#Cemetery Without Crosses

[sacredwhores]

Robert Hossein - Cemetery Without Crosses (1969)

[zstartrixxx]

𝐏𝐔𝐍𝐈𝐒𝐇𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝑨 𝑴𝑶𝑵𝑺𝑻𝑬𝑹. (𝒀𝑶𝑼'𝑽𝑬 𝑺𝑬𝑬𝑵 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑩𝑼𝑻𝑪𝑯𝑬𝑹)

²⁰⁰⁰ˢꜝʳᵉᵐᵐᶦᶜᵏ ˣ ᶠᵉᵐꜝʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ

𝐑𝐄𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐒𝐓: 𝐘𝐄𝐒 | 𝐍𝐎

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: On a night of apparent peace, you answer the door of the rented house to a stranger who swears up and down that he also leased the very same property... It's not what you're imagining. 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒: TO CELEBRATE OUR 200 BILLION FOLLOWERS IN STYLE (kskskskskksks now seriously: tkysm for the 200 followers, it's been a little over a month since i created this blog with face, heart and courage to post my fanfics without any grand expectations, so everything that's happening is fucked up :)

i’m humbly offering this fic that i affectionately call a 'FUN-FANFICTION'—funnier, silly and way more chaotic than my usual smut-heavy or over-the-top dramatic plots. think of it as your post-chill pill after a long day!!! to everyone reading this: thank you for your time, your love, and for being here. i adore you as much as i adore jackie's chars. <3 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: +18 ADULT CONTENT. vampirism & gore (bite and blood), smut: oral (m!receive) and unproteced penetration, a lil' bite of monsterfucker; weirdo!remmick (he's a really freaky here idk :) lmk if i forget smt ;) 𝐖𝐂: 3.5k for whoever is going to read it, a great read! <3 likes, reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated :)

𝖱𝖤𝖬𝖬𝖨𝖢𝖪 𝖯𝖫𝖠𝖸𝖫𝖨𝖲𝖳 | 𝖬𝖠𝖲𝖳𝖤𝖱𝖫𝖨𝖲𝖳

"i wanna to watch the way, you creep across the night sky. you slowly enter, because you know my room; and then you crawl your knees off and then you shake my tomb..." (you've seen the butcher, deftones).

"A monster cannot be loved...

I always believed this with the same fervor as my faith in the saints and gods that surrounded me since childhood, when my parents took me on morning walks to the cemetery to honor those who came before me - from whom all wisdom originated. My great-grandmother's imposing marble mausoleum, with a winged guardian angel crushing a serpent's head, was my favorite place to be. That was a long time ago. My life changed when—"

A noise snapped you out of your trance.

You were surprised—you weren't expecting anyone at that house. You looked at your laptop clock: it was past nine in the evening. You raised your eyes to the window in front of you, facing the neighbor's house, the glass speckled with raindrops. The noise continued—someone was frantically twisting the doorknob, almost desperately, then stopping for a few seconds, making you think you were finally alone again—only for the noises to return, now more intense: fists pounding against the door, a deep voice in the background shouting "Hey!", completely breaking your concentration. You rolled your eyes, slamming your laptop shut, walking the short distance between the kitchen and living room, grabbing your fluffy white robe thrown over the back of the couch, to peer suspiciously through the peephole, trying to see who could be there at this hour on an ordinary Wednesday night in the middle of the rain.

A shadow passed by, obstructing your view. With no light on the porch, the faint glow from the quiet street only revealed outlines and shadows. With your palms flat against the door, you were startled by another violent shake, the deep, affected voice invading through the door crack:

"Hey! Open up! Let me in... Shit!"

You frowned, one hand on the metal doorknob and the other on the key, wondering if it was wise to open it for whoever was outside. You couldn't take another loud knock, long and insistent, turning the key in the lock with a click, twisting the knob, opening the door to find a drenched man just inches away from you. Holding onto the security chain that limited your field of vision, the man's face lit up with relief, arms crossed, raindrops falling from his brown almost black hair as he peered into the house with those dark blue eyes:

"Miss, sorry for the hour, but there must have been a mistake..."

"What mistake?" you asked, genuinely curious, looking him up and down: casual clothes, a black hoodie with the hood down, navy blue jeans, scuffed sneakers, and beside him a military-green camping backpack with what looked like a string instrument case leaning against it. You stared at him again, even more intrigued by the strange visitor, who was rubbing his hands together:

"Look, I don't want to sound weird or anything, miss, but this must be a mix-up! I rented this place for a few days to stay for a couple weeks, but when I got here, I couldn't find the key anywhere and, well... Now seeing you here, I think we've got a problem."

"Are you sure it's this house?" you asked, raising an eyebrow. He widened his eyes, nodding - pulling a worn leather wallet from his pants pocket, fishing out a crumpled piece of paper from between a wad of crumpled bills, extending his slightly trembling hand to you, likely from the cold. Behind him, the rain intensified, splashing onto the poor guy and onto you; the stranger pulled up his hood, casting his striking features into noisy darkness. You shrugged, taking the paper between your fingers, stepping back to smooth it out and read its contents under the indoor light, aloud:

"Blah-blah-blah... Temporary tenant Remmick... Blah-blah-blah, Zero-Six Street... Hmm, authorized stay from today until... Granted permission to occupy hereby..." You looked up at him, startled. The stranger—or rather, Remmick—raised his eyebrows at you:

"Believe me now?"

"Okay, fine... But what do we do?"

"Look, I don't want to be pessimistic, but this town is one of those weird ones where taxis only run at certain times and specific places, and the cabbie who dropped me off said I either walk back or find somewhere to stay... And with this rain, it'd be pretty shitty to leave me out here."

"Are you really sure you want to come in?"; Your voice came out dark, a glint passing through your eyes. An enigmatic little smile appeared at the corner of the man's lips as he lowered his hood again, putting on a pleading expression with puppy-dog eyes:

"Just one night, miss. Just so I don't catch a cold. One night—" He raised an index finger, flashing a convincing little smile: "—one night, and I promise I'll be a ghost to you. You won't even notice I'm here."

Your eyes shifted from him to the unrelenting rain behind him.

You glanced over your shoulder, where that empty house seemed to invite you to take in this poor guy, who wasn't to blame for his bad luck. In the end, you'd both come out ahead, right?

Convinced, you nodded affirmatively, unlatching the chain with a click. Before Remmick could enter, you stopped him once more, a hand extended, fingertips lightly brushing his chest, your eyes piercing into his, which gleamed with a hot-blue intensity as they locked onto you:

"Are you absolutely sure you want to come in?"

"Absolutely, miss. Don't ask me twice..." He shrugged as he stepped past you, carrying his things inside. Before closing the door, you took one last look at that street of houses with only a few lights on, a desolate place almost lost in that small town.

The night would be long.

Remmick didn't shut up for a single second. But it didn't bother you at all—quite the opposite. You were genuinely interested in what he had to say, the stories about failed gigs—while refilling another mug of cheap wine you'd found in the fridge—he told you about the time the band's car broke down in the middle of the highway:

"...I swear to God! There I was with the guys when boom!, the tire blew. We got out, in the middle of absolute nowhere, on one of those dirt roads connecting Nevada to California, you know? And the worst part..." He started laughing at the memory, the two of you sitting on the three-seater couch in the living room, the tube TV tuned to MTV, where nu-metal videos played. Remmick had showered, radiating warmth that smelled like chamomile and mint shampoo. He wore a simple black t-shirt that revealed a tattoo on his right inner bicep, gray sweatpants, barefoot—completely at ease, as if you were old friends reuniting after time apart. 

He sipped his wine. You laughed:

"And the worst part was what?" Sitting beside him, you'd taken advantage of his shower time to change into your pajamas: an oversized band t-shirt, black cotton shorts, the robe still covering the more exposed areas. Even so, every now and then you caught a pair of ocean-blue eyes glancing at you, trying to catch a glimpse of skin through the robe's opening or your slightest movement. Remmick wiped a trickle of wine from his chin:

"The worst part was that we stopped right in front of one of those roadside motels. But not just any motel—one of those for couples, you know? And there must've been an orgy or something going on, because it was fucking awkward..."

You burst out laughing, trying to picture the scene.

Remmick joined in, his laugh open and booming, full-bodied. He was slightly drunk and an open book: in less than two music videos and two mugs of wine, he'd already told you why he was here, about trying to go on the road with his little band, but his day job got in the way—so he had to choose between the band or work. And there he was, about to play a series of shows that, according to him, would "change his whole career." He was excited, hopeful, his eyes gleaming as streaks of blood-yellow light reflected in his irises, his teeth glowing under the TV's anise-colored light during pauses, his black hair still shiny with dampness. He was too human to seem like a weirdo... Even if some of his stories sounded far-fetched.

Remmick finished shaking his shoulders, his laughter fading as he turned back to the TV, where the opening chords of Be Quiet and Drive (Far Away) began, Chino Moreno's face flashing on screen as the guitar riff exploded. Remmick started nodding his head slightly, humming along to the first lines. You smiled, half-admiring his spontaneity.

"Is this the kind of music you guys play?" you asked, drawing his attention back to you. Remmick grinned proudly, his eyes never losing their sparkle. He downed the rest of his wine in one gulp, setting the mug on the wooden coffee table cluttered with magazines and knickknacks:

"If I weren't so obvious and were more mysterious, it'd be cooler, huh...?"

"What do you mean?" You narrowed your eyes, mimicking his gesture, setting your own mug aside. Remmick glanced at it, commenting offhand:

"You haven't even touched your wine properly—scared of me?" He laughed, half-sarcastic, leaning back into the couch, his gaze heavy-lidded as you turned more toward him, knees pressed together, pointed in his direction. Your eyes traced the lines of his body—not muscular but defined, a subtle bulge between his legs making your throat go dry... Desire.

Remmick was fucking hot, and you were lucky this misfortune had happened with him.

His eyes were penetrating, and in that sepia light between pale yellow and steely blue, they were beautiful. His face was handsome, well-defined and masculine, his hair looked so soft—not to mention that prominent nose, large and slightly upturned, those full, kissable lips, and hands that, if they knew how to play an instrument, your mind concluded, would know how to touch anyone like no one else. And that desire burned through you—you were starved... for touch.

The man was still focused on the frenetic music, the singer's voice gently penetrating your ears. You answered him, your eyes never leaving his:

"It's not fear, it's just... thirst for something else."

"What... something?" he asked, his breath hitching slightly, watching you with curiosity. You pressed your lips together in a smile, stretching as you turned back to the TV, avoiding his gaze:

"A little something I'm not sure I should mention..." You played coy, wanting to provoke him. Remmick slowly adjusted himself on the couch, caught between curiosity and challenge, his lazy grin widening as he stared at you in that half-light from the kitchen lamp mixing with the TV's glow, replying in a teasing tone:

"You're a bold one, you know...? Don't even know me, don't know if I'm a potential serial killer." You laughed, disbelieving. Biting your lip, you shook your head:

"No, Remmick, I'm not afraid of you at all."

"Well, you should be!" he exclaimed, jumping up to stretch, yawning as he checked the digital clock in the kitchen: "Jesus, it's past midnight. Better hit the sack..." He shot you a look full of expectation: "...you too, 'I'm-Not-Afraid-Of-You-Remmick'!" He laughed mockingly, but with an air of suggestion: "Maybe I'll leave my door open... just in case I need something."

"Fine, Mr... 'You-Should-Be-Afraid-Of-Me'—" You made a face, matching his look, your smile widening further: "—maybe I'll come running under your covers, hide from the Boogeyman."

"Or from me..." He shrugged, already heading for the stairs leading to the bedrooms. You snorted a laugh, watching the next music video start. You threw a dangerous glance at the man already climbing the stairs, step by step, his eyes gleaming as his smile seemed to drip for you.

Calling you.

You looked away, keeping your eyes on the TV, pulsing and vibrating with the possibilities of this surprisingly eventful night. He flirted in a weird little way that got to you more than it should have.

Remmick did wait for you, awake in that narrow guest bed, between the closed window's sound of dripping rain and the noise of his own thoughts, hands resting on his chest as he lay in the dark room, thinking of you. Only a sliver of harsh yellow light came from the hallway through the slightly ajar door. Then he heard your footsteps, heavy, coming up the stairs—you'd taken about an hour to finally come up, whatever you'd been doing downstairs in complete silence—or maybe his thoughts were just too loud for him to notice.

Slowly, you stopped at his door, opening it with a soft creak that made him smirk, a small smile appearing on his lips as the warm light entered with you, leaving you both in that half-light where anything could be hidden. But he could still see your face, soft and relaxed, the way you wet your lips and shed your robe, revealing yourself completely naked to him. Remmick shuddered, his mouth watering with desire, already sitting up in bed as you slowly crawled toward him, across the sheets, the mattress springs squeaking, his heavy breathing louder than the rain outside. Then your voice came out, feline:

"You really waited for me, hmm? Really left your invitation open for me to come into your room..." You stopped in front of him, sitting on his knee, your hands beginning to trail up his shins to his knees. Remmick closed his eyes, lethargic, the wine's effect mixing with the arousal growing inside him. You laughed, climbing higher until you were face-to-face with him:

"Remmick, Remmick... What a pleasure to have you as my guest tonight!" you teased, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, his hands touching your skin, sending a shiver through him at the temperature contrast—maybe because you were naked in the cool air while he was in that furnace of a room—parting his lips and closing his eyes, asking for a kiss. But you didn't give him what he wanted. Instead, you licked him, laughing at the face he made, dragging yourself down his torso until you were between his legs:

"Will you let me suck you, Remmy?" The nickname came out casual, intimate, playful. The man didn't hesitate, nodding immediately. With a quick move, you were off the bed, pulling him toward you, kneeling, your sharp nails scratching at the waistband of his sweatpants, stripping him of both pants and white underwear, already wet with pre-cum, taking his soft, warm cock in your hands.

Never breaking eye contact, he eagerly pulled off his shirt in one motion, revealing a cross tattoo on the right side of his waist—a detail that made you even wetter—and you started low, sucking his balls with delight, watching him melt and moan, his hands gripping the mattress tightly as you licked from the base to the red, wet tip, begging for attention, thick and relatively large, stopping right at the head to ask:

"Is this how you like it, Remmy?" Then you took just the glans into your mouth, hearing him gasp heavily, your tongue swirling around it in circles. Remmick almost laughed from pleasure, nodding, one hand already buried in your hair guiding your movements, almost fucking your mouth with thrusts, which you opened and let him enjoy—because his pleasure was yours.

Laughing after he thrust deep, making you gag slightly, pulling back completely soaked and drooling over his cock, he said breathlessly:

"Fuck, woman, like this I'm gonna come too soon... What a magical little mouth!" He caressed your face with one hand as you stood up, pushing him back onto the bed:

"That's because you haven't seen anything yet, Remmy. Haven't seen anything."

He laughed, flirtatious, his hands already claiming your thighs as you, unhurried, positioned yourself over him, never breaking eye contact—Remmick was being very well served, groaning roughly:

"So fucking wet for me, holy shit," his face twisting in pleasure, eyebrows knitting together, lips parting in a broken smile, prominent canines showing. You laughed, grinding aggressively on top of him, grabbing his hands and pinning him down. He groaned beneath you: "So tight, shit, if you keep riding my cock like this I'm gonna come—"

"Then come, Remmy—" Desire was blinding you, your dominant hand going to his throat, watching his Adam's apple rise and fall, his eyes closed, breathing fast, a trail of saliva escaping the corner of his lips.

"Fuck..." Roughly, he thrust up into your pussy. You bent over him, loosening your grip slightly, licking his neck, whispering suggestively:

"Can I suck you here, Remmy?"

"Shit, yes, do whatever you want to me... Just let me come..." he begged, his hands now free from your grip holding your waist, his mouth latching onto the exposed side of your neck, yours doing the same where the arteries pulsed. Remmick felt all his lust spill into harsh thrusts into your pussy, long spurts, while his teeth bit into you.

And yours did the same.

You moaned, strangled by pain and pleasure, blood welling from the bite, flooding your mouth; Remmick let out a guttural cry, eyes closed, feeling that burning frenzy of orgasm, his mouth slack, tasting something... metallic, rancid-sweet, then back to the pungent tang of copper. When he opened his eyes, you were above him, your hands pinning his shoulders to the mattress, your mouth full of blood. Horror crossed his face as the burning intensified, throbbing.

It felt like blades plunging into his skin, deep, lacerating, metallic. Blood, the nauseating smell of it, sticky, and panic filling him as he thrashed beneath you—still inside you—as you laughed, mouth dripping with his blood, staining him further.

"What the fuck!? What kind of monster are you!?" he managed to choke out, trying to break free from your grip, which was stronger than his. When he looked at you again, in that yellow-blue light, the plastic warmth from the hallway mixing with the night's darkness, the rain outside growing heavier, seeming to drown out his screams:

"Well, I did ask you twice if you wanted to come in—" you whispered, putting on an innocent face, bending over his chewed jugular, which gushed bright red blood onto the white sheets and his pale skin, licking up that delicious liquor, spiced with his fear and pleasure: "—and twice you said you did. And you let me suck you, Remmy... Suck you! Oh, poor little thing..." You straightened up again as his eyes lost focus, dull at the edges, lips darkening, his convulsions becoming more random and spaced out.

You knew exactly what you were doing.

Remmick was dying as beautifully as he came, that much was certain. His flavor was rich and exquisite on your palate, sharpened by the fear that had shocked him, diluted in intense orgasm. Simply divine.

Monster.

Could a monster be worthy of love?

"Can a monster be loved?" The question was almost rhetorical.

The unhappy little laugh came from deep in your throat, hoarse and almost dry. In the background, a song played on the convertible's radio, wind whipping across your cold faces, sunglasses on despite the night, sharp smiles, your claw-like nails tapping the car door as Remmick drove, humming along to the lyrics:

"Pleased to meet you... Hope you guess my name, oh, yeah! But what's puzzling you... Is the nature of my game, oh, yeah!" He glanced at you over his sunglasses, his blue eyes glinting in that scarlet light just for you. He wore a leather jacket, corpse-pale hands on the wheel, a sly smile, while you admired the creature you'd created that night full of surprises. Remmick began to speak, his voice calm, his expression contemplative:

"Once, I was seduced by a monster, who punished me severely with the pain of death... But after taking what she craved—my blood and my pleasure—she offered me the greatest gift anyone could accept in this miserable life. Even if the hatred for death poorly announced catches up with us, darling, yes, I believe we can love... In our own way. We're punished by our desires, but whatever... In the end, it was worth giving you what you wanted."

"Blood?" you guessed, throwing a look past him, across that huge bridge full of cars, your suitcases and his guitar case in the backseat. Remmick gave a sly, self-satisfied smile, carefully adjusting his leather jacket sleeves, his hair blowing in the wind, exuding sex and bloody fury on this night that, for the two of you, was only beginning:

"No."

He stated, giving you a look, finally removing his sunglasses, revealing himself to you once more, fangs inviting:

"Eternity with a companion."

In the background, the radio's volume gradually rose...

"Tell me, baby, what's my name? Tell me, honey, can you guess my name?"

𝐅𝐎𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒: as you've probably noticed, i got drunk on references to the ultimate classics—interview with the vampire—which is why this fic plays fast and loose with the movie's canon. that said: I LOVED writing this because there's something delicious about imagining a human, fragile remmick who—poor bastard—gets wrecked by his own desires.

[barnesonly]

Half-return

dad!bucky barnes x reader (implied)

trope: absolute angst.

summary: your daughter skips school to visit Bucky’s — her father’s — grave.

word count: 1499

A/N: Oh gods, I actually made myself cry while writing this. I imagine this happening in 2010’s, reader was pregnant when her and Steve fell into ice. I might write part two one day, let me know what you think! Also this is heavily inspired by this song.

The cemetery was quiet that morning.

No birdsong, no wind. Just the gentle crunch of gravel under small, determined footsteps. Her backpack bounced against her spine with every step, heavier than usual — not because of books, but because of the secret folded in the front pocket.

A homemade card. Pink construction paper. Crayon hearts. A little drawing of a man she never met.

She hugged her hoodie tighter around herself as she walked between rows of graves, her sneakers brushing against wildflowers that hadn’t been cut back yet. The sky hung low with heavy clouds, soft and gray, like the world was holding its breath.

She knew where he was.

She didn’t need help finding it anymore.

James Buchanan Barnes.

1917 — 1945.

Beloved friend. Cherished soldier. Never forgotten.

The letters on the stone were starting to wear a little. She ran her fingers across the name like she always did, just to feel it. She imagined his hand might’ve felt rough like the stone, big and strong and warm if she ever got to hold it.

She glanced around — empty. No one saw her. No one followed.

“I skipped school,” she said quietly, her voice too small for the sky. “I’m not supposed to. But I needed to see you.”

She sat down cross-legged in front of the headstone, brushing some leaves away from the base. Then she opened her backpack and carefully pulled out the card, like it was treasure.

“I made this at school,” she whispered. “Everyone was making cards for their dads. And I didn’t know what to do at first… but then I made this for you.”

She set it down gently against the headstone, the crayon hearts already smudging a little from the mist in the air.

“I just wanted to come alone this time… Without mommy… I wanted you to myself today.” She smiled, just barely. Her chin trembled.

She picked at a thread on her sleeve, then leaned forward like she was telling a secret.

“They gave us this math test yesterday,” she said, nose wrinkling. “I didn’t do so good.” She frowned for a second, like she was scolding herself. Then she glanced up at the headstone and shrugged.

“But… I think you wouldn’t have minded. Mommy says you weren’t great at math either.”

There was a small pause, and she plucked a piece of grass, twisting it between her fingers.

“My teacher, Miss Carr, she’s always talking about heroes. She says we’re supposed to write about one for this essay thing. I picked you.” She smiled again, a tiny, proud thing.

“Even though you’re not in any of the books at school. I had to ask Mommy a bunch of stuff so I could write about you right. I said you were brave and kind and that you protected people. And that you fell off a train ‘cause you were trying to save people. I think you would’ve liked that part.”

Her voice wavered a little at the end, but she pushed through it.

“They all picked people like Captain America… Or other Avengers… or firefighters. But I picked you. ‘Cause you’re my dad. Even if you’re not… here.”

She reached out and adjusted the card again where it leaned against the stone, like it needed to stand straighter.

“I think maybe you would’ve walked me to school. Or helped me with spelling. I bet you’d tell really funny jokes that made Mommy roll her eyes but laugh when you weren’t looking.”

A soft gust of wind blew her hair into her face, and she tucked it behind her ear absentmindedly.

“Sometimes I see kids with their dads, and I wonder if you’d be like that. Or if you’d carry me on your shoulders even though I’m not that little anymore. Mommy says you’d love me so, so much.”

Her throat tightened.

“I think I’d love you too.”

She was quiet for a long time after that. Just sitting, legs curled beneath her, fingers tugging at grass. The wind picked up a little, brushing against her cheek like a hand that wasn’t there.

Then she spoke again, even softer than before.

“Uncle Steve told me you’d always protect him from bullies when he was younger…” Her voice cracked, just slightly. “I wish you were here to help me like that now. I’d really need it.”

She blinked fast and looked up at the sky, like maybe if she didn’t look at the headstone, the sting in her eyes would stop.

“There’s this girl at school who always laughs when I get answers wrong. She says I’m weird. She makes fun of my shoes, and my backpack, and one time she called Mommy weird ‘cause she always looks tired.”

She sniffled and wiped her nose with her sleeve.

“I didn’t tell Mommy. I don’t wanna make her sad. She’s got enough worries. But I thought… if you were here, maybe you’d wait outside school for me. And if she said something mean, you’d just look at her and she’d stop.”

She smiled at the thought. A sad, flickering smile.

“Uncle Steve said you were like that. That no one messed with him when you were around.”

She traced the edge of the headstone with her finger again, slow and gentle.

“I really wish you were around.”

She sat still for a while, eyes locked on the card like it might fix everything just by being there. The crayon lines were running now — little streaks from the mist or maybe her fingers, she wasn’t sure.

Then suddenly, it hit her.

The weight.

The emptiness.

The truth.

Her lip trembled. She looked down at her knees, then back at the stone. And the words tumbled out in a breathless rush—broken, cracked, helpless.

“I don’t even know why I came here alone…” Her voice shook, barely holding on. “I always come here with Mommy but… I wanted to talk with you alone. I…”

Her small hands curled into fists against her jeans.

“I realized I don’t have a single memory with you. None.” Her shoulders started to shake. One sob slipped out before she could stop it.

“I don’t know your voice. Or your laugh. Or how your hugs feel. I don’t even know what your hands looked like.”

Tears spilled over now, hot and silent at first, then building until they came in waves.

“And I… I just really wanted to have one. Just one memory. Just you and me, Dad.”

She covered her face with her hands, sobbing into the quiet.

“I came here so I could pretend. Just for a little bit. That you’re here. That you’re real and you’re listening and… and that I’m not alone.”

The card fluttered a little where it leaned against the stone, caught in the wind like it was reaching for her.

She sniffled, dragging her sleeve across her face, and then — barely above a whisper:

“Mommy misses you so much.”

She didn’t look up. Just spoke into her knees, into the earth.

“She tries to be strong… but it hurts her. I see it.”

Another tear fell, but slower now. Heavier.

“She cries when she thinks I’m asleep. Sometimes I hear her say your name. Sometimes she just sits in the kitchen with the lights off.”

She looked up at the grave, eyes red and full of something bigger than a ten-year-old should ever have to carry.

“I don’t think she ever stopped loving you. I don’t think she ever will.”

She reached out again, touching the stone like it was his hand.

“Neither will I.”

She sat like that for a while — still, small, and hurting — until her legs began to ache. Slowly, she unfolded from the grass, stiff and heavy, like every part of her was tired.

She looked down at the card, bent from the wind but still standing. She knelt and adjusted it carefully, pressing a small rock against the corner so it wouldn’t blow away.

Then she reached into her pocket and pulled out something small — just a string bracelet, all crooked and uneven knots, the kind only a kid could make.

“I made this in art class,” she whispered, holding it in her palm for a second. “It’s not… very good. But it’s yours.”

She laid it beside the card, fingers lingering for a moment before pulling away.

Standing again, she looked at the grave, at the name carved so deep it would never fade. And even though her face was blotchy and red, her voice was steady — shaky, but trying.

“I have to go now.”

She hugged herself tightly.

“Mommy’s gonna be mad I skipped school. But I just… I needed this.”

A pause.

“I needed you.”

The wind rustled the trees above her, and she looked up, eyes shining.

“I’ll come back soon. I promise.”

She stepped back, wiped her cheeks one last time, then raised her fingers to her lips, kissed them and pressed them gently against his name.

“Bye, Dad.”

Then she turned. And walked away.

The bracelet stayed.

The card fluttered quietly.

And the empty grave watched.

[pandapetals]

Ain't No Grave

Chapter Seven: Nothin' Sweeter | previous chapter

Summary: A clicker bite should’ve ended your life. Instead, Joel made a brutal choice to save you. Now, one hand gone and your place in Jackson hanging by a thread, you're left to battle grief, survivor’s guilt, and the town’s growing fear.

Pairing: jackson!joel miller x fem!reader

Content warnings: angst, trauma, PTSD, pain, guilt, no y/n used, she/her pronouns, joel pov for a second, established relationship, jackson setting, ellie being supportive, teasing, banter, some fluff

A/N: divider by @saradika-graphics.

You padded into the kitchen early the next morning, the cold of the floorboards biting at your bare feet. The house was still, the kind of quiet that made you both uneasy and grateful.

On the counter sat a worn mug, steam curling faintly from it, and a folded scrap of paper with your name scrawled in Joel’s rough, unmistakable handwriting:

Patrol. Back soon. Get rest.

A small, crooked smile tugged at your lips before you even realized it. You picked up the note, your thumb brushing over the words like you could feel him in the paper. Despite everything — the distance you’d put between you, the anger, the nights you couldn’t meet his eyes — he still left you coffee. Still left you a note.

He still cared.

You folded the note carefully, like it might tear if you weren’t gentle with it, and set it aside. The warmth of the mug in your hand made your fingers ache, but you lifted it anyway. The first sip burned your throat in a way you welcomed.

It made you want to try. Not for him, not to prove something, but because you were tired of being this ghost of yourself.

You leaned back against the counter, the morning light cutting pale stripes across the floor, and let the past few months unspool in your mind.

This grief was different.

When you lost your family — the life you’d built before the outbreak — it was like the world itself had vanished overnight. Gone without warning, stolen, leaving you hollow, angry, and alone.

But this… losing your hand and who you thought you were was quieter. It wasn’t the world ending. It was you ending, piece by piece.

Maybe healing wasn’t about clawing your way back to who you used to be. It was about learning how to carry what was left.

You took another sip of the bitter coffee, letting the heat settle in your chest. Old memories drifted through your mind, and somewhere in the calm, an idea stirred.

A flicker of a memory — soft, dim, but still intact.

You were a kid. Eight, maybe nine. It was summer, the air thick and heavy with the scent of cut grass. Your grandmother had died that week, and your mother had gathered you and your cousins in the backyard. She’d lit paper lanterns that floated up into the night like tiny suns, carrying prayers and goodbyes.

It had been your first taste of grief. The first time you understood what it meant to lose someone and still have to wake up the next morning.

You couldn’t light lanterns anymore, not in this world, but you could do something else.

A small spark of purpose cut through the heaviness, and before you could talk yourself out of it, you set the mug down and made your way upstairs. The steps creaked beneath your feet, the familiar old sounds of the house comforting you.

This time, you felt it in your bones. Not desperation, but something steadier. A need to mark the loss. Not of your hand or usefulness, but of the version of you who thought she had to be whole to be loved.

You weren’t sure what form it would take yet. Maybe a note, a carving in the old oak behind the house, a piece of ribbon tied to a fencepost, but for the first time in months, you wanted to honor her.

The old you and say goodbye the right way.

Two hours later, you stepped off the porch and onto the leaf-covered street, the cool air sharp against your skin. The town was filled with the faint sound of wind rattling dry leaves down the road. You crossed the street toward the cemetery, the earth resting in quiet, uneven rows, old names fading from headstones weathered by years of loss. It seemed the only fitting place to bury the version of yourself you couldn’t carry anymore.

You clutched a small canvas tote in your hand, its weight heavier than it should’ve been. Inside were little things — pieces of a life you weren’t sure how to grieve until now.

A folded letter you’d written an hour ago in a rush, words jagged and uneven, addressed not to a person but to the part of you you’d left behind the night you were bitten.

A smooth, palm-sized charm Joel had carved from wood months ago. You remembered how he’d passed it to you without a word after a bad day, the grain of it worn soft from your fingers fidgeting with it in the dark.

A tattered photograph of your family, huddled together on a porch long since rotted and gone. You, smiling like you hadn’t yet learned the shape of grief.

You knelt by the crooked fence at the edge of the graveyard, the cool, damp dirt seeping through your jeans as you dug your hand into the hardened earth. You placed the pieces inside one by one—the letter, the carving, the photo—symbols of a girl who thought she had to be untouched by loss to be whole.

As you pressed the soil back, your throat tightened, dirt catching beneath your nails.

When it was done, you sat back on your heels, the wind tugging loose strands of hair around your face. 

“Goodbye,” you whispered, the word catching rough in your throat. A tear slipped down your cheek, warm against your chilled skin, leaving a faint, stinging trail as it fell.

The grief didn’t leave. The anger didn’t vanish. It still clung to the edges of your ribs, settled heavy in the corners of your mind, but something in your chest loosened, like a too-tight knot finally giving, if only a little. It would never be gone. 

But you could breathe again.

Instead of locking yourself away in the house like you had so many times before, you wandered into the square of Jackson. The afternoon sun cut through the lingering chill in the air, and you let it touch your skin for the first time in what felt like ages.

You closed your eyes and felt it settle into your bones.

The fountain splashing gently against worn stone filled the quiet space, and you sat there a while, listening, watching people move through town—hauling supplies, calling to one another—life happening around you.

A voice called out a minute later.

“There’s my favorite person,” Ellie grinned as she dropped down onto the bench beside you with a teasing nudge of her shoulder against yours.

You smirked, a small, real one. “Thought that was Tommy.”

Ellie snorted. “Tommy’s a close second, but you don’t talk about old-man back pain every ten minutes, so you win.”

A laugh slipped from your lips before you could stop, and it felt good.

The two of you sat in easy silence for a beat, the sun's warmth cutting through the tension that had lived under your skin for months.

Ellie rocked back on her heels, glancing sidelong at you. “You, uh… wanna help me out at the greenhouse? They got me movin’ seedlings or some shit. Could probably use a hand.”

Her words weren’t pity. And maybe an hour ago, they would’ve made your stomach drop, sent you spiraling into that same dark place you’d lived in for months.

But now… as you glanced down at the sleeve pinned neatly against your side, where your hand used to be, you didn’t feel fragile.

Not broken. Just… here.

You nodded, the ghost of a smile tugging at your mouth. “Yeah… yeah, I’d like that.”

Ellie’s grin split wider, bright and mischievous, as she sprang up from the bench. “Cool. Race you there.”

“Hey,” you muttered, standing to follow, arching a brow at her. “Pretty sure it’s against town rules to pick on the disabled.”

Ellie snorted, already backing away toward the path. “Pretty sure it’s against town rules to be this slow.”

You shook your head, a real laugh breaking free, and started after her. 

You won the race, not by much, but enough to have Ellie doubling over dramatically, hands on her knees, pretending to catch her breath.

“Bullshit,” she panted, grinning. “You cheated somehow.”

“Uh-huh,” you smirked, wiping the sweat from your brow. “Guess it’s embarrassing to get smoked by the one-handed wonder.”

Ellie barked a laugh and flipped you off, then jerked her chin toward the greenhouse. “C’mon, slowpoke. They’ve got actual work for us.”

Inside, the air was thick and warm, rich with the scent of earth and damp leaves. Sunlight filtered down through the old, foggy panes of glass overhead, catching on dust motes and making the whole place feel soft, otherworldly.

You knelt beside a row of planters, the dirt cool and grainy beneath your fingers as Ellie handed you a tray of tiny, fragile seedlings.

And it was simple, really—clearing space in the soil, tucking roots beneath the earth, pressing the dirt down gently but firmly. The repetitive motion and the smell of damp soil on your skin made you feel at ease.

Ellie knelt beside you, softly whistling some old, off-key tune to herself as she worked the soil. The faint rustle of leaves and the warm hum of sunlight filtering through the greenhouse glass filled the air.

“Show-off,” she teased, nudging your elbow after you neatly tucked another seedling into place.

“Natural talent,” you shot back with a crooked grin.

She huffed a laugh but cleared her throat, sounding awkward in the quiet.

You glanced over at her, catching the shift in her expression — hesitant, like she was walking a line she wasn’t sure she should cross.

“What?” you asked, the concern slipping into your voice before you could help it.

Ellie shifted on her knees, tugging at a leaf as if it needed inspecting. “I’m not one to… you know, butt in,” she muttered, then blew out a breath. “But Tommy told me about you and Joel. The fight.”

She glanced sideways at you, her eyes catching yours, searching in that sharp, unflinching way Ellie always did.

Your chest tightened, the memory still raw, edges frayed and uneven. You exhaled, fingers trailing absently through the cool dirt before you, watching the grains sift between your knuckles.

“Yeah,” you murmured, voice low. “We… kinda got in an argument.”

Ellie didn’t say anything; she just kept her gaze on you. The soft rustle of leaves was the only sound between you for a long moment.

“I just…” You swallowed hard, the words tasting bitter in your throat. “I wanted to prove I could still be useful. Still be me. So I lied to him. Snuck out on patrol even though I knew I wasn’t ready.”

You sighed, the weight of it all pressing down on your ribs.

“I scared the shit outta him,” you admitted, voice rough. “And I think… more than anything, I scared myself.”

“You don’t gotta prove nothin’ to him,” she said quietly, plucking a leaf off a nearby stem and flicking it into the dirt. “Or to me. Or to anyone.”

“I realize that now. Thanks, kiddo,” you managed, bumping your shoulder against hers. 

“Anytime,” she murmured, flicking another leaf into the dirt.

You let the silence stretch between you. She’d told you those words before, thrown them out like careless lifelines when you were drowning and too stubborn to grab hold.

But now… now you let them land. Let them settle deep, seeping into your bones like sunlight through the old glass roof. You allowed yourself to believe them, if only for right now.

Ellie grinned, that crooked, lopsided one of hers that had pulled you back from the edge more times than she probably realized.

The sun had started to dip low in the sky, staining the horizon in soft streaks of gold and ash. You kept planting until the last seedlings were tucked into the earth, your fingers dirt-smudged and aching in a way that felt good, not to quiet the dark thoughts, but because you wanted to.

It felt like something.

Maria passed by not long after, calling out that they could use an extra hand at the stables, and without overthinking it, you offered. It wasn’t an obligation, or a distraction — just something you felt steady enough to do.

The scent of hay and leather hit you as you stepped inside, the soft sounds of horses shifting in their stalls, the occasional snort breaking the quiet. You moved through the space like you used to, muscle memory guiding you, grabbing reins, brushing manes, tightening straps. It wasn’t perfect, but it was yours again.

Maria came up beside you as you worked a knot loose from one of the horse’s manes. She held a brush in her hand, staring at the stall floor like it suddenly needed studying.

“I never did—” she started, voice lower than usual, words rough around the edges. “Apologize.”

You glanced over, brow lifting. “For what?” you asked, genuinely confused.

Maria took a long breath and pushed a hand through her hair, her gaze still fixed on the floor.

“For never coming to check on you,” she said quietly. “Tommy did. But me…” she trailed off, jaw tightening. “It wasn’t ‘cause of you. And it wasn’t ‘cause I thought you were dangerous.”

You stayed quiet, letting her finish.

She swallowed hard, then finally met your gaze. “It was ‘cause I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know how to look you in the eye without thinking about Sarah. Without thinking about what Joel would’ve done if he lost you, too.”

The words landed heavier than you expected. Your throat tightened, and you looked back at the horse, running the brush down its neck.

You nodded, forcing yourself to stay composed, to keep your hand steady as you brushed down the horse’s flank. The words sat heavy between you and Maria, and something in your chest cracked open in the quiet that followed.

You’d known this had shaken Joel. Of course, you had. You’d seen it in how his hands shook and his voice frayed at the edges when he told you he couldn’t lose you. Twice now.

But you’d never let yourself follow that thread to where it led.

To Sarah.

The realization settled in slowly and sharply, like a blade twisting between your ribs. You felt your heart sink, a cold ache blooming in your chest as the memories of that day came rushing back. The sound of his voice breaking when he found you, the terror in his eyes, raw and unguarded in a way Joel rarely let show.

And you really understood what it had cost him to carry that fear again.

Your throat tightened, tears stinging your eyes before you could stop them. You blinked hard, willing them back, but it was too late. One slipped loose, trailing down your cheek.

You wiped it away with the back of your hand, jaw clenched.

“I didn’t get it,” you murmured, more to yourself than Maria. “Not ‘til now.”

Maria nodded, her gaze dropping to the stall floor, the brush in her hand stilled against the horse’s coat. “It’s not my place,” she said quietly, her voice rough around the edges. “I shouldn’t’ve said anything. It’s not like I understand, or… was there. But Tommy was.”

She let out a soft breath, shaking her head, as if she was still second-guessing even bringing it up.

“He… told me. A little,” she added, eyes flicking toward you for a moment before she looked away again. “What Joel went through. What it did to him.”

You didn’t say anything. Just let the words settle deep in your chest.

Maria swallowed hard, fingers tightening around the brush. “Besides,” she murmured after a long beat, “you were grieving too.”

The words were simple, but they cracked something open in you. The quiet acknowledgment you hadn’t realized you’d needed.

You nodded as you swallowed down a lump in your throat. “Yeah,” you whispered. “I was.” 

And for the first time, it didn’t feel like weakness to admit it.

Grief.

It was a strange, unwieldy thing. You’d known how to grieve people. You’d done it before — clung to old photographs, half-faded memories, the objects they left behind that still smelled like them. You could hold onto those things. Talk to them in the dark. Build little rituals to make the ache manageable.

But no one teaches you how to grieve yourself.

There were no old sweaters to fold away. No favorite songs to avoid. No clean, linear path for mourning a version of you that no longer existed.

It lingered in mirrors you avoided, in sleeves that hung too loosely. In the things you used to do without thinking, now stumbling through like a stranger in your own skin.

You sat on the couch, a book balanced open in your lap, trying to focus on the tight lines of print. The words blurred together, your eyes skimming over the same paragraph without taking in a single sentence.

Your mind kept drifting, circling back to what Maria had said. To Joel’s face that night, the raw terror in his eyes when he’d found you lying in the snow with the clicker on you.

You flexed your hand, fingertips brushing over the edge of the page, grounding yourself in the texture of the paper. But it didn’t stop the heaviness from settling in your chest like it always did.

You weren’t grieving a hand. You were grieving her, the girl who ran headfirst into danger without second-guessing—the one who could still look at herself without feeling like something was missing. 

You sighed and closed the book, the soft thud of it in your lap louder in the stillness of the room than it should’ve been. The words on the pages hadn’t meant much anyway—just a distraction you couldn’t quite hold onto.

Burying those items earlier had helped in some small, unsteady way. It hadn’t erased the grief but loosened something in your chest, like a too-tight knot finally giving a little slack.

The problem was, you didn’t know what came next.

When you lost your grandmother, it felt like the world itself paused for a second. One long, aching moment where everything was quiet, heavy, and wrong. Then life had started up again. People moved on. And eventually… so did you.

But when the outbreak happened, it wasn’t like that.

The world didn’t just pause. It shattered.

You lost your brother that first night. Gone in a breath, in a scream you barely remembered. One minute he was there, and the next… you didn’t even have time to bury him.

Didn’t have time to mourn, to feel. There was only blood, fire, and the sickening sound of the world tearing itself apart.

You’d carried that with you, too. The grief you never gave yourself permission to hold. It had settled deep, buried in the marrow of your bones, in the corners of your heart, and you stopped visiting years ago.

Sometimes, you woke in the middle of the night, heart pounding, chest tight, air thick and sour in your lungs. No dreams you could remember. No memory to chase. Just a weight pressing down on your ribs like something had followed you out of sleep.

Maybe this was why.

When the world went quiet, there was no one else to fight, no disaster demanding your hands, breath, and will to keep moving. That’s when it surfaced. That grief you shoved down so far you thought you’d outrun it.

You leaned back against the couch, the book forgotten in your lap, pages fanned open like it had surrendered, too. The room was still, the only sound the faint crackle of the fireplace and the occasional wind rattling against the windowpanes.

It was strange, you thought, how a room could be so quiet and your mind so loud. A thousand tangled thoughts clawing at each other, memories bleeding together until you couldn’t tell what belonged to yesterday and what you’d carried for years.

Faces you missed—words you never said. Versions of yourself you’d buried.

The stillness pressed in, thick and heavy. But for the first time… you didn’t get up. Didn’t chase it away. You let it sit with you.

Joel had been somewhere else the entire patrol, and Tommy, to his credit, let it slide. He didn’t press. Just gave Joel a knowing look now and then, nudging Whiskey’s reins to keep pace while Joel’s gaze drifted toward the horizon.

Jackson was a speck in the distance, rooftops catching the last light as the sun sank low. But Joel’s eyes kept finding it, like he could see straight through the treeline to the house, to you.

The cold bit at his fingers, but he barely noticed.

His thoughts kept circling back to the way you looked that morning. Not broken exactly, but tired in a way he knew too well. That kind of bone-deep exhaustion you didn’t shake off with sleep.

He hated it. Hated how you carried it quiet, like you were doing him a favor by pretending it didn’t weigh a hundred goddamn pounds.

Joel wasn’t good with words. Never had been, but he could feel it in his chest, sharp and relentless — that ache to do something. To take it from you, piece by piece, if he could.

This wasn’t like patching a fence, clearing a trail, or putting down a clicker. You couldn’t shoot grief. Couldn’t swing a hatchet at the things clawing at your mind.

And it ate at him.

He adjusted his grip on the reins, jaw tight, the leather biting into his palm.

“Almost there,” Tommy called ahead, breaking the quiet. 

Joel nodded, gaze locked on the distant glow of home, his pulse settling into a steady, aching beat.

He wasn’t sure what he’d say when he saw you. Hell, what was there to say? Words didn’t fix this. Never had, and Joel wasn’t the kind of man who knew how to make ‘em count when it mattered.

But that didn’t stop the weight of it from pressing down on him with every mile closer to Jackson.

He’d been there. Waiting. Day after goddamn day, while you drifted farther away, locking yourself behind looks and silence and polite lies about being fine. And Joel let you.

Because what else was he supposed to do? Push you harder? Force it? He wasn’t built for delicate things. He was built to keep people alive. And you were still breathing. That counted for something, didn’t it?

It gnawed at him. Last night was the first time you’d let him hold you in months. The first time, you didn’t pull away when he reached for you. The thing that gutted him most was how relieved it made him feel. Like some selfish bastard who was grateful you hadn’t left him behind, too.

Joel’s jaw worked, teeth clenching tight as Jackson came into view, the warm lights in the windows flickering against the dusk.

Joel saw how Tommy kept glancing at him as they rode back through Jackson's gates. That look. He wore the same one when they were kids, after their old man had a bad day, or when Joel came home bruised up from a fight he shouldn’t’ve picked.

It was that same mix of worry, and I ain’t gonna say it, but you need to hear it.

Joel grunted, pretending to check the saddle straps as they reached the stables, but Tommy wasn’t buying it.

“You know,” Tommy started, swinging down from his horse and giving Joel a sidelong glance, “I’ve known you a long time, brother. I can see when you’re walkin’ around with your guts all twisted up.”

Joel scowled, dismounting, busying his hands with the reins. “Ain’t nothin’ twisted up.”

“Bullshit,” Tommy snorted, leaning against the fence post, his voice low enough to keep it private. “I ain’t tryin’ to get in the middle of your business. Just… don’t let your stubbornness make it worse.”

Joel didn’t answer right away. He stared out past the stables, the faint glow of the house windows visible in the distance. His chest ached in that deep, bone-heavy way he hated.

“I already fucked it up plenty,” he muttered.

Tommy sighed, his expression softening. “You didn’t, Joel. She’s still here, ain’t she? Means there’s somethin’ left to fix.”

Joel didn’t lift his head, but the words landed anyway. Settled somewhere under his ribs.

“Go home,” Tommy added, pushing off the fence after a beat. “You ain’t gotta fix it all tonight. Just be there. That’s what matters.”

And with that, Tommy clapped him on the shoulder once and headed inside.

Joel stood there for a long moment, the leather reins clenched tight in his hands, then finally turned toward the house, where the windows were still lit, and where you were waiting.

He’d been there. Every day. Quiet, sure. Maybe hovering more than you liked, but he hadn’t left. Not when you shut him out, not when you snapped at him, not when you pretended you didn’t need him.

Still, he kept wondering if it had been enough.

The words you’d thrown at him last night stuck like splinters under his skin, how you saw yourself now — broken, fragile, a burden. It made something sharp and ugly twist in his chest just remembering it.

Because you weren’t any of that. Not to him.

You were strong. Stubborn as hell. Fierce when you needed to be, soft when you let yourself. And to Joel, you were the best damn thing to happen to him since Sarah or Ellie.

That truth scared him more than he’d ever admit.

He missed your laugh. The easy way it used to slip out when he grumbled about your constant teasing. Missed the look you’d give him across the table when you were about to say something smart that you knew would get a rise outta him.

He missed the way you filled a room without trying.

And the thought that you didn’t see any of that anymore — that you thought less of yourself, like you weren’t worth stayin’ for — broke somethin’ in him. Quietly. Slowly. The way old grief did.

Joel exhaled through his nose, jaw tight as he descended the path toward the house. The sun sank low, painting orange and faded purple streaks along the horizon. People passed him on their way to dinner or home, nodding as they went, but Joel barely registered them.

He didn’t know what the hell he was gonna say when he saw you. He never did.

Every time he tried, the words jammed up in his throat, clumsy and too big to be useful. But last night… last night you hadn’t needed words. You hadn’t asked for some grand fix. Just comfort. Just someone to stay.

He rubbed a hand over his face as he pushed open the door, dropping his backpack to the floor with a soft thud and toeing off his boots. The house was quiet, the kind of quiet that immediately made his stomach tighten.

Maybe you weren’t here?

He moved through the entryway, slow and careful, as if he might disturb whatever peace the place held. The evening light poured in through the curtains, casting long, soft shadows over the floor.

And there you were.

Curled up on the couch, the last glow of sunset touching your face. A book lay open in your lap, forgotten, your hand resting across your stomach, your face slack in sleep—not haunted, not restless. Peaceful.

The sight of you knocked the air clean out of him.

It shouldn’t have. He’d seen you a thousand times. Laughing. Fighting, bloodied, or stubborn. But this quiet, unguarded version of you — it undid something in him.

Joel let out a long, steady breath, the tension in his shoulders easing for the first time since he’d left that morning. He crossed the room quietly, careful not to disturb the stillness that had settled around you.

He reached for the book resting open across your stomach, closing it gently, his fingers brushing the worn pages. He set it aside on the table, then crouched down, studying your face in the fading light—the soft rise and fall of your chest, the faint crease between your brow, even in sleep.

“Stubborn thing,” he murmured, a ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Without thinking, without hesitation, Joel slid his arms beneath you — one under your knees, the other around your back — and lifted you against his chest. You stirred, a slight sound leaving your lips, but didn’t wake. Your head tucked instinctively against his shoulder, and that simple, trusting weight unraveled something deep in his chest.

The house was hushed as he carried you upstairs, floorboards groaning under his steps. He carefully laid you down in the bedroom, pulling the covers around you and tucking them beneath your chin.

He sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, rough fingers brushing gently through your hair. His calloused thumb skimmed your cheek, and the warmth of your skin always comforted him.

He watched you briefly before leaning in to press a soft, lingering kiss to your temple.

“I’m right here, darlin’,” he whispered, even though you couldn’t hear it. “Ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

Then, with a sigh, he stood and padded into the bathroom, the quiet click of the door closing behind him.

Joel showered and dressed quickly, the warm water doing little to wash away the knot of worry sitting heavy in his chest. When he stepped out of the bathroom, the house was quiet, the kind of hush that felt thick with things unsaid.

He stood at the edge of the bed for a moment, hands flexing uselessly at his sides. An old, familiar war waged in his chest. This was your shared bed, your home, but after the way things had been, after how carefully you’d kept your distance these past months, he wasn’t sure if you’d want him that close.

He started to move toward the chair by the window instead, but then you stirred.

Your voice was soft, thick with sleep, tugging him back. “Nightmare?” you murmured, your eyes half-lidded as you shifted beneath the blankets, seeking him out.

Joel exhaled, the tension easing just enough to lean back onto the mattress. “No,” he muttered, voice rough around the edges, his eyes steady on yours in the soft wash of lamplight.

“You carried me to bed?” you whispered, the barest trace of a smile pulling at your lips, the heaviness of sleep still clinging to you.

“Couldn’t leave you down there like that,” Joel said, quieter this time. He reached out, his hand warm as his fingers brushed through your hair, tucking a loose strand behind your ear. “Couldn’t stay away from you neither,” he added, the words gruff but filled with tenderness.

“I never meant to push you away,” you said. “I just… didn’t know how else to be.”

Joel didn’t rush to answer. His thumb traced a slow line along your temple, his gaze holding yours like he could shoulder the weight of it for you.

“I know,” he said softly, no judgment in it—just quiet understanding, heavy with everything he hadn’t said. His hand cupped the side of your face. “I’m right here, darlin’. Always.”

A faint, tired smile tugged at your lips as you shifted closer, the blankets rustling softly between you. The ache in your chest eased a little.

“C’mere,” you whispered, your voice rough with sleep, your hand reaching out, fingers brushing his wrist.

Joel didn’t hesitate. He leaned in slowly, one hand cupping the side of your face, his thumb sweeping gently along your cheek. His touch was warm and steady, with a quiet promise in how it lingered.

His lips brushed yours — soft, unhurried, like he wasn’t chasing anything, just… there, pressing his grief and love and guilt into the space of that kiss without saying a word.

You sighed into the kiss, your hand fisting in the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer like you could fold yourself into him and leave the rest of the world outside the room.

Joel hesitated briefly before pulling back just enough to slip under the covers beside you. The mattress dipped beneath his weight, and the warmth of him chased off the chill in the air.

He tugged the blanket higher, cocooning you both in the hush of the room, then pulled you into his chest. His arm came around your waist, firm and sure, the other hand cradling the back of your head, his rough thumb tracing soft, absent-minded circles against your hairline.

“I got you, sweetheart,” he said, the words low and rough, barely more than a breath against your temple.

You closed your eyes, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt again. The ache inside you was still there — sharp around the edges, familiar — but it didn’t feel quite so heavy now.

You tilted your head, brushing soft, slow kisses across his jaw, his cheek, the corner of his mouth. Little unspoken promises. A thousand thank-yous you didn’t have the words for.

Joel’s breath caught, his hand tightening at your back for just a beat before his lips found your forehead, pressing a kiss there.

You felt safe. 

It felt like home.

taglist: @televangrl @burntsaltsblog @bowsnbang @yvonne-dump @salingers @unadulteratedcoffeetastemaker @amoooeba @lostinthestreamofconsciousness @bitchyfestnight @daddypascal17 @streamermattsgf @sunandmuun @silas-aeiou @underchaos

[karlachismylife]

Happy birthday, British man

A little collab gift for @on-a-lucky-tide from me and @gomzdrawfr since we heard a certain someone has his birthday this weekend :)

Hello Jack! Here’s a small gift from us, I hope you’ll have a pleasant weekend ahead, we love you 💛 - Gomz

You're a really good man, and I hope you realize how much respect and admiration we have for you. You make a much bigger difference in the world and our lives than you probably think. The world is so much better thanks to you in it ❤️🦍 - Juju

Happy birthday!

A tin can lands on his desk with a flat thud. Raising his exhausted eyes, Price stares at the dark mass that is Ghost with a gaze that would make mountains weep – but apparently the Lieutenant is more of a moody cemetery hill on a healthy diet of dead men or something, because he stares right back, unmoving, unfazed, with a dirty skull-faced bally covering everything but his eyes framed by frosty white lashes. Was probably doing a late drill with the rookies – smells like it, too; if the skin-tight shirt on him wasn’t black, there would be vivid dark spots of sweat marking a good workout.

Price would appreciate this equivalent of flirting on Simon’s part if it wasn’t for the overwhelming volume of paperwork he’d been dealing with for several days straight already – thanks to a new useless fucking bureaucratic invention of the paper rats up in the foodchain trying to justify the budget they hogged. With a heavy sigh, he runs his rough hand down his face, as if trying to wipe the sticky exhaustion off, and gives up, asking.

“Wot’s this.”

“Open it.” Very helpful of Ghost. There’s irritation bubbling up John’s veins; if his temper fuse was just an inch shorter, he would blow up on Simon and let out all the frustration on the Lieutenant and his sometimes fantastically inappropriate sense of humour – now is really not the time or place, not when he’s tired like an old race dog. But – he doesn’t; instead, Price grabs what looks like a beer can and cracks it open.

A forceful geyser of something colourful and sparkling shoots up, making him wince, and settles on his desk, shoulders and hat in an even layer of tiny paper confetti. Price blinks, still holding the now empty can, and slowly moves his stern gaze back up to Ghost towering over the unnatural disaster.

“Happy birthday,” Simon hits him with the same deadpan stare. There’s a pause.

“He forgot, didn’t he?” suddenly chimes in a smooth rumble with a familiar accent from the doorway – Ghost has to step aside with his broad shoulders to reveal Nikolai standing there, leaning on the frame with his arms crossed and a softly disapproving look in his smiling eyes. “I knew we should have intervened sooner. John, it’s your birthday, solnyshko, get out from that desk.”

John has to steal a glance at his watch to see the date – and it stings him in the back of his neck with some bitter realization that he indeed forgot completely. His birthday never seemed like a big deal to him, but the sharp, head-on imagery of him not noticing his own life passing – quite literally – while he’s wasting it on useless paperwork for assholes who don’t know how to be useful at all – feels like a sharp blade slashing his skin and letting hot liquid blood drain from his slouched form. Nik smells this metaphorical blood like a white bear in the vast icy desert and pushes off the doorframe, making his way to Price.

“Captain? How copy?” His big fingers with a faint smell of machine oil and iron tilt John’s chin up and carefully pick a blue confetti piece out of his beard. “Come, John. Lieutenant shall finish the paperwork for today, he knows how to forge your signature, right?”

Ghost lets out a calculated grunt – enough to confirm without directly incriminating himself – and walks around the desk from the opposite side of Nikolai, successfully capturing Price in a bear trap between them.

“Ya’re the only one with a birthday ‘ere, sir,” rumbles he with an underlying tease and leans down, pulling his bally up to let John feel his hot scarred lips against his ear. “Gotta celebrate for the three of us, eh?”

His close breath and a brush of a kiss prove enough to distract John in his sleep-deprived state, and before he knows, his prized boonie hat flies off his head to land onto Simon’s smug skull. He himself is pulled out of his chair by a pair of burly arms – very unceremonious of Nikolai – and thrown over a mighty shoulder.

“See you later, Lieutenant,” purrs Nik, patting outraged Price on his arse, and carries him out of the office just like that – ignoring every bit of objections falling from the Captain’s lips and rolling off the pilot’s broad back like sea waves roll off the big dark rocks in the ocean. The last thing Price sees, before Nik shuts the door behind them, is Ghost squeezing his fat arse into the desk chair and rubbing his big hands together, almost too devilishly delighted to take over the paperwork.

Price has no idea when they had the time to do all this – but back at home there’s a whole feast awaiting. Nik sits him down in front of the table and turns into a caricature of every grandma – especially a Ukrainian one – ever, filling John’s plate with a hot, savory meal. While Nik pours him some soup, he makes sure Price is chewing on a gloriously shiny pirozhok with cabbage and egg filling; after that – assembles a crisp sarnie to go with the soup, stoically withholding every commentary on English cuisine he has stuck on his tongue.

“You are not getting away from this table until I see you unbuckle your belt to breathe,” threatens he in a sultry, rumbling voice, kissing a crumble off the corner of John’s soft lips, and John has no choice but to grunt, stuffing his face with full, heavy spoons, watching from the corner of his eye as Nikolai assembles some kind of soft honeyed meat slices on a plate for the second course.

It seems though that it was Price who underestimated the degree of his hunger, because he clears out both plates and polishes it with a healthy little bowl of buttery potatoes before he actually starts to feel full. Nik comes to rescue – pushing a mug of black tea towards John, he slides his arms around his waist and undoes his belt, using this as an opportunity to slide his big palms under John’s shirt and pet his hairy belly, now healthier and rounder with proper food being processed inside. His hands stay respectful, without escalating the touch, but don’t go away either, as if Nikolai is mesmerized by the feel of John’s warmth in his arms and can’t make himself let go of this treasure.

“Makin’ me regret that last plate, Nik,” grumbles John a bit self-consciously, leaning his head back to find the man’s cheek and nuzzle it with a satisfied grunt.

“Bullshit. You’re beautiful,” Nikolai huffs, squeezing the softness of Price’s lower belly, and dips his head to kiss his throat. “I’m just trying to stay patient until Simon gets here. But you’re making it so fucking hard, John…”

“What am I making hard, hm?” Price chuckles – a soft, finally weightless sound, not burdened by the responsibilities and expectations of him he left in the office, and Nik almost growls in response, leaving a longer, wetter kiss on his neck, unable to resist this more relaxed Price. His big palm covers John’s eyes, forcing them to rest, and Price lets out a breathy sigh, feeling Nik’s lips slide over his slightly greasy from the stuffy cabinet work skin, badger-striped stubble teasing and prickling tender little folds around his neck.

“I see you turned the birthday boy into the birthday meal.” They both miss Ghost’s arrival, too busy with the long, sweet kisses – Nik doesn’t seem fazed at all, pulling back and brushing his thumb over John’s lower lip. When their eyes meet, Price feels the rumbling tired ocean inside of him get hit with a heavy thunder of love in Nikolai’s gaze, making the waves surge up into the skies and splash around like a fan made of water feathers. His breath stutters, and Nik smirks – a kind, just a little playful expression, before straightening up and finally letting Simon get an eyeful of slightly rosy, satiated, relaxed Price with adorably ruffled hair.

“Simon,” John tries keeping his voice straight and clears his throat, sitting up in the chair. “Good to see ya, uh…”

“He’s ready for cake,” announces Nik proudly, and Simon nods, pulling his bally off and landing a hasty kiss on Price’s cheek as he passes him on the way to the kitchen. There’s the sound of the fridge door opening and closing, rattling of cutlery, then silence and – a click of a lighter.

Nikolai stands behind John’s chair, peacefully taking out stubborn confetti pieces that got stuck in the fluffy strands, already having cleared out the space right in front of Price – and Ghost appears from the kitchen, gracefully clicking the light switch with his arse so that the little flames on a hefty round cake shine brighter.

“S dnyom rozhdenya tebya,” muses Nikolai the immortal tune, same for every language, and winks at Simon, who sets the cake on the table with poorly hidden pride. Price bites his lip for a second, almost panicking he has nothing to wish for – but then shakes it off and blows out the candles, leaving that distinctive smell in the air.

“Good job, luv,” mutters Ghost gruffly, as Nik goes to turn the light back on. There’s wonky, ugly icing writing on the cake – and light chocolate brown doesn’t flatter the little… caterpillars of letters at all. John doesn’t even need to guess: it’s clear that it’s a creation of Simon and his fingers with fucked up joints, probably shaking like crazy as he was squeezing something so different from a rifle trigger making this cake. “Ya like it?”

John looks at the cake again, squints, weighs the probabilities, and finally asks:

“Did ya draw a prick on me cake, Riley?”

Ghost scoffs, crossing his arms, and looks like a child who was told that his ugly ass scribbles won’t get the front placement on the fridge.

“That’s J for John, ya bastart,” grumbles he and reaches out, turning the cake around to show the backside. “Now this is a prick…”

Price doesn’t miss the absolute delight shining in Simon’s eyes as he presents his masterpiece, the whole poker face ruined by the small smile lines in the corners of his eyes. He almost calls out the cheeky bastard for it, but Nik distracts him with packaging rustling, and next to the cake there appear gifts.

The distraction works again – while John is busy looking through the presents, his partners work swiftly, clearing up enough of the table for the tea and cake part of the birthday party. Lifting his eyes from his dream rugby match tickets there was no chance for him to get, Price catches Nik pulling Ghost in by the back of his head and placing a soft peck on his mangled lips – and it feels like an even greater gift. There are others: a sharp new Swiss knife (“For your fishin’ trips, old man,” adds Simon, passing by with a hot teapot), a bottle of Scottish whiskey – no need to guess who it’s from, several books with a card signed by Kyle’s calligraphic handwriting and a quality beard brush with a nice wooden handle with a cheeky note from Kate.

“It got wonky after baking so there’s more filling on one side,” Simon’s low grumbling pulls John back to the dining table as he plops a generous cake slice on a plate and pushes it closer. “For your fat arse, sir.”

“Ya’re one to talk,” scoffs Price and gives Ghost a squeeze before reaching for the teaspoon, but Nik intercepts him and shoves the first cake bite into John’s mouth himself. “So tha’s the plan? Feed me till I can’t walk?”

Nik and Simon share a glance; Ghost shrugs and lets the sly Russian do all the talking.

“The plan is to do whatever the hell you want, solnyshko,” purrs Nik, picking up a rogue olive from the appetizer plate and throwing it in the air, catching with his mouth with disgustingly low effort, as if he didn’t even notice it. “Do you want to go out? Could dance the night away or get drunk… or what else do you Brits do to celebrate surviving another year.”

John opens his mouth, the answer ready on the tip of his tongue, and suddenly shrinks like an old balloon, rapidly getting into his head with a new heavy weight on his shoulders. From under his fluffy eyebrows, he casts a quick glance at his partners, worried they might have noticed the sudden change in his demeanor – but they stand there, both picking bits of his birthday meal, serene and relaxed, two steady mountains just waiting for his word, whatever it is – like they always do.

Simon’s jaw is unchlenched like it always is when they’re together at home, Nikolai exudes patience. They’re both waiting – with a calmness that slides off the slopes of their broad shoulders like warmed up buttery frosting off a spoon, leaving a greasy, smooth, sweet residue of a lack of expectations. Even the paraffin droplet sliding down the cheap birthday candle cools off and rests in place, stopping the fire clock timing John’s decision and letting him actually think what he wants.

He just wants to sleep.

There’s a voice inside him, pressuring him to live up to the demand to “celebrate for the three of them”, mocking Price for becoming a boring old man at such a young age, preferring his bed and blackout curtains to a nice party or at least a proper pub crawl – after all, his partners are ready to celebrate all night, why isn’t he?

But his eyelids are drooping and his headache just starts to get fucked from the first proper meal in quite a while, and the back of his head is actually itching to sink into the soft pillows. Price taps his fingers on the table near the teaspoon they fed him the first cake bite with and clears his throat before finally outing his deepest, darkest desire.

“Good,” just says Nikolai, cupping his cheek to wipe a smidge of icing with his thumb off the moustache, and starts gathering dirty plates. “Simon, take him to shower. I’ll join later.”

And just like that – Nik goes on to clean up the whole table, while Ghost sits next to Price, watching him eat his cake with a soft look on his face – his white lashes form a misty veil over his dark eyes, giving him a surreal, angelic look, enhanced by the messy slightly coiled blonde strands hanging onto his forehead. There’s a hidden, tamed fire in the brown depths of his irises – calmer than the devilish torches in Nikolai’s; both sharing that inexplicable burning adoration whenever they look at Price – a feeling he still struggles to accept he evokes and deserves.

He chews on the slightly dense sponge cake Simon baked for him, watching Nikolai’s huge forearms, bared from under rolled up sleeves and covered in long, dark fur, appear in his line of sight, pick up a few plates and disappear again – accompanied by a soft purring melody Nik’s humming under his nose. There’s something like an invisible warm blanket settling on his shoulders as he processes this whole birthday arrangement – the way warm breeze at the southern shores slowly covers one’s feet with little dunes of dry sand, a soft, ticklish, friendly feeling.

It doesn’t go away when Simon tugs him inside their comically small shower cabin – only grows as Ghost crowds him under the warm waterfall and brushes his scarred fingers through John’s heavy, darkening hair, massaging slightly pine-scented shampoo into the roots and running his hands over Price’s physique with reverence. Simon behaves – only letting something slip when he runs his palm down John’s shaped thigh, feeling the smooth, soapy skin under his wet fingertips; their freckles on pale skin align, as if they’re two parts of a mirky reflection of night sky in the windless surface of the ocean, and Simon lets out a raspy, shaky breath, squeezing John’s flesh and pressing their lips together in a spontaneous, blood-rushing, overwhelmed kiss.

“Easy, lad,” murmurs John, licking the warm, faintly chemicals-tasting water off his lips, unable to hide the flush in his cheeks from this kind of raw need for him. Ghost huffs and snorts under the water stream like a dog, resuming his devoted worship of Price’s body, rinsing him off and then wrapping in a warm fluffy towel. He helps to dry his rich chest fur and beard before simply picking John up and carrying his warm, softened by warm shower, hearty meal and overwhelming care body to their bedroom.

There’s an outrageously huge pillow nest on their bed, and Simon puts John in the centre of it, letting him sink into the supported softness before climbing in with him. It’s only when he pulls Price to his broad, hot chest with barely visible dusting of soft blonde curls, that John can feel how fast Simon’s heart is beating. Their hands find each other in the thick blanket mess, and John presses his ear to listen to the rapid heartbeat, still in awe that he’s the reason for that. Ghost’s big embrace envelops him, and scarred lips press to the top of John’s head, muttering something indistinguishable – like a doberman grumbles, expressing its undying love.

Price dozes off to this lullaby, missing the sound of the shower starting and ending again, and only stirs awake when the mattress dips under Nik’s weight.

“Happy birthday, my love,” whispers Nikolai, when John tosses and turns, seeking him blindly, and kisses his temple. “Rest. It is your day.”

His heavy arm wraps around John’s waist, the heat of his broad chest with rich dark fur pressed to Price’s side seeps into his tired bones, and finally Nik’s huge bear paw covers the lock of John’s and Simon’s fingers, to keep them warm and secure – all night.

John Price feels the sea waves sting his eyes and nose before he allows himself to soak in the peace and falls asleep, with the only expectation hovering above him being – the expectation to let himself be.

[princesseilish]

BLOOD MOON 4.

Vampire!Paige x Fem!Reader

Warnings: mentions of blood, stalking, obsession

Synopsis: paige's obsession with you is starting to crack, will you let her bite you?

Chapter Four: The Edge of Trust

The next morning was a quiet lie.

Birdsong filtered in through cracks in the windowpane like nothing had happened, like the world hadn’t shifted on its axis just hours earlier. But for Y/N, sleep had been a distant stranger, and her heartbeat hadn’t settled since Paige vanished into the night.

She’d stood by the window for hours after Paige left—watching, hoping.

But she didn’t come back.

And yet, something in Y/N had already changed. A thread had been pulled loose inside her, and now it was unraveling faster than she could stop it. Curiosity wasn’t enough to name it anymore. It was something deeper.

It was knowing.

Paige wasn’t human.

And somehow, Y/N wasn’t afraid of that.

She was afraid of what it meant.

Afraid of what it would cost.

Azzi didn’t speak to Paige for two days.

She didn’t have to.

Her absence was its own punishment—a silent, growing void that shadowed every step Paige took. Even when Paige tried to feed, tried to find a moment of control in the quiet act of survival, it tasted like ash in her mouth.

She couldn’t stop hearing Y/N’s voice. Couldn’t stop seeing her face when she asked, What are you?

Couldn’t stop wondering what would’ve happened if she’d just told her everything right there under the streetlight.

But she hadn’t.

And now the silence was catching up with her.

On the third night, Paige returned to the rooftop.

Y/N was already there.

She didn’t turn when Paige landed behind her—just kept her gaze fixed on the dark skyline, legs drawn up to her chest, hoodie pulled tight around her shoulders.

“You’re late,” she said softly.

Paige didn’t answer right away. “Didn’t know we had plans.”

Y/N smiled without looking. “We always do.”

That struck something deep inside Paige—something old, something buried.

“I wasn’t sure if I should come back,” Paige said, voice low.

“I wasn’t sure you would,” Y/N replied.

Silence settled between them, thick with everything unsaid. Paige stepped closer, the wind tugging at her coat, her eyes locked on the edge of Y/N’s profile.

She looked tired.

Strong, but tired.

“I’m not supposed to talk to you anymore,” Paige said.

“Why?”

“Because you saw too much.”

Y/N turned then, slowly, her eyes catching the faint glow of the city lights. “And if I hadn’t? Would you have kept pretending forever?”

Paige didn’t answer. She didn’t need to.

The answer was yes.

And they both knew it.

Y/N stood, crossing the rooftop until only a breath separated them. Paige could feel her heat, could hear the rush of blood beneath her skin—steady, unwavering.

“You’re dangerous,” Y/N said quietly.

Paige flinched.

“But not in the way you think,” Y/N continued. “You didn’t scare me, Paige. Not when you showed up without a shadow. Not when your eyes glowed in the dark. Not even when Azzi looked at me like I was already dead.”

She paused.

“You scared me when you left.”

Paige’s breath caught.

Y/N reached up, her fingers grazing Paige’s wrist—not quite a touch, but close enough to burn.

“So don’t lie to me,” she said. “Don’t run. If you want me to walk away, say it. Say it now, and I will.”

Paige stared at her.

And then, softly—

“I can’t.”

Y/N smiled, slow and sad. “Good.”

Later, when the moon was at its highest and the city slept beneath them, Paige told her more.

Not everything.

But enough.

She told her about the Others—those who ruled from the shadows, who fed without restraint, who had eyes and ears in every city. She told her about the blood pacts, about the history buried beneath cemeteries and old cathedrals. About why Azzi was sent to watch her, and what would happen if the wrong people found out what Paige had done.

What she had risked.

“What happens now?” Y/N asked.

Paige looked down at her hands. “That depends on whether you trust me.”

“I do.”

Too fast.

Too certain.

Paige looked up. “Why?”

“Because you’re terrified,” Y/N said. “And people who are trying to hide the monster they think they are? Usually aren’t the ones you need to worry about.”

Paige swallowed hard, the words catching somewhere between her ribs and her throat.

She didn’t deserve this.

Didn’t deserve Y/N’s belief, her calm, her faith.

But she wanted it.

And that made her dangerous.

Not to Y/N.

To everyone else.

Because now?

Paige had something to protect.

And she would burn the world to keep her safe.

The wind had teeth that night.

It slid through the narrow alleyways of the city like it was searching for something — or someone. Y/N pulled her jacket tighter, but it didn’t help. The chill wasn’t from the cold.

It was from the absence.

Paige hadn’t come back.

Not since that night under the streetlight, when Y/N asked the question no one was supposed to ask.

What are you?

And Paige had almost answered.

Almost.

But then she’d disappeared again — the way she always did — like a shadow retreating from the dawn. And Y/N was left staring at empty air, wondering if any of it had even been real.

But she knew it was.

She could still feel Paige. In the places she had stood. In the way the world bent slightly around where she wasn’t anymore. In her own chest — the ache that hadn’t stopped since Paige left.

It was like gravity had shifted.

And she was still falling.

When Paige finally came to her again, it wasn’t at the window.

It was inside.

Y/N had left the balcony door open. She didn’t know why. She just… had.

She was sitting on the edge of her bed, barely blinking, wrapped in a blanket and a silence that felt endless — when Paige’s voice, soft as breath, spoke behind her.

“You’re not safe with me.”

Y/N turned slowly.

Paige stood just inside the doorway, barely lit by the golden spill of the streetlights below. Her coat clung to her like shadow, and her eyes — dark, too-dark — locked on Y/N like they were memorizing her all over again.

“I don’t care,” Y/N said, voice steady.

Paige flinched like the words had struck her.

“You should.”

“I don’t,” Y/N repeated, standing now. “I’m not afraid of you.”

Paige looked away.

“You should be,” she whispered. “I’m not… I’m not made for this. For you.”

Y/N took a step closer. “Then why are you here?”

A long silence.

Paige’s jaw tightened, and her voice broke when she finally answered. “Because I can’t stay away.”

The words hung in the air between them — fragile and sharp.

Y/N felt something shift in her chest. Like her heart was learning a new rhythm, one that beat only for Paige’s voice.

“Then don’t,” she said.

Paige laughed softly, bitterly. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

“Then tell me,” Y/N said. “Tell me what you are.”

Paige was still as stone. A statue cast in regret.

And then—quietly, reluctantly—

“I was human. Once.”

Y/N’s throat tightened.

“What happened?”

Paige hesitated, then looked up at her, and the weight in her eyes was centuries deep.

“I died,” she said.

And Y/N knew she didn’t mean it metaphorically.

They sat across from each other in the half-light of Y/N’s apartment, knees nearly touching, breath mingling.

Paige was too still. Too quiet.

And Y/N couldn’t stop watching her.

The way she barely moved.

The way her chest didn’t rise unless she forced it to.

The way her eyes seemed to catch the light differently than any human’s ever could.

“Do you feed?” Y/N asked, her voice barely audible.

Paige closed her eyes. “Not like the others.”

“You drink blood?”

“Yes.”

Y/N didn’t flinch.

“Have you ever… hurt someone?”

A beat passed.

Paige opened her eyes again. “Not in a long time.”

Silence.

Y/N could feel the thread between them now — like a string pulled tight across the room, fraying at the edges with tension.

“I should leave,” Paige said, standing too quickly. “They’re watching you now. Because of me. And if they know how much I care about you—”

“Then don’t leave,” Y/N said, standing too. “Stay. Let them watch.”

“They’ll hurt you.”

“Then teach me how to survive them.”

Paige’s hands were trembling. She hadn’t trembled in decades.

“You don’t understand,” she said hoarsely. “You’re everything I’ve tried to stay away from. And now that I’ve let you in—if they take you from me—”

“They won’t,” Y/N said. “You won’t let them.”

Paige’s eyes met hers.

And in them, Y/N saw everything she’d suspected from the beginning.

Hunger.

Agony.

Longing.

And something far more terrifying.

Hope.

Paige reached out, slowly, like touching her might shatter everything.

When their fingers met, the world stopped spinning.

“I don’t know what this is,” Paige whispered, “but it’s killing me.”

Y/N stepped closer, until there was nothing between them.

“Then die with me.”

Paige let out a breath she didn’t need to take.

And then, without a word, she brought Y/N’s hand to her lips.

Not to bite.

To promise.

“I won’t let anything touch you,” she murmured. “Not them. Not even me. I swear it.”

Y/N closed her eyes.

And Paige knew she was lost.

Not in blood.

Not in death.

But in her.

Perfect. Let’s raise the stakes and test that promise.

It started with the smell of smoke.

Faint at first — just a strange hint in the air outside Y/N’s window. But Paige wasn’t fooled. It wasn’t fire.

It was ash.

Old. Ritualistic. The kind burned by trackers.

By predators.

She was out of the apartment before Y/N even noticed she’d moved. One moment she was standing beside her. The next — gone.

A blur in the dark.

Y/N called her name, heart already pounding, but Paige didn’t come back.

Paige landed hard on the rooftop across the street, crouching low. The scent was stronger here, curling around the edges of her senses like smoke with a purpose.

Not human.

Not quite like her either.

One of them.

But not Azzi.

This was worse.

She scanned the skyline. The wind shifted — and then she saw him.

Perched on a water tower like a gargoyle from some long-forgotten nightmare. Pale. Grinning. Too still.

His name was Kael.

He hadn’t been seen in years. Which usually meant he’d been feeding.

Paige’s fists clenched. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

Kael tilted his head, all sharp edges and mockery. “And yet… here I am. Funny how rumors drag us all back to town, isn’t it?”

Paige’s jaw tightened. “She’s off-limits.”

“Oh,” he said, smiling wider. “So it’s true, then.”

Paige didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

Kael’s eyes sparkled — gold-tinted and feral. “You’ve gone soft.”

“She’s under my protection.”

“Then I suppose she dies under you,” he said, dropping from the tower with a predator’s grace.

Paige launched forward.

The fight was fast. Brutal. Violent in a way humans couldn’t comprehend.

Claws out. Teeth bared. Movements too fast for the eye to follow.

They hit the alley wall, slammed into steel and brick. Paige took a blow to the ribs and didn’t feel it. Kael laughed.

“She smells like fear and sunlight,” he hissed. “Delicious little thing. I bet she even trusts you.”

Paige snarled — and slammed him through the hood of a car.

The metal screamed. The windshield shattered.

Kael vanished in a blink of shadow.

Paige straightened slowly, blood dripping from her knuckles. Her skin was already healing — but she felt raw. Exposed.

She turned.

And froze.

Y/N was standing at the edge of the alley.

She had followed her.

Of course she had.

She wasn’t breathing.

“Paige?” her voice broke slightly.

Paige turned slowly, skin pale, veins still raised from the fight. Her eyes — black, starless, bottomless — locked onto Y/N’s.

She had never let Y/N see her like this.

And now there was no hiding it.

Y/N stared.

Not in fear.

Not yet.

Just in shock.

Paige didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t blink.

Her voice, when it finally came, was cracked.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

Y/N stepped forward anyway.

Paige stepped back.

“I could’ve killed him,” she said, more to herself than to Y/N.

“I know.”

“I could’ve killed you.”

“I don’t believe that.”

Paige’s jaw clenched, and something flickered behind her expression — hunger, sharp and aching, twisted with guilt.

“You don’t understand what I am,” she whispered.

Y/N’s voice was barely audible. “Then show me.”

Paige stilled.

The wind caught her hair. Her coat. Her breath.

“You’d never see me the same again.”

Y/N took another step. “I think I already don’t.”

Somewhere beneath them, Kael pulled himself out of the wreckage.

His smile was a promise.

“I’ll be back,” he murmured to no one.

And when he returned, he wouldn’t be alone.

The night had swallowed them whole, and Y/N was still standing there, frozen in front of Paige, her heartbeat steady yet loud in Paige’s ears. There was something dangerous in the air, an invisible thread pulling them closer, no matter how much Paige wanted to fight it.

Paige had always been in control. She’d learned to be. She’d learned to exist in a world where nothing lasted, where trust was a weakness and attachments were a luxury she couldn’t afford. But Y/N was different. She always had been.

And now, standing here, Paige felt the weight of that difference more than ever before.

She was close — so close — that she could feel the heat of Y/N’s skin. The pulse of her blood beneath her. It was intoxicating. And the words on the tip of her tongue almost hurt to speak.

“You don’t understand,” Paige whispered, her voice a low, dangerous rasp. “What I am. What I need.”

Y/N didn’t move. Didn’t flinch.

“I think I understand more than you realize,” Y/N said softly, stepping closer.

Paige felt the ground shift under her feet. Her heart — or what was left of it — skipped a beat. She wanted to pull away, to run, to keep Y/N safe from the hunger that was clawing at her from within. But she didn’t.

She couldn’t.

“Y/N…” Paige’s voice was rough. “This isn’t a game. If I—if I do this, you can’t take it back. You can’t walk away.”

Y/N’s eyes softened, that warmth she always carried there pulling at Paige in ways she didn’t want to acknowledge. “I don’t want to walk away. Not from you.”

And then, in that moment, everything inside Paige snapped.

She couldn’t stop herself.

Before Y/N could speak another word, before she could process what was happening, Paige’s lips were on hers — the kiss desperate, searching, hungry.

But this wasn’t a kiss. Not entirely.

This was something darker. A need. An undeniable pull that had taken hold of them both. Paige’s fangs, sharp and deadly, scraped against Y/N’s lips as she deepened the kiss, tasting the blood that was now so close to the surface.

Y/N didn’t pull away. She didn’t flinch, even when Paige’s hand slid into her hair, fingers curling and tugging her closer. There was no fear in her, only trust. Only a quiet, dangerous determination.

Paige could feel the shift in her, feel the way Y/N’s pulse raced faster, the blood inside her rising to the surface, calling to Paige’s hunger. The blood was calling to her, begging for the inevitable.

With a growl that barely escaped her throat, Paige broke the kiss and pulled away just enough to look at Y/N, her eyes burning with a dangerous hunger.

Y/N was breathing hard, her lips swollen from the kiss. “Paige…” she whispered, and there was something in her voice now — something that wasn’t quite fear, but something just as intense. “Do it.”

Paige’s heart stuttered in her chest. She had to stop this. She couldn’t. She shouldn’t.

But the hunger was overwhelming, the need unbearable.

Y/N didn’t need to ask again.

Without another word, Paige leaned down, her lips brushing Y/N’s throat, just below her ear, where the pulse beat so beautifully in time with her own.

Her fangs extended fully, sharp and ready.

Y/N’s breath hitched as Paige’s teeth grazed the soft skin of her neck.

“Are you sure?” Paige breathed against her skin, her voice strained with the effort to hold herself back.

Y/N’s voice was barely a whisper. “Yes.”

And then, with one swift motion, Paige’s fangs sank into Y/N’s skin.

A gasp escaped from Y/N’s lips, sharp and pained, but there was no hesitation in her. Paige could feel her pulse surge beneath her fangs, could taste the rich, warm blood that poured into her mouth, filling the emptiness inside her, silencing the beast within her.

Y/N’s body tensed, but she didn’t push Paige away. She didn’t scream. She didn’t run. She just stood there, trembling, as Paige drank deep.

The world around them seemed to vanish — there was nothing but the heat of their bodies pressed close, the sound of Y/N’s breath, the pulsing blood that was now forever hers. It was intoxicating. Overwhelming. Paige could feel everything — every thought, every feeling Y/N had, flooding her like a river that could never be dammed.

When Paige finally pulled away, Y/N’s neck was marked — two twin punctures that would never fully heal, a permanent symbol of the bond they had just forged.

Y/N was breathing heavily, her eyes wide and dazed, but there was no fear there. Only a deep, aching trust.

Paige could feel the shift inside her, feel the bond tighten. She’d crossed a line that could never be uncrossed.

The moment of hunger passed, and Paige’s mind cleared — but only just. She wanted to apologize. To pull back, to give Y/N space. But she couldn’t move. Not yet. Not when Y/N was still here, still standing before her, with that quiet acceptance in her eyes.

“I told you,�� Paige whispered, her voice breaking. “You don’t know what this means. You can’t walk away now.”

Y/N reached up, her hand trembling slightly as she touched the bite on her neck, her fingers brushing over the tender skin.

“I don’t want to walk away,” she said again, her voice soft but steady.

Paige felt a knot tighten in her chest. “This is dangerous. For you. For me. For everything.”

Y/N’s eyes held hers with an intensity that burned. “Maybe it is. But I’m not afraid of you, Paige.”

Paige swallowed, the weight of her own thoughts pressing down on her chest. She wanted to tell her to run. To leave before it was too late.

But it was too late.

Y/N had already made her choice.

And so had Paige.

[internetdaddy98]

The Ties That Bind Us - Chapter 12

Previous | Next

[Series Masterlist] Content Warning: family death; ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You stepped off the train into the crisp New York morning with your duffle bag slung over one shoulder and the weight of the week ahead already pressing gently on your chest. The city was exactly as you remembered—alive in a way that never fully quieted, even in grief.

Your Uncle Andrew met you at the station, a coffee cup already waiting for you. He pulled you into a one-armed hug, warm and familiar, before handing over the cup.

“Still take it with two sugars?” he asked.

You smiled. “You remembered.”

“I remember everything, Y/N”, he said. “Come on, your aunt’s already baking.”

By the time they reached the apartment, the smell of cinnamon and cardamom filled the air. Aunt Victoria greeted you with another hug and a plate of fresh rugelach.

“You’ve lost weight,” she said with concern, eyes scanning Y/N’s face. “Are you eating? Sleeping? That job isn’t swallowing you whole, is it?”

You smiled and deflected as best you could, settling into the rhythm of family and warmth. But the next morning, the ache returned as you stood alone in the chilly wind outside the cemetery gates. The family vault hadn’t changed. Granite. Ivy. Etched names.

You ran your fingers along your parents’ names first. Then your grandparents’. And finally—Connor’s.

Fifteen years old.

You sank to the cold stone bench in front of the vault and let yourself breathe. Just breathe.

You hadn’t planned to cry, but the tears came anyway.

You reached for your phone without thinking.

Robby: You doing okay?

Y/N: Yeah. Just needed a moment.

Robby: Take all the moments you need. Still wish I was there.

Her heart tightened. She stared at the screen a moment longer before typing:

Y/N: I told my aunt about you today.

Robby: What’d she say?

Y/N: “He’s cute.”

Robby: Smart woman.

Back in Pittsburgh, Robby stood at the end of the ER hallway, arms crossed, staring at the board. Dr. King was trying to get his attention about a consult, but his mind was elsewhere.

Three days into her trip, and he was officially useless.

You hadn’t even left the state before he’d realized just how many corners of the hospital you occupied. The rooftop. The lounge room. Your laugh echoing down the hall, glasses sliding down your nose. The way you always carried too many pens.

“Dr. Robby?” Mel said again.

He blinked and looked up. “Sorry. Yeah. Let’s go.”

Every spare second he got, he was checking his phone.

By the time Saturday rolled around, you had brunch with two of your college friends who’d stayed in the city. They sipped mimosas and pored over pictures on your phone of the ER, including—when prodded—a couple of blurry pictures with Robby in the background.

“So this is the hot doc?” your friend Felicity teased, peering at the photo. “The one with the arms and the smolder?”

“He’s not smoldering,” You said, rolling your eyes.

“He’s absolutely smoldering,” your other friend, Jess, added. “And you’re blushing, which tells me everything I need to know.”

You sank lower into her chair. “He’s also my boss.”

“Which just makes it sexier,” Felicity said. “You deserve someone who looks at you like that.”

You smiled despite yourself. “Yeah,” you said softly. “I do.”

[haerenven]

Hey! I love the way you write! Could you do one where the reader is accidentally creepy? They like bones and things normally associated with death and don't realize how creepy that can be. With anyone you like!

        ∎∎       ╱       𝐁𝐎𝐘𝐅𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐃.     جميل 🗝️  ㅤㅤ ˙ㅤ♱𝆬 ㅤ      

Pairings. Roronoa Zoro x fem!reader

summary. Gothic

— (a/n): I kinda love this !

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀斕⠀⠀⠀(⒛)⠀⠀⠀𝐍𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑⠀⠀⠀横᜴⠀⠀⠀𝐈𝐈

Midnight Conversations Among the Bones– When the ship docks at an island, you always seem to find the nearest graveyard, admiring the artistry of time-worn tombstones and tracing the names of forgotten souls with reverence. At first, Zoro thought it was just another one of your quirks, but over time, he finds himself sitting beside you, arms crossed, listening to your musings about the beauty of decay while the moon bathes you both in an eerie silver glow. He doesn’t say much, but the way he stays? That says everything.

The Swordsman and the Morbid Romantic – You see beauty in death, not as something tragic but as an inevitable masterpiece of time. Zoro, a man who has danced with death more times than he can count, finds himself mesmerized by your perspective. “You don’t fear it,” he mutters one evening, watching you cradle a delicate bird skull in your hands like a precious gemstone. “Nah,” you reply with a knowing smile. “It’s proof something once lived fiercely.” He never forgets those words.

Gifts That Raise Eyebrows (But He Loves Them) – While others bring flowers or sweets, you present Zoro with things like polished bones, antique daggers, or tiny vials of ash from places long forgotten. The first time you gifted him an ornately carved femur you found in the ruins of an abandoned temple, he held it up with a raised brow. “Huh. Guess that’s one way to remember the dead.” But later, you find it tucked carefully in his things—kept, not discarded.

Accidentally Creepy but Incredibly Endearing – You casually say things that make people shiver, but Zoro barely blinks. “I think skeletons are beautiful. Imagine all the things these bones have witnessed.” Or, “If I ever die, I’d like to be buried beneath a tree, so my body can feed its roots.” The crew gets goosebumps, but Zoro just nods, arms crossed, like you’ve said something completely reasonable.

Conversations with Brook Are… Interesting – The first time you meet Brook, you light up like you’ve seen the most stunning artwork in the world. “A talking skeleton? This is incredible! Brook, do you ever get lonely without your flesh?” The crew falls into stunned silence, expecting Brook to be unsettled, but instead, he’s thrilled! “Oh, what a fascinating question, Yohoho! Well, I do sometimes miss blinking… but I must say, I make an excellent coat rack now!” You and Brook become inseparable, exchanging poetic thoughts on the beauty of bones, much to the crew’s mild horror and Zoro’s mild amusement.

Love in the Graveyard – There’s something about old ruins and overgrown cemeteries that make you feel at peace. You’ll pull Zoro toward a moss-covered gravestone, asking him to sit with you as the wind whispers through the trees. “The dead don’t mind company,” you murmur, resting your head against his shoulder. He sighs but doesn’t move away, merely letting the weight of your presence sink into his bones like an unspoken promise.

A Different Kind of Swordfight – You are graceful in battle, moving like a wraith, with a presence that is both haunting and mesmerizing. Zoro watches the way you fight, your movements akin to the wind through forgotten ruins, and he wonders how someone so in tune with death can make even the act of violence look poetic. “You fight like a ghost,” he mutters after a particularly beautiful strike. You grin. “And you fight like a legend.”

You Collect Skulls, and Zoro Just Accepts It – Your room on the Sunny has little trinkets from your travels—delicate bones, preserved insects, ancient coins, and tiny vials of sand from places where battles were fought. When Nami sees a polished skull sitting on your shelf, she nearly drops her maps. “Why… why is that here?” You shrug. “It’s beautiful.” Meanwhile, Zoro, leaning against the wall, just grunts. “At least they don’t talk.”

The Poetry of the Macabre – Late at night, when the ship is quiet, you murmur words like incantations, reciting poetry about the fleeting nature of existence, about how even warriors turn to dust. Zoro listens, half-lidded eyes watching the way candlelight dances over your features. He’s never been one for poetry, but your words settle in his mind like a blade sliding into its sheath—fitting, sharp, undeniable.

“I’ll Carve Your Name Into Legend” – Zoro may not be poetic, but his actions are. He listens when you speak of tombstones and memories, of how people live on in the whispers of history. One day, after a particularly brutal battle, he places his sword down beside you and murmurs, “If I die before you, carve my name into something that lasts.” The words are gruff, but the meaning is clear. He wants you to be the one who remembers him. You press a palm against his cheek, smiling softly. “You’ll live long enough to carve your own legend, Zoro.

The Beauty of Bruises and Bite Marks - Zoro does not treat you like something fragile. He has seen the way you dance through battle, the way you smile at the sight of broken bones, the way your eyes shine with something dark and beautiful when blood is spilled. He knows better than to be gentle—not in the way others expect.

When he touches you, he does so with purpose, with a strength that leaves bruises along your hips, with a grip that lingers like the ghost of a battle won. And you? You relish it. You trace the marks he leaves on your skin like they are proof of something sacred, like they are relics of devotion carved into flesh.

“You like this too much,” he mutters one day, eyeing the faint bite mark on your collarbone, the way your fingers skim over it with something close to satisfaction.

You smirk, tilting your head so the candlelight catches the shadow of it against your skin. “What can I say? I like knowing I’ll still have a piece of you on me when morning comes.”

Zoro doesn’t respond—not with words. Instead, he pushes you down, lips ghosting over the same spot, teeth grazing, and you shudder because you know he’s going to leave another.

Even the Grave Will Not Take This Away - There is something poetic about your love—something eternal, something that will not be erased even when your bodies turn to dust. If death ever comes for you first, you know Zoro will not mourn in the way most do. He will not weep, will not break. He will carve your name into something permanent, something unshaken by time, as if daring the universe to forget you.

And if death ever comes for him first, you will not cry either. You will stand at his grave, dressed in black, fingers tracing the edge of his name with a strange, almost reverent smile. “I hope it was as good as this,” you’ll whisper to the wind, because you know—no matter how glorious his end may be, no matter how sharp the final moment—nothing will have ever felt as real, as consuming, as the love you shared.

Even death will be jealous of what you had.

[aesethewitch]

Okay, my fake sockcourse post has too many genuine reblogs on it, so here are some actual spirit work/cemetery-related superstitions I have and practices I do:

I never go anywhere without a head covering. I generally consider it veiling, though I'm usually in either a beanie or a baseball cap. It keeps a no-effort barrier up to keep me from hearing spirits when I don't want to be hearing them.

Anytime I visit a new cemetery, I bring a variety of options for offerings to leave at the gate: coins, bird seed, peanuts, handwritten notes, pretty stones, etc. Not all cemetery guardians want the same thing, so it's good to have options. They tend to appreciate getting to pick out their own goodies.

When making offerings, I try to have one thing representing each element (earth, air, water, fire). Again, options.

Sitting quietly in an appropriate place is a significantly more effective method of getting a spirit's attention than performing some grand ritual.

If I have to cross a bridge in a cemetery for any reason, I hold my breath. If I have to go under a bridge, I set my hand atop my head until I'm out the other side.

If I walk or drive by a cemetery, I remain silent until I've passed by out of respect for the resting dead. It'd piss me off if some guy went by chattering away while I'm trying to sleep.

Within the confines of a cemetery, graveyard, or other place sacred to the dead, I keep my voice low at all times and stay as silent as possible. Similar reasons as the above, but also so that I can hear and feel more clearly. You can't listen if you're talking, you know?

I always ask permission before bringing divinatory tools, magical items, or ritual supplies into any place where the dead have been buried. I ask again before starting anything, since permission to bring something in isn't always permission to perform an action.

Aaaaaand a whole bunch of other stuff.

[sacr1ficialang3l]

Written in blood𖤐

DEAN WINCHESTER X GOTH!READER (meet her)

SUMMARY: Reader is taking her usual late-night cemetery walk when she finds two guys burning up a grave. They expect her to run away screaming, but they don't know that she is not that easily scared. 3.8k

WARNINGS: none really. first meeting. fem!reader.

NOTES: goth!reader is here, and she's here to stay! I can't wait for Dean and her to get closer. If you find the She Wants Revenge reference in this you get a gold star. As always, English is not my first language. Enjoy<3

You had seen some weird things happen in this cemetery. 

You simply couldn’t make a habit of taking midnight walks through the graveyard behind the town’s famous abandoned house without encountering some questionable acts. 

From high schoolers messing around with a Ouija, to a drunk man pissing against a mausoleum, to a couple of teenagers hooking up behind a tree. 

You thought you had seen it all, until tonight.

Your eyes are focused on the old walkman on your hands, desperately trying to make it work, when a sudden heat wave makes you look up. Your wine-painted lips part slightly when your eyes find two guys standing in front of a digged up grave, seemingly having lit the corpse on fire.

You must have made a noise, because both guys quickly turn to you with equally wide eyes. 

Funnily, the first thought that registers on your mind is: damn, they’re hot.

You don’t freak out, and you don’t run for your life like you probably were supposed to. After all, you had always loved all things creepy.

You decide to step closer, the chunky platform of your boots digging into the mushy soil under them. You stop a few feet away from the burning pit as both guys still stare at you with freaked out expressions.

“Not an expert or anything, but I’m pretty sure digging up graves is illegal.” You say, crossing your arms. You half-register that you should probably not be talking to these guys like that. Maybe they were the bad type of devil worshipers, or psychopaths. Or both.

But before you can even start to feel afraid, they both start to ramble. The two huge, muscular men in front of you start to stutter and trip over their words. They spit half-assed explanations, contradicting each other every two sentences. It makes you laugh, which in consequence makes them stare at you as if you were insane.

How the tables have turned. 

Noticing that the men were very probably not dangerous, you take another step closer. This wasn’t the first time you had dealt with people making rituals of some sort in this cemetery. Satanists and pagans alike showed up occasionally to do their thing, and contrary to common belief, they were usually pretty friendly if you approached their practices with respect.

You pull out a cigarette from the pocket of your skirt, looking up at them with a smirk.

“I’m guessing you have a lighter?”

The taller one of the guys simply stares at you like you grew a second head, but you can distinguish a smirk on the face of the other one in the irregular light of the still going flames. You study him. Brown leather jacket, necklace around his neck, a ring that caught the light of the moon in his hand holding the matches. Oh, he was really hot.

“Look, sweetheart, you should probably leave.” He says, apparently having composed himself from the initial shock. There was a cocky undertone in his voice, but he didn’t seem mean, more like… trying to keep you out of something dangerous.

With a simple shake of your head, you refuse. What was life without a little danger anyways?

They end up introducing themselves after many failed attempts of making you leave. Sam and Dean, as you learned, were brothers. What you also learned, as you stared at them across the burning hole in the ground, is that they were both insanely attractive. But there was something about the older one, a sharpness in his eyes that made a shiver run through your spine. You blamed it on the cold breeze of the night.

(it was a specially warm day of early fall, there was no cold breeze.)

“Wait, wait.” you raise your palm, trying to process the information. “you’re telling me you’re… monster hunters?”

The brothers nod, going a little more into detail about their job and the ghost they were hunting in your town. Both of them stare at you like they’re expecting you to run away screaming, but you simply stare at them with calculating, black-rimmed eyes.

“So either I finally went full-on psychotic” you start “or you two are. Or this is real, and there’s something actually in that house.”

“you know something about the thing in the house?” Dean asks immediately. Deciding that they were indeed not a threat, you walk around the burning grave carefully and stand next to the two brothers, who –even as you wore your platform boots– still towered over you. 

You explain to the brothers that you had heard the myth about the old house being haunted, and when people started dying in its perimeters, you started to question it too. 

“But I stay in that house all the time.” You explain calmly, leaning back against the tombstone like you were in your natural habitat. “I go to read there when it is raining or too hot to be outside in the cemetery. I’ve even spent whole nights sleeping on the old couch in the living room. Nothing ever happened to me.”

But if you were to be honest, you did noticed some things. The way an inexplicable wave of warmth wrapped around you after you got trapped in the house in the middle of a snow storm with nothing but a thin leather jacket. The way there seemed to always be candles and matches restocked for you to light your way through the house even if you had already used a whole box of them. The way the house felt safe that night when you cried, sitting in a little ball in the corner of the living room, the night you ran away from home. 

“Why the hell would you stay in an abandoned house said to be haunted?” Dean’s expression was confused, but he seemed to almost admire how unafraid you were of the paranormal.

The truth was, anywhere was better than the house you grew up in.

“Sometimes ‘haunted’ and ‘scary’ things are just in need of some love.” You say instead, shrugging. 

Your words seem to touch a nerve in both brothers, and they nod, eyes darting down to the completely burned bones. 

“Well, apparently this thing was evil.” Dean retorts, and it makes you frown.

“I don’t know. If there was something actually in that house, it took care of me all this time.” You cross your arms, suddenly defensive of the spirit. “Most of the victims were disrespectful college kids that loved to come to the house and break stuff. At the very least, they shouldn’t have fucked around a haunted place if they can’t be respectful.”

Dean stares at you for just another second before he turns around to start filling the grave back with dirt. 

“It was still killing people, and we needed to get rid of it.” Dean refutes. You want to argue, but Sam turns to you, kind expression on his face.

“Spirits that stay back as ghosts can turn vengeful. Not being dead but not being alive, it drives them insane.” That makes the frown melt off your face, feeling a pang of sadness for the spirit in the house. “If the ghost was actually taking care of you, you should be happy they can finally rest in peace.”

You stay quiet for the rest of the time the brothers fill the grave. You notice the way it is barely noticeable that it was even touched. They must really be professionals.

“Well, it was nice to meet you here.” Dean wipes the sweat off his forehead with his shirt, leaving you with a clear view of his abdomen and a glimpse of the tattoo on his chest. You swallow harshly.

Oh, he had tattoos.

“Now we need to go back to the house and make sure the spirit is actually gone.” Sam finishes off. They both seemed more relaxed once the bones were already burned, and it seems like Dean finally takes the time to look at you.

You feel his piercing eyes all over your body, and when you finally look at him again, there is a small smirk on his face.

This guy is trouble.

But you always loved a good train wreck. 

The brothers are already walking away when you run towards them, expertly moving in your high platform boots.

“Wait!” your voice was loud in the dead silence of the cemetery. Both brothers turn to you, eyebrows raised. “I’ll come with you.”

Sam looked about to argue, probably ready to tell you a hundred reasons why it would be dangerous for you to tag along. 

“Sure.” Dean says, and you send him a pleased smile that makes his smirk grow. Sam turns to him in disbelief, and he simply shrugs. “What? The spirit clearly likes her. If it is still there, she will keep it from attacking us.”

Sam clearly doesn’t buy his excuse, but you’re just happy to go with them.

“I just want to make sure they’re gone, and thank them.” You throw Sam a pleading look, and he simply sighs and shakes his head. 

You end up tagging along.

You get to the house in a few minutes. It was clearly old, Victorian style and everything. There was ivy covering big parts of the outside, windows broken from times when people would break in, gloomy clouds of fog seemed to loom around it.

“And you like to spend time here because…?” Dean teases you. You throw a playful glare at him that makes him chuckle. 

“So you hunt demons and ghosts and whatnot but I can’t enjoy hanging out in an old house?”

Both brothers snort, but as you approach the front door, they both pull out guns. You jump at the sight, stopping in your tracks from the shock.

Dean notices, and he takes a step closer.

“These are filled with rock salt. They won’t kill a human, but they will keep ghosts at bay.” You nod, feeling a little more calm. You were always anti-gun, but you had to admit that the sight of Dean with the gun in his hand, his focused eyes, and his dark expression was definitely an attractive one. 

In a second, Dean was turning around and grabbing a metal bar from god knows where. He hands it to you, and you grab it with a confused look on your face. 

“Do… ghosts hate metal?” You ask with a small smile, making Dean chuckle.

“Iron, specifically.” He corrects, and you store the information carefully. You were trying to act normal, but the little girl in you who would spend hours reading Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark and watching gothic horror movies at a way too early age is screeching inside of you. “Stay behind me, I will protect you. But if something goes wrong, swing this at the spirit and you’ll be fine.”

Dean’s reassurance was sweet, so you take a deep breath and follow them inside the house.

Everything seemed to be just as you left it a week ago, the last time you had stayed in there, before any of the killing had happened. The house was dark, lonely, peaceful. There was dust and spiderwebs everywhere that you never cleaned up, because this place was just as yours as it was the spiders’. 

When the door closes behind you, you are left in pure darkness. Dean is still in front of you, arm extended up in protection. You huff out a laugh, shaking your head and walking around him. 

As soon as you walked into the house, that same warmth and familiar feeling enveloped you. Dean lets out a little sound of protest as you walk forward into the darkness, but you know exactly where you’re going. 

You let your instincts lead you to the drawer where the candlesticks and matches were always stored. By the time you light one of the candles and start walking back to the brothers, Sam already had grabbed a flashlight from his backpack. 

“You shouldn’t wander off like that.” Dean nags at you. On any other occasion, you would’ve rolled your eyes at it. Men trying to be all alpha and thinking you can’t defend yourself was the worst. But you can tell that Dean is different. He wasn’t protective because he thought you couldn’t take care of yourself. Instead, he looked like he was just… too used to people around him getting hurt.

You could see that glimpse in his eyes, one that you recognized too well. The one that only came when you lost one too many people. 

“It’s okay.” You reassure him in a gentle voice, which he looks slightly surprised by. Seriously, how bad do these guys have it? “I know this house, it won’t hurt me.”

The brothers simply throw you an unsure look before all three of you continue to walk around the house. 

“I think we’re good, we burned the right bones.” Dean decides after you walk all throughout the house. There was no sign of anything weird, but that warm feeling was still draped around your shoulders. 

You frown, and while Sam and Dean are distracted looking down at what they called a “EMF”, you slip away into one of the rooms. The iron rod is still in your hand, the other one holding the candlestick in front of you. 

“You need to get out of here.” You almost jump out of your skin at that. Turning around immediately, you’re met with the gentle face of a beautiful woman. She was wearing a long, white slip dress. It looked old, a gothic style to it. Her eyes were wide and hollow, skin pale and feet bare. But the most important part was the fact that she was translucid and glitchy. 

And also the very clear bullet wound on her forehead.

You don’t even gasp, just freeze in your place. The one thing that keeps you from lunging the rod on your hands through her head was the fact that the blanket of warmth and safety around you had only gotten stronger the moment she appeared.

She continues to say something else, but her voice is choppy and she appears and disappears multiple times. 

“I-I’m sorry, ma’am. I don’t understand what you’re saying.” You try talking to her gently.

She disappears and a second later she is standing right next to you. This time you do gasp. 

“Th… k-ngs… husb… lock of h…” She tried again, but it looked like she couldn’t stay corporeal for too long. You frown, trying to understand. 

“A lock? There’s a lock… in the house?” She appears once again in front of you, pouting in disappointment and shaking her head. You open your mouth, trying to guess again, but then something happens. Something that you had never experienced before and hope to never experience again. 

The ghost suddenly surges forward, right into you. For a moment, you feel nothing but icy cold all around you. And then, nothing. You can’t feel anything, and it is as if you’re riding shotgun in your own body. It takes you a second to process that you had just been possessed, and you have to admit, you don’t like it.

You still can see through your eyes, but your body is moving by itself. You don’t feel your hands, or legs, or anything really. You can’t even feel the way the iron bar in your hand very clearly burns the ghost, making her drop it to the floor with a loud ringing sound. 

There was a distant icy feeling, but it was mostly numb. You couldn’t move, or talk, or scream like you so desperately wanted. Instead, you could only watch as your body walked out of the room and towards where the brothers were calling your name.

“Jesus Christ.” Dean sighs in relief when you –or the ghost in your body– walks into the living room. “We’ve been calling for you like crazy. I told you you should–”

“Dean.” Sam interrupts, looking at you with wide eyes. In a mirror right behind his head, you notice how your eyes are empty, hollow, just like how the ghost’s had been. “She- I think she’s possessed.” 

Dean immediately turns towards you with a worried expression, and he points his gun at you. But his eyes show hesitation, and the ghost simply extends one of your hands forward, asking him to wait.

At a slow pace, your body makes its way around the living room to a bookshelf, the brothers’ eyes and barrels never leaving your direction. The ghost grabs a book– no, a journal, and opens it to a specific page.

She takes a step closer to Dean, who keeps his gun up but doesn’t pull the trigger. You watch as you- she- your body? God, this was confusing. 

You watch as your body turns the journal around so Dean can see what’s written in there. You catch a glimpse of the words “husband” and “funeral” and “Mrs. Taylor”. You try to recall where you saw that last name recently, and then it comes back to you. The tombstone you were leaning against, the corpse Sam and Dean had burned. 

Mr. Alexander Taylor.

But most importantly, you find a lock of hair carefully tied with a ribbon at the bottom of the page. 

Oh, you think, that is what she was trying to tell me. The killing spirit is her husband and she has a lock of his hair.

Sam and Dean seem to understand it at the exact same time as you, and Sam quickly grabs the journal and starts to look through his backpack for something, probably his matches.

“Uhm, thank you, I guess.” Mutters Dean while scratching his head, and you wish you could glare at him. 

Really, that’s it?

“We read that you died in a fire soon after your husband’s death.” He continues, looking into your eyes that weren’t your eyes. “So how are you here?”

You can feel the spirit inside of you hesitate, scared.

They’re just trying to help you, so you can finally rest, you think as hard as you can. You’ve taken care of me for years, and I will always be thankful, but it is time you go in peace.

You don’t even know if she can hear you, but it seems to do the trick. She moves her– or your hand and slips something out of your finger. For a moment, you think it is one of your rings, and you are about to protest.

It took a lot of time to find good quality gothic rings in thrift stores just for a ghost to steal one of them. 

But instead, in your hand there’s a ring you had never seen before. You don’t know how it made its way into your finger, but it was beautiful. Silver, with delicate details all around, and three beautiful red gems. 

A wedding ring. 

She hands it to Dean, and you feel your lips twist into a devastatingly resigned smile before the icy cold sensation comes back.

In less than a second, you’re falling to the floor. Your body is shaking, and you’re so, so, so cold. 

Dean quickly throws the ring towards his brother and kneels next to you, hand moving up to rest on your shoulder.

“Are you okay?” He says your name in urgency, and even in between all the freezing, you can’t help but appreciate how nice it sounds. “Hey, look at me. What happened?”

You turn to him shakily, trying to speak but shivering too hard.

“S-she’s gone… the r-room… she-” You try, but your teeth are chattering harshly. Dean quickly slips off his leather jacket and wraps it around your shoulders. 

You are immediately enveloped by the smell of whiskey, and motor oil, and something so dark and musky and somehow sweet that could only be Dean. 

His hands rub up and down your arms, pulling you closer to his chest as you drown in his jacket and shake like a freezing puppy.

“It’s okay, you’re okay.” He murmurs against the top of your head. His arms feel good around you, even as you feel like you’re submerged in ice water. “You can explain it to us later, for now just concentrate on getting warm.”

“I-I don’t wanna get po-possessed ever a-gain.” You somehow manage to get out, making Dean laugh, his chest rumbling against your side.

“Yeah, let’s hope you never do.” You can hear the smile on his words, and it makes you smile too. 

“We should take her to the Impala, Dean.” Sam suggests once he finishes burning the objects. “The house is still cold from the spirits, and we can use the car heater.”

Dean looks down at you as you tremble, pale and still bitterly cold. He nods, leaning back, and you immediately miss his warmth.

“Can you get up, sweetheart?” He asks, hands hovering around you but still letting you try to stand up for yourself. You appreciate it.

You start by kneeling on the floor, and it works out fine. Then Sam offers you a hand in support. You take it, plant your feet on the floor, and try straightening up.

You stay up for about two seconds before your knees give up and you’re falling forward. It is thanks to Dean’s hunter reflexes that you don’t end up face-planting the floor. 

His arms are back around you in a second, and you cling to him for dear life.

“I’m s-sorry.” You mutter as your teeth still chatter. “I-I can’t-”

“It’s okay” Dean says gently, holding you against him with just one arm as he secures his jacket around your shoulders. Before you can get another word out, he’s already picking you up.

You let out a loud shriek as one of his arms wrap around your middle and the other one rests under your knees. Soon enough, Dean is holding you bride-style. And the worst part is, he doesn’t look to struggle at all. His arms are huge under you, and he walks back to his car with you in arms without breaking a sweat. 

The night outside is warm enough that your teeth stop chattering once you reach the parking lot, but you are still shivering and shaking. 

Dean leaves you sitting comfortably in the backseat of his car before sliding into the driver’s seat and turning on the heater as hot as possible. You are sure him and Sam will end up sweating from the warm air, but you appreciate it. 

You sit there in the back of the Impala, brown leather jacket still swallowing you and head resting against the window as Sam and Dean discuss the details of the case, all without knowing that you would spend many more nights just like this in the future. 

And there’s nowhere else you’d rather be.

NOTES: I am still figuring this whole Tumblr thing out, but comment or inbox me if you wanna be on my taglist! (did I do that right?).

[pastlivesandpurplepuppets]

The first time I saw Skip Muck’s grave at the Luxembourg American Cemetery and Memorial, I just stood there and felt numb. I was with Dick Winters and Carwood Lipton, on a trip led by Stephen Ambrose. It was 1991. No tears. In fact, there’s a photo of three of us old vets standing at his grave and we’re all looking resolute. Soldiers, you know, posing for a picture taken by a historian who admired the hell out of us. I returned there in 2004 and remembered how when Roe asked if I wanted to see Skip, I’d said no. And when Winters asked if I wanted a break, I’d said no. I realized that since those moments, I’d grieved for everybody I’d lost except for one man, the man whose death I’d tried for decades to run away from, the man whose loss had hit me harder than all the rest. How many times had I looked at that 1942 photo of all of us at Toccoa, the one I’d written all the KIAs and SWAs on for those killed and seriously wounded, and thought, Why not me? Why no initials on my chest? Why not at Brécourt Manor, when I’d stupidly gone after what I thought was a Luger on that dead soldier? Or at Hell’s Corner, when German soldiers had our patrol outnumbered eight to three but wrongly assumed we had more firepower and surrendered to us? Or at Bastogne? If Winters hadn’t split Skip and me up, that would probably have been me, not Penkala, in that foxhole with Skip on January 9, 1944. But even if I’ve played the what-if game often, I know, deep down, that you can never win at it. Better to remember that, for whatever reason—God or fate or reading a Reader’s Digest article about paratroopers on a Greyhound bus heading for Astoria—I was privileged to serve with a company of men who would make me far more than I would have been without them. And that losing one of those men had hurt so badly that I’d buried the thought of him, thinking that somehow that would help me avoid the pain. Better, I’ve since learned, to turn into those waves and dive. So on that day in 2004 when I visited the cemetery where Skip is buried, I looked at that white marble cross and that name—Sgt. Warren H. Muck—and thought of the kid who swam the Niagara. The march to Atlanta. The smile. I knelt, placed flowers at the base of that cross. Prayed. All the things I’d done before when I’d come to see his grave. Only this time I did something different, long overdue, and hard but freeing. I cried sixty years’ worth of tears.

~ Don Malarkey

[explicit-tae]

Metamorphosis

An alternate world in which you encounter someone in the middle of the night - a man seemingly hurt. Much to your luck, you were extremely wrong. (Teaser)

@juju-227592 @seokjinkismet @bloodline1632 @darkuni63 @castlewolfsbane @babycandy111 @chimmy-licious @whipwhoops @chimmisbae

Word Count: 8.669

Warning: demon jungkook, unsolicited touching/kissing/groping, ass slapping, humiliation kink, degradation kink, public sex, dirty talking, slight coercion, fingering, oral (f receiving), spanking, unprotected sex, blood play/licking, biting, creampie, squirting,

Alternate Universe | Halloween Masterlist | PART 2

“W-What’s happening?” you want to hold your baby close to you once more, inhale the soft baby scent that even a half demon like he had. 

The six men surrounding you began to chant. You’re unsure what’s happening, but your heart sinks. There’s an uneasy feeling in your core.

“Jungkook…” you murmur, reaching out for him.

“It’s alright, my beautiful human.” Jungkook takes a step back with the baby, rocking him gently. “The bond has been completed. Now we can be together for eternity. In Hell.”

The room begins to shake, as if an earthquake was beginning to happen. The candles on the stone walls all fall, falling onto the ground and erupting around you.

“Jungkook!” you shout, your nails clenching the thin sheet surrounding you. What in the world is going on right now? 

“The pain will not last long, my beautiful human…” Jungkook trails off. His son begins to cry, feeling the distress coming from his mother - noted seeing as he was just as connected to you as he was to Jungkook. “...once it’s over, you can reunite with us in Hell. We will be waiting for you.”

You cross your arms in front of yourself firmly, shivering as the heavy rain fully engulfs you. You’re soaking wet and obviously pissed. You had gotten off of work late due to your boss being an asshole - you had stayed hours past your scheduled time out. Usually you would have not cared because extra hours meant extra money - but today was different. Every Friday you made it your mission to visit the cemetery and place flowers onto your mothers grave. Since you have gotten off of work late into the night, there was no time to stop for flowers (and it would be useless due to the rain).

Not only were you stuck in the rain, but you had to walk the entire way to the cemetery, then home. There were no buses running at this time and that meant you were in for an hour walk home after the already 30 minute walk to the cemetery. Let’s not forget that you saw your boss drive right past you without any eye contact.

The sky is dark and starless and there appeared to be little to no street lights on. The only light you do get comes from the moon high above. You've seen this before in a horror movie. A lone girl walking at night and bam, a killer chasing after her. Maybe you shouldn’t be thinking like this at this time, but you couldn’t help it. You were utterly hopeless with no one to call at this time - and even if you did, it’s pouring rain and your phone is tucked deep into your purse to not get it any more damage than it already was.

Your feet ached as you reached the cemetery. The rain was dying down, but you were already soaking wet and it was the least of your concerns now. It took a few more strolls until you reached the familiar headstone belonging to your mother. You sigh, dropping to your knees. You would regret it later while getting the mud stains off of your work clothes, but you were off the next two days and that was enough to not think about it further.

Visiting your mother was bittersweet. Sometimes you’d go just to pay your respects, other times you would speak as if she was there with you - talking about your day and what was new in your life. Now you were exhausted and your body ached, you remained silent and enjoyed the quiet company. 

You’re unsure how long you’ve sat there, but you noticed that the rain began to pick up once more. You knew by tomorrow, you would be sick and decided to call it a night. You’d probably even decide to visit once more when the rain cleared up the following day to bring the flowers you couldn’t bring today.

You got off of your knees, touching the gravestone lightly before making your way out of the cemetery. Your eyes remained forward as your feet strolled through the grassy field. You cursed at your luck - your clothing stuck to you and it was becoming uncomfortable to walk.Your shoes are covered in mud and grime and it’s nearly pitch black in said cemetery, the moon shining but so much.

Your feet halt in their tracks. You blink your eyes, zoning in on a figure not far away from you. The figure appeared to be hunched over, on their own knees. You clench your burse tighter, eyes blinking away the droplets of rain to try to get a better look. 

The moonlight shines off of the figure and it appears to glow - it’s a person, no doubt. You ponder if they’re there for the same reason you are - but not everyone would be caught in the rain paying respect to a deceased loved one, right?

You begin to step closer to the figure, unsure of what your body is doing. Your mind is screaming out alarm bells, that something wasn’t right and this could end up going completely wrong. 

The figure’s head lifts up, shining eyes glowing in the dark. A man, you note, just as drench in the rain as you were. Black hair sticks to his scalp and covers the majority of his forehead. Just as before, he appeared to be shining underneath the moonlight.

“Are you o-okay?” you stutter out, uneasy with the intense stare of the man. You can make out his features - chiseled jawline, sharp eyes and full lips. 

Your throat swallows a lump, body visibly stiffening upon noticing the man's eyes turning a shade of crimson. There was no possible way you were seeing things.

The man begins to lift from his knees and once onto his feet, your mind is screaming at you to run. The man is tall - and athletically built. He wore a suit of the sorts, completely black that it nearly disguises him in the dark scenery. 

Your heart is beating outside your chest, your mind coming back to reality when he begins to step closer to you. His feet snap a twig beneath them. You want to run - you can even feel the way your body jerks to do so, but you cannot.

What?

What the fuck?

Your heart beats even louder that even the pouring rain is no match for it. Your hands clench your purse tighter against you.

Breathe.

Breathe.

Why is it becoming harder to breathe?

Your throat tightens.

Your body begins to shudder, trembling. You’re unsure what in the world is going on with you right now. You’re trembling, feeling a rush of cold air go through you one moment and the next, you’re burning up. Your body temperature hightens, as if your blood is boiling at a rapid pace. Your clothes being wet and sticking to you already didn’t make anything better.

“You,”

Your eyes widen hearing the man's voice so clear - as if there wasn’t rain pouring. The wind kicked up, swirling around you, yet still, his voice was coherent. 

“are such a beautiful little human.”

Air filled your lungs once more and finally, you were able to breathe. Your mind swirls around on his words - a beautiful little human? What did that mean?

The man appears in front of you in a blink of an eye - how you didn’t fall back with a scream, you’re truly unsure. He’s tall, towering over you with his menacing gaze - eyes appearing even darker with a mysterious glint to them. Those eyes…they weren’t human, you note, they couldn’t be. Even if his overall appearance to be that of a human man - there was no man you met with such crimson eyes. 

The man offers you a smile - no, a smirk. It didn’t appear genuine like a smile someone would give you upon introducing themselves. This was a cunning one; devious.

You do not realize that you’ve dropped your purse until it hits your feet. Your body still feels hot, temperature rising every second. 

You feel the man's hand place itself against the skin of your cheek - they were calloused and even hotter than your own skin. His thumb traces the outline of your lips and you can hear he’s humming to himself.

“Your heart is beating so loud, beautiful. Are you afraid of me?” the man questions. “Do I frighten you? Or do I make you nervous?”

“Whoever dwells in the shelter of the Most High will rest in the shadow of the Almighty.” you manage to say - more stutter. Breathing was difficult enough, but speaking appeared to be a battle. 

The man chuckles. “A prayer?”

“I will say of the Lord, “He is my refuge and my fortress, my God, in whom I trust.” Surely he will save you from the fowler’s snare and from the deadly pestilence. He will cover you with his feathers-”

You feel your throat tighten once more, this time by the man's hands. He forces you closer to him. “Shut up.” he hisses. “Your prayers do not affect me, beautiful. It makes me want to ruin you even more.”

Your body was feeling weird. Goosebumps prickled your skin - you can feel it beneath your clothing - and your stomach was beginning to bubble. You closed your eyes to not look into his eyes, but even then you could see them glaring at you.

“Christ be with me, Christ within me, Christ behind me, Christ before-” your prayer is cut short when a pair of lips are against yours. You’re struggling against the lips, a muffled scream dying in your throat.

The man removes himself from you, but he holds you close. His hands wrap tightly beneath your chin. Your eyes squeeze shut, heart thumping rapidly.

“You can feel it, right, beautiful?” The man's words are sultry, coming out more as a moan than a regular statement. “I know what it’s doing to you. I know you can feel it…right here…”

You gasp, feeling a tense grip between your legs. Your eyes snap open, the crimson eyes .boring right into your own. You want to jolt away from his prying hands - to push this man, no, this monster away.

“I know, beautiful…” the man sing-songs. “...the arousal feels amazing. Doesn’t it feel like you’re sinning for me, Y/N?”

You froze. Your eyes couldn't even grow wider. This man knew your name.

This man, whoever he was, knew you. He knew you’d be here visiting your mothers grave - that or he followed you.

“Yes, beautiful, I know your name.” the man chuckles, his hand rubbing along your clothed head. “I’ve always known your name. I’ve known of your existence since the day you were born.”

This man wasn’t human - your heart told you. His eyes, his words; he was something otherworldly. 

“Dear Father, Thank You for protecting me. Thank You for the angels that you assign to watch over me. I can be at peace today knowing that my very life is in Your hands-”

You squirm feeling a sickly substance upon your cheek. The man is licking you now - up your jaw, to your chin and now your cheek. His fingers hold your face in place in a tight grip. He reaches your ear, flicking the lobe. “Praying won’t stop me from having you, beautiful.”

This monster was doing something to you and your body. You would never feel this way. He had you under a spell - your legs are clenching against his prying hand. You could feel a pool of slick sticking to your panties - and so does the man.

“I need your help in this battle. I cannot walk alone, Lord-”

“Ah, that prayer!” the man cackles. “You feel it running through you, beautiful. The lust. You’re moaning right underneath my hand, beautiful. I can smell the sweet smell of your pussy.”

The man's words are so vulgar that you’re unable to respond. His hands cup your clothed heat even tighter. The hand that once grips your chin now loosens so he could push you closer against him.

“You’re a monster.” you hiss - but it’s not a regular hiss. No, the man notes this tone. It’s a moan of disgust, but a moan nonetheless.

“I am.” the man chuckles. “A demon straight from Hell, beautiful.”

Your throat releases a scream when your hair is yanked backwards. Your eyes are towards the sky, the droplets of rain blinding your eyes. You continue to scream when you feel teeth against your neck, biting down.

You want to fight the man - this predator. This demon. Your prayers aren’t working and appear to be falling on deaf ears. 

The man shudders at the taste of your blood. So pure and not laced with any impurities. But he wasn’t here for your blood - no, this was just a part of the ritual. 

“My name is Jungkook.” the man purrs, licking his lips of your delicious blood. “Finally, you’re mine.”

You cough. Your hands are clenching onto Jungkook’s chest unwillingly. You’re trembling, eyes fluttering. 

“You’re afraid of me, beautiful?” Jungkook tsks. His tongue licks the wound of your neck, twirling it up to your chin and to your lips. He presses an open mouth kiss onto your lips and moans. 

“I’m not yours.” you wheeze out.

“Oh…” Jungkook could only laugh. “...but you are, beautiful.”

Jungkook’s hand squeezes your ass. “I can smell your arousal. You’re so wet for me, Y/N. You’re clenching and unclenching around nothing.”

You feel ashamed by how true Jungkook’s words were. You want to cry out - you didn’t belong to this demon! You were a part of your local Church and attended said church with your mothers for years. You prayed constantly, remained God as your main priority and prayed away whatever petty sins you committed. 

“You belonged to me the day your mother gave birth to you, my love.” Jungkook’s hand pulls at your clothes. Your shirt rips in seconds, revealing your bra beneath. “That was part of the deal, after all.”

Deal?

Your hands grasp Jungkook’s wrist when his hands tug along your pants. You didn’t match his strength, and like your shirt, your pants are ripped to pieces. 

“I won’t submit to you, demon.”

Jungkook wants to coo at your cuteness. No matter how many times you denied him, he wouldn’t listen. You were going to be his regardless of what you felt - he had waited decades to get what he was promised. You had no skill, will or strength to deny him anything - you were already aroused. Soon, you would be begging for him and he would give you what you’ll be begging for.

You are turned away from him and flipped. Your face meets the muddy ground. You squirm when you feel your hips being lifted by Jungkook’s arm. The position is filthy and you want to be removed from this humiliating state.

Jungkook marvels at the sight of you - face down, ass up. So cute and exactly how you were expected to be. One hand grips your ass, gently rubbing before he brings his hand back and slaps it roughly.

You scream once more at the impact, and again and again. Jungkook continued, crimson eyes darkening at the sight of you squirming beneath him. 

“P-Please stop!”

Jungkook hums. “Why?” He slaps your ass once more, the sound like a melody to his ears. His hands trail between your legs to rub gently. “You’re so wet for me.”

Your eyes squeeze shut, teeth biting your lips to repress a moan. You can feel yourself grow wetter at the second and that’s what frightens you. You didn’t want to fall into temptation due to the demons hold against you.

“Let’s see just how filthy you are, huh?”

“N-No!”

Jungkook fingers hooks between your panties. He pushes them aside and finds his mouth watering. “Such a whore you truly are, beautiful. So wet and clenching around nothing.”

You couldn’t help the groan that comes from your throat when he rubs a thumb against it. Your thighs quiver to close, but Jungkook only slaps your throbbing ass once more to punish you.

Jungkoom continues to rub along your clit, fingers sliding between your folds effortlessly. He can feel his pants tightening at just the sight of you.

“So wet.” Jungkook grunts. He smirks, fingers dangerously close to your opening. “I can just slide…”

“N-No!” you gasp, but even with your pleas, your legs widen for him. 

“...right in.” Jungkook enters two fingers inside of you. So warm and wet - and inviting. He pumps his fingers inside, marveling at how you take him so well. “You’re milking my fingers, beautiful. Good little whore you are, huh?”

You shake your head, eyes squeezing shut. 

Why?

Why were you moaning for this demon? Why was your body not cooperating with your brain? Why were you so wet and aroused with such sinful acts?

“J-Jungkook…please!”

Jungkook groans. “That’s right, beautiful. Just give in.” he murmurs, his fingers picking up the pace. “It’ll be over if you just submit to me.”

“N-No…” You don’t want to moan any more. You can feel a familiar feeling in the pit of your stomach.

Jungkook removes his fingers from inside of you. He doesn’t allow you to fall forward. He lifts you and presses you against him. “Taste yourself.” he hisses and before you can protest, he enters two of his fingers inside of your mouth.

Your tongue swirls against his fingers unwillingly, your juices hitting your tongue. 

“I wonder if you taste as divine as you smell, beautiful.” Jungkook whispers in your ear, popping his fingers from your mouth. “Give me a taste.”

“N-No…”

Jungkook hums. “No?”

You nod your head. 

“Then why are you leaning against me, beautiful? Why are your hips jerking for more pleasure?”

Jungkook flips you once more. He’s laid against the ground and has you hovering above him. You’re firmly in his grasp, unable to escape. His teeth - so sharp and canine like - bite at your underwear until they’re as ripped as your shirt and pants were. 

You gasp when Jungkook places you on his lips. You’re sitting directly on his tongue, palms back against his abdomen for balance as he licks between your folds. 

Jungkook grunts. “So sweet, beautiful.” he murmurs before going back to ravishing you. 

Your eyes are unable to remove themselves from the sight before you. Jungkook’s tongue - long with and split at the end, rapidly lick upon your clit and between the folds. You could no longer hide your moans, allowing the pleasure to run through you.

This was wrong.

This is a demon - no matter how attractive he may be, this was a demon.

You consider yourself a child of God, fully committed to your faith.

But Jungkook using his tongue to pleasure you felt far too amazing to not moan - too amazing to protest his advances any longer. And, as sad as it sounds, far too amazing for you to utter the word of God in hopes of stopping him.

Jungkook’s nails dig into the skin of your inner thigh. Your scent intoxicates his mind, your slick sliding against his tongue. Finally, you were his - and now you weren’t refusing him. Your moans are loud - even with the rain starting up once more. You were giving in to your rightful urges as his.

Jungkook’s eyes flicker to your face. Such a beautiful face contorted with pleasure. Mouth agape and moaning with pleasure, the droplets of rain trailing down your skin. It glistens beneath the moonlight.

“My beautiful human.” Jungkook growls. His tongue swipes at your clit once more. “Pleasure yourself against my tongue.”

Jungkook slaps your thigh in encouragement. He wants you completely submerged in pleasure that you would willingly participate in.

Your hips jerk forward and onto his tongue. A deep moan comes from your throat and you now find yourself thrusting onto Jungkook - a demon. Your eyes squeeze shut, wanting nothing more than to feel your release.

Jungkook’s hands roam your body, tongue laying flat while you use him. They trail up your thighs to your hips, wrapping around them to encourage you to go faster. He then slides them up your sides to grasp your breast from your bra. He squeezes them, pinching the sensitive bubs of your nipples.

“J-Jungkook, I-I can’t take it!”

Jungkook pinches your nipple once more. He clamps down onto them so hard that you scream out, lifting yourself from his tongue, juices releasing.

And Jungkook’s laps every drop, a groan rumbling deep within his soul.

Whatever soul Jungkook had deep within Hell that was.

You fall limp against his legs, legs quivering.

“My poor beautiful human.” Jungkook moves your body so that he is on top of you. “Came so hard that you can barely function.”

Jungkook leans down to swipe his tongue against your cheek once more, the reason you’re unsure of. 

“I’m going to make you cum over and over again.”

The rain falls even harder, but the majority of it is hidden beneath Jungkook’s body. He kicks off his pants along with his underwear.

You can’t see it, but you feel how large Jungkook is when he forces himself inside of you. You feel like you’re being stretched to the max. Your arms wrap around his neck tightly, breathing hitching.

“Beautiful human…so tight.” Jungkook growls. “Made just for me. My perfect little human.”

Jungkook doesn’t allow you the luxury to adjust to his size. He thrusts deeply inside of you, cracking his hips harshly. Your back hits against the muddy dirty roughly with each thrust. You were going to be filthy once this ended - if it ever did. This was a demon here with you? Did a demon’s stamina ever go out? It wasn’t like he was human.

“Jungkook, please!” you plead with him, but Jungkook doesn’t want to hear it. His teeth clamp down onto your skin, biting it harshly enough to release blood. “I-I can’t handle-”

“You can!” Jungkook hisses. He leans back to admire your disheveled appearance. You were covered in mud, blood and soaking wet. Your hair is sticking to you and your eyes are struggling to stay open. But to him - you were perfect. “Finally mine.”

There’s a bulge in your stomach, reminding you just who you were fucking. Jungkook is a demon.

A demon.

You were going to Hell surely.

There’s blood trailing down your thigh, but still Jungkook refuses to halt his abusive thrusts.

“Your soul, your mind, your heart and your body belong to me.” Jungkook growls, appearing utterly animalistic. “All mine, Y/N. My beautiful human. And all it took was a deal from your father.”

Your father?

You didn’t have a father - physically. You were raised with two mothers; when you grew up you never had a reason to look for who your biological father was. You asked your mothers, sure, but it was stated he was someone who provided them sperm and nothing more.

“He got what he wanted and in return…”

Jungkook flips you onto your knees. He wraps an arm around your neck and enters you once more. He continues the brutal pace, skin slapping and echoing off of the trees. You’re not sure if you were going to survive this. Your insides hurt - even if it came with brief pleasure. Your body was aching just as bad and Jungkook showed no chance of stopping.

“...in return…I got you, beautiful human of mine…” Jungkook grunts. “...you’ll be coming back home with me to Hell.”

It was your alarm that had woken you up that following morning. You jerked upward, eyes scanning the room. Your room.

You were in your room.

You inhaled deeply and exhaled just the same. Your ears are ringing and your fluttering eyes are attempting to adjust to the sunlight coming from your bedroom window.

Your aching legs manage to move. You swing them around your bed and lift yourself. You managed to make it to your mirror and you gasped.

You weren’t dirty nor covered in mud like you expected. That couldn’t have been a dream - everything felt far too realistic to be one. You were intimate with a demon - he had told you that you were his because of a father you never met.

Your eyes scan the scars and bruises littering your body. There’s hand marks upon your throbbing skin, one around your neck and two on both sides of your waist. You can see the bite marks that drew blood on your neck and another between your thighs.

You want to cry, but felt that even that would be hypocritical. You allowed a demon into your body - to have something precious that should have belonged to your human partner. You have learned from an early age that demons were tricksters and you had fallen into their trap.

You shower until the hot water runs cold - and even then you did not want to remove yourself. You washed your skin countless times in hopes to rid yourself of the sick feeling, but it never left. You could feel his hands on your body now as if he was here - his teeth and his tongue grazing along onto your skin.

Your mind betrayed you as did your body. There’s flashes replaying the long night Jungkook had bestroved for you. How he had taken you so roughly against the cemetery ground, both of you covered in blood. How he had flipped you and taken you against a tree, allowed you on top of him - almost every inch of the area you had been fucked on.

You clench your legs together and clench your fists. You dried your body, trying to rid your thoughts of the sinful encounter - but they wouldn’t leave. You were beginning to feel the uncomfortable throb between your legs once more.

Pray.

You had to pray. 

You dressed in fresh clothing and went towards your vanity. Your rosary would be there. You grasp it in your hands, ready to send a prayer when the rosary begins to burn in your hands. You screamed, dropping it to the floor and watching with wide eyes as it began to burn through the hardwood floor. 

“No…”

You trembled, not taking your sight off of the burning rosary.

You were too far gone - you were damned to Hell.

The tears finally came. You have dropped to your knees now, praying for forgiveness for the sins you committed. Your God would understand - he had to. You didn’t want to sleep with the demon that was Jungkook. You had no choice. He had you underneath a demonic spell that had you moaning his name, crying tears of lust and pleasure…

Had you been screaming his name, claiming how much you wanted Jungkook…

You wrapped your arms around him and begged for more - each and every time…

The feeling was returning. The familiar arousal between your legs and the warm feeling against your skin. You lay upon the cool hardwood floor, wanting nothing more than for your temperature to subside.

Why you?

Why were you being cursed by Jungkook?

What was the supposed deal Jungkook made with your biological father? And even so, you didn’t even know the man. Was he even still alive?

“Beautiful human.”

Your body jerks at the sound of Jungkook - his sultry voice.

Jungkook leans against the nearest wall of your bedroom. He’s sporting all black once more, this time a fitted shirt and slacks. His eyes are the familiar shade of crimson and they watch you closely. 

“Look at you. In a pool of your own arousal once more.” Jungkook shakes his head, a smirk placed on such beautiful lips…

You shake your head. This wasn’t your mind thinking - it had to be the demonic spell.

“I have not put you under any spell.”

Can he read your mind?

“I can read your mind, beautiful.” Jungkook states. “You can learn to read mine. Once we venture to Hell.”

You aren’t going to Hell. You were going to ask God for his forgiveness - to be allowed to be underneath his guidance once more. 

“God…” Jungkook chuckles darkly. “...will never take you. He never had you to begin with, beautiful. Why do you think it was so easy for me to get my hands on you?”

The familiar tightening in your throat, the heat radiating your skin and the goosebumps were returning. Your clit throbbed uncomfortably as if your body knew Jungkook was near. 

“Your body will always submit to me, beautiful. As it belongs to me.”

No.

No.

No!

“I know you feel the arousal once more. How wet you are. You’re such a needy little thing, huh?” Jungkook cackles loudly. “Touch yourself, beautiful. See how wet you are.”

No.

You weren’t going to.

If so, why were your hands going beneath your shorts to touch yourself?

“It’s okay, beautiful. Touch yourself and watch me.”

You want to deny him the satisfaction of watching you, but you’re already succumbing to his demonic spell. You were positive that he’s done something to your mentality that you could never deny him.

“I-I can’t.” you snatch your hands from your shorts, feeling flush with embarrassment.

“That just means you want me to, huh?” Jungkook is kneeling down beside you in the blink of an eye. You want to ask how he does it, but you’re afraid of the answer. You weren’t ready to go down a rabbit hole of demonic entities and powers.

“No…?”

“Is that a question, beautiful?”

Jungkook’s already tugging your pants down and taping your thighs aside. He’s amused by how easily you give into him.

“Go ahead and tell me no.” Jungkook plays with the lace of your underwear. Your clit is visible to him - wet and inviting as always. “Then I'll leave.”

“You’ll leave?”

Don’t sound disappointed, you think. You wanted this demonic entity gone - right?

“Of course. Tell me to leave, Y/N. And I’ll go.”

Jungkook hooks a finger inside your laced panties with a shake of his head. So divine and so sweet - even after he completely ruined you not long ago.

Tell him to go.

Tell him to leave you alone and to never return.

Be stern, you think. Resist him and the impure thoughts of this demon.

But you don’t. Those words never leave your lips. 

“Already so wet, my beautiful human.” Jungkook enters a finger inside of you for a second. He then removes it and enters it inside his mouth. “And taste so heavenly.” he cackles. “Heavenly for someone going to Hell.”

You don’t respond to Jungkook’s words. He’s already entering his fingers back inside of you. He pumps slowly at first to get you comfortable - and then he’s rapid. The sounds of his moving fingers echo off the walls of your bedroom - mixed with your moans of pleasure. It sends shockwaves throughout your body.

It’s so sinful, you think. How when you were a child with your mothers going to church, even if the three of you got awkward stares - how you read the bible alongside them. You prayed every night before bed, before every meal - you needed to know where exactly you went wrong.

“Still blaming yourself, sweetheart?” Jungkook’s so beautiful, you think. You recall many times hearing that demons were often beautiful to trick you into sinning with them. “I told you, you were destined to me long before you were even born.”

You feel Jungkook’s fingers hitting your g-spot, curling inside of you with each thrust. It’s as if he was going deeper and deeper each time. You don’t want to look at the beautiful man, but it’s as if he compels you to. His crimson eyes - so captivating and inhumane. You were told that you were under no spell, but that had to be a lie - demons always lie.

“I never tell no lies, my beautiful human.” Jungkook comes closer to you, licking his lips. “What you feel right now is not due to any spell, but your own body submitting to me.”

Your soft moans only fuel Jungkook on further. His tongue licks along the skin of your collarbone. Your thighs tremble with pleasure when you feel his teeth once more - he’s biting you. It doesn’t hurt, you note, not like it did when he bit you at the cemetery. 

You’re breathing quicken and your eyes snaps shut; you were going to cum. You cannot remember when you ever felt this much pleasure in such a short amount of time until now, and all you can truly think about was succumbing deeper and deeper into the pleasure.

“I know you feel it coming.” Jungkook’s breath tickles your neck as he speaks. “Say my name, beautiful human. Who is the demon who’s going to make you cum?”

“J-Jungkook…!” you shout, feeling the wave of pleasure shoot out of you. It engulfs your entire body, shuddering up the back of your spine and causing goosebumps to litter your skin.

It was when you opened your eyes did you think you were going crazy - completely insane. Jungkook was gone, seemingly never in front of you. Your fingers were inside of you instead of his own, completely soaked in your slick.

“How did you find me? I know your…mothers. They wouldn’t give up that information.”

It took a week to track down your biological father - a week of torment each night with Jungkook. You cried after you realized that you masturbated, not because you thought it was wrong - you’ve done so before. But because you weren’t sure what was real and what was fake anymore. No prayer stopped Jungkook from returning to you each night - and you never told him yourself to stop; your body submitting to him each time like he’s stated.

You visited your mother on the third day and even she saw the bags beneath your eyes. She questions your appearance, but all you could think about was the very man before you - it took hours to convince her, but she eventually caved. 

“Well…” your father murmurs, sighing after a moment of silence. “...what do you want? Money?”

Your eyes roam over the large estate he lived in. Money would’ve been nice if there wasn’t a literal demon fucking you every night - but even you wouldn’t think to ask him for money. He was nothing but a donor for your mother’s to have a child, never truly intending to be in your life. 

“What deal did you make with the demon?” you ask bluntly.

Your father’s eyes widen slightly at your choice of words. He turns to close the doors to the office you sat in before turning back to you. 

“What…are you talking about?” he coughs, turning back to you. 

“What deal did you make with the demon that’s tormenting me?” you don’t mean for your tone to come out harsh, but it does. You were upset - rightfully so. “What are you? A musician? You promised that son of a bitch your first born child for a record deal-”

“I’m not a musician.” he raises his hands in an attempt to calm you. “H-How did you find me-”

“Are you not listening?!” you take a deep breath, again, not wanting to appear too angered. “There’s a demon tormenting me every night. He said that my…father,” you didn’t want to call him that. He had no intentions of ever being in your life, he was nothing but a donor. But it didn’t matter to Jungkook. “made a deal with him. What the fuck was the deal you made with the demon? Why am I the one being tormented when I know you have other children-”

“You are my first born daughter.” the man caves. His voice comes out in a whisper and barely audible. “I have a son older than you before I made the deal.” his voice is cracking - was he guilty? After all these years did he feel bad for whatever he’s done? “I…I needed money to support my family. The demon said if I had a daughter that I…” the man blinks away from you. “...my wife fell pregnant with another son after we made the deal. That demon was upset. I’ll never forget those eyes. He threatened to kill my wife and kids if I didn’t give him a daughter. That was the plan. I never knew demons were specific with gender.”

Your blood runs cold as his words ring in your mind.

“I…what’s your name?”

You’re taken aback by his sudden interest. “Y/N.” you murmur.

“I thought the demon…I don’t know what I thought.” he sighs. “I kept tabs on you for years now and you remained alive. The demon didn’t take you when you were born like I initially thought he would. Each year passed and I began to think that maybe…he forgot? He didn’t want you anymore.”

You want to laugh. To think your life was given away before you were ever conceived. Your eyes roam the large office space and linger on a picture - a family one. The man before you with a woman, his wife, and two boys - his sons. They appeared happy as a small family of four. 

You sniffle, unsure truly if you could be upset with him. He was only doing what he thought was right at the time, trying to provide for his family. You ponder what would happen if he did have a daughter instead of a second son - would Jungkook have been tormenting her instead of you? 

You shake your head. 

“I have to go.” you exhale. “I-”

“I am…so sorry.”

You glance at the man’s way and nod your head. 

“So am I.” you murmur to him, your legs already walking towards the door of his office.

Your body is sweating, beads of sweat pooling down your skin. Your shirt sticks to you thickly and you’re sure that this is how you were going to die - or pass out. Whichever came first.

Your eyes snap and you lean your head back, cupping your forehead. You sat at your desk, your work forgotten about.

It’s been two months now since you've been tormented by Jungkook - though he had been missing for the last week. You were grateful - in a way - that he has not returned. Your body needed the rest.

Your throat closes up and your eyes snap open. You never ran as fast as you did now, pushing past your co-workers to make your way into the restroom. You slam the stall door open and hurl right into the toilet. You felt physically ill, vomiting for the next ten minutes.

You were sent home once a co-worker found you like that, crying and vomiting - you weren’t even sure you had enough in your stomach to continue, but your body kept on.

It was the following day - you were given a few days off to recover - when you noticed that something was terribly wrong with you. You visited your mother that night for dinner - she claimed that you looked both hungry and ill. She was just going to start dinner - steak - and that you needed to relax while she finished up.

You thought the smell of raw meat would disgust you, but it didn't. While your mother washed dishes in the sink, humming to herself, you opened the fridge to find yourself something to drink. You were parched and now growing hotter by the second. You smelt it first - the raw steak your mother had placed in the fridge for another day. She hadn’t seasoned it yet like she usually did and it caught your eyes almost instantly. Your eyes glanced before the fridge door to your mother, scrubbing along the dishes.

You grasp the bowl the steak was placed in and sniff it, your stomach rumbling. Before you can process what you’re doing, you sink your teeth into the raw meat, the blood oozing from the corner of your lips. It tasted delicious - finally something you could smell or taste without vomiting it up moments after.

Your mind suddenly clicks on what in the world you’re doing. You slam the fridge door shut and hurl the bitten steak in the trash. You feel ill - not because you just ate raw meat, but because you liked it.

“You ate raw meat?” your doctor asks, chuckling awkwardly. “That cannot be good.”

“That’s why I’m here.” you murmur, playing with your fingers to not look your doctor in the eye. “There must be something wrong with me. I-I sweat constantly. I always feel sick. I can’t sleep most nights-”

“That’s what we were looking into.” your doctor nods, offering you a kind smile. “We ran some tests and a part of the problem can be answered. You’re pregnant.”

Pregnant.

Pregnant?

You shake your head slowly, eyes now widening at the doctor. “I can’t be…” you trail off. 

The only person - were demons even people? Your mind races at the word pregnant. You were only sexually active with Jungkook - an act you weren’t sure if you had complete control over. 

Demons had to be infertile - you were a human woman. There was no way you could be pregnant by a demon.

“We took multiple tests, Y/N. Would you like for me to perform a sonogram?”

You’re starting to feel ill again. 

“Y-Yea.” you whisper. 

The gel placed upon your stomach is cold. You don’t want to look upon the screen, but you’re drawn to it. 

Your doctor hums. “That’s weird.” he murmurs. “The baby appears large.”

You’re unsure how to read the screen, but you try your hardest. 

“But you’re rather small. You are still in the beginning stages of your pregnancy.” your doctor continues.

You pull your eyes away from the screen.

You shake your head. 

“I can’t have this baby.”

Your doctor glances at you, but he doesn’t say anything but nod. 

“Is there a way I can set up an appointment?” you continue. “I-I can’t keep this baby.”

Your doctor nods again. “We can set one up as soon as we have available. Let me speak-”

Your doctor coughs, and then begins to clench his chest. You lean forward as he begins to cough blood. He proceeds to fall to the ground, sonogram equipment crashing alongside him. 

You swing your legs around to get up from the hospital bed. You swing the door open and scream out. “I-I think he’s having a heart attack in here!”

The room swarms with nurses, all pushing you aside. You couldn’t take your eyes off of your doctor as he’s being ushered out. Even as you make your way back home, did you feel as though you were at fault.

You swing the door to your home open and walk in. You close it behind you and wake your way towards your bedroom.

“Y/N.”

You come face to face with Jungkook.

“Welcome home, my beautiful human.” Jungkook offers you a smile, small dimples on display. “I’ll allow this realm to be your home for now.”

You shake your head. 

Jungkook takes a few steps closer to you. “You’re glowing.” he hums.

“You did this to me.” you hiss his way. “You put this…thing in me-”

“Thing?” Jungkook cackles, red eyes glaring at you. “You mean our child?”

“This isn’t a child.”

“But it is, my beautiful human. Made with our flesh and blood. A product of our love.” Jungkook is in front of you in a matter of seconds. He turns you around so you are facing the floor-length mirror in your room. He places a hand upon your stomach. “Such a powerful being to rival the strongest and most powerful demons of the underworld. I can feel it.”

You feel your throat tighten.

“You cannot feel such power yet. But as he grows throughout the months, so will his powers. They’ll be similar to my own.”

He?

“Yes. He. It’s a boy - I can feel him. He can also feel your disappointment, my beautiful human. You don’t want our child to feel hatred while he’s not yet been born.”

You shake your head. You didn’t want a child - not with a demon. You had your life planned the best you could. Find a man that you loved, get married - have children when the time was right. 

This time was not right.

“It is right.” Jungkook lifts your shirt to reveal your stomach. You feel disgusted that it begins to move. You’ve never seen anything like it. Women in early pregnancy didn’t look like you now. It was as if the child inside of you was attempting to claw its way out.

“Our childs power has shown itself today. He had his first kill.” Jungkook appears proud, crimson eyes shining. “It was self-defense. You tried to get rid of him, Y/N. He knows you did.”

Your heart sinks. Your doctor having a form of a heart attack, bleeding out in front of you. That was you - the child you were pregnant with. 

You blink rapidly to not cry, even if you desperately wanted to.

“Everything would be fine if you would stop fighting your destiny. You were destined to be mine - to submit to me. You are now having our child.”

Jungkook removes his hands from your stomach and lifts it in the air. From his reflection, you witness a small box appear in his hand.

“How do you feel, Y/N?” Jungkook asks, opening the box. “Do you feel nauseous? Headache? Hot?”

You shake your head, watching Jungkook remove a ring from the box. “I know,” he says. “you haven’t felt that way since you walked inside the room. It’s because our child feels welcomed with me around him. He isn’t on alert. He feels safe.”

Jungkook turns you around, holding up the ring. It’s large, a dark stone at the center surrounded by smaller diamonds. He grabs your hand in his own, sliding the ring onto your finger. “You humans enjoy jewelry as an act of commitment.” he states. “Now here it is. Consider us…married.” Jungkook shrugs his shoulders. 

Jungkook offers a smile, unbeknownst to you, a cunning one. Humans were always easy to manipulate.

Your chest is ready to explode into small pieces. Your chest is tingling, you unwillingly inhale hoping that your lungs would be filled with air - the perfect amount of oxygen needed. Instead, it fills with water. Your head begins to feel numb and light, almost as if it’s going to crack open.

You feel dizzy, as if it dawned onto you just now that you were going to die here. Your arms flapped around for anything, but the weight of the water just brings you down deeper and deeper.

You managed to open your eyes, but the water isn’t clear. It’s hard to make out your surroundings and you cannot fathom what you’ve done to get here. 

You clenched your eyes shut in hopes the ringing in your head would go away, but it didn’t. Instead, it got louder and louder.

There’s no air left in your lungs, nothing keeping you alive. 

Your flaring hands cup your stomach - the bump that grew larger throughout the months. Your baby. Your heart sinks at the thought that not only you would be dying right now, but so would your son - even if a part of him was Jungkook, a demon, he was still a part of you.

Your chest burned while the rest of your body ached. You could no longer fight your kicking legs. You feel yourself sink deeper and deeper into the abyss, your surroundings only growing darker and darker.

Your mind, what little left you had of it, screamed for Jungkook to save you - that he was truly your only hope left. Not just for you, but for the child you both shared.

Your screams echo and bounce off of your ears. Your body begins to frail once more, feeling yourself being restrained. Your eyes finally focus and you realize that you are not deep in the abyss anymore.

Cries are heard throughout the room and finally, you stop fighting against the hands restraining you.

“I-Is that…”

You aren’t in a room. You aren’t sure where in the world you are. The walls are stone and high. There’s candles that are lined around your cot and on the walls. Surrounding you are several men, all unfamiliar except one. Jungkook. He’s holding something in his arms, wrapped in a clothed blanket. 

“Our son.” Jungkook rocks the wailing baby until he’s quiet. 

“Can I…hold him?”

The six men surrounding you all watch as Jungkook places the baby into your arms. Your eyes are fixed on him. He doesn’t appear to be that of a newborn - yet, he was half demon, so you wouldn’t hold anything against him. He’s still so small in your arms and against your chest and warm to the touch. There’s a mop of dark hard atop of his head.

Your son's eyes are open - and they are the same as Jungkook’s. Crimson, shining right up at you.

Your finger touches his skin, feeling your heart feel warm at just the sight of him.

Jungkook hums, feeling himself smile. He had you now - fully. Now more than ever would have if it was not for the child he’d given you; you had called for him while in the abyss to save the both of you. Even if there was never any direct harm to you physically, mentally you were calling for him. Him to protect you and his son.

“It’s time.” one of the men said. Jungkook takes the baby back into his arms, shushing when the small infant begins to sob at your lack of contact.

“W-What’s happening?” you want to hold your baby close to you once more, inhale the soft baby scent that even a half demon like he had. 

The six men surrounding you began to chant. You’re unsure what’s happening, but your heart sinks. There’s an uneasy feeling in your core.

“Jungkook…” you murmur, reaching out for him.

“It’s alright, my beautiful human.” Jungkook takes a step back with the baby, rocking him gently. “The bond has been completed. Now we can be together for eternity. In Hell.”

The room begins to shake, as if an earthquake was beginning to happen. The candles on the stone walls all fall, falling onto the ground and erupting around you.

“Jungkook!” you shout, your nails clenching the thin sheet surrounding you. What in the world is going on right now? 

“The pain will not last long, my beautiful wife…” Jungkook trails off. His son begins to cry, feeling the distress coming from his mother - noted seeing as he was just as connected to you as he was to Jungkook. “...once it’s over, you can reunite with us in the Underworld. We will be waiting for you.”

The chants only get louder and the room hotter. When you managed to take your eyes away from Jungkook, you looked towards the shaking ground. It erupts, pits of flames crashing through the ground. You scream, unsure of what was going on.

Jungkook’s words ring in your mind - you would be reunited with them in the Underworld.

Your blood runs cold, feeling your arms being pulled upon from an unknown force deep within the pits. 

Your eyes lock with Jungkook for a last time, crimson eyes staring right into your own. You’re unsure how to read him - he was a demon and could demons ever truly be trusted? They were cunning and selfish; only truly anything for personal gain.

‘I’ll be right down there when you arrive, Y/N. We both will.’ 

You’re shocked for a moment, hearing Jungkook’s voice directly into your thoughts. Now your body is being dragged down into the Earth, swallowing you fully and yet, all you could hear are Jungkook’s words in your head.

‘You have my word, my beautiful wife.’

PART 2 | Divine Intervention (Taehyung Version)

[writingjourney]

⛧ WIP Wednesday ⛧

I talked about how I find it daunting but I actually continued on a little with my V fic, so this is an excerpt of the beginning. Please know that I am super terrified of even posting this so if it sucks please don't tell me <3 ➽ V/Perpetua x f!reader/non-decripts oc, 1.1k words, third person, this is not sane at all, he is obsessive but still sort of a sweet guy? idk really, mild tw for grief/loss

He’s leaning against the back of a headstone, scribbling in his journal with some enthusiasm, only held back by the speed of his mind. He feels on the verge of a revelation, teetering on the edge of thoughts slowly connecting. The quiet around him allows for such rumination, the presence of the dead muffling the rest of the world that is usually so loud inside of V’s head.

In the cool grass, beside him, two books. Annotated philosophical works, musings on theology, on life and death. He’s sucking the thoughts out of them, rewriting them with his own lines, some vaguely poetic renditions of what he thinks is the essence of it all. It has always bothered him, the lack of pathos in such theories, the gap between reason and emotion. Introspection that brackets out the core of human nature, a head without the heart.

Fog has gathered on this morning, the cemetery shrouded in its grey billows with the sun not quite rising yet. It is entirely too early for visitors and yet his gaze snaps up as he notices the steps close by. He would ignore them, mildly irritated, were they not followed by the most heart-breaking, choked little sobs.

V crawls past the overgrown mausoleum that blocks his view, groping his way along the mossy stone walls as he follows with his ears alone. He finds her behind the structure, two rows down, a habited figure that is unfamiliar to him just like everyone else. A somewhat fresh grave has been dug, a few weeks prior, judging by the depression of the soil. She’s kneeling in front of it, crying, evidently, as she feels unobserved.

He cannot discern much from the distance, not in the fog, but her plain habit indicates that she is a regular Sister of Sin. V crawls a little further down, comes to rest behind a large headstone that sits crooked, weathered, his leather gloves leaving a scraping sound on the rough stone.

And then he sees her face.

The revelation he’s been grazing with his fingertips, it stands before him now in flesh and bone, finally within reach. A single heavy tear rolls down the curve of her cheek, gathering at the corner of her beautiful mouth, and he subconsciously inches forward as if to reach for it. She sniffles, wipes her cheek dry with her sleeve, and he feels some regret that he did not catch her tears with his thumb to taste them. Life and death, so closely intertwined.

The Sister stands, brushing the dirt off her knees where her habit clings to them, wet and stained from the grass. V takes a step back, obscuring himself further, hesitating for a second too long. She leaves in the opposite direction and whatever he had been reaching for is gone.

⛧ ✦ ⛧

Later, V approaches the grave. A wooden upside down cross serves as a placeholder for the tombstone until the stonemason delivers it. Sister Clara, 1960– 2025. On top of the soil, a bouquet of white lilies, roses and carnations, tied together with black ribbon. He does not know her but then he doesn’t really know anyone here, except his brother and the Psaltarians. Was she a beloved mentor? A family member? Her lover, perhaps?

As dawn breaks, V makes his way inside the abbey. The sharp stone arch he passes casts a shadow over the group of Siblings ambushing him, falling upon him like vultures. He gives his practiced cordial greetings, the hand kisses, speaks a short unblessing, nodding along to their reassurances until he can eventually shake them off. Everyone wants a piece of their new Papa, Marika had called it, and his brother had scoffed at that. V isn’t sure how many pieces he has left.

Mass is a whole ordeal. The chapel has been overflowing ever since he came here and so far interest has not died down enough to allow him to leave in a timely manner, not without spending another few hours or so, listening to everyone’s stories.

It’s not that he’s antisocial, per se, nor that he doesn’t care. It’s that the scope of this sudden rise in interest in him is beyond his level of comfort and most days he is sucked dry by the time lunch rolls around. The face of the Sister haunts him all day and yet he does not find her again, not in any of the knots of people.

He can eat somewhat in peace but only because they’ve granted him the luxury of having the meal delivered to his office. Sister Clara does not seem to have any obvious familial associations and since she had been with the church for most of her life she seemed to have had her hand in everything. According to the specific date in the system she died just before V arrived.

If only he knew her name.

He dreams of kissing a tear from the apple of her cheek, tasting the warmth of her grief on his tongue. He’s drifting in and out of sleep like that, hearing the bats moving past the window of his old stone cottage by the cemetery, some of which have made their home in the old wooden beams above his ceiling. They told him a gardener used to live here, back when the abbey was still in the hands of the church, that it lay abandoned until they prepared it for him. The tombstones by the entrance are right side up, the names long since faded, and he thinks their ghosts are visiting him at night.

The next morning, she reappears.

She crouches to light a candle when he finds her, hiding behind a higher tombstone with better view of the grave. Again she is crying, quiet tears gathering at her lashes, and he can’t tear his gaze away from them. Wet, her eyes sparkle in the near dark, two guiding lights in the fog. She is so blissfully unaware of him, wrapped up in the memories of Sister Clara and the pain that comes with the evidence of her loss. It is when he sees her praying that he decides to leave her. It feels vulgar, to intrude on this moment, when she seeks the solitary comfort of the Old One.

V reassumes his usual pondering, leaning against the ever same headstone that seems to carry his shape, so easily does it welcome him. His thoughts are less aligned this morning, straying into multiple directions that all seem to gather into the shape of her teary-eyed face. Grief is no stranger to V, nor is the loneliness that comes with it. Does she know that her love lives on in every tear she sheds for this woman? That the pain she feels must not stop her from seeing the world on either side?

A cool wind carries the fog like fingers between the rows of graves that stretch out on either side of him. It feels like a gentle caress from their Lord below, a hand in theirs at all times, one he hopes she can feel as well, wherever she is now.

V scribbles until the sun comes up.

[ahoyimlosingmymind]

half-baked Jayrena fic that lives in my brain free of rent, that I'll probably never write:

It's bittersweet! But mostly sweet!!! LISTEN--

early high school romance, super juvenile and innocent, bonded over books and school work. Definitely each other's first scrape with anything 'romantic', and probably the first time Jason felt kind of normal in years. Rena is one of the few people who can say she knew 'Jason Todd' as he was before he died, and without knowing he was robin. (Although, she had her suspicions when he'd show up to school with bruises, or when he'd opt of of PE for the day, or when he'd come to her window late at night just to chat, out of breath with odd glue residue around his eyes. She's also heard robin laugh a few times, when he's swinging around with Batman. It sounds like Jason's laugh, but when she brings it up to Jason as a joke, he shrugs it off like "you must miss me a lot when I'm not around"). She's the only kid from Gotham academy that ever set foot in Wayne Manor by Jason's invitation, and the only kid Alfred can even recall Jason speaking about after school.

Jason tells her that he thinks he's in love with her. Rena thinks she feels something similar, but the words get a little caught in her throat, so she just leans forward on the bench where they're sitting, and kisses his cheek. And Jason turns scarlet.

But then Jason starts pulling away. It's out of the blue, with zero explanation. All she knows is that the last few times he's seen him, he's not really there. His eyes are glazed, he can't answer the question in literature when he's called on, and he doesn't find her outside of her locker between every class like usual. he starts missing days at school with no warning, and his assignments are getting turned in late-- he's missing rehearsals for the school show that she's running tech on. He has a small speaking role, so it doesn't affect much, but she knew he loved it. She gets a cryptic voicemail one night, and Jason's voice is stuffy and congested on the recording, and all he says is that Bruce isn't too happy with him, and that he's going out of a town for a bit because he wants to see if he can find his birth mom. "I'll be back before you know it... love ya." He says. And the message beeps to an abrupt close.

Her stomach is in knots. She was there when Jason first brought up searching for his biological mom. She was there when he looked at her with his sad baby blues and asked, "She must have had a good reason for it, right? Like if you were going to have a baby, what would have to happen in order for you to give it up?"

She calls the manor multiple times-- Alfred picks up once and explains that "Master Jason is currently occupied, but I shall let you know he called." And Alfred speaks like Jason is home-- but Rena knows he isn't. Bruce Wayne hasn't appeared in a tabloid in a little over a week. That's not normal.

She wakes up on April 27th, and she goes to school. And everyone is staring at her. Weird stares, that make your skin crawl, that make you feel like you can't really breathe. It's like the air is stale and somber around her, the school is quiet in a way it usually isn't. She walked deliberately to Jason's locker, because she always does, every day since he stopped showing up at hers. But he isn't there.

What is:

A bouquet of flowers, a cross, and a newspaper clipping.

Publication Date: April 27th, 6am.

The news has only been out for two hours, and there's already the beginnings of a memorial starting.

Rena's lungs are spasming in her chest as she reads the headline: "Bruce Wayne's Adopted son, Jason Todd-Wayne, Murdered by Notorious Mass-Murderer, The Joker." And the single image is older, from when Jason was twelve, on the steps of the courthouse he came out of the day he was adopted by Bruce Wayne.

She's so goddamn angry when the funeral is privatized. She's so angry when she wanders up to the Wayne cemetery gate, and all she can do is stare from afar as the grave-diggers erect that god-awful angel headstone, weeks after the funeral. She's so fucking mad when she calls the manor just to ask if there's anything she can do, and she receives no answer.

She listens to Jason's voicemail until her ears feel like they're bleeding, and all she is hollow and snot.

Because her boyfriend is dirt, and death, and maggots-- and she never said it back. Would he have still left, if she had just told him that she loved him too? That it wasn't even that she thought she might-- but that she knew she did?

Robin looks different. Some part of her feels certain that she knows why. That she was right all along.

Time doesn't really wait for grief, doesn't wait for you to pick yourself up and say "Yes, I have mourned enough. It is time to move." Time moves you before you even get your feet beneath yourself.

The rest of High school is a mind-numbing blur. She has flickers of happiness, she meets to new friends, guys ask for her number; but she can never give it, because there's only one phone on this fucked planet that she wants her number on, and it's the one that will never be picked up again. She goes to prom in a senior year-- refused in her junior, because she had had this stupid fantasy of going with him ever since he first held her hand.

She goes dress shopping with her girls, and she paints her face for the high school football games, and she joins speech and debate, and she doesn't touch theater tech ever again. She joins the yearbook with one goal in mind: and that's to make sure his face is on the senior page, and that he's acknowledged during graduation. And she can barely breathe when one guy laughs at her for caring, "He's dead. Not like it matters." She hears him mutter, and she jabs him hard in the side with her elbow as she passes in the hall.

On graduation, she arranges his seat beside her own, and flips off anyone who rolls their eyes when she stops them from sitting in it. She walks the stage alone, like everyone else. And feels the weight of the world on her shoulders when his name is called, and his picture goes up on the screen-- and she hollers and cheers through tears, because she remembers how badly he wanted to graduate and go to college.

For a moment, as she's leaving the ceremony, she swears she sees a boy-- a man? Who looks just like him, only he's got more scars and a white streak in his hair, and he vanishes before she can really think too much harder about it. And besides, Jason is dead. And that guy was so tall-- Jason was malnourished to hell, and he died small.

It's a Wayne Charity gala when she sees the same guy again. It's three years later. She's in her last year of college, studying social work, because Jason Todd inspired her like no one else.

But this guy-- a total wallflower, and he seems to know Dick Grayson, and Tim Drake-Wayne, and Damian Wayne. There's even a few times that Bruce Wayne stops to chat with the guy, and it looks oddly tense but it passes quickly.

But he looks just like him. Yes-- there's weird things, odd things that make her hesitate to be sure, like the hair, the size of him, the way his eyes don't look quite as blue-- but there's other things, a specific beauty mark just on the corner of his lip that Rena often thought about kissing, but held herself back because she was stupid, and regret is a bitch. There's also this divet in his cheek, right below his eye, and it's a scar she remembers reaching out to touch, on a face less weathered.

He's staring right at her.

And she knows she looks good, but she doesn't look that good. He's staring at her like she's oxygen and he hasn't breathed in years. And it's so much more mature than she remembers it.

And God is she fucking insane? Jason Todd is dead. Jason Todd is dead. Jason Todd is--

"You look like a boy I dated in high school." Rena blurts out, unsure of when she'd gotten so close. And she watches his expression shift and spasm, and whatever is going on looks like it hurts. "That's why I was staring." she adds, as if it will save the interaction somehow. It doesn't. And she chooses to make it worse. "He passed away. That's really why I'm staring."

"What was his name?" The guy asks, and even his voice has this awful familiarity to it. It's gruffer, deeper-- but the inflection? Something about it is so--

"Jason Todd." She says.

The guy's eyes widen, and he seems to choke on air for a minute, "You actually remember me?"

(ensue the most dramatic and heart-wrenching proper reunion ever, paired with Rena crying BUCKETS like "WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU MEAN YOU"VE BEEN ALIVE FOR ____ YEARS AND NEVER CAME AND FOUND ME?" And Jason is like "YOU DON"T KNOW WHAT I"VE BECOME!! WTF?? I Was just supposed to come back and put a ring on it, like I"m not a fucking murderer???" and she's like "YES???? THAT'S EXACTLY WHAT--" "How was I supposed to know you weren't dating anyone??" "PLS BE FR. All it would take is a quick look at my FB status to know I wasn't." "Okay but there was no guarantee you would have been happy to see me! And I wasn't exactly someone worth seeing" "oh my God I fucking loved u you dumb fuck")

later, when they've both calmed down: "You were at graduation." She says. He's quiet for a long time, before he replies, "Yeah, you made sure I was."

@glitter-stained low-key thought this might interest you bc ur into Jayrena bc ur CULTURED

[mahmooud-sharif]

The developments in the situation are frightening:

Mass deaths have begun to be recorded in northern Gaza as a result of the worsening famine. People are dying without any bombing. Elderly people have been found dead in their homes and inside their tents. In a frightening development, people are returning empty-handed from the food banks. The elderly, children, and those without a breadwinner are unable to compete with the thousands of young people at the doors of the banks, and then they return empty-handed. There are also areas where there are no food banks at all. Mass deaths have spread, according to eyewitnesses, near cemeteries for the dead. Bodies are being buried silently, particularly in Gaza City and its northern areas. These are literally disaster areas filled with a new epidemic called famine. The screams of hungry children are a silent death. They ate spoiled flour, turtles, hedgehogs, and weeds. All of this has been emptied for a while and has run out, leaving only the pain of hunger on the ground. There are frightening scenes. There are entire residential areas that don't have a single kilo of flour. Yes, entire residential neighborhoods that don't have a kilo of sugar. Entire camps that don't have any. One kilo of rice, and there is no safe drinking water. The day before yesterday, 02/05/2025, humanitarian organizations monitored a large number of breastfeeding women in very critical condition. They have infants who need baby formula and food for their breastfeeding mothers. In addition, they are the families of martyrs and missing persons during the war, meaning there is no breadwinner for the family and they are currently exposed to a deadly, merciless starvation, young or old, in light of the continued occupation and the closure of the crossings. This is an urgent appeal to all neighboring countries. Mass airdrops of food aid must be carried out and all crossings must be opened immediately. Mass deaths due to hunger and war have begun. The cemeteries are no longer sufficient. People are burying the bodies of the dead in silence, and the martyrs on private land, in public streets, and in the yards of their own homes. An appeal to the smallest or largest director of a hospice in this country: If you are unable to stop the war, provide large quantities of food urgently and urgently. Do the impossible. People are dying. These are legitimate demands. Our people used to see bundles of bread in The dawn hours are upon us at the falafel shops, and no one is reaching for the bread rolls. Our people deserve life, people. This is an urgent cry for help to every free person with a living conscience. It must reach every international institution capable of curbing the occupation. Stop the war and the crimes of starvation. Open the crossings now. Let aid in now.💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔

[pittsick]

GOTH TASHI HEADCANONS.

cw: +18. mdni. degrading-adjacent teasing. orgasm denial. strap-on sex. marking. mirror sex. sensory play. light bondage. possessive behavior. aftercare. religious & occult imagery. power imbalance. power play. clothing kink.

pairing: goth!tashi x gn!partner

taglist: @blastzachilles @lvve-talks @jordiemeow @222col @soulxinxthexsky @diyasgarden @jinxedbambi @lexiiscorect @religionlost @bluestrd @jclolz22 @destinedtobegigi @imperishablereverie @lovefaist @shahabaqsa0310 @prismozo @jesuistrestriste @grimsonandclover @nozhdyved @yardofbrunettes @hangels @sweetheartfaist @lacelottie

🕷️ ── She works at a vintage record store tucked between a tarot shop and a dilapidated art cinema. She alphabetizes everything by vibe, not by artist. You learned this the hard way when you tried to find The Cure under "C."

🕷️ ── She never wears the same makeup twice. One day it’s smeared black eyeliner and red wine lips like she crawled out of a Bauhaus music video. The next, she’s wearing ghost-white foundation, hand-drawn crucifixes beneath her eyes, and metallic shadow that makes her look celestial and unholy all at once.

🕷️ ── She has a sex drawer full of lace gloves, harnesses, scented oils, and a velvet blindfold. Everything smells like roses and sandalwood. She ties your wrists and murmurs poetry while she rides you, slow and torturous.

🕷️ ── Her bedroom is a gothic dreamscape. Heavy black velvet curtains. Candles of every size melted onto plates. A wrought iron bed covered in torn black lace and wine-red sheets. Dead roses in glass bottles. Posters of The Craft, Interview with the Vampire, and Nosferatu. One corner is reserved for a little shrine to Mercury retrograde.

🕷️ ── Tashi leaves marks intentionally. Long, red scratch trails down your back. Lipstick kisses on your throat. A bite on your inner thigh that lingers for days. She wants you to flinch when someone else touches you there.

🕷️ ── She uses her strap like a spell. She takes her time—soft at first, almost reverent. Then she pins your hips, fucks you deep and slow while her nails dig into your chest, telling you how sweet you look falling apart.

🕷️ ── She reads with religious intensity. Her favorites: Anne Rice, Clive Barker, Sylvia Plath, Baudelaire, and anything with erotic vampires or tragic women. She underlines passages in red ink and folds corners like wounds. You once found a pressed flower between pages of The Picture of Dorian Gray.

🕷️ ── Dates with her mean sneaking into cemeteries at night, slow dancing to Dead Can Dance under the moon, or reading erotic vampire fiction aloud while sharing a clove cigarette.

🕷️ ── She’s secretly soft about animals—especially black cats, rats, and moths. If you bring her a rescued crow with a bent wing, she’ll cry and name it after a Romantic poet.

🕷️ ── Corset play is essential. She’ll have you lace her in slowly, kissing your knuckles as you tighten it, then sit on your lap and make you come in your jeans without taking a single layer off.

🕷️ ── Her wardrobe is an exquisite graveyard of lace, leather, and velvet. Think floor-length skirts, crushed velvet slips worn over torn fishnets, corsets laced with silver ribbon, Victorian blouses with puffed sleeves, and thrifted black wedding veils. She layers textures like a spell — every outfit a soft form of armor.

🕷️ ── She is obsessed with symbolism. Wears crosses and rosaries as fashion. Draws pentagrams in her notebooks. Keeps bones in jars on her bookshelf. Her apartment has tarot cards pinned to the wall and antique mirrors that she insists are "not haunted, just misunderstood."

🕷️ ── Her aftercare is as intense as the sex. She kisses every mark she left. Cleans you up gently with warm water and a silk cloth. Wraps you in her oversized lace robe and reads you poetry while you come down.

🕷️ ── She treats friendships like blood pacts. If she lets you in, you’re in. She’ll walk you home at 2 a.m., hex your ex without being asked, and stare down anyone who looks at you wrong in a bar. Her loyalty is unshakable, but earned.

🕷️ ── She doesn’t party—she haunts. At clubs, she’s the one in the corner booth, dressed like a Victorian widow, sipping absinthe and watching everything with lidded eyes. She never dances unless the song is slow and sacrilegious.

🕷️ ── Tashi has control even when she’s bottoming. She’ll straddle you, lip between her teeth, rocking her hips just enough to make you lose your mind—and if you speed up or touch her without permission, she stops. Smiles. “Again,” she says. “And I’ll leave you like this all night.”

🕷️ ── She gets off on your desperation. She loves holding eye contact while you're begging for her touch—just watching, perfectly still, lips parted, letting you squirm while she decides if you’ve earned it.

🕷️ ── Journals constantly but never lets anyone read it. Leather-bound notebooks, covered in sigils and dried flowers. Some pages are poems. Others are just names, underlined. No one knows what that means.

🕷️ ── She gives orders in a calm, unshakable tone. “Hands behind your back.” “Stay open for me.” “Don’t come until I say.” She never raises her voice—she doesn’t need to. There’s so much gravity in her control, you obey without thinking.

🕷️ ── Overstimulating you once you’re already a mess. The moment you come undone on her strap, she doesn’t stop—she holds your hips down, fucking you through the trembling, grinning when your moans turn to whimpers. “You don’t get to stop until I do.”

🕷️ ── She likes leaving black lipstick kisses stains on your body. Not just for the aesthetic—though she does take a photo sometimes. But she loves the mess of it, the intimacy. She’ll kiss down your chest, your thighs, your stomach. You end up looking like a canvas she painted just to prove you’re hers.

🕷️ ── She brings you weird little gifts. A pressed flower in a book about death. A mix CD labeled “for when it hurts sweetly.” A Victorian ring she found at the flea market. She never explains why—just hands it to you with that unreadable look in her eyes.

🕷️ ── Tashi doesn’t say “I love you” often—she shows it in rituals. Lighting a candle before you come over. Making you tea without asking how you like it. Brushing your hair after a bath. Curling up beside you with a book and no words because your presence is enough.

🕷️ ── She rides you slow while holding your jaw. Doesn’t let you close your eyes. Doesn’t let you touch her at first. Just rides you like worship—one hand braced on your chest, the other dragging across your throat, eyes locked on yours. She comes hard and quiet, then kisses your lips like a reward.

🕷️ ── She’ll do your makeup while straddling your lap. Black eyeliner, dark lipstick, fingers under your chin. She smirks when you fidget and whispers, “Hold still, angel. You’ll look divine when I’m done with you.” And you do—because everything she touches turns into art.

🕷️ ── Tashi believes love is a haunting. You don’t just love someone—you possess them, bleed into them, echo in their absence. So when she holds you at night, skin to skin, her breath at your throat, she’s not just cuddling you. She’s imprinting.