#ALL of their mannerisms are exactly the same

[fawniette]

thinking about your older boyfriend who is just so nurturing and caring, wanting to take care of his controversially young girlfriend in every way possible. he spoils you rotten, giving you his card every time you want to go on shopping sprees or whenever you see something you just need to have. and he’s always more than happy to buy you it.

he’ll never let you open a door by yourself or pull out your own chair, being a gentleman as he guides you everywhere with his hand placed on your lower back or snaked around your waist where he can’t lose sight of you. he loves being the dominant one in your relationship, loving the fact you can let him take charge and all you have to do is sit there looking pretty.

he’s also the type who doesn’t shout, especially in arguments. he’s letting you get everything out your system as he looks at you with intent eyes, nodding his head while listening. then, when it’s his turn to speak, he’s explaining things in such a gentle and patient manner that it has any anger or hurt fading away, just appreciation that your boyfriend is so gentle with you and your feelings.

and when it comes to your pleasure, your boyfriend doesn’t fall short. he’s older, and comes with a set of experience that can intimidate you at times. but you can easily say he’s never left you disappointed, making your sex life beyond magical as he draws out pretty moans from your lips as the curve of his cock hits all the right places while he talks you through it.

he’s snapping his hips forward with deep grunts as your velvet walls flutter around his cock, kneading at the plush of your hips while paying attention to what draws out those high pitched moans or the way your back arches when his cock kisses that sweet spot of yours. at the same time, he’s muttering against your ear, “you’re taking me so well, baby. taking me like a good fuckin’ girl.”

his praises have you hiding your face as your pussy flutters around his cock once again, feeling that hot build up of pleasure in your stomach. and he’s chuckling before moving your hands away, “don’t hide from me, sweetheart. i wanna see that pretty when when i make you cum.”

his dirty words have you biting your bottom lip as your brows furrow, arching your back while trying to contain the needy moans that threaten to fall from your lips. he knows exactly what gets you off, smirking when his hips snap forward, his pace quickening until you feel a crash of tingling pleasure and your lips moaning out his name in pure ecstasy.

so, while you might be a lot younger with occasional side eyes and comments from people, you can confidently say that your older boyfriend treats you better than anyone else ever could. and he certainly makes you feel better than anyone else ever could, a lazy smirk on his face as he looks down at your heavy chest and flustered expression before leaning down and kissing your parted lips like he hadn’t just made you come completely undone beneath him.

[thatbuddie]

Hi!! 26 for the kingdon kiss roulette (A kiss while one or both parties are crying) 🫶

“Sweetheart, are you— Are you crying?”

“No,” she says, her voice strangled, a tear slowly running down her cheek.

She’s definitely crying.

“Baby…” His face is close to hers, so close that she has to cross her eyes a little to look into his eyes, making him look blurry. Although that could just be that she’s not wearing her glasses at the moment. Or the tears quickly gathering in her eyes. “Oh my god, baby.”

“Stop,” she pleads, raising one of her arms and being careful not to hit him when she throws it across her face, shielding her eyes from him as more tears start to leak from the corners. “This is so embarrassing, I’m sorry.”

“Hey, c’mon, it’s not embarrassing.” He gently wraps his fingers around her wrist and tugs at her arm, trying to get her to lower it. She resists stubbornly. “It’s not, I swear.”

“Frank,” she says, moving her arm just an inch higher so she can stare at him incredulously, “of course it’s embarrassing. You’re still inside me.”

He blinks down at her for a second before his eyes lower to gaze at the place where they’re still joined. 

“I am indeed still inside you, yeah.” Now it’s his voice that’s strangled but she doubts it’s because he’s about to break down crying like her. That’s a shame reserved exclusively for her.

“God, I’m such a cliché,” she complains, and he -very reluctantly, it appears- moves his eyes away from between her legs to look her in the eyes again. 

His face softens as he readjusts his body over hers. She notes how he carefully balances his weight on his forearms, both resting on the pillow at each side of her head, as to not crush her. With the arm not thrown over her face, she pulls his torso closer to hers, finding comfort in the way she’s squeezed between his body and the mattress. She wraps one of her legs around one of his, the ball of her foot resting against his calf. He bends his other knee to make the position easier to maintain. 

Through all this, she also notices how they’re both moving carefully, mindfully keeping their pelvis as still as they can. ensuring he stays inside her. 

“It’s a natural reaction,” he says, his voice lowering and adopting the tone she has come to recognize as hers. It’s the one he uses when he’s trying to soothe her worries, sometimes after a case gone wrong, sometimes after her and Becca have had a spat. It’s soft and almost melodic, like his words have a musical rhythm to them that is meant to tame her, to hypnotize her. “The release of oxytocin during sex can be as overwhelming as it is pleasurable, and crying has been proven to be a great way to regulate heightened emotions.”

Sniffing slightly, she blinks up at him.

After a second of silence, she says, “Thank you, Dr. Langdon.”

He presses his lips together, very obviously trying not to laugh, but he soon loses the battle and lets out a deep chuckle.

“Sorry, sorry.” He shakes his head, kissing the tip of her nose. “My bedside manner is obviously a work in progress.”

“So you do think I’m sick for crying after sex.”

His eyes widen in worry until he must read the teasing in her face. He sighs in relief, chuckling again as she joins in the laughter. It’s a strange sensation, laughing and crying at the same time, one she has never experienced before. 

This is a night for firsts, it seems like. 

“I know it might be just simple biology,” she concedes, moving her arm away from her face and wrapping it around his neck. Her other hand works on trying to tidy his hair a bit, pushing the strands of hair plastered to his temples away from his face. “I guess it just doesn’t feel that way. It feels like something…holier.”

The faint shine of the moon coming in from the window, with its curtains open wide, casts Frank’s head in a silver ring of light. He’s so beautiful, exactly what Mel would have prayed for if praying was something she had ever had faith in. 

“You know I’m not a religious person, and that I don’t believe in the sanctity of sex or the purity of virginity or that procreation should be the aim of all intercourse or that—” She takes a deep breath, slowing her words down, knowing he will wait patiently for her to get them all out. “That’s not why I hadn’t, you know, it’s not why I hadn’t had sex yet.”

He nods, and her eyes fill with even more tears. He uses one of his thumbs to catch the drops that escape from the outer corner of her left eye. 

“But I think I was still waiting for something. I didn’t know what, but I was still… Waiting.”

Even in penumbra, she can see the way his blue eyes start gleaming. 

“I think I know now that I was waiting for you.”

He closes his eyes, and the first tear travels down the elegant slope of his nose then. She thinks about wiping it away, but instead she follows its path down his philtrum, watching it as it suspends from his bottom lip for a heartbeat before falling. She swears she can feel the moment it lands on her own lips. She swears she can taste the difference between her tears and his. 

“Fuck, Mel. I was waiting for you too, baby.” This is, of course, an impossibility, as his two children are perfect proof of. But she knows exactly what he means, and she believes him. “I’ve been waiting for so long.”

The kiss they share is wet and desperate. Their tears mix on their faces, their tongues tangle inside their mouths. They are breathing the same air, passing it back and forth like it’s the last bit of oxygen that exists in the world and they both need it to survive. 

She has never been kissed like this in her life. Like he is searching for eternity in the contours of her mouth. Like he is showing his devotion at the altar of her lips.

This is a night for firsts, it seems like. 

[chiara-hotel]

HSR Characters x Reader with a cat who is exactly like them Characters: The Herta, Anaxa, Dr Ratio, Mydei Request:therta/ratio/anaxa dating a reader who has a cat and they are literally the same person? the color of the fur matches the color of their hair, the cat is strangely intelligent, and even their expressions mirror at times. itd be even funnier if the cat is used to delivering reader's love letters to the characters

✧ Herta would absolutely love your cat

✧ A pet who looks and acts like you? That's adorable to her! Herta loves it whenever she sees it, as they are a daily reminder of you

✧ So much so that she has many things in her lab for your cat, food, treats, beds, litter boxes, anything your cat could ever dream of, they'd have it

✧ Herta picks them out from deciding if you'd like them or not

✧ Herta adores grooming your cat to perfection, maybe not the bathing part, but brushing its fur is soothing to her

✧ If you're busy and your cat is the only thing accompanying her at the moment, then she'll gladly brush its fur or pet it, just hang out with it in general (unless she's busy of course)

✧ Especially if your cat brings along messages to her, she always has some ready to send them back with them

✧ Anaxa finds your cat and yourself a worthy thing to study

✧ He finds it interesting how similar your mannerisms are; he might do the same things to both of you just to test how similar you both are

✧ Because in his eyes, how is it possible that someone and their pet are almost the exact same?

✧ Anaxa is also someone to spoil your pet; he loves the dromas, so I believe that he'd also enjoy the company of other pets as well

✧ Since your cat is also very smart, it can help decide some opinions (and he will take your cat's opinion very seriously)

✧ Anaxa always loves it whenever your cat comes to find him, letters in hand or not

✧ If your cat didn't bring any letters, Anaxa might give them some food and hang out with them for a bit

✧ If your cat brought something along with it, he'll give them extra treats for delivering it for you

✧ Dr Ratio at first claims that he doesn't care for your cat, it's just an extension of you, but will tolerate it just for you

✧ That is, until the two of them are alone and Dr. Ratio is all over the cat, petting it, feeding it, and so on

✧ Especially once he realizes that it's your split image, even down to your mannerisms, he becomes a lot closer to the cat because they remind him of you (and he loves you)

✧ Though he will be confused how in the world your pet is exactly like you, same hair colour, same expressions, how is that even possible? Its a rare case indeed

✧ It's even better if it brings letters, because that way he's reminded of you & he 100% will write letters back

✧ Mydei loves cuddling your cat, it lies softly on his chest, the soft fur can be felt as he pets it as well

✧ Biggest cuddler with your cat, if you aren't available to cuddle and you send your cat over instead, he will start cuddling with it

✧ Since you both are similar, he'll find it comforting and a reminder of you

✧ Phainon definitely helps him write love letters whenever your cat visits, you've already sent many, and he loves the idea

✧ Mydei also has a small area in his room (probably on the wall) where he keeps your letters

[lvsrckk]

self care

||*. aphrodite’s! daughter reader x connor stoll

summary: just a cute self care night in with connor & reader!

warnings: none!

A/N: hi guys pls pls pls feel free to request!

connor sank into your frilly comforter, completely engulfed by your scent, whilst you sat directly in front of him at your vanity.

it wasn’t super unusual for connor to hang around while you did your night time routine, which led you to possibly the greatest idea you’ve ever graced the planet with.

“sooo…. i have an idea.”

you made your way over to him with a small pink basket.

“what’s all this? delivering cupcakes? poison? nuclear weaponry?” he grinned back at your figure, which was very clearly up to something.

you rolled your eyes and a mischievous smile played on your lips.

“even better. my nighttime routine. and you, connor stoll, are tonight’s lucky volunteer.”

he laughed. “me? why?”

“because you’re my best friend stupid. and i need a very handsome test subject. besides, who else would be such a perfect victim?”

connor blinked. “you think i’m handsome?”

“i think you have potential,” you teased, dragging him to a sitting position on your bed.

connor grumbled half-heartedly but didn’t move as you perched next to him. you pulled out a warm rose scented face wipe and began to slowly and gently clean his face. he flinched first, but then slowly melted into your touch.

“this actually feels kinda nice,” he mumbled.

“told you” you gave him a warm smile.

next came a hydrating mist, courtesy of la roche posay. he blinked like a stunned deer when it came into contact with his skin.

“you just sprayed me like a houseplant”

“exactly. your skin is parched. dehydrated even. you should be thanking me.” you hit his shoulder in a playful manner.

you applied a water based moisturizer, gently brushing over his cheekbones. (which though you had never particularly noticed, were home to the most beautiful array of freckles you’d ever seen.)

“you do this every night?”

“i never miss a day. aphrodite didn’t bless us with beautiful radiant skin for nothing.” you attempted a half-hearted joke.

he went still and quiet for a moment as you reached for your lip mask.

“i draw the line at lipstick.” he warned.

“relax connie, it’s just a mark. gummy bear. very manly and rugged.”

he smirked again, eyes trained on your face directly in front of him as you gently applied the balm on his lips. “you sure this isn’t just a clever plan to get me to kiss you?”

you paused mid application, “you wish, stoll.”

“hey, i’m not the one carrying around lip balm like cupid’s sniper rifle.”

you leaned in with a coy grin, “you’re lucky i like you connie.”

his gaze softened. “yeah? i’m starting to think i might like you too.”

your face became warm as he slowly leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to your upper lip.

“well if i knew the way to your heart was skincare, we could’ve totally done that a long time ago.”

you leaned back in for another kiss, this one lingering for a bit longer than the former.

connor pulled away and pressed another sweet kiss to your forehead.”

“same time tomorrow?” you asked.

“only if another gummy bear lip mask will be involved.” he laughed softly.

“i think we can work something out.”

he sauntered back to the hermes cabin, a hand still pressed to his cheek where your soft hands once lingered. whatever else happened after he left was between him and the dim glow of the july stars.

A/N (again sorry!) : would you guys maybe like to see a part two where he attempts the routine on reader? let me know & feel free to request any pjo, toa, or hoo character! (or even just a specific cabin if ur feeling it ;) )

||*. - liv!

[swiftjay23]

You Remember Wrong

Genre: Psychological Horror Erotic Thriller Unreliable Memory / Glitchcore Smut-Heavy Mindfuck Neo-noir Romance Paranormal Erotica, Dead Boyfriend Isn’t Dead, Or Maybe He Is, Gaslight Gatekeep Ghost Dick, Sex and Memory Collapse, Possessive Glitchboyfriend, Mirror Sex, Voicemail Moaning, Fucking Through Amnesia, Trauma-Fueled Lust, “He’s still inside you”, Is She Dead? Is He Real?, No One Knows. Especially Not You, Emotional Manipulation via Orgasm, Unreliable Narrator, Haunting as Foreplay, File://ERROR, You Died. Maybe.

SUMMARY: Every year at exactly 12:12 a.m., you receive a single text. Always from the same name. Always the same word: “Sorry.” The name? Jake. Your boyfriend. Your first love. Declared dead five years ago. You thought the case was closed. You thought you were healing. But this year, the message changes. “You remember wrong.” Reality glitches. Your reflection moves without you. He never left. And he’s not leaving now.

🔞 CONTENT TAGS / WARNINGS (Explicit): MDNI Oral Sex (M→F), Vaginal Sex, Mirror Play, Rough Sex, Creampie, Somnophilia Themes, Breathplay / Choking, Public Photo/Surveillance Kink, Voicemails Featuring Moaning, Glitching Reality / Horror, Forced Arousal via Haunting, Intense Psychological Themes, Unclear Consent in Dream/Memory Sequences, Body Memory / Amnesia, Blood Mention, Flashbacks to Sex and Grief, Possessive Behavior, Distorted Perception, Delusions of Love, Self-Pleasure Induced by Haunting, Manipulation via Pleasure, Mentions of Death, Fire, Identity Erasure, YOU DIED. (Maybe.)

Pairing! Sim Jaeyun | Jake (Enhypen) × Female Reader

Word Count: 3377

🗂🕯️ Permanent Taglist:

⟡ @tashmonellloveskpopboybands,⟡ @yuriloveshee, ⟡ @kookiesnkim, ⟡ @picklemafia, ⟡ @add-this-to-that, ⟡ @xxjoyridingxx,⟡ @enjakey, ⟡ @noidnoentry, ⟡ @avadie, ⟡ @enhaheart8, ⟡ @yourislandgirl, ⟡ @meowwwon, ⟡ @saodk ⟡ @inlovewithparkjisung, ⟡ @verycutesyverymindful, ⟡ @fleurdelises, ⟡ @queenvash, ⟡ @tyongielee, ⟡ @amzingjellyfish,⟡ @enbplvr, ⟡ @6abriellaa, ⟡ @fateismoonstruck, ⟡ @trashlord-007, ⟡ @artemesiareads, ⟡ @d0einheadlights, ⟡ @miuuuw, ⟡ @butwhyareyoureyessosad, ⟡ @rainofcrime, ⟡ @darkblueblueberr, ⟡ @zone444girls, ⟡ @bombombakudanmeow, ⟡ @en-cityy, ⟡ @koya2000, ⟡ @tttbearblog, ⟡ @yb763, ⟡ @freakseung2001 ⟡ @nics-fxy, ⟡ @irers

Your apartment is quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that shouldn’t exist in a city that never fucking sleeps.

It’s not just silence, it’s a void.

You’re half-asleep on the couch, remote still clutched in your hand, your phone balanced on your chest. A candle flickers out in the kitchen. You don’t remember lighting it.

Then the phone buzzes.

You jolt, eyes unfocused as the screen lights your skin. One notification. One word. One name.

It starts the same way it always does. Phone buzzes. Screen lights up. 12:12 a.m. You don’t need to look at the name. You already know.

1 new message from: Jake

Your chest contracts. Your breath stalls. Your fingers twitch. The first year, it said "Sorry." The second, third, and fourth did too. A single word. Unchanging. Like a ghost with manners.

But tonight, tonight, it’s different.

No. This time, it’s you who’s the problem.

You sit up. Every hair on your arm stands. Because… he’s dead.

Jake’s dead. He’s been dead for five years. Found dead, stabbed, burned, unidentifiable. The authorities ruled it a home invasion. But something never sat right. Declared gone at exactly 12:12 a.m. the time carved into every death certificate, every news report, every echo of your memory.

You remember wrong.

You stare. Not at the message. At the room. Like something's about to shift. Crack. Like the floorboards might peel back and spill blood. You’re alone. Of course you’re alone.

Except…

The bathroom door is open. You always leave it closed. The faucet’s dripping. You haven’t used it all night. You back away slowly.

You pull yourself off the couch like the air’s thickened. Something’s wrong. The temperature’s dropped. Your reflection in the mirror across the room looks… too still. Like it’s not moving when you do.

You blink. It blinks back. And then. Your legs brush the edge of your bed. You sit down without meaning to. Hands trembling.

You hear it.

A clink. Metal against ceramic. From the kitchen.

You whisper it before you can stop yourself. “Jake?” The light above you flickers. Just once. A joke, maybe. A coincidence. Except you don’t believe in those anymore.

You haven’t said his name out loud in almost two years. You forgot how it tasted. Bitter. Familiar. Like copper and old perfume.

Your phone buzzes again.

Don’t say it again.

You flinch. You’re not alone. You don’t know how you know. But you know. The air shifts. Thickens. Warms. You feel something press against your shoulder, then nothing.

You turn. No one. Except your bedroom mirror. Fogged over. Like someone breathed against it. Like someone’s still breathing.

Your body moves before your brain does. You stumble to the mirror.

The words smear across the glass like fingerprints. "Shh." And behind your own reflection, someone stands.

Close. Too close. Fingertips graze your waist. Cold. Familiar.

You take a few steps back. Head to the kitchen for water and a sleep pill. You step forward slowly, heart hammering in your chest. There’s a knife on the counter. The same one that went missing last week. The same one from the police report five years ago, missing weapon, presumed disposed.

It’s back. Dripping something dark. Like it was just used.

You take one step back. And then—

A hand wraps around your waist. Familiar. Warm. Firm.

Another hand covers your mouth. You try to scream but it’s breathless, like your lungs forgot how. And then you hear him.

That voice. That fucking voice. Right by your ear. A low whisper, like silk sliding over a wound.

“Shh.” “You talk too much when I’m home.”

You jerk forward but the grip doesn’t loosen. His lips brush your jaw, lazy. Fond. Possessive.

“You weren’t supposed to ask.” “You were supposed to miss me.” You twist around. And you see him. Sim Jaeyun.

Alive.

Or at least, something that looks like him. Hair slightly longer. Skin paler. Eyes… glitched. Like a skipped frame in a movie reel. Too real. Not real enough. Both.

He smiles. And your body betrays you.

You feel wetness between your legs. Because your body remembers. Even if you don’t.

You back up. Your voice breaks: “Are you—?”

He’s already shaking his head. “You remember wrong.”

You wake up on the floor.

Hardwood against your cheek. Cold sweat on your spine. The clock on your microwave says 4:43 a.m.

The knife’s gone. The fogged-up mirror is dry. The message from Jake, deleted. And your phone? Powered off. You don’t remember turning it off.

Your throat feels raw. Your lips are bruised. Your thighs are sore.

You pull your sleep shirt down over your ass as you stand, shaky, like your body’s been used. Touched. Fucked. Like the ghost of a man fucked you open and made you forget your own name.

You try to shake it off. Go to the bathroom. Turn on the light— It flickers. No surprise. You lean over the sink. There’s blood beneath your fingernails.

By noon, you’re sitting at your desk with four tabs open: Jake’s police file An archived news report The coroner’s statement The funeral guest list

Every link says the same thing: Jake died. Five years ago. Time of death? 12:12 a.m. No body ever confirmed. Closed casket. The fire burned his face. They ruled it a match using dental records. That’s what you remember.

Except one file doesn’t open. Jake’s identity archive. The system returns a red blinking message.

FILE://ERROR – IDENTITY MISMATCH. SOURCE UNSTABLE.

You stare. The file isn’t corrupted. You are.

You hear your phone vibrate from the kitchen.

One new voicemail. Timestamped at 2:47 a.m. While you were… unconscious? Dreaming? Coming?

You press play.

You expect static. Garbled signals. You get moaning. Your moaning.

Panting, whispering something over and over. Begging.

“Jake, please, just tell me—” A wet sound. Fingers. Something deeper. Your voice breaks. “What are you, what are you doing to me?” “I’m making you forget.” Click. End of voicemail. You drop the phone.

You curl up on the floor of your apartment like it’ll help you hold shape. Your hand drifts down.

It’s not a choice. It’s instinct.

You’re soaked. You slide a hand under your shorts, two fingers curling in like they’ve been taught. Like someone trained them.

You gasp. The memory floods back, his teeth on your shoulder. His voice in your ear. “I know how to make you come harder than truth.”

The orgasm hits before you’re ready. Violent. Full-body. You come shaking, biting your hand to keep from sobbing.

And just as you blink your eyes open, he’s standing in the doorway.

Not a sound. Not a footstep.

He’s just… there. Leaning against the frame. T-shirt half untucked. Hair wet. Eyes on your fingers.

Jake.

Still not dead. Still not explaining. Just watching you unravel.

You try to speak. Your mouth opens. He raises a finger to his lips again.

“Don’t ask.” “Just come here.”

You wake up naked.

Sheets tangled between your legs. Mouth dry. Skin damp. A bruise blooming on the inside of your thigh in the shape of a hand you know too well. Jake is gone. Again. But he always leaves reminders.

The scent of him on your pillow. The ache in your cunt like you were kept up all night. The slick that clings to your inner thighs, cooling.

You try to clench your legs, flinch. It hurts. God, it hurts. Like you came over and over and forgot how to stop.

Your phone buzzes. You drag yourself to the edge of the bed, grab it with trembling fingers.

Unknown Number

1 New Photo 1 New Voicemail

You don’t open the voicemail. Not yet. Your eyes land on the photo first.

You. And Jake. Laughing. Holding hands. Drinking coffee. Last week.

Date stamped. Geotagged. Smiling.

You drop the phone. Because you don’t remember that moment. You didn’t go out last week. You barely left the apartment.

You haven’t smiled like that since—

That night, he comes back. Doesn't say a word, moves up to your room.

You follow him.

You don’t remember standing. You don’t remember moving. But suddenly, you’re in the hallway, feet bare, heart in your throat, the floorboards creaking like they're holding secrets.

Jake doesn’t look back. He doesn’t have to. You’d follow him off a rooftop right now, and he knows it.

He pushes the door open to your bedroom. Except—

It’s not your bedroom. It’s cleaner. Too clean. Sterile. Like a memory of a bedroom. Your furniture, your sheets, but wrong.

The scent hits first. Jake’s cologne. Faint. Faded. Like he’s been here this whole time, bleeding into the walls. Your knees wobble.

He doesn’t speak. Just sits at the edge of your bed. Legs spread. Elbows on his knees.

And that smile. The one that used to mean “Come here and let me wreck you.” The one that made you soft when you were supposed to stay angry.

It’s back. But colder. Hungrier.

You open your mouth, he raises a hand. Stops you with one look. “I’m not here to explain.” “I’m here to remind you.”

He pulls you by the wrist. You stumble, fall into him, straddle his lap without meaning to.

Your shirt rides up. He palms your hips like you’re his. Like he never died. Like you never forgot how good this felt.

He kisses you like punishment. Like silence. Like you’re not supposed to speak, only break.

Your mouth tastes like grief and heat and déjà vu. You don’t even notice when he lifts you, lays you down, crawls between your thighs. Because your head tilts.

And then you see it. The mirror.

Across the room. The full-length one you never liked. The one you threw a blanket over after he died. It’s uncovered.

You see yourself. On your back. Legs around his waist.

But something’s wrong.

The reflection smiles first. Not you.

Your reflection is moaning before you even feel his cock push inside. Grabbing his shoulders. Tilting your head.

You’re still gasping, still catching up. But the girl in the mirror is already cumming.

Already his. He fucks you slowly. Like he’s memorizing you again. Like he’s carving something into your bones that won’t leave, even after death.

“This is the version of you I like best,” he murmurs. “You never talk during sex. Just beg.”

You want to ask where he’s been. Why no one remembers. Why you’re unraveling. But your mouth won’t work. He’s thrusting too deep. Your voice has become sound, not sense.

The reflection lifts her head. She watches you. Smiling, dazed.

She whispers something you can’t hear— But Jake can. Because he leans down and repeats it into your throat. “You’re mine. You’ve always been mine.”

You cum when his hand closes over your throat. Tears slipping from your eyes, not from pain. From remembering. Everything. Or nothing.

And just before you pass out. The reflection mouths something new. “Don’t wake up.”

You wake up naked.

The knock at your door is too normal. It jars. You tug on a hoodie. Nothing underneath. Still wet. The air stings between your legs. You’re leaking. You open the door a crack.

It’s your neighbor. The old woman from 5B.

She frowns. Takes a step back like she’s seen a ghost. “I thought… sorry, I didn’t think anyone lived here anymore.” “Weren’t you the girl whose boyfriend—”

She stops.

“No, that’s not right. You moved out. Five years ago.” “After the fire.”

She leaves before you can speak. Your lungs seize.

You slam the door shut. Collapse against it.

You're not real. Or maybe reality isn’t.

You crawl back to the bed. The sheets are cold. The mirror across the room is cracked. The voicemail still waits. You hit play. Jake’s voice.

“You're tighter when you’re scared.” “When you don’t understand what I am.” “But your body does, doesn’t it?”

There’s a wet sound. Slapping. Breathing. Your voice. “Jake—please, I can’t—” “You can. You always could.” “I’m the only thing that ever felt real.”

You hear him groan. “Say my name.”

Your voice on the recording sobs it. Moans it. Over and over. Crying it into the crook of his neck. Begging for more.

“Say you’re mine.” “Say it, or I’ll fuck you until you forget your name again.”

You say it. On the tape. Desperate. Shattered.

“I’m yours, Jake—fuck—yours—” He laughs. Low. Ruined.

“Good girl.” You drop the phone again.

You don’t remember the night. But your body does. You’re sore, raw, dripping down your thighs like the proof of possession.

You crawl onto the bed again. Still open. Still warm.

And you feel it, Not just slick but him. Like he’s still inside you. Like he never left.

You reach down.

Two fingers. Wet. Warm.

You fuck yourself with the rhythm he used last night. And in the mirror, you see Jake.

Behind you. No expression. Hands on your hips. Watching. But when you spin around? Nothing.

The email from the archives comes at 3:03 a.m. Just two lines:

REQUEST DENIED. SUBJECT: Y/N [REDACTED] – STATUS: DECEASED.

You blink at the screen. Your name, blacked out. Birth certificate: not found. Hospital file: error. Death record: processed.

You’re not dead. You’re not.

You touch your own pulse just to check. And your fingers come away sticky. Slick.

You’re wet again. Still. There wasn't a time you weren't, with his breath hitting you constantly.

A knock at the door. Not tentative. Not curious. Confident. Like someone who knows you’ll answer.

You grab your robe, still braless, panties nonexistent. Because nothing stays on you these days. Jake makes sure of it.

You open the door. And there he is.

Bare-chested. Black sweats. No shoes. Neck glistening with sweat like he ran here. Or maybe… like he came. His eyes flick over you.

The robe barely clings to your shoulders. His gaze drops between your thighs.

“You’re leaking again.” “Let me fix that.” You don’t speak.

Because your body’s already moving. Letting him in. Locking the door. He doesn’t waste time.

Pushes you against the kitchen counter. Hands under your robe. No patience. You gasp when his fingers slide in—two, immediately. Like he owns the place. Like he’s coming home.

“Still this wet?” he whispers, mouth on your throat. “Even when I’m not around?”

You try to lie. Try to say it’s from the dream, the tape, the memory.

But he curls his fingers inside you just right. Finds that spot. And you choke. He smirks.

“Thought so.” He flips you over the counter.

No warning. Your robe’s yanked open, tits pressed against cold granite. One hand between your shoulders, the other already freeing his cock. You look back. And fuck.

He’s hard. Thick. Mean-looking. The kind of cock you don’t forget, even if reality begs you to.

“Say it,” he growls. “Say what you are.” You hesitate. He doesn’t. He slams in. One thrust. Bottoms out.

You scream, choked, sudden, fucked full.

“Say it.” You sob. “I’m yours.” “Jake, I’m yours—”His hips snap forward, fast, brutal. Your nails scratch the countertop.

“Louder.” “Let the walls remember too.”

You say it. You cry it. You mean it.

Because he’s fucking you like he wants to leave a blueprint inside. Like when you’re gone, your cunt will still remember. You cum hard. On his cock. Around it. Slick splattering down your thighs, onto the floor.

He doesn’t stop.

“That’s it.” “Stay broken.” “Stay mine.”

He pulls out just enough, then slams back in. You feel it in your teeth.

And just before you black out— You hear it again. The mirror. A whisper from across the room. Soft. Feminine. You. “Don’t wake up.”

But you don't, you never fall asleep. The room is quiet after he cums.

He doesn’t pull out. Just stays pressed deep inside, breath tickling your neck, his palm cradling your jaw like you’re made of glass.

You’re shaking. He presses a kiss to your shoulder.

Soft. Nothing like before. No thrust. No demand. Just lips.

“You used to cry when I touched you.” “The first time, remember?”

You don’t.

But your body clenches around him like you do.

FLASH.

You’re nineteen. Jake’s apartment. Messy sheets, your first real boyfriend, his trembling fingers between your thighs.

He’s saying, “Tell me if it hurts.” You’re whispering, “Don’t stop.”

Your legs shake when you cum. You cry into his neck. He holds you like it’s sacred. Back in the present, he fucks you slow again. Almost gentle.

“You were so good for me,” he murmurs. “So fucking sweet. Always so wet. Always mine.” Your eyes sting. You don’t want to cry. You don’t know if this is memory or manipulation.

But he leans in. Kisses your lips, soft. Careful. Real.

“You still are.”

You’re riding him now. Hands on his chest. Your thighs sore. The mirror behind him cracked. Still watching.

You roll your hips. Slow. Needy. And Jake? He’s smiling.

Not that twisted grin. A real smile. “That’s it, baby. Just like that.” “Let me see you. Let me remember.” Your walls clench.

You moan. Loud. Unfiltered. And Jake, his hands shake when he grabs your hips. “You’re my favorite version.” You whimper: “Which one am I?”

He doesn’t answer. Just thrusts up, deep, perfect.

And you come.

FLASH. A picnic. Sunlight. Jake handing you strawberries. Telling you your laugh is his favorite sound.

You laugh now. But it’s hollow. You collapse against him.

He wraps you in a blanket. Cradles your head. Hums. “You used to cry when I touched you.” “But now you forget.” “And when you forget, you let me touch you again.” You fall asleep like that.

Still inside him. Still unsure. Still his.

It starts with a letter. On your pillow. Folded once. No envelope. Your name in blue ink. You recognize the handwriting. Yours.

The signature, though, is Jake’s. “You used to write me letters when you were angry. You said it was easier than screaming. You only screamed when I left. I didn’t leave. You did.”

The paper smells like old perfume. Yours. Or his. You’re not sure anymore.

“You begged me to come back. So I did. I made a home in the only place you’d never look again. Inside your own memory.”

The voicemail comes two minutes later. You play it. Your mother’s voice. Shaky. Frayed. Real. “Sweetie, I—I don’t know why you keep saying his name. You always did this, remember? Imaginary friends. But Jake, Jake never existed. We thought it stopped after the… after the accident.”

“You died. Honey, you died. You weren’t supposed to come back.”

She’s crying.

“Why are you calling me from this number? Whose phone is this?Please stop. Just let it rest.”

The world goes quiet.

The room doesn’t feel cold. It feels… gone. Like the lights are on in a house that was never built. You walk to the window.

And across the street. You see it.

Your funeral. A closed casket. Mourning clothes. Black umbrellas under white sun. Your mother on her knees in front of the altar. Sobbing. The same woman who left the voicemail. Only now it’s hours later.

But you’re not there. You’re somewhere else.

The kitchen smells like eggs and citrus.

Jake stands at the stove. Barefoot. Sweats hanging low. Soft music playing from an old radio that never worked.

He looks up. “Morning.” “You look pale.” “You dreamed again, didn’t you?”

You sit down. There’s orange juice in your cup before you speak. “Jake…”

He slides the eggs onto your plate. Kisses your forehead. “I’m yours. You made me that way.” “I can’t leave anymore.”

You blink. He smiles. “Eat, baby. It’s a long life. And we’re the only ones who remember it.”

In the mirror behind him, you’re smiling.

But you’re not eating. Your reflection tilts its head. Blood drips down its nose. You wipe yours. Nothing. Jake sits across from you. Reaches for your hand. And you don’t ask if he’s real.

You just whisper: “Will you stay?” He doesn’t blink. “I never left.”

Outside, the funeral ends. They bury the casket. The wind carries a single name from your mother’s lips:

“Please. Come back.”

But you’re already home. You always have been.

The End You remember wrong.

masterlist

[handweavers]

writing a story that examines so many aspects of empire, class, gender, racialization, sexuality, and the political ideologies tied to these things i feel constantly aware of how a bourgeois narrative would try to frame everything - like i know exactly what a liberal would do with these basic building blocks, where they would take these characters and the conclusions that would be drawn from these situations (or failed to be drawn, they would be treated as entirely individual incidents divorced from any wider context) and it feels really good to subvert that but it takes constant work and research to make sure i'm doing it well & in a way that doesn't feel like a lecture but a natural part of the narrative. essentially writing the process of how someone's life circumstances and experiences leading him to becoming a marxist leninist with revolutionary discipline but this is a process that occurs over decades of his life and if i do it right, it should feel like the only solution that makes any sense narratively speaking

like for example a side plot involves the development of art nouveau and various artistic movements in europe around the turn of the century and the perspectives on small scale artisanal production that were popularized in response to industrialization and the worsening crisis of imperialism. i have artists who hold the perspective of the arts and crafts movement and others who are proponents of aestheticism and romanticism and have all other kinds of bourgeois and petty bourgeois beliefs on arts and production while believing themselves to be radicals, and a character who sees the contradictions and failures of these positions but lacks the language to articulate it until later in life. and this happens in tandem with these same people using and exploiting him and his labour as a child, as a colonized subject in the imperial core, as a survivor of genocide and a visibly disabled person, etc in a paternalistic manner, including doing things like claiming his work as theirs and exploiting his "exoticism" for social capital. there are "answers" to these issues that a bourgeois narrative would offer - including running away to live in a cabin in the woods forever and a refusal to view oneself as a political actor - that would make sense in the context of character trauma but i am actively trying to avoid doing those things in the long term, especially when doing so would be treated as the character actually "healing" by attempting to escape history and society, and the alternative would be internal reform and some kind of petty bourgeois dream where he runs his own popular workshop and becomes famous and well respected in his field doing small scale artisanal production or something. instead many years later he becomes an architect in a burgeoning socialist state designing and building infrastructure and reconciling indigenous vernacular architecture with the material demands of a state trying to electrify and industrialize. but tracking all of this and have this development occur over the course of decades in a way that feels true to the character and the world and again, not like a lecture, is an ongoing matter

[frwalkwithme]

My brother and I watched Twilight and Eyewitness back to back once and I'm still thinking about how Philip and Bella are literally the same person. They even look similar

[sky-scribbles]

Hey do you guys remember how long it took for Essek to show his natural awkwardness around the Nein? Do you remember how they were friends with him for three months before he even tried making jokes around them? Do you remember the long slow process of him letting down the Shadowhand mask and openly showing how much he enjoyed their antics?

Did you see Essek just being himself around Bell's Hells, this bunch of weirdos he'd never met, even as he pretended to be someone else? Did you see him cracking that dumb joke about his pretend mother being able to stop time with enough ale, and laughing with them? Did you see him watching them for all of five minutes and going, 'This has been a very interesting first impression. I'm excited to see how strange this gets!'

Do you realise how much easier and freer with people he is now? How despite dropping the Shadowhand sleekness and showing his awkward side, he somehow seems more confident? Do you realise that despite the situation right now, Essek seems happy?

[clownowo]

Trying a new strategy to convince my friends Kazuma’s definitely dead (they don’t believe me) by indulging their jokes about him being secretly alive. You know they say a Japanese man’s katana is his soul so I guess he’s just wandering around soulless. Like he’s now an empty husk of himself. Haha that’d be crazy.

[icewindandboringhorror]

I occasionally wish to reach out to old friends/acquaintances I haven't spoken to since high school/some other even earlier time in my life, but I have SOOO little social energy even for required tasks (like making dr phone calls or etc), I never have any leftover for extra ones, and it would be very odd to message someone I haven't spoken to in like 5 years out of the blue but then take 4 entire months to respond back lol.. My natural curiosity with nostalgia/collecting details of the past/etc. (literally if I were born a little earlier I would definitely do scrapbooking or something lol) is very strong, but, alas, not strong enough to beat out the Social Issues Demons apparently

[teh-nos]

today's overthinking of the marvel cinematic universe and its fandom is that while there is a strong thread of classism in the CEO Loki/Blue Collar Thor trends, it has not arisen entirely or even primarily from the fandom itself, which is to some extent just casting the two leading men in terms of what archetype they'd be modelling for on the cover of a romance novel. which is largely built - i suspect - from the visual presentation of the characters in the original movie(s). whether there's classism in those choices by the filmmakers i will leave as homework a thought experiment for the reader, because there clearly is but i don't want to say that i wouldn't want to take this baseless theory too far.

[limielle]

"why do u never draw byleth smiling" bc they do not smile in my head

[fruitsyrups]

Wait okay I'm a little bit curious about something

[sanremengoni]

.

[fishyfishyfishtimes]

Only 24 hours left on this thing! Before you mention it coils as limbs a la Bad Guys and Disney Robin Hood is option 1 UU

I'm once again asking the important questions!

[bramblepatch]

anyway decided to rewatch Lilo & Stitch (2002) tonight and I think an underrated element of the family motif is that for all that Jumba spends the first two thirds of the movie insisting that Stitch has no purpose except destruction and no capacity to connect with other people, the moment they start cooperating it's obvious that Jumba and Stitch have exactly the same sense of humor, along with a distinct physical resemblance and a lot of the same mannerisms. Jumba put a lot more of himself into his masterpiece than he wants to admit.