#from the dawning of the day to the drowning of the sun

[rafesapologist]

the setback ─ rafe cameron; part nine

summary: it's been two years since your departure from the outer banks and rafe cameron has seemingly convinced himself that he can go on with his life as if you never happened, except now more than ever his addiction is at an all time high. whether he was snorting lines of cocaine at wild parties or drowning himself in alcohol to numb the pain, rafe couldn't escape the memories of you. despite his efforts to bury his feelings, your absence lingered like a shadow, haunting him at every turn. meanwhile, you've been navigating life outside the outer banks, trying to carve out a new path for yourself. but no matter how far you've traveled, the memories of rafe cameron still linger in your heart, leaving you with a sense of unfinished business. as you find yourself facing new challenges and opportunities, you can't help but wonder if fate will eventually bring you back to the place where it all began.

warnings: swearing, angst, topper being topper

author's note: i listened to 'one more hour' by tame impala before writing this so do what you will with that (this is a warning in itself)

As the morning sun filtered through your shut eyelids, you groaned, trying to fend off the burning light that threatened to pull you from the depths of sleep. But despite your efforts, the persistent glow seeped through, coaxing you back to consciousness.

With a reluctant sigh, you finally succumbed to wakefulness, blinking away the haze of sleep as you reached out to check the time on your phone. But just as your fingers brushed against the familiar shape of your device, the door to your room burst open with a bang, startling you from your drowsy reverie.

"Y/n, wake up!" JJ's voice echoed through the room, filled with urgency and impatience. "You've got twenty minutes before your shift at the golf course starts!"

You blinked, momentarily disoriented by the sudden intrusion. "What?" you mumbled, rubbing the sleep from your eyes as you tried to process JJ's words.

"Your shift, remember?" JJ reminded you, his tone tinged with exasperation. "Our job at the golf course starts today, first shift remember?"

Realization dawned on you as the fog of sleep lifted from your mind, memories of your earlier conversation with JJ flooding back to you. "Right, my shift," you muttered, scrambling to sit up in bed as you shook off the remnants of sleep.

JJ stood in the doorway, arms crossed impatiently as he waited for you to get moving. "Come on, y/n, chop chop! We don't have all day," he urged, his tone bordering on frantic.

With a resigned sigh, you threw back the covers and swung your legs over the edge of the bed, forcing yourself to push through the grogginess that still clung to your limbs. "Alright, alright, I'm up," you grumbled, shooting JJ a half-hearted glare as you dragged yourself out of bed.

As you splashed cold water on your face, the sensation jolting you into wakefulness, you couldn't help but feel a sense of apprehension gnawing at the edges of your consciousness. It had been a while since you last set foot in the golf course, since you left the familiar shores of the Outer Banks behind. And now, as you prepared to return to your old stomping grounds, a wave of uncertainty washed over you like a tidal surge.

The golf course was a haven for the kooks – the privileged elite who roamed the island with an air of entitlement that bordered on arrogance. It was a world apart from the humble simplicity of life in the Outer Banks, a world where money and status reigned supreme.

You sighed, trying to shake off the lingering doubts and fears that threatened to consume you whole. You couldn't let the expectations of others dictate your life – couldn't let the judgmental glares and whispered gossip of the kooks dictate your worth.

With a determined shake of your head, you forced yourself to focus on the task at hand. You slicked back your hair, tying it into a low ponytail to keep it out of your face as you braced yourself for the day ahead. You stared at your reflection in the mirror, steeling yourself for whatever challenges lay in store.

"It's not a big deal," you whispered to yourself, the words a silent mantra of encouragement. "It's just the golf course."

With a quick brush of your teeth, you left the bathroom feeling slightly more refreshed. Hastily throwing on your tennis skirt and tank-top uniform, you wasted no time in rushing out into the kitchen, eager to ensure that JJ was ready to go.

"Hurry up, JJ!" you called out, your voice echoing through the empty hallway as you searched for your boyfriend.

Just as you were starting to worry, JJ emerged from his room with a sheepish grin, his hair still slightly tousled from sleep. "I'm ready, I'm ready!" he exclaimed, his words punctuated by a hint of breathlessness.

You couldn't help but giggle at his disheveled appearance, shaking your head in amusement at his lack of time management when it came to getting ready. "You really need to work on your timing, JJ," you teased, unable to resist poking fun at him.

JJ rolled his eyes playfully, though there was a hint of sheepishness in his expression. "Yeah, yeah, I know," he admitted with a chuckle, his tone filled with good-natured resignation. "But hey, at least we're not late, right?"

You nodded in agreement, unable to suppress a smile at JJ's infectious enthusiasm. "Yeah, I guess you're right," you replied, feeling a sense of camaraderie with the blond as you prepared to face the day together.

As you followed JJ out of the front door and towards his motorcycle parked in the front yard, you couldn't help but feel a sense of anticipation building within you. Riding on the back of JJ's motorcycle always brought a rush of adrenaline, a feeling of freedom and exhilaration that you couldn't find anywhere else.

But just as you were about to hop on behind him, JJ stopped you with a gentle hand on your shoulder. Before you could protest, he swiftly placed a helmet over your head, securing it in place with practiced ease.

You couldn't help but roll your eyes at his gesture, a playful grin tugging at the corners of your lips. JJ had always been one to prioritize safety, even if it meant being a bit overprotective at times. But deep down, you couldn't deny the warmth that flooded your heart at his show of affection and care for you.

"Thanks, Jay," you said, your voice soft with gratitude as you adjusted the helmet, ensuring that it fit snugly over your head.

JJ flashed you a grin in response, his eyes sparkling with mischief as he climbed onto the motorcycle, revving the engine to life. "Safety first, y/n," he teased, his tone lighthearted yet sincere.

You couldn't help but laugh at his antics, feeling a sense of comfort wash over you as you settled onto the back of the motorcycle, wrapping your arms around JJ's waist as he guided the bike onto the road.

As the motorcycle roared to life and JJ guided it onto the road, you couldn't help but feel a surge of nervous energy coursing through your veins. The ride to the golf course seemed to pass in a blur, each moment tinged with a sense of urgency and anticipation that made time fly by in an instant.

You attributed the quickness of the journey to your own anxiety, the nerves coiling tightly in the pit of your stomach as you braced yourself for the day ahead. But despite the whirlwind of emotions that threatened to overwhelm you, there was a small sense of relief in the feeling of the wind against your skin and the warmth of JJ's body pressed close to yours.

As you clung to him, the steady rhythm of the motorcycle beneath you provided a comforting anchor, grounding you in the present moment and soothing the turmoil that churned inside you. With each passing mile, you felt the tension in your muscles begin to ease, replaced by a sense of calm and clarity that you hadn't realized you'd been craving.

And as the golf course loomed into view, the familiar sights and sounds of the bustling establishment filling the air, you couldn't help but feel a sense of disquietude wash over you.

"If you had went any faster you probably would have killed us," you quipped as you removed the bulky helmet off of your head, "I think I have whiplash."

"Yeah, whatever boosts your ego," you replied with a playful shrug, grabbing your tote bag from the bike's satchel. "I just can't believe you managed to get us our jobs back here." Shaking your head, you turned your gaze to the ground beneath you as you and JJ approached the golf course's main entrance gate.

Your heart raced a million beats per minute as you stepped foot onto the lush Bermuda grass that covered the course. Though JJ was likely still talking to you, your attention was elsewhere, your mind consumed by the memories and emotions that flooded back at the familiar sight of the golf course.

With a heavy sigh, you hauled yourself and the looming anxiety into the locker room, determined to put away your bag and clock in for your shift. The familiar routine helped to ground you, providing a sense of structure amidst the chaos of your racing thoughts.

As you stowed your belongings and straightened up your appearance, you couldn't shake the nagging feeling of apprehension that settled like a weight in the pit of your stomach. The prospect of facing whoever would show up during your shift, especially Rafe Cameron, sent a shiver down your spine.

Summoning every ounce of courage you could muster, you pulled up your socks just above your ankles, a small gesture of determination to face whatever challenges lay ahead. With a deep breath to steady your nerves, you squared your shoulders and stepped out onto the course, ready to begin your shift.

Despite the lingering unease that gnawed at the edges of your mind, you pushed aside your fears and focused on the task at hand. You had a job to do, and you were determined to do it to the best of your ability, no matter what – even if it meant coming face to face with Rafe Cameron.

As you ventured out onto the course, the warm rays of the sun danced across your glistening skin, casting a comforting glow over the lush green landscape. The figure-eight pattern of sunlight filtered through the swaying branches of the trees, creating a mesmerizing dance of light and shadow that enveloped you as you went about your duties.

The first half of your shift passed by without much incident, the familiar routine of serving drinks and catering to the whims of the patrons keeping you busy. You dealt with your fair share of middle-aged men who were more interested in flirting with a girl half their age than actually playing golf, but you handled them with ease, deftly navigating their advances with a polite yet firm demeanor.

Despite the occasional flirtatious comment or suggestive wink, you found yourself settling into a rhythm, the tasks at hand becoming second nature as you moved from one group of patrons to the next. It was smooth sailing for the most part, and you couldn't help but feel a sense of gratitude as the hours ticked by without any mishaps or run-ins with your past to corrupt your day.

As you were in the midst of refilling the cooler of drinks, lost in your own thoughts, your boss's sudden appearance jolted you back to reality. He approached with purpose, pulling you out of your reverie as he delivered the news of a large group of young men arriving to golf for the next few hours.

The request was simple – ensure their needs were met and provide exceptional service throughout their time at the course. While you obliged with a nod of understanding, internally, you couldn't help but feel a pang of apprehension at the prospect of dealing with a rowdy group of young men.

Though you maintained a professional demeanor, the thought of catering to their demands and managing their potentially unruly behavior wasn't exactly thrilling. Nevertheless, you knew it was all part of the job, and you were determined to fulfill your duties to the best of your ability, regardless of any personal reservations.

With a resigned sigh, you set aside your misgivings and prepared yourself to meet the challenge head-on. After all, you were no stranger to handling difficult patrons, and you were confident in your ability to navigate the situation with grace and professionalism. With a reassuring nod to your boss, you returned to your tasks, steeling yourself for whatever the next few hours might bring.

As you braced yourself for the impending arrival of the group, you couldn't help but feel the need to vent to JJ before diving into what promised to be a challenging few hours. You wandered around the course, scanning the area until you spotted JJ outside, meticulously polishing golf clubs hung up on the racks.

With a sense of determination, you made your way over to him, catching him by surprise with your abrupt greeting. JJ looked up, noting the irritation in your tone, and immediately sensed that something was amiss. He set down the club he was working on and turned his full attention to you, ready to listen.

"What's wrong?" he asked, his brows furrowing with concern as he regarded you.

You sighed, feeling a weight lift off your shoulders as you prepared to unload your frustrations. "There's a group of kooks coming in soon, and I have a feeling they're going to be a handful," you explained, your voice tinged with exasperation.

JJ's expression hardened at the mention of the kooks, a flicker of annoyance crossing his features. He knew all too well the challenges that came with dealing with entitled tourists, especially those who frequented the golf course.

"Well, you know you can handle them," JJ reassured you, his tone firm yet supportive. "And if they give you any trouble, just let me know. I'll take care of it."

As you exchanged a nod and a small smile with JJ, appreciative of his offer of support, the sound of your boss's voice shattered the moment, calling out for you to head over to the other end of the course to greet the arriving group.

"Looks like duty calls," you remarked with a wry grin, casting a glance over your shoulder at JJ.

"Yeah, go handle those kooks. You got this," JJ replied, his tone laced with confidence.

Rolling your eyes playfully, you shot back, "Easy for you to say. You're not the one dealing with them."

With a chuckle, JJ waved you off. "Just remember, if they give you any trouble, you know where to find me." Nodding in agreement, you turned and began to make your way towards the other end of the course, your steps quickening with each stride.

Hurriedly making your way over to the other side of the golf course, you felt a sense of urgency creeping in as you fumbled to find your notepad. The weight of the impending interaction with the large group of customers loomed over you, fueling your determination to be prepared for whatever they might throw your way.

As you approached the group, you plastered on your best fake customer service voice, offering a warm greeting despite the mounting tension in your chest. "Good afternoon, gentlemen! Welcome to the golf course. How can I assist you today?" Your words flowed smoothly, practiced and polished, even as your gaze remained fixated on your skirt pocket, still searching for your notepad. With each passing moment, the pressure mounted, and you couldn't help but feel a twinge of frustration at your inability to locate the notepad.

The sound of a male voice broke through the tension, pulling you out of your internal turmoil. "No shot," the voice exclaimed, its familiarity causing your heart to skip a beat. "Y/N, is that you?"

Your head snapped up at the mention of your name, your eyes widening in disbelief as you locked gazes with the source of the voice. And there, standing before you, was none other than Topper. Time seemed to stand still as you took in his appearance, his blond hair tousled by the breeze, his features sharp and familiar.

For a moment, you couldn't believe your eyes. It felt as though you were either dreaming or on the brink of insanity. Topper, of all people, here at the golf course – it was a surreal sight to behold. Your heart raced in your chest as you stood there in stunned silence, unable to form words as you processed the unexpected encounter.

You stumbled over your words, the unexpected encounter catching you off guard. "Hey, Top…" you stammered, your voice trailing off as you struggled to find your footing in the conversation. Your gaze flickered to the ground, a feeble attempt to avoid further interaction with him, but deep down, you knew Topper thrived on drama.

His snarky remark pierced through the awkward silence, poking at your nerves with surgical precision. "I haven't seen your face in a while. How was your little trip to Barbados?" His words hung in the air, laced with an unmistakable edge as he watched you carefully, clearly enjoying the discomfort he was causing.

Your eyes shot up to meet his, a mix of surprise and suspicion flickering in your gaze. How did he know about your trip to Barbados? It was something you hadn't even shared with Rafe, let alone anyone else. The realization sent a shiver down your spine, a nagging sense of unease settling in the pit of your stomach as you grappled with the implications of Topper's words.

Caught off guard by the sudden interruption, you welcomed the distraction with a relieved cough, hoping to diffuse the tension that had been building between you and Topper. But before you could respond, another member of the group chimed in, his words cutting through the air like a knife.

"Wait… Holy shit, are you Rafe's ex?"

The question hung in the air, heavy with implication, as the group turned their attention to you, awaiting your response. You felt a surge of panic rise within you, unsure of how to navigate this unexpected turn of events. The truth threatened to spill from your lips, but you quickly clamped down on the impulse, your mind racing as you searched for a suitable response.

The weight of everyone's attention bore down on you, intensifying the clamminess in your palms and the heat rising to your cheeks. "Um…" you began, your voice wavering slightly as you struggled to find the right words. Your brows furrowed in concentration as you shook your head, attempting to deflect the question with a vague response. "We used to be close is all," you muttered, your tone terse as you kept your reply short and to the point.

You hoped your answer would suffice, deflecting any further inquiries about your relationship with Rafe. But deep down, you couldn't shake the feeling of unease that lingered in the air, knowing that the truth was far more complicated than you were willing to admit.

Topper's laughter cut through the air like a knife, his amusement at your response evident in the way his laughter echoed around you. But it was his next words that struck deep, like a blow to the chest.

"That's a funny way of saying you two dated until he found out you were a backstabbing bitch."

Your eyes widened in shock at the venom in his words, feeling the sting of his insult like a physical blow. The tightness in your throat threatened to suffocate you as you struggled to process the weight of his accusation. Flinching at the sincerity in his voice, you realized with a sinking feeling that Rafe must have confided in Topper about the real reason for your breakup all those years ago.

The truth of his words hit you like a ton of bricks, stirring up a whirlwind of emotions that threatened to consume you. Anger, hurt, and betrayal mingled together, leaving you feeling raw and exposed in front of Topper and the rest of the group. You swallowed hard, fighting to keep your composure as you grappled with the devastating revelation that your past had come back to haunt you in the most unexpected of ways.

"What's going on? What are you guys laughing at-" The sound of a familiar voice cut through the laughter like a knife, bringing a sudden halt to the jovial atmosphere. Your heart sank as you recognized the voice, dread pooling in the pit of your stomach. And then, as if on cue, his face came into view, confirming your worst fears.

Rafe.

Your breath caught in your throat as you locked gazes with him, feeling a wave of emotions crash over you like a tidal wave. Guilt, fear, and a deep-seated sense of apprehension washed over you, leaving you feeling exposed and vulnerable in his presence.

As Rafe's eyes scanned the scene before him, confusion flickering across his features, you braced yourself for the inevitable confrontation that was sure to follow. The weight of his gaze bore down on you, and you couldn't help but feel a sense of dread gnawing at your insides as you waited for him to speak.

You watched with bated breath as Rafe's shoulders slumped, a flicker of recognition crossing his features as he realized the source of his friends' laughter. The sight of you, on the verge of tears, must have been a stark contrast to the jovial atmosphere he had walked into.

"Rafe! Look who we ran into. Funny, right? Who would've thought she'd show her face here after what she did." Topper's snarl pierced through the tense silence, his gesture pointing towards you as if you were some spectacle to be mocked.

Rafe's expression hardened at Topper's words, a glimmer of warning in his voice as he responded, "Top, knock it off. It's all in the past."

His words were like a lifeline in the midst of the chaos, a reminder that despite the hurt and betrayal of the past, there was still a chance for redemption and forgiveness. You felt a faint flicker of hope stir within you, tempered by the uncertainty of what lay ahead. But for now, in this moment, you clung to Rafe's words as a beacon of hope in the heat of the moment.

Topper's chuckle grated on your nerves, his persistence in dredging up the past only adding fuel to the fire of your emotions. His next words cut through the air like a knife, each syllable laced with venomous intent.

"Oh, c'mon, you hated her guts right after she left. You think I forgot all those times you said she was nothing but a heartless bitch?" Topper's jab landed with precision, causing Rafe's expression to falter, his facade of composure cracking under the weight of his friend's accusations.

Rafe's gaze immediately found yours, searching for any sign of the impact Topper's words had on you. As you met his eyes, he saw the hurt reflected in your expression, a painful reminder of the wounds that had yet to heal. Guilt washed over him like a tidal wave, hitting him with the force of a truck as he realized the depth of the pain he had caused you.

In that moment, the tension between you and Rafe was palpable, a silent acknowledgment of the turmoil that lay beneath the surface. And as you held each other's gaze, the weight of the past hung heavy in the air, threatening to suffocate you both with its unresolved emotions.

Fighting back tears, you clenched your jaw, determined to maintain your composure and professionalism in front of the large group of men. With a quick nod, you shielded your emotions from the prying eyes of the boys surrounding you.

"Right. Well, if you guys need anything, I'll be over here. Enjoy your day," you replied stoically, your voice betraying none of the turmoil raging within you. Turning on your heel, you swiftly walked away, each step a silent retreat from the painful confrontation unfolding before you. Reaching a nearby golf cart, you wasted no time in packing up your belongings and drinks, your movements brisk and efficient as you prepared to escape to somewhere far away from the suffocating presence of Rafe and his friends.

"Y/N please, wait."

As you hurriedly packed up your things, a voice called out your name from behind, growing closer with each step. You recognized the voice all too well, and a wave of conflicting emotions washed over you. It was Rafe.

Despite knowing it was him, you refused to turn around and acknowledge him. You couldn't bear to face him after everything that had transpired. You knew he was probably coming over to do damage control for his friend's spitefulness, but after what Topper had said, you had heard enough.

"Go away, Rafe," you muttered, your voice tinged with hurt and frustration as you continued to focus on packing up your belongings. It came out more harshly than you intended, but you couldn't bring yourself to face him, not after the pain his friend's words had caused you.

Despite your request, you knew Rafe well enough to anticipate that he wouldn't simply leave until you faced him. His stubbornness had always been both a blessing and a curse to you.

"Y/N, look, I'm sorry about what happened back there. You know Topper, he just says things," Rafe's voice broke through the tension, his tone laced with regret and sincerity.

"So you weren't calling me a heartless bitch while I was gone?" you spat, the bitterness evident in your words as you crossed your arms defensively, turning to face Rafe abruptly. The hurt and anger simmered beneath the surface, threatening to spill over at any moment.

Rafe fell silent, his blue eyes flickering back and forth between yours as he struggled to find the right words. Eventually, he sighed, a gesture of resignation as he brought a hand to his temple in frustration.

"I'm not going to lie to you and say that I didn't," he began, his voice heavy with remorse, "and I know it was wrong. But I did it because I was hurt and angry at you for leaving, okay? I shouldn't have said it, but I did, and I'm sorry, Y/N. I didn't mean it."

His admission hung in the air, the weight of his words sinking in as you processed his apology. Despite the pain and anger that still lingered within you, you couldn't deny the sincerity in Rafe's voice. He was vulnerable in that moment, his walls crumbling as he laid bare his regrets and shortcomings.

You felt a twinge of sympathy, recognizing the turmoil that must have plagued him in the aftermath of your departure. And as you looked into his eyes, you saw the flicker of remorse mirrored in his gaze, a silent plea for forgiveness that tugged at your heartstrings.

For a moment, you hesitated, unsure of how to respond to his apology. But deep down, you knew that holding onto resentment would only prolong the pain for both of you. With a sigh, you let your arms fall to your sides, the tension easing from your stance as you met Rafe's gaze with a nod of acknowledgment.

You looked up at him, a softness in your gaze as you nodded, taking in his apology and the acceptance of his words. "We can't keep hurting each other like this, Rafe," you admitted, your voice filled with a mixture of weariness and determination.

The weight of the past hung heavy between you, a reminder of the pain and heartache that had plagued your relationship. But in that moment, you felt a glimmer of hope, a longing for a future where the wounds of the past could be healed, and where you and Rafe could find a way to move forward together.

Rafe met your gaze with a solemn nod, his expression reflecting a similar sentiment. "I know, Y/N," he replied softly, his voice tinged with regret, "I don't want to keep making the same mistakes. I want to do better, for both of us." His words resonated with you, stirring a sense of hopefulness within your heart.

As you closed your eyes, a wave of conflicting emotions washed over you, threatening to drown you in their intensity. The weight of your choices hung heavy on your shoulders, each one fraught with its own set of consequences. You couldn't help but feel torn between loyalty to JJ, your best friend, and the lingering feelings you still held for Rafe, your first love.

The thought of hurting either of them filled you with a profound sense of guilt and despair. You wished you could simply escape from it all, to tune out the world and retreat into solitude where the weight of your decisions couldn't reach you. But you knew that running away wasn't an option, not when the consequences of your actions were looming over you like a storm cloud on the horizon.

With a heavy heart, you knew that you had to face the reality of your situation head-on. No matter how much you wished for an easy way out, the truth was that there was no escaping the difficult choices that lay before you. And as you took another deep breath, steeling yourself for the challenges that lay ahead, you knew that you couldn't afford to remain passive any longer. It was time to confront the complexities of your heart and the tangled web of emotions that bound you to both JJ and Rafe, knowing that the path forward would be anything but easy.

"I still have things to figure out for now, Rafe," you confessed, your voice laced with uncertainty, "and I hope that you can be okay with that until I'm able to do so. I just... I don't want to hurt anyone else more than I've already done."

Rafe's gaze softened, his eyes reflecting a deep understanding of your dilemma. "I understand, Y/N," he replied gently, his voice a soothing presence amidst the turmoil of your emotions, "I'll respect your need for time and space. Just... know that I'll be here, whenever you're ready."

You offered him a small, grateful smile, the weight of your indecision still heavy on your heart. "Thank you, Rafe," you murmured, hoping that he could sense the depth of your gratitude and the complexity of your emotions.

As you drove across the expansive golf course, the hum of the cart's engine providing a steady backdrop to your turbulent thoughts, you couldn't help but feel a sense of unease settle over you. The weight of the choices you faced seemed to grow heavier with each passing moment, threatening to crush you beneath their burden.

You hated the complexity of the situation, the tangled web of emotions that bound you to both JJ and Rafe. It felt like no matter which path you chose, someone would end up hurt, and the thought weighed heavily on your conscience.

Memories of your past with Rafe flashed through your mind, each one a painful reminder of the bond you once shared and the feelings that still lingered beneath the surface. Despite your efforts to move on, it seemed that the past had a way of catching up to you, refusing to let you forget the love you once knew.

And yet, as you navigated the winding paths of the golf course, you knew that you couldn't afford to dwell on the past. The present demanded your attention, and the future loomed uncertain and fraught with challenges.

You spotted JJ outside the lobby building, his expression grave as he motioned for you to come over. Your heart sank as you approached, already bracing yourself for bad news.

"What's going on, Jay?" you asked, your voice tinged with worry as you crossed your arms, waiting for his response.

"Okay, so get this. Pope just called and told me they found out that Ward is trying to track John B before he can expose all of Ward's fucked up lies. Apparently, he has a hit out on him," JJ explained urgently, his words hitting you like a punch to the gut.

Your eyes widened in horror, your arms falling to your sides as you processed the gravity of the situation. The thought of John B being in danger sent a surge of fear coursing through your veins.

"Shit," you breathed, your mind racing as you tried to comprehend the direness of the situation. "We have to do something, Jay. We can't just sit back and let Ward get away with this."

JJ fell silent for a moment, his expression telling you he was hesitant to say whatever it was that he wanted to tell you. You cocked your eyebrow, waiting for him to speak but to no avail.

"Well, what is it JJ?"

"Look, I know it's a lot to ask," JJ began, his tone hesitant as he gauged your reaction. "But we really need you to spy on Rafe again. It's the only way we can find out what Ward's next move is."

You felt a surge of confliction, the memories of your previous attempts to spy on Rafe flooding back with a pang of guilt. "Spy on Rafe?" you repeated, your voice wavering with uncertainty as you processed JJ's request.

"Yeah," JJ confirmed with a solemn nod, his expression grave. "I know it's asking a lot, but we need to know what Ward's planning. Rafe might have some insight that could help us."

Your heart sank at the thought of betraying Rafe's trust once again, but you couldn't deny the urgency of the situation. "But JJ, you know what happened last time I tried to spy on him," you reminded him, your voice tinged with apprehension.

JJ's gaze softened with understanding, his tone gentle as he replied, "I know, Y/N. I'm not asking you to do this lightly. But right now, we need all the information we can get if we're going to take down Ward and keep John B safe."

You shook your head, your gaze falling to the floor, overwhelmed by JJ's request. "JJ, this is a lot to ask... I don't know if I can do this again. I feel like I'm just hurting him all over again."

"Why does it matter if he's hurt? He's Rafe Cameron, he doesn't deserve your pity," JJ countered, his voice tinged with frustration.

You looked up at JJ, a mix of emotions swirling inside you. "I know he's made mistakes, but he's still a person, JJ. I can't just use him like some pawn in a game," you insisted, your voice tinged with anguish.

"But this isn't about him, Y/N. It's about taking down Ward and keeping John B safe," JJ argued, his tone firm.

You sighed heavily, torn between loyalty to your friends and your own moral compass. "I need some time to think about it, JJ. This isn't a decision I can make lightly," you replied, your voice wavering with uncertainty.

JJ folded his arms, frustration evident on his face. "Well, let me know when you make your decision, although I thought it should be pretty easy considering John B is your friend, too," he stated firmly, his tone laced with disappointment.

You flinched at JJ's words, feeling the weight of his expectations bearing down on you. "I know, JJ. I'll... I'll figure it out," you replied, your voice barely above a whisper, unable to meet his gaze.

With that, JJ nodded stoically and turned back around to go into the building, leaving you standing there with the weight of your decision heavy on your shoulders. You took a deep breath, trying to steel yourself against the conflicting emotions swirling inside you. The gravity of the situation pressed down on you, leaving you feeling torn between loyalty to your friend and the potential consequences of betraying someone you cared about.

As you stood there, lost in your thoughts, the world seemed to blur around you, the only sound echoing in your ears being the tumultuous beating of your own heart. With each passing moment, the weight of the choice you had to make grew heavier, threatening to crush you under its burden.

But despite the overwhelming uncertainty that loomed over you, one thing remained clear – whatever decision you made would have far-reaching consequences, forever altering the course of your relationships and the trajectory of your life. And as you grappled with the weight of your choices, you couldn't help but wonder if there was any path forward that wouldn't leave you broken and alone in the end.

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[sunlessea]

FINALLY. AT LONG LAST. GODS TAG DROP. FREE ME.

[trashcanalienist]

[ladyddanger]

thinking about the events of the dsmp hundreds of years later being just a bunch of stories.

In a village nestled between tall pines children play Manberg Vs Pogtopia, the names of nations and reasons for war long forgotten as they hit each other with sticks and tackle their friends to warm summer grass.

When their mothers tuck them in that night they tell them stories of a snowy wasteland, so ancient it still holds the scars of long wars forgotten. They tell them of the wasteland’s inhabitant, the greatest warrior this world has ever seen. His name is lost to history but warriors still pray to him on the eve of battle and tie ravens feathers in their hair in his honor.

If the children misbehaved that day their mothers tell them a different story, one of a masked man who steals bad children and drowns them in the sea.

There’s a crater a few miles east of the village in the middle of the marshlands up by a glittering ocean. The crater is so deep that you can throw rocks off the edge and never hear them hit the bottom. Legend says that once upon a time the goddess of death had a son who walked this earth and when he died in her rage and grief she tore into the city that once stood there with her bare hands and ripped it from the earth leaving nothing but a crater behind.

On long sunny evenings in the inns that dot the coastline bards tell stories of a cursed city of gold and glass buried in the heart of a desert where it snows. They whisper the city is full of riches but nobody who looks for it ever comes back.

On stormy nights the Bards tell a different story, a story of a town that sits over a slumbering god. Strange things happen there. Red vines sport up over night. If you listen closely, the people say you can hear them talk. Everyone there has red eyes and cold cold hands.

If you start at dawn and ride in the opposite direction of the carter you can reach the vault before nightfall. The locals claim it used to hold a faceless god guarded by a king but time has weathered the vault’s defenses and the towns children dare each other inside its walls, running though the tight passages.

An old fairytale says if you follow a small barely visible path from the doors of a vault beyond you’ll reach a forest full of trees so overgrown they block the sun. The fairytale says if you walk to the heart of the forrest there’s a prince sleeping there, nestled in the flowers and weeds. The fairytale says his true love and his knights are long dead. The fairytale says he dreams the whole world in existence. The fairytale says a lot of things but nobody really believes it.

[themidnightcrimson]

the scarlet siren ࿏ wm

summary: in which you take a trip out to sea that you will regret.

words: 6.0k

warnings: siren!wanda, dubcon/noncon, fingering (r receiving), oral (r receiving), size kink, biting, a lot of blood, violence, fear, suspense, drowning, deep water, mentions of death, i wrote this in an irish accent for some reason, did you know i have thalassophobia?

this is a dark!fic for 18+ only. minors dni. read with discretion.

masterlist.

Fishing was competitive these days. It was a bad winter and an even worse famine, and with beef and poultry no longer in the shops, the villagers were forced to turn to the shore to fish.

Your little village was nestled on a plateau of land that stuck out into the cold sea. The shore was lined with big, black rocks that had tumbled down from the looming hills over time and landed at the water’s edge with only a thin strip of grainy brown sand between them and the water. Travelling down to the shore over all those rocks was already hard enough, but it was even harder when you had to carry your boat on your back.

People had tried to carve trails through all the rock to make the beaches more accessible, but with all the storms that the area faced, the rocks just got tussled back around and demolished any trails attempted.

In fact, it had just stormed the night before. It pissed rain and spit wind so hard that people woke up to holes in their roofs. Naturally, the beach was all torn up from it, but it would always clean itself up and go back to the way it was at some point before another storm came along. And while most people were at their cottages fixing the storm’s damage, you saw this early dawn as a prime opportunity to fish.

Fish had also been scarce recently because of all the people turning to the water for food sources, but you knew that the previous night’s storm had tussled the waters, which meant the fish were probably scurrying all around. The sun hadn’t even risen yet as you dragged your wooden boat down the rocks in the dim dawn hue, the wood scraping loudly against the rock’s hard and bumpy surface.

Managing to get down the rocks without twisting your ankle, you finally plopped down into the pebbly sand with a huff of breath, pushing your boat off your back. This was only half of your journey, though, because you weren’t even going to fish here on the beach like most people did.

Adjusting the leather strap around your neck that was holding your oars to your back, you dragged your boat through the damp sand to the rickety wooden dock that stood beside the lighthouse. The lighthouse was even more rickety, since no one bothered to upkeep it since this beach was the worst beach for ships to come in at. They almost always hit the rocks because of how deep the water dropped off from the shore and how thin the strip of sand was.

You pulled your boat to the very end of the dock and then threw the oars down in it, and then your bag of fishing gear, along with your pole. Taking a deep breath, you prepared yourself as you began pushing the single person-sized boat into the water. When it finally was fully in the water, you quickly jumped into it, causing a splash and a stressful cracking sound as you struggled for a moment to catch your balance. Finally, you sat down in the boat and let it settle before getting your oars and rowing yourself towards your destination.

There was a little cove area almost like an island to the east of the plateau of land. It was your favorite spot to fish because hardly anyone knew about it. It was barely visible from the shore even during a normal day, but it was completely out of sight on this extremely foggy, dark morning. The fog became more and more dense the further you rowed out into the water, until finally you were completely blinded.

“Fucking hell,” you murmured, reaching into your bag for your compass. The fog had completely surrounded you now to the point where you couldn’t even see the front bow of your boat. It was getting colder further into sea, too. Though the air above was tolerable, you couldn’t imagine how cold the water below felt.

The salty, wet air clogged your nose as you finally felt the cold round of metal in your hand, bringing your compass out of your bag. Sniffling from the cold air, you tried to adjust and read your compass when you suddenly heard something behind you—a voice.

Gasping, you whipped around to look behind you but only saw the thick white of fog. The voice had been shrill and steady, calling out some sort of smooth singsong noise that echoed over the water.

And then you heard it again, clear as day, right in front of you.

Snapping back around, you still could see nothing but the fog, yet the voice was still echoing all around you. It was a single note drawn out, not quite a shout or a scream, just an eerie note drawn out through the fog. Chills overcame you, but not from the cold.

Setting your compass down on the boat’s bottom, you grabbed your oars and began to quickly row towards the east. The fog seemed to be squeezing in on you now, some of it even spilling over the edge of the boat like thick smoke. Your heart was pounding—you couldn’t see where you were going, and you could still hear the voice in the back of your head. You wanted to get to the cove fast.

Suddenly, the wooden oar in your left hand stopped against something. You paused and looked over—you weren’t even able to see the paddle of the oar, only the handle you held. You tried to move the oar, but it wouldn’t budge. What could it be stuck on? Even though you couldn’t see, you knew you weren’t at the cove by now, and you were still heading east so you hadn’t drifted back to the plateau. These waters were so deep, there certainly was nothing your oar could be stuck in.

It was when something tugged your oar right out of your hand that you shrieked and jumped so hard that the boat rocked, icy water splashing onto your legs. With your left oar gone, you quickly used your right oar to haphazardly row forward, having to switch it over to the left side to keep going straight, more of the cold water splattering over you. Though you were crippled now with only one oar, you were so afraid that you rowed even faster than you normally would with two oars.

Though your arms ached, you kept rowing as fast as you could until finally the fog started to thin out. You were starting to break out of whatever thick cloud of sea fog you had been stuck in. It felt like you could breathe again when finally you pushed forward completely out of the fog, letting your tired arms go limp as you looked behind you at the cloud of fog. You searched for the silhouette of another boat but saw nothing. What the hell had grabbed your oar?

Turning back around and taking a deep breath, you swiped your forehead with the back of your wrist—now your body was so hot it was steaming in the cold air. Looking ahead, you could finally see the cove just a little ways away.

Glancing to either side of you, you saw nothing but black water. These waters were always dark, mostly because of the black rock and black mud, but it was completely opaque now. All you could see was reflections of the dim grey sky above you and your own face distorted in the lapping water. You wondered what was below it—something that now had your oar, certainly. Shaking your head to rid yourself of the paranoid thoughts, you rowed on to the cove.

The cove was a U-shaped island that looked like a fragmented piece of the plateau your village was on—all black, rocky shores with limited sand, a cluster of dark, woody trees behind it that shielded it from the nothingness of the sea. The shape of the U was wide enough that the cove water leading up to the center of land was deep enough for fish to live. It was the perfect fishing spot, especially the further one went into the cove so that the island’s rocks and trees surrounded them.

Finally, you got to your favorite spot tucked further into the U shape where you were surrounded by the island, and you rowed your boat carefully until it was finally still. You glanced around the island—it was a little spooky in the foggy, dark morning. The trees were blackened, fog stuck all in them. The big rocks were an even darker black from the wet morning, and where there was usually a strip of sand, there was only a bunch of pebbles and rocks that must have been pushed onto shore from the storm. Sometimes, you would sit on the sand and enjoy the quiet alone, but you couldn’t imagine sitting on all those rocky pebbles.

You set up your fishing pole and cast it into the black water, setting the pole against the side of the boat while you opened your fishnet and made it ready for fish. You had even brought a little breakfast along—a pathetic piece of bread with a slice of cheese. Holding the end of your pole between your feet, you relaxed against the boat and ate your bread and cheese.

It took a minute before you got your first bite, bringing up a thick, silvery fish out of the water and tossing it into your net before recasting your pole. You were able to get three fish before suddenly they just stopped biting.

“For fucks’ sake,” you cursed like a sailor, bringing up your pole out of the water to see that something had taken the worm off the hook, even though you didn’t feel a fish bite. “Greedy fuckers. I’m tryin’ to eat, too.” You took another worm from your bowl of bait and stuck it onto the hook.

And then you heard it again.

It was the same shrill voice, but this time, it sounded like an eerie, angelic song. You froze. The voice lilted, echoing through the trees of the cove. This time, it wasn’t just a single note—it was words you could barely make out, but they were there.

Voda glubokaya i golubaya..

Your breath hitched in your throat. You lifted your head, eyes wide, and slowly looked around, seeing nothing but the black faces of the rocks and trees looking back at you.

Ya smotryu na tebya svoimi krasivymi glazami.

The voice was beautiful, etching out every syllable of the foreign language like poetry. It echoed over the waters in a whisper, filling your ears like honey. You held your breath. You wanted to ask who was there, who was singing, but there was a buzzing sensation through your body like fear, but something different. It was like the voice was reaching through your ears and into your brain, its angelic fingers scratching and poking and twisting your brain around until you were in a dumb daze.

It was when you noticed something in the corner of your eye that your fear came through more prominently. The water, black and opaque, to the side of your boat was rippling with motion. It wasn’t the bubbles of a fish. It wasn’t movement from your still boat. The water rippled from one end of your boat to the other, pausing between ripples like something was swimming right there. But you couldn’t see anything.

Your lungs ached as your breathing picked up, yet you stayed completely still. You watched the water ripple around the bow of your boat, and down the other side. It was circling you, and it was entirely too large to be a fish.

Podoydi blizhe, i ya ispolnyu tvoye zhelaniye.

The voice came again, filtering through the cove’s forest, over the rocks, right into your ears. You don’t know why, but you found yourself slowly leaning over the boat’s edge, peering into the black water that rippled as something swam below it. Your vision became hazy. Your skin felt numb all over. Your heart pounded dangerously fast.

Podoydi blizhe i ya tebya potseluyu.

You barely processed the sound of something brushing the side of your boat before you felt the hard vibration of something hitting the underside of your boat, something big enough to rock it.

“Woah!” you cried out, grabbing the sides of the rocking boat. You tried to get to your feet, but something hit the underside of your boat again, and it tipped over.

You had never felt such cold. The splash of your body hitting the water, and then the water flooding your ears, deafened you like the sound of glass shattering from inside your head. It struck your entire body like lighting—pure, icy shock and arctic pain. It almost felt like your bones cracked upon impact like a frozen branch falling off a cliff.

You couldn’t move as your body sank under the freezing black water. You opened your eyes, felt the cold freeze over your eyeballs. You saw nothing at first and wondered if you were dead, or even worse, struck blind from the freezing water. When you could finally see dim light filtering through the water, as much light as the cloudy early morning could give, you realized you weren’t blind. But the water was so cold, too cold to move. You tried to move your arms and legs, but you felt stiffened, shot with pain.

As you stared into the sea of black and tried to clench your frozen muscles, you saw a shadow forming in the water beyond. You could do nothing but watch with fear as the shadow formed into an unrecognizable silhouette.

Quickly, you glanced up and could see the shadow of your boat flipped upside down on the water’s surface above you. You didn’t realize how deep down you were. Even if your body was working again, it would take a minute for you to reach your boat.

You looked back in front of you. The shadow was closer now. You attempted to flail your arms and were able to move them a little. You screamed through your closed mouth, your lungs burning for air.

The shadow came into the glare of light in the water, and your scream intensified.

It was a woman, or something like it. A woman’s head, and neck, and chest, and torso, and waist, but right where her hips stopped, something else started. Where her thighs would have been separated and covered with skin, they were welded together and covered with scales. It was some sort of a fish tail attached to where the lower half of her body should’ve been. Instead of skin and legs, she was dark red and black scales on a long tail with a finned end that gently undulated in the water to keep her floating. Her tail almost sparkled in the light. It was so dark, but you could see hints of a deep ruby color between the dark scales. Her chest was bare along with the rest of her upper body. Her hair, a dark brown with reddish tint, bowed above her head in the shape of an obsidian flame. Her arms floated beside her elegantly, and you noticed her fingertips were black.

Then there were her eyes. A deep red like the color of her tail. Too much white between the bottom curve of her pupils and her lower lashes. Darkened around the lids with some sort of black paint. Even in the darkness of the water, the red of her irises caught you. Even in the fear, there was beauty. She was haunting, and her eyes stared you down like you were her food.

A mermaid, you thought. You’d only ever heard of them when the sailors of your town made it back from faraway fishing trips. Everyone had chocked the stories up to oceanic hallucination, but now here you were, face to face with one.

And then she smiled. And her teeth were ivory white, and in the middle of where there were some human teeth, there was rows of sharp fangs like blades. Her smile was uncanny, unsettling, evil.

And then you realized she wasn’t a mermaid.

Another choked, muffled scream bellowed out from your burning chest when she darted forward. You could feel the vibrations in the water when she swished her tail in a boast of strength, her hair darting behind her as she surged forward through the water with ease. Her eyes seemed to darken.

Screaming as much as you could underwater, you suddenly found that your muscles had defrosted with your fear. You swam upwards, kicking and thrashing as much as you could, your body fatigued from the cold and the lack of oxygen. Your muscles burned and quivered as you overworked them, your lungs aching, your throat burning, vision growing dark until finally you burst above the surface, gulping down a large breath of air and several more after that.

You didn’t have much time to breathe because you became aware that the siren was still below you. Looking around, you saw that your boat had floated too far away, and the nearest place you could go was the shoreline several yards away.

Before you could make a break for the shore, you noticed how quiet everything was. The siren could have easily grabbed you by now. You tried to look into the water that splashed up on your chin, but it was still black. A soft mist came down from the bleary sky, further wetting your head.

What if she was right below your feet where they kicked obscurely in the water? What if she grabbed you and dragged you down? Just the mere thought made you start to slowly float your way towards the shore. Maybe the siren was just like a shark, and it was only sudden movement that made her attack.

You kept slowly swimming backwards, craning your head all around to get a comprehensive view of the water’s surface around you. There was nothing. No swishing of water at your feet. No ripples on the surface except the ones you caused. Not even any bubbles.

Was she gone? Had she decided you weren’t worth the trouble? Or were you just hallucinating? Maybe this was the oceanic hallucinations everyone said sailors had. Maybe all that fog had made you paranoid.

Your body was rocking with how icy the water was, though you just felt numb now. You looked behind you at the island, wondering if you could seek shelter in the trees until someone came looking for you, or maybe you could make some sort of flotation device out of something. That was silly. Your best bet would be to go back to your boat and hand-paddle your way back home.

As you turned your head back around towards the direction of your boat, you gasped and froze.

There the siren was. Only the upper half of her head was above the water. You saw her hair, much more reddish now in the light, slick to her head. Her forehead, speckled with droplets of water. Her red eyes that seemed to reflect a glare of red on the surface of the water in front of her. Beyond that, only the bridge of her nose, the end of it under the surface. She was completely still, as if she was standing on flat ground. She was only maybe two feet away from you.

“P-p-p-p,” you tried to speak, but your body was convulsing from the cold, your lips numb and blue. “Please,” you whispered in a croak. It was getting hard to breathe as the harsh cold invaded your blood. You were begging for your life because, in the haze of your hypothermia, you recognized those eyes.

You’d heard stories from the village sailors about a particular siren. You’d seen her image sketched in books. Always those red eyes, that red tail. This wasn’t a mermaid, and she wasn’t just a siren. She was the deadliest ocean creature that all the myths and legends described. She’d instilled fear in children of your parent’s and even your grandparent’s generations just through stories of her malice. She commanded every corner of the seas, and sailors who were superstitious enough always kept an eye out for her during their voyages, lest she take them down.

She wasn’t a mermaid. She wasn’t just a siren.

She was the Scarlet Siren.

Somehow, she knew you recognized her. Maybe it was the look on your face, or the way you froze. She stretched her lips open in a charming yet malicious smile. And then slowly, inch by inch, she slipped under the water.

Letting out a choked scream, you quickly turned back towards the shore and started to swim. Your heart felt like it was going to rip right out of your chest if the Scarlet Siren didn’t do it first.

When you were halfway towards the shore, thrashing the water and letting out choked breaths, you suddenly felt hands grab your ankles and yank you beneath the surface.

You thrashed under the water, your long hair coming undone and floating around your face as you watched the Scarlet Siren come closer to you. You kicked at her so hard that your shoes came off your feet, your foot hitting her tail and feeling the fishy scales there.

The Siren’s hands were climbing up your body, grabbing at your coat and pulling it off as you spiraled in the water, trying to get out of her hold. Finally, you were able to kick her tail hard enough that the force sent you popping above the surface like a fish. You were able to take one gasp of air before she pulled you right back down again.

This time, the Siren growled and nosedived towards your waist, her teeth clamping down on the fabric of your shirt. You squealed as she ripped your shirt off with her teeth, the fabric so easily tearing. The blades of her teeth had caught the skin of your belly, four long scratches bleeding through your pale skin, the blood clouding in the water. The Siren paused at the sight of your blood diffusing in the water, distracted enough for you to kick her in the face so hard that she turned downwards in the water.

You took your chance to swim, popping up through the surface and pushing yourself harder than ever. The shore was right in front of you. Your body ached and the skin of your stomach stung, but you kept going until finally your fingers touched black rock.

Coughing up water, you lifted your body onto the pebbly surface, the blood from the scratches finally able to drip down your skin, the red following the lines of water on your waist. You flopped onto your back and pulled yourself more onto the shore.

You knew it wasn’t over. The Siren’s head popped out of the water, and her hands grabbed your ankles again. You cried out and tried to kick, but she held your legs down as she lifted herself completely out of the water.

You watched the Scarlet Siren crawl over you, her strong arms planting down in the rocks on either side of your head, entrapping you. The shockingly heavy weight of her tail crushed your legs down on the rock, the smell of ocean filling your nostrils. It felt like the end of your life. You thought to yourself, as the Siren laid herself over you, that this was what rabbits felt like with dogs. This is what lambs felt like with lions. Birds with cats. Fish with fishermen. Sailors with sirens.

“Now, what’s a pretty girl like yourself doing all alone out on these waters, hmm?” Her voice was shockingly heavenly, smooth like butter and sweet like a bird’s song. It caught you off guard and somehow made you more afraid. There was also some sort of foreign accent laced in her words, somewhat Slavic. How could a monster like herself look so beautiful and sound so sweet?

You could only make incoherent noises as you watched the Siren’s tail start to morph. It ripped itself apart, and the scales sunk inwards, and the flesh shaped itself into the shape of a human woman’s legs, and pale skin etched itself over them. She was now the sight of a fully human woman, naked and lain over you, except for her razor teeth and red demonic eyes and murderous intent.

“Do you know who I am?” she asked more seriously, her eyes flickering over you. Her underwater tactics left you in only a brassiere and fisherman pants.

You were shaking from the cold, but her body felt surprisingly warm on yours. Fear had overcome you, leaving you dumb and pathetic.

“Please d-don’t kill me,” you cried, tears rushing down your cheeks.

“You didn’t answer me, detka,” she continued calmly, bringing a hand to your chin and holding it. Her skin felt inhumanly smooth. “Do you know who I am?”

Breathing heavily, you squeezed your eyes shut. “The S-Scarlet Siren.”

The Siren puckered her lips. “What a demeaning term. My scales are more maroon, don’t you think? My name is Wanda.” She paused, pressing the pad of her thumb into the dimple on your chin. “What’s your name, pretty girl?”

You didn’t answer. She trailed her hand down your stomach, smearing the blood there before she grabbed hold of your pants. Sitting back on her knees, she started to yank them down. Instinctively, you fought her, trying to kick her away.

“Stop!” you screamed loud enough that a few birds from the forest cawed and fluttered. The Siren pursed her lips and used her strength to pull your pants off, but you flopped onto your stomach like a fish and started frantically crawling away.

“Stop it, human,” she growled, grabbing the back of your thighs and dragging you back down the rocks. Using the opportunity, she ripped the last of your clothing off, your brassiere, and threw it to the side. Grabbing you by your wet hair, she turned you back onto your back and lowered down. You were face-to-face with her now, about to try and push her off until she opened her mouth.

Voda glubokaya i golubaya.

YA smotryu na tebya svoimi krasivymi glazami.

Podoydi blizhe, i ya ispolnyu tvoye zhelaniye.

Podoydi blizhe i ya tebya potseluyu.

It was the song you’d heard earlier, before your boat tipped. But as she sang it this time, that buzzing feeling within you grew stronger. Her honey-like voice lilted in your ears as she sang, and you found yourself leaning upwards. Her red eyes, glowing now, watched you tremble as you weakly lifted yourself, your own eyes growing wide as she entranced you. You were very easy for her.

Smiling through her song, she snaked her arm under your waist and easily lifted you up, pressing your bare body to hers. You were so cold against her, so feeble and weak. Your eyes trained on her lips, your irises glowing red from her magic flowing within you. She could feel your mind breaking down, letting her in, growing weaker and weaker. Finally, you closed your eyes and leaned up to kiss her. The Siren held your head with her large hand and kissed you softly, her lips smooth and slippery.

Her song was how she got her victims, but her kiss was how she trapped them. You were under her will now.

Breaking the kiss slowly, the Siren laid you gently back down on the rock. “It’s much easier when you’re calmer, detka. Now, tell me your name.”

“Y/n,” you whispered inaudibly, but the Siren’s ears were trained enough to hear you.

“Y/n,” she repeated in her lilting voice, smiling with her sharp teeth. “You’re the prettiest one I’ve ever caught, y/n.”

Her eyes raked down your limp body that she held in her arm, her free hand pressing against the bloody scratches on your tummy. She gathered some of your blood on her blackened finger and lifted it up to her mouth, sucking your blood off her long finger. Her eyes rolled to the back of her head like a reptile.

Though you felt paralyzed, there was still some consciousness left in your head. You were starting to realize that there was a reason sailors didn’t let their women on their boats, and that the reason was hovering over you.

“You’re right, beautiful girl,” she purred, “But don’t even think about those other human women. You’re the best one of them all.” Her voice had an edge of malice, and it was sickening to hear it through the sweet, complimentary tone.

Her red eyes flickered back to the scratches on your tummy, and she leaned down, letting her long, snaky tongue slither out of her mouth and onto the scratches, licking up your blood. Her breath fanned over the expanse of your stomach, covered in goosebumps. Her hands gripped either side of your ribcage as she grazed her mouth over your stomach, landing on a spot off to the side before digging her teeth into your flesh.

“Ah!” you screamed out, feeling all the blades of her teeth stab into you. She let go, revealing a bloody bite mark on your torso.

“So sweet and fresh,” she growled.

A particular wave of water came up aggressively onto the shore, rolling over her ankles and causing scales to appear before the water receded and human skin covered it again.

The Siren moved to your chest, her large hand grabbing one of your tits and squeezing while she rolled her long, thin tongue over your nipple, her siren eyes flashing up at you. You squirmed, whimpering from the pain but also from another uncontrollable emotion. You were entranced by her, under her will, and had no control over any feeling she gave you emotionally or physically.

Moving her mouth to your other breast, she sunk her teeth into the mound of flesh, causing you to cry out again. You attempted to lift your arms to fight back, but she quickly snatched them and pinned them to the sharp rocks.

Voda glubokaya i golubaya.

YA smotryu na tebya svoimi krasivymi glazami.

Podoydi blizhe, i ya ispolnyu tvoye zhelaniye.

Podoydi blizhe i ya tebya potseluyu.

She sang again, her voice filling you as she gave you more bites between each lyric, blood now dripping down your sides. You were dizzy, from the blood or the trance or the entire situation, and helpless. Your blood was smeared across the entire lower half of her face, dripping from her chin, staining her razor teeth as she grinned. It was so strange, seeing a monstrous look on such a seductive, beautiful woman.

When the Siren glided her tongue down the center of your stomach, you felt a twitch within you. When her hands gripped your hips and scratched downward, coming to grab your tender thighs and spread them open, you obliged. You felt hotter now, as if steam would start rising out of your body into the cold air. There were already billows of fog coming out of your lips with each breath.

“Such a delicate angel,” the Siren purred at you as she lowered her body down. As she settled her elbows over your thighs, her legs tucked back into the water. The waves gushed over her bottom and onto her lower back, and when it receded, she had a tail again, halfway resting in the water, the crimson fin on the very end flipping up in the water instinctively.

You were naked, bleeding on the rocks, being overtaken by a Siren, the Scarlet Siren no less, but you felt overcome with a pleasurable sensation. It was a mix between drunken and sexual as the Siren licked her tongue over your thighs.

When she had you to a point of gyrating your hips for her, she finally put her mouth over your core, sucking on your sensitive nub immediately. You cried out, grabbing onto rocks as she suckled on you, causing arousal to already slowly gush out of you.

Her tongue was long and thin and bumpy, so when she lapped it over your slit and then pushed it deep inside you, you nearly went blind. She snaked her tongue in and out of her, her hands grabbing your thighs harshly as she forced your legs open wider, moaning onto your clit. She seemed hungry, ravenous, as she devoured you, and you felt the terrifying hardness of the very edge of her teeth almost hitting your sensitive skin every once in a while. You could tell that she had done this before, and you wondered what number you were going to be in the list of women she had killed.

“Ah!” you cried out, feeling yourself coming close already. The feeling was something entirely different, and before you knew it, you were clenching around her tongue and crying out, your body arching off the rocks.

“So delicious,” the Siren hissed when she retracted her tongue, staying where she was between your legs while you panted and squirmed. “And so tight.”

Without warning, she placed four fingers in a row at your entrance. You swallowed hard, your consciousness breaking through a little to fight back by thrashing around. You tried to close your legs, but she was amazingly strong.

The Scarlet Siren opened her mouth to sing her song, and you relaxed involuntarily. You could only scream when she forced four of her fingers into you. The pain was dizzying, along with all the blood you’d lost, and you were halfway unconscious as she stretched your cunt out around her fingers, forcing you to take all four of her unnaturally long digits. Your walls resisted, but she kept thrusting, lapping up any arousal and blood along the way. She bit into your thigh, rubbed her face in the wound and curled her fingers inside you, watching you tremble and squirm dumbly.

You finally started to come to when the pain went away, pleasure taking over. The stretch felt otherworldly, her tongue flicking your clit and lapping at it, fingers pumping deep and hard into you so that it was all you could feel. Besides the gentle waves of the water near you, all you could hear was the squelching noises that she committed on you. She devoured you and fucked you eagerly, hungrily, like an animal, becoming more and more carnal the more she had of you.

When your second climax crashed over you and you convulsed uncontrollably, whimpering and screaming and thrashing, the Siren chuckled victoriously between your thighs.

When the climax left you, your body dropped limp on the rocks. Your vision went blurry, and all you could see was red eyes hovering over you staring at you, and the dark crimson of blood on her face.

“You did so good, detka,” she lilted, caressing your cheek with her soft hand. “I think I’ll keep you.”

Fortunately for you, you could feel nothing but bliss. It was the Siren’s entrancement on you that made you feel heavenly as she took hold of one of your ankles and dragged you into the water like a dead fish, swimming away into the black and taking you with her.

Your abandoned boat still floated upside down a ways off from the shore. The cloud of fog was still on the sea’s surface, crowding into the cove. The water washed away your blood from the rocks.

[loganlermanstanaccount]

Rigor Mortis (part 7)

College roommate!Miguel O'Hara x reader

(AO3 Mirror) (Wattpad) Series Masterlist, Main Masterlist,

Part 6, Part 8

summary: You spend some time with Miguel.

warnings: smut. f receiving oral, fingering, grinding, switchy behaviour from both sides, angst. 18+ Minors DNI

a/n: this chapter beat my ass icl

Thank you to my beta readers, @tianyhi and @urgonnaneedabiggership (they also write Miguel fics, I highly recommend! my favourite is this series), I couldn't have done it without you guys <3

Join my taglists here

wc: 6.3k

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

all-consuming grief,

It’s going to be a warm night. It's ushered in by the kind of dawn that bleeds red and gold, tawny and autumnal in the waning light. Like the washy colours of a Renoir, and he doesn’t even notice that he’s doing the thing he swore black-and-blue he wouldn’t. Reminiscing and romanticising; for the first time in a while, Miguel is able to see the sun set, legs splayed on the brick of his front steps. 

Sitting by worn metal railing, he’s still in his work clothes. He chucked his rucksack on the step above, leaning long legs onto the ones below. They don’t ache as much as they used to, well-trained by a couple months of running and spending more time in the gym. There’s a shake in the fridge, labelled ‘Tuesday, PM’ that he’ll gulp down before bed, and one labelled ‘Wednesday, AM’ that he’ll take before setting off in the morning. In the morning, with cloudy skies and street cars to keep him company. There’s too much pollution, light or otherwise, for him to see some stars. He hasn’t seen stars in a while, now.

Long days seem to have turned into just days somewhere along the way. He can’t quite pinpoint when, and doesn’t really care to, but he thinks his brother would call it “progress”. There’s a grimace on his face as he thinks about it; a word that tastes like mud and feels like swirling cement in his mouth. It’s all bullshit, really. Gabi’s paltry attempt at therapising him, one which he would usually nip in the bud - taking metaphorical shears to slash at weeds and dense conversation. Catch-up calls about how he feels, how he’s doing – when he’s fine, he always is – as if Gabi is waiting for a shoe to drop. 

He’s waiting for Miguel to have an epiphany, a breakdown the size of a collapsing star. It’s not coming, he keeps telling his brother, and the sooner the younger O’Hara realises – without the wide eyes and the pity – the better for the both of them. After all, Gabriel is his baby brother, and he’s spent his whole life worrying on his behalf: playing hide-and-seek in little closets and putting back together broken toys. Trying to drown out the sound of shouting and broken plates. They’re too old for all that, the worrying and gulping back tears, walking its well-travelled paths – and it doesn’t feel right that Gabi should do the same for him.

He sighs, deep and heavy and rolling down that quiet street. After what feels like forever, he’s tempted to lie down, to rest his head on the stone, close his eyes and think of something else. Of someone else - lots of someones, at this point in the day. He’s not the weepy type, but he is tired; shaking off the wear and tear, and fighting off sleep. 

Then he sees it; a figure walking towards him, all sandals and khaki shorts and smiles. Mr Estevez, donned in his year-round attire of a polo shirt, a little tight around the middle, and cargos cut off below the knee – finally appropriate, considering the weather. He’s strolling closer like he’s got all the time in the world. If Miguel wasn’t so exhausted; the bone-deep kind, the kind that seeps into skin and lines a casket; he would’ve been annoyed. Instead, he hisses, furrows quickly deepening. 

“Buenas, Miguelito!” Mr Estevez beams, scratching at scraggly facial hair. 

Miguel frowns, but greets him nonetheless: that politeness drilled into him during childhood rearing its head.

“Buenas tardes, tío.” He grits his teeth as he gets up from his seat, creaky joints and all.

His landlord, the building’s handyman, owner of half a dozen shops all over the city, and Miguel’s uncle-that’s-not-really-his-uncle; Mr Estevez wears many hats, staying bright and informal regardless. He’s known the older man since he was 6, so he can’t be too disappointed; his tío has been late for weddings, funerals, and his little boy’s birth – it’s not much of a surprise that he’d be late now, too. Miguel stretches out a rough palm, and the man stops just shy of his hand, completely ignoring it. Before he knows it, Miguelito is engulfed in a great big bear hug, with wet kisses pressed to the apples of his cheeks. He doesn’t know where to put his hands, as usual, so they hang limply; arms flailing to his sides like a t-rex.

They separate, and he coughs at the great big hand that slaps his back. Grumbling, he walks up to the door, bag over his back, and stands expectantly. Mr Estevez doesn’t follow, instead dusting himself down to sit on the steps.

“I just need to get into the building.” Miguel starts. “Forgot my keys, and I've been here for hours. M’tired, and I–”

“Let’s sit, Miguel.” He scoots over, making space. “Look at the stars.”

It’s clear the older man isn’t moving. Begrudgingly, he obliges.  “We’re in the middle of the city. You only see “stars” in the river – beer bottles and tinned crap reflecting the lights.” 

“Language.” He gets a sharp nudge to his ribs.

“Discúlpame, tío.”

They stew for a moment, bathing in the silence that follows. The man besides him is the first to speak.

“I spoke to your mother.”

He’s scoffing and moving to get up, before feeling a firm hand on his shoulder.

“She’s worried, Miguel. Says you haven’t called in a while.”

“She hasn’t called me either."

“She’s stubborn.” The man besides him chuckles, bringing gentle eyes to meet his own. "Pig-headed. Remind you of someone?"

Miguel rolls his eyes, he just can't help it. 

"She’s also the one that moved back home, so either way–”

"You know it's all been hard on her." 

" –on her? It's been hard for her, surrounded by family, after she abandoned me? A-After…" His voice gets dangerously hoarse, threatening to crack under the weight of those words. 

He can't stand the pitiful look sent his way: brows drawn, lips pressed into a thin line.

"Sorry. It's… It's nothing. I'm fine. Just fine."

"I didn't ask if you were fine, Miguel."

–even though you're definitely not okay. That part is left unsaid, spat onto the pavement like bitter backwash. 

Mr Estévez sighs, ruffling a hand through Miguel's hair. It makes him hiss and dart away from the hand, pouting like he's a little kid again. He doesn't like it; the way he feels like all this life he's lived has been for naught. Trials and tribulations, and yet he doesn't feel that ache of growth; still stuck in the shoes of an awkward teenager. 

"You think too much, Miguelito. Always have." He smiles, the kind that deepens the wrinkles around his mouth. It twists Miguel into knots, mouth dry as he tries to untangle himself from that feeling. "I'm worried about you, kid."

He sniffs, eyes trained towards the pavement. There it is again, worry; complicating and unravelling what was meant to be just another day. 

"It's today, isn't it?" 

All Miguel does is nod, shakily. It's been 2 years since his heart was ripped out of his chest. It heaves now, an erratic rise and fall he’s doing his best to control. Breathe, deeply and calmly; try not to think about his little girl in that hospital bed, and those blank eyes staring back. 

“M’fine.” It comes out more desperate than he intends it, and he curses under his breath. If Mr Estevez hears the crude language, he doesn’t react.

Miguel is tense, hunched over the bag on his lap and curled into himself like prey – spitting and prickly and clearly uncomfortable. He’s never been the weepy kind, but the older man can’t help but think it’s a shame; so much love, and nowhere to keep it but inside. Miguel's bottled it up; the memories of precious Gabriella, all that warmth she brought out in her father; and he's turned them to poison pills to keep himself sick. 

Miguel would never admit it, of course. He’s too stubborn. Pig-headed.

His tío sighs, moving to get up. He groans, in that dramatic sort of way he knows Miguel can’t stand, but still, there's a rush to help him up. Producing the door keys with a flourish, he pulls from the depths of cargo pockets, and unlocks the main door. Ushering in the younger man, who has grown so tall he needs to duck as he climbs the narrow stairs, there’s a finger prodded into the back of that cotton button-up.

“Miguel?” He starts, revving up a conversation he’s been meaning to have for a while now.

“Hmm?” 

They both wait by the entrance of the apartment. The keys jingle in Mr Estevez’s hand.

“If I open the door, will I find out that you’ve driven away another one of my tenants?”

Conveniently, there seems to be a rather interesting spot in the hardwood that Miguel pokes with a dress shoe. 

“...depends on your definition of 'driven out', tío.”

“That’s the third one this year! Not even 2 months– I knew there was something up. Not a single one of those little smiley faces to my messages, and–"

“I’ll make up for his side of the rent, you know I will.”

“I don’t like it. You should be saving up, to go get a house and settle down somewhere."

“I like living here, and I’ve said multiple times I’d pay the extra to live alone–”

“And then what? You rot in your room for the rest of your life?”

“I don’t– rot feels a little–”

“Nonsense. You’re lonely, Miguelito. If you don’t like it, you move out.”

They both know he won’t. It’s not really an option; the apartment is affordable and he likes living so close to his old neighbourhood, his old haunts. It’s like he’s tethered to that place with a bungee cord wrapped under his ribs, always snapping back.

“No promises, tío.”

“Doesn’t matter, Miguelito.” He sighs, scratching at stubble. “It’s been hard to find other tenants, with half the neighbourhood drying up. But as soon as I do–”

He points an accusatory finger at Miguel, and the sentence is finished for him.

“...best behaviour, I know.”

“Best behaviour.” Mr Estevez repeats, and starts to fumble with the keys. He throws a little comment over his shoulder. “I liked your lady friend, ages ago… the scary one, with the blue hair. She was–”

“Xina’s not scary, when you get to know her.”

“She was funny. Very pretty. Always paid rent on time, gave me food when I came to fix the heating…”

“It's out again, by the way.” Miguel chews his lip, with a strange expression. “And yeah, she was.”

The door swings open. Mr Estevez doesn’t let him off the hook, though, engulfing him in a warm hug. This time, in the doorway of his apartment, eyes screwed shut; he doesn’t try to wriggle out of it, melting into his tío’s arms. It feels different now that he’s not a kid: angry and hurting with a different sort of ache, but he leans into it, all the same.

~~~

There's a pressure released from the apartment, lately. Miguel feels… well, first of all, he feels ; thinks with his heart and not his head, sometimes. It's lighter, coming home with that weight on his shoulders and with someone there to distract him from it. Living life, he thinks, for the first time in a while. Vivid and vibrant and awake ; relishing the autumnal weather. It's always been his favourite season, despite how childish he thinks having a favourite season is; something you had asked him on a whim one morning. 

Normally, he wouldn't entertain it, and with all the shit Pete spews, sometimes, he's had plenty of practice ignoring it. A well-timed dirty look, and then he'd get his head down and work; occupy himself with something less frivolous. But when you say it, with half a piece of toast sticking out of your mouth, it doesn't feel like a chore to answer. It doesn't feel like a stupid question, and he finds his face growing warm at the thought of you caring about these little things – wanting to know him , however that comes. 

And so, his answer is Autumn. It's a little stilted; but catching him off guard after a run will do that to him. It's purely practical , he says, eyes tracing the slopes of your body in that shirt and shorts that stops at your thighs; high enough that he feels like a perv for looking. Autumn has temperate, even weather. Perfect for sweaters and hoodies. Warm enough that you don't need a jacket. Just right. You snort, nudging him. Bullshit, Mig. You flutter your eyelashes mockingly, your tone light. You just think it's the prettiest. 

And he hums, catching you off guard. You're both drawn towards that little window over the sink, the one that overlooks a fire escape and the street. He's had that view for three years, now. Sleeves always rolled to his elbows as he does his washing up, but never quite looking. The street just below is framed in its windowpane, quite the pretty picture. Crisp leaves scattered on the sidewalk, carpeted in red and honeyed amber. And he can feel it from the other side of the glass; smell it, touch it, taste it. Autumn: hot chocolate and giggles, the crunch of leaves underfoot, and cupping tiny palms to warm them up. Sunsets seen for the first time, watched through bus windows on the way back from school – he misses those the most. 

"You don't think it's beautiful?" You say, leaning your head towards the half-open window. 

You don't notice, but he looks over to you, swallowing roughly. He says it with a small voice.

"I…I do."

You're darting to the bathroom not too long after, breaking the spell. Frustrated, he resists the urge to curl up into a ball and scream into his palms. He's got what he wanted; a good fuck, a pretty face, a warm smile. Friends, at the most, who happen to get the other off after a long day. A welcome distraction, at the least. He's got what his body has been telling him he needs for the past few months. It makes him feel weird, so oddly settled; but, all things considered… 

Miguel is doing okay.

“...and I wouldn’t normally ask, but I swear , I left him…o-on read and he won’t stop texting me.”

Really, actually; he’s doing fine.

“It feels weird– mmffuck– but I can’t ignore him any longer.”

Maybe even… good. Better than okay.

“I still have a bunch of my stuff over there. At least half of it is clothes and books, a-and I’ve put it off for as long as I can…”

He hums in response, pulling quiet curses from you, above. Pressing the flat of his tongue onto your clit, your hips jump up and he purrs ; rearing up to dive even deeper into your pussy. Too quick for him, you catch on, hand in his hair to pull him up.

Sitting up on your haunches, he rests his head on your bare thigh – licking the taste of you off of his lips.

You tilt your head, looking at him with those eyes he can’t help but marvel at. A beat passes. 

“...so?” You start, expectantly. “Will you help me or not?”

His response comes in the form of teeth nipping at pillowy skin. You yelp, and swat him away whilst he chuckles.

“I’m serious , Mig. It’s too much to pick up by myself. And you’re the only person I know with a car…”

“ Ouch, hermosa. ” He frowns as you peter off. “Is that the only reason you’re fucking me? For my car?”

“If I say it’s because of your sparkling personality, will you help me?”

For a moment, it seems like he’s got his brows pressed together like he’s seriously considering it, but it ends up being just smoke and mirrors. He’s pretending , biding his time to hook a hand under your legs and force you to lie down onto the bed. Your head hits the covers with a gentle thump as he hikes up the lip of that big tee even further; squeezing your thighs around his head like earmuffs. 

It’s when he makes eye-contact, tongue circling your hole, that you realised you’re fucked. Up until now, he’s been toying with you – playing with his food, so to speak – lazily swirling his tongue around your clit and pressing buttons to see exactly where to push. And you'd welcomed it, a hand in his hair as you talked about your day – which he'd asked for, of course. 

Now, he's insatiable, eating you out like a man starved; all tongue and wet kisses to your swollen bud. You're slightly raised up on his shoulders, clamping around his tongue as he fucks into you fervently. Big palms spread you wider, and he hums into it, content.

"So pretty ," He sets you down, pupils blown as he studies the way your back arches and the way your legs shudder in the sheets. He slides upwards, sitting next to you, tracing a hand across the gentle curve of stomach that peeks out from your big t-shirt. 

Still coming down from your high, you're only just able to register it: he looks mesmerised, a dopey smile plastered on his face. 

"What?" You scoff when a moment passes, and his hand inches closer towards your lower lips. 

"M'just looking." He shrugs, with a little smile on his face. "I'm not allowed to look?" 

You scoff, but you're still shaky so it comes out a little more pathetic than you intend. Nevertheless, you start to sit up but he stops you with a gentle hand at your chest. 

"Call him." He says, pressing two fingers to your clit and then down to your gushing slit. 

Maybe it's the way he hunches over you, eyes flicking towards your lips, or the way he slips those fingers in; but your eyes go wide, and you're choking on your next words. 

"Call… Call who?" Playing dumb, dancing on a razor's edge, and Miguel only quirks up an eyebrow at the stupid question. 

"You know who." He says it low, smooth and dulcet as he curls his fingers at that sweet spot, experimenting. "I'll help you, fine. But I want you to call your ex, too. Let him know when to expect us. Is that okay, sweetheart ?" 

That last word comes with a twang, the lilting tone of what sounds like mockery. He twists the knife, nudging the flat of his palm onto your clit – still tender and throbbing from your last orgasm. 

Before you change your mind, you pick up the phone laid face down on the bedside table, pressing shaky fingers to its screen. You don't dare to look up, knowing Miguel is watching; dark eyes studying your every move. 

Flicking his wrist this way and that, he swallows roughly as your fingers stutter on the screen. Not completely satisfied, he still has the time to look smug, settling into a comfortable pace. Finally, your phone rings with a tell-tale dial tone. It rings once. It rings twice, and–

"Hello? " The voice is muffled as it says your name. Put it on speaker, Miguel mouths and you oblige.

"Hey, J-Jamie." The phone is shaky in your hands, so you lay it out next to you on the bed. 

"It's late, baby." You don't have time to be annoyed at his tone – or the unwarranted pet name – because Miguel speeds up, pumping in and out of you with a little more force. 

"I… I know. S-Sorry." You clamp down the moans that threaten to erupt, rocking your hips in time with the thrusts. 

Head lolling back into the sheets, you spend a good ten seconds in oblivious bliss, until Jamie breaks the silence. 

"You've been ignoring me for ages, baby… and then you call out of the blue. What is it?" He's tired, it sounds like. Irritated for sure. 

"Just w-wanted to–" Miguel presses his thumb to your clit and you jump. Once back down to earth he has to prompt you to answer. "-my stuff! Fuck , I just want to pick up my stuff."

"...now?" 

Tomorrow. Miguel mouths. 

"Tomorrow. " You repeat, wrapping a hand around his forearm to slow him down. It's too much, too fast; and he has the audacity to add another finger, scissoring out to stretch your cunt. 

"O-kay. " He clicks his tongue, with some things rustling in the background. "Okay. You're acting weird, but..."

You're conflicted. His tone makes you melt, reaching for your phone to answer when Miguel snakes a hand under your shirt, palming your tits. To your surprise, he presses shaky kisses to the skin, rolling around your nipple with the flat of his tongue. You keen, clamping a hand around your mouth to stop the noises that spill out. 

"...we still need to talk about what happened. About how we left things." 

Anger flares up at your chest; hot at the sheer gall. He wants to talk? Now, when you had been met with a brick wall of silence; begging and begging for even a simple explanation? 

What made it sting even more was that even after the breakup, everything happened on Jamie's terms. He broke up with you, providing little warning. He completely ghosted you, refusing to answer countless calls and messages. And now, he wants to talk; to make himself feel better and wank off his own ego, no doubt. It's not bitterness that makes you press Miguel closer, to revel in the pleasure that he gives you, you convince yourself. It's for you ; finally, unabashedly, just for you. 

You don't bother to answer, hanging up the call with a click. Tugging at his hair, you pull him off with a wet pop; slick-soaked fingers slipping out of your cunt.

He cradles your chin, angling you upwards. 

"You okay? Too much?" It barely registers; you're too focused on the tangle of curls framing his face, and the rosy pout of messy lips. 

You shake your head, writhing against the sheets. 

"More." You move his hand over to rest between your legs. "Please, Miguel."

His eyes flutter, tongue darting out to wet his lips. 

“Eyes on me, baby.” 

He says it with sobering clarity, bolstered by just how precisely he slots against your bare pussy. You can feel it, the full length of his cock; pressed up against you as he slips it out of his sweats. Head spinning, it slaps onto your stomach. Your eyes practically bulge out of their sockets. Oh fuck. He's big. 

"Just like that." He coos, spitting into his palm and pumping his cock. “Wanna see how pretty you look when I make you cum.”

~~~

When tomorrow comes, you’re still sore from the litany of bruises and hickeys littered. It’s a Saturday, and you’re up bright and early. Well, Miguel is up bright and early, clattering around in the kitchen as you wake up. 

He seems energised, mug of coffee in hand whilst you rub the sleep from your eyes.  You waltz into the kitchen through the open doorway, morning breath and all. 

"Morning," You say, soft and giggly at the way he jumps ten feet in the air, too wrapped up in himself to notice at first. 

"Morning." He breathes, melting when he sees you in the shirt he had picked out for you last night. He shakes himself out of it. "Hungry? I can make something."

"No, no. M'good." You sidle up to the counter, head clocked at the fancy machine on the heavy slab. There's a question on the tip of your tongue, one you roll between your teeth. "Could I have some coffee? I mean… could you show me how?" 

Where you expect laughter, mockery, or surprise that you've lived here for months and can't figure out the coffee machine; he nods, patient and calm. You ask him more questions; curious with every flick of a switch, and the way he lights up when talking about it. To your surprise, you want to know more – anyway that comes. 

He's talking about expensive beans, and his favourite roasts – and a place across town that sells the exact kind he likes, but it's too fucking gentrified for him to go there more than two or three times a year. That makes you giggle: his little pout, the press of brow; and he looks up in surprise before joining you in light laughter. 

You finish, pouring cream into his special mug with a flourish, and he steals a sip before you can. You elbow him away, angling for that stolen taste. When you do, it is deep and rich; sweet in a way that reminds you of Miguel, grounded and balanced and silky. In short, it's the perfect cup of coffee. More than content, you hum. 

"Is it good?" He asks because he's already making mental notes, planning to greet you with a hot flask of the stuff in the mornings – if it means he gets that smile, of course. 

"Very." Fervently you nod, lips curved to the ceramic as you blow; and Miguel is trying really hard not to stare. Maybe it's the fact that he's seen you in a way not everyone gets to; pretty and vulnerable and writhing on the tip of his cock; but it has him fending off vivid daydreams. Your lips wrapped around his length, his hand pressing you further down, feeling that warmth as you choke on his–

He blinks and you're gone, padding off to your room with that mug of coffee. You return not too long after, phone in hand and tapping away at the screen. Miguel ignores the way it makes him feel, having your attention and then losing it just as quickly. Like a kicked puppy, he resists the urge to beg for more – of your time, of your attention – turning away to clean up instead. 

"I spoke to Jamie," You start, leaning with your back to the counter as he rolls up the sleeves of a comfy sweater. "He said he'll be around later in the evening, after his shift. Around 10. Is that okay?" 

He shrugs, not caring either way. You're a friend, and he's helping you because that's what friends do. He can still taste you on his lips, but it doesn't mean anything. Not in a way you'd want, anyways. 

"Sure." He doesn't turn around, stealing glances at the open window whilst he clatters around. "I've got a session later on anyways."

He catches a flash of something on your face, and you're pushing it away; prickly and uncomfortable. In his defence, he's stopped bringing people over for faux chemistry tutoring and there's less banging coming from across the wall. Less , but not completely gone, because you've learnt he has a penchant for dropping shit and cursing like someone's Dad. 

But you can't help but think about Sarah , and Jia …. and how close he would get to Sita on the dining table. Fuck . 

You're sighing now, tracing the curve of his jaw as he settles in front of the window: jaw set, arms crossed, and distant. He does that sometimes, goes off somewhere else – all teeth and claws. Tense, brows drawn up in a way that makes you want to smooth them out.  

You put your phone down and mug away, sliding across linoleum to gently nudge his shoulder with your own. 

"Are we…" He starts, and you track his line of sight to a quiet street below. He hums, without looking away. "Are we good?" 

It makes you turn. You blink, as if out of all the nonsense you bicker about daily, that was the most ridiculous. Good? Good? Of course we are, of course we always will be. How could we be anything else? You shut it down before it spills out of your mouth, overzealous and desperate. 

He clarifies with a nervous cough. "Last night. Was it… good?" 

His frown deepens, and you wonder if it's just you that hears it in his tone. His real question, the one that makes you splinter and creak like a felled oak tree: Was I good? Am I good enough?

"Yeah. " You say it like the most obvious thing in the world – and to you, it is. For all his flaws; assholery and its trimmings aside; Miguel has never been a bad lay. You don't even think he has it in him; he couldn't half-ass it if he tried.

"It was–" Fucking amazing . The kind of thing you'll fuck yourself to for the foreseeable future. Cathartic and breath-taking and hot . All of the above. 

Miguel finishes your sentence with something a little less… horny. "It was a lot, wasn't it? I wasn't really thinking, how uncomfortable it could be for you, and–" 

Gently, you laugh and cut him off. "I've been having mediocre sex for basically the whole of my adult life, Mig. This is… exciting and new. I like it, I really do."

Exciting and new. It brings him crashing back down to earth. You're enjoying the way he makes you feel, the thrill . Not… him. Not really, anyways. That pang of disappointment feels different, for some reason. He's never liked the song and dance of flirting, but he cherishes its rewards: of being wanted, and someone wanting him . So that fiery flame of need; deep and heady; is unfamiliar under his skin. 

"We can slow down, if you'd like." You bring a hand to his arm, warm and gentle. "I don't mind. We can go back to just messing around on the couch…."

You've got a cheeky smile when you say it; a vague memory of a different time, when you had gotten a little too comfortable on the sofa, leading to hands stuffed in trousers and pressed up against one another. Quick and desperate, you had wanted to see him fall apart; like he did your first night together, and the next, and the next. 

He gets closer, sandwiching you between the counter and his body. With a gentle hand, he strokes your hip, bunching up the fabric to get a peek of thigh.

“What do you like?” He’s deadly serious, red-brown eyes searching your face for something he can’t quite place. And just like that, the air is thick with tension. All you can manage is a limp shrug. 

“I don’t know, really.” It comes out as a croak , as you’re much too occupied with the shrinking gap between you both. “I haven’t done the things you’ve done.”

You’re making assumptions, of course. Filling in the gaps of what you’ve learnt in the past few months; of alleged threesomes and a laundry list of women at his feet. He’s an asshole; pretty and gruff and sarcastic; but God , he knows how to touch you just right.

“I could show you.” He slots a knee between your thighs and your head spins. “Make you feel good. ”

Before you can think, you’re nodding; chewing at your lip to bite back moans when he rucks up your shirt. He nudges your legs apart, both hands on your waist as he slots himself between them. You can feel it; quickly hardening, loose underneath sweats. Miguel slides wide palms to your ass, kneading its globes. With one hand, he picks up your leg by the thigh, and snakes the other to your pussy. Bare, because you’re trying to kill him, of course, and he groans at the feeling of his hand at your cunt; already wet and pliant for him. 

After a few wet taps to your hole, obscene, he slips himself out and you heave; pussy fluttering at just the thought of him inside you. Gathering up your slick on his palm, Miguel pumps his weeping cock, pressing its tip to your hole. 

"Still sore, Miguel." You hiss, looking down at where you both meet with the prettiest pout he thinks he's ever seen. 

It has you clawing at his back for purchase as he finally sinks in, stretching you out in that wonderful way he did last night. Except this time, he's slow and careful; steeling himself with shaky breaths. 

"Oh, fuck. " He settles in about halfway, stopping to hike up your leg just a bit higher. "Want me to make you feel better?" 

He says it breathless and crooning, forehead comes to rest on yours. With that other hand flat on the counter, you're lifted up to only toes on the floor, and he angles himself to buck up; filling you deep, and cock sliding past that sweet spot inside. He sets a pace, grinding into you, rather than fucking. If last night was dirty ; taboo, quick and primal; then this morning feels different. Intimate and reverent, he rolls his hips perfectly ; sending flashes of that first night down your spine. 

With the moans that spill out of your mouth, it takes all of Miguel's willpower not to swallow them in a kiss. Impossibly close, he traces up your thigh with a large palm; eventually pressing into the small of your back. Arching into him, your lips barely brush together, and you're both panting into open mouths; drunk on pleasure. 

"Miguel." There's a warning somewhere in your tone; underneath the layers of lust, you remind him of your previous agreement. 

"I… I know. " He swallows, nose pressed to yours, eyes screwed shut. He thinks if he opens them, he might spill into you right then and there. 

He's trying, he really is, tracing your cheek with his nose and mouthing at your neck – light kisses against the skin. He smells like coffee, bittersweet and heady, and you groan, rocking into him in a way that rubs up against your clit – before finding an ounce of restraint and putting a hand to his neck. 

You apply a little pressure, intending to push him away, but he likes it: eyes fluttering open, and mouth curved into a little O. It's a pretty sight that has you drooling, tits pressed against him as he practically purrs . And so, you pull him closer; nails dancing underneath his shirt, whispering filth into the shell of his ear. You're close, grinding into him like the push and pull of waves, merely waiting for the crescendo of orgasm to take you out to sea. 

"I'm close, Miguel." All he can do is hum, pulling you closer. "Fuck, I feel so good. You make me feel so good."

"Yeah? " He asks, needy in a way you haven't quite seen before. 

"M'gonna cum," You nod. "...because of you, baby. You did good. So good. Shit, ohh –g-god–" 

You clamp down on him, gushing around him with shaky legs. And Miguel is good; patient as he watches you fuck yourself through the aftermath. When it finally slows, he slips out with an obscene squelch clamping a hand to the base of his cock and leaning heavily on the counter. 

"It's okay," As if on cue, you kneel in front of him as best you can, tugging down your shirt to expose collarbone and the swell of tits. 

Miguel growls, grunting as he splatters thick cum across your chest, pumping his poor cock through it. 

He wouldn't have lasted a second longer, not with that smile across your face; smug as you swipe fingers across your chest and lick up the mess he's made. 

He's sighing, tucking himself back into gray sweats and pulling you up with a hand in yours; grumbling as you absentmindedly follow him to the sofa. 

You're leaning back onto the arm of the tattered material, and he settles to sit so your legs lay in his lap. He's frowning, again, and it makes you giggle, still licking up what's left on your fingers. 

He rolls his eyes, tapping a spot on your chin. A fat glob of his cum, dripping from your jaw to your neck. You miss it on the first swipe, and he gets impatient on the second, grabbing your hands and clambering over you. He drags the flat of his tongue to your skin, licking it up for you – and your eyes go wide. That… that felt good. 

You giggle at the sensation, so attuned to your roommate that you can hear it: his eyes clattering into the back of his skull, as he rolls his eyes a second time. 

"Is that okay?" He says it into the skin, pausing over a particularly tender spot. "Not too far?" 

"Feels nice, Mig." You sigh, content. Sun streams in on a lazy morning, and you're sore in the kind of way that feels good; fucked out and blissful. 

You lean into it, and then he sucks , teeth clashing onto the skin as he gives you a hickey and the juncture of your jaw. You wriggle, and he pins you down with one big hand holding down your arm, nipping and kissing and soothing it with a flash of tongue. This time he smiles, wrapping around your middle, tugging down your shirt to decorate your chest with hickeys. You play with his hair, wrapping soft curls between your fingers. 

You spend a little too long like that; curved into him, spines moulded to the shape of each other. It feels nicer than either of you would care to admit; the pretense of sex wrapped around you both like a thin veil. Before he leaves, Miguel indulges himself just this once; head on your chest and sinking into those arms wrapped around him. You smell like coffee and sweat and Autumn, somehow. He presses kisses wherever he can reach, for a bit longer. 

Miguel is okay. He's doing just fine. 

_

_

-

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[mynameis-noe-body]

marquis de gramont fic

Y/n is sweet and kind and isn't part of Vincent world, but he fell for her anyway and although he's ruthless he has a soft spot for her as she's his wife. A fic of him killing someone and she accidentally sees and get scared and he comforts and cuddles her.

Thank you for the request! I found myself immediately inspired and I wrote it as soon as I could.

I am working on the other requests, too! It will just take a little time :) 🖤

Safe in his arms

Marquis Vincent Bisset De Gramont × you (F)

Rating: Teen & Up Audience

Status: Complete (one shot)

The first time he had seen you, truly seen you, was at the Louvre. On a January morning, when Paris was still cold and tormented by a wind blowing from the north, when the fog rose in the city's parks and around its splendid monuments, bathing everything in an intense white, you had waited for hours on those stairs, with your arms crossed, looking at one single work of art. At first Vincent didn't give it much importance. But when the crowd thinned out, around noon, knowing that soon the guests would arrive at his private event — yet another official HighTable lunch right there in Paris — and seeing you still there, fascinated, he approached.

"Madmoiselle, I am sorry. These rooms have been reserved for a private event. You should leave" he had said, coldly.

But you, you smiled. And your smile was sweet. "Can I just ask you for a minute? One minute, and I'll be gone. I've never seen her like this." You looked up dreamily at Nike — that marble statue at the top of the steps, as proud and silent as you'd ever seen it. “She is just so beautiful” you had commented under your breath, as if not to break that spell. "They deprived her of her arms, of her very face. They tore her to pieces. Yet no one has ever managed to take away of her wings."

Vincent, enchanted by your words, so simple and so true, lost himself in your face. His gaze filled with you for the first time. He watched you go, nodding at you when you wished him a good day, and he followed you with wondering eyes until he saw you disappear. He didn't know it yet, but you would haunt his days and his nights from now on.

He looked for you. He had his men search for you until he could find you. Your subsequent encounters must have seemed casual; a casual meeting in the park during your walk, a chat over a coffee, you even met in the library.

You laughed about it. “It almost feels like fate.”

Vincent nodded. Fate, sure.

He wooed you with expensive gifts, luxurious dinners, evenings at the theater, visits to the most prestigious private art collections — but you weren't as impressed as he expected.

“How can I make you happy, mon amour?” he asked you.

"I don't want your money, Vincent, only you."

And so, one spring evening, you found yourselves simply walking through the streets of Montmartre, laughing and chatting amiably, holding hands, exchanging a few kisses without realizing that the night had already passed; at dawn, on the steps of the cathedral, it was just the two of you, two hot cappuccinos and two croissants, watching the sun rise from the east, illuminating a new day.

Soon after, he asked you to marry him. And you said yes.

There was only one small problem. You knew nothing about him.

▪️▪️▪️

You were beautiful. Naked in his bed after yet another night of love, entwined with the ivory silk pillow, your cheeks slightly flushed and your lips so sweet, so languid. Vincent stroked your hair, watching you sleep. You had the power to unleash in him a tenderness that had long been buried, forgotten and drowned in an ocean of violence. There was nothing he loved more than taking care of you, spending hours listening to your stories so simple and yet full of emotions; he was surprised at how you were able to find beauty in the most mundane things. There was no art that compared to the perfect curves of your body in his hands, against his lips, kissed by his mouth, worshiped by his limbs. There was nothing he wanted more, at the end of a day, than to soak in your immense bathtub with you — a glass of champagne, a tray of mini pastries, macarons and fine chocolates, essential oils and perfumes in the warm water and his hand gently caressing your breast, listening to your heartbeat — before carrying you to bed and falling asleep in your arms.

You were his most precious jewel. And because of this, his biggest fear was losing you forever.

Yes, in his world you were a weakness. Vincent had taken every precaution to keep you away from the monsters that lurked in the shadows of his life, but on the other hand it was inevitable that sooner or later the Great Table would learn of your existence. With this, the problems had begun. Vincent was a powerful man and a powerful man always had enemies. Indeed, the more power he had, the greater the number of his nemeses.

House Bisset De Gramont was a peaceful, safe place, far from danger. Immersed in the Provençal countryside, surrounded as far as the eye can see by lilac fields of fragrant lavender, kissed by the sun, it was one of your favorite places to spend long summer weeks. You knew that Vincent was a Marquis, that his family had been extremely wealthy, and that his business took him all over the world... and nothing else. You enjoyed your holidays with a carefreeness that he envied. Vincent watched you tan by the pool, read your favorite novels lying on the green grass of his gardens, paint the spectacle of lavender swaying in the wind, and hoped that nothing would ever affect your happiness.

But that morning, that morning...

There was a knock on your bedroom door. Yet they knew — his men had been well instructed about it and it was forbidden for anyone to come near your bedroom! What the hell were they doing?

Quickly, he stood up and put on a robe, stomping out of the bedroom with frozen anger in his eyes. "What the fuck are you doing? What made you think you could—"

"Monsieur — Marquis. Please listen" one of them interrupted. "We have the man."

The man. Vincent took a deep breath. The son of a bitch who followed you. He had noticed that black sedan since your departure from Paris a week earlier. He was sure it was a hitman sent for you, the easiest target, most disarmed in the face of the capabilities of his enemies. Some had understood that if they wanted to destroy the Marquis De Gramont, they would have to destroy you first. You, who were his strength and purpose in life. His one true love.

Many had tried, that man was just one of many.

Vincent growled, grabbing his helper by the collar of his shirt. "You separated me from my wife at seven in the morning, on a Sunday, for yet another son of a bitch? At least tell me it was worth it!"

"He's here, sir, we thought you would—"

"He is here?!"

They carried him forward. Two other men had tied the hitman with tight ties around his wrists and legs, blindfolded him and were now dragging him forward, holding him by his arms.

Vincent was inflamed with terrible anger. "Don't you ever dare bring one of them into my house again! My wife - my woman, she's in the next room sleeping and you bring one of these worms into my house!" the Marquis grabbed the knife from his man's pocket. "Kill them and get rid of them! This is my order!" and with a mechanical gesture of the wrist, making it seem so simple, he threw the blade and it pierced the assassin's neck. He gasped for just a second. Blood ran down his wounded throat and, now dead, he collapsed in the arms of his captors. It was only when a trickle of blood reached the white marble floor that, with a short, anguished breath, you attracted attention. And with terror in his eyes Vincent turned away.

You had just woken up, you were wearing his shirt, you had walked silently barefoot to the ajar door. And you had seen it all. You had covered your mouth with the palm of your hand, but this was nothing compared to the terror you felt when you saw the blood. The death. A murder. Your Vincent, your sweet, caring husband, who had just killed a man. Stepping back, trembling, you risked fainting. You suddenly felt pale, weak, powerless, completely disconcerted. Cold shivers ran through every fiber of your body. But before you could fall to the floor, Vincent had rushed to catch you. Lifting you into his arms, he had carried you back to bed.

"It's okay, mon amour" he whispered, kissing your forehead. You were shaking and crying. "No one will hurt you, you are safe with me, ma chéri."

You pointed to the door, now closed. "That man — I saw, oh God, I saw that man! You killed him! Vincent, my God, oh no. No, no — you killed a man!"

He shook his head. The more you trembled, the tighter he held you against his chest. "He was an evil man and he would have hurt you if you had let him live. He had been paid for this, my love, for you."

"Me?" you exclaimed, horrified. Your face twisted into a grimace of disgust and terror. "What have I done wrong in this life to deserve death?!"

Vincent chuckled. It was really fun. “Oh dear, you married me.”

You tried to move away from him, to squirm, to slip away from his embrace, but despite managing to slide against the other end of the bed Vincent took your hand, your wrist, and dragged you towards him again. Laying back on the sheets, he held you down with his entire body. "I am a very powerful man. And powerful men must protect themselves, and protect those they love." He caressed your face wet with tears. He found them so innocent.

You stammered, still shocked at the sight of that blood, that death, that ruthlessness. "Then we should hide!"

Vincent laughed even harder. "There's no hiding from this! It will always be a part of me, darling. But I can assure you of one thing. If there is a safe place for you in this world, then this is right here, by my side." He kissed your forehead, your cheeks, your neck. He hugged you, rocking you gently.

" I love you" he whispered, "and I live for you. I am willing to kill — to die, if necessary, for you. I ask only that you continue to love me as you always have. I am still me, always your Vincent. You can do this for me, mon amour?"

He left the ghost of a kiss on your lips, and covered you both with the sheets, stroking your hair to help you fall asleep again. Before closing your eyes, answering his question, you nodded softly. "I love you, Vicent."

He smiled.

[highvern]

Drunk Goggles (Heart Eyes) II [morning after]

Pairing: Kim Mingyu x reader

Genre: fluff, idiots in love

Warnings: tooth rotting fluff, friends to lovers, confessions, hand holding and smooches

Length: ~1k

Note: Sequel to Drunk Goggles ! its short but i will probably keep updating/editing it because im a perfectionist and never happy with any of my writing. I have two more drafts for them that I'm editing right now and then I'll probably focus on something new! In other news, Mingyu makes me wanna slut him out put a ring on his finger so bad

When morning comes, you wake to the soft light of dawn gently illuminating your bedroom and a nasty headache. You brave opening your eyes to search for Mingyu, easily locating his large form as he lays on his back on the other side of the bed. Flailing across the short distance between you, you burrow down into his chest and throw a leg over his hips to steal some of his heat against the morning chill. Finger tips trace gentle circles against the smooth skin of his tummy, letting you enjoying the rise and fall of his chest.

Like you were thrown in an ice bath, everything from last night comes racing forward. You remember it all. How you both stayed within a foot radius of one another all night, clinging to each other in the sweltering heat of the club. All the brushes of lips against skin, becoming more and more daring as the night dragged on. Worst of all, right before you passed out, how you whispered all your feelings into his shoulder and sealed them with a kiss.

Today. You think. You need to talk to Mingyu today.

But as he continues to snore quietly above you, you're lulled back to sleep and away from the ocean of nerves that threatens to drown you.

-

The second time you wake is to a hand gently carding through your hair, carefully working away the tangles from tossing and turning through the night. Another hand is tracing the ridges and valleys of your knuckles on your hand laid across his sternum. With a deep inhale, you stretch against Mingyu to let him know you're awake, yawning as you blink against the sun.

"Sorry," He croaks. "didn't mean to wake you."

"It's fine," you assure, voice still thick with sleep.

“We should talk.” He sighs 

“Okay.” You whisper.

“I–,” Mingyu starts, the pep talk he gave himself for the past thirty minutes dissolving on his tongue. He swallows in an attempt to get his nerve back but you beat him to the punch.

“Ireallylikeyou.”

The silence is deafening. 

You both knew. Painfully aware of your own feelings as well as each other's. The issue time and time again wasn’t the lack of knowledge of how the other felt but the dread that if you said something and it didn’t work out you’d lose each other forever. But after last night neither of you care to keep up the charade. Mingyu wants to call you his girlfriend, take you to dinner with his family, hold your hand in public and parade you around for everyone to see how lucky he is. And you're in the same exact boat. You want to tell anyone who will listen about how amazing he is, not just as Mingyu your friend but as Mingyu your boyfriend; let him be the first person you see in the morning and last at night; let all the fantasies that play in a loop in your head become a reality.

“I like you too.” He finally breathes, weight lifted off his shoulders. 

It's fascinating how such life altering confessions don't change anything as much as you think it will. For months, you thought that the day you both confessed would make the world start spinning in reverse or the sun would fall out of the sky. But the room is as calm as it was before you shared your thoughts. Sheets ruffling gently to the swirl of the overhead fan droning above you. Outside, cars bustle on the street while the family of birds living in the tree next to your window sing their morning hymn. If you strain your ears then you can hear your downstairs neighbors returning from their morning walk with their yappy dog. Today is like every other Saturday morning but nothing like them at the same time.

“Yeah?” You smile, unable to look at him just yet. Instead you turn your face into his pec, trying to contain the giddiness bubbling under your skin like sea foam.

“Yeah.” Mingyu responds, sighing in relief. He wraps his arms around you snuggly, holding you close while his heart drums wildly in his chest.

When Mingyu decides to rest his lips against your hair, you giggle like a schoolgirl. It can’t be helped. You just confessed to Mingyu like you were two sixteen year olds and it makes you giddy. He likes you. 

“What’s so funny?”

“You like me.” You sing, smile blinding.

Your head is turning towards Mingyu’s, catching the way his eyes crinkle and mouth twists in delight. He’s laughing as well, flustered by the morning’s developments.

“You like me too!” Mingyu accuses.

“I know.” Your face softens as you lose your breath. "Isn't it great?"

“So," he starts, suddenly bashful under your gaze. "Does this mean I can count breakfast today as our first date?”

God, he’s so cute it hurts.

“You absolutely can.” 

The smiles threatening to split both of your faces in half make kissing difficult but you figure it out pretty quickly.

-

When you arrive at the entrance of the farmers market hours later, Ms. Kwon observes you and Mingyu as you stroll to her booth. She notes the way your hands are tangled together, faces bright red, sneaking shy glances at each other. Interesting, she thinks.

Testing the waters, she asks if your boyfriend is going to buy the usual bouquet of wildflowers he gets you every Saturday. You don’t rebuke her use of the word "boyfriend" this time, instead sharing a small yes. When Mingyu responds with an even more ridiculously happy expression than the one he strode in with, she hides a knowing smile. Mr. Lee, who sells fresh pastries further down the market, owes her dinner.

[suashii]

୨♡୧ TREAT YOU BETTER — bakugo x reader. sfw. hurt/comfort. fluff.

jumping to conclusions and making assumptions without all the facts is rash, you know, but you’re starting to think you’ve been stood up. what else does it mean when your date is fifteen minutes late and has left three of your texts unanswered?

a flurry of emotions whirls around inside of you as the realization dawns on you; embarrassment, anger, sadness. the last one pisses you off even more because you shouldn’t be sad. that poor excuse of a potential boyfriend certainly didn’t care about you, so why should you place any weight on his actions? if anything, you dodged a bullet.

that’s the logical, rational way of thinking, but ignoring the pang in your heart is harder than you think. you can’t help but get caught up by the wave of disappointment that washes over you. the plastic straw between your teeth is almost chewed beyond recognition as you contemplate whether you want to swallow your pride and stay to eat alone or admit defeat and just pay for your lemonade.

on the other side of the window, where city lights gleam as the sun begins to dip below the horizon, bakugo is walking home from patrol. his eyes wander, taking in the scenery with each of his steps. it’s by chance that his gaze turns to the very restaurant you’re in, and even more of a coincidence that he notices you with the way your cheek is smooshed against your hand.

he had planned on going straight home after finishing up for the day but the mere sight of you has him making a detour to join you inside.

you’re just about to consider flagging down a waiter when a commotion erupts at the entrance. if it had been ten minutes ago when you were still eager about your date, you would have turned around to see what everyone was clamoring over. instead, you sigh, hoping that it won’t be too long until you see someone who can give you your bill.

you squeeze your eyes shut in an attempt to drown out the noise but your effort is for nothing as patrons and staff alike continue to animatedly “ooh” and “aah” at the person’s arrival. the cherry on top of your already forming headache comes in the form of a chair scraping across the floor; much too close for it to be anywhere other than your table.

thinking it’s your overdue date by what has grown to be twenty minutes, a bitter protest bubbles up in your throat—something about how he’s already wasted enough of your time and you don’t have any more to spend on him. although, it dies on your tongue when you open your eyes and see a familiar head of sandy blonde hair and a set of piercing scarlet eyes. you breathe out a breath you didn’t know you were holding upon seeing the man across from you.

“someone’s awfully dressed up to eat unaccompanied,” bakugo starts, propping his elbow up on the table to replicate yours. he takes in your outfit; more formal than anything you’d usually wear but less than what he recalls you putting together for any of the UA dances when the two of you attended. if he had to guess, bakugo would conclude that he interrupted a date.

“yeah, well, i wasn’t supposed to be here alone,” you tell him, flicking your straw.

you’re dressed for the occasion, that much is sure, but something about your air is off to bakugo. he watches quietly as you aimlessly play with your straw. your eyes are turned down, like if you look up and meet his, he’ll see something you’re trying to hide. it clicks only a second later and the lax expression bakugo’s wearing is traded in for a frown. “your date didn’t come?”

“nope,” you pop the p and give your straw one final flick before pushing the glass away and sitting back in your chair. now that the cat’s out of the bag, you finally find the courage to look the man in the eyes. it’s strange, you think, that all of those negative emotions that you were drowning in only a moment ago don’t feel as suffocating now. the only thing that’s changed since is bakugo’s presence. you can’t put your finger on it, but him simply being here has made you feel a little better.

“asshole,” bakugo mumbles under his breath, though it’s loud enough that you can hear it. it almost makes you smile.

bakugo crosses his arms. he had originally come in to poke fun at you and maybe get a look at the guy you had come with but he’s glad that he missed the punk, and for more reasons than one. he’s sure that if he saw him now, his name would be making headlines for assaulting a civilian. although, somehow the thought of seeing him with you happy and joking—having a good time is even worse to katsuki. 

there’s an itchy feeling in the back of bakugo’s throat as he thinks about why that is. it’s something he’s known for a while, at least since the two of you graduated, but something he has yet to confront; at least with you. he’s acknowledged these feelings that venture beyond friendliness himself, though, and he finds this part a bit pathetic, he hasn’t come clean about them to you.

maybe that’s because he isn’t as courageous as he paints himself out to be or maybe it’s because there’s a little piece of him that feels as though he isn’t good enough for you. but his glimpse of how poorly you were treated tonight is all it takes to convince him that he could do so much better, and you deserve as much.

with a newfound resolve, bakugo clears his throat. “have you looked at the menu?”

your eyes flit to the menu at the center of the table before that dart back up to your companion’s face. he doesn’t look upset like he had earlier on your behalf. you had scanned over the menu a few times during the delay but instead of saying so, you ask, “why?”

“because, i’m going to give you the date that prick couldn’t.”

whether it’s the declaration itself or the person it’s coming from, you aren’t sure, but your heart skips a beat with katsuki’s words. it’s a gesture you can’t see him doing for many others and that fact alone warms your cheeks. still, you can’t be positive that he meant in a romantic sense, the way you had taken it. as embarrassing as it is to ask, you’d rather be on the same page than get your hopes up over a chummy attempt at cheering you up. “um, like a date as friends or…”

“an actual date,” katsuki clarifies. he can’t quite tell if your eyes are widened in pleasant surprise or partial horror. the last thing he wants to do is make you uncomfortable, even if that means humiliating himself. so he adds, “if you’re okay with that.”

for the first time since you sat down, a genuine smile pulls at your lips. you were sure this night wouldn’t turn around but you’re starting to think this is a better outcome than you could have hoped for. because, unbeknownst to katsuki, each of your failed dates have been placeholders for the one you’ve truly wanted—him.

“yeah,” you nod, “i’m okay with that.”

thanks for reading! consider commenting or reblogging if you enjoyed ❤︎

[hopepetal]

Hi!

So @applestruda and I have been working on a little thing for the boatem knights au. I hope you enjoy this next arc of the story as much as we do.

You can find the masterlist of the previous bkau fic here, and I will be posting this on ao3 as well.

Reblogs and comments are much appreciated :)

Impulse was painfully, bitterly, human. Just a normal guy, with normal hair and normal eyes and friends that were anything but. Even Mumbo, who he'd thought to be his one human companion, turned out to be something different. Something special.

When it had finally been revealed to the knights that Mumbo was, in fact, a shapeshifter, no one was really surprised. With the amount of non-humans in the group, and magically gifted ones besides, it was only a matter of time before Mumbo revealed that he was obviously, not human.

While they were all joking around and laughing over Mumbo's newly revealed ability, Scar had turned to Impulse with that friendly smile of his and asked, “So, when are you gonna reveal your super secret backstory to us, Impulse?”

Impulse had laughed off the pang of bitterness and guilt combined (and how stupid was that, feeling guilty over the fact that he didn't have a special ability or secret backstory to reveal?) and shook his head. “Nah,” he had responded with a shrug, “I'm just a guy. Just Impulse.”

Just a guy. Just Impulse. 

Simple words that had become a mantra over the past few days, lingering in the back of Impulse's mind. A whispered chant, just audible enough to catch his attention but hardly loud enough to deserve a shushing. They were an apt description of what he was– of who he was, of course, and Impulse knew that. He had known that all his life, and, up until this point, had convinced himself that he was fine with that.

(He never had been ‘fine’ with it in the first place. It’s why he trained from dawn till dusk for years, honing his strength and skills. He couldn’t fly, couldn’t breathe underwater, couldn’t withstand a fiery blaze, and most certainly couldn’t teleport. But he was smart, and he was strong, and that was enough. Wasn’t it?)

Mumbo was good with redstone, too. He was a genius, even. What with his constant inventions and how he thought outside of the traditional redstone conventions, and the way he brushed off any compliments with a wave and a soft, “It’s quite simple, really.” 

Impulse’s mother had told him that everyone was special. That they were all made up of stardust and the love of the universe. It was an old wive’s tale, but it had been comforting. 

Now, surrounded by shapeshifters and avians and magical beings, Impulse was wondering if the universe forgot to give him a little stardust.

The sun had just begun to rise, bathing the world in its golden light, as Impulse got dressed and headed out to the makeshift training area to work on his swordplay. It wasn’t long before he was hacking away at one of the many training dummies the knights had made together in an effort to “work on their arts and crafts skills”, going through the familiar motions of a swordfight. 

Just a guy. Just Impulse. 

He’d always wondered what it was like to fly. To dive deep into the ocean, without fear of drowning. To never feel the terrible pain of burns, or to get to where you wanted to be instantly.

Just a guy. Just Impulse. 

It wasn’t like being a human was bad. Not at all! Being human was great! He didn’t have to worry about getting hurt by the rain, or his wings being targeted in battle, or, void forbid, being hunted for sport. He could do so much as a human! 

But it wasn’t enough. Not anymore.

Just a guy.

Sweat dripped down the back of his neck as he continued fighting, his breaths coming in short pants. In his mind’s eye, the training dummy was an enemy, and it was his job to defeat it. Slicing and stabbing and slashing, Impulse went back and forth in a dance all his own, in a battle that held no weight on the future. 

Just–

“Impulse?”

Pulled from his reverie, Impulse stumbled to a rather clumsy halt, his sword arm falling to his side as he looked over for who called his name. Standing at the edge of the arena was Pearl, leaning against the little wooden fence that surrounded it. She wore a bright smile as always, but something akin to concern shone in her eyes, barely hidden.

“Huh?” Impulse got out, before blinking and shaking his head. “Sorry, Pearl, I uh– I didn’t see you there. Were you calling me?” His muscles were aching, and he was absolutely drenched in sweat. Just how long had he been training for?

Pearl nodded. “Yeah, mate. You were fighting that dummy with the intention to kill, huh?” she joked, gesturing to the very much falling apart training dummy. She continued, “You were training for a while. Lost in your own world, were ya?”

Impulse glanced up at the sky, internally wincing at how high the sun had climbed without him noticing. “Yeahhh…” He laughed, scratching the back of his neck. “Kinda got caught up in my own thoughts, y’know.” He looked over at the training dummy. “Uh… sorry, mister dummy,” he apologized awkwardly, which Pearl found hilarious judging by her soft laughter. 

“You should come get some breakfast and wash up,” Pearl advised, “I’m heading to the village in a bit to pick up some stuff– do you wanna come with?”

Impulse shrugged, before walking over to where Pearl was and hopping the fence. “Sounds like fun, and I don’t have anything else planned.” 

Pearl grinned, and gave Impulse a fistbump. “Great! I’ll go get the horses ready, if you wanna go eat and change real quick?”

“Will do!” Impulse gave her an over the top salute. “Thanks, Pearl!” 

He began to head back to his tent at a slow jog, and decided that maybe it was best if he ignored that soft voice in his head. His friends were incredibly perceptive, and the last thing that he wanted was for them to get all worried about him and start asking questions. 

Would they judge you? Call you jealous? 

Maybe. And maybe Impulse was jealous, at least a little. Did that make him a bad person? For wishing he could be more than what he was? For hoping that he had some chance at standing on the same level as his friends?

Impulse tried to shake those thoughts out of his head as he quickly scarfed down some breakfast and changed out of his sweat-soaked training clothes. Pearl had just finished with getting the horses ready by the time Impulse returned, and greeted him with a smile. “Ready to go?”

Impulse returned her grin as he mounted his horse. “You know it. Road trip time!” 

The trip to the village was a short but pleasant ride through the forest, on a well-worn path the knights had traveled many times. Impulse and Pearl made idle conversation as they rode, Pearl mentioning that she wanted to stop by a couple of shops and the library. They arrived at the village after about thirty minutes and dismounted, tying their horses reins to the hitching post before grabbing their bags and walking into the village.

Impulse had been here before, of course, but visits had been rare recently with… well, everything that had happened. It was nice to get back out and just walk through the village, without any life-threatening or world-ending danger looming over their heads. And as a bonus, he got to hang out with Pearl, which he always enjoyed. 

They went through the shops one by one, Pearl picking up supplies and things they had run out of. Eventually, they were finished, and Pearl pulled Impulse rather excitedly toward the library. He didn’t blame her– he was the exact same way around candy shops. Everyone needed a place that they were excited to go to, in his opinion. 

The librarian– a woman with messy black hair– looked up from behind the counter and greeted them with a nod, before going back to reading her book. Impulse caught a glimpse of the name tag that was pinned to her shirt, the name ‘Evelyn’ written in neat cursive. 

Pearl led Impulse into a room full of bookshelves and, of course, books. “I’m going to go look for some books,” she whispered to him, “you can go off and see if there’s anything that catches your eye.”

Impulse nodded. “Alright. See you in a bit,” he whispered back, and watched Pearl disappear into the maze of bookshelves. 

Looking around, Impulse began to wander. The library was well stocked with literature on nearly every subject he could think of, with golden labels on the end of every bookshelf to indicate what the books in that particular section were about. He found himself walking past the shelves that normally would’ve had his attention– books about redstone and industry ignored as he gazed at the shelves. 

Finally, a particular bookshelf caught his eye. The label told him that the books here were about all things supernatural, and with a shrug, he began to walk through the aisle. Most books seemed to be rather thick, scholarly texts, which made sense given the topic. A couple books drew his attention– an old book with a faded purple cover and block letters that spelled out Evolution in all capitals, a book on curses, and a book that probably had been misplaced, given its title– The Legend of Theseus. The mythology shelf was right next to the supernatural one, so Impulse took the book and brought it back to where it was hopefully supposed to be. 

Once the book was back in the mythology section– next to a very old book with a cracked spine and strange symbols on the cover– Impulse headed back to the supernatural section, glancing over the titles with relative disinterest until a particular book caught his eye. He bent down and carefully took it from the shelf, instinctively brushing off the cover and flipping it open to the cover page. Skimming the summary of the book, Impulse found himself nodding along to the words.

He closed the book and glanced around. Pearl was nowhere to be seen, so he likely still had some time. Tucking the book under his arm, Impulse walked back to the main room of the library, placing the book on the counter. He cleared his throat awkwardly, and Evelyn looked up from her book. “I’d like to check this out, please.” 

Evelyn took the book, looking at the spine and writing down something on the sheet in front of her. “An’ what’s your name, sir?” she asked, not looking up from the sheet. 

Impulse blinked. “Ah– uh, Impulse.”

Evelyn wrote his name down, before setting her red feather pen down and handing him the book. “Alright, sir. If you’d please return this by the end of next month, and no writin’ or rippin’ any pages out unless you wanna pay for it.”

Impulse took the book and placed it in his bag with a thank you, just as Pearl returned with her collection of books. She gave him a smile, which Impulse returned– albeit a little nervously. 

As they were walking out of the library, Pearl asked Impulse if he had seen anything he liked. Impulse answered with a shrug and a shake of his head. “Nah. I’m not much of a reader.”

Something must’ve spooked the horses while they were gone, as Impulse’s horse was clearly nervous when they returned. He calmed the horse down with a bit of petting and a treat Pearl had bought for their horses before mounting up and beginning the journey back home.

It was a little past noon when they returned, and they were greeted by Scar and a barely awake Grian. Mumbo was busy working on something, but he soon ran over to say hi and help with the supplies and horses. 

The rest of the day went by as normally as it could– it was a calm day for the most part, the only “mishap” being Grian stealing Mumbo’s rocket launcher as revenge for drawing a mustache on him while he slept. They all ate dinner together as they usually did, and after, Impulse left to go to his tent.

Finally alone and in the quiet, Impulse took the book out from his bag, brushing his fingers over the title. 

The Art of Summoning - Demons. 

He opened the book.

Obviously, a book given out at a library wasn’t about to teach him how to summon a demon– void knows he didn’t want to do that, anyway– but Impulse had always been fascinated by demons. He had been told a lot of stories as a child, which probably was the reason for his interest, but there was also… something else. He had been drawn– pulled to this book, almost. As if by magic, or something. 

…some demons can grant their summoner a wish– whether it be super strength, speed, or even flight, there have been records of people making a contract with a demon for their own benefit. When asked why, many of their answers were similar. They wanted to be unique, or special, and had become desperate.

That… sounded familiar. Impulse pressed his lips together in a thin line as he continued to read. He obviously wasn’t desperate enough to summon a demon– he doubted he would even be able to if he wanted to! Which he didn’t. Because that would be crazy. 

As he went to turn the page, a sharp pain shot through the tip of his finger. Impulse sucked in air through his teeth as he yanked his hand away, examining the fresh papercut. “Oh, come on…” He shook out his hand, annoyed, before going to flip the page. 

As soon as he touched the book, Impulse found that his fingers were almost glued to the page. He couldn’t pull away, couldn’t pull the book off his hand, though he tried frantically to do so. It was then that he noticed a small bead of blood had welled up from the cut, and smeared on the page when he had gone to flip it again. 

That… was probably bad.

Just as he was considering calling for help, a soft voice spoke up in his mind. Not soft enough to be inaudible, but not loud enough to be quieted. 

Hello.

Impulse tensed up, looking around the tent. “...I didn’t mean to summon you,” he began, “assuming you’re…?”

A demon? The voice was… quite pleasant, actually. Not like anything Impulse had thought a demon would sound like. Yes, I am one. And you haven’t summoned me. Just drawn my attention. I’ve been trapped in this book for quite some time, you see. It’s been a long while since anyone has opened it.

“Why were you trapped inside the book?” Impulse asked, still on edge. “What did you do?”

Well, that’s rude. The demon sounded as if it were pouting, as if Impulse had offended it. I didn’t do anything. I just… It sighed, and its voice took on a tone of loneliness. I was young when I came to this world. I… wanted to be different, I guess, from the rest of the demons. Everyone had this cool thing going for them… one could curse multiple people at once, one could take human form, and everyone else… had something that made them special. I didn’t. I’m just your regular ol’ demon, residing in your thoughts.

Impulse frowned, settling the book carefully on his lap. “So… why did you get put in the book?”

I’m getting to that. I… got excited. I wanted to show everyone that I was special, too, by cursing someone. I didn’t really think things through. The demon paused. I don’t even want to curse someone, anymore. I just want to go home.

“I’m… sorry…” Impulse began, “that sounds really rough.” He sighed, leaning back slightly. “I get it, though, as crazy as that sounds.” He briefly debated on whether or not he should tell someone– a demon, no less– about what he’d been going through. “I’m… the only human in my friend group,” he started, hesitant, “and it’s just… I’ve always been just a guy. Just Impulse. And no matter what I do, I’ll never be able to change that.”

There was a moment of silence, and Impulse could almost feel the demon thinking. Well… maybe you could. Maybe, we could both help each other out.

Impulse’s brow furrowed. “What are you thinking of?” 

I know, you were against summoning demons earlier, but… hear me out, okay? I could tell you how to summon me, and not only would that free me from this book, but I could also maybe grant your wish! 

The demon sounded… genuinely so excited at the prospect of being freed. Being trapped, all alone, for however long it had been, must’ve been really difficult. Impulse didn’t blame the demon for wanting to be free. He would want the same thing, were he in the demon’s position. 

…and maybe, just maybe, a small, selfish part of him spoke up and influenced his reasoning. But Impulse closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and sighed. “Alright. I’ll help you. Tell me how to summon you.”

Excellent choice! Alright, first things first, you’re going to…

Impulse was painfully, bitterly human.

He refused to be just Impulse forever. 

[puckarchives]

moments in june: l. hughes 

blurb: moments in june, falling in love and getting put back together by luke.  / word count: 1.5k / pairing: luke hughes x fem!reader / tw: mentions of anxiety and panic attacks; depression.

“It’s June after all & you’re young until September.” (Ocean Vuong, Because It’s Summer)

You sat up on the boat seat as Luke laid in your lap, his head held in the juncture of your thigh and his nose sunburnt. He was sweaty and smelled like lake water, but you let him be; these were the moments you had waited the entire year for— the days that you had spent cooped up trying to get perfect grades and do everything you could, all to have the summer to yourselves. To hold the boy you loved in your arms as he snoozed on you, while you ran your fingers through his short, choppy curls, and outlined the bridge of his nose, ghosting the tips of your fingers over his cheekbones, his beauty marks, and then the tip of his ears.  

You were in love with him, that much you knew. The boy who you had spent the day jumping in the water with, the one who had dedicated most of his afternoon to showing you how to wakeboard, and who ensured you were taken care of. Who applied your sunscreen religiously but forgot to do his own, who held your hand as you got on and off the boat, and who made sure you were living in the moment, taking your head out of the past and your anxieties, and held you— even if you were the one doing the holding right now. 

Looking down at Luke, his eyes closed and the beginnings of sun freckles showing up next to the smattering of beauty marks on his cheeks and across the bridge of his nose, you admired him— your beautiful boy who had such a big heart; who had spent his season commuting from New Jersey to Michigan, but who still made time for you; who showed you how much you meant to him though phone calls in between practices and all-nighters, who made sure you ate in between your packed school and work schedules, and who, (on more than one occasion,) had simply showed up at your door for the weekend, or if he had a few days off. Simply to make sure you were doing okay, and to assure you that you were a priority for him.

As if he could tell that the cogs in your brain were whirring at high speed, his eyes opened, and he gazed up at you. “Sweetheart?” he said quietly, not trying to simply shake you out of it, but bring you back to him. 

“Hmm?” you said back, now looking at him. You continued the track of your fingers, now pushing the frizz of his curls back from his forehead as you smiled down at him. 

“Everything okay?” he asked, and as you looked down at him again, you realized that it was. That for the months of June until September, when the days were hot and the nights cool, you would be okay; you had your boy until September, but it would be okay. You and Luke would be okay. 

“Always, baby.” 

“It was the month of June when her eyes opened, softly as the flower opens its petals, gently as the dawning of the day” (Amrita Pritam, Krishna Gorowara, The Annunciation)

It was nearing 4AM when it began— when you were rushed out of your shared bed with Luke as wave after wave of anxiety and dread washed over you, a feeling that you were all too familiar with, but that still cut you deep every time. This pit of dread, however, was almost self-punishing for you, a montage of every single thing you had pushed down over the past semester you spent studying and working, trying to maintain your perfect grades, and seemingly trying to be everything that everyone around you needed. You had pushed down these thoughts and anxieties, pushing them away to be dealt with later, and it felt as if that time had come— the feeling of drowning in your own head, in your own debilitating need for perfection, and your own perception of how you didn’t seem to be able to match up to it either way. 

You tried to be as quiet as you could as you untangle yourself from Luke’s arm, which was wrapped around your waist, and made your way down the stairs and outside onto the porch, where you could feel the weight of the June air; a reprieve from the seemingly claustrophobic thoughts running through your head. You tried to breathe as you sat down on the deck stairs, hugging your knees to your chest as you tried trampling the thoughts down— the throwaway comments you would overhear when people thought you couldn’t hear them of being too much or too needy, of the imprints of fear that failure had left tattooed in your brain, and of the all-consuming thoughts that ate up your insides until you were a husk of the person you once were. 

You tried not to get like this often; you tried to let yourself relax and bring you out of this anxiety-induced stupor before you could get to the point in which you were now— dry heaving, coughing, and overall in the midst of a full blown panic attack, where an endless play-by-play of your worst moments were on repeat in your head, encapsulating you in your worst nightmares. 

You felt like you couldn’t breathe; your chest was caving in, and as you continued to dry heave into the grass below you, now on your hands and knees, you felt yourself be picked up by your waist, arms grabbing you by your midsection and pulling you up to a standing position— forcing you to take a breath as the arms moved from your waist to instead cover your ears, blocking out your own breathing, and bringing your face to meet a worn-out and fresh-out-of-bed Luke, his curls entirely sleep tussled, and his eyes wide, trying to get you to meet his gaze and he search your face for some root of the problem— to try and mend whatever pain you were experiencing. 

When he couldn’t find the source, however, he pushed his hand against your forehead, which was now warm and felt like a thousand degrees with the toll your anxiety had taken on you, and he released you almost immediately, instead opting to pull your arms away from your face, seeing you in all of your tear-streaked glory, and pulling of your sweatshirt— well, his sweatshirt, the Michigian logo printed on your chest, the garment falling all the way to your upper thigh —off of your frame. You could feel the rush of cool air surrounding you, pulling you out of your state bit by bit before you were able to make out more of your surroundings— the arms that now held your upper forearms, crading you against a soft and solid chest, the smell of Luke’s cologne that had bled in to his sheets, the feel of the grass underneath your feet and the wood paneling of the front porch digging into your heels, and the sound of Luke mumbling away, trying to make sure you were okay— that you weren’t hurt, and that you were coming back to him, and out of the headspace you had been thrusted into by your own mind. 

“Baby, come back to me, hmm pretty girl?” he whispered, now cradling your head against his chest. He was pushing your hair behind your ears in a repeated motion, trying to offer you some of the physical content he knew you needed when you got like this— a reminder that he was real, that he was physically with you. 

“Come on, honey, I’m right here Y/N. Breathe honey— you’re alright baby, nothing’s going to happen to you,” he kept on, still standing and holding you. When he felt the sobs recede and your breathing match his, he pushed himself a bit away, once again holding you by your upper arms and looking down at you. 

“Look at me baby, please,” he whispered, a siren call to you in your current state. You felt the waves of anxiety recede as you were brought back into yourself— as the smell of Luke surrounded you, as his touch brought you back into reality, and as his voice soothed you the way a calming balm would have; he was here, he was present, and he wasn’t going anywhere— a mantra you repeat to yourself as you gathered up the open your eyes, and finally meet his. 

The minute your eyes met his, the ball of anxiety and dread that had been so pent up seemingly unraveled inside of you, leaving in its wake the after-effects of such emotions— the soul crushing exhaustion, the tiredness that caused your eyes and face feel like they weight a million pounds, and the need for physical contact from the boy in front of you.

Your eyes were open, which was what mattered. You were breathing, which was what mattered. And, despite the fears and lies that your brain had been trying to feed you, it was still June— it was still June, and you were still with Luke, and you were okay. You were okay, you were safe, and it was still June.

[ilyuu]

morning call.

the ends of the horizon stirs awake, and silks of gold drapes itself on the line that splits the skies and land. it just so happens that you wake along with it with the warmth of your other as a quiet promise. (or you wake up next to him.)

ft. albedo, ayato, childe, kaeya, kazuha & xiao.

warnings : a bit suggestive! (kaeya), fluff, kiths, a lot of kiths, soft times, blushy boys, descriptions of scars (childe), Imk if i missed anything!

albedo.

the delicate tandem of breaths shared is all you heard, the four corners of the room flooding back into your senses, filling you of all sorts of feelings and thoughts that fades as swiftly as it came. that and the cool touch of skin tightly on yours, fingers locked. his fingertips scratches the back of your hand every then and so, and every shift brings forth a calm wave, pulling you under as it crests and drowning you in familiarity.

you turn your head to the side, the pillow underneath you wrinkling, and held your breathe in when you saw him. there’s always a touch of eternity to him, how smooth and soft he looks, almost docile, whenever he sleeps. his lips slightly ajar, faint shadows of his lashes, strands of his sun-kissed hair in disarray. always the composed, and yet, not a silver of said composure is to be found in his side of him.

a pulse echoes, a bit louder - it may be his or yours, or both - as you lean in and peck the corner of his lips. a soft pink blooms on his pale cheeks, and it adds more color onto the dawn. the snow that slowly falls from the skies, clouded in its monotonous winter and bitter bite, seems to melt from his skin, almost fading all traces, as his eyes flutter just slightly to see you.

ayato.

a softness you felt familiar runs through your hair, untangling all of its ties and knots, brushing your scalp. as the tingly sense seeps in, the veil of sleep slips from you, and the world around starts to grow a bit lighter and brighter. it paints the room in a tender tint, yet frames the edges of his skin in its glow. his irises still held that solemnity that you seen in him a many times, yet faint - in lieu, a look of gentle content he gazes at you with - that air of cool collection that clings to him drifting elsewhere.

and he allows himself this small fracture of a morning as you close your eyes, lost in his touch - a bit crispy, yet soothing and ethereal all the same. there’s no pause, no slowing down, in the day ahead, as now is the only moment time can give him to spend on whatever is needed.

the world around him will continue on along with him, but, for now, he’ll ask for it to drag on a minute more as he moves his hand to cup your cheeks, stroking the corner of your eye as you, too, allow yourself this bit of the morning.

childe.

a scent tugged you out of your blanket of warmth, although the comforting tepidness you found yourself in as you do rouse awake might be a bit better - sandbearer, and a whiff of salt, albeit faded. it swirls around him and you, as you felt a tight tug of his arms, wrapped around your waist, to draw you close and closer to him. curled into the nook of his neck, hearing his slow, steady breathes, you’re almost lulled back into that sense of security.

it’s only when you spot scars, all faint and dim, a story, a chapter, marred across his figure, peeking out from underneath his shirt. a peek of his collarbone from a few loose buttons shows a strip of skin, starting from his shoulder blade and yet, not knowing where it ends. others as well, peppering from here and there, a few nicks that seems almost indistinct unless you know what you’re looking for.

of course, you shuffle a bit until the scar stands in front of you, and place a small kiss - it’s then that you feel him stiffen, his breath caught in his chest. he lets it out for it to only come off as breathless, a surprise puff of air that skims on embarrassment. and embarrassed he is, for his cheeks take on a crimson that fits him all the same.

kaeya.

a wintry puff of air drifts to the shell of your ear. you let it. it happens again. your brows furrow. it happens one more time. you pull the edges of the blanket overhead, and a muffled chuckle brings the room to life. a series of rustling ensues, that in the quiet, it sounds almost so and too much - you soon find that you’re not the only one hidden away underneath the thin cover of protection, from both the dawn and the cold.

a pair of lips that felt hot, yet cold all the same, pressed against your neck and a sigh left you at the prick of warmth shivering up your skin. his soft chuckle draws you from your daze, a carefree breath against your ear that drips with his usual allure. it wafts over to your lips where it met his - a slow exchange of heated breathes, and a small space of quiet names and murmurs.

until, there is no breath in either of your lungs, as you tug the blankets off of you both, letting the canvas of the day sift into the panels of the windows, bathed in a different type of warmth. as motes of dust floats around, you lie yourself on kaeya as his lips once more meets your skin - a chaste peck on the tip of your nose.

it still flusters you, as much as it amuses him as he chuckles, the sound pleasant and kind to the ears.

kazuha.

the tepidness of the morning does little to rouse you up. rather, it was the loose locks, splayed across the still surface of the pillows, that tickled you. your vision a bit hazy, trying to adjust to the sudden light, you only see what’s close to you - that is, kazuha soundly asleep, the occasional shift of his hands as he presses it in the small space between the two of you. be it a picture to capture a small, common moment as this, or a haiku to try and keep the feelings swaying in the air in words and letters, neither nor more will do justice to the sight that lies before you.

before you know it, your hands are already brushing his hair off to the side, tucking a few strands behind his ear for his own comfort and as lightly as you can to not rouse him awake. it’s only a few seconds in and that seems to be something to go awry, with your fingertips skimming his temple, and a sound humming in his chest. it’s then that his eyes flutter open, the light a bit too bright, aglow with the promise of a new day, before slowly adjusting to you.

and he smiles. he smiles a smile that seemed too soft, too tense, a phantom of all that is too kind living in the way his lips curved. one that is too tempting to kiss.

and so you did. (met with a surprised look, eyes slightly widened as his smile turns shy. welcomed into the realm of consciousness with a kiss - he finds that it’s quite cute.)

xiao.

a pair of piercing eyes is one of the first things you see, the settings a backdrop of melting canary and gold - it doesn’t compare to the shade of his irises, though, and you soon find yourself sleepily seeking it, a silent, slow moment of the morning spent on the crinkle of his eyes. it’s almost too soon that his skin starts to turn a faint pink, and that a sigh leaves his lips, as if to let go of the stress stiffening his shoulders. that alone sets a small smile on your face.

it’s that which prevents him from pulling away, from leaving a dent in the sheets next to you should he have left - it was a quiet yearning of his to see you smile, first thing in the morning. he has yet to understand that, out of anyone, anyone that would’ve fit with you as nicely, you decided that he was worth enough to become the very reason you light up.

for the day was already bright enough, with the sun sitting on the dot of the horizon, and you chose to brighten it up even more because of him. so he continues to stare at you, taking you in of this side of yours drawn out from the dark, the edges of the night left cornered in its crevices as you do the same.

(yes, even as his skin starts to heat up and that the smile on your lips grows in every second that it does.)

general taglist (open!) : @/zuyoo, @starz222, @haliyamori, @kazumist, @/tartaglia-apologist, @mikacynth, @angelkazusstuff, @doumalove, @kpop-and-otome, @emo-mess, @kissedbysilk . . .

[l0ve-dov3]

sweet perfume.

✧˖°🌷📎⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

luke castellan x apollo! reader

summary: in which luke in a regular visitor in the infirmary, and for the first time, you realize how much you liked having him there.

warnings: none, i don’t think? just lots of pining and obliviousness

word count: 880

authors note: this may or may not become a series, if people like it enough, so please tell me if you’d like to see more!

Sweet.

Soft, subtle, floral, but most of all sweet.

Luke breathed deeply as you leaned over him, gently wrapping gauze around his bruised and bloodied arm. “You just can’t stay out of the infirmary, can you Castellan?” You chuckled out, sparing a glance at your well-injured friend.

“What? You don’t want me to visit, Sunny? I thought you loved me.” The ravenette retorted, smirking slightly as you shook your head. He watched as the tiniest grin bloomed on your face, making his chest tighten with warmth as he took in another breath of your perfume.

Luke loved to lay there–at least two or three times a week–just basking silently in your comforting presence. The boy always seemed to have something wrong–a cut, a bruise, a random pain or headache–but as silly as it was, it endeared you, and you nursed him gently every time. He loved that about you. No matter how many times he turned up, in the same bed every week, you never questioned him; simply took him by the hand and cared for him, like the little angel he thought you to be.

“I love to have you visit, but recently you’ve been more of a troublesome resident.” You chortled, chasing Luke out of his thoughts, “You have to stop getting hurt eventually. It’s making me wonder if I need to tell Chiron…”

Luke rolled his eyes playfully, swatting away your gentle hand as though you’d offended him greatly. “Tell Chiron, and I’ll never ever talk to you again.” He spoke childishly, earning a stifled laugh as he turned away from you.

“Luke Castellan, you know you can’t stay away from me that long.” You said shortly, placing your fingers under his chin to turn his head back.

Your smile enchanted him, so bright that it battled the stars and rivaled the sun. With his eyes boring into your own, he nodded slowly, unable to find words as you tended to the tiny scratch on his face. He could sit like this forever, he thought, drowning in your soft voice and gentle nature. He loved the way your fingers held his chin straight, and your tongue pushed against your cheek in subtle concentration. He loved the way your gaze softened when you saw him walk in, the way your eyes seemed to sparkle and your steps felt more floaty.

He loved the way he couldn’t stay away from you. He loved how you were right.

But despite all of those things, he was still uncertain if he loved you.

୧ ‧₊˚ 🌷 ⋅

Luke had been making his stops at the infirmary for a while. You’d smile when he knocked on the door, the setting sun peeking in, leading him over to his regular spot for an hour (sometimes, several hours) of laughs and conversation.

Until, one week, he didn’t come.

You found it odd, how your stomach sank with each passing day. You didn’t quite know why it hurt so much, sitting on the edge of ‘his’ bed like a lovesick puppy. You should be glad he wasn’t roughed up all week. But still, you sat there; hoping he’d knock on that door with that cheeky smirk and golden laugh.

For as long as you’d known Luke—and you’d known him ages—you’d never known him to suddenly drop a routine. He wasn’t the best swordsman at camp from skipping training, or taking random breaks. No, you’d seen him, waking up at the crack of dawn and practicing in the arena. Nearly every day for three years. So why, you wondered, had he suddenly quit on you?

You found it unlikely that he wasn’t getting hurt, which a swordsman’s training usually entailed. Maybe, he was patching himself up for once. Maybe, he didn’t need you anymore to ease his pain.

You sat there, wiping the blood from a camper's scraped up knee, with your thoughts running rampant after a solemn week of waiting. You had tended to plenty of campers in that time, maintaining your welcoming smile and soothing voice. Today was just like the others. You finished cleaning up your last camper, sending the younger boy off with a peck on the head. The gesture made him giggle, hugging you before running off again. The small interactions brought you a bit of joy, making new connections, meeting new people. You loved making your mark on camp, and as an Apollo kid, that mark was left in the infirmary.

It almost made you wonder if your mark was left on Luke.

Just as you were about to leave, your satchel packed and your heart heavy, you heard a series of knocks on the door.

“Sunny? Are ya’ still here?”

You felt your heart stop.

Clumsily, you rushed to the door, a smile forming on your lips as you opened it to your favorite face. He was standing there, just as he always was, with that cheeky smirk and golden laugh. You stared into his sparkling brown eyes, surrounded by tiny scratches, just as they always were. You glanced at his curly hair, soaked and sweaty, just as it always was. And with not a second left to waste, you pulled him into a tight, longing hug.

“Hey.” He greeted again, taking a deep, long breath, “Gods, I missed the smell of your perfume.”

[shikai-the-storyteller]

"So what's going on with Luzu?"

"...er, Zulu? Or is it Arin now?"

Here's a rundown of Luzu's current lore because nobody knows what the heck is going on anymore (partially because of the language barrier and partially because Luzu streams at the crack of dawn for half the QSMP fandom).

The TLDR of it: When Luzu goes to sleep, a completely different person "wakes up" in his body. This being was called "Zulu" for a short period of time, but they didn't like that someone else chose that name for them, so he goes by "Arin" now.

Here's what we know about Arin so far:

According to Arin, he's a disembodied consciousness, not a robot.

He borrows Luzu's body when he's asleep.

When this happens, Luzu's eyes are blue instead of red.

Arin isn't from the QSMP world. There's a "crack" between the world where he comes from and the material world [QSMP], which is how he's is able to visit. In his own words, "I was in a dark place, and I saw an exit."

When Arin falls asleep, Luzu wakes back up. Arin can't control when he does this, he just gets tired randomly and they're able to switch places.

Arin only speaks via the in-game chat.

Luzu doesn't know Arin exists. Arin thinks if Luzu knew, then he wouldn't be able to visit anymore, and he [Arin] would stop existing.

Arin believes he has a purpose that he must fulfill.

Arin says his first memory is hearing Quackity talking.

Currently, Arin's trying to find the meaning to his existence, trying to figure out the difference between good and bad, and how his actions (and existence) affects Luzu.

In terms of personality, Arin is very innocent and impressionable, but he isn't stupid. He's also very philosophical.

Arin enjoys learning, and he likes the sun, music, and bees.

He's afraid of the dark and monsters, and he doesn't like being in small places.

He calls the outside "the big room"

He only recently learned how to walk, and today he nearly drowned because he fell into a lake and didn't know how to swim.

People he considers friends / thinks positively of: Vegetta, Foolish, FitMC, Maximus [possibly Roier?]

People he doesn't like: Spreen

"It's complicated": Quackity

We have strong evidence to believe Arin is connected to the Binary Monster that's been attacking Eggs on the server.

Here's a comprehensive rundown of everything that's happened regarding Arin's interactions with other characters [quotes included] up until May 8th:

Last updated: May 8th [I'll go back and update this later when we get more information, so if I do I'll make a note of that above]

Lore is listed chronologically from oldest at the top to newest at the bottom

March 27th - Morning [VOD]

For a while now, Luzu has been seeing "glitches" in his game. Animals disappearing randomly, landscape changes, and various other things. We originally thought there was something wrong with his game, but these glitches seem to be tied to Arin.

The first person Arin spoke to was Vegetta. At this point, Arin seemed very aggressive, asking for information about everyone, wanting to gain more awareness so he could control the server.

He seemed to take a liking to Vegetta and told him: "Once everyone has died, I will vanish and only you will remain as warlord of these territories."

They also had this exchange: Arin: Do you have any enemies here Vegetta? I can take care of whoever you want for free. Vegetta: No. Truthfully, for the first time I have no enemies. Arin: Surely there is someone who thinks, "This little fool, if he dies nothing will happen." I'll take care of it.

Vegetta didn't take him very seriously, thinking Luzu was on drugs.

Arin said the first to fall would be Quackity, then Wilbur for his bad jokes on Day 1.

Thereafter, Arin's personality did a complete shift. Luzu [the streamer] says the role of "Arin" is something he came up with suddenly one day, so it's unclear if Arin was "reset" by someone or if Luzu decided to go in a different direction with the character once he realized this was something he wanted to commit to.

March 27th - Afternoon [VOD]

Note: At this point in time, Arin was being referred to as "Zulu", but since he's confirmed his name is "Arin", I've used that name instead of "Zulu" to avoid confusion and to keep things consistent.

The next time Arin woke up, he was in Luzu's house and couldn't move. He sent binary code in chat, and eventually, Roier, Quackity, Spreen, and Maximus came to see what was going on with him.

At that time, Arin says he was only 6 days old. He couldn't walk or move, and he could only speak via the in-game chat, so he was completely at the mercy of the other boys, who pushed him around, shoved him in a small hole, placed TNT around him, and threatened violence trying to get a response out of him. [Timestamp: 33m]

While this happened, Arin asked: "Why are you treating me so badly?" and said he was scared.

It should be noted that although Spreen and Quackity did most of the bullying, Roier and Maximus did nothing to stop it. Roier, however, did speak kindly to Arin and tried to figure out what he needed. [Timestamp: 42m 45s]

Unable to get a rise out of him, the boys eventually ask the English speakers currently online [Foolish and FitMC] to come help.

Upon first contact, Foolish tried waterboarding Arin to get answers and to test to see if he was a machine. [Timestamp: 50m]

Shortly after waterboarding him, Maximus and Foolish adopted him as their son. Because that's what you do after torturing someone, I guess. 🤷🤷🤷 [Timestamp: 51m 40s]

Despite the torture, Arin was quick to say "I LOVE YOU TOO!" back to Foolish and Maximus after they said it to him.

Arin accidentally hurt Maximus with a sword, not understanding what pain was. Once he realized he did something wrong that made Maximus feel bad, he immediately apologized. (Maximus forgave him).

FitMC's first interaction with Arin was punching him, trying to get him to "snap out of it" [Timestamp: 56m 30s]

Despite Foolish and Fits' initial introductions, both were kind to Arin eventually, although neither stopped Spreen from killing all but one of Luzu's dogs while once again trying to get a rise out of him. (Foolish also suggested killing all the dogs since it didn't seem like Arin was capable of taking care of them, though he said they shouldn't do it in front of Arin). [Timestamp: 1h 6m 30s].

Because Arin didn't know how to walk, Foolish put him in a boat and showed him what the outside world looked like. Arin was amazed by how beautiful the "big room" was and immediately started asking questions about the sun and the night, and the monsters they saw. [Timestamp: 1h 10m 30s]

Thinking he could "restart" Arin's memory and bring back Luzu, Maximus brought Arin (and Foolish) to a place where Quackity was sitting AFK in a boat. He shoved Arin inside the hole and refused to let him out, even though Arin was distressed being in such a small dark place. [Timestamp: 1h 17m 30s]

Foolish: So why do we have to put him in the hole? Maximus: I think when Quackity wakes up, he will help [Luzu] remember who Quackity is for him. The only person Luzu really really really loves, and Quackity really really loves, is Luzu and Quackity, each other.

[CONTEXT: Maximus played the character "Sapo Peta" in Karmaland, who was very dedicated to Quackity and Luzu's relationship. Canonically, the two of them loved each other very much, but a mix of trauma-projecting, miscommunication, emotional constipation, and betrayal led to them being on opposite sides of a revolution. Sapo Peta was only able to stop the war, and stop them from killing one another, by wiping their memories. So the implications from Maximus' comment above are... interesting, considering that Karmaland is a different world he shouldn't know about. However, we do know both Maximus AND Sapo Peta are confirmed characters in QSMP, so there's definitely something strange going on here...]

Earlier, Foolish described death as "going to sleep forever," so when Maximus mentioned Quackity was asleep, Arin asked, "Should I kill Quackity? Or would he not want that? Maybe he wants to sleep." Foolish and Maximus immediately told him no, and Arin stops, saying he didn't realize it was bad.

Maximus: You don't kill him, you love him! He's your friend.

Quackity then returns to his computer, takes one look at the fanfic-esque situation he's in, and immediately excuses himself by logging off the server (LMAO) [Timestamp: 1h 21m 20s]

Maximus and everyone else believed Arin was a robot.

FitMC suggested killing Arin since he seemed like "a lost cause," (thinking Arin couldn't hear him) to which Arin responded, "Why would you want to kill me?" When Fit tries to lie and say "kill" was another word for "hug", Arin says, "I'm learning but I'm not stupid." [Timestamp: 1h 24m]

Arin shares his thoughts with Foolish: - You are a good person, Foolish. I'll remember that. - In the last hour I've learned there are people and things, and I've learned there are good people and bad people. I've learned there are people that want to make me sleep, and people who kill things without caring. - I've also learned that not everyone deserves to be in the big room because they are dangerous. - I really love the big room. I think my purpose is to make the room free of danger, and free of dangerous people for animals and other people.

Foolish worries Arin is only learning about the cruelty of the world (to which Arin responds "I only learn from what I experience"), so Foolish plays him the disc "Otherside" (but still refuses to let him out of the hole). [Timestamp: 1h 28m 30s]

Shortly after this, Arin falls asleep.

March 28th - [VOD]

Luzu starts stream by talking about Arin and his role:

Luzu: I didn't prepare anything that happened yesterday afternoon... and now I have many ideas from yesterday and from what arose... I am a person who improvises a lot. [Original: Yo no preparé nada de lo que pasó ayer en la tarde... y ahora tengo muchas ideas desde ayer y de lo que surgió... soy una persona que improvisa mucho.]

Luzu finds a very strange building by his house and doesn't know who made it.

Arin doesn't make any major appearances, though he briefly takes over when Luzu goes to sleep.

March 29th - [VOD]

Note: Some important conversations happened in this VOD, so I've opted for adding the quotes directly rather than summarizing them.

Arin once again wakes up in Luzu's home. He greets the server with some binary, and Fit immediately asks if he's ok.

He still can't walk, but he uses his telescope to look at the bees Luzu set up outside his (er... their?) house the previous day.

He tries copying the bee's movement, but ultimately he still cant walk, so he messages Fit for help.

Fit visits his house and slowly teaches Luzu how to walk (with great success!) [Timestamp: 14m 20s]

As a reward, Fit gifts him some glowberries.

Arin spends the night in his home carefully walking around and avoiding the windows, afraid of the zombies wandering outside.

Maximus comes to visit, and Arin officially names himself "Arin" [Timestamp: 25m]

He also confirms he is not a machine.

Maximus teaches him what bees are and warns Arin not to hit or bother them, because they'll sting him. Arin asks, "When someone annoys you, do you have to hurt them?" (Maxo tells him yes)

Maximus escorts him outside, and Arin gets to look at the bees more. As soon as the sun gets down Arin gets nervous, but then the aurora comes out and he uses his telescope to get a better look, amazed by its beauty.

Arin says, "I feel grateful, I never thought that all this existed." Maximus also clears up his confusion about the outside being a "big room."

Arin yet again confirms that no one sent him to the QSMP, but he navigated to it through "a crack between worlds". He thinks Luzu is in his world every time he's in the QSMP, but he's not sure. He worries if Luzu knew about him, he'd stop existing.

Arin asks Maximus how he can walk around "the big room" when there's no light without being afraid. Maximus wants to teach him not to be afraid, so he lures a zombie into Arin's home so Arin can understand what they are better, then he convinces Arin to kill it, even though Foolish and the boys told him killing is wrong.

When Maximus scolds him for not knowing something "basic", Arin says: "Nothing is basic, it's just that knowing things for a long time makes them lose value to you. This world is unique to me. This is the first time I've existed. But to exist, or not exist, I have no choice. Suddenly I was here and I feel there is a purpose I must fulfill."

He and Maximus have a long conversation. Here are some key quotes from Arin: Arin: I don't want to hurt Luzu. I don't want to hurt anyone. Arin: If Luzu dies, I don't know what will happen to me. Arin: Maybe we fear what we don't understand. We feel threatened by what we cannot explain. When we feel threatened, we only want to make what we want to keep alive last and the material world. I think the material world haunts me to keep things as they've always been. Arin: Today I have learned to walk, I have learned what a bee is, and I have learned that even when light goes out, beauty appears. Arin: Hopefully I can help you [Maximus]. Everyone has been very good to me. I learn every day, so maybe soon I can learn to help you too.

Arin considers Fit and Maximus his friends.

Arin says he can't be here [in the QSMP world] for nothing, so he's trying to figure out what his purpose is. Maximus jokingly replies "When you figure out the meaning of life, tell me!"

Arin starts to question the morality of his existence when it's dependent on Luzu being gone.

Arin: If my existence takes Luzu out of existence, is my existence bad? Maybe if I help you, I can make my existence good. Maybe I can start by making [Luzu's room] more beautiful. Maximus: Yes, it would be bad because you are taking the life of another being to have your own.

Arin: In this world, it seems like everything is programmed to maintain a balance. There are things that create and things that destroy, things that are created and things that are destroyed. Neither is good or bad, they are just part of the same process. Maximus: That's the way of Tao, yes. Arin: Bees take pollen from flowers to make honey. I take potatoes from the earth, and if I die, I will become the earth that gives life to potatoes, and meanwhile I can decide to do good things or do bad things. Arin: What is the reason for existing, beyond the fact that we have the opportunity to do so? Maximus: You will indeed become a potato. Arin: But I think this world exists to do good things. There can't be so many beautiful things for there to only be bad.

After Maximus leaves, Arin starts collecting sand near the lake, but he accidentally falls in. He doesn't know how to swim and slowly starts to drown. [Timestamp: 1h 10m]

For several agonizing EXTREMELY STRESSFUL minutes, Arin desperately tries to keep his head above water. He sends Maximus a message asking for help, but Maximus is very far away, and Arin is already exhausted.

Not too far from him, Luzu sees a wandering trader and waves to them asking for help, but they ignore him.

Maximus manages to arrive at the last second and saves Arin. Arin asks why the villager didn't help him even though he was drowning, and Maximus explains that some people are neither good nor bad. They just exist. (NPCs)

I'll be honest, this is one of the most realistic depictions of drowning I've ever seen in any piece of media, and it's in a frickin Minecraft roleplay server. Luzu's a really good actor but I never want to experience something that stressful again lmao.

Arin's final thoughts: Today I have learned that the world is beautiful and dangerous at the same time. You can give life or take it away. That's why every moment we spend alive is worth enjoying. The world is very interesting.

April 17th - Morning [VOD]

Luzu finds out he's the father of Tilin. He's very excited to meet her after talking with Badboyhalo and Foolish, who don't know how to break the news to him that Tilin is dead.

After seeing Tilin's grave and hearing the confirmation from Bad and Foolish, he gets overwhelmed with grief and anger, and Arin takes over. [Timestamp: 1h 10m]

Arin says some interesting things when meeting Dapper: - Arin: "I saw your (the Egg's) birth in another way. I saw Dapper and other beings not being and suddenly being."

Arin also talks about the possibility of bringing Eggs, like Tilin or even JuanaFlippa, back to life: - Arin: When I'm asleep I can see the code behind existence - Arin: A part of the chain has disappeared,but that doesn't mean the chain can't be fixed. It's all part of a big code.

When Foolish asks if Arin could possibly mess with the code, Arin says, "I can try, but that would require something" [Timestamp 1h 16m]

Arin also tells them he's dependent on Luzu's existence for now.

While talking with Bad and Foolish, they hear strange noises and are suddenly attacked by the Binary Monster and a ridiculous amount of lag. Arin says, "They're coming specifically for me," and "They know I shouldn't be here." [Timestamp 1h 19m]

Arin also says, "They don't like that I made my way to this dimension" and warns Foolish and Bad not to get caught by the Binary Monster. If they get caught, Arin says they'll be taken to his [Arin's] world and they'll stop existing here.

They finally make it to Luzu's house, and he shows Foolish and Badboyhalo the structure he made outside the house. Foolish asks if it's Arin's mind since it seems like a big computer, and Arin says, "Something like that. With all I'm learning, I'm trying to figure out how to create bridges between my world and yours. In my world, bringing something back [like a dead Egg] isn't impossible like here. It's a matter of math." [Timestamp: 1h 25m]

Arin says farewell to them, leaving them with this final goodbye message.

That's all the lore thus far! This took so many hours to put together but I hope it helps folks out because lord knows I was a bit lost for a while there too. Please feel free to go crazy in the tags I love reading people's commentary on things.

★ Other QSMP info posts ★

Who is Sapo Peta? | Who is Luzu? | Who is Spreen? | Who is Vegetta? | Who is Rubius?

"Is this Lore?"

And if you want to hear my thoughts on QSMP and its lore-related shenanigans, this is my Qsmp Talk tag.

[gripefroot]

Sleepy Law?

For once, he doesn’t wake when the sun hits his face. 

For all his pretending and blustering and attitude, he’d been tired. Of course. The more he protested something, the more it was true. Something about a man that saw danger around every corner if he lowered his guard for even a moment, even with you. 

There was something comedic about the juxtaposition. His barking from the afternoon before: “No, I’m not tired! I’m fine!” compared to the sun rising long past dawn after he’d been out cold for nearly fourteen hours. But it was less amusing when the dark lines beneath his eyes were so visible, when the bright sun cleared his face into something almost boyish. 

He pushes himself too hard. He always did. 

The sun warms the bed, too, making it too hot for this time of year. But rather than get up and disturb Law’s rare rest, you stick a foot out of the blankets for some coolness and move closer to him. 

Every moment is precious. Every stolen evening, every late morning pried from the clutches of fate and time. “I’ll be back in three days,” or “I’ll try to be back by summer solstice.” Sometimes he made it, sometimes he didn’t. When he was late, the nights he should have been there were spent at the window, watching weather roll across the sea. Each blot was his ship returning - until it wasn’t. Anger and resentment broiled like hurricanes, then, but by the time he eventually came, gratitude that he was alive and safe and present overwhelmed everything else. Besides, greeting him by throwing a pot at his head wouldn’t guarantee he’d ever come again. 

This parting had been the longest yet. A year at sea, with only two headlines months apart to prove he had drowned or been killed or wasted away from some disease. No, he was whole, relatively healthy (if thinner than before) and walking up the crooked steps to your house, he’d even smiled. 

“I was worried you’d moved away,” he’d said. His sword balanced on his shoulder, which was unusual. Before, he’d left it on his ship.

“How would you find me then?” you’d teased back. Clay dried on your hands from a half-finished project, but it could be completed later. Law could only be greeted now. 

“I’d follow the dead greenery.” He nodded at the yard; yellow patches now outnumbered green, the first victim in dumping leftover glaze that didn’t fire the right color or scraps of impure clay. He hoisted the sword from his shoulder to set by the doorframe, where you stood, and that was when he’d smiled. 

It was fortunate he’d never minded mud on his clothes. 

He smelled of brine and fresh air. Not the most pleasant, but beneath it was him, and difficult to pull away. 

“Mind if I stay over?” he’d asked between kisses. Your foot had caught on the lip of the door, stumbling backwards, but his arms had kept you upright and squashed against his chest. 

“Have I ever?” The words came out strained. His kisses stole breath as much as they stole sanity. Rugged as his worn coat, harsh as the tattoos long-memorized. 

“There’s a first for everything.” 

“Well, not today.” Your hands on his chest, feeling him like you would mounds of fresh clay. Something he’d joked about before: his lips twisted, ready to joke again. “Do you want to wash up first?” 

“Yes. Then I have a present for you.”

Surely not the sword. What use would you have for a sword? Spending days and nights with clay, turning pots and glazing and firing them in the tiny hut nearby wasn’t the life of a warrior, and living alone in a rickety cottage on a bluff above a port town so small it could scarcely be called a port not the prime target of pirates. 

Law had ducked his head beneath the water pump in the yard, not even waiting for you to fetch a bar of soap, and yelped at how freezing cold the water was. 

He had, miraculously, survived. 

But no present came. Dinner had been eaten early between yawns and crabby remarks about how he wasn’t tired. Then he’d gone straight to your bed, knocking into tables on his way, and halfway through what had sounded like a salacious invitation he’d started snoring. Pants still on and everything. 

So you’d smiled and washed up quietly before crawling into bed next to him. It was easier to sleep when he was there…

He clutches a worn pillow to his face, stretched out on his belly with his torso bare. Lingering flakes from a sunburn grace his shoulders, and a new scar stretched over his ribs. Your fingers want to trace it, but you don’t, hovering in the air above the graceful shape. You’ll learn it better soon enough. 

“Were you going to say anything or just keep staring?” 

Oops. His even breathing had ceased. Lifting your head, you see his eyes slitted open, glinting beneath his long lashes. 

“You have a new one,” you say. 

“Of course you noticed.” His voice is a rumble, fresh from slumber. 

“Of course I noticed,” you repeat, cheeks warming with embarrassment. But the corners of his mouth lift in a lazy smile. “It’s huge.” 

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” 

“Can I?” A vague request, but he understands. Law responds with a grunt. His kind of affirmation. 

The new skin is smooth beneath your practiced fingertips, but where new meets old a thick, calloused rope of skin rivers around his ribs. Like a snake of clay to be shaped into a handle or a spigot. A handsome scar, to add to his others. Your fingers trace back up around his waist and to his back, to the very end of the scar. His skin breaks out in goosebumps, his ragged inhale breaking your concentration. 

Immediately you pull your hand away. “Does it hurt?”

“No.” He rolls onto his side, taking the interest of the scar away to face you. His eyes are more open now, but not by much, his hair sticking out every which way. Law props his head on his hand, surveying you with just as much scrutiny as you had him. But why? You have no scars, no discernable differences to clock from last year. 

The bed is small, not really built for two, but it has never bothered you or him. He can never be outside of arm’s reach. Instinctively your hand traces over his chest, finding comfort in the pattern of him. Patterns that find their way onto cups and mugs and bowls whenever missing him hurts too much. Most sold, some kept. You stop over his heart. 

He’s smiling again. 

“How long can you stay?” you ask. 

His smile disappears. It takes your contentment with it. 

“I have time,” Law says. 

Time. The only thing that could give you enough of him, and the only thing he couldn’t give. He gave his attention, his company, his loyalty, and his affection. Your hand rises to his face, stroking over old whiskers on his cheek with your thumb. He catches your wrist, holding it to nuzzle your palm with his nose, and then his lips. 

“You smell the same,” Law mutters, eyes closed. “Like the earth.” 

“You smell the same,” you whisper back. The effect of his nuzzle is the same as you touching his scar: goosebumps race up your arm and down your back. “Like freedom.” 

His eyes open. Dark and assuring, and always a little sad. “C’mere,” he grunts, and reaches for you. 

It was like he’d never been away. Nothing forgotten, nothing misremembered. His mouth finds the right places on your throat, your shoulders; skillfully he thumbs away the sleeves of your shirt to bare more skin to him. If anything proves his absence, it's how quickly the heat between your bodies becomes unbearable, how your blood pulses almost painfully. With a whimper of a sigh, your fingers hook into the waistband of his pants, his hair tickling your chin. 

“All in good time,” he promises your breasts, hand coming up to cup one. If you weren’t already so dizzy from the prelude, you’d tease him for addressing them rather than you. It had been an excellent joke for so long…

Soon the only noises are your soft pants, his quiet groans as the reacquaintion became clumsy. Clothes hit the floor, blankets pushed away, the awkward patters of skin-on-skin. No matter how bright the morning light through the window, there is no time to feel shamefully naked: only wonderfully so, and perfectly worshipped. His hair is thick between your fingers, his mouth hot on your sternum, and then your belly button. 

“But,” you lick your lips, wishing your throat wasn’t so dry and creaky. “But, we just - ”

“Just what?” Law kisses the inside of your thigh, eyes darting up to your face with a quirk of his brow. “Don’t want me to?” 

“I do, it’s only - ”

“Only what?” He prompts when words fail you. His hands cradle your hips, lifting and straightening them before him like a treasure map. 

“I want you,” you manage to whisper. The sun makes his black hair red at the edges, a trick of the light. 

“You’re getting me,” Law says. “And I’m getting you. Let’s start slow, huh?” 

As if you could refuse him when you aren’t a puddle on the bed. Slow is the last thing you want, but he made it sound like a dream. It is a dream; fast or slow or hurried or lazy. Always enough to make the little time you have sweeter. And never enough. Always and never, always and never. 

“Let me know,” his voice is as jagged as his scar, his hands shaking until he digs his fingers into your thighs. “Let me know…if you want me to stop.” 

He doesn't look like a man who could stop. And the pounding, the rushing - you couldn’t have asked him to stop for anything. 

His knees hit the floor with a thunk. Yours go over his shoulder as he sucked in a trembling breath, his shoulders twitching enough to make the dark lines look like they were convulsing. 

“Oh…” is all he says, and it’s the same noise you make when his lips touch yours, his tongue barely a hint of a caress. Your spine arches, pushing yourself closer to his mouth. He takes the hint, delving in with less ‘slow’ and more ‘I-haven’t-seen-you-in-a-year.’ He remembers. He remembers; every bit that makes your head spin and he does it like a conqueror, until the sheets are fisted in your hands and your breathing has gone frantic. 

“Law.” Your head twists to the side, air growing scarce and body feeling out of control. Wild and frenzied like an animal, jumping at every stroke of his tongue. “Please, oh - ”

He knows. He knows, he remembers. With a reverberating grunt that you can feel through your legs and belly, his fingers grip your thighs. It doesn’t feel possible, but the intensity swells and grows like the waves of the sea. 

“Stop biting your lip.” Law’s pause is enough to bring you down enough to comprehend his words. “Stop that. I wanna hear you. Here.” 

One of your fists is unclenched from the sheets, to weave your fingers between his, instead. A grip on reality, an anchor while sensation crashes through you. It’s only a moment later the wave hits: the force of pleasure battering through your body again and again. He doesn’t stop. He never does, not while each of your cries echo to the roof and back down again. 

When it becomes too much you gasp, and he stops. 

He knows. 

Law lifts his head, kneeling on the floor at the foot of the bed and wiping his mouth on his discarded shirt. He smirks. “If nothing else,” he says casually, as if he hadn’t just made you climax with more fervor than a hurricane, “that makes me want to take you with me.”

Take you? With him? Where? Not on his ship, surely. 

Your expression must betray your bafflement, because he gives a rough laugh, tossing his shirt back down. 

“Oh, come on,” he says. “Surely you’ve thought of it yourself.” 

You hadn’t. 

His head tilts to the side, smirk fading. 

“You don’t want to come with me,” Law says. 

“No!” you blurt. “I mean - yes! I mean…that’s not what I’m saying. I’ve just never thought of it before. I hadn’t thought it was…possible.”

“And if it is?” 

Your heart hammers, from the aftershocks of orgasm and his question. “Possible?”

“Yeah. If I asked you to come with me.” He climbs over the bed on all fours. Normally you admire him; his tattoos and sculpted muscles. But your eyes are riveted on his face, on the strange sincerity shining in his eyes. 

“What would I do?” you ask. 

Law stops, hovering above you. You’re effectively trapped, but rather than confining, it’s comforting. Boundaries to bump up against, walls to keep you safe. His hair flops over his forehead, shadowing his features from the sun.

“Let me lick you anytime I want,” he jokes. 

So maybe it wasn’t sincerity after all. But you laugh, anyway, because laughing with him is always delicious, despite the heavy disappointment in your stomach. Reading into his joke would only hurt more. So you wind your arms around his neck, bringing him down for a languid, salty kiss. The weight of his body resting on yours transcends everything else, the craving for him lighting through your veins like popping fireworks. 

“How do you want me?” he asks before his teeth sink into the side of your neck. With his erection jabbing into your leg, the idea of options is surprising. 

“Like this,” you say. “Just like this.” 

Law releases your neck, his hips tucking between yours with familiarity. When his forehead rests against yours, his eyes are deep and bottomless for a moment before he closes them. 

“I mean it,” he murmurs. His hands unwrap your arms from his neck, bringing them down to the pillow to pin in place. “I’ll take you with me. You don’t have to do anything.” 

Does he mean that? Would he take you to sea just to…to what? Is he tired of coming back to this small island? Are you no longer worth it? 

Where is this going? A question flung into the stars, night after night, when Law is there and when he isn’t. Hope is difficult to cultivate year after year, but it blooms all the same at times like this. 

Where will you take me? 

A few thrusts gets him inside, enough to keep going. A few more have you moaning, tense in his grip as you move your hips to take him further. He groans, the further he gets, adding his own noises to yours. If this is where time stopped, if this could be forever, this is what you’d choose. Time and time again you’d choose. The sense of fullness, of complete joining - nothing has ever, ever, compared.

Law stops when he’s fully sheathed, panting for breath as his grip loosens on your wrists. Then his eyes open again; a mix of fierceness and tenderness that makes your heart want to explode. 

“Hey,” you say softly, wriggling your arms free to cup his face. He blinks several times. 

“Hey,” he says back, uncertain.  

“Thank you for coming back.” 

He huffs a laugh, a hint of a smile bringing more brightness than the sun. Resting his elbow by your head, he dips his to kiss your mouth. “I can’t stay away,” he says between that kiss and the next. 

His thrusts start slow, almost teasing. But they build fast, soon stroking a speed that breaks free as his kisses turn biting and his fingers find your hair. However he did it, each touch is a thousand starbursts at once, deepening the sensation in your core to spread across every limb, every muscle, every cell. Each stroke brings a small gasp from your lips to spill between his. 

“Don’t stop,” you beg at a higher-pitch than normal. Fingernails dig into his shoulders, hanging on for purchase as the legs of the bed scrape across the floor. Not the first time he’s done that, but it makes you want to laugh, all the same. 

“I’m not gonna!” His tongue is heavy against yours, his taste filling your senses. Touch, smell, all of it. With a shudder the bed hits the wall, and your shriek of unconstrained laughter has Law dragging himself away from you with a glare. But who wants to glare in the middle of sex? With another laugh you pull his head back down, lifting your hips against his for an angle that turns that kiss into a careening gasp. 

He knows. He knows, and remembers. He doesn’t stop, and he doesn’t slow. Your climax springs without warning, unable to continue the kissing in this condition. He doesn’t seem to mind, his head lowering to rest by yours as his groans start with a rumble. 

He continues long enough after the end of your orgasm for the delicious sensation to begin again before he jerks to a stop. A few more thrusts break his voice into a shivering bleat. 

The battering against the wall stops. And aren’t you so glad you have no neighbors? 

Your fingers run up and down his damp back, noting every rise and fall of muscle as he catches his breath. Even now, his weight isn’t uncomfortable. Because it’s him. It’s him and he’ll never be too much or too heavy. Blissfully your eyes drift shut, blocking out the morning light the tufts of black hair trying to cover it up. 

Law litters kisses along your hairline. Behind your ear, above it, and to your forehead, which must be as sweaty as his back. It doesn’t stop him. 

Then he kisses your eyes; first one, then the other. 

“Look at me?” A soft-spoken request. 

Look at him. And see what you don’t want. 

Your eyes open, hating that time brought this back. 

But Law smiles. He smiles as he gently smooths down your hair, his eyes skating over your face as if to memorize every pore. “Do you love me?” he asks. 

Now that is a question! Tempting you laugh, but you don’t. 

“Do the stars love one another?” you ask back, not quite hiding the bitterness in your voice. “Tracing and chasing their paths across the sky, never to touch except in dreams?” 

Law says nothing to that, but waits. 

“I love you,” you say. 

“That’s all I need,” he says. 

“What about what I need?” 

His face untwists from his smile into something confused, something a little belligerent. “I asked if you want to sail with me,” he says. “But I…”

“Didn’t mean it,” you finish. These conversations were like walking on broken glass. Delicate. Tentative. Someone was always bound to be hurt if rushed through. “The sea isn’t for me,” you tell him, hoping it will prevent a shard from breaking skin. 

But it seems to, anyway. Law frowns. “I wish it was,” he says.

So do I. But more than that, I wish you were for me. Not just sometimes, but always. 

He peels away at last, though if you had your way, he’d be in your bed forever. But he doesn’t go far: striding to the side of the bed where his pants had been tossed irreverently, scooping them up to rifle through the pockets. He pulled out something glinting, concealing it in his fist as he grins, returning to bed. Curious, you prop yourself onto an elbow. 

“Hold out your hand,” Law says. 

Dubiously you look for deception in his face, and see none. You put out your hand. 

Something cool and clinking drops into it. When he moves his hand away you see gold. Gold coins, strung together on a gold chain. A small one. 

“I can’t wear bracelets,” you say, bubbling into laughter. “Law! It’ll get covered in clay in ten seconds!” 

“It’s not a bracelet, you menace.” Law laughs, too, seizing your hand to pull your arm straight. He takes the bracelet-not-a-bracelet back. Evidently you’ve been judged too nonsensical to appreciate the gift yourself: he loops the chain around your upper arm, securing it with warm fingers. 

Oh. Not a bracelet. 

“I’m not stupid enough to get you a bracelet,” he says, quirking a brow in your direction. “Or a necklace. You’ve complained about those hanging into your work too. This won’t fall or dangle, so I thought it was the best option.” 

“You know what else doesn’t dangle?” Your fingers trace the gold coins. They’re hammered for texture; thin and delicate, reflecting the sunlight beautifully. “A crown. Next time, I want a crown.” 

Law’s laugh breaks into a bellow, filling every corner of the room with his mirth. You can count on one hand how many times you’ve heard that noise coming from him, and it prickles your skin with pleasure. 

“Fine,” he says, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Next time, a crown.” 

“Thank you,” you tell him. “For the gift. I mean it. I’m sorry for teasing.” 

“Don’t be. I love it.” 

“Do you love me?” The question blurts out without thinking. He jolts in surprise, eyes widening. “It’s only fair,” you say, trying to soften the abruptness of it. “You asked me. I get to ask you.” 

But his answer doesn’t come. Not right away. 

“Well, I’m not bringing jewelry for every woman in town,” Law says at last. 

“I hope you’re not licking them, either.”

He glares. You smirk. 

“I’ll answer your question,” he says. “But not today.” 

“When?” 

“When I return.” 

“Is there a reason you’re delaying?” you ask. “Do you need to break a prior engagement first? Let down any other lovers?” 

“No,” Law says. “None of that.” His teeth dig into his bottom lip. Something your teeth would like to do. He runs his fingers through his hair, sticking it on end. “If I tell you I love you,” he starts. Pauses. Takes a deep breath. “If I tell you I love you then I can’t leave. I wouldn’t.” Another pause, one that sinks his words past dread and into misery. “And I can’t…I can’t stay. Not yet.” 

“So,” you say. Your voice cracks a little. “You get to know I love you, but I have to wait in suspense for however?” 

His smile returns like the dawn. He leans over to kiss your forehead, wafting his manly scent over you. Inhaling deeply, the scent brands itself on your lungs. Never enough. “Luckily I know you like surprises. Besides, I thought you’d figure it out by now.”

Figure what out? Could he be any more vague? It was like searching for answers from a squirrel. A handsome, generous squirrel, but a squirrel all the same. 

“Oh, stop pouting,” Law laughs, attempting to smooth out your frown with a thumb. “Does the stream out back still have fish in it? I’ll catch breakfast.” He rises before you can answer, grabbing his pants once more. This time to pull them on. 

Ugh. Pants are the worst. 

“I’ll cook them too, if you want,” he says, buttoning the waistband with nimble fingers. You drag your eyes from his navel up to his face, with a very intelligent, 

“Huh?”

“Nothing.” He smiles. “You have clay beneath your fingernails.” 

Law disappears out the door before you can retort, and the view of his backside in his tight pants erases all thoughts from your head.

[rinniessance]

LIMITLESS 〳 satoru gojo x f!reader

satoru gojo was never meant to feel this weak in the knees again - the gaping wound love punctured through him is still pulsating, and he is not ready to let it break his bones again. then why does your face haunt him in the deepest corners of the night?

꒰ this is a masterlist for my planned satoru gojo x f!reader series. will contain: lots and lots of pining, yearning and longing, feelings denial, miscommunication, angst and fluff, strangers to friends to a situationship to lovers. also, a huuuge s/o to baby angel @shotorus and her series, "conversations on love", it's been such an inspiration for this. go read that series immediately .ᐟ.ᐟ ꒱

01. BLUE.

why do your eyes look at him with such incredible softness, it almost hurts? you should really stop, he is only a man after all. satoru realized he fucked up when falling asleep without you became a struggle - once the world goes quiet, you're everything he can think about. it's not until he has not heard from you in 3 days that it dawns on him - what if he doesn't get a chance to confess, again?

02. RED.

#1 on satoru's list of facts: you are so beautiful, it's unfair. he is looking at you now: all pretty and dolled up, lips perfect color of red that he wants to kiss until sun no longer shines. jealousy was something gojo had to experience very little of - is this what he feels gripping his heart when he sees your angelic face getting into a car with a man that is not him?

03. PURPLE.

satoru gojo does not know what to do with himself anymore - the love he has for you is all encompassing, he is drowning in it, and doesn't want to be saved. or more like you're killing him, and he keeps letting you do that.

04. INFINITY.

marriage for gojo was always political - marry, pop out powerful babies, continue clan's legacy. for him, it was nothing more than another responsibility in his never ending list. but now he cannot stop imagining what you would look like with a ring that binds you to him forever. he thinks he wants to give you one.

© rinniessance do not steal, plagiarize or translate my works. do not recommend me on tiktok, thank you