half a slice in her claws. They raise an eyebrow.

“Hey man, you were taking too long, honestly thought you ditched. Couldn’t have a perfectly good slice go to waste– hey, where’s your drink?”

They don’t grace her with a response. Mostly because they don’t trust their voice not to break halfway through.

~*•*~

If you realized how easy Kris was to fluster, you’d have done this years ago. Literally. Turns out they’re relatively tolerant to everything except direct words. 

So you’ve turned off your filter and absolutely let loose. It doesn’t matter how embarrassed or hot you are afterwards; Kris is always more flabbergasted. And it’s the most satisfying thing to ever see.

It also helps that the more you do it, the more confident you become. Actually, that may be a bad thing. You try not to think about it too hard.

It’s been multiple days of this strange back-and-forth thing you’ve got going on. But you don’t mind. In fact, you really look forward to it.

Their pranks have actually drifted from scary to more annoying, if anything. But you still scream when they startle you; react when they taunt you. You can tell they’re enjoying the change, too.

You don’t register the hand caressing your head until your eyes peep open. It immediately returns to the owner– Kris’ side when they see you’re awake.

The classroom’s empty. Even Alphys is gone. You don’t like how this is going.

As if sensing your question, they smile. A bit too friendly. “Told Alphys I could wake you up.”

You lean back and yawn. “Was I asleep?”

“Snoring and everything.”

“Shut up, Dreemurr,” you snicker, punching their hip. They’re taking it awfully well.

You try to read their face, but that never goes anywhere anyways. Even their eyes (which you don’t think you’ve ever watched so intently before) are thoughtless.

…

“What did you do now?”

If they were more expressive, they’d have gasped and clutched a hand to their chest. But it’s Kris, so they just tilt their head; their small smile growing subtly. “Am I always up to something?”

“Uh, yeah. Don’t play innocent.”

“I am innocent.”

“No, you’re not.”

You immediately start rummaging through your notebook, pencil case, desk, pockets, hair, everything. Did they plant a bomb in your shoes, or something? (Maybe ‘or something’)

Once you detect there’s nothing on you, you start scanning them. There’s nothing particularly unusual about them, but…

They’re hiding their hands in their pockets. Not exactly atypical, but still suspicious!

You’re yanking them by their wrists, revealing their–

“Aha!” You cry in victory. “What’s this, then?”

You gesture to the splotches of red that lightly sprinkle across their hands, almost reminiscent of their fake blood. It’s too bright to be that, though. It’s like an obnoxiously bright red.

“Art class,” they answer effortlessly.

“I–” you utter. “Oh.”

You’re not entirely sure why you trust them, but you half shrug it off, half accept your fate as you leave the classroom with them. But then they split from you, leaving to find Susie as you continue down the hallway.

That’s when you notice something’s off. 

You’re getting the oddest stares. Some laughs. You’re honestly offended, assuming they're making fun of your face. You’re beautiful, thank you very much.

Your friends already have their bags, waiting patiently at your locker. Once one of them notices you, they gawk.

“What?” You spit, a bit fed up with the attention. 

Another faces you, eyes widening comically. “The fuck? What happened to you?”

“What do you mean? Nothing happened!”

One of them pulls out a phone, immediately flipping the camera for you to see–

Your mouth falls open.

No fucking way.

You’d say your face flushed red with anger if you weren’t already painted like a tomato.

Your cheeks, eyelids, nose, lips, ears, everywhere is just red, red, red–

And, of course, you somehow fell for it again!

“Kris?!”

Your battle cry echoes across the halls, garnering you more stares than you already have. But you don’t care; you’re about to strangle a human, for heaven’s sake! That’ll give you some real attention.

You’ve apparently gained x-ray vision from the way you directly spot both Kris and Susie. When she finds where the scream came from, she instantly breaks down into tears. You don’t really blame her; you probably look like anger from Inside Out from how creased your forehead is.

Then, your target narrows onto you. You can just see the gears turning in their head. 

…

You’re at a standstill.

Then, as per usual, they make the first move.

They bolt in the other direction.

“No!” You yelp, revenge actively being torn from your grasp.

You weave in and out between students; through large groups with no courtesy in mind. You get stuck behind slow walkers (because you’re not mean enough to shove past them, even if you really want to) while they escape through the side door. You eventually follow ensuite.

They’re halfway down the street. Damn.

Mustering all your energy gained from adrenaline, you sprint like you’ve never sprinted before. You don’t even think you’d run from a murderer this quickly.

You close the distance with little effort, tackling them from behind. They let out an exhausted huff of amusement.

“You think this is funny, huh?” Despite your words, you’re nearly grinning like a maniac. “I’ll show you something funny!”

Your palm aggressively collects whatever facepaint you can from your cheek and smears it satisfyingly onto your victim. Their face squishes like putty beneath your hand.

After continuously laughing like a maniac, you’ve decided this isn’t efficient enough. You thread your hands through their fluffy hair (trying not to think about how nice this feels– think about your rage!). Their throat lets out a mini groan and your stomach flutters–

Shake the thought!

You (reminder: without thinking) bring your faces abnormally close and start rubbing your cheek against their own like a deranged and affectionate cat.

You really hope it isn’t obvious how warm your cheeks are.

Oh, wait. 

That’s exactly what they’re currently feeling, idiot!

You stumble away; the redness of your face is probably filling in the blank spots you’ve just created. Trying to maintain any semblance of confidence you have left, you point at them accusingly.

“T-That’s what you get!” You yelp, voice breaking. But it doesn’t matter; you can tell they’re not listening anyways.

…

You’re already too far gone. Who cares?

You swipe your (very shaky) thumb against your still-very-painted cheek, gathering more facepaint. 

You rub the pad of your finger on their nose.

Then, you plant the tip right on the corner of their mouth and glide it upwards, mirroring it on both sides. Their lip quivers. 

Sliding your phone from your pocket (ignoring the prints of red that stain your screen), you take a picture of their, frankly hilarious, expression. Their mouth’s morphed into a squiggle.

“There,” you tilt your phone to show them the clown-like markings. “Now we match. In idiocy, I mean.”

They break their frozen state to laugh. Silently, but it’s there.

You’re tempted to record it. Just because it sounds really nice.

~*•*~

It’s quiet outside. The night is still. Midnight, to be exact. 

You’re not even sure why you’re up so late. You’ve been photoshopping you and your friends’ faces onto random stock photos. For some reason (might be your sleep depravity), you find it hilarious.

You’re in the middle of a gut-wrenching laugh – one of those laughs that's made funnier because you’re supposed to be quiet – and rolling around on your bed when your phone buzzes. 

It’s a contact-specific ringtone you set as a joke a few years ago; your friends recorded you telling Kris you were going to shave them bald. You don’t remember the context. Probably good you don’t.

At some point, your friends – unbeknownst to you – switched Kris’ notification sound for your voice. You barely noticed because of how little you text them, and when you eventually did notice, you were too lazy to change it.

If anything, it just makes you laugh harder.

Retrieving your phone, you open your chats to be bombarded with old texts of you cussing them out, usually after getting pranked. Mostly because you couldn’t catch them after the crime.

Although they very rarely responded with more than a thumbs up or something ignorant like a plain ‘what’, you could just feel their grin behind the screen.

You scroll to the most recent text. It’s actually not a text. It’s a photo.

A photo of a very familiar DVD. 

You shiver and immediately judge yourself for it. The chainsaw man was responsible for most of your childhood fears and your very first memorable nightmare. Yeah. But you’re a teenager. Why the hell are you still scared of it?

Following the picture is a text. It doesn’t even have words.

It’s just:

???

…

You’re not sure how you’ve learned to interpret vague texts like this, but this is very obviously asking if you want to relive your greatest fear for funzies. With them, of course.

You’re delirious from your lack of sleep, but you still manage to scoff dramatically, even without an audience.

“Like hell I’d ever do that,” you whisper to yourself.

You sprawl back onto your bed, shutting your laptop mid-face-transplant. 

They’re probably luring you, anyway. It’s definitely an excuse to get you in some sort of trap. Their home is free-territory; they’ve probably been setting up some intricate prank for hours. 

…

It’s not like they’d actually want to watch a movie with you…

Haha.

…

You’re dialing their number before you can stop yourself.

They pick up after two rings, but they don’t say anything. They’re not usually the one to initiate.

“No fibbing?” You almost whimper, slight fear bleeding through your tone.

Maybe they hear it. Your nervousness.

There’s silence. Then: “Nothing.”

“Okay.” You hang up.

You’re opening your window, logical senses long gone.

It’s second nature to you by this point. You slide off your roof effortlessly, landing semi-gracefully on your house’s trash bins. They’re closed, thankfully. You’d rather not smell like garbage.

You’re not sure why you care. It’s Kris.

…

Somehow, that fact changes everything.

The streets are dark, empty, dead. There’s not a single person in sight. The houses appear inhabited because of the lack of light shining through the windows. It’s honestly a bit nerve-wracking (wow. How surprising; you’re scared of something).

You unconsciously lead yourself to their house, letting out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. There’s only the dimmest shine in their living room window. Besides that, it’s identical to every other house.

You’ve been over before, only by proxy of knowing them for the better chunk of your life. It’s mostly been for dumb projects or something school related. Nothing ever because of the strength of your friendship bond.

Even so, this doesn’t feel as unnatural as it probably should.

As your knuckles hover at the door, you think twice. Instead, you fish your phone and send them a text.

hey

You hear the faintest footsteps approach the door. There’s the click of the lock, and–

“Hey,” you repeat, drunk on tiredness.

They leave the door ajar, just enough for you to squeeze inside. You notice a distinct lack of Toriel and your mouth glues shut. You’d rather not jinx anything (you freak).

“I was rummaging. Found it in an old box,” they mutter, answering the question lingering in your mind.

“And you thought I’d be overjoyed to watch it?”

They take a seat on their couch, slyly gesturing for you to join them. “You’re here, aren’t you?”

You shrug. “It’s for nostalgia. Nothing more.”

“Nostalgia,” they echo. They look at you like they don’t believe you.

It barely takes a minute for you both to get comfortable under a blanket, just far enough to pretend it’s a casual hangout. There’s a bowl of popcorn resting between you two – something you deemed was a bad idea while Kris brushed you off wordlessly.

Despite having watched it before, you’re still startled by every little sound. You want to blame it on the fact that it’s been nearly a decade and you don’t really remember the jumpscare spots, but you know damn well you’d still recoil.

You have decent self control; you know it’s late and you hold in most of your screams. Although, some really get you. You might’ve screamed at the top of your lungs. And Kris might’ve slapped their palm over your mouth, eyes popped open from nervousness, gesturing to the room upstairs that their mother might be sleeping in.

They pause the movie, listening for any signs of movement upstairs. When you hear nothing, you can’t help but giggle. 

There’s times where you jump, spilling half the popcorn on Kris’ lap. Neither of you seem to mind that much. Besides, you’re not opposed to lap popcorn. You do take note of how their face always tilts away from you when your hand brushes their leg.

Everytime you feel their hand get just a bit too close to your neck, or their head angles itself just enough to whisper in your ear, your newly built-in scare detector sends screaming alarms throughout your mind.

…and all it takes is a little scooch closer to make them stiffen and lean away. You’re proud of how resourceful you’ve become.

But, as the movie comes to a close, you’ve found yourself…

…thoroughly disappointed with the plot. It’s actually a really boring, generic recreation of every other horror movie out there.

Damn. Younger you couldn’t have chosen a good horror movie to be scared of?

“That’s how it ends? Nothing even happened. The girl escaped. The chainsaw dude got away. No one relevant even died,” you slur, on the verge of passing out from exhaustion.

“Yeah, it’s… painfully average.”

“Painfully overstuffed with cheap jumpscares.”

They toss the blanket off your legs, setting the empty bowl aside. “You flinched at every single one.”

“I said they were cheap. Not– unflinchworthy.”

You stare at the glow of your phone. Two thirty.

“Damn,” you rub your eyes. “Gotta get back before my parents wake up. They’re, like, early early birds.”

Maybe it's the hesitance in your step – although definitely tainted by fatigue – but they stare at you like you’re some vulnerable drunk in a dangerous city.

They come to some conclusion in their head.

“I’ll walk you home.”

You’re too tired to oppose.

~*•*~

You keep zoning out. You’re heading to your house, and yet they’re the one directing. You’re not sure why they’re so– not tired. Energetic was the wrong word.

The loudest noises are your steps. Little rustles in the trees make you quiver. Turns out you’re still on edge. Get it together.

Your hand brushes theirs every other step.

It’s an animal this time. You straight up shove yourself into them. They silently steady you with a hand on your shoulder. It grounds you. 

You like the contact. Maybe a bit too much.

They’re firmly staring ahead, almost lost in thought.

Then, their hand smoothly slips into yours.

…

You’re so glad you’re delirious. You might’ve erupted on the spot if you were conscious enough.

They don’t expect it – you can tell from the way their hand freezes – but you squeeze.

…

After a moment, they squeeze back.

~*•*~

For some reason, they insisted on walking you straight to your bed.

They– they’re on the roof. With you.

You actually forget for a second, taking a deep breath in your stuffy room, flinching hard when they tap on the glass of your window. You don’t remember closing it.

They’re grinning, you realize. You start fuming. Because they definitely meant to scare you, you’re preparing to cuss them out again. You press their contact, letting it ring for a second.

…

They decline it. In your face.

You’re about to swing the window open when you get a buzz.

…

There’s two messages. Both from them. Of course.

One is a picture of you scared shitless, blanket pulled to your face. They’re in it, but half cropped out. You can make out their obvious amusement.

It’s followed up with a single word:

blackmail

~*•*~

It’s hot. It’s been hot. All you do is complain to your friends about how hot it is.

A nice thing about being in a small town is that the complaints of a few random people actually mean something. Apparently the school acknowledged the spike in temperature over the past few days, preparing an ‘exciting after school activity’ as compensation.

Water balloons. It’s water balloons.

But you’re not allowed to fill them yourselves. The teachers are the only ones permitted to use the hose.

Oh, and you’re not allowed to throw them. That was deemed too dangerous by none other than Toriel. What you’re supposed to do is pop them by ripping them apart with your hands. Or stab them with claws, if you have them. No biting (a weird specification, but you suppose it may happen). And you can only pop them on yourself. Like, awkwardly hold it above your head. You can pop them over other people, but you need ‘permission’.

You’re not surprised. Just a bit disappointed.

There’s some students (Susie) who immediately disregarded said rule. 

Which one? All of them. 

She chucked one at Berdly so aggressively that he toppled onto the pavement (it didn’t even pop; just ricocheted like a bouncy ball). She stole the hose, set it on jet mode, and aimed the nozzle at Kris like a laser. She also might’ve eaten one, you’re not sure.

You’ll have to thank her for getting all the teachers off your collective backs. They’ve all been hovering like eagles, ensuring you’re not splashing a single drop onto anyone else.

“God, it’s so hot. And this one’s not even popping,” you groan, piercing your nails into the rubber repeatedly. You were going to burst it on your head, but nothing’s working.

You’re drenched in your own sweat, your skin feels like it’s blistering, you’re–

“Ooh, incoming,” your friend nudges you in the most obvious, indiscreet way.

You can already tell how this’ll go.

Tossing your garbage balloon to the grass (still doesn’t pop), you face the culprit of your friends’ attention.

“Kris,” you greet civilly. “You– oh.”

You’re rendered speechless as you notice the giant ass water balloon casually resting in their arms. It’s almost the size of their head.

You’re automatically confused. You never saw them have it pumped up, nor do you think Toriel would’ve allowed one this big to be made, let alone for someone like Kris.

“Heard you were hot,” they lift the balloon, just barely. “Got this one for you.”

…

Oh no.

Nuh uh.

Your senses have been heightened by the heat (somehow).

You see right through them for the first time in your life.

“No,” you voice sternly, slowly backing away like prey.

But they don’t stop. In fact, they’re advancing.

“No!”

You bolt.

Their fast footsteps behind you makes your blood rush, adrenaline pumping like never before.

The students are easy to navigate through, thankfully.

But that means there’s no obstacles for them to get caught on.

“Kris, I swear!–”

Eyes glue onto you as you run for your life. Except you find out you’re not good at running for your life. You’ve run in a straight line.

You spot the police tape blocking off the rest of the road. Panicked, with no other ideas, you dip into the plumage of the forest.

They follow, no hesitation.

“I was joking! It’s actually really nice out– I don’t wanna get wet!–”

You continue to run despite the trickles of sweat gushing down your back. And you’re a liar! Have you felt how hot it is?! 

And all this running isn’t helping!

You catch the odd branch on your leg, nearly faceplant a few leaves, but you remain unwavering. You will not be caught–

Okay. You know you can’t outrun them.

Need a plan. Now. 

Uhh… oh–

What if…?

…

They’re gaining on you. Quick. 

There’s a small clearing up ahead. 

Perfect.

You skid your foot in the dirt, slowing down. You pivot just in time to catch the raise in their eyebrows; they weren’t expecting it.

You nearly collide, but they stumble before you touch. They’ve shifted to hold the balloon in their right hand, despite it consuming their palm.

Stabling yourself, you use one hand to capture their free arm by the bicep. You snake your fingers around the wrist of their balloon-filled fist. Angling it towards the sky, you try to push it as far away from you as possible.

You’d snort at their rosy cheeks if you weren’t just as red. You’re very close. You can feel their exhale on your nose.

“Haha!” You cheer breathlessly, ignoring the obvious standstill you’ve put yourself in. This is victory in your eyes.

As if in mockery, they nearly rip their bicep from your grasp, clutching the same wrist to mimic.

You’re both panting like dogs, although they’re arguably much more graceful. Small, nervous giggles escape your lips every time you feel them tense. They keep fighting back, pushing against your grip to tilt the balloon over your head.

And every time, you thrust back with all your might.

It’s held ominously above your heads, moreso over Kris’ than your own. You see the gears turning. Slowly. Calculated. Their hand strains in preparation.

You gasp. “Do not pop it.”

They’re trying to remain their usual neutral monotone, but they’re wheezing out little laughs between their deep breaths.

“It’ll cool you down,” they offer ominously.

“Please. I don’t wanna cool down.”

“You know you do.”

Your grip tightens. “W-what about you? You’ll definitely get hit in the crossfire,” you gesture to the looming rubber above you.

Their smile is reminiscent of a supervillain. “A small casualty.”

Their balloon-filled fingers twitch as a threat. You start to panic.

Crap. Crap. Crap.

…

And then it hits you.

An idea.

What all your training has come to.

The past few weeks of experience interpreted – knowledge gained. 

How to make them stop.

You know what you must do.

…

This is… by far…

…the dumbest idea you’ve ever had.

They’re trying to read you. You can feel it. Their brows furrow in confusion.

Then, you glance at their lips. A small, innocent glance.

And you’re pressing your lips to theirs before you can think twice.

…

You’re tense, at first. But you ease into it. 

Their lips are soft. A bit chapped, but you don’t mind. They… taste like pie. You’re smiling into the kiss involuntarily.

Kris, however? 

They’ve stiffened into a brick wall. 

Oh, and they’re squeezing your wrist so hard you might lose a finger.

…

And you realize you’ve made the biggest mistake of your life.

They squeeze their other hand just as hard, crushing the delicate balloon with ease. The… insides splat onto the both of you, painting every crevice and every strand of hair.

You squint through your eyelids, examining yourself. You’re covered in… slime.

You will admit, it is kinda cooling.

“The hell?” You heave. “You were gonna slime me?”

Kris makes no move. They’re reminiscent of your red-painted face.

You sigh, disconnecting the two of you. Their grip turns to sand, allowing you to slip away with ease. Their hair is sagging from the weight of the slime, and you don’t doubt you look the exact same.

“Kris?” You tap their cheek.

They clear their throat. “Y-you…”

You feel a heat bloom across your face. “Don’t!– Just… I thought you’d go slack. Y’know, drop the thing. On the ground. It felt like a good idea, at the time–”

When they don’t respond, you’re absolutely sure you’ve ruined your relationship. Well, regret’s not too far from embarrassment–

“Do it again.”

You pause.

“W-What?”

“I’ll do it right this time.”

You’re grinning despite your confusion. “You– you’re not even holding anything to drop.”

They squeeze some slime from their hair, collecting it in their palm.

You deadpan. “It’s not threatening if I’m already covered in it–”

They smush the glob onto your cheek. Your lips seal shut on instinct.

“Eugh! That almost got in my mouth, idiot–”

They repeat the hair squeeze, and you realize you’re not about to battle this out with slime.

“Fine–” you grunt, lunging forward to wipe a glob from their cheek, getting as clean of a surface as possible. You’re sure you’ve already ingested some of it, so you’re not that worried.

You peck their cheek, cupping the much slimier other. The goo makes your lips sticky, but you try to ignore it. 

They freeze at first, but they recover quicker. 

…

You lean back, ignoring the way your heart flutters.

They’ve got the dopiest smile on their face.

“Pfft–”

You can't help but pull out your phone (now slimified), snapping a picture before they can stop you. Their grin drops, shock ever-present.

You show the photo just in time to see the life drain from their eyes. 

“Blackmail.”

~~~

...i told u this was corny. AND U DIDNT LISTEN. this was literally just an excuse for me to put them in the dumbest romance trope ahh type scenarios. there is ZERO and i repeat ZERO real plot. HOPEFULLY it didnt drag on for too long but i hope u enjoyed this mess !!!

also not sure if i explained it well but yknow how some of the actual fountain drink machines contain the syrups and the water (instead of a pre mixed drink)? and the nozzle is split like half syrup, half water (idk how it actually works its smt like this tho). WELL if u didnt know, u can actually put ur cup half under the nozzle (if that makes sense) and mostly only get the syrup (and it tastes like concentrated ass dont do it)

i couldnt get an exact pic but this one has the brown only in the middle bc thats where the syrup comes in, while the rest is the carb water OK IM DONE BYE LMAOO

[rafeandonlyrafe]

inspections

words: 1k

warnings: 18+ only!, smut, dom/sub dynamic, daddy kink, daily c*nt inspections 😭, fingering, mentions of p in v sex, edging, i think rafe calls reader kiddo once, reader is described briefly as small chested, mentions of past punishments/spankings/tit slapping

“come on, baby.” rafe taps your thigh. “it's time.”

“im so tired, just let me sleep for five more minutes.” you whine, snuggling your head deeper into the pillow.

“are you being bratty?” rafes words have your eyes snapping open.

“no, daddy, of course not.” you giggle. you both know you were just being a bit naughty by refusing to wake up, but you don't want to face any punishment, sitting up to give rafe a good morning kiss.

“mhm, that's what i thought.” he sighs. “i have to go into work today.”

“what?” you whine. “you can't work from home?”

“nope, got in person meetings today. sorry baby girl.” rafe hates leaving you as much as you hate him having to go anywhere without you.

“okay, gonna miss you so much.” you give rafe another kiss, now noticing that he's already ready and dressed.

“ive got enough time for inspections. open up.” rafe taps your thigh again.

“mkay.” you nod, laying your head back on the pillow, spreading your legs open.

“no wet spot on your panties, wow.” rafe nods, hands moving to rub over your inner thighs.

you smile, proud of yourself for keeping your panties clean overnight, always struggling with rafe pressed up against you.

rafe hooks his finger under the center of your underwear, pulling it to the side to reveal your cunt.

“gosh, so pretty.” rafe smiles down. “my favorite pussy in the world.”

“thank you daddy.” you blush, feeling your cheeks heat up pink.

“makes me not wanna leave you, kiddo.” rafe sighs, knowing he certainly doesn't have time to fuck you, not in the way he wants to.

“will you be home for lunch?” you ask, eyes fluttering closed as rafe swipes his fingers through your folds absentmindedly.

“yeah.” rafe nods. “will bring you home some candy.” he can't help himself but bring his fingertips to his mouth, tasting your wetness with a low moan.

“thank you daddy.” you manage to speak out, voice already wobbly from his touches.

“gonna stick a finger inside, okay? make sure you're still nice and tight for me.” the inspections became mandatory after rafe found out you were touching yourself overnight, not even always consciously, rutting against his thigh while you both slept, wet dreams of your daddy running through your head.

“mkay.” you nod, letting out a breath to relax your body as rafe uses one hand to separate your folds, holding your cunt open as your hole flutters in anticipation.

rafe circles his finger around your entrance before plunging it inside your hole. you always try your best to stay quiet during inspections as rafe likes, but you can't help but squeal out.

rafe just laughs at how pathetic your noises are, beginning to thrust his finger in and out slowly, feeling the way you constrict around him.

“nice and tight, so good baby.” rafe smiles down at you. “you've been such a good girl lately, i can't even remember the last time i had to punish you!”

“two weeks ago.” you pout, remembering it well. “ten spankings because i flashed you while you were in a meeting.”

“that's right.” rafe shakes his head. “you got some tit slaps too, didn't you baby?” rafe looks up your body. there's not much tits there to slap, and rafe always prefers to bend you over his knee and punish your ass instead.

“mhm, but i liked it so you stopped.” you giggle, remembering how you moaned when rafes palm hit your nipples.

“my dirty girl.” rafe shakes his head, moving his thumb to your clit, keeping your cunt pulled apart with his other hand so he can see all of you. sure, it's part of his daily morning inspections to check your cunt, but he usually just pushes a finger in and claims it's good.

“daddy?” you whimper out, a rush of wetness flooding your pussy.

“what is it baby? don't you want me to touch your little clit since im gonna be gone for work for hours.”

“yeah.” you whine, nodding your head as his finger thrusting inside of you moves faster, resisting the urge to add a second, loving how it's just his cock that stretches you open. 

“good girl. you deserve a kiss.” rafe says, and you pucker your lips, waiting for him to bend over your body, but rafe drops down lower, pressing a kiss directly over your clit.

“daddy!” you squeal, back arching off the bed. despite always touching your pussy, rafe rarely gives you head, preferring to get right to fucking you.

rafe moves his thumb to help keep you spread open, stretching the skin around your cunt as his tongue flicks out, rubbing over your clit, now tasting your wetness as well as hearing it with every push of his finger inside of you, a sick squelching sound filling the room.

“can i-can i touch your hair daddy?” you manage to ask, fingers twitching.

“no.” rafe smirks, his voice vibrating your clit as he barely pulls away to speak.

“o-okay.” you grip the bed sheets instead, wishing you could push rafes head further into your pussy, but you know better than to disobey an order.

“can feel you clenching ‘round my finger.” rafe laughs against your cunt.

“feels so good.” you mumble, used to waking up in the morning to rafe inspecting your pussy, but it's never this much as you moan, thighs twitching with the urge to close.

“too bad you're not gonna cum.” rafe sighs, pulling his mouth and finger suddenly out, sitting up.

“no!” you scream out. “no, daddy, please, ive been so good, let me cum, please!”

rafe sighs, leaning over your body to press a kiss to your lips. “sorry, princess, gotta go to work.”

rafe glances at the clock. truth is, he has plenty of time to make you cum, knowing you're only seconds away, but he likes the idea of keeping you wet and horny for him, ready to thrust his cock into the moment he gets back from work.

“and remember princess.” he taps your nose, making your eyes flutter before focusing on rafe. “if you touch yourself while im gone, there will be punishments.”

taglist: @drewstarkeyslut @forstarkey @f4ll-for-you @sil @drudyslut @jjmaybankswifes-blog @rafescokenostril @jjsmarijuana @seeingstarks @angelofcigs @cece45450 @babygorewhore @vanessa-rafesgirl @michelleisheres-blog @outerbankspov @drewstarkeyswifehoe @cutielando @kamninaries @buckyswhxre @rafeinterlude @bellbottombaby @deeaardiary @rubixgsworld @wearemadeofstardust0 @leighbronk @starkeysheart @pradabambie @tobesolovelysstuff @alexiskirkland @rafestar @brioffthegrid @juniebugg @magicalyoura @die4niyahhh @mysticallystilinski @https-luvvia @aerangi @folklorsweet

[bsotted]

"The subtext that undergirds this new anti-racist discourse—that Black-white relationships are inherently fraught and must be navigated with the help of professionals and technical experts—testifies to the impoverishment of our interracial imagination, not to its enrichment. More gravely, anti-color-blind etiquette treats Black Americans as exotic others, permanent strangers whose racial difference is so chasmic that it must be continually managed, whose mode of humanness is so foreign that it requires white people to adopt a special set of manners and 'race conscious' ritualistic practices to even have a simple conversation."*

*(emphasis mine)

By: Tyler Austin Harper

Published: Aug 14, 2023

The hotel was soulless, like all conference hotels. I had arrived a few hours before check-in, hoping to drop off my bags before I met a friend for lunch. The employees were clearly frazzled, overwhelmed by the sudden influx of several hundred impatient academics. When I asked where I could put my luggage, the guy at the front desk simply pointed to a nearby hallway. “Wait over there with her; he’s coming back.”

Who “he” was remained unclear, but I saw the woman he was referring to. She was white and about my age. She had a conference badge and a large suitcase that she was rolling back and forth in obvious exasperation. “Been waiting long?” I asked, taking up a position on the other side of the narrow hallway. “Very,” she replied. For a while, we stood in silence, minding our phones. Eventually, we began chatting.

The conversation was wide-ranging: the papers we were presenting, the bad A/V at the hotel, our favorite things to do in the city. At some point, we began talking about our jobs. She told me that—like so many academics—she was juggling a temporary teaching gig while also looking for a tenure-track position.

“It’s hard,” she said, “too many classes, too many students, too many papers to grade. No time for your own work. Barely any time to apply to real jobs.”

When I nodded sympathetically, she asked about my job and whether it was tenure-track. I admitted, a little sheepishly, that it was.

“I’d love to teach at a small college like that,” she said. “I feel like none of my students wants to learn. It’s exhausting.”

Then, out of nowhere, she said something that caught me completely off guard: “But I shouldn’t be complaining to you about this. I know how hard BIPOC faculty have it. You’re the last person I should be whining to.”

I was taken aback, but I shouldn’t have been. It was the kind of awkward comment I’ve grown used to over the past few years, as “anti-racism” has become the reigning ideology of progressive political culture. Until recently, calling attention to a stranger’s race in such a way would have been considered a social faux pas. That she made the remark without thinking twice—a remark, it should be noted, that assumes being a Black tenure-track professor is worse than being a marginally employed white one—shows how profoundly interracial social etiquette has changed since 2020’s “summer of racial reckoning.” That’s when anti-racism—focused on combating “color-blindness” in both policy and personal conduct—grabbed ahold of the liberal mainstream.

Though this “reckoning” brought increased public attention to the deep embeddedness of racism in supposedly color-blind American institutions, it also made instant celebrities of a number of race experts and “diversity, equity, and inclusion” (DEI) consultants who believe that being anti-racist means undergoing a “journey” of radical personal transformation. In their righteous crusade against the bad color-blindness of policies such as race-neutral college admissions, these contemporary anti-racists have also jettisoned the kind of good color-blindness that holds that we are more than our race, and that we should conduct our social life according to that idealized principle. Rather than balance a critique of color-blind law and policy with a continuing embrace of interpersonal color-blindness as a social etiquette, contemporary anti-racists throw the baby out with the bathwater. In place of the old color-blind ideal, they have foisted upon well-meaning white liberals a successor social etiquette predicated on the necessity of foregrounding racial difference rather than minimizing it.

As a Black guy who grew up in a politically purple area—where being a good person meant adhering to the kind of civil-rights-era color-blindness that is now passé—I find this emergent anti-racist culture jarring. Many of my liberal friends and acquaintances now seem to believe that being a good person means constantly reminding Black people that you are aware of their Blackness. Difference, no longer to be politely ignored, is insisted upon at all times under the guise of acknowledging “positionality.” Though I am rarely made to feel excessively aware of my race when hanging out with more conservative friends or visiting my hometown, in the more liberal social circles in which I typically travel, my race is constantly invoked—“acknowledged” and “centered”—by well-intentioned anti-racist “allies.”

This “acknowledgement” tends to take one of two forms. The first is the song and dance in which white people not-so-subtly let you know that they know that race and racism exist. This includes finding ways to interject discussion of some (bad) news item about race or racism into casual conversation, apologizing for having problems while white (“You’re the last person I should be whining to”), or inversely, offering “support” by attributing any normal human problem you have to racism.

The second way good white liberals often “center” racial difference in everyday interactions with minorities is by trying, always clumsily, to ensure that their “marginalized” friends and familiars are “culturally” comfortable. My favorite personal experiences of this include an acquaintance who invariably steers dinner or lunch meetups to Black-owned restaurants, and the time that a friend of a friend invited me over to go swimming in their pool before apologizing for assuming that I know how to swim (“I know that’s a culturally specific thing”). It is a peculiar quirk of the 2020s’ racial discourse that this kind of “acknowledgement” and “centering” is viewed as progress.

My point is not that conservatives have better racial politics—they do not—but rather that something about current progressive racial discourse has become warped and distorted. The anti-racist culture that is ascendant seems to me to have little to do with combatting structural racism or cultivating better relationships between white and Black Americans. And its rejection of color-blindness as a social ethos is not a new frontier of radical political action.

No, at the core of today’s anti-racism is little more than a vibe shift—a soft matrix of conciliatory gestures and hip phraseology that give adherents the feeling that there has been a cultural change, when in fact we have merely put carpet over the rotting floorboards. Although this push to center rather than sidestep racial difference in our interpersonal relationships comes from a good place, it tends to rest on a troubling, even racist subtext: that white and Black Americans are so radically different that interracial relationships require careful management, constant eggshell-walking, and even expert guidance from professional anti-racists. Rather than producing racial harmony, this new ethos frequently has the opposite effect, making white-Black interactions stressful, unpleasant, or, perhaps most often, simply weird.

Since the murder of George Floyd in May 2020, progressive anti-racism has centered on two concepts that helped Americans make sense of his senseless death: “structural racism” and “implicit bias.” The first of these is a sociopolitical concept that highlights how certain institutions—maternity wards, police barracks, lending companies, housing authorities, etc.—produce and replicate racial inequalities, such as the disproportionate killing of Black men by the cops. The second is a psychologicalconcept that describes the way that all individuals—from bleeding-heart liberals to murderers such as Derek Chauvin—harbor varying degrees of subconscious racial prejudice.

Though “structural racism” and “implicit bias” target different scales of the social order—institutions on the one hand, individuals on the other—underlying both of these ideas is a critique of so-called color-blind ideology, or what the sociologist Eduardo Bonilla-Silva calls “color-blind racism”: the idea that policies, interactions, and rhetoric can be explicitly race-neutral but implicitly racist. As concepts, both “structural racism” and “implicit bias” rest on the presupposition that racism is an enduring feature of institutional and social life, and that so-called race neutrality is a covertly racist myth that perpetuates inequality. Some anti-racist scholars such as Uma Mazyck Jayakumar and Ibram X. Kendi have put this even more bluntly: “‘Race neutral’ is the new “separate but equal.’” Yet, although anti-racist academics and activists are right to argue that race-neutral policies can’t solve racial inequities—that supposedly color-blind laws and policies are often anything but—over the past few years, this line of criticism has also been bizarrely extended to color-blindness as a personal ethos governing behavior at the individual level.

The most famous proponent of dismantling color-blindness in everyday interactions is Robin DiAngelo, who has made an entire (very condescending) career out of asserting that if white people are not uncomfortable, anti-racism is not happening. “White comfort maintains the racial status quo, so discomfort is necessary and important,” the corporate anti-racist guru advises. Over the past three years, this kind of anti-color-blind, pro-discomfort rhetoric has become the norm in anti-racist discourse. On the final day of the 28-day challenge in Layla Saad’s viral Me and White Supremacy, budding anti-racists are tasked with taking “out-of-your-comfort-zone actions,” such as apologizing to people of color in their life and having “uncomfortable conversations.” Frederick Joseph’s best-selling book The Black Friend takes a similar tack. The problem with color-blindness, Joseph counsels, is it allows “white people to continue to be comfortable.” The NFL analyst Emmanuel Acho wrote an entire book, simply called Uncomfortable Conversations With a Black Man, that admonishes readers to “stop celebrating color-blindness.” And, of course, there are endless how-to guides for having these “uncomfortable conversations” with your Black friends.

Once the dominant progressive ideology, professing “I don’t see color” is now viewed as a kind of dog whistle that papers over implicit bias. Instead, current anti-racist wisdom holds that we must acknowledge racial difference in our interactions with others, rather than assume that race needn’t be at the center of every interracial conversation or encounter. Coming to grips with the transition we have undergone over the past decade—color-blind etiquette’s swing from de rigueur to racist—requires a longer view of an American cultural transition. Civil-rights-era color-blindness was replaced with an individualistic, corporatized anti-racism, one focused on the purification of white psyches through racial discomfort, guilt, and “doing the work” as a road to self-improvement.

Writing in 1959, the social critic Philip Rieff argued that postwar America was transforming from a religious and economic culture—one oriented around common institutions such as the church and the market—to a psychological culture, one oriented around the self and its emotional fulfillment. By the 1960s, Rieff had given this shift a name: “the triumph of the therapeutic,” which he defined as an emergent worldview according to which the “self, improved, is the ultimate concern of modern culture.” Yet, even as he diagnosed our culture with self-obsession, Rieff also noticed something peculiar and even paradoxical. Therapeutic culture demanded that we reflect our self-actualization outward. Sharing our innermost selves with the world—good, bad, and ugly—became a new social mandate under the guise that authenticity and open self-expression are necessary for social cohesion.

Recent anti-racist mantras like “White silence is violence” reflect this same sentiment: exhibitionist displays of “racist” guilt are viewed as a necessary precursor to racial healing and community building. In this way, today’s attacks on interpersonal color-blindness—and progressives’ growing fixation on implicit bias, public confession, and race-conscious social etiquette—are only the most recent manifestations of the cultural shift Rieff described. Indeed, the seeds of the current backlash against color-blindness began decades ago, with the application of a New Age, therapeutic outlook to race relations: so-called racial-sensitivity training, the forefather of today’s equally spurious DEI programming.

In her 2001 book, Race Experts, the historian Elisabeth Lasch-Quinn painstakingly details how racial-sensitivity training emerged from the 1960s’ human-potential movement and its infamous “encounter groups.” As she explains, what began as a more or less countercultural phenomenon was later corporatized in the form of the anemic, pointless workshops controversially lampooned on The Office. Not surprisingly, this shift reflected the ebb and flow of corporate interests: Whereas early workplace training emphasized compliance with the newly minted Civil Rights Act of 1964, later incarnations would focus on improving employee relations and, later still, leveraging diversity to secure better business outcomes.

If there is something distinctive about the anti-color-blind racial etiquette that has emerged since George Floyd’s death, it is that these sites of encounter have shifted from official institutional spaces to more intimate ones where white people and minorities interact as friends, neighbors, colleagues, and acquaintances. Racial-awareness raising is a dynamic no longer quarantined to formalized, compulsory settings like the boardroom or freshman orientation. Instead, every interracial interaction is a potential scene of (one-way) racial edification and supplication, encounters in which good white liberals are expected to be transparent about their “positionality,” confront their “whiteness,” and—if the situation calls for it—confess their “implicit bias.”

In a vacuum, many of the prescriptions advocated by the anti-color-blind crowd are reasonable: We should all think more about our privileges and our place in the world. An uncomfortable conversation or an honest look in the mirror can be precursors to personal growth. We all carry around harmful, implicit biases and we do need to examine the subconscious assumptions and prejudices that underlie the actions we take and the things we say. My objection is not to these ideas themselves, which are sensible enough. No, my objection is that anti-racism offers little more than a Marie Kondo–ism for the white soul, promising to declutter racial baggage and clear a way to white fulfillment without doing anything meaningful to combat structural racism. As Lasch-Quinn correctly foresaw, “Casting interracial problems as issues of etiquette [puts] a premium on superficial symbols of good intentions and good motivations as well as on style and appearance rather than on the substance of change.”

Yet the problem with the therapeutics of contemporary anti-racism is not just that they are politically sterile. When anti-color-blindness and its ideology of insistent “race consciousness” are translated into the sphere of private life—to the domain of friendships, block parties, and backyard barbecues—they assault the very idea of a multiracial society, producing new forms of racism in the process. The fact that our media environment is inundated with an endless stream of books, articles, and social-media tutorials that promise to teach white people how to simply interact with the Black people in their life is not a sign of anti-racist progress, but of profound regression.

The subtext that undergirds this new anti-racist discourse—that Black-white relationships are inherently fraught and must be navigated with the help of professionals and technical experts—testifies to the impoverishment of our interracial imagination, not to its enrichment. More gravely, anti-color-blind etiquette treats Black Americans as exotic others, permanent strangers whose racial difference is so chasmic that it must be continually managed, whose mode of humanness is so foreign that it requires white people to adopt a special set of manners and “race conscious” ritualistic practices to even have a simple conversation.

If we are going to find a way out of the racial discord that has defined American life post-Trump and post-Charlottesville and post-Floyd, we have to begin with a more sophisticated understanding of color-blindness, one that rejects the bad color-blindness on offer from the Republican Party and its partisans, as well as the anti-color-blindness of the anti-racist consultants. Instead, we should embrace the good color-blindness of not too long ago. At the heart of that color-blindness was a radical claim, one imperfectly realized but perfect as an ideal: that despite the weight of a racist past that isn’t even past, we can imagine a world, or at least an interaction between two people, where racial difference doesn’t make a difference.

[ Via: https://archive.today/8zfvc ]

[lavendermin]

Stop, about the Mimi being protective of pregnant reader....I imagine it carried out even when the baby was born...like when rhe baby is in bed giggling and Mimi circles around them then growl when jy wants to see his baby..I also think mimi would take the baby w her and JY and reader was STRESSED when their baby is gone only to find their baby fell asleep in the warmth of Mimi🥹

You’re so right 100%

Jing Yuan is often busy so your company mostly consists of Mimi for most of the time and the few regular faces you’ll see at the estate. And now that you’re pregnant, Jing Yuan takes extra precaution appointing several of his most entrusted contacts to keep you safe when he isn’t by your side.

cw | pregnancy, suggestive

Who would have known that Mimi, the majestic white lion, who was at first mostly indifferent to you is now suddenly glued to your side like a needy lap cat. And you could only pinpoint this shift in behavior with the progression of your pregnancy.

You started noticing the small shifts two months into your pregnancy. Mimi would follow you from room to room when Jing Yuan wasn’t around. Its icy blue eyes would bore into those who came to speak with you, a little guarded. But Mimi was intelligent—Jing Yuan had expressed this himself to you on many occasions since knowing him. It would not harm anyone that wasn’t a true threat.

When someone asks to feel your belly, Mimi will make a low rumbling sound as a threat. Still, early on it’s no problem and it’s a little situation you easily dispel with comforting assurances and scratches behind Mimi’s ear.

It only becomes a bigger issue when you’re about five months into the pregnancy. Jing Yuan has just come back from a rather long expedition for official business—forty-six days to be exact. And his heart is light with the notion that he finally gets to hold his lovely wife, so wonderful and pregnant, for the first time in weeks.

“My love, it’s good to see you back safe and sound,” you greet, hobbling over from where you were resting on the couch with Mimi obediently at your feet. You look positively radiant like this, your tummy rounded with his child and your body soft and glowing.

Strange, Jing Yuan thinks as he removes some of his armor and regalia. It isn’t lost on him how Mimi follows closely by your side, almost supporting you as you walk to make sure your balance is ensured.

“Ive counted the days until I could see you again,” he grins, hand settling on your hip.

As he leans in to properly greet you with a kiss, Jing Yuan is nudged away. Rather forcibly, he might add. Mimi huffs as it wedges itself between yourself and the general.

“Snow Lion,” he commands with a look.

Mimi looks away with an annoyed flick of its tail, unmoving and nudging your hand to pet its mane. Usually Mimi is well-behaving and certainly well-trained. You can’t help but laugh and bend down to place a smooch to the top of the lion’s mane.

“Husband, I do believe little Mimi is a tad upset you left me alone for so long.”

“This hasn’t been a problem before, so it should not pose an issue now,” he ponders, a little bewildered.

After a few affections and sweet words from you all is well and Jing Yuan is able to properly dote on you like the starved man he is. Well…not without Mimi in the same vicinity as you both catch up over dinner and a stroll through the gardens.

That same night poses another issue. With your soft body under his rough hands, Jing Yuan is eager to please you tonight to make up for lost time while he was away. He’s barely gotten you worked up with desperate kisses and heated touches when he hears it.

Scritch. Scritch. Scritch.

At first, he pays it no mind. Eager to see you fall apart and taste you on his tongue again. It’s you who halts his advances as you break a kiss with a chuckle upon hearing the scratching again and a few low rumbles.

“Love, I think Mimi wants to come into the room,” you mutter against his lips. Jing Yuan sighs, burying his face in your shoulder.

Though he’s painfully hard and just wants to ravage his pregnant wife, he relents and throws on a robe to open the chamber door. The white lion wastes no time walking over and onto the bed, curling up next to you.

“My bed and wife taken over by my own lion,” he sighs, crossing his arms as he watches the lion purr contently against you.

It becomes a regular habit that you unfortunately spoil Mimi with. Your baby is quite fond of Mimi’s purring after all and likewise Mimi is fond of feeling the baby’s kicks.

Jing Yuan is still luckily spared the ability to love you how he wants when time allows but not without your coaxing Mimi that everything is ok and to stand guard at the door instead. At the very least, you have one more form of protection. He has to convince himself of this at least when he sees you fast asleep against Mimi when he returns late some nights. He’s nonetheless fascinated that such an intelligent creature has found instinct in protecting someone who is expecting. Perhaps luck truly favors the bold.

In the months that follow, your baby is born without issue and Mimi is still just as overprotective if not more of the newborn. Surely it understands that your daughter is a frail cub that cannot be left to the elements. And perhaps it’s due to Mimi’s constant purring against you during your pregnancy, but whenever your daughter begins to whine or cry Mimi will diligently lay near her and purr gently to soothe the baby.

And it works. Every time.

You’re almost a little shocked.

And of course, when Jing Yuan goes to check up on your daughter Mimi will growl defensively. It will never act on it, no. He isn’t a threat.

It’s more of a warning. Ensure this cub’s safety or else.

“Snow Lion, she needs to be fed. These worries are not good for your heart,” he scolds without much bite to his words as he rocks the infant gently, formula bottle in hand.

(I do like to think that since Jing Yuan canonically now refers to Mimi as Snow Lion upon discovering it’s a lion, you will prefer to use Mimi because you think it’s cuter. The lion definitely shows more biased response to you using Mimi because of your coos and affections.)

It’s all well and good until the day your daughter goes missing (for like a solid five minutes in the estate). She’s missing from her crib in the few minutes it took for you to grab a new change of clothes for her as you got ready to give her a bath. You immediately call for Jing Yuan since she’s nowhere to be found in the nursery or your room. She’s disappeared along with the blanket she was in.

And somehow Jing Yuan gets the immediate suspicion the lion is somehow involved when he notices Mimi’s absence from your side. He remains calm.

“What time is it, my dear wife.”

“Wh- it’s a quarter past noon. What–”

Jing Yuan takes your hand with a reassuring smile and leads you across the estate to one of the main sun rooms overlooking the garden. It’s where the afternoon sun filters just right through the large glass windows and thin curtains—Mimi’s favorite sunbathing spot.

And no doubt, the lion is there, curled up against the sun’s rays as they filter warmly into the room. Your daughter is bundled up and gently laid upon a little nest pile of blankets within the warmth of the afternoon sun. She sleeps soundly, small hand clutched tightly around a lock of Mimi’s mane.

You both sigh in relief. It certainly isn’t a conventional babysitter, but Mimi is nothing if not intelligent and loyal.

[serpentandlily]

Untouchable IX - Azriel x Reader

Untouchable - Azriel x Rhysand'sSister!Reader

Summary: For as long as you can remember, you have always had feelings for Azriel, your court’s spymaster. But after centuries of watching him pine after your own cousin, hoping he’d eventually move on, your wish came true. He moved on—with Elain, your brother’s mate’s sister. Unable to watch him fall in love with someone else again, you flee from Velaris, from him. But things are a lot more complicated than that—more complicated than you ever imagined.

Warnings: angst, physical torture, violence

a/n: guys, I’m so sorry this part took a long time to come out. I hope this chapter is worth the wait! Part 10 will be the final chapter/epilogue :)

➻❥ Part I ➻❥ Part II ➻❥ Part III ➻❥ Part IV ➻❥ Part V

➻❥ Part VI ➻❥ Part VII ➻❥ Part VIII

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

Part IX

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

Days might’ve gone by…days…months…years. Time was an elusive being to you. Had been since the moment the mating bond had snapped between you and Azriel. Since that one last second you got to have with him—your mate. 

Koschei kept you strung up in chains, your wrist shackled above your head, your feet barely touching the floor. Your entire body ached with pain. Blood crusted on the white slip he had you put in. 

When he had shadowed you back to his small cabin on the lake, you had assumed he would turn you into one of the swans, like he had with the other girls. But apparently, none of you had ever learned the full story. 

Vassa had certainly never mentioned this part. Not that you blamed her. You wouldn’t want to talk about it either. How he liked to beat the girls he captured, break them in, before transforming them into one of his pets—forever tied to this lake. 

You didn’t want to give up but it was getting harder and harder each day. But you had to. You couldn’t let that day in the clearing be the last time you got to see Azriel…to see your mate. 

A few tears leaked from the corner of your eyes at the thought of him, of how he must be feeling with you gone. Everything you both had wished for had come true only to last for a mere second in time before the universe tore you apart once more. It was cruel. It was… no word could come close to describing it. It couldn’t be the end of your story. You couldn’t let it be. 

The door to the room you were confined in opened and you whimpered at the sight of the sorcerer. 

“Oh, little pet,” he purred, “Are you not happy to see me? And here I thought we were finally making progress.” 

“Fuck you,” you groaned, swaying on your shackles as you tried to distance yourself from him. 

He gave you a serpentine smile. “The stubborn ones are so much more fun to break.”  

You glared at him as he stalked over to you, a cup of water in his hands. You had kicked and bucked the first few times but after all of the torture he put you through the past hours, you had no energy left to do anything but dangle there. 

“Now, are we going to do this the hard way or the easy way?” He held up the water to your mouth but you twisted your head away, slamming your lips shut. “Ah, the hard way it is.”

Excitement filled his eyes as he landed a punch straight in your gut, knocking the air right out of your lungs. You gasped and he grabbed your chin roughly, squeezing the sides of your mouth and making it impossible to snap your jaw shut. 

He poured the water into your mouth but you spit it back up, right on his face. You knew it was full of faebane because this was the third time he had come in here to give it to you.

He growled as he wiped away your spit before slapping your cheek hard enough that your head whipped to the side and blood swelled in your mouth. You heaved, letting it trickle down your jaw and onto the floor. 

He grabbed you by the chin and forced you to face him again, hooking his fingers over your bottom teeth and yanking your jaw open once again. This time when he poured the water into your mouth, he quickly slammed it shut and plugged your nose.

“Drink it,” he ordered. 

You glared at him defiantly but it did nothing to help you as you ran out of air and choked the water down. He let go of you and you greedily sucked in air. 

“Good girl,” he grinned. “See how much easier it is when you listen to me?” 

You said nothing. You couldn’t. Not as the faebane coursed through your body, extinguishing all the magic that had started to replenish as the last batch wore off. Not as your wounds and bruises stopped healing and pain slammed into your body. 

The faebane he liked to give you was partially diluted. Just enough to let it wear off quicker so you had time to heal in between his sessions but not enough to fully heal or get your magic back. He liked working with a clean canvas but didn’t let your magic linger enough to rid you of pain entirely.

Koschei circled around your hanging body and you heard him fiddling behind you. The sound of leather in his palm had you squirming.

“Now, where were we?”

The crack of the whip against your back rippled through your body and you couldn’t fight the scream that erupted from your lips. You squeezed your eyes shut and tried to push your consciousness into the deepest crevices of your mind, where you might find the tiniest bit of solace as one name constantly repeated in your thoughts.

Azriel.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

“I’m not waiting any longer,” Azriel growled at his High Lord. “I’m leaving. Now.”

Both Azriel and Rhysand looked worse for wear. Rhys’s face was littered with bruises and cuts and Azriel was sure he looked no better. But he didn’t care. All he cared about right now was that his mate was in the hands of that fucking sorcerer and he was going to rip that male apart limb by limb for ever thinking he could take her.

“We need to think this through, Az,” Feyre pleaded. “If you rush in, you’ll end up dead and be of no help to Y/n.”

Azriel’s hands tightened into fists. These past two days had been hell. Once Rhys had misted the Prince in the clearing, he had winnowed the three of them back to Velaris—to start planning their rescue mission.

He hadn’t even gotten two words out before Azriel pounced on him. He could barely remember those first few hours after she had been taken. All he knew was the anger he felt—the rage. The mating bond snapping into place. The bargain breaking. And her…his love being taken away from him, his heart and soul with her. 

And Rhys, the fucking asshole, had been at the center of his anger. For making him agree to that bargain with him in the first place. For making him stay away from her—his mate.

It had taken Cassian, Mor and Feyre to pull them apart that day. 

He had stopped starting fights with Rhys but his anger still pulsed under his skin, ready to strike at a moment's notice. 

"We've had plenty of time to think,” Azriel snapped at his High Lady, causing Rhys’s head to shoot up with a warning glare. 

“Watch your tone,” Rhys bit back at him.

“Fuck you, Rhys!” Azriel slammed his scarred hands down on the desk between them. “I’m going and I swear to the Gods if you try to stop me, I’ll rip your throat out!” 

“No, fuck you, Azriel!” Rhys yelled, standing up to his full height. “Stop acting as if you’re the only one affected by this! She was my sister long before she was your mate! Maybe if you hadn’t gone behind my back—” 

“Maybe if you hadn’t made us make that stupid bargain with you in the first place, we would’ve never had to! I could’ve had centuries with her. You stole all those years from us!” 

The second the bond snapped between him and his mate, Azriel swore he lived a whole lifetime. A whole lifetime they hadn’t been afforded. It had all flashed right before his eyes. His mate…His beautiful mate. She deserved so much better than this and as soon as he got her back in his arms, he would give her the whole world. He'd tear the sun from the sky if it would make her happy. 

“Guys, stop! This fighting between the two of you has only made things worse! Fight all you want once we get Y/n back, but you need to focus. Both of you. For her sake,” Feyre snapped.

Azriel ran a hand through his hair, letting out a noise of frustration. His shadows swarmed around him like a monsoon—screaming his mate’s name over and over again in agony. “You don’t understand, Feyre. Every single time I feel her…during those tiny moments she slips through to the bond…all I feel is her pain. He’s torturing her. How am I supposed to sit here while my mate is being tortured?” 

He turned away from them, unable to look at Rhys any longer as a few tears slipped down his cheeks. He had completely and utterly failed his mate. Had let her get into the arms of an enemy. This was all his fault…all of it. She would’ve never even ran away from Velaris if he had never tried to move on with Elain last year. He put those thoughts in her head and there was nothing he regretted more in his life. He had never wanted Elain. He had never even wanted Mor. He had tried, when he thought Rhys’s sister was off limits, to move on. But he had never, ever stopped loving her. He had never felt anything for anyone other than her. 

And she had been ripped away from him before they could even have a life together. 

“That’s it,” Rhys whispered from behind him. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of it sooner.”

“What?” Azriel snarled, whipping around. 

“You said you can feel her sometimes—through the bond, right?”

Azriel nodded his head, crossing his arms. 

Rhys stroked his jaw in thought. “He must be drugging her with faebane. But not consistently. There must be small moments when it wears off before he gives her another dose. That’s why you can feel her sometimes.” 

“Where are you going with this?” Feyre asked.

“We can use the mating bond to tell us when to act,” Rhys explained. “When Azriel can feel her, we know her magic is regenerating. We should stop looking at this as battle and more like a stealth mission. We bait Koschei into coming to the water’s edge the moment Azriel feels my sister down the bond—act like we are declaring war. Keep him distracted long enough for her to get back most of her power. Meanwhile, Azriel can slip into the cabin, release her from whatever binds he has her in and get her out.” 

“What about the wards around the cabin? No one can winnow in or out. Even Az’s shadows might set it off.”

“I’ll have to get inside without using any magic,” Azriel said. “I can do it. I can get to her. As long as you keep him distracted and buy me enough time.” 

“Helion has given Y/n some lessons on setting and breaking wards,” Rhys added. “Once she sees you, once she realizes she’s being saved, she can start working on breaking them so she can winnow the two of you out.” 

“And you trust that she’ll be able to do that?” Feyre asked. 

Rhys let out a long sigh. Azriel knew how much it would pain him to have to force his sister to save herself. Rhys had always been the one doing the heavy lifting for their family, always keeping his sister as protected as he could, especially after she almost died. But he couldn’t save her this time. 

He’d need to have faith in her.

“She can do it,” Azriel declared, full of confidence in his mate’s abilities. “She is not that little girl in the woods anymore, Rhys. You’ve trained her. I’ve trained her. She is more than capable of this.”

“I know she’s not,” Rhys whispered. “She hasn’t been. Not for a long time. And I’m sorry, Azriel, I truly am. You’re right. I should’ve never forced you to make that bargain.”

“Save your apology for when I get my mate back,” Azriel spat out. Maybe it was unfair, but he was not ready to accept any apologies from Rhys. He wasn’t sure he’d ever be. 

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

If their plan worked, Azriel would have his mate back in his arms, back in Velaris, safe and sound by tonight. It had to work. It had to work because there was no way he could go through another sleepless night in an empty bed. He needed her like he needed the air in his lungs; he simply could not live without her. He would either be back in Velaris tonight with his mate or six feet under because he wasn’t leaving this damn lake without her. 

The Valkyries are ready, Az. 

Rhysand’s voice in his head caused his fists to clench. He was not any closer to forgiving him than he was yesterday but that was a problem for a different day. Right now they’d have to work together to get his mate back and nothing would stand in his way, certainly not his own pride. 

The plan was simple in theory. They had decided to use Koschei’s weakness against him—females. Some of the Valkyries were willing to help and he trusted their training. If things went correctly, they wouldn’t even need to fight. 

Azriel was crouched, hiding and waiting for the mating bond to begin singing again. He hated that he couldn’t just rush in and take her. Hated that she was likely being tortured as they sat out here waiting for the right moment to begin their plan. Azriel was used to having to wait around like this. It was a part of his job, after all. But right now, it was excruciating. 

But finally… finally he felt it. That tiny spark. That gold thread reforming. 

It’s time, Rhys. 

Okay, wait for the signal. 

They had to lure Koschei out. He couldn’t see though because he was waiting behind the cabin on the other side of the lake, ready to fly to one of the landings so he could sneak his way inside. 

Alright, we’ve got his attention. Good luck, Azriel. Bring my sister home but make sure you come home too.

He couldn’t promise his brother that. He wasn’t leaving here without her, no matter what happened.

I will. 

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

A noise caused you to look up despite the pain the movement caused. Your eyes widened in surprise as a shadowed figure stood in the doorway, blue light emitting from their form. Your vision was going in and out of focus, blurring everything. You blinked one…twice…

The person finally stepped into the light. 

“Az?” You wheezed out.

Azriel swore and rushed forward until he was right in front of you, holding your face in his hands. He was speaking but you couldn’t hear anything through the ringing in your ears. You must be hallucinating. There was no way Azriel was really here in front of you. It was not possible…

“—can you hear me, baby? Fuck, we’ve got to get you out of these chains.”

“Az,” you rasped again, “Is…is this real? Are you real?”

His beautiful hazel eyes met yours again, the emotion swimming in them threatening to tear your heart right out of your chest. Pain, rage, desperation, guilt. Your eyes flooded with tears of relief.

“I’m real. I’m here with you, baby,” he said, rubbing your cheeks with his thumbs. “I’m going to get you out of these chains, okay? And then I’m going to get you out of here.” 

“H-how?” you stuttered out because you had no idea how he was standing here in this cabin when it seemed like an impossible feat. 

“Later. I'll explain later. Do you think you can start trying to take down the wards around this place?”

"I'll try," you whispered but your magic had barely started regenerating. The wounds on your back weren't even beginning to heal yet.

The sound of a door slamming open rang through the house. You let out a whimper and Azriel’s eyes widened in fear as he looked at you but not fear for himself…fear for you. 

“Fuck, we’ve got to go. Now,” he said, frantically. 

The fear in his eyes faded to cold, hard rage and he grabbed the chains above your head and yanked them apart with his bare hands. You collapsed to the ground, crying out in pain, your legs unable to hold you. Azriel caught you on the way down, kneeling with you.

“I’ve got you, babygirl,” he whispered. “I’ve got you.” 

You could still feel the wounds on your back bleeding, some ripping open as you curled in towards Azriel. Your head was still pounding, your body still in agony. Azriel wrapped his arms around you and helped you stand up, letting you lean your entire weight against him. Stomping footsteps were coming down the hallway, almost to the room you were being kept in.

“We need to get out of here,” he was frantically whispering, his hands holding you by the upper arms, your wrists still in cuffs with a bit of the chain attached. 

You stood on shaky legs, raising your head to see Koschei standing in the doorway, his face twisted into a grin that sent chills down your spine.

“Az!”

Azriel twisted around, his wings flaring out protectively to block you just as Koschei sent a blast of dark magic careening your way. It came at the two of you so fast, Azriel was unable to throw up a shield.

You were able to yank Azriel behind a stack of crates just as the wave of darkness clipped his wing. He let out a cry of pain, his entire body tensing as the darkness ripped through tendon and bone. You nearly cried out with him as the wing that was hit fell limp.

“Did you think you could fool me with your little plan, shadowsinger?” Koschei purred out as the two of you hid behind the crates. “Did you think I’d let you steal my pet? You’re a fool!”

Despite the agony he was in, Azriel twisted the two of you around, covering your whole body with his. Another blast of darkness caused the crates in front of you to explode to pieces, sending splinters of wood flying that pierced through any exposed skin and you let out a tiny scream of fear. 

Azriel pulled you up and helped you run further back in the room, unable to leave with Koschei blocking the door. Another blast of magic hit the both of you just as you ducked behind a rack of the weapons and tools Koschei had been using to torture you with. 

You cried out in pain, your jaw smacking against the floor with a sickening crunch. Blood filled your mouth as you pushed yourself up, your whole body aching, turning to make sure Azriel was okay. 

But Azriel had taken the brunt of the hit, shielding your body as much as he could. A deep laceration cut across his torso, blood seeping over his leathers. His body was tense, his wing still limp on the floor. You knew he was holding back his cries of pain for your sake. 

The sorcerer strided into the room, leisurely, as if this was at most a minor inconvenience to him. Darkness seeped from his figure, tendrils running along the floor towards the two of you. 

“I’m going to distract him,” Azriel whispered to you. “You need to make a run for it. The Valkyries will be waiting for you, okay? They’ll help get you home.”

“No,” you cried out, clinging to the front of his leathers. “I’m not leaving you behind, Azriel!”

Azriel stroked your hair, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “You’re going to have to, princess. I need you to get out of here, do you hear me? Get out of here and go as far away as you possibly can. The others will find you, I promise.”

Tears filled your eyes as he held your face with such care and tenderness. His own eyes were filled with that same cold rage and a heavy resolve. You shook your head rapidly.

“I’m not leaving you, Azriel,” you repeated. 

“Why don’t you come on out, shadowsinger?” Koschei called out, his voice filled with amusement. “You can fight me for the girl. I’ll even let you make the first move.” 

Azriel was the most powerful warrior you knew but even he would be no match for a Death God. Facing Koschei would mean certain death and by the way Azriel was staring at you, he knew that. His eyes traced over your entire face as if he were committing it to his memory. 

“I’m so sorry, princess,” he whispered to you, his thumbs stroking away your tears. “I’m sorry for ever making that bargain that kept me away from you but I want you to know that even after all those years, it has always—will always—be you that I love. You were my first and only love and I’m so sorry that I can’t give you the life you deserve. I will find you in the next one, I promise, even if I have to crawl my way out of hell to get back to you. Even if I have to tear apart the universe, I will find you. You are my mate and even death can’t take that away from us. I love you. I will always love you.”

“Azriel,” you choked out, your fingers tightening on his leathers, but he simply placed his hands over yours and lightly tore them from him. “Az, you can’t—”

Azriel cut you off, leaning down to press a kiss to your lips. A kiss full of love and despair. You tasted your salty tears through it, tears that kept pouring at the realization that this was the very first kiss the two of you shared that didn’t cause him any pain.

And it would be your last. 

Azriel stood up as much as he could, his right wing still dragging along the floor. Bruises were appearing on his jaw, blood still poured from the wound on his chest. 

“Azriel, no!” 

You reached out for him, to yank him back, but he stepped away, exposing himself to Koschei.

“Look at you,” Koschei said with a grin, “So ready to die for your love. I’m going to enjoy killing you in front of your mate.”

“Fuck you,” Azriel snarled as he spat out some blood. “If I’m dying here then I’m dragging you to hell with me.” 

Shadows exploded from Azriel in a swirl of never ending darkness that launched itself towards Koschei. But Koschei’s own darkness seemed to absorb it and grow in size before he sent it careening back to Azriel. It burned through the blue shield Azriel had thrown up and knocked straight into him, sending him flying through the room until he collided with the back wall which nearly buckled under the force. 

You screamed out for him, trying to stand but falling once again. You were dehydrated, starved, and beaten within an inch of your life but you pushed your body as much as you could, using the edge of the table to help you stand as Koschei stalked towards your mate.

Azriel had wanted you to disable the wards....If you could do that, if you could tear them down, you could try winnowing to Azriel so the both of you could winnow away before Koschei killed either of you. You were wheezing as you forced yourself to stand and concentrate. You had to do this. You had to get Azriel out of here.

Koschei descended on him once again and they began a battle of shadows and darkness. You could hardly keep track of either of them as they began to disappear and reappear in other places with their shadows, each taking shots at each other. You winced at every noise of their magic colliding, winced at every brutal hit Azriel took from the Death God. 

You could feel more of your magic renewing itself, the open wounds on your back finally starting to heal. As more and more pain wore off, you focused your energy into tearing down the wards, trying to drown out the sound of the fighting in the room for now. 

It was like an intricate spider web of silver light. One you'd have to disentangle carefully to not trigger. You had no idea what sorts of traps lay in the magic around this place. So strand by strand, piece by piece, you worked on taking it apart. It just had to be enough, enough to give you a small window of opportunity. 

You heard Azriel cry out and your focus slipped for a second. You frantically looked over your shoulder and screamed his name as Koschei slammed him into the ground a few yards away. His condition had worsened, his face had gone pale from all the bloodloss, less shadows seemed to be swirling around him as his magic weakened from all the use. You had to hurry. 

“Go,” he rasped out, glancing your way. “Y/n, go—run!”

But you wouldn’t…couldn’t. You couldn’t leave him to face this alone. 

You tried to remember everything from your lessons with Helion on spellcleaving. Tried to remember how to spot what strand to pull and when, as if the ward was a symphony of sorts and you were playing its violin. One after the other. Twisting and pulling each and every way until finally… finally, you were able to carve out a small hole. But it needed to be bigger. Big enough to winnow through.

Suddenly, something sharp struck within your chest and you fell to your knees in pain, losing your concentration. You clutched at your chest, your heart feeling like it was tearing itself into two. A feeling of dread and terror washed over you when you realized the mating bond that was beginning to fray as life was being sucked from Azriel. Another stab of agony made you crumble all the way to the ground, crying out.

You looked up to see Azriel on his knees in the center of the room. His breathing was heavy and slow, he was covered in his own blood, his leather armor torn to pieces and bruises decorated his beautiful face. His wings were slumped on the ground, the right one still nearly shredded. And above him stood the Death God, his darkness wrapped around your mate's throat, ready to squeeze the remaining life out of him. 

Time seemed to pause in that minute—like the whole world was about to collapse in on itself. The breath was sucked right from your lungs. The very fiber of your being was crying at the sight of your mate on death's door, ripping itself apart as you felt his pain like it was your own. Your hand inched on the ground towards Azriel as you weakly called out his name. 

His head turned slightly, his eyes widening as he realized you hadn’t ran away like he had hoped you did. That you were still here with him. He shook his head at you, unable to speak, trying to will you to get up and make a run for it before it was too late. But you would die here with him, because no part of you wanted to live without him. 

They always say your life flashes before your eyes when you're on the brink of death. 

But that is not what happened. 

Instead, a life you never lived did. 

A private mating ceremony with Azriel, declaring your love for each other as a priestess tied a ribbon around both your hands, linking you forever. Azriel painstakingly building a small cottage for you on the edge of Velaris with his own hands just because the ones you toured weren’t like the one you had dreamt of. A life where you and Azriel were together, mated and married, living in that cottage on the outskirts of Velaris. You and Azriel on a balcony watching starfall as he gently placed a hand on your round belly. Azriel with his arms wrapped around you, pressing kisses to your neck as you watched two children who resembled the two of you running through the tall grass in the meadow behind your home. 

A whole life that they two of you could've had. A life that was stolen from you because of a bargain made three hundred years ago. A life you would never get to live because this would be your ending. Two lovers torn apart for centuries, finally able to be together as they wished only to met their demise before their life together even began. 

No.

No.

You pushed yourself up on shaky arms, crawling on your hands and knees towards your mate.

No.

This would not be your ending. You wouldn't allow it. No, too much had been stolen from the two of you and this...this was not how your story together would end. 

You channeled all your magic, pulling from the depths of your soul, pulling from parts of yourself you didn't even know existed, all the way down to the core of your being. You were the Princess of Night—a child of night and shadow, for Gods’ sake. A child born with the darkside of the moon in her. A child blessed with magic. You pulled and pulled at your darkness until it was pouring out of you, seeping from your skin and bones. 

It lurched forward and slammed into the Death God, pushing him away from Azriel—away from your mate. 

Death would not have him today because he was yours. 

Azriel fell forward onto his hands, gasping for air. You stood up, limping over to Azriel and standing in front of him, glaring at Koschei. You didn’t have any armor on, still in the tattered night gown with your wrists shackled together, didn’t even have a weapon, but you had your magic back and it would have to be enough. 

Koschei chuckled, standing up and dusting himself off. Although he had brought Azriel to his knees, the Death God hadn’t escaped without injuries of his own, a testiment to Azriel’s power. 

“You know,” Koschei said, striding towards you. “I thought we’d have more time together—you and I. But it seems like you’re more trouble than you’re worth, child. So now, I shall end you and your mate. Hm, two mates dying together, how romantic.”

“Fuck you,” you snarled, your darkness curling around your form. Azriel was weakly calling out your name from behind you, his hand reaching to grab you so he could push you away but you didn’t let him. 

“You know, this is the most excitement I’ve had in a long time. I’m feeling rather charitable so I’ll offer you this—become one of my swans and I’ll let your mate go.”

Azriel let out a growl from behind you that nearly shook the room but you stepped forward, as if considering it. Koschei’s body relaxed, thinking the fight was over, like you hoped he would. 

But the darkness that was curling around you shot forward like a chain and wrapped itself around his neck before he could deflect it. You yanked on it, causing him to choke as he fell to his knees—in the same exact position he had Azriel in before. 

His hands clawed at the darkness but you didn’t let up, not for a second. Not as that life you dreamed about replayed in your mind over and over again. Not as you thought of Azriel, your mate. No, you wouldn’t let up. You sent all your hatred, all of your anger into that darkness. 

Your darkness spread around the Death God and started shoving its way into him from all orifices, his ears, his mouth. Everywhere until he was being consumed by it. 

“You should’ve never laid a hand on my mate,” you growled at the Death God who was gasping for air and then you yanked your rope of darkness tighter and tighter—ignoring the agony you felt as your magic burned through you until your well was drained entirely. 

Koschei’s eyes rolled to the back of his head and he slumped over finally—crashing to the floor. He…he wasn’t dead. You could still hear his faint heartbeat but he was out cold. You let out a breath of relief.

“P-princess…” 

You whirled around as Azriel rasped your name. His hazel eyes met yours for a second, blinking lazily before they closed and he fell to the ground. You let out a cry of alarm and rushed for him, falling to the ground next to him. You wrapped your arms around his limp body, pulling him into your lap. His breathing was labored, heavy. His heartbeat barely audible.

“Azriel,” you cried, brushing some hair from his face. “Come on, baby. Don’t—you can’t…you can’t do this to me. Wake up, please!”

His eyes blinked open for a second and some of your tears fell on his cheeks. You pressed a hand to the deepest wound on his torso, trying to stop some of the bleeding. 

“H-hey, princess,” Azriel choked out, a soft smile on his lips, still in a haze. 

“Hey, shadowsinger,” you whispered, smiling at him weakly. 

“You’re…,” he coughed, a bit of blood dribbling from his lips. He was in bad shape. You needed to get him to a healer. Now. “You’re touching me.” 

“I am,” you choked on your own sobs, running your hand down his face. You tried to reach out to your brother through your mind. You didn’t have enough magic left to winnow the both of you out of here. 

Rhys…Rhys, please, I need you! 

“Y-you’re touching me,” Azriel repeated, his eyes closing. “And i-it feels like…heaven.”

You couldn’t help the bittersweet laugh that escaped as you wiped at the tears still pouring down your cheeks. 

Dove, I’m here! Are you okay? Where is Azriel?

“Az, I need you to stay awake, okay? Can you open your eyes for me? Please, baby, just for a little longer.”

He’s here with me but he’s in bad shape, Rhys. I don’t have any magic left. I can’t get us out of here. Please…I don’t know what to do.

“Mm…‘mm so tired,” Azriel slurred out. 

“I know, baby, but you’ve got to stay awake. Just for a bit and then you can rest as long as you want to, okay?” 

I’m coming, dove. Hold on. 

You let out a sob as Azriel’s eyes shut again and his breathing slowed. “No, you can’t do this! You can’t leave me, Az. Not when I finally have you. Come on, baby, wake up!” 

Darkness swirled around the cabin and for a second, you thought Koschei had woken up but you sobbed even harder as your brother finally emerged from it. Rhys glanced at the passed out Death God before he saw you holding Azriel on the floor. 

“Rhys, please! Please, he needs a healer,” you cried.

Your brother’s eyes widened at the sight of his shadowsinger. He rushed forward, falling to his knees beside you.

“Let me take him,” your brother whispered. You didn’t want to let your mate go but you knew you couldn’t lift him. “It’s okay, dove. Let me help him.”

You passed Azriel over to him, watching your brother take your mate into his arms and lift him off the floor. You stood on shaky legs, your own vision beginning to blacken as the exhaustion of all the magic use finally caught up to you. The last thing you remembered was Rhys winnowing the two of you to some makeshift camp away from the lake and crying out for Azriel before darkness consumed you. 

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

One week later

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

The sound of the door opening stirred you from your slumber. You sat up with a groan, your back aching because of the way you had fallen asleep—hunched over in a chair, next to Azriel’s bed where he still lied unconscious, as he had been since the day he’d help you escape from Koschei’s grasp. 

You blinked the sleep from your eyes, taking notice of your brother in the doorway. He hesitantly stepped inside the room, closing the door shut behind him softly. You hadn’t spoken to him since you had woken up a week ago. Not when he was part of the reason for all of this, for ever making Azriel stay away from you. 

And he knew he deserved your resentment and had kept away for the most part. But you noticed how sometimes after falling asleep you’d wake up with a blanket thrown around your shoulders that smelled like him or there’d be food waiting for you on the bedside table that you knew came from him. 

You grabbed Azriel’s hand, squeezing it lightly. You felt comforted by his warmth. Madja wasn’t able to tell how long it would take for Azriel to heal. He had taken a lot of damage, all of it mostly internal because of Koschei’s magic, and that was taking far longer to heal. 

You were so scared he’d never wake up. So scared that you never left his bedside. You'd sit here for the rest of your life if you had to. 

Rhysand was staring down at Azriel’s limp body, his eyes swimming with tears. You could see the guilt he felt written all over him. He’d almost lost someone he’d considered his brother because of that stupid bargain he’d made him make. 

He came around the side of the bed until he was standing beside you, resting a hand on your shoulder. Part of you wanted to cringe away from his touch but another part also just really needed him as a brother right now. 

“I am so sorry, dove,” he whispered. “Making Azriel make that bargain with me is something I’ll regret for the rest of my life. I’m so sorry I kept you away from your mate. I’m so sorry for ever thinking it was my right to control who you loved. I understand if you never want to talk to me again—if you hate me now.”  

A moment of silence passed before you stood and looked at him. “Rhys, you fucked up. You really did. I know you were traumatized after mother died—after I almost did, too. What you did has caused me and Azriel so much pain and maybe I’ll be mad at you for it for the rest of our lives but I Rhys, you’re my brother. I could never hate you.”

A small sob escaped from his lips before Rhys pulled you into a warm embrace. You crumbled into your brother’s arms, seeking a type of comfort only he could provide. Your own tears slipped down your cheeks. 

“I’m so sorry, dove. I’ll keep apologizing until I can’t speak. When Azriel wakes up, whatever you guys want, it’s yours—all of it.” 

“I’m so scared, Rhysie,” you cried, burying your face in his chest. “I’m so scared he’s not going to wake up. I’m so scared I’ll never get to talk to him again…” 

“Azriel is the strongest person I know,” Rhys whispered into your hair. “He’s going to wake up, dove. As long as you’re here, he will fight his way through whatever is keeping him from you. He’s going to wake up.”

“I never even got to tell him how much he means to me. I never told him how much I love him or how ready I am to accept the mating bond. I never…I never—”

You fell into a fit of sobs again, unable to even speak. Rhys held you tightly, stroking your back. 

“He knows, dove. He knows how much you love him. And you’ll get the chance to tell him, okay? You will.” 

But all you could do was pray to the Gods that you would get that chance. 

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

A few more agonizing days passed by. Days that seemed longer than the span of your entire life. Days spent next to Azriel’s bedside, praying each and every morning that this would be the day he finally woke. You didn’t lose hope, you couldn’t because just the thought of him never waking up would send you into a spiral so deep, there’d be no pulling you out of it. 

You let out a sigh and dropped your head into your hands. 

Is this how he felt while you’d been chained in Koschei’s cabin?

You still felt so guilty…guilty that you hadn’t trusted Azriel’s reassurances that there was nothing between him and Elain, guilty that you had fallen for the Prince’s cruel trap. If you had just trusted your mate, he wouldn’t be lying here after nearly dying for you. 

“P-prin…p-princess?” 

Your heart leaped to your throat and you looked up so rapidly, you almost cracked your neck. Azriel blinked at you in a daze. His eyes held confusion as he glanced around, realizing he was in his room back at the House of Wind. His beautiful hazel eyes met yours again, glowing gold in the soft faelight. 

“Azriel,” you breathed out, reaching forward to grab his hand. “You’re…you’re awake.” 

“I-I think I am,” he said, his words still slurring a bit. “But you’re touching me and I’m not in pain and normally this usually only happens in my dreams.”

You smiled through the tears sliding down your face, tenderly cupping his cheek. 

“You’re awake,” you replied. “You’re awake and I’m here, touching you and it doesn’t hurt because the bargain has been broken. You are my mate, Azriel.”

A dopey smile took over Azriel’s face. “I’m your mate.”

You nodded with a small laugh. “You’re my mate, Azriel. And I am yours.”

“You are mine,” he repeated softly, then lurched forward like all of his memories finally came back. You jumped into action, helping him sit up.

“Careful,” you said. “You’re still healing. You’ve been asleep for a little over a week now.”

“What! W-what happened?”

You brushed some of his hair from his forehand, running your fingers through it. Now that you could touch each other without causing him pain, you weren’t ever going to stop. He leaned into your touch, looking up at you with such reverence and love, it caused your cheeks to turn pink. 

“I kind of…lost it when Koschei was about to kill you,” you finally answered, your voice a mere whisper. “My magic erupted and I choked him out. I didn’t kill him but it gave us enough time to get out of there. I broke the wards like you told me to and my brother came for us.” 

“Are you telling me that my mate choked out a Death God?” He grinned at you and you lightly smacked his shoulder. 

“It’s not funny, Az. You nearly died! Do you know how awful this past week has been? I…I thought I might never talk to you again. I thought you might never wake up!” 

Azriel lifted your hand and pressed a kiss to your palm. “I know, babygirl. How do you think I felt all those days you were trapped with Koschei? I wanted to get you the minute he shadowed you away but Rhysand wouldn’t let me go.” 

Well, Azriel using your brother’s full name told you exactly how he was feeling towards his High Lord at the moment. 

“I’m glad he didn’t,” you said, sternly. “You would’ve died and I would’ve given up. The only thing that kept me going in there was the thought of you, Azriel. The thought that maybe, maybe I could find my way back to you.” 

Azriel wiped at the tears falling from your eyes, gently. “I’m so sorry, princess. I’m sorry for everything.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for. I wouldn’t change a single thing if it meant that the mating bond finally snapped between us…if it meant that I could have you now.” 

“I’m yours in any way you want me, princess,” Azriel reaffirmed, yanking you down onto his lap and wrapping his arms around you despite your protests because of his injuries. He placed a kiss on your forehead. “I’m yours from now until always.” 

You pulled away to look him in the eyes, your heart pulsing at everything you found in them. 

“And I am yours, Azriel,” you whispered. “I wouldn’t want it any other way.” 

He smiled, fully smiled. “Good, because I’m never letting you go.”

And then he pressed a passionate kiss against your lips. A kiss free of pain. A kiss that was full of every single emotion he felt towards you—admiration, craving, devotion, but above all else, love.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

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[woso-dreamzzz]

Injured (Alexia's Version): Future IV

Aggie Beever-Jones x Putellas!Reader

Summary: You and your 'new friend' in Mallorca

There's a soft pad of feet outside the cabana and you peak an eye open.

Your partner for this holiday approaches, fresh from the ocean and your open eye tracks her progress towards the towel that she uses to dry off.

"I don't think I've ever been to a better beach."

"I told you." You sit up, rolling your shoulders. "Everything is better in Spain."

Aggie sits on the edge of your sunbed, fingers slowly walking up your bare leg until they rest on the curve of your knee. "Well, you've certainly shown me that."

You sip at your drink.

It's gone kind of warm in the hot summer sun but it's still drinkable, still full of flavour that gives you that nice buzz in your veins.

"Well," You say, your quiet voice carrying across the air like a secret," I do try."

Aggie's hand climbs up to your thigh, rubbing your skin lightly as she shuffles closer.

"You've done a very good job at it."

You move closer as well until there's barely a centimetre between you.

"Isn't it so nice that this cabana is private?" You drawl, fluttering your eyelashes as you press as close as you can without actually touching your lips against hers.

"Just us," You continue," So far away from anyone else. Just me and you."

"It's perfect," Aggie husks and you finally connecting your lips, grabbing at the back of her neck to deepen it.

She allows you that control at least.

Aggie's fallen into this role fairly well. She knows this isn't going to end in a relationship and, frankly, she doesn't care at all. Straight out of a relationship herself, she's completely fine with this just being a friends with benefits situation.

Your hand pulls at Aggie's neck and she grins into the kiss, finally taking control of it.

You lay back against your sun lounger, grinning as well when Aggie hovers over you.

She's panting, glancing around. "How long until you think that waiter guy's coming back?"

"Forty five minutes? An hour?" You say," He came by a few minutes before you came back."

"Excellent," Aggies says," That leaves us plenty of time."

The sun dips below the horizon, painting the sky in red and pink and blue.

You sip at your drink, eyeing Aggie over the top of her menu.

"What?" She says," Is there something on my face?"

"Nothing," You laugh," You look very pretty tonight."

"Flatterer."

"I'm just telling the truth."

"You're in a sappy mood today."

You lift up your drink. "Must be the alcohol."

You both laugh and you relax easily into small talk.

"This trip has been lovely," Aggie says suddenly as the evening winds down," Thanks for inviting me."

"Thank you for not being intimidated by my mother."

That match when you first met, Aggie had nearly been caught on the wrong side of Alexia's wrath after absolutely clattering one of the Barcelona players two minutes into the second half.

"I won't say she's not scary," Aggie says," But I know how to stand my ground."

"I'm glad and pray you never have to meet her in her own house," You tease.

Aggie winks. "Good thing I'm not your girlfriend. God help whoever meets your mother as your girlfriend."

"I can drink to that."

[yikes-aemond]

I love you. It's ruining my life. (Part II)

pairing: Benjicot Blackwood x Bracken!fem!reader (no descriptions of reader except that she wears dresses and has long hair)

warnings: 18+, smut, canon typical violence, cursing 

summary: You and Benjicot Blackwood return to the woods where your story began. Things get heated. 

word count: 3.6k

author note: Thanks so much to everyone for your kind words about this little story. This is my first time posting fanfiction, and I am overwhelmed by the response. And in case anyone is curious, I pretty much listened exclusively to Taylor Swift’s “Guilty as Sin?” while writing this. Love you babes. Happy reading! 

part I can be found here. part III can be found here. part iv can be found here.

A madness plagued you, of that there could be no doubt.  

Days had passed since the boundary stone incident. But you could barely bring yourself to leave the confines of your chambers. You did not want to see anyone. Not your father. Not your fellow ladies or maids. And certainly not Aeron. 

You only wanted to see Benjicot. Lay eyes on him and hold him and confirm that you were not alone with these feelings. 

In your heart, you knew that he must feel something. No Blackwood would withdraw from a challenge with a Bracken as quickly as he did after your plea without feeling anything. But your mind played tricks on you, turning over every interaction, every look, every word between the two of you.No promises had been made. No tender feelings shared. 

What if you had imagined it all? That thought alone kept you awake at night, tossing and turning with no relief. 

And gods, did you crave relief from this sweet torture. 

You felt trapped beneath your own skin, aching and longing for something that you could not fully name. But even though you did not know the full language of lovers, did not know exactly what happened between a couple when they lied together, you knew enough. Knew that pleasure could be found between your thighs with a twirl of your fingers. Knew it was a sin, but could not bring yourself to care. 

You could not get the look of Benjicot’s enraged face out of your mind. Flushed cheeks, wide eyes, snarling mouth. Even the cuts, bruises, and blood on his hands called to some primal part of you. The way he defended you, fought for you. He was a force, and the thought of having all that frenzied energy focused on you was enough to send you over the edge. 

You touched yourself to images of Benjicot that flashed through your mind. His face hovering over you. His arms encircling your body. His hands touching you. Unlacing your dress and removing your small clothes. Warm, strong, calloused hands traveling across your breasts, hips, and thighs. Moving higher and higher until he reached the core of you. 

And when you reached that pentacle of release, it was his name you sighed allowed. 

This madness had to end. 

So, in the early morning hours before Stone Hedge woke, you made your way back to the woods where it all began.  

You did not know how long you walked but you suspected hours. The sun was steadily rising in the sky, warming the air and casting shadows through the trees. You only vaguely knew the right direction to Raventree Hall and prayed to both the old gods and the new that you were on the right path. 

Not that you really had a plan once you reached Raventree Hall. It was not as if you could march up to the front door, knock, and demand to see the heir. The fact that you were a Bracken almost guaranteed that at best, such a request would be refused, or at worst, end with your head on a spike. 

But even when your legs began to tire and sweat dripped down your brow, you pushed forward—determined that today would be the day you received answers. 

That is until you tripped over a tree root, stumbling to the ground. You landed awkwardly on your front, both hands throbbing from cuts and scrapes you gained while trying to break your fall. But at least you had not rolled your ankle this time. 

Just as you began to pick yourself up, you felt a presence behind you. You were not sure if your imagination was playing tricks on you, but the forest itself seemed to quiet. You could no longer hear the wind rustling the leaves, nor birds chirping or insects humming. 

All your attention focused on one thing. Him. Benjicot. Every part of your being knew he was the one behind you. 

You felt the ghost of his touch before he surrounded you. His front to your back, both kneeling on the ground. His hand brushed against your hip before he leaned in and whispered, “Didn’t I tell you that these lands were not for Brackens, my lady?” 

You tried to turn to face him, but Benjicot stopped the motion by bringing his arm across your stomach, caging you against him. “How typical,” he scolded. “A Bracken who can’t do what they are told.” 

Your senses were overloaded. You could practically hear your heart pounding against your chest. Everything about Benjicot pulled you further and further into his snare—his touch, his scent, his voice. You had never felt so helpless. And you liked it.

But as quickly as Benjicot had trapped you, he let you go. One moment, he was supporting your weight against him, and the next, you were unmoored and alone. Leaping to your feet, you turned to finally face the man who had singlehandedly ruined your sanity and good sense. 

Benjicot had put distance between the two of you. At least two strides away, he was no longer within your reach. A part of you rebelled at the distance. For six years you had longed to be in his presence and have his attention focused on you. And now that you were here, in this place where your fates first intertwined, you could not bear the space. 

But something held you back. The look on Benjicot’s face. He’s angry.

You had witnessed his legendary temper in action, had seen the bloody results. But Benjicot’s anger had never been directed toward you. Even when you first encountered him in these woods all those years ago, he had not been angry. Exasperated and intrigued, sure. But never angry. 

Yet there was no mistaking the look on his face now. His eyes were cold and distant, his lips turned down. He looked at you as if you were a stranger. And you did not care for that at all. 

Breaking the silence, Benjicot asked, “What are you doing here?”

His gruff voice sent a thrill down your spine. For a fleeting moment, you tried to keep your composure, tried to mold your face into a mask of indifference as he had done. But you had neither the patience nor skill to do so. Your emotions always stayed close to the surface, threatening to unleash and break free at any moment. 

“What am I doing here?” you repeated back to him. “I’m here to see you. I thought that was rather obvious.”

Benjicot’s eyes narrowed at your tone. A break in the unfeeling facade he had erected. “I told you that these woods were not safe. I told you to not come back here. I told you—”

“I know what you told me!” Your own anger rising to meet his. “I have thought about what you said to me in these woods every godsdamn day for the last six years,” you seethed. 

Benjicot rolled his eyes at your tantrum. “And yet, here you are.”

Unbelievable. You threw your hands into the air in frustration, eyes seeking the sky for patience. “Well maybe I would not have had to go traipsing through the woods if you had bothered to do something about our situation!” 

A beat passed before Benjicot responded. “Our situation?” he asked, amusement echoing in this tone. “And what situation might that be, my lady?  

You, once again trespassing on Blackwood land in violation of the assize? You, who apparently has no care for your own wellbeing, wandering into these woods alone and defenseless? As helpless as a newborn fawn, completely at the mercy of those who would strike first and ask questions later? That situation?” 

You wanted to tear the smug look off his face. Maybe you really were a Bracken through and through. Because at the moment, you understood with perfect clarity why your ancestors had feuded since time in memoriam. 

You did not know why he was acting this way. Why he was trying to push you away. Why he refused to acknowledge the meaning behind your words. Except— 

What if he did not share your feelings? What if you had really imagined it all?

Your anger fled as quickly as it had appeared; replaced instead by a wave of nausea at your own foolishness. Of course, he did not feel the same way. You were a Bracken. Maybe he thought you were a pretty face to look at, maybe he would have had you warm his bed, but he could never love you. 

You felt the color drain from your face. Trembling, you turned away from him. You could no longer bear to look at him. You needed to get away. Needed to leave this place while you still had the strength to stand. 

You fled. Running as fast your legs could carry you, you weaved through the trees with no thought for direction or destination other than away, away, away. 

The moment you turned away, Benjicot realized his mistake, letting his anger over your lack of self preservation win out over the joy he felt when he found you again in these woods. 

And perhaps his anger was a result of the shame he felt. Shame for waiting so long to go to you that you had felt the need to put yourself at risk to seek him out. 

Benjicot had faced countless opponents and impossible odds, and never once had he wavered. Never once had he questioned his skill or fortitude. But the thought of you being in danger, or gods, someone hurting you, was enough to send him into a panic. 

He chased after you. 

You might have gotten a head start, but Benjicot was faster. He knew these woods like the back of his hand, and there was no place you could go, no place you could hide, where he would not find you. 

Spotting you up ahead, Benjicot surged forward, grasping your arm and pulling you into him. You collided into his chest, nearly sending you both to the forest floor. But Benjicot caught you, both of his hands now resting on your arms to steady you. 

You were both breathing heavily. No space existed between you now. You did not understand him. Did not understand why he did not let you escape in peace. You were close to tears but refused to allow Benjicot Blackwood to steal anymore of your dignity. 

“Let me go, Blackwood,” you demanded, trying to pull away from his grasp. But Benjicot held firm, tightening his bruising grip on you. 

Shaking his head, Benjicot pulled you further into arms, until you stood chest to chest, with your arms caged in between. He was a good head taller than you, forcing you to tilt your head up to meet his eyes. 

Your breaths mixed together as the silence dragged out between you. Only when you tried to pull away again did Benjicot finally say, “I have watched you from afar.”

You finally stilled. Eyes widening, you waited for him to continue. “And I know you have watched me, too.”

Color returned to your face, as you tore your eyes away from his searching gaze. “Do not hide from me now, Bracken.” When you failed to respond, Benjicot scoffed, “I never took you for a craven.”

You felt your blood begin to boil. How dare he call you craven. Shoving at his chest with all your strength, you shouted, “The only one craven here is you, Blackwood!” 

“Oh, please enlighten me, how am I craven?” 

You stopped shoving at his chest, letting all of your frustration and ire rise until all you could see was red. “You dare admit to watching me, yet you refuse to acknowledge my feelings!” 

Benjicot flinched at your accusation. Now it was he who refused to look you in the eye. 

But you pressed on, “Because if you have been watching me for as long as I have watched you, then there can be no doubt as to my feelings. No doubt as to where my heart lies. But you ignored me for years. And now you have the audacity to mock me when I seek you out?” 

Benjicot’s eyes were back on your face, his gaze soft and pleading. A complete departure from the anger and fury he had shown you earlier. This man looked like your Benjicot. The boy who had rescued you. The man who had defended you. The one you loved with all your heart. 

His voice was quiet but his words strong, “I am a simple man, my lady. A simple man who needs plain words. What are these feelings of which you speak?”

Closing your eyes for a brief moment, you sucked in a breath. You swore that he would have no more pieces of you. Swore that would you put an end to this madness. But your heart would always rule over your head. 

Finding your courage, you opened your eyes, and reached for his hand. Bringing his hand to your lips, you pressed a kiss to the cracked knuckles and whispered, “I have loved you ever since we met in these woods all those years ago.” 

Benjicot stilled. You were not sure if he was even breathing, but you pushed on, “You occupy all my thoughts and haunt my dreams. You consume me, and I—” You cut yourself off before you could continue. 

You tried to remain unaffected, but the longer Benjicot held you, the more your body betrayed you. You felt your blood racing through your veins, felt the heat rising to your cheeks, felt a slickness begin to gather between your legs. You tried to pull away again to give yourself a moment of respite from this torture. 

But Benjicot was having none of it. 

He watched the way you squirmed under his gaze. Watched the way your chest heaved from the force of your confession. Watched your cheeks grow flush and warm. And when he caught your eyes again and saw your gaze drift to his lips before licking your own, he knew he was a goner. 

“My lady,” Benjicot’s voice was like gravel, “had I known you were so afflicted, I never would have left you alone for so long.” 

Hauling you closer, Benjicot traced his fingers from your collarbone up your neck, watching as your pulse jumped. Cupping your cheek, he brought his face close to yours, mere inches separating the two of you, and confessed, “From the moment you cut yourself on my dagger, I have loved you.”

Now it was your turn to still. For so long you had waited to hear these words, waited to be in his arms. 

Benjicot kissed your forehead, mumbling against your skin, “No one else could ever compare to you, my lady.” He moved to kiss your jaw. “You are the bravest”—a kiss to your cheek—“strongest”—a kiss to your temple—“most beautiful woman I ever met.” 

Kissing the corner of your mouth, Benjicot pulled back momentarily to stare into your eyes. “From that day until the end of my days, there will only ever be you.”

You were at your breaking point. You could not hold yourself back any longer. Flinging your arms around his neck, you pulled Benjicot toward you and kissed him. 

And oh, what a kiss. 

Your advance might have thrown Benjicot initially off guard, but he recovered quickly, remedying the situation and taking control. One hand in your hair and the other at your waist, he moved your head to the position he wanted, slanting his lips over yours and feasting. 

His kisses left your breathless. Your head held no thoughts other than more, more, more. Benjicot’s teeth nipped at your lips, forcing your mouth to open and surrender. He wasted no time in stroking his tongue against yours, exploring and claiming. And when his hand moved from your waist to knead your breasts, you moaned into his mouth and pulled him closer. 

Your taste, your sounds, your very being—Benjicot wanted it all for himself. You owned him, body and soul. And he was greedy to own you in return. 

In the haze of his kisses, you did not realize that your feet no longer touched the ground. Benjicot had lifted you in the air. You wrapped your legs and arms around him, bringing the hardness of him against the softness of you. 

Your back was against a tree, but you did not feel the rough bark. You only felt Benjicot’s lips and hands, moving across your flesh, mapping and exploring. But when Benjicot made his way to the bottom of your dress, running his hand over your delicate ankle, he paused and pulled back. There was a question in his eyes—did you wish to continue?

You nodded eagerly. No doubt or hesitation with your choice. 

And Benjicot smiled. That wicked, feral smile he donned just before a fight. Another searing kiss to your lips before his hand began to move up your calf to your thigh. He was so close to where wanted him. Where you ached for him. 

But Benjicot paused just short of your cunt. And when you whined at his delay, he laughed and asked, “Tell me, my lady. Have you ever touched yourself before?”

Words were beyond you. You felt dizzied and dazed, but you managed a nod. 

Benjicot moved his hand another inch higher. Lips grazing your ear and hot breath on your neck. “And tell me, what did you think of when you touched yourself? What did you imagine when you brought your fingers to your warm, wet cunt?”

You wanted to die. This surely must be hell. You shook your heard, too embarrassed and flustered to answer. 

Benjicot started to move his hand back down your leg, but you clenched your thighs, trapping his hand between them. Raising your head, you glared at him, but all he did was smile. “I know what you want, my lady. And I am eager to please. All I ask is that you answer the question.”

Wicked, cruel, insufferable man. 

But you were desperate. An impossible ache had built inside you, and you knew that Benjicot was the only one who would relieve you.

So you put aside your pride. Clearing your throat, you whispered, “You. I thought of you, Benjicot Blackwood.”

And that was all he needed. Pushing aside your small clothes, he exposed your cunt to the air. You cried out at the feeling, arching against him as he finally slid his hand between your folds. 

The first brush of him against you dragged a groan from deep in your throat. Benjicot groaned in reply, delighted at the wetness he found waiting for him. His thumb circled your clit, pressing and dragging and teasing. His other hand worked your breast while his lips pressed into your neck. 

It was an assault on all fronts. Your body had never felt so hot. And when he plunged one finger into your core, you bucked your hips in response. 

“I thought of you, too.” How he managed to talk, you had no idea. But even through the haze of lust, you heard him. “Thought of you spread naked on my bed when I took myself in hand. Thought of your tight, wet heat on my cock. Thought of how soft you would feel, how perfect you would be for me.”

“Benji—” You whined as he added a second finger.  You had never felt so full in your life. 

“That’s it,” he murmured, lips against your ears. 

You pulled Benjicot’s face away from your neck and captured his lips with your own, biting his lower lip hard enough to draw blood. 

Benjicot groaned, plunging his fingers in and out, hard and fast. Your existence narrowed to the feeling. You were so close, the tightness becoming nearly unbearable. You just needed one final—

The sound of your name on his lips was your undoing. Release barreled down upon you, so much so that you felt like you could break in half. You cried out Benjicot’s name, as his lips covered yours once again. The kiss was all teeth and tongue. You felt as though you were being devoured. 

You clenched around his fingers again, and Benjicot let out a curse. He stroked you through your release until you were limp in his arms, kissing you all the while. 

You could barely catch you breath. And when Benjicot finally pulled away and withdrew his hand, you met his stare and lost your breath all over again. Because the smile he gave you now was one you had never seen before. It was soft and tender and just for you. His lady. 

You wanted to stay in these woods forever. Your own sanctuary that could not be touched by outside forces. Just when you were about to express that desire, you felt Benjicot tense against you. 

And that’s when you heard. Voices. Loud and angry and coming closer by the second. 

You shot Benjicot a panicked look and watched as he transformed in front of your eyes. Gone was any trace of softness or warmth, replaced instead by a hard and vicious look that had you trembling.

Bloody Ben now stood before you. 

Lowering you to the ground, Benjicot tucked you between his body and the tree. He looked around, trying to decide the best course of action. You could practically see his mind at work, thinking through the various scenarios to get you to safety. 

You saw the moment he reached a decision. Leaning down, he pressed one final kiss to your lips and asked, “Do you trust me?”

You did not hesitate. “Of course, I trust—” But before you could finish, your world went dark. Benjicot Blackwood had once again knocked you unconscious. 

He only hoped that you would forgive him for what he was about to do. 

-- Let me know what you think! And don't worry lovelies--I'm already working on part 3.

taglist: @painted-flag @majoso12 @strollthroughstars29 @a-whiterose

[levispersonalslave]

I hereby request a pt.2 to your beautifully written blind reader x levi drabble

I NEED MORE- this or just some general Levi fluff, whenever you’re up to it no rush queen ilysfm :3

MY BELOVEDDD IVE MISSED YOUUU

𝐿𝑒𝑣𝑖 𝐴𝑐𝑘𝑒𝑟𝑚𝑎𝑛 × 𝐵𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑑! 𝑅𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑟 02, 𝐼𝑛𝑠𝑝𝑖𝑟𝑒𝑑 𝑏𝑦 𝐴𝑙𝑒𝑘𝑠𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟 & 𝐸𝑚𝑚𝑎 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚 𝑉𝑒𝑖𝑙 𝐾𝑜𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑖, 𝑆𝑓𝑤, 𝑈𝑠𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑃𝑒𝑡𝑛𝑎𝑚𝑒𝑠, 0.6𝑘 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑𝑠 ꨄ

“Part of your hair’s gone askew,” he remarks quietly.

He watches as your fingers drift up, searching for the errant strand. Your touch is tentative, uncertain. “Oh, where? I can’t feel a thing,” you ask softly, voice barely above a whisper.

“Here. . .” He lifts his own hand to meet the stray lock, a delicate thread of silk that has slipped against your neck. His fingers glide through it, savoring its softness; he brushes it back with a tenderness that feels both natural and forbidden. “Hold still,” he whispers, stepping behind you with the faintest breath of a pause. His presence looms gently but undeniably. You know well that even if you assure him you can manage on your own, he’ll continue to insist on doing it for you—grumbling that it’s simply to prevent you from making a further tangle of it.

You smile faintly—a silent, knowing smile—your hands clasping together in front of you. You’re aware of his determination, aware that his touch lingers longer than it should, aware of everything left unsaid.

His fingers hover, just long enough to betray him, before smoothing the strands with quiet precision. The faint scent of your lavender soap wafts swirls around him, stirring a feeling he certainly isn’t ready to acknowledge. Your head tilts ever so slightly toward his touch, as if instinctively following the warmth of his hand, and his heartbeat stutters, quickening in that unnoticed moment.

“There you are,” he murmurs; his voice is quieter now, as though the very air between you has thickened. He doesn’t step away—not yet. “All fixed.”

“Thank you.” Your words are simple, but your smile—a small bloom of warmth—is luminous, as though it contains something more. You tilt your face toward him, the movement gentle, as though sensing his lingering presence behind you. “You’re far too kind, you know.”

“Kindness,” he replies, his voice dipping into something reflective, “isn’t much of a chore.”

“Oh, you’d be surprised, dear,” you say softly, a lilting hum in your tone, as your fingers tighten around each other, and a delicate blush tints your cheeks. “But if you’re intent on becoming my personal hairdresser, I think you’ll need more practice. It still feels a bit crooked.”

He chuckles, a quiet huff that’s both amusement and a subtle defense against the vulnerability creeping in. “Really now? I’m sure I fixed it perfectly.” He shifts to your side now, his eyes tracing the contours of your hair with exaggerated scrutiny. A hint of playful indignation lies in his gaze—though he knows you cannot see the expression, only hear the soft smile in his voice.

“Hm, I suppose I’ll have to take your word for it.” Your smile broadens, teasing, but there’s a faint tremor beneath the surface—something fragile that only he notices. It stirs a familiar ache within him, one he’s grown used to denying, though it grows harder and harder to ignore.

“You always take my word for it,” he murmurs, his voice dropping to a low, intimate register, one that barely reaches the space between you, “even when you probably shouldn’t.”

You turn your head towards him, your lips parting as though on the edge of a confession—words teetering on the brink, yearning to escape. But they remain held back, tethered by an invisible thread that stretches between you, taut with the weight of unspoken truths. For a fleeting instant, he contemplates whether this is the moment—if this is when he will finally articulate what has been brewing beneath his ribcage for so long. But just as he gathers the courage, you release a soft, breathy laugh and shake your head, dispelling the moment like morning mist.

“Honestly, Levi,” you say, the lightness in your tone masking the depth beneath, “what would I do without you?”

And just like that, the moment is lost. He exhales, a soft, resigned breath, his hand trailing briefly over the back of his neck. He manages a faint smile, though it bears the weight of what remains unspoken.

“Hopefully,” he replies, his voice tinged with quiet sincerity, “you’ll never have to discover that for yourself.”

⊱ 𝑇𝑎𝑔𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡 ⊰ @the-traveling-poet , @pinkberryfox , 𝑑𝑚 𝑡𝑜 𝑏𝑒 𝑎𝑑𝑑𝑒𝑑 ଘ(੭ˊᵕˋ)੭

[the-s1lly-corner]

Cuddling Main Toons

I kinda really want shrimp. Like I ate shrimp for dinner the day I'm writing this opening bht I want more shrimp I love shrimp

Notes: gn toon reader, Canon focused, pre game, short and sweet, written on computer, wrote this while tired wooooooo yeah gang ehehehheheheh

CWs: none

DANDY

loves cuddles. loves kisses. loves affection so long as its from you honestly- youre like. his favorite person and theres no better way to make him feel like the center of the universe than to give him some loving!

the big and little spoon thing doesnt really exist between you two.. you both kind of just cling onto each other and call it cuddling..! when its with you behind closed doors he doesnt really feel the need to conform to roles

i believe in chubby dandy supremacy. hes soft, hes warm. hes kinda got that gardener/farmer build about him that shows off that hes built study underneath... overall a nice feel AND he smells nice! hes a flower afterall!

ASTRO

big spoon, little spoon, strewn over one another... it doesnt matter to him! any cuddling is good cuddling although be warned that hes most certainly going to fall asleep at some point... maybe you planned to take a nap too, in which case... get to sleep!

ive mentioned it before but he smells like lavender and jasmine, its hard to stay awake for long when youre cuddling into his blanket... nice and soft and warm and fuzzy and ooouguugh.... you cant help but to shove your face into the fuzz

and his room... oh his room is perfect cuddling setting- nice and ambient and comfortable, not too stuffy or dark or bright

VEE

cuddling? yeah.... not really her thing... physical affection is something shes picky with anyway, so its no surprise that cuddling isnt really something shes all that interested in. but if you ask nicely she might just humor you!

they sometimes have to angle their head awkwardly to make sure the corners dont poke you in the eye... its not exactly a comfortable fit for either of you and it leaves her neck sore if she holds the pose for too long

runs a little warm and she has a vague buzz to her like how some older tvs vibrate... not terrible, actually, if thats something you like

SHELLY

vaguely smells like dirt but like. in the good nature way. like she just got back from running around in nature. nice and earthy... its hard to be mad at it! shes a little cold to the touch, id imagine shells arent very warm

but shes eager to lay down with you and snuggle under some blankets if her lack of body heat isnt too much of a problem... she takes a page from poppys book and makes a blanket fort for you guys to hide under

its so nice and cozy under the blankets, no matter how hard you both try to stay awake you eventually both succumb- sleepy conversation eventually go quiet

SPROUT

also giving sprout the honorary "he puts himself between you and the door while you guys sleep out of a need to be a barrier to protect you should something happen" headcanon. hes protective, are you really that surprised? its just something to give him some peace of mind

his scarf is nice and soft, and he smells of strawberries and whatever hes baked that day.. usually cupcakes.. sweet and sugary.. sometimes its a little much though

always always big spoon, he doesnt really budge on it unless you ask nicely and hes feeling particularly warn and in need of some loving