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lvrclerc · 2 days ago

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EVERY SUMMER'S END

summary: loving a writer is a dangerous game, and carlos sainz is reminded of it when the dedication of your new book throws him back to every summer you ever shared, and the bitter end of them all. ✷ IVY'S POETRY DEPARTMENT EVENT: « although i may not be yours, i could never be another's. »

F1 MASTERLIST | CS55 MASTERLIST

pairing: carlos sainz x romance writer!reader wordcount: 7.2K content: summer romance, breakup, takes place from 2016 to 2021, implied smut, loosely inspired by beach read by emily henry, bittersweet, ambiguous relationship status, inacurrate timeline/events, open ending, not proofread. note: requested here! i wasn't kidding when i said i love writing summer romances. carlos sainz you are the epitome of a book mmc. i finished this out of spite and i hate it, which is why it took so long to get out, but thanks @sunsetcupid for sticking with me for the highs and lows of the writing process and reading through it. ‹𝟹

♫ us. - gracie abrams ft taylor swift

THE INTERVIEWER ASKS about what Carlos enjoys doing outside of motorsports, and the answer is rehearsed.

Carlos Sainz is a man of many hobbies. Racing, of course, dominates his life—he had been born in a legacy of burnt asphalt, it only made sense for him to bleed checkered. He’s a man who enjoys sports: padel with friends on week-ends when their hectic calendars allowed it, he could appreciate a boxing match here and there as a spectator, liked surfing when the weather was right and the waves were kind, and, later in life, he would take up golf. Outside of all movements, Carlos found comfort in good music, the kind with low, rumbling rhythm and gravelly guitar chords he would hum under his breath as a kid. He liked old movies too, the ones with seductive charm and grainy black-and-white frames that felt like diving into a memory.

Yet, amidst all the various things he enjoyed, Carlos Sainz had never been much of a reader.

It’s not that he didn’t like reading—he could get around it—but he just never had the time. As a child, karting consumed him too much to think about anything else. There were a few stray books, Percy Jackson maybe, when all of his classmates were raving about them. But he never learned to let himself get lost in pages. He never had the stillness for it—not with the life he grew up in. The erratic rhythm of racing didn’t leave space for leisurely afternoons, thin paper slipping between fingers, and other worlds unfolding in quiet.

Except once a year.

There was a place, tucked away like a whispered secret in the south of Spain, where time didn’t tick the same. There, the sun kissed his skin with soft acknowledgment. The air smelled faintly of vanilla and light florals. And there, he read.

But he doesn’t like to think about it. So when the interviewer asks about books, Carlos only shrugs and says he’s not much of a reader.

Then he moves on.

—

LA HERRADURA, PROVINCE OF GRANADA, ANDALUSIA, SPAIN. SUMMER BREAK OF 2016.

La Herradura is a small town, as per Carlos’ standards, tucked along Spain’s Costa Tropical. His orange-tiled home set in Madrid, with its silent halls, had started to feel like a weight pressed against his lungs since February of last year. A place too close to memories, but too far from the heart, or something like that—metaphors weren’t really his strong suit. Returning for his second Formula One summer break would’ve swallowed him whole, which is why he chose this town, where nobody would think to look.

Five thousand people at most, strolling in the narrow streets folded between whitewashed buildings, with a beach that always seemed to hum in the distance. Here, he thought, he might be able to breathe again.

And yet, it’s only his second day, and someone spilt coffee all over his shirt.

You hadn’t meant to. You were just reaching for a packet of sugar near the café counter, as your waiter had forgotten to bring any. In no way had you expected the man beside you to whip around, so when he did, it became a mess of startled movement, clumsy apologies, and dark espresso blooming across his white cotton shirt like the birth of a bruise over his heart. You both spoke at once, tripping over sentences. Your voice tangled in the air until, mid-flurry, his hand caught your wrist gently.

“You’re alright, I promise,” the stranger had laughed. It rumbled through his chest and for a second, even the waves lapping outside the beachside café seemed to roar in jealousy.

He was beautiful in the way people rarely are, terribly so, all in sharp edges and sunburnt youth, sculpted by speed itself, with cheekbones etched by the wind, and jaw clenched from habit. Then, as anyone might have thought he could come off as severe, there were his eyes: soft in their curves, chestnut brown, flickering with curiosity and warmth. It was the kind of moment that would’ve made you roll your eyes if you were ever to write it—too convenient. Still, your heart lifted when he smiled, washing over you like carbonation fizzing to the top of a soda bottle you would have turned upside down.

“I’m still really sorry,” you apologized. “I wasn’t paying attention and—”

“Neither was I,” he cuts you off, and the exasperated smile that escaped you made his smile grow. Carlos found it charming.

“Let me at least buy you another one,” you offered. “It’ll make me feel less like a disaster.”

By principle, he should’ve declined. He had more than enough money to buy his own coffee, and his parents hadn’t raised him to let a pretty woman cover the bill. But there was something in the teasing in your voice he couldn’t place, a color twinkling in your eyes he craved to name, a story he didn’t want to end yet. So he said yes.

He ends up back at your table, settling into a wildly uncomfortable straw chair on the terrace, and you talk, voices clashing pleasantly over the aroma of salt and espresso. Carlos comes to the realization you don’t seem to know of him—or his last name, or his face—outside of the little world you built out of spilled coffee when you ask, casually, what he does for a living. He panics. Says he works as a chauffeur, because he likes the way your hand rests naturally on his forearm, unbothered, and he’s not ready to see the awkward change his upbringing might lead to.

To steer the conversation away from the sudden heat blooming under his collar, he nods toward your open laptop and the notebook darkened by messy scrawling next to it. “And… you write?” he asks.

Your cheeks go warm, and Carlos—absurdly—wants to bottle the shade and carry it around with him. “I attempt to,” you mumble, hastily flipping the notebook closed. “Haven’t written anything good in a hot minute.”

A year, two months, and thirty-two days, if we’re being precise. Your debut novel had made quiet waves, gotten a litany of praise. Critics called it raw, authentic, the kind of story that lingers between ribs. One reviewer went as far as to say it felt like the words spilled right from your lips onto theirs. There was irony in it, because you didn’t feel like anything spilled anymore. You had been staring at your blank document and blinking cursor, crafting slowly wilting outlines for months now. All ideas withered the second you touched them.

People called you a romance writer now. But how were you supposed to write about love when your last relationship left you with scars so soft they rotted sweet, like overripe fruit? What good was a writer who couldn’t write?

“Writer’s block?” the beautiful stranger asks, bringing you back from your own mind.

You nod. “Exactly. My agent’s on my ass about getting something new on paper, and I just… can’t. I thought coming here might help. Change of scenery, all that.”

He leans in, half-grin across his lips, almost conspiratorial. His hair brushes your cheek right where the shadow kisses your cheek. There is some poetry to that, and it’s so precise and cinematic that you want to laugh, that you want to lean further in and grasp its intricacies. “What do you write?” he inquires, and his voice is similar to dusk: low and warm. “Maybe I could help.”

That makes you smile, and a chuckle tumbles out of you. “Romance,” you say. “Technically, it’s women’s fiction, but they always shelve it under romance.”

“So you make a living out of people… falling in love?” His eyebrows lift as he says it. You nod, though the motion is braced. You know what people think of the genre, especially men: the subtle scoff and the condescension disguised as charm. You’re already preparing to pull the plug on the conversation, right with the slow building fantasy of it all, before it goes sour. But instead, he says, “I thought it would be easy, writing about love.”

The laugh that bursts out of you is entirely involuntary. You throw your head back from it, startled by the naivety of it, and the sheer audacity that he might really mean it.

“Love is far from being easy, tesoro.”

Sunlight catches your hair as you say it, and Carlos is possessed by the sound of the waves crashing onto shore as he asks, boldly and oddly earnest, if you can visit the town together. “As inspiration for your book, and another payback for the coffee,” he justifies.

Truth be told, he disagreed with you. For Carlos, there was nothing as easy as love: he fell in love with karting before he could spell the word ambition, let the scent of gas and gravel tarnish and scorch his lungs black, until the motion of getting into his seat became automatic. He loved the cockpit, the spare parts, the silence behind the helmet. He loved his country, with its sun-warmed streets, the music folded into each inflection of the language. Tradition etched into gestures that he carries with him when he drives. He had loved multiple women until his heart gave out under the effort.

Carlos loved with a ferocity you could only hold in the wild, boundless beginnings of adulthood, when the world still seemed so wide and endless, beckoning you to seek for its borders, and fell with just as much force.

Love wasn’t something complicated, or a puzzle to figure out. Cars were, so were strategies. But love? Love came as naturally as breathing, so easy to give yourself in.

And when you say yes, a knowing smile tugging at the corner of your lips, just this side of daring, Carlos thinks he might be falling for you just as easily.

You walk through the streets slowly, without a plan or destination, just the rhythm of two people perfectly content to orbit one another. La Herradura doesn’t offer much unless you’ve planned ahead: no grand museum or crowded monuments, instead overflowing in small alleys, bougainvillea spilling down balconies, salt-sticky air curling around your wrists like ribbons.

Neither of you minds. Carlos is more than happy stopping by overpriced ice cream stalls, pointing out absurd flavor just to see you wrinkle your nose. He tells you the worst one-liners he’s ever heard, mostly from his mother’s soap operas she used to watch while folding laundry, and bask in the teenage feeling burgeoning in his chest at the mere idea of them making you laugh.

He pays for dinner without a second thought. It’s the tourist spot next to the café where you first met, and the food is nothing special, but your snarky comment as the waiter brings the wine makes him feel like he’s won something. The sun’s set by the time you finish, but the last of its glow still lingers on the skin of the sea, similar to yours, and Carlos is surprised by how easily the parallel draws in his mind. A bonfire crackles by the beach, a testimony of late June and the traditions he loves, flames and music and voices all blending into a single glowing memory.

Like all good romantics, you’re drawn to it like a moth. Carlos slips your shoes off your feet before you can protest and holds them in one hand, his other brushing lightly against your back to guide you toward the shore. You sink into the sand, slow and aimless.

“Tell me about your first book,” he says. And you tell him how the story came to you all at once, like it had been simmering into a carafe and poured out in the cold glass of a single summer, with no real plans or outline. You say you didn’t think anyone would care for it. Carlos disagrees, this time openly, saying he would’ve read it even if no one else had.

You laugh, because you believe him, and that is such a ridiculous notion to hold for someone you just met.

You stroll along the shore for what could be like hours or mere minutes—time often loses its shape when the moment is right. Somewhere between the fifth song from the beach guitar and the taste of the wine still on your tongue, Carlos brushes a loose strand of hair behind your ear. The look you give him, like the sky is collapsing on itself, you’re sure you could have written about it this time around.

And maybe the sky really is collapsing. Maybe this night doesn’t exist in the real world at all, maybe it’s just a dream stitched together by the help of seafoam. Because when he says, “Come back with me,” as if he’s asking for a secret and not demanding, you don’t even think about it.

You go. Hand in hand, shoes forgotten, sand clinging to your ankles. The streets are in deep slumber, and his rental smells like sea and freshly washed cotton, and the moment the door closes behind you, it’s as if the world exhales and fades out of reality.

Carlos kisses you like he’s known you across lifetimes, like he’s loved you before and lost you, and this is his only chance to get it right. He touches you like he’s never going to see you again, because deep down he’s not sure he will. His hands are rough, his mouth devout. The pads of his fingers leave heat wherever they pass—marks not visible but undeniably there. You welcome them with parted lips, quiet sighs, nails digging crescents into his shoulder blades.

He doesn’t let you breathe for too long. Every exhale is an invitation he answers with his lips, his hips, his hands. It’s all consuming and fierce, because Carlos doesn’t know how to be anything else but hungry. Burning at the edges but still asking for more, dangerously close to spinning out but never losing control. He gives you everything because he doesn’t know how to love halfway. Because that’s Carlos: he only knows how to take, and take, and take, but only in exchange of all of himself.

You lie tangled in the sheets afterwards, skin kissed warm and hearts pounding in synchrony. A breeze floats through the open window, carrying with it the fresh air of a summer night. In the mellow silence, he studies you.

The flush of your cheeks could be called rose, but that’s too cliché. It’s something deeper, warmer—carnelian, maybe? He wasn’t the best with words. Or was it the color of joy? Or the exact hue of summer slipping beneath the ocean, the kind that never really leaves the sky? He commits it all to memory as sleep takes you both, you pressed to his chest no matter the heat.

And when he wakes up, you’re gone. In your place is a note, scribbled in your messy handwriting. “I have a plane to catch, didn’t want to wake you so early in the morning. Thank you for everything.” And beneath that, almost like an afterthought, a softer, neater line: “You’re nothing like I expected.”

He traces the paper with his hand for too long, heart thrumming somewhere in his throat. Yet, Carlos still gets up. He showers, and dresses, and for the first time in years, he walks into a bookstore.

The woman at the register smiles when she sees the title he picked. “It’s a good one,” she says, and Carlos nods with pride as if the compliment was directed to him.

He reads it in pieces over the rest of the summer break, trying not to read it too fast in order to ration memories. To let your ghost linger a little while longer.

And somewhere in the sky, a few hours before your layover, you finally open your laptop. For the first time in forever, your fingers don’t stall on the keyboard. The words come gently, naturally, and you type them out with the same carefulness.

They’re not about him, not yet, but Carlos lingers in every line, like the unmistakable smell of sun once it has set.

—

“You don’t read?” his new girlfriend asks, somewhere over the Mediterranean.

The plane ride home to Monaco is a long one when you’re flying from Abu Dhabi, and Carlos had barely said a word since the takeoff. It’s December, and even at cruising altitude, Carlos can feel the temperature shift. He hates the cold—it bites instead of kisses. Give him heat, always. Give him sticky skin, the faint hum of the fan overhead and someone's breath mixing with his in the dark.

His mind travels to his personal Eden, where summer seemed to loop for years on end. The sound of cicadas, the coast so washed it looked half-dreamt. It’s only when his girlfriend calls his name again that he blinks, startled back to the present.

Right, reading. She’s referring to the interview.

“I never have the time,” Carlos answers mechanically, punctuated with a tense chuckle.

She hums, unconvinced, and starts rummaging through her bag. “I could lend you one of mine, just to try. This one’s a beach read,” she says, oblivious to how his chest seems to tighten at her words. “My favorite author. I’ve read everything she’s written. Her stories are always kind of… sad, but really beautiful.”

Carlos wants to protest, say that he’s too tired and beach reads aren’t his thing. If he were to read, he’d want something heavier: a brick of historical nonfiction, or a complex murder mystery. He opens his mouth with an excuse at the ready, but the words die in his throat the second he sees the cover.

It’s a painted memory of soft edges and impressionist strokes, displaying a warm-toned terrace café with straw chairs, dappled in afternoon light. Carlos knows this place, not because of the building or how the awning folds over itself, but because of you.

You’re sitting at one of the tables. Well, it’s not exactly you, more someone like you. A woman rendered in delicate brushstrokes, a sundress flowing to her knees, holding a book just high enough to shadow her face. Still, her likeness is uncanny. And where the café’s name should be, in looping white script, is the title: Every Summer’s End. Beneath it, your name.

Carlos forgets how to breathe.

“You said you vacationed there, right?” his girlfriend inquires, unaware of the rupture. She flips the book around to show him the back. “La Herradura? That’s where it’s set. So funny, it made me think about you when I bought it.”

He takes the book when she offers it, thumb grazing the glossy spine. It’s heavy, like truth, and he forces a slow nod of acknowledgement.

Funny.

—

LA HERRADURA, PROVINCE OF GRANADA, ANDALUSIA, SPAIN. SUMMER BREAK OF 2017.

Carlos doesn’t believe in fate. He never has, not in the grand scheme of things. He’s not enough of a romantic, in the historical sense, too much of his father’s son, to do so. What he believed in was repetition, in giving until there’s nothing left and your body breaks before your mind. Fate had never helped him score points, efforts did. And licking open wounds caused by those efforts like an injured dog in hope of miracle recovery is what led him to La Herradura for a second time.

He couldn’t admit out loud that it wasn’t the town he came back for. It was the feeling.

The café hasn’t changed much. The layout is different from last year, the chairs rearranged and the menus reprinted in a more minimalist aesthetic. The cushions are a new shade of sun-bleached coral, he notices, but the air still carries the same warm hum of sea salt and citrus.

Carlos doesn’t look when he turns after ordering. A sharp movement, and his cup tips forward in a graceless arc, splashing a deep brown bloom across your pale beach cover-up. “Joder— shit, I’m so sorry—” he stammers and grabs a napkin with the frantic energy of someone half-present in his own body.

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this, tesoro.”

It’s not immediate. It crawls leisurely over his skin, laps at the snowglobe of his memories. Your mouth curves into a smirk he’s sure he’s shaken a few times in his mind. You laugh, his nickname on your tongue, and it clicks all at once. You were the feeling he missed.

You, on the contrary, don’t believe in coincidences. You believe in the invisible threads that tie together with quiet purpose. That everything, no matter how painful or messy, is part of some intricate, meaningful design in a bigger story. You’d be lying if you even thought that some hidden fragments of you hadn’t been hoping, all along, to see him again, wondering if the right set of conditions would pull him back where you left off.

No screams leave your lips, or curses at the temperature of the drink. You were never one for dramatics. You beam at him, damp fabric clinging to your swimsuit. “I think you owe me a clean shirt, this time around,” you say, and Carlos huffs out a disbelieving laugh.

He insists on buying you another coffee, and puts the sugar in it before you can think about telling him to. This time, you sit on the opposite side of the terrace, shaded by a new umbrella but caught in the same orbit.

The rest of the day folds over itself like a well-read book, the ones with the crack in the spine and the wavy pages from hair dripping of pool water. You walk again: down the coast, over the pebbled sidewalk, past shuttered shops and sleepy balconies. When you pass by the same tourist restaurant where you had dinner last year, you both decide to dine somewhere else.

Later, when the sun sinks and the bonfire sparks to life again, a feeling of continuation sneaks upon you both. You walk barefoot in the sand, again, letting your fingers thread through his, again. Unlike last time, Carlos asks about your new book with a carefulness similar to the one of a child. You admit that it’s finished, that people loved it, but you don’t tell him he inspired you. Not yet.

When you get back to his place, again, Carlos kisses you the exact same way, the brush of his mouth against yours too familiar for something that happened just once because he still remembers every second of it. He touches you like he’s still memorizing you, like you’re something he’s still trying to make sense of.

You fall asleep with your limbs tangled in linen and this time, when he wakes up, you don’t disappear. You’re still here when he wakes up, curled into his side with sunlight slipping through your hair. There were no planes to catch this time, you had made sure of it. However, Carlos is a man of habit, a creature of rhythm and ritual. So he gets up. Dresses.

The bookstore is only a short walk from his place. It’s barely open when he arrives, and yet, he finds it immediately: on the middle shelf, front-facing, your name bold and bright against the soft watercolors of the cover.

By the time he returns, the apartment smells of quiet mornings and coffee. You’re sitting on a stool at his kitchen island, legs folded up, his white cotton shirt swallowing your body. The seagulls heard through the windows are alive and singing but your hair is still mussed with sleep and bleary-eyed. Still, Carlos had the sensation to have walked upon something sacred.

Until you froze as your gaze dropped. “Wait,” you say, voice hoarse, “You— You bought it?”

Carlos turns the book around, displaying the familiar name stamped across the bottom with boyish pride. “First thing in the morning,” he grins.

You groan, tucking your face in your hands, even as your cheeks grow blotchy and warm with color. He’d spent half the night thinking of words to name it: he liked carnelian, but coral was as gorgeous. Cardinal stuck. Cardinal, bright, bleeding. It reveled on his tongue like you did.

It looked like the morning sun was in love with you.

Carlos smiles again, slower this time, fondness finger painting his features like a Monet’s. “I really liked your first book. I thought I’d check out the new one after yesterday.”

“You read my debut?” you gaped.

He hums. “Last summer, after you left.”

You just stare at him with wide eyes in wonder, adoration sprinkled like stars in the sky of your pupils. Your heart is louder than your thoughts, skipping similar to a stone over water. You feel seen. In that quiet, piercing way only readers could ever make you feel. And of all people, for it to be him.

Your voice falters as you admit, finally out loud, “Okay, well. In this one, I mean—just a little—some parts might’ve been…” You gesture vaguely, tugging at the hem of the shirt you borrowed. “Inspired by what happened last year.”

Carlos’ smile softens into a molten thing. If your emotions transpired through your eyes, his overcame you in the soft curve of his mouth, seemingly waiting for each one of your words to trigger something in him. He crosses the space to you in the beating of a heart and, as if it was an everyday thing, presses a kiss to your forehead. “I’m honored to be your muse, preciosa.”

You laugh, and it bubbles out of your chest bright and alive. Carlos could compare it to the shaking of a cold soda bottle on a hot day, but he’d be afraid of sounding somewhat ridiculous. You wrap your arms around him without thinking, face tucked in his shoulder. He still smells like the beach, like intimacy.

“Well,” you murmur, “you’ll probably end up inspiring another one this summer.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you, thumb brushing under your skin. “Then I’ll help you through the process again,” Carlos assures, his voice laced with poetry. “I’ll give you a thousand stories worth writing about.”

And it’s such a you and him thing to say that you feel your chest bloom open.

Outside, the world is just beginning to stir. The sunlight is thickening, birds singing as if to beckon the beginnings of July closer and closer. Inside, in this little kitchen scented with espresso and sunscreen, you know in your bones that won’t be the last time you wake up here.

This isn’t fate. This isn’t coincidence. It’s what’s left of the sand after it trickled down the hourglass, somehow, the two of you begin again.

—

The book was shelved under Romance.

Carlos hesitated in front of the section. His gaze trailed over the display of cartoon covers and pastel spines until his eyes settled on it.

Turquoise and dark sienna, a palette so at odds with its neighbors that it looked like it was meant to misfit. The title curled across the spine in delicate letters tangling into one another with the intimacy of intertwined lovers. Carlos felt like he intruded on something that he had no right to look at. Maybe that was the case.

He handed back the copy his girlfriend had so kindly lended him. Her copy, with loopy, highlighter-bright annotations and neatly color-coded tabs with tiny hearts next to her favorite quotes. It didn’t feel like you at all. Not when you were all in cracked spines and sand-stuck pages, yellowed out by the sun. Your notes, when your mind raced slow enough to make them, were scrawled hastily in the corners of receipts and napkins tucked before the backcover, legible only in candlelight, sometimes not even to yourself.

When they landed in Monaco, Carlos didn’t go home. He went to the airport bookstore, the scent of sterile bleach and teary goodbyes clinging to the air. He needed a clean slate: something that didn’t belong to her, but not something that belonged to you either. Just something that let him read the book like it was a book, and not a wound he’s been carrying around like a splinter.

As he takes the novel in his hands, the rough pads of his fingers shake around the paperback. A book could never be a person, Carlos reminds himself. Still, disappointment swelled in his chest like rising tide when the cover didn’t give under his touch the way your skin used to. It held firm, cold.

He glanced around instinctively. The bookstore was mostly empty, and he waited for the clerk to turn her back on him before tucking one, two, three, four under his arm. He was absurdly careful. As if they could bruise, he mocks himself.

With the carefulness of a lover, Carlos placed them at the very front of the shelf titled Women’s Fiction.

—

LA HERRADURA, PROVINCE OF GRANADA, ANDALUSIA, SPAIN. SUMMER BREAK OF 2018-19

You found each other again, summers after summers, until it became another beloved tradition, a ritual engraved in the gravelly skin of La Herradura, like initials in driftwood, softened by sun and salt but never erased.

Every late June, you’d return to your meeting place: the beachfront café that had once been the backdrop to spilled coffee and first laughter. Same time, same order— there was comfort in that, in repetition, the predictability of you and him.

As the sun dipped low below the sea, you’d slip back into his hunchback rental, skin warm with the fingerprints of daylight and your limbs heavy with knowing exactly where the night was going. You wore his shirt like silk and let him read you like scripture under the low hum of the fan.

Mornings belonged to books and windows cracked open. Carlos always woke before you, force of habit, and he’d pad down to the tiny bookstore with sand still crusted to his ankles and pick up the novel you’d published the summer before. Always one summer behind, and always eager to catch up in the only place he actually could.

He had learned to notice the parallels, to draw the metaphors by himself, no matter how clumsy. A sunset that had once dripped like marmalade over your bare shoulders found itself in Chapter Twelve. The stray kitten that had curled up in his lap one morning during breakfast became a symbol of grief in your prose. He watched your stories unfold and realized he was there: tucked between allegories and half-truths, tucked in the margins.

The days melted into each other with the same syrupy pace as the tide. For someone whose life was clipped in interviews and lap times, Carlos learned what it was like to breathe again, to fill his lungs until they stretched open without ache. His fingers, used to clenching around the wheel or curling into fists from tension, learned to soften. To touch with intention, not urgency.

He slept through the night, and he let silence settle without needing to break it.

In your shared Eden, nothing touched you. Not the headlines, not the passing of time. Even the reality that loomed past the end of those three weeks seemed to be kept at bay. There was only the breeze, the sea, and the soft, looping miracle of finding each other again.

—

LA HERRADURA, PROVINCE OF GRANADA, ANDALUSIA, SPAIN. SUMMER BREAK OF 2020.

Someone had to bite the apple first, and this time the sinner had brown hair.

This time, Carlos landed in La Herradura with red flashing in his mind, tensing the deepest parts of his bone, flashing behind his eyes when he tried to sleep. The familiar rumble of the engine still echoed inside of him as he crossed the beachfront café, the one where it always begins. This time, his body didn’t relax.

The switch hadn’t been sudden, not really. The idea of Ferrari had haunted him long before the contract had been signed. The discussions, the promises, and the restructuring of his future in motorsports; it had consumed him in the months separating one summer from the next, had bent his life in directions he’d sworn to never take for granted.

When he found you again, sitting below the striped awning with your sunglasses pushed up into your hair, your drink sweating under the Andalusian sun, he smiled. Yet, it didn’t fully reach his eyes.

You noticed it. Of course, you did.

Carlos remembers what you said, in a faraway place in which cradled the beginnings of the two of you. You said that love is far from being easy, and back then he’d disagreed without a second thought. There was nothing as easy as love. He was twenty-two then: all heart and bleeding devotion, untouched by the weight of what it meant to choose. But today he was twenty-six: it felt older, he had traded cotton shirts for linen button-ups, and learned to appreciate the taste of stronger alcohol.

And no matter how soft the sand, the hourglass kept running.

This time, Carlos planned things. Planned. The word itself was foreign to your time together. He made reservations at upscale local restaurants with white linens and dizzyingly long wine lists. He drove winding cliffs to bring you to coastal vineyards, places with photo ops and curated beauty. He booked you both scuba diving lessons with a man who introduced himself as Diego and called you lovebirds. He filled the time until it overflowed, as if silence was a sin he couldn’t afford anymore.

This wasn’t how La Herradura worked. You never planned here. You lived here.

Now, he drove too fast, kissed you like the end was always lurking around the corner. The only time he’d breathe and settle down was at night, when he held your body flush against him. His hands tugged you impossibly closer, like he was made of marble and trying to carve you out of him.

Still, you didn’t ask. The problem didn’t reside here, in your sacred, familiar garden. It lived in whatever came before and after, so you didn’t think you had a right to. You didn’t belong there.

Next year, things would have to change. Carlos would have to change. His body, his name, his entire presence all had to be shaped into one thing, focused and sharp. The Carlos you had couldn’t split himself between two places, love and legacy.

Hard-working. Focused. Determined. That’s what Carlos is, down to his core. He’d never been a romantic.

And yet, you curled into him that night, limbs loose from wine and heat, hair spilling over his bare chest like ribbons. The fan circled overhead. Outside, the waves licked the sand in soft intervals, time dissolving once again in white noise. Carlos stared at the ceiling, his hand draped low on your spine, fingers memorizing.

He keeps telling himself that it was always meant to be temporary. Time stopping for anyone or anything was a silly notion enfolded in the delusions of early adulthood. You were a substance he had to get out of his system, and those summer breaks spent in this secluded paradise had him indulging more than he felt the need to.

You were always meant to be temporary, he tries to convince himself as he holds your sleeping figure close to his chest.

For the very first time, and in a desperate attempt to grasp the last seconds you could ever share, he whispers in your ear for the very first time, “I love you, preciosa.”

He would hold on to his name on the back of the vermilion suit, on his ivory number somewhere on the bar of his cerise car. It wasn’t the cardinal flush of your cheeks, but it was as close as he was going to get in a long time— if not forever.

Carlos would hold onto that too. Until he could draw another parallel, find another adjective.

Love is far from being easy, he finally agrees.

—

Nostalgia is a traitorous substance, an opiate of the heart: indulge in it too much and you become addicted. Carlos had learned, early one, to stray away from it. There was no room for looking back when you lived life ten seconds at a time. However, melancholy— melancholy he never quite managed to unlearn. And nostalgia, no matter how hard he tried to keep it at bay, always found a way back in.

Both brewed now, unbearably sweet, in the pages of Every Summer’s End.

Carlos sat crooked on his bed, spine aching and sheet twisted at his hips. The only sound was the rustle of paper and the quiet shift of his breath whenever a sentence carved too deeply.

When his girlfriend told him it was set in La Herradura, Carlos’ heart had dropped straight to the floor. He was scared of what he’d find between the lines. Terrified of you, not in flesh and skin but in ink and metaphors. More precisely, Carlos was afraid of finding out if you had grown to hate the memory of him, if you had walked the same streets, swam under the same starry sky, but the landscape curled into you like spoiled wine, if you had spat on his name while he held yours tenderly behind his teeth. It was a selfish fear, but real nonetheless.

Then he started reading. That’s when he realized the truth: the book wasn’t about him, like it had been so many times before.

This time, the novel was about you.

The lines blend together until they form black-and-white frames in Carlos’ mind. Adriana—your heroine—had lost the love of her life. The how was ambiguous— sometimes, you hint at the cruel but tender hands of death. Sometimes, you allude to another woman, on another coast, somewhere colder. Carlos read and reread each implication like scripture, combed through context like scripture.

But the novel was never about the man. No matter what you may imply, it all comes down to the same thing: the mourning of what was. Grief, in its purest shade, and the rebuilding that came.

He recognized every place Adriana visited, and Carlos felt it like bruising under his skin to the point of nausea. The worst wasn’t even the familiarity, but knowing you had been there too: walked those same steps without him, cried without him, healed without him. And survived.

Because that’s what the story was really about: surviving through the healing process. Life isn’t restricted to loss. It might shape and change what you are, but it doesn’t erase you. It doesn’t vanish, but simply loosens its grips. The places you once loved don’t reject you; they remember you and help you puzzle yourself back together. In the library near your rental, in the San Juan bonfire on the beach. You are still there, somewhere, no matter what happened.

Eventually, you learn to love again.

Adriana meets someone at a beachfront café. A stranger, simple and warm. He doesn’t spill his coffee on her. He tells her he’s a local, works in a bar not far from here. He’s different from her past lover, and that’s good, because he reminds her that love isn’t always followed by silence.

The tear that hung on Carlos’ eyelashes finally fell down. Gravity had decided to be merciful, just this once.

—

LA HERRADURA, PROVINCE OF GRANADA, ANDALUSIA, SPAIN. SUMMER BREAK OF 2021.

Carlos wouldn’t know what happened at that time or place. He wasn’t there.

However, you would. But you didn’t like to recall it, so you wrote about it instead.

Then, you moved on.

—

By the time Carlos had turned the last page, the sun had started its gentle ascent, spilling gold through the half-closed curtains of his bedroom. The warmth of the light filled the emptiness that came after savoring a book, heavy with everything that had been lived on the page.

The sleepless night had passed in an ever present ache. He deciphered your every allegory, holding your tone close to his chest. He had read you in every line with your rhythm, the sentences that curved like the lines of your body. Your prose was yielding, bruised. It felt like another night beside you, your hands toying with his hair, whispering sweet nothings in his ear. When the final word passed under his gaze, it felt like he was leaving you all over again.

But now he was done reading, and you were almost gone.

Almost. Because there it was, not in capitalized letters or bolded words, but on the final page, similar to the unearthing of a secret.

Although I may not be yours this time around, I could never be another’s.

He could recall a conversation you once had on the balcony of his rental. “I hate dedications at the beginning of books,” you’d muttered with a sigh. Carlos was sunbathing next to you, opening an eye to look at your figure hunched over your keyboard. “It doesn’t make sense to me. The person you dedicate it to doesn’t know what you’re giving them yet.” He’d hummed with a laugh, and you had continued. “Maybe it’s ridiculous, but I would much prefer it to be at the end, so that they understand the meaning of all of it.”

“Would you ever dedicate it to me?” Carlos had asked teasingly.

You’d arched a brow at him, rolling your eyes to the sky with nothing but tenderness. “If I did, I wouldn’t say your name, tesoro. Much too obvious.”

He hadn't thought much of it at the time, only amused when he looked for the dedications in your books and found them right before the backcover.

Except that now, the last of your presence hung on the last page and the two lines that made it, and Carlos knew in the deepest, most egoistic parts of himself, that it was meant for him to understand. That was probably the cruelest part: the story had ended, so had the numerous summers, and he wasn’t sure either of you were still the people who loved and burned under the Andalusian sun. Time passed, it was something Carlos had made peace with.

Yet, the dedication said maybe.

The most rational part of him told him to let it go. He should protect what little healing you and him may have found, to not dig up something that already fed the soil. But the thing about Carlos Sainz is that he had never been at letting go of the things that made him feel alive. Because you had a part of him in you, just like every car he had ever stepped foot in possessed a part of his soul, just like every race track could beat to the rhythm of his heart. Because Carlos Sainz doesn’t know how to give halfway.

He doesn’t know what he’s doing until he’s done, but a ticket to La Herradura for the end of the next month of June is blinking at him on his phone screen.

He had no plans, no speeches, and didn't mean to prepare any. The only desire inhabiting him was the one to be there, in that place, basking in the possibility of it.

Maybe Carlos won’t see you, maybe he will. If he does, you’d talk. He’d offer you your usual coffee, if you still took it that way, and he’d tell the entire truth. He’d see where it leads, if he’d take back that part of him you held or he’d let it stay with you.

Some summers, just like love stories, never end.

They just get rewritten, again and again and again.

©LVRCLERC 2025 ━ do not copy, steal, post somewhere else or translate my work without my permission.

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clairewritesfanfics · 2 days ago

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Omg I love how you write Mark and his variants!

Okay I may or may not have dived into a deep hole of neglected batfam reader so is it okay if I request for reader to happen to just find an escape through a Angstrom portal that appeared randomly in her bedroom, so just peace out and was transported into the Invincible universe where she met Mark (and his variants), fall in love and told him about how horrible her family is.

Only for him to find a way to open up a portal to her world (this is mostly goes for the variants instead main mark), and caused havoc on the DC world and reader has to stop him, confront her family and leave to her new home with him

Author's Note: My last request! (technically, it's not) YAHOO. And my first Batfam fanfic.

Your Character Settings: AFAB, daughter of Bruce Wayne and an unknown woman

“Would like seconds, miss?” Alfred asked after you finished your meal.

Tonight's dinner was a hefty serving of tomato and basil spaghetti. Before you moved in with the Waynes, your meals were usually jam and bread or a cup of instant noodles. The old you would have eaten as much as you were allowed. The old you would have gotten angry at you for not asking for another serving. But you weren't living paycheck to paycheck on a cashier's salary anymore.

“I'm fine,” you answered the butler. You glanced around the long table. Alfred said it was improper for servants to dine with the masters of the home, so you ate alone again. You didn't know why you felt upset. Even after months of the same routine, your disappointment continued to fill half your stomach.

“Very well. Tonight's dessert is a chocolate ganache cake served with black tea. I take it that you will be having your slice in your room?”

You smiled.

“I’ll have it upstairs in fifteen minutes.”

“Thank you.”

“I hope this time you actually answer the door. I don’t mind leaving the food outside but tea should be appreciated hot.”

“I’m sorry, you know how it is when I get in the zone.”

“How many words did you write today?”

You beamed. “Exactly two thousand just this morning. I’m hoping to get another thousand before midnight.”

“I hope you do, maybe you can finally start waking up before noon.”

You laughed, standing up from your seat.

Alfred was the only one in this entire mansion to actually hold full conversations with you.

Dear old dad was always away on business trips. Your younger half-brother Damian never uttered a word to you, only regarded you with disdain and walked away before introductions were over. Tim was polite enough to nod in greeting–when he was lucid, which was seldom the case every time you saw him. Dick was nice, he smiled and made small talk when he was around, but you can count on one hand the number of times he was at the manor, or in Gotham in general.

You had another brother. His photos were rare, finding one was like finding an Easter egg. On the outside, he was no different from the others with his black hair and blue eyes, and from what you’ve seen of him, he could be blood-related to Dick. But Alfred said that Jason was an orphan, too.

Little Jason, always smiling brightly in every image you found. He died years before you arrived here. You liked to pretend that he would be exactly what you wished for when Mister Wayne invited you to live with the family: a kind, present and supportive older brother.

You doubt it was healthy to project such feelings on not just a ghost but a stranger’s ghost, but pretending to have someone care beyond the bare minimum helped you adjust to your life as a Wayne kid.

Alfred let you borrow books from Jason’s room and you made a point to treat every novel with care and refused to fold the pages or write on them. Jason really loved romance books and happily ever afters, and reading his collection inspired to take up writing. Hobbies were a luxury you couldn’t afford while juggling two part-time jobs, but now you had all the time in the world.

You stared at your monitor. Did you jinx yourself earlier?

You’ve hit a wall for today’s chapter.

The insertion point blinked mockingly at you.

You only needed a thousand more words. That’s child’s play, but whatever you typed did not meet your standards, even for a first draft.

You checked the time.

You’ve been sitting here for ten minutes. Usually, you’ll be typing like crazy the moment your butt was on the chair.

You plopped your elbows on your desk and squeezed your cheeks, an exasperated sigh leaving your mouth.

Ten minutes feels like forever when you’re trying to start something important.

Maybe a sugar boost will help.

Just as you thought of this, you overheard movement outside.

Smiling, you rushed to open the door.

“I was beginning to think you forgot about me–”

Your lips twitched as you were greeted by the sight of Damian and Tim, holding a comically large mug of coffee. They were quarreling when your sudden appearance caught them off guard.

“Hi.”

Damian’s lips pursed and he grumbled something under his breath.

“It’s rare to see you guys here,” you said plainly.

Tim laughed awkwardly. “I guess so.”

“Did you eat dinner already?”

“I–”

Damian pushed his back. “Let’s go, Drake, we’re busy.”

“Right, um, sorry–” Tim threw you an apologetic smile “–see you around.”

You smiled back as politely as you could. “See you.” There was no point in getting offended, you were the oldest one in this hallway and you were too exhausted to feel angry.

You watched Damian nudge Tim even farther away until they disappeared from view.

Shaking your head softly, you stepped back inside your room and shut the door. You weren’t a warm person, but you didn’t have a family before. It was always just you bouncing between foster homes and sleeping in dumpsters when you had no other choice. You had no one to fall back on, and you were prepared to live the rest of your life like that, because what other choice was there?

But then Mister Wayne arrived in the 24-hour mart while you worked the graveyard shift. Dingy apartments with creepy neighbors were replaced with a Gilded Age mansion. Hours spent on your feet catering to all sorts of customers became days of ennui (you learned that word from one of Jason’s books). Sodium-loaded canned and instant foods were now sodium-loaded fancy meals. You were grateful, and while it hurt not to have the family you’ve always dreamed of, you can deal with the wall between you as long as you never had to go back to being actually alone.

You returned to your desk. The blinking line on the word document continued mocking you.

You reached for the latest novel you borrowed from Jason’s personal collection, A Little Princess, and flipped back to where you stopped yesterday, at Chapter Four: Lottie.

“Things happen to people by accident," she used to say. "A lot of nice accidents have happened to me. It just HAPPENED that I always liked lessons and books, and could remember things when I learned them. It just happened that I was born with a father who was beautiful and nice and clever, and could give me everything I liked. Perhaps I have not really a good temper at all, but if you have everything you want and everyone is kind to you, how can you help but be good-tempered? I don't know"—looking quite serious—"how I shall ever find out whether I am really a nice child or a horrid one. Perhaps I'm a HIDEOUS child, and no one will ever know, just because I never have any trials.”

You paused. You haven’t read A Little Princess before, but you’ve seen the film multiple times because one of your foster mothers adored it.

Family? Love? They were nice, but you didn’t need them.

It was true that you were Bruce Wayne’s illegitimate kid and he took you in out of a sense of responsibility. You weren’t a child anymore, far from it, most people your age are in college while you just finished your GED. You haven’t spoken with Mister Wayne about university and frankly, you were too scared; what would he or the others think? Would they think you were getting too greedy?

Pride and dreams were reserved for people who can afford them. You may share Bruce’s blood but it was clear that he loved his sons more, regardless of their origin.

Food, shelter–money, that’s what you needed, and the Waynes gave it to you. You had no right to complain or wish for more. You didn’t want to reach for the sun only to end up getting burned.

You were about to continue reading when a green light illuminated your eyes. You looked away from the page and saw a green hole forming on the floor, right in front of the door. A faint shearing sound accompanied its undulating outline as it grew bigger.

You set down the book and walked closer. You can see a different place inside the emerald ring. This wasn’t some hole, it was a portal.

Honestly, not the weirdest thing for a Gothamite.

Still though…

Against all common sense, you knelt down and glanced inside. You were usually smarter than this, not to toot your own horn, but your intelligence is what kept you alive in Gotham for all these years; however, something about this portal called out to you. You dipped one hand inside.

The air was warmer than it was in your room.

You were going to pull back when–

knock, knock

“Miss?”

You yelped, caught off guard and lost your balance–you fell straight into the portal.

Main Mark

He was doing his usual routine, flying around, helping people and preventing city-destroying disasters when he heard your screaming and caught you just in time.

You thanked him and asked if you could please take you back to Gotham.

He raised his eyebrows at you. “What’s Gotham?”

“Crap.”

You both figured out that you were on a parallel Earth and he offered to let you stay with him until you found a way back.

Debbie was a sweetheart. She was super understanding and kind and you imprinted on her instantly. You didn’t want to be a burden so you helped maintain the house and cooked for them.

Mark fell in love with you, because of course, he did. He found himself getting more and more excited to finish his missions early just so he can come home to your smile. You liked him, too, you didn’t know if it was love, but when he found the courage to ask you out you agreed, hoping that maybe you’ll learn.

It was a relatively simple love story, world-hopping aside. You and Mark were friends first who soon became soulmates. You didn’t mind that he missed dates and you kept yourself busy helping Debbie as a real estate agent.

You supported Mark throughout his struggles, listened to his problems and comforted him when he was in pain. In turn, he taught you how to love, and maybe more importantly, how to be loved. He surprised you with gifts–nothing big but always extraordinary–like daisies he found while flying over the countryside or a bracelet that reminded him of you. He always asked if you were hungry or thirsty before going to get his own snack, and even when you said no he’d return with your own food and drink. He looked at you that made you unable to look at him, he made you shy in the best way possible. He was everything you didn’t know you wanted.

***

When a portal appeared again, it wasn’t green, it was gold–and the men on the other side didn’t hesitate when they jumped into Mark’s universe.

They weren’t violent, but they were not nice. Invincible got into a fight with the tiny one in red and green. The “hero” who called himself Nightwing was friendly, but Mark could tell he was on edge like the rest of them.

“We’re looking for a girl,” Nightwing said, flashing a holographic album full of your photos. Neither you nor Mark knew anything about your family’s nightly activities so your boyfriend became more suspicious of these masked heroes.

“Why? What’s wrong with her?”

Mark could tell that everyone knew that he knew who you were, but Nightwing remained calm. “We’re not going to hurt her. It’s hard to believe since we’re basically aliens, but we just want to bring her home. Her family misses her.”

That made Mark scoff. You told him about your family. You didn’t hate them, but Mark certainly did. You were… too used to loneliness. And that pissed him off. You were amazing, you deserved nothing but warmth and your so-called family ignored you.

He wanted nothing more than to flip these guys off with a message, “Tell her family that she’s happier here and that she doesn’t need them holding her back,” but that wasn’t his decision to make.

“I know her,” Invincible said. “I’ll tell her about you guys, but if she says she doesn’t want to come back, you leave her alone. Got that?”

“That–”

“No,” Batman said firmly. “She’s coming back. She needs her family.”

Mark’s eye twitched, but he kept his cool. “We’ll see.”

“I can’t believe it,” you muttered, gripping tightly on your copy of Pride and Prejudice like it was a stress ball.

Mark had been late for date night, no biggie, so you spent the evening reading a novel on your TBR list. When he came back from patrol, his whole body was tense, his face solemn when he pulled off his mask. He then joined you at the table and explained what happened.

“Talk to me, baby. What’re you thinking about?” He asked, placing a grounding hand over your cold fingers.

You let go of the book and squeezed his hand. “I’m not sure. After a year, I was sure that I’d be here forever–and I would’ve been okay–happy with that, but now…”

“I know.” He thumbed your knuckles. “What’re you going to do? Are you..”

Were you planning to go back?

“I don’t know.” You looked into his eyes. “What should I do, Mark?”

He wanted to grab you by the shoulders and beg you to open your eyes. You were miserable back in Gotham. You were better off here, with him.

But instead, he cradled both of your hands between his and he smiled. “I can’t tell you what to do, only that I’ll support you no matter what.”

Main Mark is the only one who will step aside if you decide to return and fix your relationship with your family. It will hurt. And he will crack when it’s time to say goodbye; he’ll pull you into his arms and beg you to stay with him, but if you have made up your mind, he won’t force you otherwise.

His variants aren’t so selfless. Omni, Head Cap, Maskless, No Goggles and Full Mask won’t even bother telling you about the portal appearing, intent on keeping you by their side.

Flaxan, Target and Viltrumite Mark would have already whisked you away from Earth and it would take a while before the Bats found you.

Mohawk, Prisoner, Shiesty and Sinister will tell you about the portal and the foreign superheroes that have come for you and plead with you not to leave–and this is after they’ve decided to pick a fight with Batman and crew.

a/n:

Hi anon, I’m sorry this took so long but I knew that if I opened this door to DC I'll end up fawning over Jason and get distracted (and I was right). You’re my last request (technically no but I'm still not prepared to share Shiesty's origin story), but YAYYYY

Also, I know that anon specified that the Bats were horrible to Y/N, and I did try to write them like that initially, but it was hard for that scenario to fully form in my head. The Bat family is dysfunctional as heck, but I usually write about a normal, civilian YN and I can't see them being purposefully abusive to someone like that. Despite DC's many fumbles, the Bats are supposed to be good people at their core so the words just wouldn't flow.

DON'T GET ME WRONG, considering my love for revenge stories, I do want to write about the Bats being neglectful and unintentionally awful to YN and then her waking up and realizing that she doesn't care anymore, and then she stops chasing after them, which in turn, makes them chase after her, but that's a story for another day.

Anyway, I hope you still liked it!! (I'm going to cry about Red Hood and Huntress now.)

(ˊᗜˋﾉﾉ

Disclaimer: The images used in this post do not belong to writerclaire.

Gotham City, lifted from: https://heroism.fandom.com/wiki/Gotham_City

Invincible flying, lifted from: https://gamerant.com/invincible-every-character-fate-comics/

ദ്ദി(｡•̀ ,<)~✩‧₊

MAIN MASTERLIST

Any questions for the author? Ask here.

PS can you guess which Batboy is my favorite? LOL

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bullet-prooflove · 1 day ago

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Blood For Blood: Charlie Reid x Reader

Tagging:@kmc1989 @littleesilvia @wrestlequeen @ahopelessromanticwritersworld @beebeechaos

Brief mentions of torture and some gore.

Summary: Charlie's wrath leads to his worst nightmare...

Companion piece to:

Charlie - Charlie meets someone unexpected one night at his pool hall.

The Whole Damn Night - You aren't anything like Charlie expected.

Risk Management - Charlie realises the two of you have been keeping secrets from one another.

Deals With The Devil - Charlie's fall from grace starts with an act of love.

The Ghost That Lingers In The Nighttime - Charlie's becoming accustomed to the late night visits.

Who The Fuck Is Charlie? - You wake up calling for Charlie but noone knows who the fuck Charlie is.

The second time that Charlie kills for you he doesn’t even get his hands dirty. He makes one phone call to Jesus Otero and the guy that started all of this Rik Morrow is attacked in the prison showers.

Beaten, sodomised, tongue cut out.

It’s a fitting punishment for the man who goaded his brother into putting a hit out on you.

“I don’t want him dead.” He tells Otero over his burner as he sits his office right after the ‘Who The Fuck Is Charlie?’ meeting. “I want him to suffer, I want him to experience a lifetime of pain every single day and on the anniversary of her shooting I want you to take something so he remembers why this is happening. I don’t care what, an eye, a finger, a kidney, it’s dealer’s choice.”

The thing that Charlie’s learned over the years?

You don’t have to stop a man’s heart to murder him, you can systematically destroy his sanity and achieve the same result. He hopes that everytime Morrow gets dry fucked into his pillow that he rues the fucking day he met you.

It’s past midnight when he finally makes it back to the hospital. He’s spent the hours since the meeting studying the Intelligence reports on Chris Morrow, trying to whittle down where the son of a bitch has gone to ground. Nothing’s come to fruition yet but sometimes it’s a waiting game. The problem is Charlie hates the waiting, he wants this whole thing over and done with so that you can come home and recovery safely.

He strips out of his CPD jacket in the parking lot of the hospital, folding it into the trunk of his car. He keeps the gun on his hip, along with the badge because he’s written up far too many dumbasses who have left their gun in the glove compartment only to have their car stolen, their weapon out there killing civilians.

He’s thinking about the new book he has tucked under his arm when he steps into the elevator. He’s decided to try a different tactic tonight, read you one of those god awful dinosaur romance novels you keep sending to his office as a joke. If anything will wake you again it’ll be ‘Ballin’ with the Billionaire Brontosaurus’. The edges of his mouth tip up as he remembers your hysterical laugh when you saw the business suit the damn thing was wearing on the cover.

“They classed it up with a little Armani this time.” He’d remarked as he flicked through the pages on the couch, your head resting on his chest. “But it’s still fucking nasty, he’s like what a million feet tall which means his dick…”

You’d fallen apart again then, your body vibrating against his as you buried your face into the hollow of his throat to stifle your laugher. Charlie had gathered you up in his arms, book forgotten as he kissed away the salt rolling down your cheeks.

He’s still smiling when he steps off the elevator, heading towards your room. His boots squeak on the tiles underfoot as he walks the empty hallway. Nowhere else does this happen, just this fucking floor in this fucking hospital.

He’s almost to the door when he hears the pops.

Three of them in quick succession. Each low boom ripples through the air, causing the book under his arm to slip from his grasp as he reaches for the SIG on his hip. He knows the sound of a suppressor when he hears one, especially when it’s on a semi-automatic.

His hand comes to rest on the door handle, his heart thudding against his ribcage as he twists it slowly. He nudges the open slowly with his boot, peering through the slender gap as it widens.

There’s blood on the wall, speckles of grey brain matter cling to it in clumps, each one leaving a sticky trail as they race towards the floor. He clenches his jaw, drawing in a shaky breath to force down the bile climbing in his throat as his stomach revolts. The stench of copper and cordite fills his nostrils, the acrid taste settling on his tongue.

He shoulders the door open the rest of the way to find himself staring down the barrel of a Glock 21. His finger flexes on the trigger as his shoe catches on the body, missing the back of it’s head, splayed out across the tiles. Sandy blond mingles with the blood and the bone fragments, matted within the gore. He doesn’t need to see the face to know that it’s Chris Morrow. He can tell from that fucking swastika etched into the side of his neck.

He never thought that asshole would be stupid enough to come here but he did, he came to finish the job and Charlie, he let it happen.

His gaze flickers back up to you, your hands trembling as you lower the gun so it’s pointing at the tiles. There’s blood blossoming in two places across your white hospital gown, the stain growing quickly as Charlie jams his gun back in his holster.

You follow his stare, swallowing hard as you fixate at crimson liquid that leaks down your torso.

“I must have reopened my wounds when I broke his wrist, trying to get the gun.” You say as you set Glock down carefully on the sheets. You press your palm to the wound above your left breast, trying to stifle the blood as it flows through your fingers.

You must have ripped out your IV as well because there’s burgundy droplets scattered throughout the white linen, the tubing hanging loose from the saline bag.

“Em.” He says gently as he stands in the midst of his own nightmare, trying to not to disrupt anymore of the crime scene. “I’m gonna have to call this in.”

“Call the doctor too.” You advise as you start to waver, the colour draining from your face as you pull your hand away, studying the red smeared across your fingertips. “I’m sorry Charlie but I think I’m about to pass out.”

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lotsofluvz · 2 days ago

Text

LADS MEN AS DADS ⋆. 𐙚 ˚

how are the lads men as dads?

warnings none, just fluff

note i been trying to write as much before my semester starts n make me miserable. enjoy n luv ya! <3

ZAYNE

He cried when he finally saw his daughter as you cradled her in your arms after labor. After nine months, he is able to see the mini version of him and you. He can’t be any happier.

He is the strict type of dad (for the most part) but has a sweet spot for his princess. How can he say no to her sweet face? He can’t. He feels bad whenever he has to say no to her, but for the most part, your daughter wins over his heart.

It can be difficult to have time to spend with his family, especially with his line of work, but he always makes sure to not work once he arrives home and devotes himself to you and your daughter.

If she gains interest in anything related to medicine, I can see him teaching her various knowledge about it. He will buy her books, CDs, DVDs and many more related to science. He can’t pass up the opportunity to bond with her and his love for medicine.

RAFAYEL

He definitely cried the entire labor and when the nurses gave him your daughter. More tears fell down when she grabbed his pinky finger. He is beyond thankful for you giving him such an amazing gift, and he will forever treasure it.

He is the chill dad and is notorious for spoiling his princess. She wants new shoes? Bought it. She wants a new toy? Bought it. She wants ice cream? Bought it. She could ask him once, and she will get it. He can’t help it; she wants his princess to be happy.

He gained a new muse once you told him you were pregnant. He has portraits of you every week as she grows in your belly. Once she was born, he never stopped painting the both of you. He even bought a separate place for his paintings of his two favorite people because it was getting cramped in your home.

SYLUS

He was surprised when the two of you went for a regular doctor's appointment and the doctor told you that you were carrying twin girls. Sylus was ecstatic, to say the least. He asked Luke and Kieran to buy all the necessary nursery items. You have to scold him about purchasing too much for girls before they were even born.

If you think he was spoiling the twins so much before they were born, prepare for the amount of spoiling he is doing once his princesses are born. All they have to do is bat their eyelashes or look at something for a few seconds, and he is buying it already.

He is a hands-on dad, like the time you had an important meeting, and so did he. Instead of asking Luke and Kieran to look over the twins, he decided to bring them to the meeting itself. His business partners are all looking at him and the two girls in his arms. He is completely unfazed by the looks they are giving him and continues on explaining. He is more focused if his girls are comfortable throughout the meeting. He is the ultimate girl dad.

CALEB

He was so excited to learn that you were carrying twin boys. He bawled when the twins were born as you carried them in your arms. He can't believe two healthy boys came out of you, and he can't stop staring at them. He is so lucky to have you in his life and to have you gifting him with boys who shared the same features as their mom.

He is an easygoing and protective dad who loves his wife and twin boys so much. He always had a picture of you and the twins in a frame on his desk. He knows his life of work can be stressful, but he always makes sure the boys get to spend at least an hour or so every day.

He is the one who sparked the interest of the boys in planes, and they always loved going to their dad's job site and looking at the big planes. He is glad that the twins shared a likeness for planes, the same way he loved planes when he was younger.

He is always there to defend his boys, especially when they started to play soccer. A kid pushed one of the twins, and it took almost everything in him to not punch the kid's dad. After practice, he treated his wounds and bought them ice cream.

XAVIER

He initially wanted a girl so he could have a kid that looked like you, but he was gifted with a son who looked like him instead. He was kind of nervous when the nurse gave him the baby, but once he had him in his arms, he wouldn't stop staring and caressing his small cheeks. He repeatedly thanked you as he cradled your son.

He is the laid-back type of dad. If his son wants to try something, he will fully support him. He even taught him how to play board games, even if your son is clueless and mostly just laughing at his dad while pretending to playing. Although you refused to let him or your son near the kitchen, especially since he isn't particularly good at cooking or baking.

They became instant sleep buddies; you will always see them lying down and cuddling each other. Xavier is really good at calming him down and making him fall asleep; hence, you gave him the job of tucking your son in every night. There were instances when you woke up in the morning and he wasn't beside you. Instead, you saw him sleeping in the nursery room with him in his arms.

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scannainscanrula · 13 hours ago

Text

shadowed corners

remmick x reader (18+ mdni)

You're a romance author suffering from insomnia, writer's block, and strange nightmares. Your publisher offers to send you to Maine for a short sabbatical to clear your head. It's a quaint town with charming locals, and a mysterious man running the lighthouse that nobody seems to know much about...

author's note: well well here we are again. this is MUCH longer than my other fic and i intend to have at least 3(?) chapters for it, so strap in girlies. no smut just yet yous have to earn it first by sitting through all this fucking exposition. grma enjoy! warnings: horror elements, discussion of animal death, discussion of shark attacks, sexual themes

You sit at your desk in front of an empty document, the cursor blinking at you mockingly. Your eyes are tired and your head feels heavy, and the last time you fell asleep at your desk you had drooled on your keyboard, and you really don’t want to find a place to get it fixed.

“An old-school computer always helps me when I have writer’s block,” one of your colleagues had told you at a cocktail party when you lamented about your publisher’s insistence on a new concept.

You had a very embarrassing and uncomfortably visible breakdown in her windows-only corner office. You began word-vomiting all over her sleek carbon fibre desk about your writer’s block and insomnia– leaving out the extra embarrassing detail of your recurring sexy nightmares– and she had patted your back and attempted to comfort you with corporate jargon. When the tears started she lowered some blinds and lowered her voice, sitting against the edge of the desk in front of her.

“Look, kid. You’re a hell of a writer, okay? Nothing sells like your stuff. I mean, I don’t get it, but the girls love this… creepy vampire stalker shit.”

Dark romance, you want to correct her, but it’s futile after four years working together.

She sighed, crossing her arms.

“How about… I give you a company card and you go… rent on the coast somewhere for a few months? We have some contracts to draft because these streaming services are just chomping at the bit for rights to adapt. So you go pack your things and take a break. Get an Ambien prescription, fuck a fisherman, whatever you need to do.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’ll bankroll it.”

She taps her manicured acrylic nail on the cover of your most recent title, Shadowed Corners. It was a total and complete success, where your first two were mafia romances set in the same universe, SC was a dark romance with a vampire love interest stalking your adorable main character. You love red flags, and Milo was covered in them.

“You’re a money-printing machine, babe.”

So here you are, not relaxing, not on sleeping pills, and completely unfucked by any hot guys. You press your fingers to your temples and sigh, closing the pages and pushing the circular off button for the computer. You slide back and lean forward, stretching your creaky back. You miss your cozy little setup at home, your comfortable chair and the souped-up gamer style keyboard. You sacrificed comfort hoping it would make you work harder, but you think you’ll just finish this little sabbatical with more lower-back pain than usual.

You fill your water bottle with the filter in the fridge, admiring the stickers all over it. Among the logo of your publishing house and the ones about writing, you have fanart of your books and quotes from your own characters. Ones you’ve found at book fairs and second-hand stores as well as online. A handful were sent along with fanmail. Your laptop and idea notebook are covered too, because it drove you mad to know people liked your stuff enough to make art out of it.

You huff and trudge up the stairs, feeling exhausted and dreading the next day. You sit in your bed and look at the sticker of Milo with his signature phrase I’d like to see you stop me, babygirl.

You turn the bottle away from you as you open the bedside drawer. Inside of it are two options. A scent-proof bag that holds your pipe, grinder, and bud, a vape, and a few edibles. The other is a vibrator. You wonder what the point of this vacation was. You could get high and get off at home in the city. And at least there you could order munchies for delivery after you’d fucked yourself silly thinking about the made-up vampire in your head.

You just shut the drawer, rolling your eyes as you lay back.

Two hours later, you can’t sleep. You’re “jerking off your ego” as your friends would call it, looking through positive reviews of your last title. You know you have detractors, people who think your work is trash or anti-feminist. It’s a little trashy, but it’s just for fun. And you’ve had your share of shitty boyfriends like any girl your age, you know the difference between right and wrong. God forbid a girl wants a hot vampire to follow her home, you think.

You sit up and put your phone face down. You need fresh air. You need a walk. So, you bundle up and stick in headphones for a brisk, freezing, 7 PM wintertime mental health walk. The New England air isn’t just cold, it’s thick and wet with the marine layer from the ocean, which you’re a short walk away from. It’s not nice, but it does invigorate you as you follow the path from your little cottage down to the beach. It’s pretty private, tucked away in a little alcove– which you were warned not to enter when the tide is too high. You peek over to see it’s not. So you climb down and skirt around the rocks to walk on the main beach, which is empty. Obviously. The recently released audiobook of one of your peers’ newest titles plays in your ears, narrated by a sultry English man. You should have gone somewhere else for inspiration. You vaguely remember hearing someone at a book release party talk about how inspiring their trip to France was, and another person responded about their time in Ireland. You’ve mostly just met fishermen and townies, and none of these men had the Milo quality about them.

Milo was inspired by a stunning man you saw while at a nightclub in New York City. You were very, very drunk on espresso martinis, but you saw him and his adorable girlfriend– who also served as your muse for Annmarie, SC’s protagonist– at the bar together. His arm was around her waist in a way that was possessive but romantic, his hand rested over her tummy, and you saw his thumb rubbing circles into her skin lovingly.

“Oh my God, girl, are you seriously drooling? You are so drunk,” your friend had half-sighed, half-laughed as you wiped a little drool from your chin with the back of your hand.

“We have got to get you some dick, queen,” another friend joked.

“I am perfectly fine being single,” you protested.

“Nuh-uh, I read that last book of yours. All work and no dick makes you fucking crazy. How did you come up with that shit anyway?”

“She’s totally sick in the head, that’s how.”

Your back straightens up as you think you hear a voice.

“Miss!”

You pause the book and turn around to see a man jogging behind you, holding something in his hands. You freeze with terror until you realise it’s your notebook he’s holding.

“You dropped this,” he says, handing it over. He stays a nice distance away from you.

He has some sort of Southern accent, not New England.

And he is very, very attractive. He wears a tight black t-shirt and black athletic shorts. His short hair is semi-dark, and probably reddish from the way it looks in the blue moonlight. He smiles politely at you, his dark eyes are hard to see. There’s a scruff of facial hair on him.

“Thanks.”

“Sorry, I… I woulda tapped your shoulder, but I was worried you’d sock me in the nose if I scared you.”

“I appreciate that.”

“Are you uh… you okay? It’s pretty dark out here.”

“Yeah, I know. I was just clearing my head.”

“Right.”

You take a breath and introduce yourself quickly.

“I’m Remmick,” he says.

“So, what are you doing out here, Remmick?”

“Well, I work at that lighthouse. Just takin’ a jog before I head up there.”

“Oh.”

Hot lighthouse worker. That could be a love interest.

“You on vacation? I think I’d remember your face if I’d seen it before.”

Charming lighthouse worker.

“I’m uh… on a sort of sabbatical.”

“You a doctor or something?”

“God, no. I’m a writer.”

“Yeah?”

The tone and timbre of that yeah have your head spinning.

“Books or what?”

You nod.

“What kind?”

You hesitate.

“Can I guess?”

“Go for it.”

He thinks for a second, his tongue darting out to wet his lips as he does, which makes you flush.

“Are they scary?”

“Parts of them are scary,” you admit.

You remembered researching for SC and finding out that a lot of people only have a little over one gallon of blood in their bodies. You felt lightheaded and queasy at the visual of a plastic gallon bottle full of blood.

“But they ain’t all scary, huh?”

“Nope.”

He eyes you and smirks.

“Are they dirty?”

You hesitate and suck in air through clenched teeth.

“Yeah. They’re pretty dirty.”

“You must make good money, huh?”

He chuckles and you shrug.

“I do alright.”

“Yeah, I bet you do. Where’re you stayin’?”

You pause and he holds up his hands.

“That probably sounded creepy. I only meant… there’s some nice places, and there’s a Holiday Inn.”

“Well, it’s not the Holiday Inn.”

He looks at the watch on his hand.

“Shit. Well, I gotta get goin’.”

He says your name and your chest fills up with a weird feeling. Half-elation, half-dread.

“Nice to meet you.”

“Yeah. You too. I’ll see you around,” you respond.

“Only if you keep walkin’ at night. Boats don’t need a lighthouse in the daytime,” he explains quickly, jogging off toward the beacon.

Hot lighthouse worker who’s charming and funny. Now that could work.

You go home and open the fridge. Time for boxed wine in a mug as you power-write for the next forty-five minutes until your hands cramp up.

You put the notebook down and pull out your favorite pen. You need certainty when you put book ideas down. You write in quick, messy bullet points, only getting down little ideas. You heard that coastal New England towns are famous for gruesome murder. Your instincts take you to the mafia but one glance at your water bottle has you thinking otherwise. SC was such a success, and you’re the vampire girl now.

So you begin to pen the vague outline of a dark romance with a steamy, stalkery vampire lighthouse worker. A man in thick knit sweaters with a messy beard– that could get messier covered in blood or buried between a writer’s thighs–

You pause and see you’ve written writer on the page. You cringe and scribble that out. You had your humble beginnings with composition notebook self-insert fanfiction as a tween, but you’re a big girl now. And you’re already writing prose over a guy you just met, you really don’t need to make it any weirder. Your mind goes through some humble, wholesome occupations to compliment a love interest like that. Baker? Too cliche. Schoolteacher? Too male gaze. Big city corporate lawyer? Too Hallmark movie.

You tap back of the pen against the page rhythmically and sit up. Investigative journalist. Still technically a writer, but the only things you investigate are late-night Twitter links on a private spam account not even your best friends know about.

Your pen dashes across the page, scrawling wildly. There’s not even any music playing, just the not-so-distant sound of the ocean, the radiator, and your own hand brushing against the paper. Soon, you’ve filled five pages without realising and that doubles in a blink. Shit! Your hand cramps up and you lift the pen finally, massaging your other thumb into your palm. It’s time for bed now, as three hours have passed and your back is killing you.

You ascend the stairs again and just go to sleep, hand and wrist sore and content with your productivity.

You wake up surprisingly early the next day, and decide to go into town to get some groceries. Your fridge is looking sparse and the pantries are basically empty. You buy some frozen stuff and some supplies to make coffee. You see the honey is placed on the highest shelf you’ve ever seen and huff. No workers around. You can probably get it on your tiptoes. You strain to reach it and hear a man’s voice.

“Can I help you with that?”

You almost fall dropping to your feet again, and a shooting pain goes up from your heels.

“Ow, shit.”

“I’m sorry.”

It’s a man in a lifeguard’s hoodie with red swim trunks on. Maybe you hit your head and you’re having some sort of insane Baywatch fantasy.

“Yes. Please.”

“Yeah, I honestly don’t know who puts this stuff up there. The lady who owns this place is like, four-eleven.” You laugh at that as he hands you the honey.

“Thank you.”

“No problem. I’m Chris, by the way.”

You give him your name and shake his hand. Fucking hell this guy is strong.

“Are you visiting?”

“Yeah. For a few months though. I’m working on a book.”

“You write horror?”

“Sorry?”

“Um, Stephen King’s from Maine. I feel like horror writers are always trying to… come out here and get some of that inspiration.”

“I think the inspiration he had was-”

“Cocaine?” he says at the same time as you. He shrugs. “At least you can recognise that. Half the other writers are ready to climb into the sewer.”

“Shit, well there goes my day at the rock quarry,” you joke.

He laughs at that and you grin.

“I’m a lifeguard on the beach for the next six hours, if you um… feel like you need some fresh air. Sunlight isn’t really a November specialty.”

“Are people really swimming this time of year?”

“Oh, they are. But so are the great whites, so, I’m mostly on seal watch.”

“Right.”

“I’m in tower Four,” he tells you eagerly. It’s like the words just jump right out of his mouth. “It’s right by the lighthouse. Nobody swims there, so… if you wanna tell me about your book or something… my job is pretty boring.”

“I’ll see you out there, Chris.”

“See you.”

You check out and ride the bike the homeowner left for guests back to the cottage. You feel insane. Maybe you were hospitalized after that breakdown and this is all some elaborate, drugged-up daydream you’re in. You pull out your notebook after the groceries are put away and flip to a new page. You click your pen and write HOT LIFEGUARD at the top of the page.

A love triangle sounds awesome.

Later on, after you actually manage to type some words on a new, more permanent outline document, your vision drifts out the window. It is actually kind of a nice day, even though it’s overcast and windy. You stand and squeeze your hands together, stretching out. It is time for another brisk walk, this time to Tower Four.

Chris sits up there, slumped in his chair and holding his rescue tube in his lap. His tanned, toned legs are wide as he sits back.

“Would it scare you really bad if I started yelling ‘help’?” you joke, peering up at him from the ground.

He chirps your name, sitting up and sliding his sunglasses on top of his head, pushing back his hair.

“You made it.”

“I brought you a snack,” you say, handing up the small bag of chocolates.

“Wicked,” he says, taking it from your hand. He swings down like a monkey and sits with his feet dangling off the side of the tower. You share the candies and look out on the water.

“So, you gonna tell me about your book?”

“Yeah, I’m not a horror writer.”

“What do you write?”

You hesitate. You know this song and dance, the divulgence of your career and the weird stares and uncomfortable shifting that follows. It’s ruined all sorts of dates and first impressions. Fuck it. You’re on sabbatical.

“Um… dirty romance books.”

“No shit? Is it like that crazy mafia stuff online?”

“Yeah, it’s exactly that.”

“Killer. You make a lot of money?”

“Enough to stay here and not work for three months.”

“So… you’re not writing a book?”

You shake your head.

“My creative well is completely dry. I came out here for-”

“Don’t even say it.”

“-some inspiration.”

“You are such a liar,” he teases. “You’re just like all those Stephen King wannabes,” he jokes, turning away from you.

You laugh at his silliness. You remain for a while, chatting about life and the town.

“The city is wild. I’m getting used to the silence, I think,” you tell him, having moved to– illegally– sit on the tower with him.

“Is the crime really so crazy out there?”

“Yeah, I mean… most of that is just there’s so many people crammed into such a small place. People go nuts.”

“Damn.”

“No crime here?”

“Not here, no, but um… about twenty miles north there’s this beach town, it’s a complete tourist getaway, but they got rocked by some shark attacks a few years back.”

“Some shark attacks?” you repeat his casual wording, shocked.

“Sorry. That sounded insensitive, it was really scary. That place is on its last legs now.”

“Well, yeah. Who wants to stay at the Jaws resort?”

“Bull shark, probably. The same thing happened in nineteen-sixteen. It was pretty gruesome.”

“Are you fucking with me?” you question him seriously, eyes squinted.

“I’m being serious, look it up.”

“Huh. Shit.” You sit back, eyes wandering to the lighthouse.

“Have you ever met the person who works up there?”

“Yeah, he’s fucking creepy.”

“I didn’t think so.”

“You met him?”

“Mhm. Last night.”

“Remmick? The lighthouse guy? You met him?”

“Yeah…? He was jogging.”

“Fucking weirdo,” Chris mutters. “He’s a complete shut-in.”

“How long has he been here?”

“Couple years? I don’t really know when he got here, he just… was there one day.”

“Weird.”

“Yeah, well. We used to have a night lifeguard, and– listen, I can admit having a girl out here on her own was pretty stupid– not that girls are… incapable or something-”

“I get it.”

“Right. And… full disclaimer, this girl really liked shrooms, but she swears up and down that she saw that guy covered in blood and eating a seal.”

“Whoa.”

“I mean, there was a dead seal on the beach, she was right about that.”

“Great white?”

“Oh, for sure. I’m think he was probably just doing that creepy-ass night jogging by the tower when that seal washed up, and… sometimes the sharks don’t fully kill the things-”

You grimace.

“I know, it’s pretty sad. Anyway, probably it was yowling and her fucking shroomed out brain conjured up that pretty picture. But he’s just a weird guy. He’s totally nocturnal. I’ve never seen the guy in the daytime. I’ve probably seen him six times and talked to him like… two, maybe?”

“Jeez.”

“Yeah. Anyways, sorry. That was a lot. I’d just stay away from the guy if you can. I don’t know what his deal is.”

You swiftly change the subject to movies and TV, which is good, because you two seem to share the same interests. Strangely enough, vampires are among them.

“I have sisters, so, I’ve seen Twilight about a hundred times? Maybe more?”

You laugh at that. You see him grinning and you check phone, seeing that two hours have passed.

“Shit. I have got to get back.”

“Right.”

“Thanks for the company. And the advice,” you add, nodding to the lighthouse.

“Um… would you want to grab a drink, tomorrow?”

“Oh. Yeah, sure. Um… where?”

“It’s called The Weasel. It’s definitely a townie bar, but… the drinks are cheap.”

You are fiending for an espresso martini, and you fear you’ll have to settle for an old reliable at a dive bar.

“Alright.”

“Cool. Um… eight o’clock sound good?”

“Eight o’clock sounds great.”

“Awesome. See you there.”

“I will see you there.”

Your back hits a tree as you pant, unable to run anymore. Your lungs burn as you gasp for cold night air in a dark, damp forest. You’re barefoot, in a wet nightgown that sticks to your skin and you’re terrified.

You tremble, feeling the looming presence of something evil and ancient, rising up in front of you. Met with words in a language you don’t understand, a clawed hand grips your jaw. They’re wet and sticky, hot with something you realise is blood. The creature laughs at you cruelly and on the other hand grabs a handful of your nightgown, claws ripping through the fabric as it tears a strip down the center. The hand cups between your legs. It splits your lips carefully– almost reverently– brushing a knuckle between your folds, claws away from your most sensitive skin. You gasp and shiver, hands against the tree. You’re wet, though. Soaking the creature’s hands as it coats your skin in blood. It’s so dark and your vision is blurry with tears, you only see two red spots staring at you, and the glint of pearly fangs as the jaw of the creature opens and lurches forward.

You shoot up and sigh, panting as you try to catch your breath. You’ve been plagued with these “psychosexual night terrors”, as your therapist calls them, since you finished writing SC. Some weeks they’re sparse and other ones you can’t sleep without waking up sticky and horrified. Your cortisol levels are through the roof and your sex drive is in the stratosphere. The running theory is that your frantic writing for the deadline of SC drove you just a little bit crazy, and your panic and arousal from writing about Milo’s sexy antics while your publishing house breathed down your neck combined and manifested as the scary void creature in your nightmares.

You take a cold shower that morphs into an everything shower when you remember your date with Chris. Not a date. Just grabbing a drink. Could be a date.

You feel like a kid again, having a cute summer fling with a boy at sleepaway camp with the distant bitter sweetness of knowing you’ll leave in three months. Except you are an adult woman and if you do fall in love, you could just move here forever.

But that’s wishful thinking.

You wait at the bar patiently. You’re a punctual girl, your agent adores that about you, so you are a little early. You chat with the bartender. She’s an older woman with a thick Mainer accent.

“Let me guess-”

“Not a horror writer,” you joke back.

She laughs at that. Her laugh is creaky but comforting, and you can tell she’s a smoker.

“You look nervous.”

“I’m meeting somebody?”

“Yeah?”

“I won’t say who, because I’m guessing you know everyone.”

“Well, I also know who’s single and who isn’t. If you’re worried he’s married, just give me a name.”

The bar is quiet, some men play pool and a group of vacationing dads drink beers and watch some sports on an outdated television.

You order another drink as you watch the clock behind the bar tick on.

By eight thirty, you’re sufficiently buzzed. You didn’t even get his phone number to text him.

By nine, you decide you should go home. You thank the bartender and leave her a generous tip. You’ll be too embarrassed to come in here for a while.

You take the bike home, slumping on the sofa in the living room as you kick off your heels. You feel tears pricking at your eyes and rub them away, not caring about your smudged eyeshadow or makeup. You wipe it off in the bathroom and change out of your clothes. You need another walk. Maybe you’ll run into the allegedly very creepy lighthouse man and you’ll get some inspiration.

“I’ll show you Stephen King wannabe, dickhead,” you mutter to yourself, pulling on your coat and shoving your notebook in your pocket.

You follow the familiar motions, down the path, out through the alcove, and down the beach. You have some angry music playing this time as you stomp down the beach and pass the lifeguard towers. Shrooms girl better thank her lucky stars she’s off night shift, because you look pissed off right now. You stalk all the way down to tower four and roll your eyes. This is a tantrum. You’re an adult.

“I thought I might see you again,” a voice calls. Remmick is on a ledge above you, leaning on the wooden railing.

“Can I come up there?”

“I’m not gon’ tell you what to do, sweetheart.”

You try to ignore the fire that lights in you and climb the sand and rock stairs, joining him on the ledge. He sits on a bench and pats the seat next to him.

“I heard a lot about you today, from a couple locals,” you tell him, lying about it.

You get the feeling Chris was being insecure, or maybe Remmick’s stolen one too many girls from him.

“Yeah, I’m a seal-eating nightwalker, you got me,” he jokes, his hands up in mock surrender.

You exhale through your nose. You wish you could laugh harder.

“I’m just a solitary kinda fella. People here, shit, they tight knit like fishin’ nets. They think everybody’s gotta know everybody’s business. Nobody knows mine, so they’ve been makin’ things up for the past three years.”

“Sorry I brought it up.”

“Hey, I’d rather you hear it from me.”

He looks at you for a moment and rubs a hand over his knee.

“You look upset.”

“Yeah. I uh…”

You hesitate, and see him lean forward, actively listening.

“It’s stupid.”

He holds his hand out, gesturing for you to speak.

“I got stood up,” you admit.

“For a date?”

“Not exactly. Just drinks.”

He clicks his tongue.

“That’s no good. Must be a pretty dumb guy, to stand you up.”

“Yeah. That was a dickhead move. I’m just hoping it was more of a… ‘oh shit, I totally forgot’ kind of thing.”

He eyes you and you cross your legs.

“Still. You musta gotten all dolled up for it.”

“Yeah, I did.”

“Well, I uh… I’m not so much a bar kind of fella, but if you wanna come out here sometimes all dolled up…” he leans in, “I got some good whiskey and two glasses.”

You lean in too, close to him.

“I might take you up on that, Remmick.”

“I gotta get up there,” he murmurs, looking at your lips as he speaks.

“Right.”

He doesn’t move, locked in place for a moment. He seems to shake off the spell and sits back, scrubbing a hand down his face, wiping his mouth. It almost looks like he’s wiping away drool. He stands up.

“You uh, you alright to walk home on your own?”

Words flash in your mind, the scene from SC where Milo promises to stalk Annmarie home, which results in him watching through the window as she touches herself. You’re drunk, you realise, as the neurons in your brain flicker out and blood rushes down your body.

“Yeah, I should be fine.”

“Right.”

He starts to walk away and turns back.

“I mean it. You come up see me sometime.”

“I will.”

You mean that, too.

Remmick thumbs through your notebook. How can you even understand this stuff? Your messy handwriting is charming. He reads through descriptions of vampire lore and fangs and turning that make him chuckle. He thinks of the smell of you, that hot scent of desire and the buzzing of your intoxicated body as you sat together. He’s so fucking cold in Maine, and he hasn’t been touched in years. He imagines you’d be hot to the touch. He knows you’re frustrated, you’ve been dissatisfied with pleasuring yourself. The descriptions of sex scenes have him biting back groans and palming himself through his pants.

He flips to the final page.

HOT LIFEGUARD

His eyes narrow as he realises who it was that stood you up. He turns the page back over, scanning through your previous writing.

LIGHTHOUSE VAMPIRE LOVER. CLAIMS TO KILL FOR HER. STALKERY? MILO PART II. LESS TENDER. MORE EVIL.

Oh, you’re fucking crazy.

He grins, his fangs sliding down.

He can make do with crazy.

You wake up early, painful early. You dress groggily and decide to get some air on the beach before the dickhead lifeguard starts his shift. You’re slightly hungover as you traverse down the path and through the alcove to walk on the beach.

The light is pale and you have to watch your step for kelp as you walk down. You see something up on the sand, and your heart sinks.

It has to be a seal. It’s not breathing, so you look at the nearest lifeguard tower for the animal control. You dial the number and wait patiently.

“Hello?” a voice that sounds just as groggy as you feel answers.

“Hi, I’m um, I’m on the beach right now and I think there’s a dead seal by the first lifeguard tower.”

“Oh, hell. Sorry, miss. It’s too damn early. Do you see any marks on it?”

“It’s hard to see with the fog. Is it safe to get closer?”

“Seals aren’t half as aggressive as sea lions, miss, so go ahead.”

You step closer, squinting with the fog. It’s absolutely dead, not moving at all. You approach it cautiously, worried about what other creatures might be lurking around.

Your heart drops to the pit of your stomach.

This is not a seal.

This is Chris the lifeguard, and he’s missing an arm.

#remmick x reader #remmick x you #remmick #remmick sinners #sinners fanfiction #remmick fanficiton #remmick fanfic #jack o'connell x reader #sinners 2025 #sinners

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artisiumstudios · 2 days ago

Text

I need angst, I need 19 year old Stan and ford timestuck au where they meets their mid 20year old counterparts (a bit before the betrayal and ford hits rock bottom).

Now I have so many ways this could work:

1) Stan and ford (teens) end up getting stuck together and get stuck with Stanford, which leads to both fords having a lot of emotions. Stan looks sick, his baby fat is not quite gone but compared to ford it’s like he’s aged years despite him being 19 and the same age as his twin who still looks full of life. He sees Stan and ford as a child and the guilt that he tried to hide behind anger and betrayal is starting to peak out once more. His twins younger self is covered in new scars and his compared to the loud mouthed brother who always spoke his mind at any given time without any thought of consequences is now eerily quiet, always hanging in the background, trying to make himself small, trying to disappear.

Paranoia oozes out of Stan with every twitch and flinch at the slightest sound, and while not super obvious, he can tell that while ford has gained an inch or so, his body still maturing into one of an adult, Stan — well he isn’t. And while he is hunching Stanford knows that one inch difference should have never happened. Ford is almost the same noticing as much as Stanford except that that guilt comes crashing harder because that’s HIS twin brother looking absolutely miserable, exhaustion etched onto his skin. And the worst part for ford is that Stanley keeps avoiding him (well he avoids both fords but Stan and him are in the same situation so why can’t Stanley just stop his avoidance for one second? Be mature about this! Let ford make sure he’s okay-).

And meanwhile Stan feels super happy that Stanford got himself a good place and that even thought Stanley ruined his life he still made something of himself! Even if it was without him. Because pa was right, everyone was and Stan was only holding ford back

And also for a little curveball Stan thinks his older counterpart is dead. He’s 19 barely scrapping by, he lives in his car, gangs are coming after him, and Stanford hasn’t mentioned anything about his Stanley, and when asked where his Stanley was he had this far away look as he shamefully said I don’t know. That was enough confirmation for him to know that he wouldn’t make past 30.

(He does indeed freak out when Stanley shows up still alive and looking worse for wear)

2)The Classic Stanford gets Stan and Stanley get ford. Except ford is there for the aftermath of either the Tijuana incident, the trunk incident, or the kidney incident. Either or but basically he saved Stanley and comes to the realization that his own twin’s future could be like this. That he could lose or have lost Stan without knowing. The fact that HE saved this Stanley and that if not for him this ford would have lost his brother and possibly have never of known. It sickens him and he makes it his personal mission to get home, rebuild his relationship with Stan if possible, and save his brother no matter what.

Stanley meanwhile is trying to fix his “mistake” (ford shouldn’t have seen that, he should have never known-) and is pampering the shit out of ford, stealing whatever he can for his little brother (?) , which caused more tensions because Stanley is the one hurt not ford! He needs to rest not be trying to shoplift his favorite snacks, books, etc!!!

On the other end of things Stanford still had the same realization from the first idea (minus the height thing but he does take into account that Stan is severely malnourished) and does try to pamper and connect with him. Does it backfire on him? Yes. Does Stan feel like he doesn’t deserve it? Yes. Does Stan lash out because clearly ford is doing it out of guilt? Yes. Is there drama where Stan ends up running away because ford reveals that the dream of sailing was never going to happen, especially not with Stan suffocating him!

(Some dialogue I thought for it.

“Stan, that’s not what I meant to say-“

“You think I’m suffocating?”

“No- well, yes I did but that doesn’t-“

“Is that why- that’s why you wanted to leave me. I’m suffocating, a burden-“

“Stan you’re not a burde-“

“YES I AM- IM THE EXTRA STAN, THE DUMB STAN, THE STAN THAT NOBODY WANTS-“

“STAN YOU HAVE TO UNDERSTAND-“

“Oh i understand, i might be stupid but i understand this, you don’t want me, nobody does. All my life I’ve been nothing but a burden to you, all I’ve ever done is ride on your coattails. It’s just like Pa said. But you don’t have to worry about me.”

“Stan what are you-“

*restraints Stanford in some way idk *

“You don’t have to help me anymore, it’s not like I’m worth much”

*runs away* )

3) Stanley and Stanford are the ones to get stranded in time thanks to Stanford doing some magical stuff that had the twins connected and sent to the past. Idk too much about this one but it could be fun. Especially if Stanford accidentally gets drunk trying to help Stan and reveals stuff about bill only for Stan to clock his shit and be like “yeah no you’re getting scammed bro. Played like a cheap kazoo”

Meanwhile Stanley is idk doing drag, perhaps going through withdrawal symptoms from lack of “flour”. Maybe some mental issues? Who knows, ford sure doesn’t!

#gravity falls #stanley pines #stanford pines #gravity falls au #stanley pines angst #stan pines #bill cipher #ford pines #stan pines angst #gf stanley #stangst #i love stan so much #teen stanley pines #protective ford pines #protective Stan pines #timestuck au

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jupitermarss · 4 hours ago

Text

unexpected company

shy alien!chan x human!reader warnings: blowjob, corruption kink kinda, aliens, monsterfuck(?), alternative anatomy, sub!chan listen this has no coherent lore or artistic purpose, it’s pure self indulgent filth aka shy alien channie gets a blowjob for the first time ever for the vibes think the avatar’s navi meets stitch meets bang chan.

moving slightly off grid to finally escape the noise of the city and live out your little house in the woods dream seemed peaceful. uneventful even, because the most that would happen was a hare visiting once in a few moons. that was until a little almond shaped spacecraft crashlanded meters away from your cabin, turning life upside down because not only did it scare the daylights out of you, there was also a pilot inside the ship.

his skin was tinted blue, eye scleras fully black, which, surprisingly... only made him less intimidating, somehow. the visitor was humanoid, slightly lankier than your average male, with a smooth, almost animal-like grace, somewhat primal yet contrasting with his outstanding intelligence and skill in both language and engineering.

when you’d first locked eyes with each other, it wasn’t fear or dread that struck you. on some intuitive and body language reading level, just by one look at your newfound alien company, you figured he was probably even more distressed and frightened than you were. so your initial response was laced with confusion and compassion instead. maybe, a sparkle of curiosity and suspicion, too.

you gave him water, tried to keep your own body language neutral and non-threatening, showing you were only trying to help and meant no harm.

this is how it started.

to answer the question of how it’s going, there’s definitely nuance.

first of all, he’s now living with you because he needs time to patch up his spacecraft. with limited tech resources available here on earth, it’s taking longer than it could have.

second of all, he started speaking. he introduced his name to you first, but it sounded like a combination of sounds your mind couldn’t even grasp to then repeat. it was long, tongue twisting and unclear, so you settled on a simpler alternative that phonetically resembled the original name — chan.

chan picked up basic english in a matter of days and was clearly of some further evolved species than humans.

he enjoyed pineapple juice and noodle soups, and refused to consume anything else that wasn’t those two options.

he also had little antennae on the top of his head, that you soon figured were extremely sensitive and almost sacred of a body part, because when you reached to touch them once, he hissed for a warning and sneered as his body tensed up in a reflex response.

channie wasn’t hostile at all, though. he respected you and your space, keeping his head down and not making much sound, only asking for things when he absolutely needed them. it seemed like where he came from — was an organized and neat, highly developed society that honored manners, respect, knowledge and… modesty? you weren’t sure if it was the right way to describe this certain feeling you were getting. maybe, channie was just… shy. which, if you were being honest with yourself, stirred something inside of you that only fueled the desire to get to know him better. closer.

“screwdriver, where?” chan asks, popping his head into the living room where you’re now resting with a book in your hands.

“ahh, not sure? maybe look in the garage, or the kitchen drawers?” you respond and briefly glance at the clock to then realize that he’s been up since 6 in the morning and still haven’t had a breather.

“chan, aren’t you tired? maybe have a little break?” you add a second before he disappears again, and he stops, perking up his antennae and giving you an almost confused glance.

“need repair ship. get home!” chan waves his hands as he speaks with a thick adorable accent.

“i know. but you need rest, too. it’s okay to take a break for an hour.”

“and do what?”

“rest.” you repeat gently, putting away a long forgotten book and patting the sofa, as if inviting him to sit and join you.

he hesitates but listens, probably out of politeness since you’re the host and he’s the guest, and it would be rude to just walk away from you. as he’s sitting on the sofa, it’s evident that he’s waiting for some sort of instruction or explanation from you, unsure what resting really means.

“i can help you relax if you let me,” you propose carefully, leaning closer and putting your hand on his thigh, gently caressing him with soothing repetitive motions.

chan blinks, naive and clueless, but he can admit the touch feels nice, so his body loosens up a little as he sinks further into the pillows.

there’s a certain level of trust between you already, and you know he isn’t scared or concerned around you, which pushes you further to test out the waters. you slide your palm a little higher to his crotch, and he immediately turns his head to you.

“why touch?” chan asks with sincere confusion.

“because it feels good?”

now it's your turn to be confused. has he never had sex before? is sex even a thing where he’s from?

“feel good? dunno, chan never touch there,” he replies, shrugging his shoulders and then looking down at his own groin.

oh.

you swallow and try to keep your cool, even though a strange and probably inappropriate wave of excitement jolts through your body at the news.

“i can show you. it can feel very good and relaxing. you don’t have to worry, it’s not… painful or anything. it’s nice. can i show you?” you explain and try to sound as reassuring as you can, reading his facial expressions at the same time.

while you’re studying him so closely, you can’t help but notice how ungodly, unearthly pretty he actually is. his grown out black locks and his sharp eyebrows give him an almost disheveled look yet he still looks so put together, so deeply intelligent. your gaze trails lower and stops at his lips. they’re a darker tint of blue, plush and perfectly shaped. you can tell they’re soft and tender just by looking at them.

his nailbeds are the same dark blue as his lips, and it gives an impression of matching lipstick and nail polish, kind of rebellious and cute, except it’s just his natural body colors. refreshing.

he’s well built, too. like he can easily climb a tree if he needs to. like he will confidently pilot a heavy aircraft with stiff gears and controls.

“you can show,” his voice takes you out of your haze, and you refocus on his eyes and scoot a little closer, so that now your noses are almost touching.

“you can trust me. i won’t hurt you,” you reassure him one last time before planting a gentle kiss on his lips. you hear his breath hitch. gosh.

your movements are slow, patient and soft. the last thing you’d want is to scare him.

as you undo his pants (the ones he was originally wearing. you washed them after the crash. the fabric is weird and the clasp is some smart unusual shape you’d never seen before), he shifts in place and jerks his hips nervously. this is the first time you see him blush, and it’s an even prettier look than his regular state because the tips of his pointy ears and his cheeks change to a deep violet color.

chan’s hot to the touch too, and if you didn’t know it’s his natural body temperature, you’d think he's running a fever incompatible with life. his skin is literally burning up which, in contrast with its cold color, makes your brain shortcircuit and buffer every time you feel him.

he’s not wearing any underwear, just his strangely tailored pants, and when you cover his cock with your palm, you gasp out of surprise at what it feels like.

it’s different. it’s definitely different.

the shape is closer to a tentacle than a regular cylinder length. it’s twitchy and almost.. alive. flexible and extremely responsive to every brush of your hand.

under a little dark blue tip it’s slightly ribbed and bumpy, hardened but still feels like flesh.

the antennae on his head begin to tremble, and chan’s breath quickens in a matter of seconds. you both glance at each other confused but with a distinct spark of interest. it’s new to both of you but something nudges you two to keep going.

you slowly slide onto the floor and get on your knees in front of him, pushing his legs apart and situating yourself comfortably while his cock is out, on full display. sensitive and starting to leak some sort of thick and sticky slick from its slit.

“a-aah—what-” chan stumbles over his own words, clearly too heated and disoriented to be speaking a language he’d only just learned.

“sh-h, it’s okay. i’ll touch, and you’ll feel good” you whisper as you lightly squeeze the base of his length, trying to pump him up and down and coat him with his own precum.

at this point, you’re done fighting your curiosity, so you lick at the head of his cock to taste it, and it takes you aback. it’s… not salty. in fact, it’s the opposite, and reminds you of something close to burnt sugar. kind of sweet, but rich, deep, heavy and with a pinch of something you can’t quite name.

you take the entire tip into your mouth and suck on it, creating a little vacuum pull with your cheeks, to which chan jolts and almost coughs on his own suppressed moan.

"do you want me to continue or do you want me to stop?" you ask to make sure.

"no—not stop... continue. please?" he shakes his head and furrows his eyebrows, still flushed with purple hued blush.

he doesn’t need to ask twice. it’s all the confirmation you need, so you begin to suck again, bobbing your head and trying to take him in deeper each time. he fills your mouth nice and full, hot like gentle lava and textured like a dream come true.

you can only wonder how good and stimulating it must feel against your cunt, if it feels this good against the insides of your cheeks.

chan’s cock twitches and pulsates for you, its tip pressing against the back of your throat and the roof of your mouth as if it’s also exploring you. as if chan wants to feel up your mouth, map it out with his sensitive part and push into you some more, mutually test how far he can go.

at some point, you’re not even sure who’s fucking who. because as you grow more confident and properly sink down on him with your mouth, chan’s playing with you back, whether he's even aware he's doing it or not—you can't really tell. his heavy length presses on your tongue which makes more saliva drip down your chin. he rubs against the velvety insides of your cheeks and pushes at them with his curious tip. one thrust he forces himself in too far, and you gag on it with a lewd sound that makes your own cunt clench.

the little bumps on his cock feel even more prominent now, almost massaging your lower lip with each push inside your mouth, with each slide down your tongue into your throat. somehow, even though you were the one starting it, you no longer feel much in control, now relaxing your jaw and mindlessly allowing chan to use and study you.

chan fully melts into the couch and lets himself get vocal, still tugs at the fabric of the sofa with his fingers as his antennae go limp and frizzy from new overwhelming sensations.

a release catches both of you off guard as his cock shoots a fat warm load right down your throat. you barely manage to swallow it in time, and it feels similar to drinking hot honey milk in one gulp, only slightly thicker and silkier.

his tentacle-y length falls onto his exposed stomach with an obscene wet slap, and chan tries to look down at you, his eyes unfocused and drunk-like.

“did it feel good?” you whisper, hoarse and raspy, licking your lips and swallowing once again.

“yes—feel good... good,” he replies with a nod, visibly spent and still out of it.

the image makes you chuckle and smile proudly.

“do again?” chan asks with a tint of hope.

“what, right now?!”

“no, no. no now. do again later?”

you snort and tilt your head to the side, eyeing him and, once again, thinking about how cute he is in his blissful unawareness and inexperience.

“sure.”

#stray kids x reader #bang chan x reader #skz imagines #skz x reader #skz x you #chan x reader #my fic #bang chan x you #chan x you #skz fanfic #stray kids x you #stray kids fanfic #bang chan hard hours #stray kids fic

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strawbairicake · 23 hours ago

Note

hallo Lia, before i say anything else i think i should apologize for taking so long to submit a request for your event—i kept either forgetting or endlessly second-guessing any draft of an ask i came up with because i didn’t want to end up annoying you, i hope you can forgive me :((

since it’s so late i completely understand if you don’t want to write this (especially if you aren’t interested in the idea), but would it be ok for me to request aventurine and a merman/merfolk au? i think it would be interesting to see him attempt (keyword: attempt) to court a human reader, but feel free to change the concept however you like ! thank you in advance, have a great day ♡

part of your world -aventurine x reader (mermaid/merfolk au!)

synopsis: the cute guy that mysteriously came ashore the beach is really intriguing, isn’t he?

warnings: none, it’s pure fluff! might be ooc though, apologies for that!

word count: 498

author’s note: yes the title was from the song from the little mermaid. no, i don’t have any regrets or better title names. anyway, thank you for requesting, Ruu! please don’t hesitate to come say hello or drop a request in my inbox! no beta, we die like my hopes n’ dreams /lh! would love to hear more from you! hopefully this idea fits (and maybe exceeds) your expectations; hope you enjoy! <3

book n’ dash event

tagging: @cmiru

acquiring human legs after having a mermaid tail all your life is quite the flex. that’s what Aventurine thought anyway. he had just washed up to shore when you came running over to him, in quite the panic.

“oh my gosh, are you okay? where did you come from?” you asked as you approached him. and Aventurine felt like he had come down with an ailment: he couldn’t speak, think, move (not that he tried any of these things). he was just frozen. god you were so pretty, did you know that?

“washed… up,” Aventurine replies, somewhat stunned at his lack of being able to form words. you nod, seemingly understanding what he said (you didn’t understand) and trying to give him the benefit of the doubt. you don’t want to overwhelm him, either.

“where are you from?” you asked after a few minutes of silence.

“the ocean. why?”

“okay… how did you get here, friend?” you asked.

friend… such a safe and comforting word. he knows you didn’t slip the word out intentionally. it was a speaking before thinking moment but you didn’t seem to regret or take back the word.

“i… don’t know. i’m just… here.” he replies. you nod again.

“i’m (name), nice to meet you. come with me, I’ll help you get on your feet. two more questions, can you understand what i’m saying? and what's your name?”

“I’m Aventurine, and i can understand you well.”

satisfied with his answer, you help him off the sandy beach, giving him a towel you were carrying earlier. you help him wrap it around his waist and start walking to your apartment, not far from the beach luckily. you both make the short trek back to your home and you let him settle in before overwhelming him with more questions and activities for you to do.

“once you’re comfortable and dressed, we’re going to go to the mall and get you some clothes, okay?”

“sure, thank you.”

And so you were off. you headed to the mall, and got to the clothing store for your new friend. you let him pick out whatever he wanted. but before you both left the store, a small pearl bracelet caught his eye.

“(Name), look,” Aventurine points to the bracelet.

“what’s wrong?” you ask as you see where his finger’s pointing, “oh, the bracelet? we can get it!” and as the nice clerk gets it out of the display and grabs it for you. you check out and head back to your apartment.

“what’s with the interest in the bracelet?” you asked him after he sat down on your couch.

“it’s a sign of loyalty and love in the mermaid language. you’ve also been kind to me.”

your breath hitched, and you gulp a bit nervously, “and?”

“and even though we’ve just met, i want you to have it.” he says as he pushes the box to you. you think this cute mermaid-turned human is sticking around for a while longer.

#airi writes #hsr x reader #honkai star rail x reader #aventurine x reader

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faggotbeloved · 2 days ago

Note

Hi!! May I request for a small flashback from S.T.A.R.S. days (according to your 3SA story)? Reader being an absolute sweetheart to Wesker and taking care of him even before their official relationship, making him start to develop his obsession with reader perhaps? I don’t know, I’m dying for some cute little background flashbacks of them two and how sweet and naive reader might have been back then😭😭

Anon,,, I am So. So Sorry. I intended to follow this correctly, but it turned into angst... there's some cute reader scenes in it though trust (the first 3)

Three Steps Ahead | Yandere!Albert Wesker x GN!Reader

5: Hindsight Glasses (20/20) (~3.5k words)

Cw: religious imagery, christianic metaphors, child abuse (wesker children), flashbacks, annoying ass extended metaphors, accidental domestic abuse, mental breakdown, hallucinations (of a sort), body horror, glass shards in palms, blood, stitches, angst, albert is Going Through It

└───────────────────────┘

Albert sat alone in his study, nursing a glass of fine whiskey and flipping through an old book. He’d been doing that more often now. Being around you was a double edged sword: he loved you more than life itself—everything he did was for you since the moment you first met—but now it was tainted. By his own hand.

Albert recalled what you’d said just last week. ‘Is it bad to be happy if you're happy with a bad person?’

No, he wanted to scream, he’s not bad. He’s not remotely bad. Was God bad when he sent the flood? What was he, but a man reaching godhood and sending his own? Damn the promise of the rainbow; this Earth was vile, and you… you were the only creature worthy of making it aboard the Ark.

The rest of the survivors of his plans could find their way above the water and join his perfect world, but you? You would be kept safe and sound where he could watch over you. How was that bad? He was protecting you! Damnnit, you risked your life every day, and now that he pulled you to safety he was ‘bad?’

The book he held snapped shut as he stood, downing four or so ounces of whiskey in one drink. The buzz as it traveled down his throat was grounding, he decided, but not strong enough to focus him elsewhere.

His thoughts stayed on you. They should be on his project, he recognized that, but his mind never seemed to tire of your face. He wondered how much rewriting of your brain it would take in order to get even close to the affection you naturally shared back before he left S.T.A.R.S..

S.T.A.R.S.. Life was so much easier then. Well, perhaps the double life he led was tedious, but he had you completely. Now, you were a shell. You had sex a couple times since he brought you here; they made him feel closer, like he was making progress with you, sure, but so many stinging reminders plagued his head.

First and foremost, you had fallen for someone else while he was gone—you still loved Chris, from what he could tell. Second, you were here against your will; no amount of cuddling and home cooked meals and tiny personal freedoms would change that. Third, you thought he and his plans were inherently evil.

Before, he had your entire personality. Your highs and lows, your utmost confidence, your jokes, your vulnerability… your trust. That was who he fell in love with. Not the version of you that stared at the ceiling and searched for hidden security cameras to ease your unrelenting boredom.

Albert was usually thankful for his impressive memory and strong imagination. It was what got him through separation; replaying every interaction like a comforting movie and imagining what could have been what could be.

Now, it seemed like a curse.

──────────────────────

“Hey, Captain,” your voice called out as you smiled at him. “I made two thermoses of coffee. Want any?”

“Tea is preferred,” he said coldly, but when he saw your deflating shoulders he backtracked, “but I appreciate the sentiment. Very much. I'll drink it.”

“I-It’s alright, Captain, I could give it to—”

“I’d like the coffee, please,” he replied, standing up to take it. It was hot still, too hot, but he swallowed the mouthful regardless and nodded. “It's very good. Thank you.”

Was he lying? Maybe. He never cared for the taste and caffeine was only useful as an addition to painkillers, in his opinion. But he liked hot drinks and could gladly sip a morning tea on some occasions.

Somehow, the coffee you gave him—oh, he hoped that you made it entirely yourself—tasted more tolerable than the usual garbage that comes out of the machine in the break room.

“You're welcome,” you chuckled softly before you left to clock in. He savored the lingering affection in your glance and stowed it away to admire another time.

──────────────────────

The memory was engraved in Albert's mind, a mundane plaque in the vast shrine he'd mentally accumulated. In his brain was a museum; a nature trail with hundreds of instances like that; some were in the form of sticky notes you'd leave on his monitor when he left the room, some were monoliths with your essence engraved on every surface as tiny as it could be.

This specific memory was golden from where the bronze wore down. He found himself going back to it often. It wasn't when he first noticed you, that honor had its place as the very earth he built on. With every step he took down memory lane, he was reminded of that. No, it was when he realized how much he wanted to be the first.

The first person you thought of when wondering who to bring a cup of coffee; the first pair of eyes you see when you come in for work; the first man to marry you; the first in all your lists.

Back then, he cruelly deprived himself of the recognition that he loved you, but he knew what he felt wasn’t sustainable unless he acted on it.

As he walked deeper into the recesses of his mind, he landed on another. Somehow, Jill discovered his birthday. He hated the holiday; it was more a reminder of the decades of abuse by the hands of Umbrella than anything for merriment.

When Albert thought about his birthday, he pictured practicing piano until his fingers locked up, being sent to bed with no food in his growling stomach, and the dull ache that came with being utterly alone in a room full of children your age. He supposed all the Wesker children felt the same in their misery.

Regardless, the image of his birthday in 1997 faded into his mind.

──────────────────────

“Hey, Captain,” you murmured as you rapped on his open door gently. “How’re you feeling?”

Without looking up from his desk where he glared at a couple wrapped presents, he growled out a reply. “Just fine, Agent.”

“You're burning a hole through your desk. That’s good oak, you know,” you teased softly. You grinned triumphantly, as hidden as you could be from Albert’s eyes, as Albert smiled.

After a moment of silence, you continued. “I didn’t wanna ambush you like the others did. I guess I failed, since I'm cornering you in your office. They didn’t mean any harm, Cap. Just wanted to show their appreciation.”

Albert swallowed and motioned for you to sit down. He still didn’t speak.

“I cleaned and polished your gun for you… and I got you this. Birthdays aren’t always a cause for celebration, I know, but… I’m at least a little happy. If not for today, 37 years ago, I would still be a rookie cop doing fuck all to make a real change. You’re a good Captain, Albert. And a good man.”

Albert glanced up, eyes as steely as possible. Unfortunately, you had a knack for getting under his defenses, and you spot the sorrow in his eyes with ease. As you set the wrapped box down on his desk atop the other presents, you decided to say one more thing.

“...We care about you. All of us. Especially me,” you said firmly. “Happy birthday, Albert,” you added as you stood up.

Albert. You said his name. Not Captain, not Wesker, Albert. He wasn't a prodigy with a name heavy enough to turn coal to diamonds, he wasn't the leader of an elite force or even a heading scientist for bioterrorists in his free time. He was Albert.

Suddenly, his hand reached out and grabbed your wrist. “Ah—I’m sorry,” he muttered as he dropped it like hot coal. “I was going to ask if you’d… keep me company. It’s no fun to open presents alone,” he requested weakly, head down in shame.

Brightly, you nodded and moved your chair beside him. “We can open mine last. I’m actually curious as to what those idiots got you.”

──────────────────────

That was the first time you'd dropped all formality and just said his name. He recalled the shape of your lips as you said it, unsure but aware of your power. He didn't want to open presents, truth be told, he wanted to pull you into a hug and bury his face into your chest and hold and be held. It was humiliating.

Albert huffed. He missed you from then right now. You were so precious. He still loved you, of course, but he’d trade anything to go back and bask in the simplicity of your romance for just a bit longer.

He tried to get back to work, idly rotating the whiskey glass in his fingers to occupy his hands, but you crept in and soon his head was in his hands as he contemplated going through another evocation for a brief respite from the gnarled feeling in the pit of his stomach. He settled on a safe one; among his favorites, more frequently visited than others, he noted the first time you said it.

I love you.

You sat with him in the medical bay, bandaging his wounds from his most recent assault. It wasn’t a pleasant fight, nor was it honorable, especially if you knew what he was fighting for. He murdered a man without a weapon, then beat him into the concrete for good measure.

The man in question wanted to ask you out to dinner, but you didn't need to know that. You just needed to know what Albert told you, that he boasted about unspecified abhorrent plans. To Albert, he was telling the truth; infringing on his right to have you was abhorrent.

──────────────────────

“Albert Wesker, how the hell do you find yourself in these situations?” You sighed playfully. “Who was it this time? Actually, don't tell me, I think I see skin cells under your nails. I could try to DNA match.”

“It doesn’t matter. Ah! Careful around my arm,” he requested, referring to the bicep that was slashed open in a careless mistake while guarding against the man's knife. You happened to page him, wondering where he disappeared to after you went to the bathroom.

“It's lucky that you overheard terrorist plans in the same bar the team headed to,” you hummed. “I'm glad you put a stop to it.”

Albert gazed down at your focused face like he was memorizing it (which, he was). “As am I. Thank you, dear, for helping me.”

“Dear?” You echoed playfully. You glanced up briefly, then flushed at his own engrossed expression and bent your head back down to the task. “Well… anything I can do for you, Captain, consider it done.”

A warm silence filled the room. His arm was wrapped and stitched up just fine and the bleeding was minimal, so you turned to his split and bruised knuckles. You cleaned and wrapped them, then put ice on both hands.

“You've got to stop getting hurt like this, Cap,” you directed.

Albert smiled. “Why should I, if it means I have you tending to my wounds?”

After an eye roll and gentle shove (on his uninjured arm), you replied. “Well, we’re burning through a lot of supplies, for one. And for two, I love you too much to meet you here day after day. The smell of antiseptic makes my stomach drop with dread.”

Albert’s mouth fell agape in shock as he had to remind himself to breathe. And you? You just kept working, like you didn’t just skyrocket his blood pressure and heart rate and yet make his entire brain go silent.

“S-Say again?” He asked to confirm your words.

“You're wasting supplies and I love you too much to see you in pain,” you summarized.

After another few moments of stunned silence, he whispered, “You love me?”

You suddenly realized what you'd said. “Ah! I-I mean, in an appropriate way. I care for you. I—”

“I love you, too.”

You froze. The hug you pulled him into moments later strained his stitches on his arm, but he decided not to tell you.

──────────────────────

He took a sweet satisfaction in that memory, knowing that he'd gotten away with murder and you'd confessed to him while you dressed the weapon.

The recollection was a statue; frequently revisited, with a bench in front and a beautiful view of the surrounding environs. Cast in the same bronze as the kind on every plaque was the hug you brought him into.

As he continued down the road, single-mindedly driven by the pleasantry of the last experience, he paid no mind to the sky dimming and the trail growing gnarled and claustrophobic.

He found another favorite, one he didn't recall why he locked away. It was short, much shorter than every other one, but he loved basking in its feeling.

You'd just come off an… endeavor in the S.T.A.R.S. break room on a day everyone was off, and he was more than content to stare at and admire your face and listen to your voice carry on while he was blissfully checked out of cognizant thought.

He could picture you clearly, face close to his and bathed in afternoon sun. Your eyelashes framed your mesmerizing eyes, your lips kiss-bruised and turned up in a contented smile.

Your body was pliant and littered with hickeys that you mandated had to be covered by your uniform. His was faring no better; he'd actually requested a couple bruises to be placed where they'd show above the neck of his shirt.

If Albert could have frozen time, he would have waited an eternity in that moment and still lamented once eternity ended.

Albert was so engrossed in reliving this perfect moment a thousand times over, he didn't notice his mind growing darker, falling down, down, down, and landing with a splash at the bottom of a well so deep he could see the stars in the middle of the day.

No, the warmth of your image overtook the chill that came with the foreboding feeling of a mind slipping; he ignored it simply because he wanted to feel you more.

──────────────────────

“Bee?” you spoke softly.

“Yes, my love?” Albert turned to you, noting your messy hair from your tryst and yet deciding you looked beautiful. He set a hand on your cheek, stroking the contour of your face almost as a form of worship.

Perhaps you were more God than he was. Perhaps you deserved temples built in your name and more people killed for your favor. Perhaps he would find true purpose as your most loyal disciple. Perhaps he could only be happy if he was worshipping you.

He realized you’d been talking.

“—and I’d never want to leave Raccoon City of my own volition, but they kind of need me back home. It wouldn't be for too long; maybe a few years at most.”

What? The memory usually cut off there.

─────── ─── ─── ── ─ ─

No. Stop. Stop, he didn’t want to remember this.

─── ──── ──── ── ─

“Pardon me?” he croaked, sitting up rigidly.

“I’m going to go, I think. I worry that without me—”

“You’re not leaving me,” Albert stated shakily. “That’s what you’re trying to do, isn’t it?”

He felt his breath shorten. “You can’t. You… you’re everything, you can’t leave me,” he said weakly, grabbing your shoulder harshly while tears threatened to pool. "I've never had... you can't deprive me of yourself without warning!"

───── ── ─── ─

He didn’t feel good about this part! He just wanted to—he wanted to remember you! Stop fucking thinking, Albert!

──── ─── ── ─

“What? Al, I’m not trying to leave you. I just need to go home for a while,” you defended, anxiety raised at his volatile response. Why were you scared of him? You had no reason to be! He fucked up, so badly. You—the only person in the world he cared for—were scared of him.

“No! I am your home!” He argued hoarsely, eyes wide with instability. “I’m first, right? I come before them, don’t I?” He should be your home! You were his!

─ ─ ── ─

Albert slammed his fist down on the table beside him—or was it a nightstand? He heard glass shatter. Was it his memory or was it real? It was all real to him.

Stop! Will you stop? I don’t want to relive this!

─ ──

“What the hell is with you, Albert? Get off of me!” You screamed, scrambling up from the bed. As you hurried to dress yourself, he got up too and grabbed your arm.

“Nothing’s ‘with me’! Perhaps I don’t want my partner to leave me for a bullshit reason! You don't appreciate my love like I do yours, is that it?"

─

Why are you doing this, Albert? They won’t love you if you don’t get a handle on yourself. Let them go!

“Fine! Fuck, I won’t go! I’ll stay here,” you cried, wrenching your forearm from his grasp and inspecting the bruise. He hurt you—not as manipulation, just out of panic and anger. He hurt you.

“...oh, no. No, no, no. Darling, I-I’m so sorry. Please. I’m not sure what came over me, I just—”

You looked up at him with fear and betrayal in your eyes.

“No,” he choked out, “No, I'm sorry. Forgive me,” he whispered, finding himself on his knees before you, palms bleeding from the whiskey glass he shattered in his hands.

“I hate you, Wesker,” you growled coldly, peering down at him from your pedestal. “Everything we had is gone.” When were you on a pedestal?

“No, no, no… that's not right. This isn't real. You never said that, darling,” he sobbed. “This must be a—a waking nightmare. You never said that. You never said that.”

“But it is true, isn't it? I hate you. Nothing you do will bring back the version of me that you miss. They're dead,” you said coolly, a sadistic smile as you watched his groveling.

“That's wrong!” He insisted hysterically, running his hands through his hair and slicing his palms further on the follicles. Blood stained his pristine light hair, dripped down his temples, and repelled from his lab coat, ending up in droplets on the floor.

“It's not true, you don't hate me, you don't hate me, you don't hate me,” he repeated over and over, like he was convincing himself. “...right?”

“What do you think, Wesker? Would I be here if I was given the chance? Would I kiss you when you walk through the door if not for the shocks? Would I feel any semblance of guilt if I managed to kill you back at the Estate?” You—no, your image reflecting his insecurities—questioned cruelly.

“You… would,” Albert shook his head, hugging himself to make the bleeding stop. All it did was apply pressure and make rivulets of crimson streak down his biceps. He pulled his knees to his chest and squeezed his eyes shut, but his damned imagination.

Luckily, he managed to steer it back into the memory from before and finished the mental scene.

“It’s—Bee, it's alright. You didn't mean to. Just don't do that again, okay? It hurt,” you said softly, stroking his hair and kissing his forehead. “I love you.”

“I love you, darling. So, so much.”

You were the first good thing in his life. Why did he react like that to you leaving?

Abruptly, an alert on his computer snapped him out of his breakdown. An alert from you—the real you, not the one his tortured mind devised as a self-destructive punishment. He checked the time. 16:53. He was nearly three hours late for lunch with you. Fuck.

Considering you refused breakfast this morning because you couldn't watch him cook it, you must have been hungry enough to actually alert him.

Without any of the grace he was known for, he grabbed your now-room-temperature food and hurried down corridors into his apartment. He burst in, desperation overtaking him. “My love! I’m so sorry, I got—I was caught up. I’m done for the rest of the day. I need you to hold me.”

You flashed a quizzical glance at him and sat up from where you laid on the couch. “Noted. Are you alright, Al?”

Al. That comforted him, if slightly. “I will be. Hurry and eat, I’ll be in bed.”

─────── ─── ─── ── ─ ─

You slunk into bed a few minutes later, and the moment he felt your weight shift the bed he cuddled into your chest and forced back tears.

To soothe himself, he shifted from the crook of your neck to inhale your scent to your sternum to be surrounded by your chest on all sides. It didn't matter how broad or narrow your body was, he didn't want to lift his face from his body until he was sure he wouldn't cry.

You were all he had. All he wanted, all he needs. How could he live with himself if you didn't want him?

“You'll forgive me, won't you?” He wondered timidly.

You shushed him, suddenly aware of how dire a state his mental health was at. “Forgive you for what, Bee?”

Swallowing thickly, he lifted his head to meet your eyes. “You don't hate me?”

“No, sweetheart, I don't.”

“You said—no, I imagined it, didn't I? You're real. You don't… you don't have to wear any of the collars or bracelets anymore. I'm taking it off, can I have your hand?” He asked urgently, taking off the bracelet like it was poisoning you.

“Albert, you're burning up—oh my god, your hands! Are those open wounds? Why is your hair wet? Is that blood? You—you tried to wash it off?”

“I heal fast,” he muttered, unintentionally tearing the scabs open as he crushed the bracelet in his bloodied palms. “There. No more of that. You can be trained in other ways.”

“Albert! Come to the bathroom, let me clean your hands,” you chastised. “Infection could do bad things to the viruses in your body.”

──────────────────────

As he was led to the bathroom, the memory from earlier of you doctoring his hands returned. He smiled softly and watched you unblinkingly. “I love you,” he murmured, trying hard to feel loved againt, just for his own comfort.

“...I love you too.” It was hesitant, like you were worried it was the truth. And it was. You loved him once more, even after everything. But you resolved to keep your grip on yourself; you wouldn’t aid him in any plans or harm any of your former coworkers.

This time, it was stitches on his hands that ripped as he brought you into a needy hug.

┌───────────────────────┐

Gonna start using this as a little ending ramble lol

This whole chapter was just me experimenting with a lot of things 💔 again anon I'm so sorry i kinda monkeys pawed it... Fluff but at what cost

Anyways this chapter is a little confusing and for that I'm sorry! I was inspired by encephalitis hannigram fics for the reality blurring, the scene in Django with the wine glass shattering for the whiskey glass breaking, Hannibal Lecter's mind palace for the shrine/collection of memories, there's a coraline reference somewhere in there... blehh idk

Maybe this whole chapter is ooc but it's because ummm ummmm let me live my life!!!

Read my other Wesker works?

#✑ my requests.#✑ my works.#✑ albert wesker.#tw yandere #x reader #albert wesker x reader #resident evil x reader #wesker resident evil #yandere x reader #albert wesker #albert wesker x male reader #yandere albert wesker #re wesker #resident evil wesker #resident evil x gn reader #resident evil x male reader #yandere resident evil #resident evil #x male reader

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asprinkleoftism · 1 day ago

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Shuichi Aizawa Headcanons

I have been meaning to do this for a hot minute and these are just personal headcanons of mine. Feel free to agree or disagree with them and I hope you enjoy! :) Matsuda is next!

Tags ✨️: @aizawashuichi @shujiaihara

Plain burger guy

Due to the stress of the Kira investigation and problems with family at home, Aizawa would want an inkling to start or does start a habit of smoking cigarettes to help with the stress. But the second his kids start noticing the smell on his suit is when he quits and to mask the addiction he keeps a toothpick in his mouth and/or chews on it. He has stabbed himself in the mouth more times than he could ever count but its better than the cigarettes.

Listens to every genre of music known to man. He will jam out to Frank Sinatra, Slipknot, Katy Perry, the whole nine yards.

If he wasnt a detective, he would either be in opera, specifically a tenor, (thanks @shujiaihara for this one) or a high school teacher or professor.

More so likely picked up drinking after the timeskip but not anything borderline alcoholic levels.

Likes dark colors.

Will do tea parties with his daughter, no questions asked.

Has mild road rage in traffic. (Credit to @shujiaihara for this one). Nothing extreme but he will definitely cuss you out and shake his fist at you. Its especially worse if his family is in the car with him.

Drinks coffee black.

Not a big sweet tooth. Will enjoy a muffin or cookie every once in a while but nothing like L.

He is muscular under that suit. Not anything crazy but he definitely tries to work out in his free time.

Number One Nap King. Will pass out during breaks or if its slow just from leaning back in his chair.

Grows his afro back after the Kira case is done since he has extra time to take care of it.

Is allergic to dogs. (Credit to @kiyomitakada for this one and thank you @aizawashuichi for looking!!) that if his kids want a dog he will get them a dog. It just consists of just stuffy nose and sneezing nothing death worthy

Despite his annoyance towards him, Aizawa would genuinely care and want the best for Matsuda. Babysitting privileges, perhaps? 👀

He tosses and turns most nights when trying to sleep

Despite being stressed about the case and work, he is good about not 'bringing work back home' and can seperate work and home life.

Book worm. He loves to read. Specifically imagining him after a long day and he is chilling in bed with a lamp on, reading glasses with a book open.

Going off from previous one, I feel like his sight gets worse as he gets older so he has to get reading glasses. (Does anyone else imagine this or am I crazy?)

He would like outdoor hobbies, fishing, hiking etc., to help him empty his head and clear his mind due to work.

Likes the sound of rain and thunderstorms

Despite the stress from work, he doesnt grey out early. He just has that great of genes.

Beach day? Hell yeah. Boat day? Hell yeah. He would be the one to drive the boat and would not let anyone else do it. (Despite Matsuda's relentlessly begging to do so)

Kind of involves everyone but I truly believe after the Kira case and everything goes back to mostly normal they all get together once a month for an outing with their families. They have all been through a hell lot so its only natural for them to do that. (I honestly may do a beach day headcanons for all of them)

Scotch and whiskey drinker

60s Toyota Crown as his daily

Car guy!! Aizawa would know every make and model out there to ever exist and loves working on vehicles and just learning about vehicles.

Going from the previous one, I feel like when he retires from the force he would work and restore vehicles on his spare time.

Would apologize for his outbursts

Best dad ever. He would do anything for his kids.

Can't stand fast food. Despite everything he does try to maintain a healthy diet.

In Canon he is 6'0 but honestly would be 6'3.

Intimidating as hell to any newcomers and is rough around the edges at first but comes around and is easy on the newcomers when he realizes they are serious about their job

Periodically checks in on Matsuda, especially after Light

#asprinkleoftism #death note #deathnote #shuichi aizawa #aizawa shuichi #death note headcanons #shuichi aizawa headcanons #deathnote headcanons

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occasional-yan-stuff · 1 day ago

Note

Helloooooooo! I just read your Yandere! Otome Love Interest fic and I just want to make a request (if you do take requests hehe but it’s okay if you don't) of a what-if scenario.

What if the other Otome Love Interests reader has been with (the other four aside from Caspian) would unlock their memories too? From the first timeline where Isekai’d reader married Caspian to the most recent one?

Thank you! I love this fic of yours btw 💓💓💓

This is gonna be my very first part 2! I hope you like it!

Pt. 1 here

Yandere!Meta!Otome Love interest X GN!Isekai!reader X Yandere!Recently Awakened!Otome Love interest

details: reincarnation, love triangle, reader resents yandere, this one is pretty sad (idk why I'm writing so much sad stuff lately), reader is scared of yandere, yandere spoils reader,

warnings: Isolation, captivity, kidnapping, implied physical abuse, controlling partner, restriction of access to information, murder, implied blood, knives

It was two weeks into your third life with him. Your third time stuck in this house. It was almost starting to feel normal. The second time you reincarnated after finishing all the routes, you attempted to sneak out your window and continue as normal. Alas, he was right at the end of the ally way, and he caught up to you quick before dragging you back "home". The third time, when you woke up in your current life, you simply tried to avoid the plot all together and be a normal person in this world. This only lasted a few days before Caspian tracked you down and hauled you back to the mansion.

No matter what you did, he was inevitable. That was clear from all the escape attempts you had made in your first life in his home. Even though you had faced two deaths afterward, you could still faintly see some of the scars. Caspian valued promises and hated to see you break them. This reason did not feel like justification and you were sure that you'd never forgive him. You would also never try leaving again.

It was a morning just like any other morning and a breakfast just like any other breakfast. It was a spread so immaculate that you could almost forget that you were being forced to eat it.

"you look gorgeous, beloved," Caspian purred, admiring your body in the outfit he'd picked out for you. He always picked out your outfit. He picked out many things for you, what you ate, what you wore, where you slept, but there were plenty of other little freedoms you had as well. Nice things to distract yourself from the prison your life had become.

You could choose what hobbies you picked up and while he was initially dismissive, Caspian would always get you anything you wanted to support your hobbies. You knew him well enough to know that he would always come around and be just as invested in your hobbies as you were. That was a big part of his arc in the game after all.... The game. You missed how he was in the game. His yandere ending was fun and very hot but that was a bad end. You were stuck in a bad end.

Just like in your life in the real world, you turned to escapism. You had access to any book in Caspian's library, and if you saw a new one you wanted in the paper, he would buy you a copy of that too. Unfortunately though, recently, he had stopped giving you the paper to read. It was strange. This particular morning, you decided to ask about it.

"excuse me, dear," you shifted slightly as you called him that word. It wasn't something you enjoyed doing anymore but he got in a way when you weren't as affectionate with him as he was with you, "why haven't I been getting the paper recently?"

His purple eyes became sharp and his expression was cold. He swallowed a piece of steak before putting his knife down and speaking, "I don't need the outside world poisoning my beloved's mind."

You were about to say something in response but were interrupted by a knock at the door. This was strange. This hadn't happened in the past two loops. There were only ever 3 knocks at the door, and they always came much later. You began to rise to your feet, both out of curiosity and impulse, but Caspian placed a hand on your thigh, signalling you to stay put.

He got out of his seat and left the dining room. You worried what he would do if you left your own chair without permission, so all you could do was stay put and listen. The great door of the mansion creaked open and a familiar voice drifted into your ears.

"Where are they, Cass?" Leo's voice was full of anger, frustration, and perhaps just a bit of worry.

Leo was easily the most popular boy in the game. He had the most merch, the most events, the most voice lines, and he was the guy who the heroin ended up with in the anime adaptation. The first boy most players went for, yourself included, was usually Leo, and it wasn't hard to see why.

He was kind, and chivalrous, suave, and protective, the typical shojou prince. An unbeatable formula, really. Everyone wanted to be swept off their feet at least once in their life.

"Now now, is that any way of greeting your brother?" Caspian was attempting to diffuse the situation, but you could feel the tension in the air. It wasn't working.

"Where are they?" Leo said again, becoming even angrier.

"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about."

"It's been wrong for the past two loops," the words came out through gritted teeth, "they haven't been at the castle and neither have you. They were supposed to show up two weeks ago."

The air was still for a moment. It was as if the world had gone completely silent. Even the background music that constantly followed you had cut out.

"what?" The word was so quiet you could barely hear it

"You broke everything, Caspian!" Leo raised his voice, seemingly to compensate for how quiet the other was being, "including me!"

"brother, please, I-"

"do you ever notice how de don't talk like normal siblings?" a pair of footsteps could be heard, one stepping forward, the other moving back.

"We talk like how siblings talk in books, Cass, have you ever noticed that?" the question came with an agitated sharpness.

"I suppose I never put any thought into it," he chuckled nervously. You could now see the two of them through the door way of the dining room.

"On some level, I think I understand why you did it," Leo was now backing Caspian into the dining room, "I don't like remembering the person I love marrying my best friends either." His smile looked broken. A crackling chuckle exited his lips.

"But youuu got to develop those memories, Caspian, didn't you?" His eye was twitching. He now had his brother backed up against the dining room table. His hand reached for the steak knife and your eyes snapped shut. "HOW DO YOU THINK IT FEELS TO GET THEM ALL AT ONCE?!"

There was a blood curdling scream followed by panting and a few moments of silence. You felt a wet hand touch your cheek as the smell of metal hit your nose. You slowly, hesitantly, opened your eyes. There was Leo, smiling down at you.

"Come on, lets do this the right way."

#yandere #yandere x reader #male yandere #yandere drabble #gender neutral reader #yandere imagines #part 2 #sequel #🥀rose🥀#yandere love triangle

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shedoesntevengohier · 2 days ago

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Since apparently there's a topic of vampires, I'm gonna go note down my earlier concept for turning for vampire!Vincent! (Note, this one is drawing on the book, which I have only partially read).

Vincent was turned by the doctor who helped him after the car bomb, in order to save his life - he had otherwise not been going to survive. However, in this version turning is a slow rather than more immediate process - it's started, its happening, it was able to save his life (-well, depending on if one considers vampires to be living, but), but it's going to happen over time, and it'll be a while before it gets to the point of obvious or evident.

But, the rest of their interaction proceeds as in canon - the doctor does tell Vincent about what he's found, and doesn't tell him about what else he's also done. (He does this for two reasons: first, given he's already throwing this one thing at a man who also already just nearly died, he doesn't want to add yet another thing right then. Second, he doesn't really know Vincent so well, and wants to be able to get a better idea of him before he reveals a secret with such ramifications.)

So Vincent - has his dark time, and goes to Rome, and tries to resign, and has his conversation(s) with the Holy Father, and makes plans, and thinks, and prays, and changes some plans, and is starting to come to this greater understanding and acceptance of himself.

And then, when he is back at his home, the doctor comes to talk to him. (Or possibly even he's starting to notice things, starting to not really be able to ignore noticing things, and then the doctor comes to talk to him.) And he has a whole new thing to deal with, and he's going to need to talk to the Holy Father again.

(If I remember correctly, in the book Vincent later says that the doctor who treated him was since killed. In this version that's a cover story, to keep anyone from asking more questions or looking for the doctor, to protect him both in his general (common to vampires) desire to not be known, and about this in particular.)

#conclave #conclave 2024 #conclave 2016 #vincent benitez #vampire!vincent benitez #vampires #n!f #aus #this thought brought to you by me noticing the doctor as a potentially really good point for turning #but *me* not wanting to dump both things on vincent at once #vincent benitez's past #vincent benitez's backstory #iw #how and why are wordss #brain: alright new seal of confession question: if you say you lied and are asked why and say 'bc I'm secretly a vampire'#what is supposed to happen from there

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temis-de-leon · 2 days ago

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Cleithrophobia: the fear of being trapped

Characters: Belphie x gn!reader, Mammon and Asmo

Main Masterlist

500 followers masterlist

A/N: if the ending feels rushed it's because I was running out of time and I couldn't leave it for another moment. I'm sorry.

Prompts used: Caught staring at crush + Still awake talking to crush because of nightmare

The first thing you noticed when you woke up was the suffocating air trapped inside the room.

It was dense, hot and heavy, and filled with the well-known stench of your own sweat mixed with yours and the brothers’ perfumes and colognes.

The scent of home and its familiarity would’ve been comforting otherwise, but you had a pounding headache that made every movement hurt, and right at that moment you wanted nothing but to cease existing and float on cotton candy clouds up in the sky.

Groaning and tossing around, you thought about ignoring the smell and going back to slumber. Your eyelids felt as heavy as concrete; surely it wouldn’t take too long, right?

But, sadly, as time went by and a distant clock ticked the seconds away, you soon realized how wrong you were in your assumptions. Not only did sleep evade you for what felt like hours, but your brain managed to give you enough energy and cognitive function to keep your eyes open and relentlessly stare into the darkness for that same amount of time. Slowly, your vision got used to the lack of light and started to differentiate each piece of furniture: the perennial leaves hanging over your head, the intricate designs on the Turkish rug, the worn-out corners of the shutters… Silvery thin threads of moonlight entered through the spaces between each wooden plank, and it wasn’t until then that it downed on you that someone must have closed the windows while you were asleep.

It wasn’t like you could blame any of the brothers, though.

You’d gone to bed earlier than anyone else, shivering like a new-born fawn and borderline delirious, mistaking the gargoyles and the skulls on the walls for real living creatures and believing the portraits to follow your every move. The last thing you remembered was seeing Beel’s back as he carried you to your room on his shoulder.

You understood the barrier between ventilating your room and cooling it down too much was a fragile one.

Whether you caught a fever or food intoxication from part the Devildom’s eccentric cuisine, you weren’t sure, but it seemed the worst part was already gone. Your joints didn’t ache anymore as you threw the drenched bedsheets away from you and neither did your internal organs when you sat up and placed your feet on the floor.

Thankfully, the hardwood chilled you a little bit, although it still took you a couple of minutes of deep breaths and convincing before you finally found the strength to get up.

Perhaps a walk through the empty corridors of the house could quiet your thoughts and help your body relax.

You never got any chance to do it, anyway: exploring on your own without a tall, demanding demon trailing behind; and while you appreciated your friends and their enthusiasm upon hanging out, you still appreciated your alone time. Besides, once you knew that nothing more powerful than your roommates roamed the halls, you finally found yourself able to walk around freely without fearing anything else.

And yet, your heart stopped and your breath hitched when a door creaked nearby.

Quickly, and maybe too much for your current health, your mind thought about every single brother and their possible whereabouts.

White Day was close, so Lucifer was in his office, thinking about damage prevention methods that would avoid the destruction of the entirety of RAD and its student body; you knew Levi was in his room because he had been talking non-stop about some event that took place in the middle of the night due to different time zones; and Satan had been glued to a new book series for days, so he had to be either in his room or in the library. You hadn’t seen Beel in the kitchen when you left your room, thanks to you barely eating your dinner plate and offering it to him, and Belphie wouldn’t go anywhere that didn’t have a bed in the middle of the night.

A deep sigh full of relieve escaped you when you thought about the remaining brothers.

Mammon and Asmo were the two most capable of sneaking out to go partying and coming back while everyone else was tucked in or too tired to care.

The only one that could say anything about it was Lucifer, but you really doubted he had the proper time to get mad at his younger brothers; which was probably the reason why they went out in the first place.

So, shoeless, dragging your feet to not make any type of noise, you walked towards the main entrance and waited in the darkness for them to appear.

Thankfully for your ill-intent, the fireplace was out and nothing but their supernatural nocturnal vision was there to help them see you.

Mammon entered first, showing once again how good of an older brother he was by being somewhat sober and dragging a plastered Asmo behind him. They were both wearing fashionable clothes, except Mammon’s seemed the most comfortable; as far as you could see, Asmo’s outfit was barely a bunch of intricately tied strings with strategically sewn sequins. They both smelled like candy and fruit, what you tasted each time you drank Demonus, and a bit of the Devildom’s version of tobacco.

All in all, it looked like they had a good time.

You heard Asmo mumble something before giggling uncontrollably, and Mammon shushed him softly. You could hear a smile in his tone.

A sharp pang of guilt went right past trough you, and, suddenly, you found yourself too fond of them to scare them for no good reason.

Although one could argue that scaring Mammon in the middle of the night was a good reason, but never mind.

Perhaps for another time.

“Hey guys” you whispered into the night, trying to sound soft and non-threatening.

It was useless.

A high-pitched yelp escaped Mammon, who jumped in place and let Asmo fall to the ground. The younger demon dropped like a sack of potatoes, making you wince at the noise, and barely let out a groan before slowly lifting his head and looking at his brother with teary eyes.

“That hurt a lot” he whimpered, words slurring together as he clumsily checked his face in search of injuries. Then, he looked up at you and let out a sob. “Am I still beautiful, MC?”

“You look amazing” you answered truthfully, crouching as slow as possible to not nauseate yourself again.

Asmo’s face was warm between your hands, and covered in sweat, glitter and different types of lipstick that already told the story of their night better than any of them could ever do in the morning.

“Yeah, right” chuckled Mammon, sitting on his knees right by your side and looking at the Avatar of Lust with a poor-hidden smirk. “Like a doll at an after party”

You punched his arm in response, but it obviously didn’t hurt him. He just swayed a little before sticking his tongue in your direction.

“He could look worse” he snickered, catching Asmo’s attention and making him imitate your sitting position.

“What do you mean…?” Asmo cried, frantically tracing the shape of his face. “Do I look bad?? Don’t look at me, MC!”

His wailing echoed inside the living room’s walls. You watched with pity as tears streamed down his face, destroying his makeup before landing on the sparkly skin of his exposed chest.

“Is my face broken? Of course it is! Why else would you look at me like that?”

A giggle came out of you before you could avoid it, and Mammon sighed, rolling his eyes before grabbing his brother by the armpits to lift him up.

“Shut it down, you idiot” he mumbled without malice. “You’re fine… Your skin’s just a little red in the face, that’s all”

But that just made Asmo cry harder. Mammon cringed at the loud noise before looking at you with urgency.

“I swear you look good” you reiterated, pointedly looking at his outfit with appreciation to distract him from his non-existent broken face, to no avail. “Your body looks hot and your face looks adorable. You look like a… erm… vision from another realm…?”

The sobbing subdued, and Mammon stared at you in silent stupor, eyebrows raised and mouth agape at your words.

“From another realm?” he repeated, incredulous.

“What, like I’m wrong?” you whispered in return, shrugging and frowning in confusion. “He’s from another realm. He looks good…”

“He’s asleep”

His interruption left you speechless, words disappearing in the air and hands hanging in the middle of nothing as your enumeration lost its meaning.

Sure enough, Asmo had found a secure place in his brother’s shoulder to pass out and lose consciousness. Although covered in tears, his face showed nothing but bliss, and his knees were close to giving up. If it weren’t for Mammon’s arm around his waist, the younger demon would fall hard a second time.

Giggling, you watched as he sighed again and rolled his eyes as hard as possible, bending down to move Asmo’s entire body and place it on top on both of his shoulders. Thankfully, the Avatar of Lust didn’t weight very much. Unfortunately, his mini skirt had risen up and now everything was visible.

“Not a very refine way of carrying him” you muttered between your teeth, looking away to avoid the view and give him some privacy, although a part of you suspected he’d be excited about the accidental exposure.

“Who’s gonna tell him?” Mammon shrugged, placing him better to be more comfortable. Then, he moved a hand and signalled to the hallway, inviting you to walk beside him. You pointedly chose to walk where Asmo’s head was. “What are you doing out of bed, anyway? Are you feeling better?”

You pursed your lips, unsure of what to say.

Whatever illness that left you out of commission earlier in the night had been definitely reduced, but you still felt heavy and slow, and your skin was sticky under layers of feverish sweat. And if that weren’t enough, if you moved your head too fast, your eyes would follow two seconds too late, and you felt like your brain was ignoring at least half of the signals it was receiving.

But he didn’t need to know that.

“I feel better” you said in the end, knowing he would only partially believe you.

“Whatever you say…” he chuckled humourlessly, proving your point. “You should be resting, though. You didn’t look too good”

You hummed in agreement, but something in his tone didn’t let his words get out of your head.

Still, you chose to stay silent as the both of you walked up the stairs towards Asmo’s room.

Thankfully, you didn’t feel like you were being observed by the portraits anymore, but the memories of those delusions were fresh and strong. It was the same as the suffocating air that woke you up in your bed, a non-consensual hug that left you with no sense of direction and no sense of security. Each eye was predatory and you were the prey.

By the time you all got home from RAD you were perfectly fine, but when dinner started a couple of hours later, you were quivering in fear and mumbling nonsense.

So, perhaps, ‘too good’ was just a nice way to say it.

“I’m sorry I made you guys worry” you finally whispered as he tucked Asmo in his bed.

He, without a doubt, would make a scene on the morning once he’d wake up with all that makeup and wrinkly clothes, but Mammon didn’t seem to care. Instead, he put an arm over your shoulders and guided you outside, softly closing the door after you.

Lucifer’s office light was off.

“Well, we were… But I’m glad your fine again” he said with a slightly reprimanding cadence in his voice, making quotation marks in the air.

You couldn’t help but giggle in response, feeling only a small twinge of guilt.

“I’ll go back to sleep eventually” you reassured him, hugging his waist in return as you went down the stairs again. “I just wanted to move a little, you know? Breathe some fresh air. Someone closed my windows while I was asleep and the room got too hot”

“Yeah, that was Belphie”

Huh?

“Belphie?”

“Yeah, he was worried sick about you. I mean, can you blame him? He…”

His breath hitched and he closed his mouth.

You waited for him to continue, even stopping in the middle of the stairs to catch his attention, but Mammon just grabbed your waist harder and made you walk the rest of the way.

What did he mean? What did his silence mean?

Belphie hadn’t been particularly vocal about your safety the night prior. Sure, he’d shown his concern, checking your temperature and choosing to sit by your side instead of Beel’s at the table, but he hadn’t said anything outside the ordinary.

Not like you could tell, anyway.

Wait…

Had Belphie said anything while they were having dinner? Had you been too out of it to realize?

“He what?” you asked Mammon, trying to pinch his side as annoyingly as possible.

“Ow-! Hey!”

“What happened with Belphie? Did he say something?”

“No, he didn’t!” he complained, swatting your hands away. A deep feeling of disappointment rooted deep in your heart, and you tried not to act on it, but you could notice your face twisting from the sourness. Mammon observed you with pity before talking again, looking tired and just the tiniest bit amused. “That’s the thing: he didn’t say anything. He shut down”

He waited for you to answer, or do anything in general, but you stayed still on your place, face neutral as your mind rummaged through every memory.

The brothers were very predictable when it came down to you. Lucifer was stern, caring in his way; Mammon didn’t like to show how much he worried; Levi feared something permanent would happen; Satan was the first to search for the solution; Asmo was dramatic in his affections; and Beel never wanted to leave your side for long. Belphie, though… Belphie always showed he care, but you knew he acted in compensation.

Out of everyone in the Devildom, he had been the one to hurt you the most, both physically and mentally, and while the broken bones and bruises had healed without any problem as time went by, the internal injuries had needed much more to fade away, with some even staying with you deep in your subconscious.

He had lied to you, taken advantage of your good will and your trust, and betrayed you. Laughed over your dying corpse and then acted like nothing happened while seeking your companionship.

It had taken a lot of time and deep and emotional conversations before you could even consider him a friend. Thankfully, your shared moments after that had felt more genuine and intimate, ultimately nurturing a crush on him, but you were able to tell each time he acted “extra nice” to compensate for the times he severed your trust in him.

The night before, while you were staring at your plate with poorly hidden disgust and your body swaying in nausea and paranoid fear, he’d grabbed your hand without saying anything, and you’d guessed he’d wanted to offer his presence as the ultimate comfort.

Because that’s what he did.

You knew he worried and care, but the way he showed it had a hidden meaning.

Whether it was because he still felt bad or because he wanted you to feel better about him, you didn’t know.

And thinking about it gave you a serious headache.

“Look, MC” murmured Mammon, his voice raspy in the darkness of the night. “If you’re really feeling better and you want to take a walk, then you should check on him. He was worried about you”

“Beel was worried about me” you refuted, suddenly quieter than ever. “Should I check on him too?”

“I don’t know” he crossed his arms, looking at you pointedly. A classic older brother stance “Are you in love with Beel?”

You gasped, not expecting him to say it out loud.

Of course he knew; he was your best friend! But you’d never expressed your feelings out loud. Not only weren’t you sure about them, in the sense that you didn’t know if they were a good idea, but Belphie and Mammon were brothers. Not acquaintances or friends, but demons that grew up together and lived as such. If you tampered one friendship with a love confession, would it alter the other?

“Shut up!” you groaned in a whisper, leaping to cover his mouth, but he was smiling under your hand. “Oh my God, you’re so annoying”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever…” he chuckled, stepping away to disappear in the darkness of his room. However, just before he closed the door, he turned around and looked at you with a gentle expression. “He’s in the attic. At least… try to talk to him. And if something bad happens, you call me, okay?”

Something bad.

A curious choice of words.

Still, you nodded nervously and awkwardly waved your hand.

“Good night, Mammon”

“Good night, MC”

The silence after his door closed didn’t feel as threatening as you feared, yet your heart still hammered against your ribs.

There were no monsters in the house. No danger to be afraid of. When you turned around to walk up the stairs a second time, the portraits fused with the darkness, and the skulls grins morphed into what they really were: an open jaw holding an extinguished candle. The breeze of the night coming from the open windows in the hallway caressed your skin, bringing the sweet smell of nature from outside, and you finally found yourself strong enough to speed up and even jump a couple of steps.

For the first time in the whole night, you were cold.

The sight of the attic was a comforting one, and when you pushed the metal bars to open the door and saw a breathing lump over the bed, your heartbeat sped up in trepidation.

A small movement caught your attention as you moved closer: Belphie’s tail peeking from under the blanket, swaying side to side. You pondered covering him completely before finally deciding not to; if he were uncomfortable, he would’ve solved it by now.

Slowly, trying not to wake him up, you sat on an empty space and carefully peeled the bedsheet away from his face. Half of it was buried deep into the pillow and part of his hair covered his visible eye. His mouth was open, letting out soft snores that died before turning into something too loud, and his limps were sprawled across the whole bed.

It was a miracle you had found a spot to sit on.

Moments passed relatively peacefully as you watched him in his sleep, your heart settling down rather poorly; your hands felt tingly, twitching with excitement, and your breaths were shaky and irregular.

It wasn’t until you saw his frown that you actually relaxed a little bit.

Was he having a nightmare?

Cautiously, you bent down, moving closer to inspect his face better and give a sense to his previously non-existent mumbling. With trembling fingers and holding the air inside your lungs, you pushed away the strands of hair from his face.

His eye was open.

“Holy-!”

“MC…?”

He leaped forwards just as you started falling off the bed, grabbing your hand in time to not let you hit the ground and pulling you towards him with urgency. Your bodies collided, taking the air out of each other, and you both groaned in unison as the ache travelled through your bodies and eventually faded away.

“What are you doing here?” he moaned painfully, rubbing his jaw with a wince.

At the same time, you were whining and rubbing your forehead.

Now you understood Asmo.

“I wanted to talk to you, but now I’m, like, seriously regretting it…” another groan interrupted your sentence while you curled in a ball.

Belphie sat up against the headboard, looking down at you with a frown, but he didn’t look angry or irritated.

There was an urgency in his eyes.

He was worried!

“Are you okay?” he asked, rather frantically, grabbing your shoulder to catch your attention. “Did I hurt you? How are you feeling?”

Did he think he worsened your illness? A wave of sympathy ran through you, helping you sat up beside him and pushing you to grab his hand and draw circles on his skin. He was pale, veins sticking out and begging to be traced with your finger.

You forced yourself to not do that.

“I’m better” you told him softly.

His gaze softened, immediately showing relief at your words, and you felt a sudden need to cradle his face and just… absorb him somehow.

“How are you?” you asked instead, fighting to not move an inch of your body and startle him. He lifted his eyebrows in surprised, so you continued talking. “You were having a nightmare, right? Are you okay?”

Belphie chuckled, but there was no humour in the sound. The smile he’d shown you just a second ago disappeared in a disappointed expression, and his hair once again covered his eyes as he let his head hang low.

“It was a bad memory” he shrugged, turning his hand around to hold yours. Your heartbeat jumped to your throat, and you were sure he could hear you losing your mind, but he didn’t show any signs of it. “Nothing to worry about, MC”

A couple of seconds passed in silence, and none of you moved.

“Are you sure?”

He smiled again, this time more genuinely, before sliding his body deeper into the bed and letting his head fall on your shoulder. His hair tickled your chin, but you didn’t move a muscle. The tip of his nails felt nice against the skin of your hands.

“You left the door open” he noticed, and a part of you wanted to rush and apologize, but he didn’t seem mad about it.

Again, he sounded relieved.

Something in your mind latched onto his tone.

“You closed my window” you said in return, hesitantly. “I like it better when it’s open”

He hummed, nodded lightly and let go of your hand. You didn’t even have time to feel sad about it before he grabbed your waist and pulled you to his level.

“I’ll keep it in mind for next time”

Taglist: @ilovecandys2010 @ollieoven @kingofspadesdelusion @whimsybloom @mia4gotcookiez

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