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ssa-dado · 3 months ago

Text

Cat Equals Sign Of Integration

Aaron Hotchner x bau!fem!reader Genre: fluff, smut (implied) Summary: Aaron, ever the strategist, decides that a little wine might help soften the blow of figuring out with you how to tell the team you’re dating. A solid plan - except for one tiny flaw: wine makes him a whore. Warnings: +18, MINORS DNI Hotch is a touch starved whore, a few cuss words here and there, wine gets a bit into both of your heads. Word Count: 5k Dado's Corner: Did I hallucinate this while working on one of the many requests still on my to-do list, only to realize halfway through that it was completely derailing from the main plot - but too cute to abandon? Yes. Is this fun? You tell me (pretty please).

masterlist(s)

One of the many rules you and Aaron had in your relationship was that if you cooked for date night, he was the one doing the dishes.

His idea.

You had been opposed to it at first - not because you minded, of course. You were actually a huge fan of grown men handling household chores without whining like toddlers about how it might somehow demasculate their poor, fragile egos.

No, you were opposed because you didn’t want him doing it out of some sense of obligation.

It took you a while to accept that Aaron wasn’t doing this because he owed you - he was doing it because he wanted to.

Because that was just… Aaron.

Ever the caregiver, always looking for ways to make life easier for the people he loved. He could give you the world and still come to you like a wounded dog, begging for forgiveness because he thought he wasn’t enough.

It was infuriating - for all the deep psychological reasons you could analyze for hours, but also for a much pettier one: when it was his turn to cook, instead of letting you do the dishes like the so-called rule dictated, he just… did them anyway.

And thus, the noble Mr. Clean - brave warrior of dish duty, his arms submerged in treacherous, frothy depths - found himself utterly helpless against the sudden, most dreadful buzzing of his phone.

A cruel twist of fate, indeed!

Stranded, defenseless, bound by duty to his porcelain captors, he could do nothing but stand there, a tragic figure of great importance, cruelly denied his right to immediately bestow his undivided attention upon whatever poor soul dared summon him.

Oh, the agony! The injustice! How swiftly the mighty are humbled… by a sink full of bubbles.

That was because, logically, if even a single drop of water touched his phone, he would instantly lose all of the very important, highly classified FBI secrets stored inside. Of course, phones couldn't possibly be waterproof.

Ha, imagine?! What a concept.

“Who is it?” Aaron asked, still scrubbing at your wine glass like he was trying to erase its entire existence.

Which – by the way - was completely pointless, considering that in less than five minutes, he planned on refilling it with some more. A different wine, yes. But for God’s sake, you weren’t going to die if the last few drops of white mixed with the red.

…What a fussy man.

“Penelope,” you replied, admiring the view.

What a view, really. That man was all legs and no ass, and you were finally learning to appreciate it.

“Ignore it,” he said, not even turning around.

Unfortunately for him - and for the HR department still blissfully unaware that their most serious, by-the-book boss was fraternizing with a subordinate - you were a profiler.

The U.S. government literally paid your bills every single month because you were exceptionally good at reading people.

And the way he answered? Yeah, that wasn’t the tone of a man casually dismissing an unimportant text. No, that was the tone of a man caught red-handed, scrambling for plausible deniability.

Embarrassed. Secretive. Suspicious. Frankly, if you didn’t already know what he was hiding, you’d be halfway to slapping cuffs on him. Wouldn’t even be the first time.

And so you read it – out loud.

Penelope Garcia, 7:56 PM:

hotch sir hotch bossman sir, i am DYING please tell me if you found out who her mystery boyfriend is i am suffering!!!!!!!! i know you know. i know it in my heart. if you can’t say it just give me a hint. a tiny one. a cryptic riddle. a blink. i will take anything.

^.ᆽ.^= ∫

By her, of course, she meant you - because despite a few months of keeping your relationship under wraps, you still hadn’t gotten around to telling the team. Your colleagues. Your friends. Your unwanted, overly nosy adopted children.

That their elusive "mystery boyfriend" was, in fact, your mutual boss.

You were going to tell them. Eventually.

Didn’t know when. But you would.

Then again, it wasn’t like you were surrounded by some of the best profilers in the country, trained to pick up on the slightest behavioral shift.

It’s not like the second two incredibly touch-starved people like you and Aaron started walking around with even a fraction of happiness, that wouldn’t immediately raise suspicions.

…Except, apparently, it hadn’t.

Because somehow, the team had only managed to land on half the conclusion: you were seeing someone.

But Aaron? Not even a blip on their radar.

It was almost impressive, really. The answer was so obvious that they had discarded it entirely, still wandering around in the dark, trying to piece together a puzzle that was sitting right in front of their faces.

Just like Penelope was doing now, so desperate for some reason that she was straight-up asking him outright - when not that long ago, she still thought twice before even making a dirty joke in his presence.

And so, you got up, walked over to Aaron, and held the phone directly under his nose. “What does this mean?”

He squinted at the screen, then at you. “Oh, honey, I don’t know. She always sends me that - I don’t understand what exactly equals the sign of integration”.

…What?

You were suddenly just as confused as he was.

He blinked at you, eyes wide, eyebrows raised in that utterly sincere, slightly bewildered way of his. “That sign before it,” he said, completely lost. “It looks Chinese. Thought you knew Chinese, sweetheart.”

…What?

Oh, for the love of God.

If this man hadn’t already seen the absolute worst horrors the world had to offer, you would fight for his innocence with your nails, your teeth, and - if absolutely necessary - one of the worst shooting records ever logged in the Bureau.

You looked at the screen again.

^.ᆽ.^= ∫

Oh.

Oh, that’s what had confused him.

“Aaron,” you said gently, doing your absolute best not to kiss him right then and there, “that is a cat.”

You sighed, then pointed at the message again. “By the way, the ‘sign’ in the middle is in Korean, not Chinese.”

He looked at the screen again - then back at you. “…Cat equals sign of integration?”

“No, honey,” you said, barely suppressing your smile, tapping the little text emoji. “It’s just a cat.”

He studied it for another second. “Oh.”

There. That did it. You gave in. Leaned in and pressed a loud smooch to his cheek.

At least your dignity was still intact - he had no idea why you’d done it, just assumed it was one of those spontaneous bursts of affection that came with being hopelessly in love.

Honeymoon phase truly did work wonders.

“Do you think I can have the cat too?” he asked, grabbing the bottle of red and a corkscrew.

That was a trap.

Because Aaron Hotchner still signed every single text he sent.

And while it wasn’t an issue when he was sending something standard -

Lawyer, 6:17 PM:

They found a new body, we’re gathering at the precinct in 30.

A.H.

- it became a lot more unsettling when he sent the filthiest, most depraved things you’d ever read, only to end them with that stiff little A.H. like he was dictating official Bureau correspondence.

Lawyer, 11:51 PM:

Sweetheart, if only these stupid walls weren’t so thin, I’d have you right here with me, bent over, face pressed against this mattress, making you come so many times you’d forget your own name. At least three. Maybe four, if I’m feeling generous.

A.H.

So now, standing in his kitchen, watching him pour wine like he hadn’t just permanently scarred you with his painfully bureaucratic approach to sexting, you knew that if you admitted he could simply copy-paste that ‘cat equals integration sign,’ it would only be a matter of time before you were subjected to something truly traumatizing, like -

Lawyer, very-late-office-hour PM:

It’s your fault I’m getting distracted with the paperwork, because I’m still thinking about how good you tasted last night while sitting on my face. God, I can still feel your thighs shaking, you were so sweet for me, honey, so fucking perfect.

P.S. How many reports do you still have left? Because I’ve been thinking about having you on my tongue again before the night is over. I think I’ve got about an hour or so left but then I’m all yours.

^.ᆽ.^= ∫

A.H.

Yeah. No. Absolutely not.

That man could not be trusted with the cat.

“Oh, honey,” you cooed, pressing a soft kiss between his shoulder blades as your fingers brushed over his back. “I don’t think you can get it. She must have programmed it herself into her phone.”

You truly hoped you were as convincing as he was clueless about text etiquette.

“It’s a pity,” he sighed, both of your wine glasses in hand as he made his way to the couch. “I would have loved to send you the cat.”

…Of course he would. Smug ass.

But as the words left his mouth, something shifted in him - just barely. A pause that didn’t usually belong there... weird.

Still, you followed, watching as he settled in, patting the cushion beside him with a half-smile. “Come here, sweetheart.”

A misleading gesture, considering his legs were very much spread - a much clearer invitation. At least, that’s how you chose to interpret it.

Because you could swear - those legs spoke to you. Called to you. So you slid right into your rightful seat - his lap.

…Would have been rude not to answer.

“Back to Garcia,” he said, resting a hand on your thigh as he handed you your painstakingly polished wine glass - so clean, so immaculately spotless, that the red wine inside looked redder than red. A real masterpiece, Mr. Clean. “She doesn’t seem to be letting up about finding out who you’re dating… This is the fourth message this week.”

You raised a brow, taking a sip of your wine. “Well, she’s second only to you when it comes to being nosy about gossip.”

Aaron exhaled, shaking his head, that same small half-smile back on his lips.

That particular smile.

The one he used when he was trying to convince someone he was fine when, in reality, he was not - when he was trying to reassure everyone else while simultaneously refusing to admit, even to himself, that something was eating him alive.

Oh, now you knew what this was about.

He had definitely practiced this conversation in his head - refined it down to the perfect phrasing. Measured. Logical. Reassuring.

A version so well-rehearsed, so carefully constructed, that he’d convinced himself first before trying to convince you - that this didn’t scare him.

That this was just another rational step forward.

That it was fine.

Because if he could make it sound easy, maybe it would be.

Maybe it would give you something solid to lean on, because the last thing he wanted was for you to feel like you were standing on shaky ground with someone just as fractured as he was.

But in the end, even the best-laid words couldn’t withstand the weight of his emotions - whether he liked it or not, even rocks are meant to erode.

“I think it’s time we come clean to the team,” he admitted, completely veering off-script - though, of course, he still made sure to soften the blow with a kiss to your temple.

Not that it made much difference. You both knew this moment was inevitable, but somehow, you’d managed to delude yourselves into thinking that if you just kept putting it off, the perfect time would miraculously appear.

At first, you’d delayed it until things were official.

Then, because you needed to be sure this could work in the long run.

Then, because you wanted time to just enjoy each other.

Truthfully? If it were entirely up to the two of you, you’d probably keep postponing it indefinitely - at least until the day you were both retired, far away from any fraternization rules or painfully awkward team dynamics.

Unless, of course, your eyes had been deceiving you all along, or life decided to be cruel and rip this happiness away from you before you ever even got the chance. All you could do was hope not.

Aaron sighed, watching you carefully. “So, how do you want to do this?”

At least he could take comfort in the fact that his very specific plan of having wine while discussing this was still intact - especially since the very large sip you took the second he asked hadn’t gone unnoticed.

He huffed a laugh.

Yeah.

This was going to be fun.

“Are we sure we have to?” You groaned, tilting your head back against his shoulder.

“I’m afraid so, sweetheart. It’s the only way to keep them from getting the satisfaction of figuring it out first and do this our way…”

It was his turn to take a long sip now… he surely wasn’t thrilled about the lack of an actual game plan.

“…Still need to figure out what exactly we mean by ‘our way,’” he admitted. “But, you know… that’s what these are for.”

He tapped a finger against his temple, then against yours, clearly implying that your very skilled, highly trained profiler brains would surely work this out.

You, however, were placing your bets on your problem-solving skills drastically improving after a few more glasses of wine, because right now?

“We are so fucked,” you commented.

Aaron clinked his glass against yours, deadpan. “Completely.”

You both took long, slow sips of wine like it might somehow provide divine intervention.

It didn’t. You were indeed left pretty much alone in this.

You sighed, setting your glass down on the coffee table. “Well, you definitely have the face of someone who already has a plan...” You reached up, brushing your fingers along his jaw. “...a very handsome face.”

Cheesy. But deserved.

Aaron chuckled. “I believe…” He kissed you on the cheek – twice - before setting his own glass down too. “…We should tell them directly. Get ahead of it. Lay it out as matter-of-factly as possible.”

“Matter-of-factly?”

He nodded, all serious, like he hadn’t just suggested the worst possible approach.

“Sweetheart…” You pinched his cheek, making him scrunch his nose, hoping – more like praying - that it would snap him out of whatever fantasy land of logic, reason, and good intentions he was apparently living in.

“If we tell them directly, Penelope will throw an actual partypersonally design matching t-shirts, and have the entire team wear them.” You paused, leveling him with a look. “And you know it wouldn’t be the first time.”

“I know.”

“Emily and Derek will immediately start making jokes like two middle schoolers who just learned what sex is and will not let us breathe.”

“I know.”

“JJ will be quiet but then ask all of a sudden, ‘So when’s the wedding?’ which will restart the chaos all over again.”

“I know.”

You turned to face him, deadly serious. “Spencer-”

“-Will hit us with a full statistical analysis of workplace relationships,” Aaron finished, exhaling sharply, already bracing himself.

Because there was only one team member left to account for - the worst of them all.

“And… oh God… Dave…”

And with that horrifying realization, he did the only logical thing a man in his position could do - he face-planted directly into your chest with a dramatic, muffled groan of pure defeat.

You blinked down at him, amused. “Honey…”

Why was he even so touch starved like that?

“All I ask,” came his muffled voice, still very much nestled between your breasts, “is five minutes of peace.”

You snorted. “You do realize this isn’t exactly discouraging me from making fun of you, right?”

He sighed again. “You do realize that if you keep laughing, you’re just shoving them further into my face?”

…Damn him and his irritating ability to state the obvious.

You sighed, fingers absentmindedly combing through his short spikes of hair. “…So we’re back to square one.”

Aaron exhaled, still very much face-first in his chosen safe haven. “Unfortunately.”

You hummed, “Okay, hypothetically, if we just… never tell them, how long do you think we could get away with it?”

That was so absurd that it actually made him lift his head. He blinked at you, utterly offended by the suggestion.

“I am not spending the next decade pretending I don’t stare at your ass every time you walk away.”

…Alright. That was definitely the wine talking.

In vino veritas, as the Romans said. Wine makes people say dumb shit: the truth.

“Wow. Didn’t know you were a poet, Hotchner.”

His lips twitched. “Don’t pretend you’re above it, because I catch you every time you drift off during briefings just to stare right at-”

“Alright, alright,” you cut him off, slapping a hand over his mouth before he could fully call you out... he was not happy about it. “We’re both shameless…"

You needed an exit strategy. Fast.

You reached for his wine glass over the coffee table. “Well, at least the bright side of telling them is that we won’t have to schedule our coffee breaks in advance anymore and pretend to look surprised when we see each other.”

And all of that was just for one single moment.

The fleeting brush of fingertips as you handed him the cup you always poured for him.

The way his hand was always warmer than yours, despite the fact that you were the one holding the scalding mug, as if basic thermodynamics simply did not apply to Aaron Hotchner.

And if it was one of those days, sometimes, there’d be a little extra something.

A longer touch.

Eye contact that lingered just a second too long.

A slow sip from his cup while still holding your gaze, and suddenly, it felt indecent - like something you definitely shouldn’t be doing in broad daylight, let alone in a federal building.

And now - here, in the comfort of his apartment, with nothing and no one to stop you - he reached for the wine glass you were offering, except… he wasn’t actually reaching for the glass.

He was just holding your hand.

Aaron chuckled, his thumb tracing lazy circles over your knuckles. “I think we’re holding onto this touch just a little too long,” he murmured, nuzzling into you, his breath warm against your ear. “Might start looking suspicious.”

Didn’t he knew exactly what he was doing.

“Oh, also some-” you started, or at least tried to, because as if everything else wasn’t enough, now he was kissing just behind your ear, his lips just brushing the sensitive skin there, warm, and slow, and wet and… God…

Okay. Okay.

Maybe it was the wine.

Maybe it was the fact that you were always kind of a little bit obsessed with him.

Either way, the result was the same: you really, really wanted him right now.

You sighed, tilting your head to grant him a little more access - but not too much, or you might actually end up using the full length of his three-seater couch instead of stubbornly remaining curled up in the same cramped two-foot space you’d unofficially claimed as your own. Ergo - going horizontal with him instead of just being seated on his lap.

“I thought we were having a serious discussion,” you murmured, though the breathy edge to your voice wasn’t exactly helping your case.

Aaron hummed in response, slowly dragging his lips from behind your ear down along the curve of your jaw, pressing a kiss at the hinge. “We are.” Another kiss. “What were you starting to say, sweetheart?”

And another one.

You tried to think. Really, you did.

But it was getting increasingly difficult with his mouth still very much on your skin, moving towards places that were making it exponentially harder to form coherent thoughts.

You would’ve made a mental note to never wear anything that resembled a tank top around him again, if only you had the actual brain capacity to form any notes right now.

“Aaron-”

Aaron smirked against your skin. “You were saying?”

…Blank. Absolutely blank.

Your brain stalled for a solid three seconds before mercifully rebooting.

“I-” You licked your lips, cleared your throat. “Penelope.”

That, thankfully, was enough of a keyword to get him to back off - though, the second he did, you already desperately missed the warmth of his mouth on your skin.

He tilted his head, “Penelope?”

You swallowed. “She’s… gonna be beaming.”

Aaron blinked at you. “Beaming.”

“Yeah.” You smiled, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek, because God, he was too cute when he was confused like this. “Her and Kevin have been desperate for another couple to go out with. Ever since JJ and Will stopped leaving the house because they’re too busy baby-proofing every square inch of their lives.”

Aaron’s brows furrowed slightly. “And by ‘go out with,’ you mean double dates.”

You hummed, fingers grazing his cheek. “Mmm. Yeah. Double dates.”

Aaron didn’t even hesitate. “Oh, absolutely not.”

You blinked, pulling back slightly. “Wait, what?”

His face was resolute. “I’m not doing double dates.”

You squinted at him. “Okay, but why?”

And that’s how you learned that if there was one thing your boyfriend hated - more than messy paperwork, more than delayed flights, more than the Bureau’s budgeting meetings - it was double dates.

Not specifically with Penelope and Kevin. God, no. He was practically the puppet master of their relationship in the first place. Just… double dates in general.

“They’re impractical,” he said.

You snorted. “What do you mean?”

Aaron sighed. “They are a waste of time. You sit there, and for the first fifteen minutes, it’s fine. The usual small talk, polite conversation…”

You nodded, barely biting back a grin. “That doesn’t sound so bad.”

Honestly, this just sounded like some classic Aaron Hotchner being the most adorable introvert to ever exist.

He shot you a look, deadly serious. “It’s a trap.” You nearly cooed. Adorable. “Because at some point, you end up talking one-on-one with someone from the other couple. And right when the conversation is actually getting interesting-”

He suddenly paused.

His hand started at your shoulder, innocent enough - until it wasn’t, until it drifted lower, fingertips skimming down until they found your thigh, before sliding inward, squeezing your soft flesh there.

“See?” Aaron murmured, voice deceptively casual. “It starts off innocently. A hand on the shoulder…”He angled his fingers just a notch further up your upper thigh. “…Then the thigh. Then-”

He leaned in, kissing you just at the corner of your mouth.

"A little kiss here," he murmured, lips barely brushing your skin.

Then another - softer, lingering just at the very edge of your lips.

"A little peck there."

Okay.

Ahem.

For a man who hated double dates, he was making a very strong case for them.

This was clearly foreplay.

Had to be foreplay.

You chose to interpret it as foreplay.

So, naturally, just as you were about to pull him in properly - to finally taste the wine on his lips – he pulled back.

Mixed signals whore.

“And then,” he continued, and you swore his voice had gotten even lower - sluttier, if you were being honest - "it escalates.”

...Wine-induced yapper. "Because one couple decides a little peck isn’t enough, so they turn and start devouring each other’s faces… in public.”

The wine that was in your system, instead, suggested you should have him biblically, right here, right now, on his couch.

“Care to demonstrate this part too?” You licked your lips, tilting your head.

Aaron sighed “Honey.” You knew you were in trouble the moment he smirked. “You’re demonstrating my point…”

Your stomach dropped.

“…You want more.” Aaron tutted, shaking his head, feigning disappointment. “Of course you want more. A chaste kiss isn’t enough. How could it be, sweetheart?”

Hell yes you wanted more.

Badly.

You might have even nodded without meaning to.

“But imagine if this was happening in public. In front of two other people. What about them?” he murmured, tilting his head, voice dropping into something dark, silky, dangerous. “In front of two other people.”

You swallowed, very much not thinking about them right now.

“Because at that point, they only have two choices: they either sit there - third-wheeling, watching - or…” His hand slid beneath your shirt, fingers splaying wide over your bare waist, gripping, pulling you that much closer. "… they start doing it too."

Your breath hitched. “Aaron-”

"With just a kiss, it creates an environment," he murmured, lips grazing the shell of your ear, "where both couples get competitive. Where they start copying each other - but making it more…"

He dragged his nose along the curve of your jaw, the ghost of his lips tracing just behind it. "Passionate."

A teeth-grazing kiss against your pulse.

A slow drag of his lips down the column of your throat, before he made his way back up, tilting your chin up with his fingers just so, forcing you to look at him.

And God, that look.

"More tongue," he continued, letting you see it first - his own darting out, wetting his lips just before he brushed them over yours.

Not kissing.

Not yet.

“More biting.” Aaron caught your lower lip between his teeth, pulling just enough to confirm what you already knew -

He tasted like red wine.

Rich. Dark. Addictive.

And so did you.

“More touching.” His hand drifted, fingertips just skimming over your ribs, teasing along the underside of your breast - so close, so close, before he let it trail lower again, just as his lips ghosted over your ear.

"More sounds."

You barely bit back the breathy, desperate little moan clawing its way up your throat because -

Aaron shoved you off his lap.

In one fluid motion, he shifted, pressing you back into the couch, caging you in beneath him, his arms bracketing either side of your head.

His knee slotted between your thighs, pressing up just slightly - just enough to make you gasp, make your hips twitch without thinking.

You were pretty sure now that this was, in fact, foreplay.

“At that point,” he murmured, lowering himself, pressing his body against yours, pinning you down with nothing but his weight, “if you’re already getting ideas…”

Aaron rolled his hips against you, his knee shifting just enough to have you sucking in a sharp breath. “…it’s better off just staying home. Because at least then,” he whispered, “we can do this.”

And then he kissed you. Properly.

Deep and hungry, pressing you down into the cushions until you moaned into his mouth, pulling him closer as one of his hands slipped under your shirt.

“You-” you swallowed, trying to find words, but he stole them from you, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to your jaw. “You expect me to believe this is why you hate double dates?”

“I expect you to understand,” he murmured against the sensitive skin of your neck, “that if I ever go on one…” he nipped at your pulse, making you gasp. “…I’ll be thinking about this the entire time.”

Then - click.

The sound of the button of your pants being undone, followed shortly by the hiss of your zipper. You felt the warmth of his fingertips slipping beneath the waistband of your pants, resting over your hip bone.

Well, fuck.

“You’ll be sitting across from me,” he continued, voice so unfairly composed, so infuriatingly smooth, “pretending to listen to whatever they’re taking about.”

He tilted his head, kissing along your collarbone, then much lower. You made a mental note to always wear anything resembling a tank top in his presence from now on.

“And the entire time…” his fingers dipped just slightly beneath the elastic of your underwear.

You shuddered. “Aaron.”

He hummed, pleased - so deeply pleased - before finally sliding lower, his fingers finally brushing right where you needed him most.

You whimpered.

“I’ll be remembering,” he murmured, “exactly how you sound right now.”

Your back arched into his touch, fingers digging into his shoulders, nails biting into muscle as his fingers moved.

“And how you look,” he added, his lips brushing the curve of your breast, “when you fall apart for me.”

Your breath hitched-

And then.

Then-

He stopped.

Just - stopped.

His hands left you completely as he leaned back, settling onto his knees above you, looking far too pleased with himself.

You gaped at him, betrayed. “Are you kidding me?”

Aaron just smirked, gaze flicking over you, taking in your flushed cheeks, your uneven breathing, the way your body was still desperately aching for him.

“See?” he shrugged, voice so damn smug. “This is why I hate double dates.”

How funny would it be if these ended up being his last words?

You huffed, adjusting yourself on the couch, crossing your arms like you weren’t still ridiculously turned on and very annoyed about it. “Alright, you know what? Fine. No need to suffer through a double date if we just… conveniently wait to tell the team about us until after JJ and Will start going back out with Penelope and Kevin.”

Aaron smirked.

At least you’d both come to an agreement - the exact same procrastination tactic you’d been using, just with a new and improved excuse attached.

“…Smart girl.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “Don’t patronize me.”

“I wouldn’t dare, sweetheart.”

You rolled your eyes, still breathing heavily, still so deeply unsatisfied, as Aaron pressed a kiss to your temple, then stood, stretching his arms.

“I’ll clean the wine glasses,” he mused, already heading toward the kitchen. “And then I’ll be back to you.”

You stared at him.

He paused, glancing at you over his shoulder, smirking.

You huffed, sarcastic, “glad we could work this out.”

You were not glad. Not at all. Especially because not even a full minute later, your phone buzzed with a text.

From him.

From Mr. Clean himself, who was currently just a couple rooms away from you.

Lawyer, 8:43 PM:

Sweetheart, I hope you're ready, because I’m going to spread you out on that couch and fuck you so deep, you’ll still feel me when you sit at your desk tomorrow.

^.ᆽ.^= ∫

A.H.

"Garcia just told me how to get the cat," came his voice from the kitchen - so damn smug you could hear the smirk in it, followed the sound of his footsteps getting closer.

Before you could turn, before you could say anything, he was there - leaning in from behind the couch, arms sliding around you, caging you in, whispering into your ear -

"It was just a simple copy-paste."

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#dado 400 #aaron hotchner #hotch #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotch x reader #hotch x reader #aaron hotchner smut #aaron hotchner x reader smut

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moonlight-prose · 6 months ago

Note

“please don’t make me say it if you aren’t going to say it back” with a desperately in love with joel reader would hit so much…

weaved around your finger like yarn

a/n: me writing for joel again?? this has sat in my inbox for over a year and i never meant to actually take this long with it. but i finally figured out how to write this concept. and now i am actually obsessed with the small world of softness i created for these two. this is yes jackson joel, but nothing bad happens ever to him because why would it? it's all fine right?

summary: he never made space in his life for love in the aftermath of destruction. the after of his life he once thought would extend past decades of gray hair, smile lines carved in around his mouth now set in frowns and sneers. but snowfall and alcohol blur the lines for both of you when winter comes to jackson.

word count: 1.6k+

pairing: joel miller x reader

warnings: not explicit, love confessions, heavy makeout sessions, alcohol consumption, tipsy joel, sad joel, laughter at the end of the world, hope.

He can't remember laughing until his stomach hurt. The ache that spilled into his chest, warming his insides with a sun like quality that left him shivering. He can't recall the feel of his cheeks pulled so wide the sensation became a phantom pain seconds after. He knows it happened. He can distinctly recall the jokes, the joy. But the laughter lingers like a ghost at the back of his mind—translucent and gray and distorted enough to feel false.

Alcohol simmers in his stomach with a rueful intent. A malignant aftermath that would hit him in a few hours after two months of attempted sobriety. Ellie insisted, he accepted. Easy enough to say. Difficult to follow through with.

He had his days where whiskey sounded better than the flavor of bacon Tommy would bring him in the early mornings. But the dismay in your eyes helped him hold off, regain his awareness of a world not yet shattered. For once in quite a long time...he finally lived. For you, for Ellie, for Sarah.

He lived to see his hair grow longer and the grays appear more frequently. To drink coffee in the mornings on a porch you were already settled on. To help you fix small things here and there in your cabin next door. He lived for your smile, the light in your eyes. The curve of your lips as they pulled up into bolstering peals of laughter—the furrow in your brow as you frowned from endless frustrations on long hard days.

Joel Miller lived to love you.

He existed to dig his heels in and wait shit out—it's what he was good at, what he knew how to do. But for you he relented quicker than ice on a hot asphalt driveway back home in Texas. His mind became sand that slipped through your giving hands—heart a fluttering mess that sang a tune he could never get right on the guitar stashed in his living room.

Days bloomed into weeks which grew into months. Eventually a year passed and what used to be difficult and awkward to be around people again, felt like breathing the fresh winter air. The jackets he managed to find hung on hooks by the door, a pair of heavy boots beside the small table Tommy crafted him.

The mornings were nice. When hot water hit ground coffee and the aroma plagued his kitchen for hours at a time. The evenings called you towards him—simple cooking skills shared in the confines of a home he pined for you to reside in.

Life was a sliver of peace he never imagined he'd get again. But the hole in his heart never faded, the pain still rang out sharp enough to have him clamping down on the inside of his cheek. And your smile made his stomach ache with a longing deep enough to scar.

Tommy told him to buck up and do something. Ellie called him a fucking idiot.

You...gave no indication you felt the same way. So silent and reserved he would remain.

Your feet slid on icy, fingers gripping tightly to his jacket with a yelp in a quick attempt to save yourself from slamming to the ground. Joel snickered loud and brash and a wash of embarrassment burned under frozen cheeks. Dragging you up, his arm looped tightly around your waist—hand pressed harsh and insistent to the small of your back. You swallowed the butterflies at the sight of his face flushed red—eyes shining from the effect of too much whiskey.

"We were bad tonight," you muttered, breath forming a cloud between your faces.

He grinned—skin buzzing at the close proximity of your form. "Only a little bit."

"You're not supposed to drink Joel."

Leaning in he traded his smile like a secret; you tucked it into your chest with a sharp breath. "I won't tell if you don't, darlin'."

"Joel..."

"C'mon. No one's gettin' in trouble here."

A blade pierced your heart brutally—spilling crimson along pale white snow. Even as Joel remained entirely unaware of how you clung to him. How your body called his name—your mind plagued with thoughts of his being, with images of his smile, with the sound of his raspy voice. He'd never know the way you cherished each moment with him. The mornings tucked away from an unruly world—the nights shared between friends who might one day be more.

Your teeth scraped along the cracked skin of your bottom lip, eyes cast up to the curl of his lips. The words sprang forth faster than you could drag them back. Your chest of secrets unlocked and bared to the man who drowned you in his small flecks of joy. Later you'd blame the alcohol. When the headache ravaged your head and an ache lingered between your thighs.

Later you'd comb over every small glance and breathy word.

"I like spending time with you Joel," you breathed, fingers toying with the front of his leather coat. "I like...um..."

The breath caught in his throat, gaze desperate to catch yours. "Yeah sugar?"

"It's a hard thing to say." Another cloud of your whiskey tinged breath filled the air.

"You can tell me anythin'. You know that right?" Even as hope flared bright and scorching through the width of his chest. "I'll listen."

Hesitation spilled into the night, your voice a soft whisper he barely caught. "Please don't make me say it if you aren't going to say it back."

Oh didn't you know?

Did you not see how his gaze dug beneath the layers of flesh and bone, of tendons and veins that clung to your form? Did you not understand he would take a bullet for you? That he'd bear the wound of a warrior's death to keep you alive? How could you not know that his love stuck to his tongue with a saccharine bitterness he swallowed down like the drugs he once took to numb his mind?

You healed pieces of his soul you never broke. A marred and fucked puzzle that was meant to find a home six feet underground. By his own hand no less. He was destined to die—born to suffer—yet you swathed him wool with the promise of a peaceful life.

A future etched by the hands of love.

"Say it," he pleaded, frozen hand cupping your cheek.

"It's more than just that." The breath you took shot adrenaline down his spine. "I like our mornings. I like our dinners and conversation. And even when you come into town with me. But I...I love..."

The glossy nature of your eyes created by unshed tears that pooled at your waterline dug the knife deep enough to meld it within his heart. You didn't know. You couldn't have. His silence, his hesitation, swallowed every emotion he might have told you—every secret uttered in the shadows of night that told only half his story.

He told you about Sarah. About their life together, about her smile. That in itself felt like a proclamation of love—a key to the heart he thought stopped beating long ago.

"I knew it would freak you out," you muttered, pulling away from his hold.

Only for him to panic. His hand gripped the back of your jacket, pushing you towards him hard enough for your feet to slip again. But your gasp was swallowed by the cold press of his mouth to yours. Lips chapped by the winter air slid against your parted mouth as you froze against his chest. Your hands hung listlessly at your sides. He kissed you tenderly, attempting to wake you from the spell of shock, but to no avail did it bring you back.

"'M sorry." His words were muffled against your chin, forehead pressed to yours and eyes squeezed shut. "I shouldn't have–"

The press of your fingers into his cheeks jolted him back—eyes wide as you dragged him back with a stifled moan. Your mouth found his tongue hot and wet along his bottom lip in a pleading motion he complied to instantly. Stepping forward he fell into you with a deep groan. One that echoed and vibrated right down to your stomach—one you savored with a lick along his back teeth.

Hands cupped your ass with an insistent need to mold you closer, fingers digging into the plush flesh he longed to bite and taste. You tasted like whiskey. You smelled like him. It made him dizzy with want, anxious to lead you back to his porch—to seat you on his kitchen counter in the mornings while the coffee went cold.

"Fuck I wanna take ya home sugar," he grunted, biting at your lower lip with a grin.

Your breathless reply made the hair stand on the back of his neck. "You can."

"No." He shook his head, stealing another kiss with a gritty moan. "Not tonight. 'M gonna do this proper."

"Proper," you smiled, tugging on the longer curls you refused to let him cut. "You're such an old man Miller."

The large breadth of his hand cupped your chin, pushing the cheeks he lightly bit into together. "Won't be sayin' that tomorrow when I ain't got all this fuckin' alcohol in me."

"Yeah?" The droop of your eyelids—the darkened iris now filled with lust—set his teeth on edge. His body hummed with a new buzz he craved since meeting you. "Prove it."

"Oh I will." He grinned sharply, licking his teeth like a wolf waiting to pounce. "Don't you worry 'bout that."

A glimmer in your eyes caught his attention, the grip on your face loosening. "You know I love you right darlin'?"

You smiled—big and bright—and Joel felt another piece of his soul set back into place. "I love you too Joel."

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x y/n #joel miller fic #joel miller #pedrostories #my writing

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slut-for-free-will · 1 month ago

Text

eltingville club headcannons (x reader)

✿˖˚ ༘𐙚 > // my headcannons for the boys + if they were romantic with you. I tried to make it relatively gender neutral on your part, but Bill is written as x fem reader.

wordcount: 4933

rating: medium -> mature-ish (some parts are freaky *cough bill and Peter DiNunzio*)

warnings: unhealthy relationships (ESPECIALLY Bill), themes of child neglect, cursing, misogyny, Bill Dickey, Pete Dinunzio

Jerry

Jerry’s grades are decent, mainly B’s and B+’s, an occasional A.

His parents aren’t really present in his personal life.

Use to get bad anxiety as a kid, especially when his parents fought.

Who am I kidding Jerry still gets heavy anxiety.

Horrible poker face.

Before he even knew your name, the slightest glimpse of you would make his cheeks tingle and butterflies flood his stomach.

When he’s nervous his palms will HEAVILY sweat (When you first start dating, you can’t hold hands bc they’re lowkey slimy)

His room is clean-ish, no garbage overflowing his trash can or anything, but Jerry’s not very organized.

Papers of loose ideas, DnD dice, pencils, and the occasional figurine or magazine litter the floor.

He also liked eating snacks in his room, but he got lectured by his mom upon getting ants and was forced to stop.

The first time he knew you were coming over he PANICKED.

When you went into his room you were surprised — Jerry didn’t seem like such a clean and orderly person.

His bookshelves are crammed with fantasy books, though (he's been dying to read them, but has trouble focusing on pages of a book; most of the time he vies for watching TV and movies)

Thank god you didn’t open the closet — a flood of figurines, comics, magazines, books, plushies and everything else under the sun would have buried you both.

Speaking of plushies, Jerry sleeps with them. They crowd his bed.

And he didn’t invite you to enter his room, you just sorta stumbled in there accidentally (if you had waited for an invitation it would never come — he was way too nervous to offer you into his room).

I feel like his love language would be words of affirmation.

As much as live action is cool, Jerry loves 2D animation much more.

Pretty insecure about sharing his ideas for stories and whatnot. He's nervous about getting insulted — even something small is enough to keep him awake at night.

When you first let him tentatively share a new concept for a DnD plot and praise him for it, his brain short circuits.

Now he's way more than just head over heels. He’s like. Soul and mind over physical plane of existence if that makes sense.

He would die for you, is what I’m saying.

If you have any story ideas/paracosms/OCs, he would LOVE to hear you yap abt them. Since you’re both creative, you might just hang out and worldbuild together.

Loves reading high fantasy books to you

If you read to him his heart would explode (I'm not joking) (this also helps him read the books he's been meaning to get to)

Will actually die if you take him to a ren faire. Will fade to dust if you dress up with him.

If you weren’t into DnD, Jerry would want you to get into it SO BADLY. But he would never push you (even offhand interest would make his heart backflip)

Loves to put inside jokes you two share into his DnD plotlines as easter eggs for himself (even if you aren’t at the club meetings 99% of the time)

Speaking of being there…

He doesn’t like it when you hang around the club (or if you’re even in close proximity with those freaks) and absolutely bars you from following him to their sessions.

The closest you’ll get is maybe a walk to Bill’s front porch.

Most of the time, Jerry does anything he can to avoid you and the members of the club interacting.

Despite all your love for each other, he wouldn't try and stick up for you if you were bad-mouthed by the rest of the club members.

Jerry probably wouldn't tell you what they're saying, either.

He gets so scared you'll stop liking him because of his company, maybe become a victim of their attention, or possibly even leave him.

And god forbid if you ever broke up.

He'd fall into a deep spiral of depression, but wouldn’t ask for help or try and get back together.

Jerry’s one to self blame and retreat inwards; every time you'd get into an argument, he would find some way to lay the blame on and/or isolate himself.

You have to apologize first.

Josh

Gets good grades, but has to put in effort. His family values education quite a bit.

Cat person (would probably dress up his cats if he had any)(his family doesn’t have pets).

Blind as a bat without his glasses, and takes good care of them.

Josh is actually a pretty organized person. His room itself is quite clean, but his desk is cluttered with everything from candy wrappers to half-built figurines.

Uses emoticons instead of emojis.

Listens to podcasts most of the time. In terms of music, he doesn’t really have a set music taste. He says he loves whatever you’re into, though.

On occasion, he’ll stay up late, but Josh is pretty good about having a normal sleep schedule.

Hella scared about opening up personally, but yaps to death about whatever sci-fi thing he’s interested in.

Josh has a few main interests (Star Trek, Star Wars, Stargate, etc.) but beyond that, his outer interests change every week.

One day he’ll be reading a series about warring aliens, the next giving a ted talk on several different space technologies.

Probably reads a lot – and fast, too. (If the club found out about this they’d call him a nerd) (but they’re ALL nerds so that insult doesn’t really go anywhere)

Josh the typa guy to kick his feet and blush into his pillow like an anime girl when thinking about you.

Also the typa guy to think about his parents funeral at 2AM in the morning and start sobbing.

When you first meet, you’re in the library, browsing for a book.

You overhear loud whispers — insults, laughter, and angry comebacks.

As you inch closer, you spot four figures jeering in between the bookshelves. You can’t really recognize them from your spot, hidden amongst the books, but you realize they’re… making fun of someone.

It’s not long before three of them shuffle off, leaving one behind.

You emerge from your place between the shelves, ask if he’s alright.

It’s honest and sweet.

Josh has never been talked to like that.

Soon enough, you’re thriving in his dreams – swooping in to save him from the club’s torment. As time drags on, the club’s appearances in his dreams lessen – instead, it’s just you, you, you.

He asks to hang out often; he’s a quality time fan (can get clingy, expanded upon later)

Josh will get elated if you let him vent – or even just listen to anything he says. All you have to do is just sit there, really.

He’s bothered by comments on his physical appearance, but they don’t typically get to him as much as they used to.

You, on the other hand – your comments would have an effect. He'll brush it off, but think about it later (and by think, I mean have an existential crisis).

Josh gets really insecure when he’s around you.

And he spirals easily; it’s hard for him to keep a cool head.

If you leave him for a moment while hanging out in some public place, a rush of thoughts will flood his head (What if you abandoned him? What if you don’t like him anymore? What if this relationship is just one big joke, and he’s the butt of it?)

You find yourself having to reassure him that your relationship is legit.

Hangouts can be anywhere from your room, to his room, to the park, to honestly even the grocery store.

Prefers being able to see your face — wouldn’t go to a movie theater with you (unless they’re playing some movie he’s really excited to see).

Would love you forever if you gave him a collectible that he’s missing in his collection.

Josh doesn’t get a lot of praise or things he likes in his life – even the smallest passing comment gives him something to smile at for the rest of the week.

He can get really clingy, though. Like SUPER clingy.

He wants to spend as much time as he can with you — every possible moment he has, spending time with you is amongst his top three things of stuff he wants to do.

Josh calls you at least once a day, walks you to every class (even if it makes him late), and wakes you up in the middle of the night through a call or text to ask if you’re ok (he had a dream where you got hurt).

Like Jerry, he doesn’t want you hanging around to the club — but his feelings are way more extreme.

He despises, DETESTS you being anywhere within 100 miles of any of them.

Josh keeps your relationship a secret for as long as possible, and frequently makes up excuses to tell both you and the club to not hang out.

If you end up finding out about the club? Fine! But don’t expect to be invited to any meetings, EVER.

If the club finds out about you… good god.

They’ll probably see if they can get you and Josh to break up, doing anything from spreading rumors to pulling pranks to even staging a “He cheated on you!” scandal.

But you never will break up.

Josh wouldn’t (couldn’t) allow it.

Pete

HOLY MOLY does this boy have BAD BAD BAD grades

Just barely passing his classes, and his parents don’t really care that he’s highkey struggling.

Uses class to mess around, catch up on sleep, or do anything that’s not classwork.

Sometimes has insomnia, other times he’s out like a light and sleeps like a log. No in between.

Complete lack of sleep schedule. Goes to bed anywhere from 11pm to 5am.

I side with the Pete-snores-when-he’s-asleep truthers. He probably mumbles too.

Fan of insect torture as a kid (never grew out of it)

Probably has 5 or 6 siblings and doesn’t get much attention, leading to him locking himself away in his room watching his disgusting movies or hanging out with the club.

Either way, Pete has a lot of free time – the most by far out of the club members.

He likes music he can play loudly (i.e rap and heavy metal).

Won’t do house music, though. He claims “any music that don’t got lyrics ain’t fuck’n music.”

Has a fake drivers license that says he’s 21 (it’s so obviously fake, though)

Pete relates a lot of things in his daily life to horror movies (i.e stalking through the streets of an unsuspecting neighborhood, the pale streetlights a temporary respite from the shadows that ravage silent suburbia is basically him as Michael Myers about to kill some bimbo bitch)

He could talk at great lengths about various assortments of snacks to eat upon viewing different categories of horror movies for exclusive experiences.

You maybe met on the bus — it was your first day at this new school, and you’re blissfully unaware of all the social workings of .

God when you stepped on that stupid, yellow, loud ass, hot and sweltering tin can on wheels, it was over for you.

Pete laid his beady little eyes on you, he went dead silent, right in the middle of terrorizing the freshmen behind him with his gory recollections of whatever blood-soaked film it was.

When you sat in the bus seat directly in front of him, he lost it.

Did you know who he was? Were you aware the neighborhood horror-porn maniac is sitting behind you? And did you know how mouth-wateringly, drop-dead gorgeous you are?

It was all a downhill tumble from there; Pete heaves himself up as the bus starts moving, making remarks about your physical appearance.

Before long it’s now romantic advances like gifts, confessions, reminders that he knows where you live.

And even if you try and change seats he’ll force his way to sit somewhere near you and continue his odd serenade of you.

So now, with this new obsession, Pete will take “bathroom breaks,” consisting of him strolling down the halls, trying to figure out which classes you have and when.

Soon enough, he’s memorized your entire schedule and will pick spots to wait for you that will ensure you two see each other.

The romantic tension is really getting to him. Is it getting to you?

While you can’t escape Pete in school, he can’t escape you, ever.

You infect his dreams, whisper into every aspect of his life, and Pete can’t even watch a goddamn horrible slasher flick without seeing you in place of the final girl, covered in blood, screeching in terror (before promptly having to rub one out).

Honest to god I have no idea how you two would end up together.

Best guess? You go watch a movie (alone, if this is to play out correctly) and that freak ass club ducks into the theatre, hoping to creep into the seats and watch whatever knockoff film was showing, free of charge.

They can’t see shit as the lights click off and the screen turns black, so somehow Pete ends up filing into the same row as poor, unsuspecting you.

From there? Can’t say; perhaps he notices you before you notice him. Maybe he just stares in disbelief for a moment – I mean it’s you, the person who rules his dreams and his mind (and might possibly like him).

Then maybe he gets a bit bolder, lets his hands to the talking, and you sit there and take it because you know you like him back and then he grabs your chin, rough and hungry, and closes in and the two of you are-

Man, who knows.

Love language? That’s a hard one. I’m thinking “wild card” — you have no idea what he’s gonna do for you and when he’s gonna do it, but whatever it is, it’s thoughtful.

And MY GOD is his room RANCID.

There's like mystery wet spots and piles of trash and dirty clothes everywhere.

And crumpled tissues. Let's not think about those right now.

He doesn’t even bother to clean it the first time you come over either. You just have to stand there awkwardly while Pete rants about this one obscure horror film that copied this other obscure horror film.

His parents don't really ask him to clean his room basically ever, and Pete has ZERO sense of personal hygiene.

Showers like twice a month. Maybe thrice if he can muster up the want.

Pete likes cold showers. He also likes eating ice cream, outdoors, in the middle of winter (“It won’t fuck’n melt!” he insists, knee deep in snow).

OH, and Pete’s not really that nice to you.

Mainly because he thinks it’s great entertainment to have someone to subject his little spurts of malice upon.

But also, because he doesn’t really know how to convey affection — all he’s learned in the romance sector is from a constant bombardment of his… taste in movies.

If you squirm at gore just know one of your dates is gonna be Pete sitting you down and making you watch a movie among his top ten most horrid tapes. Possibly in some secluded area.

And? And? This ANIMAL loves sneaking up behind you and giving you a scare. Constantly.

If you flinch he’ll laugh a bit, but leave you to scowl at him

But let out a noise and jump? GOD he will tease and tease you forever. And it’s guaranteed he’ll spook you more often, too.

Pete does a lot of things to elicit a reaction — commenting on your body, scaring you like mentioned above, saying absolutely profane shit that makes your cheeks heat instantaneously, when he leans in and whispers what he wants to do to you.

And on occasion, he’ll make threats. Just vague, “I know where you live,” type shit (no duh, you know where he lives too), but sometimes he’ll step a little too far, insinuate a little too much.

But listen – he’s not all bad. Pete does some nice things for you.

Just bet if you ever get bullied, some nauseating note(s) filled with immensely graphic, highly nauseating threats will be nailed to your terrorizer’s front door (fake blood may be included).

Movie dates are typically at your house (both you and Pete prefer it), but he will outright lie to your parents, and maybe even you, about what movie(s) you’ll be watching.

Sometimes he’ll show up unannounced, banging at your window for you to open up in the middle of the night.

On occasion, when he knows your house is gonna be deserted for a bit, he’ll go into your room and snoop around, maybe just lay on your bed.

But uh… Pete gropes. He really does.

It’s like an addiction; it would be easier to prove what comes after death once and for all than make Pete to get his fucking mitts off you.

He’s also into biting. But much less than groping, thank god.

Pete doesn't care if you're around the club (he actually enjoys seeing everyones reactions, especially Bill's, when he rubs it in their face that he's dating this smoking hot, absolutely stunning human being).

If you were being hit on by another person though, I doubt Pete would get jealous or try to defend you. Hell, he might even like seeing you squirm in discomfort.

The longer your relationship drags on, Pete’s intrusive thoughts regarding you become increasingly more disturbing.

One of these days he’s gonna make these depraved fantasies a reality.

Bill

For some god awful reason he has straight A’s without even trying.

Does his mom care when he brings home yet another test he aced? No.

Bill correlates a lot of subject matter with characters, from comics, plots of shows, or whatever else. He can memorize tons of material with minimal effort, while simultaneously keeping up that think-about-comics-24/7 mindset.

Lazy as hell — never does chores or anything he doesn’t have to.

THE bare minimum guy.

Can’t have any pets because he wouldn’t take care of them; irresponsible to the point he could kill a cactus.

His eyesight isn’t as bad as Josh’s, but still takes the care to clean his glasses and avoid getting them scratched up.

His damaged eyes partially because he read comics after bedtime way too much as a kid, flashlight under the covers and everything.

Master of cutting corners when it comes to anything — speedruns his homework, does every other problem/question if he can get away with it, and can’t be bothered with double checking anything he ever does.

I bet he got night terrors and nightmares when he was little — some of his nightmares still traumatize him to this day.

In terms of hygiene, he’s pretty bad at it (duh). Not as bad as Pete, but still, bad.

Showers only at his mom’s orders (once a week, maybe twice).

Bill’s closet is a big copy and paste fest — nothing disturbs the endless sea of graphic tees, dark colored jeans, and flannel shirts/blazers.

Except that one suit that he wore to some distant relatives funeral when he was thirteen. He hasn’t worn it since, but debates using it for some cosplay.

Bill would subtly violate a person’s boundaries, and then brush it off as a joke when he’s called out.

Going off of my “Bill is smart” headcanon, and how his mom doesn’t care for education, he could have done a lot of things, but the lack of value put on education caused him to not give a shit about going to college or whatnot.

Throwing insults at people, media concepts, anything is a favorite of his.

Will find some way to hate on something, no matter how good it is (too long, too boring, not enough naked women)

On my life Bill listens to Weezer. Probably Radiohead too.

Disclaimer: below is fem!reader x w*lliam. Srry boys and other💔

You gotta be insane to want to date Bill Dickey.

You have to have a complete lack of self worth and respect.

I mean where does the attraction even come from? He’s repulsive, abusive, narcissistic. Who would even like this misogynist? (me me me!)

But you are clueless when you first meet. The school’s big, and you’re not too familiar with everything.

Maybe you haven't seen him getting bullied and shoved around just yet.

You approach him with honest, innocent intentions: you’re lost and need to get to your next class.

“He doesn’t seem like he’s a bad guy” is what you’re thinking when you spot him, leaning against a locker and thumbing through a comic book (oh, how wrong you are!)

So you tap on his shoulder and ask him if he knows which direction Mrs. Green’s English class is.

And of course, Bill takes it as something else – a helpless, normie bitch is interrupting his happy world of imagination, asking him for help (to mock him or throw herself at him, he can’t figure out)

He immediately snaps back, commenting how of course you wouldn’t know where your class is, damn woman.

Maybe he insults you some more, stating how you shouldn’t even be in school anyways, idiotic bimbo.

And how do you react?

You stumble off in shock – blaming your burning face on his degradation and not the fluttering in your gut.

But alas, soon enough you find yourself needing major help on some complex subject, whatever it is, so you ask the teacher if they have any recommendations for tutors.

Of course, Mr. top-of-the-class Bill Dickey is first on his list.

So now you’re being tutored by Bill, whose ego is stoked like an inferno at the chance to not only be around a pretty girl for an hour, but get to basically call her stupid every second of the way.

80% of the time he keeps his distance, the two of you sitting across from each other in a quiet corner of the library, but on occasion, when you just can’t get something right, he will march over there, wrestle the pencil out of your hands, and do it for you (you note to yourself that’s the best way to make Bill come over to you).

Holy shit his face is so red when he’s done leaning over you and mansplaining (fuck, you smell good) and you pretend not to notice, blaming his reddened face on anger, frustration.

But some part of you wonders if he likes you the way you like him.

Soon enough, your tutoring becomes a highlight of your day (same with him, but he’d never admit it).

Truth be told, Bill’s a pretty bad teacher, but he can be really funny, relatable, and at least you’re getting somewhere.

He even introduced you to some good comic series (without him actually knowing, you just picked up a copy of whatever he was reading at your local comic shop. What was it, Moe’s? Bo’s? Either way, everyone was staring at you freakishly from the second you walked in to the second you stepped out.)

Sessions are always in the library, but he fantasizes about taking it further, going to his house or yours.

Sometimes he wonders what your room would look like (by sometimes I mean MANY times).

But Bill despises you.

You are literally ruining his life.

You have no idea what you do to him – always looking so fucking innocent, entirely unaware of how you sink your teeth into his heart every time you smile, wave, say “hi” in the halls.

He didn’t really know what a cocktease was – till he met you.

He can't stop thinking about anything to do with you; your body, your voice, your lips. The way you laugh at his jokes and not him, how you come back no matter how many times he berates you.

It’s like you own him without even raising a finger.

He finds his grades dropping because he can’t pay attention in the classes you share — he watches you brazenly like some starving dog watching a butcher’s shop.

He gets worse and worse at tutoring you because he’ll lose his train of thought, completely enraptured by the thought of how fucking easy it would be to simply lean in and smash his lips against yours.

For fucks sake, Bill shouldn’t think so much about a girl; you’re just a carbon copy of all the other whores running around this shitty planet.

He, the man, rules you, not the other fucking way around.

But when you show up in his dreams as a seductive member of his crew, spread out and needy for him, his head is whirling and he loses his typically smooth composure (in his fuckass dreams! really?!)

But he wakes up before anything can actually happen, putting him in a foul mood.

He’s shaken out of it when he takes a cold shower.

Now Bill’s simultaneously angry, shameful, and excited whenever he goes to sleep.

If you ever show up for the club, he’ll scream and shout in protest.

And if you somehow worm yourself into a session? GOD it is torture for Bill.

How the hell is he supposed to get anything done when the girl he LOVES hates is sitting right across from him, getting hit on by Pete.

Needless to say, Bill would be a bit more abrasive during that session (partially in hopes you’ll get scared off, but also because he gets so worked up around you)

Please please PLEASE do not confess to Bill.

He would never confess to you either, but that's not the point.

I mean gosh, imagine how BAD it would be:

In the back of the library you’re packing up, just having finished a (now useless) tutoring session.

You blurt that you love him.

You have feelings of romantic attraction towards him.

There's a brief pause that drags on, and on, and you can’t tell if Bill’s gonna reply at all (he's having an internal meltdown; the only reason he’s not blushing is cause he’s sheet white out of shock)

You’re on the verge of running away, moving schools, never showing your face in public ever again when he just says, “yeah.”

Or maybe he laughs in your face.

Your relationship? More of an ownership, an ego boost for him.

Bill makes you do a lot of things for him, even if he’s more than capable of doing them himself.

But he ensures you don’t stray too far – he wants to see you doing whatever menial task he ordered you to do.

Talks about you incessantly to anyone who will listen.

It’s mainly bragging, though. Even though he treats you like shit, Bill will somehow work your name into every single conversation and club meeting.

And also he WILL beat up anyone who badmouths you (verbally. Bill can't fight for his life)

He’ll also defend you online like crazy (what a sweetheart!), but all with his army of alt accounts.

Hardly even says “I love you,” or anything of the like.

You don’t really go on dates either – Bill just keeps you around and forces you to follow him wherever he goes.

Also HE approaches YOU, not the other way around.

One time you tried to ask if you could hang out and he didn’t speak to you for a few days (didn’t even make himself seen. If you did interact, it’s him making some misogynistic, cruel comment towards you)

Believe me, Bill was probably way more miserable than you were.

He's a MASSIVE freak for physical touch, and majorly touch starved.

Even thinking about skin on skin contact makes him salivate.

Bill will shiver if your hands simply brushed.

Never holds your hand in public but GOD he wants to. Dreams about it all the time (speaking of dreams, you still show up in them. Every time he wakes up, his sexual frustration grows)

He'd love to just. Lay on you. Whether it be lying face down, head between your tits, or draped across you, it doesn’t matter.

Either way, his inward battle of misogyny and emotion has to fizzle out sometime soon.

Once you’re finally in a stage in which he’s more comfortable with the idea of having a… “girlfriend,” he’s gonna start touching.

I swear his hands will never leave your body, touching, groping, brushing.

He doesn’t care for hand holding in the romantic sense so much as the he-gets-to-touch-you-and-show-everyone-that-you’re-HIS sense.

Walking through the halls? Hand interlocked with yours. Sitting next to each other in class? Hand on your thigh. Standing side by side at Joe’s? Probably has his arm draped across your shoulders or resting on your hip.

And Bill likes unexpectedly grabbing you.

HARD.

You’ll be walking side by side in a public space and his fingers will just sink into your flesh with enough force to bruise (this freak gets so turned on if you squeak or squeal in reaction)

I have no idea what compels you to stay with him.

If you guys fight (probably often), he's never gonna say sorry. He’s definitely one of those people who will never admit they’re wrong

He's always gonna find some way to shift the blame on you.

But maybe it’s the fact that he's the only person that you have. He’s isolated you from your friends without you even noticing, and hasn't even realized what a wreck your life is now.

Break ups end with you or Bill crawling back to apologize to one another.

Mostly you. Almost always, it’s you.

#the eltingville club #welcome to eltingville #eltingville x reader #eltingville x you #bill dickey x reader #bill dickey x you #jerry stokes x reader #jerry stokes x you #josh levy x reader #josh levy x you #pete dinunzio x reader #pete dinunzio x you #pete dinunzio #jerry stokes #bill dickey #josh levy

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ask-whitepearl-and-steven · 25 days ago

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heyo! this isnt really about the comic, but i was wondering---do you ever feel weird talking about rose's identity as pink diamond? ive been thinking about it and ive always felt strangely odd about referring to rose as pink diamond. i think it almost sort of feels disrespectful, like deadnaming? its just something thats been on my mind haha

I actually really appreciate you giving me a chance to rant about this a bit.

This is a thing that bothers me. A fair bit.

No. No you shouldn't.

Alright, but let's step back and discuss.

The truth is, I don't actually think my stance on this is THAT extreme.

There are people that make a direct connection from Rose's predicament to deadnaming. And while I agree that this is an apt metaphor, it's also slightly more complex than that. Should we, as an audience, constantly refer to ALL iterations of the gem now known as Rose as only "Rose Quartz"?

I personally don't think so. I think there are times when it's narratively appropriate to refer to her as Pink Diamond.

When?

When she's Pink Diamond.

Like, yes, there are entire spans of story when Rose Quartz simply did not exist, as a concept. And if I am talking about her time living as a Diamond, I think it's fully appropriate to refer to her as Pink.

But the thing is. The thing IS.

Rose CHANGED. That's the entire--that's the whole POINT.

PINK changed. Into Rose.

And was it something that wiped her slate clean? No. Was it something that erased her past mistakes? No. Did it magically, all at once, make her into a better gem and a better person?

No.

But. She did give up that identity as Pink. When she started a war - that wasn't as Pink Diamond. ROSE started that war. When she had Steven - that wasn't as Pink Diamond. ROSE made that choice. It's an important distinction, and it's not only more respectful to her character, it's also important AS A VIEWER to realize that Rose is responsible for things in the same capacity as Pink.

If we just erase her transformation into Rose, and call her Pink Diamond across the board, we are making a statement - no matter if it's consciously or not - that nothing Rose did to change herself MATTERED. That her past, her Homeworld-assigned identity, will FOREVER be more important than anything she did to change herself thereafter.

We are submitting to the same ideals that Homeworld pushed on us as the antithesis of the whole show.

I just can't get behind that.

....

And look, I get it. It's fun to be in the comments when things like THIS happen in my comic:

And go off like "OOOOH, PINK, YOUR SECRET'S ALMOST OUT BABE, YOU BETTER WATCH YOUR BACK"

I don't necessarily want to shame those people because I think it's the same impulse that makes people scream like baboons when they're at a sportsball match and one little guy in a colored shirt gets the ball from ANOTHER little guy in a DIFFERENT shirt and it activates some sort of neuron that makes the thinking stop.

However. It does feel weird to me because

That's not Pink!

That's not Pink, fellas! It's Rose. She's been Rose for like 5000 years.

She WAS Pink Diamond, yes. She isn't any longer.

Pink Diamond is gone. ROSE has to deal with Pink Diamond's past now.

Give her some credit. Let her carry the sins of BOTH people. She deserves it. And there's more drama in it, anyway.

#chekhov answers

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chaoryn · 2 months ago

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𓏲 ʚ pick a pile: 𝓦hat makes your s/o go feral for you ɞ

disclaimer: this reading is for entertainment purposes ONLY so take it all with a grain of salt. this is a collective reading for the shifting community!!

take a deep breath and choose the kitten that catches your eye the most or that your intuition tells you to.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ masterlist | paid services | tips

୨ ⏜ ︵ · • ᨦ ♡ ᨩ • · ︵ ⏜ ୧

˙ ᩠୨ ⌢ ⁺ pile one ੭୧ ₊ ⌢ ୧ ᩠ ˙

your s/o’s are literally your personal bitches. they are down SO BAD for you, and this is NOT an exaggeration!!! seriously, they are obsessed with everything about you, and they would do ABSOLUTELY ANYTHING for you. and when i say anything, i mean ANYTHING. they would lie, steal, kill – hell, even die for you if they had to. so, honestly? there's nothing that doesn’t make them go feral for you because the simple fact that you exist is already enough. they might struggle to put their feelings into words, but what they can’t deny is that THEY LOVE YOU SO F*CKING MUCH. seriously, their communication skills are kind of a mess, and it's hard for them to express what they feel or think, but they are this close to telling you the truth because they literally cannot keep this bottled up any longer.

for some of you in this pile, you and your s/o aren’t together yet, but something tells me you love playing hard to get (or maybe some of y’all are in a whole enemies to lovers situation LMAO). either way, your behavior is driving your s/o INSANE. but like, in the best way possible (you're in the "enemies" part, and deep down they're in the "lovers" part LMAOO). what’s hilarious is that they do not want to deal with these feelings, at all. they don’t even wanna deal with the concept of love itself, so much so that they keep searching for reasons to convince themselves why you two shouldn't be together. but it’s all a waste of time because, deep down, they think you’re perfect. you are someone they see as worth it. so yeah, they can fight it all they want, but they’re not going anywhere. LMFAOOOO. even if they don’t show it much, they miss you when you’re apart, and they HATE seeing you cry/sad. what’s even funnier is that YOU’RE NOT INNOCENT EITHER, PILE ONE. especially those of you who aren't with your s/o yet (or are in an enemies to lovers dynamic), you’re also in denial. deep down, you’re scared of being alone, and you’re stuck in your own internal battle too. so now BOTH of you are out here pretending you don’t care about each other when literally the entire multiverse knows you do. except you two. lol.

but your s/o doesn’t blame you for feeling this way, and they hope you don’t blame them either. love is complicated as hell. honestly, they are gathering the courage to confess because they cannot take the pain of holding it in any longer. these feelings are eating them alive. they’ve tried to forget you, tried not to smile when they think of you, tried to act like they don’t care, because if they tell you how they feel and you don’t feel the same way… they know they’ll be picking up the pieces of their shattered heart for the rest of eternity.

and if you are in an enemies to lovers situation, it’s like… they’re ASHAMED that they don’t hate you. like they want you to give them a reason to hate you because you’re not supposed to have feelings for your enemy, right? 🙈 but idk, things don’t always work like that lol. they literally wonder if you’re going through the same internal crisis they are lol. listen. years could pass, and your s/o would still be head over heels for you. nothing will change their mind because they are 1000% sure they’re the right person for you. (cocky much?)

also, their favorite physical feature of yours? your eyes. oh, and they are possessive over you, which is hilarious because a lot of you aren’t even in an official relationship with them and they’re out here like, “you’re my wife/husband 😠.” another thing that drives them crazy is that you’re not like the people they’ve been romantically or sexually involved with before. usually, their charm, looks, or player energy (LMAO) gets them what they want easily, but you? you’re like, “nah, i'm not your doll 🫸.” you don’t just let them have you, and that’s what makes things interesting. many of you have spent your past molding yourselves to please others, but you’re not doing that anymore, and that challenges them in a way they love.

oh, and both of you are jealous as hell. i can't even tell if they’re worse or if you are LMAO. some of you are out here side-eyeing your s/o just for looking at someone else 🤨 and vice-versa. my gods… your s/o needs therapy. they overthink EVERYTHING. like, they’ll sit there and analyze a situation to death until they convince themselves of some wild conclusion that only exists in their head. example: you mention you don’t like XYZ (which happens to be something they like). a normal person would just be like, "oh, they don’t like XYZ." your s/o? “they don’t like XYZ? or do they just not like ME? am i the problem? am i an inconvenience in their life? is that why they avoid me?” ...yeah. good luck with that lol. or this could be you, if that's the case for you, i say this with all the love in my heart, seek therapy!! <3

୨ ⏜ ︵ · • ᨦ ♡ ᨩ • · ︵ ⏜ ୧

˙ ᩠୨ ⌢ ⁺ pile two ੭୧ ₊ ⌢ ୧ ᩠ ˙

what makes your s/o go feral for you are the little details that make you who you are (it can be as silly as like your taste in music, your favorite drink, your perfume etc.). it’s like they feel they shouldn’t know this much about you just from observing you lol. but at the same time, while they notice these tiny things about you, they also want to get to know you on a deeper level, to know who you are when no one is watching. do you even know that yourself? that’s the real question. honestly, this could even be an invitation to self-discovery lol. overall, they think you two are a perfect match, and they just want you to go ahead and kiss them already (especially for those who aren’t official with their s/o yet). funny enough, this pile gives me the impression that you’re the one making more moves than your s/o.

okay, this was supposed to be a fun and lighthearted reading, but your s/o's are lowkey depressed in this pile, and i’m not gonna sugarcoat it. some of them could be seen as villains or just deeply misunderstood, struggling with low self esteem, and feeling like their mind isn’t in the best place because of all the heavy baggage they carry in their chest. it's a whole mix of unresolved trauma that therapy could actually fix!!! it’s like they’ve had their heart broken before, faced multiple disappointments, so when something (or rather, someone) good comes along, they assume there’s a catch, that it’s too good to be true. but honestly, they’re so tired of all this bullshit, and it’s like they want to take the initiative for once in their life… but instead, they just wait around, hoping you’ll randomly walk up and kiss them lol. it’s funny because they come off as the "dark and brooding" type *emo emoji meme*, the whole "my hEaRt iS bLaCk 🤪" aesthetic, but in reality? you know what they actually want? FOR YOU TO DEVOUR THEM, TO DOMINATE THEM, TO PIN THEM AGAINST A WALL LMAOOOOO I LOVE EXPOSING YOUR S/O’S BECAUSE AT THE END OF THE DAY, THEY’RE ALL JUST YOUR LITTLE BITCH!!!! they love when you take control like that, which is another reason they go absolutely feral for you. it’s like they can’t wait, even if it means getting knocked out by you (especially those with an enemies/rivals to lovers dynamic lol). if you hit them, they’d say thank you. if you told them to shut up, deep down, they’d love it. they like provoking you just to get a reaction out of you. in a way, this might be their version of affection, or maybe they interpret your resistance and toughness as a sign of love, yk? very much childhood trauma lol.

they know how you see them, or at least they think they do. in their mind, you either see them as “too much” in the overwhelming sense, or as “TOO MUCH” in the damn, they’re hot way. but if they’re being honest, they’re confused! because they lowkey think you’re just toying with them, even though you’ve raised their expectations so high that it irritates them. I SWEAR, THEY’RE SO FUNNY LMAO. they’re like: "you think you can win me over with your charm?fuck, you’re right." also, your voice?? yeah, that’s another thing that makes them go feral. they think it’s beautiful, attractive, and if they could, they’d listen to you talk all day, even if you were just saying the dumbest shit. your voice does things to them, though they’d never admit it out loud.

for those of you who are “just friends” (yeah, sure), your s/o is starting to realize that… oops, maybe you’re not just friends. some of you might’ve even been this close to kissing, but it didn’t happen 🤡. so now there’s this huge feeling of missed opportunity, like you can’t take that step because it would ruin what you already have. (but we all know you do want to ruin this friendship for a good reason cough cough kiss your each other cough cough but you won’t, because a lot of you are scared to take that leap of faith.) your s/o feels way more than just a simple crush on you, and while that makes them all warm and fuzzy inside, it also terrifies them. like… what if you don’t feel the same? what if they get crushed? OMGGG THEY’RE SO IN LOVE AND YOU HAVE NO IDEA!!! seriously, they love spending time with you, even if some of them would never say it out loud, especially if you two are rivals/enemies, or they’re just not the type to express their feelings.

they basically want to breathe you in, to know what’s going on in your mind. they look up at the stars thinking about you and wondering what it all means (it feels like both of you are on some kind of journey). you make them feel incredible, and they wonder if you even have a clue how deep their feelings run for you. BUT THEY’RE ALSO OBLIVIOUS!!! IT’S SO OBVIOUS THAT YOU LOVE THEM, BUT THEY IGNORE ALL THE SIGNS 😫. gods, this is so frustrating LMAO.

୨ ⏜ ︵ · • ᨦ ♡ ᨩ • · ︵ ⏜ ୧

˙ ᩠୨ ⌢ ⁺ pile three ੭୧ ₊ ⌢ ୧ ᩠ ˙

your s/o literally sees you as some kind of fallen angel or divine being. no one compares to you in their eyes. literally NO ONE. they’ve put you on this pedestal so high it’s actually insane. just the mere fact that you exist is enough to make them absolutely feral for you. like fr, even if you were the walking embodiment of a red flag (which hopefully you're not 👀), they would still go blind to all the signs just to be near you. if you two are in a relationship or even just friends (but like, come on now) they lowkey believe that no one else out there is on your level. like it’s giving partners in crime, ride or die, us-against-the-world type beat. they are OBSESSED.

also? for some of y’all, there’s a celebrity/public image/ glamorous lifestyle vibe coming through. but with that glam comes chaos.it’s giving burnout, haters, no stability, relationship struggles, the whole "famous but dead inside" thing. and someone here (and idk if it's you or your s/o, the energy is messy) is running from their problems like it’s an olympic sport. there’s this self sabotage loop of relying on unhealthy coping mechanisms (like alcohol or smoking), and it’s just… a lot. but for real, whoever this is: YOU NEED A BREAK. like, go easy on yourself for once. if you’re the one going through this, please get help. seriously. whoever this is might not even wanna admit how broken they are just so they don’t have to deal with it. but babe… it’s gonna get worse if you don’t.

this pile is giving DEPRESSION™. like, darker than the other piles. pile three, are you okay? no? didn’t think so. you or your s/o are out here shattered, probably tried to live up to some fairytale or expectations and got hit with the brutal reality of life instead. now you’re like “f*ck it, hope you suffer” to whoever hurt you and honestly? valid. being good vibes all the time doesn’t fix sh*t, lmao. so now it’s “head up, pain in the chest, tears wiped, still sexy” energy and your s/o? they’re eating that up, it’s that “i may be dying inside but i’m still hot” attitude, and they’re OBSESSED. some of y’all are hiding how bad it is just to keep up appearances, and if that’s you? please take care of your mental health!!! seriously. seek help. this isn’t something you have to face alone.

this was supposed to be a fun reading and now it’s a damn funeral, i’m screaming, BUT I REFUSE TO SUGARCOAT IT. it’s hard to tell who’s going through it more (you or them) but what’s clear is that they want you close. like, BAD. being apart from you messes with them. your s/o might pretend they’re fine too, but babe, they're NOT. they’ve got walls up so high, they don’t even know how to express themselves properly, which leads to major communication issues between y’all. they wish they could tell you what’s really on their mind. they’re scared to lose you and hate themselves for not knowing how to love you the way you deserve.

the idea of you with someone else? oh god. that’s their villain origin story. the thought of you kissing or even smiling at someone else while they’re lying in bed thinking about how dumb they were for letting you go?? yeah, it haunts them. they play it cool but they would absolutely mentally self-destruct if they ever lost you.

if you're involved romantically or platonically they crave more from you. more calls. more messages. more effort. they want to feel like you’re choosing them as much as they’re choosing you. some of you might’ve even been their childhood friend or first love, and you helped them survive a dark past just by being there for them. they remember that. they hold onto that. random but some of you were literally their first (iykyk).

#shifting community #shifting blog #shifting antis dni #reality shifting #shifting motivation #shiftblr #shifters #shifting #tarot #divination #pick a card #pick a pile #shifting pick a pile #shifting pac #shifting pap #shifting reading #shifting realities

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zstartrixxx · 3 days ago

Text

𝐋𝐄𝐓 𝐌𝐄 𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐄 '𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐔, 𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐍'.

ʳᵉᵐᵐᶦᶜᵏ ˣ ᵛᵃᵐᵖꜝʷᶦᶠᵉ ʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ

𝐑𝐄𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐒𝐓: 𝐘𝐄𝐒 | 𝐍𝐎

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: If being loved by a vampire means carrying eternity within you, what you have with Remmick is incarnate: his poison lives in your flesh, you are blood of his blood, a creature of his making. And because you are a part of him—a fragment that broke free and passed into you, sometimes even a sliver of his ancient soul trapped inside that dead body—everything you feel, he feels, and vice versa. Fleeing the imminent extinction of these lands, you and Remmick seek refuge in each other once more, bound together. Eternally, for he would never let you sever this tie—unless he were dead. Past and future memories knot inside you. Here, now—all blood and teeth—you fuse with your maker, your sacrament, your eternal groom. 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒: this particular piece was a deeply interesting and special writing experience for me: not only did i get to explore the hivemind concept, but i also played more freely with language and the essence of remmick as a character. so let me make one thing clear: it’s never my intention to distort the film’s canonical portrayal, but rather—through poetic license combined with the possibilities of fanfiction’s universe, PLUS the way i’ve absorbed and interpreted the character—my version of remmick (at least in my fics) might not be as literal as the original script. that said: here we have this scenario with a wife, which i initially imagine takes place before the film’s events, but the specifics of when, how, and where she was transformed are entirely up to your interpretation (before his arrival in the us in 1911? somewhere between the early or late middle ages? the modern era? europe, asia, or africa... let your imagination run wild ;) i’ve also paraphrased/incorporated certain very specific lines and moments from the film. 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: +16 CONTENT. i think there's a lot of angst here and reader melancholy, so keep that in mind. use of some words in gaelic, i had to resort to good old google, if there is something wrong please tell me. remmik here it's (super) protective, almost toxic; hivemind concept explored, lots of internal dialogue, some gore (explicit description of blood and bruises), vampirism (blood consummation), and a slight sexual innuendo thrown in. 𝐖𝐂: 6k for whoever is going to read it, a great read! <3 likes, reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated :)

𝖱𝖤𝖬𝖬𝖨𝖢𝖪 𝖯𝖫𝖠𝖸𝖫𝖨𝖲𝖳

"turn to me, and love me like you lacerate; just hold me down like i don’t need air." (air, shedfromthebody)

Your skin burned like Hell itself, which was kind of funny to think about: back when you were human, you loved spending your days under the hot sun, lying on the grass in the late afternoon and gazing up at the cloudless sky, where strange shapes would form just for you. You wasted away the days at the lake, naked, floating between water and sunlight, between cold and heat, simply existing.

Now, all you could feel was the searing pain ripping through your skin, sizzling in your ears like meat in a frying pan. Weak, you tried to run, but your legs wouldn’t obey, and your feet tangled with every step across the dry land, scattered with dead corn leaves. The rustle of the leaves irritated you, but what truly drove you mad were the screams echoing from behind, drowning out any coherent thought, merging with the heavy air that entered your lungs that no longer breathed. And that felt like a death sentence: not only the sun was paralyzing you, but also the distorted sounds that confused you, like a wounded animal, utterly disoriented.

You stopped in the middle of the cornfield, glancing around, trying to stay grounded, trying to reconnect the thread of thought between the two of you, searching through the suffocating haze for Remmick’s voice, calling him with panic and urgency, desperate for him to come save you. You looked at your shoulders: raw, scorched, smelling the acrid scent of burnt flesh rising from your own body. You shut your eyes, trying to find him, your voice lethargic: “Remmick… Remmick.”

Your vision began to darken, your body no longer felt like your own—it felt like it was floating, detaching, as if your soul—or what was left of it—was slipping out of you. Just like you’d felt a piece of yourself dying the last time you glimpsed sunlight through your human eyes, maybe ceasing to exist in that land would feel the same. All you had to do was slowly close your eyes, embrace the darkness once again, surrender to the searing fire that would extinguish you—and that would be it. You opened your eyes slowly, staring at the mighty sun before you: scorching, like your mother’s hugs, your grandmother’s kisses. Like Remmick’s grip when you were still human. Your entire body burned, tiny flames piercing through you, tears of blood trickling from your eyes. How long had it been since you felt even remotely human? All you had to do was give in, speak the one name that echoed in your mind, etched into your blood.

Remmick.

In poison and blood, within you. He was you and you were him. Remmick.

‘—Remmick, if you can hear me one last time, know that I—’

“Got you!” his voice came, rough and wounded, behind you. Firm hands grabbed you by the waist, your body partially covered by another, pressed against Remmick’s rigid frame. He whispered against your ear: “You’re safe, mo chroí (mu khree / my heart). Come with me.” He pulled you even tighter against his scorched body, shielding you like a protective shell, guiding you with quick steps into the heart of the cornfield. In the distance, the furious screams of some villagers echoed behind you. But despite the world turning into hell around you and everything seeming like the end, you felt safe in his arms.

Remmick looked back, staggering, using his sharp senses to search for any possible escape for the two of you. His left eye was swollen from the punch he took, combined with the sun’s deadly effect, and even with limited vision, he managed to find a way out from the horde chasing you.

You couldn’t stay upright. The sun’s weakness made it feel like your bones were nothing but dust beneath your scorched flesh. Tears of blood stung your eyes and soul, or whatever was trapped inside that immortal body, sharing a collective mind with Remmick and so many others before you. It longed desperately to escape this life and finally rest. But Remmick wouldn’t let that happen—oh no, let the pagan gods or the Christian God himself punish him with the harshest tortures if he did. You could feel that wrathful pain mixed with ancient rage flowing from him, harshly projected in flames and poisonous blood from him to you, as he nearly threw himself on top of you like a (scorched) leather jacket just to protect you. Madness. The voices grew longer, more indistinct, the hateful chorus fading, as Remmick, with his one good eye, searched for shelter.

Then, as if by magic, fate, or just the luck of some devil who still wanted to see you both wander through God's vast lands, there it was—a house beyond the edge of the cornfield. The perfect shelter. ‘Living food, darkness... —Remmick, don’t get your hopes up.—’ you thought back, replying to your creator’s voice with a sarcasm that didn’t quite match the moment. As always, he laughed—loudly, though the laugh came with dry, desperate gasps. He laughed. Even all fucked up, more than you, sizzling in pain and crying in despair to stay alive, he still found humor in his own misery.

“You’re getting real cheeky, huh, my little thing?”

“You’re the one who taught me to be like this, Remmy,” you managed to say, despite the bitter taste of blood rising in your throat—extremely unpleasant when it was your own blood boiling inside you. Remmick glanced over his shoulder, noticing for now that you were safe. He looked forward again, at what seemed like a mirage of a desolate wooden shack, dark, with the door and windows shut. It looked uninhabited to you. ‘—Love, don’t be so hopeless. Of course, there’ll be someone in there to be dinner. Or rather, lunch, given the time.—’ his voice cut through again, tugging you sideways, his hot and battered hand grabbing your forearm, where deep layers of your dermis were starting to show, making you let out a faint whimper. Remmick gave you an almost hurt look, immediately releasing his grip.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“It’s fine. What’s a squeeze compared to almost melting under the sun, right?”

“You’re something else...” he muttered in disbelief, though his voice was laced with distress and anguish—a soft hint of the pain he was enduring. —If he died, you’d go with him by extension, in the worst possible way.— That was what was running through his disturbed mind, making you wonder whether you’d ever have a happy ending under those conditions. Remmick quickened his pace, and you followed beside him, feeling like the path to the house was more of a road to Hell than a material refuge. You were starting to believe it was a mirage and the Devil was waiting on the other side to welcome you both into his lap. ‘—Pathetic, darling. Pathetic.—’ ‘—Just like you, sweetheart.—’

Remmick ignored your retort, dragging himself up the steps, changing his expression as he began to shout for help. A wounded animal, fatally injured, a hoarse rasp clawing out of his throat, begging for help, pounding on the door with force. The sun’s haze was poisoning him—and therefore you—draining what little strength was left, forcing your bodies to absorb the foul smell of rotting flesh; even if your lungs didn’t breathe, they still had the cursed privilege of smelling. And even as supernatural beings, defying all human logic, you were still condemned to be inside those fragile bodies, exhaling the scent of flesh, blood, bone, thick saliva, venom, and a unique perfume your walking corpses carried. Not decay, but something more… floral? And that specific scent, like night-blooming jasmine in a graveyard or a dried rose in your garden, grew stronger as the mortal flesh imprisoning your immortal soul deteriorated.

Remmick kept pounding on the door and maybe—just maybe—with a little more effort, he’d become the first vampire to break the universal law by forcing his way in without being invited. He looked at you, distressed, his expression one of real pain. You pulled away from him, walking to a window layered in thick dust, wiping it with your palm. The cold, gritty surface scratched your sensitive skin even more. You peered inside and confirmed: ‘—There’s no one. It’s empty.—’ Remmick looked at you, almost dumbfounded, hearing your inner voice. He turned to the door, where simply twisting the doorknob opened it. The air inside was cold and stagnant, dust and mold, old wood and moth-eaten fabric, with an unwelcoming scent—but still, it carried that unmistakable smell of an uninhabited place. No human warmth or familiar energy.

Remmick was so relieved he dropped to his knees, like a devout soul who, tired of resisting sin, finally accepts divine punishment in good faith—arms open, body surrendering as he let himself fall into the house. You stood beside him, watching with a mixture of mercy for the poor wretch who was suffering, and with that sharp pain—hating, in a way, to share with him the memory and the collective sense of it all, because his pain was also yours.

Remmick crawled inside. You followed him, on your feet—weak, but standing. You looked one last time outside, toward the distance beyond the cornfield, where, by some divine mercy, those who had hunted you seemed to have gone. Just above, the burning afternoon sun pulsed like a condemning god, seated upon his sky-blue throne, mercilessly casting down his punishments upon you, poor wicked creatures.

You shut the door with a long groan, echoing the moan of the vampire now lying delicately at your feet—a strange sound between a whimper and the whine of a frightened dog. His hands were stretched above his head, face pressed to the floor, writhing from side to side, somewhere between fragile and furious at being forced into such a wretched state.

Through your mind, you could feel him tearing:

‘—These monsters will pay. As soon as the sun sets, I’ll hunt them one by one, haunt them in their homes, show them my wrath and my cruelty. Blood, blood… blood.—’

Your mind was now lapsing into a time far older than you, to a moment when Remmick’s humanity had been broken by the vampire’s curse—when the strangers came and took his land, his name, his faith. His prayers were converted, and all he saw before him were silver crosses and plaster Jesuses while he was taught the Lord’s Prayer. All of it disturbed you deeply. He clung so tightly to his roots that it made you feel everything: the fire of the scorched land, the spilled blood, the faithful ones he later killed one by one, the lands devastated by plague and by gold.

You closed your eyes, trying to impose your memories over his—to interrupt the bond that was bigger than either of you. You tried to think of blooming gardens bathed in sunlight, lazy afternoons of picnics and reading under trees, nights of endless dancing and joy.

Remmick stopped thrashing. His shoulders stilled, and his whimpers faded as he was slowly filled with his own memories, gradually regaining his strength and sobriety. He propped himself up on his arms—once feeble and lethargic, with bones eroded and flesh still scorched by burns—then raised himself and looked at you, a crooked smile forming on his lips:

“You’re always taking care of me, a aingeal.” (ah ang-yal | my angel).

“I was just trying to make you stop with those nightmares disguised as memories. I’m aching all over.” Your voice was somewhat harsh, despite your weakness, as you leaned your body against the wall, between the door and the window, where dust managed to dimly filter the sunlight. You were safe from the condemnation of the light.

Remmick rested his head. A look of sadness, lit by the darkness in his pupils, stirred something in your heart that no longer beat.

“I can’t let go of who I once was… even after all these years, there are pains that scar between our flesh and our soul, binding us to them forever…”

“I know. I know—” you smiled, somewhere between honesty and levity, trying to stay upright, feeling your body pulse and bleed, crying for healing. Remmick was in considerably better shape than you, even in his sorry state—his cotton shirt filthy with mud and dust, torn and bloodied from burned flesh; his pants tattered, shoes worn through, one bruised eye set into cadaverous skin with a polished hunger. He was enduring. The dark gifts made him far stronger than you. “—I’m just not in the best condition to relive those pains with you, not when mine are a little too real right now.”

Remmick nodded, drinking in your words, staring at you with glowing, coppery-red eyes—dim yet luminous—finally seeing your pain. His face twisted with worry and a flicker of anger as he staggered closer:

“Mo ghrá geal” (muh grah gyahl | my bright love), “they really hurt you, didn’t they…”

Then, Remmick recalled the grim scene when one of the townsfolk had found your hiding place—a house just as old and decrepit as the one you now sheltered in. The two of you were lying there together, side by side, entwined like tragic lovers, waiting for death—and maybe that had been part of the attraction, for just a few more seconds in that eternal rest, and you would have had a truly tragic end. Remmick remembered the moment the light from a blocked-out window was smashed through and the burn that followed. He opened his eyes instantly. You were still locked in your unshakable sleep when they grabbed you by the arms. He had fought men wielding torches and harvest tools. Then you saw it through his eyes: your body being pulled away—a blur. And you felt his fear and desolation as he fought off the frantic villagers to try and save you.

Then the man’s voice rang out again, clear and strong, a wounded hand touching your face with surprising gentleness:

“We almost didn’t make it out of there… If it had been closer to sunset, not a single one of those bastards would’ve made it—”

“Remmick.” His name traced your lips and tongue, thorny like the man himself. “They’re not to blame for acting the way they do—just like we, flawed murderous animals, once acted. They too have the right to want to destroy us. Wasn’t it you who taught me that human truth? That’s how we lived before we perished. That’s how we’ll go on existing, as long as we do.”

“Existing.” He clicked his tongue, and a sudden shadow passed through his eyes. For a second, his mind grew too clouded for you to read, to hear—but the visceral rage boiling in his venomous blood, oh, that you felt, bitter as it burned your dry throat. Dryness began to crack your lips. It weakened your warm body even more and made you feel the dark delusions start to crawl through the corners of your mind; that’s what happened when you weren’t fed—no matter how exceptional your self-control was, and even if you could resist without the human liquor for days, when you were in that state of true death, your body nearly collapsed.

Remmick dragged his pitiful, suffering gaze across your face. Around your minds, words in ancient Gaelic spun like ancestral chants—he was thinking about something beyond you.

His hand slid up to your face, grabbing your hair from behind, gripping it as he gently pulled it back, exposing the soft, burned, but still velvety skin of your neck. The cradle of your sacred blood—from where he had once drawn your human warmth into himself and given you, in return, the venom that turned you into him. And even though your heart no longer beat as before, when he first heard it, and your blood wasn’t warm enough to quench his thirst anymore, it was the vampire’s opium.

Remmick always thought of that comparison when he grazed his fangs lightly against your skin before penetrating it to anesthetize himself in your ecstasy:

‘—Your blood was sweet and warm when your heart throbbed between your ribs. But now, with my lymph and the poison of my being, it tastes better—bittersweet, undead. Our blood.—’

It made you moan and whimper.

Your hands pressed against his chest, palms open, trying to push him away from you:

“Remmy, are you sure about this?” you looked at him uncertainly, trying to find in him the assurance for the act.

Remmick didn’t answer you with words—not the kind spoken aloud:

“As weak as we are, there’s no one here, my love. Either we drink from each other, or we die like strays in this godforsaken place. Feed on my blood before you cease to exist…”

It wasn’t a request anymore by the time he was already pulling you closer to expose your neck, pressing his rough lips and sharp teeth against you, piercing the skin like needles.

Remmick held onto this belief that he didn’t need to ask much of you, because as you were one mind, everything he wanted was what you desired too.

Your eyes closed as you felt your flesh torn by his fangs—hard against your skin, like a stiff piece of leather being pierced by a sharp knife—until it reached where the blood, crawling weakly through your body, began to emerge in thick sobs, filling his mouth with your syrupy, bloody liquor. You were consumed by the burning and the sensation of ecstasy the act gave you, your body floating in the hands of the man who groaned with primal pleasure at being nourished by your life source.

Remmick also held the belief that since you carried his seed—that divine-profane gift of eternal life within your blood—through the consummation of acts and the laws of an ancient soul, you were part of a whole that pulsed with life. His life, yours, and those who would come after you both, all connected through that cursed and blood-stained lineage.

You squirmed restlessly in his hands. His claws were already out, tangled in your hair, scratching your waist as he held you as close as possible, bound to his pleading kiss.

Remmick whispered to you in thought:

“Mine, mine, mo mhianta (muh vee-an-tah / my desire), my life, my blood…”

—like a prayer, a rosary he recited bead by bead, his body burning as he inevitably felt his venom enter you.

“Remmick—” your voice was pure wine of death, your nose the iron scent of flesh, your mind a stupor of souls that preceded you, strange voices you had learned empirically, faintly recalling the vampire Remmick who crushed you between teeth and acid; “—I think that’s enough, my love.”

Remmick let out an exasperated groan that vibrated against your mark, sucked a final portion of blood vigorously, licked the flesh slowly, then rose, revealing his face intact and free of wounds, his chin smeared with your crimson iron honey, eyes shimmering like copper pearls between iron and bloodlust. He smiled at you—there was heavy panting from paused lungs, a fresh breath, an almost spiritual renewal of his being.

“You are so delicious, blood of my blood, that it’s impossible not to want to drain your last blessed drop.”

He laughed—cursed and amused—raising his wrist to his own lips, biting it as if biting a pomegranate that exploded between his teeth, flesh and juice dripping at the corners of his mouth already stained with your blood; he extended his open wrist to you like bread to the dying, an offering to his god, waiting with generous eyes burning in the insane passion of his soul for yours.

His mouth salivated with the yearning to take it for himself, to drink from that wine that intoxicated you once and every time you drank it—in nights of lust where you feasted on the delights of the flesh, it intoxicated you.

There were sparks in your chest that burned from Remmick’s venom in your body, making you remember when he took you for himself, forever; Remmick appeared like a chorus behind you, chasing you through the darkness of forests and ancient buildings, ruins of nights wandering without meaning, inviting you to let him enter you repeatedly, giving him what he wanted, feeding the beast with your youthful joy, the beating heart—that which he had lost centuries ago, perhaps millennia. Life.

And once, proving that his love for blood and pain was greater than all lust or pleasure given to you, he offered you his ultimate love: he penetrated you with teeth and curses, buried memories imposed on you, suffocating you, watching you die before him, rot like a flower once beautiful and vibrant, now dry and hardened. Watching you rise with bright eyes and his bestial thirst, laughing and dancing with him, celebrating your new self. Or was it a piece of him, while you were trapped between so many layers of the one who created you?

And yet there you were, looking at him with veneration and anguish, taking his wrist with your misshapen fingers, claws that extended in excessive knots, placing your mouth against the torn hole that poured that offering of his flesh.

Oh, Remmick had your flavor too.

Sweet death he exhaled, primal sex and poisoned wine.

Feeding you slowly, bringing through that damned mortal sap your salvation.

You felt yourself revive, whining softly against his wrist, looking with complicity as Remmick watched you with the pleasure of pleasures on his face: parted lips, arched brows, eyes sparkling with desire and ardor. You smiled back, returning that passion, a hiss escaping from his mouth, pleasure bending between the memories shared through blood. His mouth detached from the bite’s embrace, a dull snap of flesh pulling away, the vampire’s blood dripping in sticky, thick drops like a whip on the wooden floor, a small pool of that iron blood separating you both.

He tilted his head back, satisfied, with a jubilation of pearl-ruby teeth, saying full of himself:

“Now we’re better!” He laughed between his teeth, while you felt his blood slide through you, healing the stigmata on your skin, slowly and pleasurably renewing you—him crawling between your bones and flesh, burrowing deeper into you as he pierced you with those eyes.

Remmick drew closer, your hands returned to normal, fingers caressing your now-soft skin, leaning down to kiss your lips with the sweetness of his honey staining them crimson, whispering through your mind:

‘—All we need now is rest, and once night falls, we can celebrate this moment together.—’

Eternal promises. As always, typical of him.

You welcomed him with open lips, tongue caressing his, you and he merging—blood and saliva, venom and the growls from the depths of your thirsty throats, your hands tangling into each other, desperate grips of bodies that loved each other through finite eternity.

…

In your dreams — or in that cathartic state of complete darkness of rest — all you had in your mind were the outlines of dreams of humans who had wandered through the eternities beside Remmick. You were a peasant in Irish lands, an English priest with golden teeth, a mathematician in Arabia, a physician from Prussian soil, a single mother prostituting herself in the streets of Whitechapel; everything and everyone. You were a pagan elder turned faithful parish priest. A hopeful young woman turned the vilest of executioners. Everything and everyone — and him.

Him.

Emerging in red, blue, purple, and black, from the shadows, blood dripping from his chin, stealing souls and stories like a devoted collector, a historian digging through pages and pages for what might fill his own gaps. Remmick pulled you by the hand like a savior — or a beast. That blurred in the shadows and forms, as he brought you into the light.

The light of consciousness, of being awake, of knowing night had finally fallen and you could once again wander among humans.

You opened your eyes with a sharp blink, seeing through a timid penumbra lit by a single candle — who knows where the hell Remmick had found it — exhaling, while he gently caressed your face, the tip of his finger tapping lightly against your nose, a serenity on his face that, under the warm golden light, almost seemed human. You smiled, rubbed your eyes, and let out a vocal exhale — a human habit you’d kept not to feel so detached from your nature — wetted your lips, surprised by the nudity of the man sitting at your side on that old bed, hard mattress, rickety frame that had served perfectly for your rest.

At the window, beyond the drawn curtain, a few wooden planks nailed to keep sunlight out were now opened, allowing the pale-silver glow of a Full Moon to shine on you. Between the bluish-gray mingling with the candle’s yellow-red, his slender and muscular body — shaped by the years when he was just a man of the land, using his bare strength — stood naturally before you.

His face, smiling at you tenderly, was damp, drops of water clinging to his nose, ears, and chin. A scent of dried flowers and soap wafted from his pale skin. His voice was soft:

“Come with me, a aingeal,” (ah ang-yal | my angel), “let’s take a bath to wash off this infernal day.”

Laughter spilled from both your mouths — irony mixed with ease — as his hand gently pulled you up, guiding you barefoot across the wooden floor, echoing down a narrow hallway toward what must have been the bathroom. Remmick nodded toward the wooden bathtub. Beside it, atop a chair, several candles were stuck upright with their own melted wax, casting a flickering light beside the moonlight that poured silver through the window.

“I cleaned it a bit before using, fetched some water from the well, and luckily found some flowers and a dried-up bar of soap lying around. Seems like the people who lived here left in a hurry — there’s still canned food and clothes in some closets. Let me help you!”

He placed the candle on the chair and undressed you, slipping off your dress and tossing it aside, smiling at your nudity, placing his hands at your waist as if admiring a statue sculpted by his own hands — a creation of his creation.

“Sit down. I’ll bathe you...” he said in a velvet tone, guiding your body into the cold water, which wrapped around your skin as he began to rub it with water, fragrant flower petals, and diluted soap.

And there you sat, still, watching him care for you — though you knew well what he was thinking.

‘—The hunt, the revenge against those who inflicted pain on us and—’

“Remmy…”

Your hand found his, pulling him from the depths of his thoughts, gripping the hand that tended to you, “...stop, at least for now. Just think of something else.”

“What else could I possibly think about?”

“In other things, I don’t know, think about music, about dance, about me...”

“I don’t need to think about those things because they’re already in me, darling. It’s almost a pleonasm, as that old professor we ate once said, remember?”

“The one we ate? What an absurd thing to say!”

“Sweetheart, seriously?” Remmick tilted his head to the side, a mischievous little smile playing on his lips. He stopped rubbing the dried blood off his neck to look at you with cynicism. “You, of all people, who loves sinking your teeth into those juicy necks that show up for us!? You, blood of my blood, my own creation, poison of my poison who...” he paused, narrowing his eyes, his voice coming out in a thin whisper, “loves sinking those pretty little teeth of yours into the most unusual places!?”

A daring finger touched your lips, slipping between them, lightly scraping your canine with its nail. You stared at him calmly, studying him in that unashamed nakedness, amused by you. Rolling your eyes, you pushed his hand away from your mouth.

“Pathetic. That’s what you are sometimes.”

“I love you too, my darlin’.” He chuckled through his teeth, returning to wiping the bloodstain from his skin, focusing on the act. Even in that silence made of voices loudly spoken, your minds were speaking through images, memories flowing back and forth in a stream of consciousness, undulating like the water that surrounded your body, tracing that eternal conversation you both had. Deep down you knew he wanted to go out hunting, to get drunk on fresh human blood, and then return to this shelter, take you in his arms and possess you in the most animalistic way possible. But on your end, you still felt his venom lingering through your body, the blood that had served as both nourishment and healing still casting a haze over your senses. Ancient blood from someone who had lived so long it carried stigmas. Strong, dense, defiled, concentrated.

Remmick finished scrubbing you, stood up from your side, and left the room, staying outside for a few minutes, leaving you immersed in the water and the moonlight. Thinking. For a moment, your mind seemed to detach from his, floating through the corridors of your own being—you saw yourself among humans, walking barefoot, feeling that burning thirst in your throat, the bile of anger tormenting you even as your melancholy made you ethereal; sucking foreign blood, capturing life stories for yourself. Remmick reached out a hand to you—a claw—with the ghastly smile of all the dead, always whispering to you: “Mo mhianta” (muh vee-an-tah / my desire), in your mother tongue. Remmick… Remmick. The one who created you and now was you too, part of your desires, part of your life, part of your soul. Would you ever be able to break away from that guiding thread? From the one who offered you both death and life? Would you be able to disconnect and be just… you?

Remmick emerged from the darkness of the house, carrying a bundle of clothes in his hands, wearing a pair of soft-fabric pants, his torso still bare. He smiled with those secrets he could hide from you between his lips:

“No, I believe that if one day you no longer belong to me, I’ll probably be dead.”

“Reading my thoughts again?”

The question was practically rhetorical, laced with a certain bitterness you couldn’t hold back. Standing before you, the vampire handed you the clothes.

“I am them. Even when you try to escape through the corners of your thoughts, I’m there.” Remmick smiled, sharp teeth glinting, a suggestion shining in his eyes like a beast ready to kill.

“Come on, love, the night is a child crying to be fed.”

“Smartass,” you hissed through your teeth, rolling your eyes. When you rose from the bathtub, your eyes suddenly caught sight of two figures approaching in the distance. Remmick didn’t even need to be warned—he was already spying from the corner of the window, his thoughts starting to hiss like a rabid wolf growling, thirsty for blood and slaughter. He turned his face toward you, a sharp smile while his eyes tiled the blood of the defeated. His tongue was a blade between needle-sharp teeth:

“We shall have a special feast, my love!”

…

The house was dark.

Its scent was of dust and stagnant wood, dry and moldy. In the background, you could catch the smell of melted wax. No noise. When that couple stepped into the house, shotguns in hand, eyes wide with fear, all they wanted was to play heroes for the little town—hunt the monsters that had been parasitizing the area and receive applause for their brave deeds. Fueled by fear and pride, they wanted to hold in their hands the heads of those two who had earlier been hunted and, for some reason, had disappeared; and there they were, in that shack abandoned for weeks—maybe months—eyeing each other with unease.

The woman said, glancing around the first room, a lantern serving as a flashlight:

“I don’t think it was a good idea to come here at night…”

“Nonsense, woman—we’ll catch those monsters before they go messing around with anyone else,” the man shrugged, walking toward the hallway, the woman right behind him—until she heard a little noise beside her, at the open door.

The man kept walking, oblivious to his wife, heading toward the back of the house, finding a side room with its door ajar—he pushed it open the rest of the way with the barrel of the shotgun, the wooden door creaking slowly, revealing a bed.

And a woman lying on it, back turned. Naked.

A shiver ran down his spine, his breath grew heavy, heart pounding against his ribs, and beyond all that, a wicked voice called him to approach her—that nest of lust and desire. Ignoring his partner, he let curiosity and depravity take over. He lowered his weapon, step by step, now close to the woman’s body, his hand trembling as it reached toward her, while the other held the lantern swaying noisily at his side, its yellow light flickering across the sleeping body.

“Have mercy on me!”

A high-pitched scream came from deeper in the house. The man startled and turned, dropping the lantern to the floor, where it shattered and sparked into flames. He raised his weapon again, spinning around—only to find a man behind him.

Eyes glowing with an inhuman red glint.

A macabre grin stained with blood painted his chin, his neck, his bare chest.

A rustle behind him made his knees weaken with fear; a cold gust of air fed the fire now licking at the wooden floor. He looked over his shoulder and saw you awake—eyes just as luminous as the monster in front of him, thick saliva dripping from your chin.

As he tried to scream, a hand clamped over his mouth—metallic blood flooded his tongue.

A tear welled up in his eye.

The vampire’s voice in front of him rasped out, bestial and raw:

“Shhhh… Shhhh… Don’t cry now. Didn’t your mother teach you it’s wrong to mess with someone else’s woman?”

And he laughed—demonic—gripping the man’s throat, nearly choking him, as you remained behind, salivating for the living blood pulsing through his arteries. Remmick looked at you from the side, tilting his head, his voice undulating between the three of you like a serpent shaking its venom:

“Darling, your wife was delicious! I hope you taste just as good for my wife!”

The man screamed with all the air in his lungs, while Remmick offered him up like an animal for ritual slaughter—offering him to you. And you took him from behind, draining him with the ease of mortality—no pity, no hesitation.

Remmick watched you with affection and admiration, something growing inside him with the euphoric pleasure of a successful hunt. When you finished draining the man, his corpse now at your feet, he held out his hand to you.

You took it, letting him lead you out of that room to the front of the house, where the open door allowed the silvery light to touch your naked body, your face covered in scarlet—just like his. Remmick cupped your face in his hands, looking at you with his soul reflected in your eyes:

“My girl, how do you feel?”

“Perfect. Just a little… overwhelmed. I think it’s the thrill of the hunt.”

“Good—” he murmured, leaning in to capture your lips in a wet, filthy kiss—saliva and blood, soft tongue brushing pearly teeth. When he pulled away, a string of bloody spit still connected your mouths.

“—'Cause now, you’ll let me take care of you, darlin’. The way you deserve.”

You felt him penetrate you through the soul, his hands pulling you close into the kiss of the dead upon your lips, speaking to you through your minds:

‘—Let me take care of you, darling, let me take care of you, let me show you how good I can be for you…—’

𝐅𝐎𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒: maybe it deviated a little from the initial concept of the request (idk), but this one was by far one of the fanfics with Remmy that i enjoyed writing the most, it's side-by-side with my fanfic involving priests, religion, Christian guilt, vampirism, remmick and other little things…

#[★] zstartrixxx #remmick x reader #remmick x you #remmick fanfic #remmick sinners #remmick #[⋆♱⋆] zstar fanfics #jack o'connell fanfic #remmick × you #remmick × reader #[R] zstar fanfic request #[🦇] zstar jack o'connell #Spotify

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electricgg · 29 days ago

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Ancient Dreams In A Modern Land

Chapter 5: Get Along With The Voices Inside Of My Head

Masterlist

Chapter 1 / Chapter 2 / Chapter 3 / Chapter 4 / Chapter 5 (Here!) / Chapter 6 / Chapter 7 / Chapter 8 / Chapter 9 /

Adolescence is a broad concept.

It is the period of transition between childhood and adulthood. It includes big changes, from the body to how they relate to the outside world.

It also qualifies as the most painful and awkward stage in somebody’s life, which comes hand in hand with pushing boundaries and breaking scheduled patterns.

Patterns that Timothy Drake had taken years to figure out and were now as broken as the old vase he had hidden from Alfred for the past two years.

He didn’t like it. Not one bit.

Clicking furiously at the wide keyboard of the batcomputer before rolling away in his chair with a frustrated groan, Tim rubbed his face roughly with his still-gloved hands, as if the action itself could take his mind off the subject that has been bothering him for the past four days (not that he would ever admit to himself how much it was bothering him).

That girl.

Jesus, where to even begin?

Not only had she disrupted her assigned schedule, but she had also flipped completely on her behaviour and structured habits.

(Y/N) Wayne had been an easy person to read. From the very moment her existence was revealed to the public eye. Way before he even became part of the family.

A child who had blocked trauma, shoved into the hands of a man who had just found out was her biological father.

A girl exposed to bloodthirsty reporters and paparazzi, developing a fear of the spotlight, and making her look like a fool in front of cameras.

A kid who got the moniker of ‘The Embarrassment of The Wayne’ and made sure to live up to that name.

There were four falls in water fountains, two dresses ripped off in the middle of galas, five accidental stumbles that injured multiple civilians, and multiple newspaper articles about whether she was truly related to Bruce once Damian took the public's attention with his introduction.

She was a walking hazard and a whole meal for the media vultures.

And that was only for the public, personality was a whole different beast.

She was meek, quiet, and too polite.

Too polite for Tim’s taste.

Always picking up his stray coffee cups (even when they were so dirty and he was pretty sure something was alive at the bottom of them). Looking over his shoulder, and asking him if he was getting any rest. Leaving him tea outside his door when he hadn’t left his desk for days. Asking him if he was eating. Asking him if he had taken a bath. Asking if he needed any help with a case.

Asking and asking and asking and asking and asking.

It infuriated him to no end.

It felt as if she was faking it. Nobody could care that much without wanting something in exchange. Not without an ulterior motive.

So he took some drastic measures.

Learning her routine was an easy task. She would wake up around four in the morning on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays to do her extensive morning routine. Tuesdays and Thursdays, she would sleep in until seven in the morning.

In the early days, she would trim her hair ends and retouch her roots so her natural hair color was never in sight. Keeping the same length and not a hair out of place. She was very precise with it and took her time while doing so.

Next, she would take a shower and lock herself in her room for half an hour or so. He never knew why exactly, but it was something she always did. Without a single miss.

After that, she would wander around the manor until she reached the piano room. She would practice until Alfred came to find her for breakfast and take her to school.

Whenever Tim heard the piano in the morning, he knew it was time to either wake up or go to bed depending on which situation he found himself in.

If she didn’t touch the piano, he wouldn’t know what day it was. And depending on the day, he would know how long he would have to wait in his room so he wouldn’t have to listen to her obnoxious questions and see her wide eyes.

(Y/N) hasn’t touched the piano in the past four days.

And it was driving him mad.

“I just don’t get it! She loves hugs!”

Along with Dick’s pity party.

The older man was doing pull-ups by the training mats, still wearing his suit minus the mask. Grunting as he took deep breaths when his head reached over the metal bar he was hanging off.

“She runs at me the moment I come to visit. Every single time. And now she just doesn’t even look my way?”

Tim sighed, giving Dick a glance from the corner of his eye as hands slid off his face.

“When was the last time you even cared about such things?” he deadpanned, turning his chair to face the acrobat.

Dick had his own place. He didn’t live at the manor anymore, hadn’t for years. Tim could count with just one hand how many times Dick had come to visit them in the past three months.

Why was he acting like he knew her better than Tim himself?

“Since she did a switch on her personality!” he said before letting go of the pole and landing on his feet inside the mat.

Dick grunted as he stretched out his arms upwards, making his way towards the computer and picking up a cold water bottle on a nearby bench.

He shook his head, opening the cap and taking big, loud gulps from the bottle as Tim turned once again toward the computer with a roll of eyes.

“She is a completely different person, and don’t pretend you haven’t noticed too.”

Of course, he had. Because he actually lived with her.

Before he could snap back at him, a deep, gravely voice interrupted their conversation.

“What seems to be the problem here?” Bruce questioned, emerging from the zeta tube and pulling off his cowl. His footsteps echoed against the walls as he reached the two young men.

They didn’t even hear the zeta tubes powering up.

Dick crossed his arms with a glare pointed towards the bat, leaning against the table while Tim gave the man a simple side eye.

That made Bruce lift an eyebrow, not expecting that reaction from the boys.

Everyone had been acting strangely as of late.

And he was getting tired of not knowing why.

“Would any of you care to explain what has you both unfocused and distracted?”

“We’re not distracted…” Tim muttered while tapping on his keyboard, hoping that Bruce would leave the subject alone.

“It’s nothing.” Dick shrugged, moving his gaze to the side.

“If that’s true,” the older man grunted while glancing between the two of them. “Then why are we still trying to figure out the missing kids case?”

That made the boys sigh and grunt under their breaths.

True, they haven’t been able to find any other clues on the case. It was all leading to dead ends. No similarities between. Schools, families, extracurriculars, age, neighborhoods, parents' jobs, and even the locations of disappearances did not link to one another.

There was no way the cases could be linked to one another. Too many differences.

And yet, they couldn’t ignore their gut telling them that they had to be connected.

But what?

“It’s just… You know who.” Dick said while rubbing the back of his neck with an awkard air as Bruce questioning gaze landed on him.

“No, I do not who you are refering to.” his stern and direct tone making Tim and Dick share side glances.

Tim spun around on his chair, facing Bruce with a deadpan expression. “It’s (Y/N). He refers to (Y/N).”

Silence fell between them.

“...What about her?” Bruce dragged the question. Shoulders tense and eyes sharp.

“Jeez, I don’t know?!” Dick snapped back, lifiting himself up and moving his arms around as he talked. “Maybe because she has been acting like a different person, refuses to talk to me, or even look my way, and even curses like a sailor?!”

He whipped his head towards Tim, pointing at him with his index finger.

“How does she even know curse words? She is too young to know those words!”

While Dick continued on his ranting, Tim simply spun back to the computer. He was controlling himself from snapping at Dick, since he was acting as if she was some kind of little kid that he knew everything about.

And also, because he was pissed at Bruce. Since he knew very well that the man was not aware of what had been happening in his own house, with his own kids.

“He wouldn’t know, Dick. Bruce has been out for the past few days.” Too busy with some Justice League business. Kon had mentioned on their last call the other day that it had to do with the ruler of Genosha. Something about an alliance of sorts.

The older boy came to a stop from his rant to look at the too quiet man. He suddenly found himself rubbing the bridge of his nose and looking way older than he was.

“...Bruce.”

The man sighed tiredly, covering his mouth and looking at the floor. A deep hum leaving his throat.

“You have seen her, right?”

Tim smiled smugly to himself at the answering silence behind him.

His family always forgets how petty he can be.

╰───────────✧──────────────╮

“How about this one?”

“ .. / -.. --- -. .----. - / .-.. .. -.- . / .. - “

The young girl groaned as she threw out another old cardigan over the overgrown pile of clothes lying by the bed. It varied from shirts, pants, dresses, and many other clothes that she had been fishing out of the old wardrobe for the past three hours.

Who knew a ghost could be picky with what her old body could and couldn’t wear?

It all started when the only way to communicate with Wayne’s Ghost (whom she was calling from now on until she found a better nickname) was by the flickering of the light from her lamp.

It was simple at first. One flicker meant yes, and two flickers meant no. But it left her unsatisfied and also limited communication. She wanted to have a real conversation with someone who understood what she was actually going through. Which leads to the next step.

Learning Morse code.

It wasn’t hard! After borrowing a few books from the library about the subject (which she did only after she was sure none of the weird guys were wandering around the manor), and speed-reading through the pages, she had learned Morse code in under five hours of relentless reading.

She was not sure if that was normal, but nothing about her situation was normal.

Looking now at the very empty closet, a sense of sadness began building at the pit of her stomach.

Even with her permission, it felt invasive to take out something so personal just to make space for her own stuff.

Especially after listening to the recordings.

Those words were still rumbling in between her ears.

˖˖˖˖˖˖˖˖˖˖—》✧《—˖˖˖˖˖˖˖˖˖˖˖

Diary Entry: Year 4

“Today, Mister Alfred got me a letter and some gifts from my mom. I don’t know how she got them out of the hospital, but I’m sure Uncle had something to do with it. I’ll write to him and hopefully get Alfred to send it.”

“I’m sure he and Father are not talking to each other yet.”

“I get it. Kinda. He did bad things. But he’s always been nice to me and never fails to send gifts on my birthday. And it’s always expensive stuff too!”

“Sometimes, I wish he were the one to take me in. And it makes me feel bad because I know Father is trying to do the best for me and the family.”

“I wish I weren’t so hard to handle. Maybe, that way, they wouldn’t be so busy all the time and spend time with me.”

“...It’s my tenth birthday today. Alfred got me new pencils and paints. Mom sent me a necklace with a card explaining what it meant, and many of her old clothes, too. And uncle got me a green jacket that’s way too big on me, but it’s cozy at least. I’m sure I can grow into it.”

“Father’s been locked in his office since last night. I knocked a couple of times, but he didn’t answer. He’s probably tired. I’m sure he’ll remember this time.”

“Dick promised to bring ice cream today too, but he hasn’t answered my calls today. He could be stuck on a case, too, so I understand he’s busy.”

“And Jason left some cookies outside my room this morning. I ate them before breakfast, but Alfred doesn’t know it yet, so shhh!!”

“Besides that, this year wasn’t so bad. I got good grades at school and got to visit Mom a couple of times, too. In the last visit, the guards let us talk without the glass window between us. I was happy to be able to hug her again after so long.”

“...I miss her a lot. I miss our old house too. The manor is big and all, but it’s very cold.”

“And lonely.”

“I shouldn’t complain… Father has done everything to give me a good life. But I wish Mom would get better and come back for me.”

“...I want my mom back. I want her back so bad, and it makes me sad, too.”

“I think that could be my wish this year. Wish for my mom to get better soon.”

“I think it’s a good wish for this year, right?”

˖˖˖˖˖˖˖˖˖˖—》✧《—˖˖˖˖˖˖˖˖˖˖˖

Yeah, that made her tear up and take a couple of breaks in between listening to the recordings.

Mom was a strong word.

It made her heart tight, and so many overwhelming feelings flooded over her.

Warmth from tight hugs. Soothing lullabies in a language she could not place. Soft fingers running through her hair. Loving words in a voice she couldn’t put a face to. But she knew who it was. It wasn’t hard to figure it out.

She also wanted her mom back.

The flickering of the lamp on her nightstand made her wipe away any stray tears, sniffling her nose with the back of her hand and taking a deep breath.

“Alright, I’m fine. Totally fine.” She muttered to herself as she looked at the closet once again.

On the far corner, a deep green jacket caught her attention.

She took it out of the closet, holding it by the hanger as she looked at the piece of clothing with a growing smile.

On the tag of the neck, the initials U.H. in a very fancy font stood out. The young girl had the feeling that this was one of the gifts of the recordings had mentioned.

It was a forest green, with two vertical white stripes running down the sleeves until they reached the cuffs. The material was lightweight, with a soft fabric on the inside, but breathable. It had a total of four pockets, two outside and two inside on each side.

Without thinking about it too much, she took it off the hanger and put the jacket on.

When she turned to the mirror, there was a grin on her lips.

It fitted almost perfectly. It was a bit long on the sleeves, but she could roll them a bit, and it would look stylish either way.

As she messed around with the zipper and the neck of the jacket, she rambled to her companion out loud about the look.

“I know it’s a gift from your Uncle, and I’m trying to find my style, so if you don’t want me to keep it on, that’s totally fine by-”

The lights flickered brightly.

“ -.- . . .--. / .. - .-.-.- / .. - / .-.. --- --- -.- ... / .-- .- -.-- / -... . - - . .-. / --- -. / -.-- --- ..- .-.-.- “

She was stunned for a few moments. Then, a soft smile and glassy eyes reflected in the mirror, fingers playing with the hems of the soft fabric.

“Thank you.”

A sharp, cold breeze ruffled her hair, making her laugh and swipe at the empty air around her.

╰───────────✧──────────────╮

“-and I need the report of her latest appointment sent straight to my mail, is that clear?”

When the meek assistant agreed to his demands, Bruce hung up the call with an exasperated exhale. Leaning back on his chair as he calmed down his anger and frustration.

The incompetence of Gotham Central Hospital personnel was something to be studied.

It wasn’t exactly their fault. He hasn’t been in touch about Bianca’s case for about a year now, but he had been expecting that the staff had been taking care of her and keeping up with her mental state.

Especially after the last incident involving her.

And that was another incoming headache.

The boys had been acting out of sorts throughout the week. Dick had been actively coming to the manor so often due to current case in his hands and his sudden need to share some of time with (Y/N). Tim is frustrated over not getting any proper sleep and not finding any sort of shared link in the case. And Damian was… well, he kept mostly to himself, but he could see something was bothering him by how much he was muttering and slamming the training dummies harder than usual.

And then, there was (Y/N).

Bruce could admit he wasn’t a great dad. All of his children could testify and give proof of it.

But he knew he had failed her, especially when it came to being a father.

And it wasn’t her fault at all. It was all on him.

Because he was a coward who couldn’t face a child who bore the face of the people he had failed to help.

It wasn’t an excuse, but it was a reason.

Which was why he always paid for packages of gray contact lenses and expensive black hair dye.

If Bianca were in her right mind, she would have shot him right in the head without hesitation for allowing their girl to change herself simply because he couldn’t look her in the eye.

‘...maybe it isn’t too late to fix this.’

Bruce rubbed his face, feeling the stubble on his jaw since he hadn’t shaved in the past few days. The negotiations with Erik Lehnsherr had been draining, and with lots of conditions on how the Justice League could set foot on the country without getting blown up on the spot.

Even then, they weren’t able to reach an agreement.

A sudden notification made his phone vibrate, taking his mind off his deep thoughts.

It was from the hospital. Bianca’s current lab tests and consults, attached to the mail. That made him relax a little bit.

Until his sight focused on the sender.

Gotham Central Hospital: Psych Ward

All of the reports for the police and files they had been searching for the case, there wasn’t a single document from the hospitals. Medical issues, birth certificates, laboratory analysis, and vaccines up to date.

They hadn’t searched for medical history yet.

Bruce got up from his chair and quickly made his way back to the cave, a thought hiding in the back of his head as the case took hold of his priorities once again.

She can wait. I will make it right, but she can wait.

╰───────────✧──────────────╮

By the time she was done, it was almost 10:30 PM.

She wasn’t planning on throwing all the clothes away, even if Wayne had told her she could do it. It would be a waste to do so, and at the moment, she didn’t have a style in mind that would suit her yet. So, for now, she would have to use some of the clothes that Wayne agreed to let her keep.

The pattern of shades of green was pretty obvious, but she wasn’t gonna complain. It felt right to use green.

Which was why she didn’t take off the jacket from the moment she put it on.

Instead of shoving all the discarded clothes into trash bags, she put them into boxes that Alfred got her once he knew what she was doing with the clothes.

“A change of style and removing old things is a sign of new beginnings, my dear. Don’t feel shame for it.”

That old man was easily becoming her favorite person in the world.

After Billy, of course.

And her ghost companion, too.

…and maybe her mom as well-

A sharp knock at the door broke her away from the difficult task of tapping the boxes that were overflowing with clothes. She didn’t move from her spot on the floor, sitting with her legs crossed and fingers with pieces of tape stuck on them.

It was usually Alfred who always knocked and asked to be let in before opening the door. The other guys, thankfully, hadn’t come to look for her at her room in the past few days.

So, whoever knocked at her door wasn’t someone she knew.

“Hell, no,” she muttered while cutting another stripe of tape with her teeth, glaring at the door as if it had offended her.

“I ain’t talking to anybody. I’m too tired to handle their issues.”

Sticking the stripe over the absolute abstract monstrosity on top of the box (better safe than sorry. Wayne had already told her it was too much tape, but she wasn’t risking the box busting open while taking it to the thrift store tomorrow with Alfred after her follow-up visit with Dr. Vidal.) Curiosity began to creep into the back of her head.

Wayne hadn’t said anything for a while, maybe she was resting. ( Do ghosts go to sleep? Do they even need sleep?)

It wasn’t Alfred, for sure. He would have said something, and a few minutes had already passed by.

The gremlin? (Nah, he was still pissed off about the orange juice thing. His fault for being too slow to reach for it.)

The pale hallway ghost? (Pretty sure he only stuck to his room, judging by the pile of dishes outside a door a few halls down.)

Not Touchy Guy, probably. (Almost biting his finger off yesterday was enough warning unless he was THAT stupid.)

…So who?

Before she could think about too much, in the blink of an eye, she stood before the door with a hand already on the handle. A few papers flew off behind her, the gush of wind making the bell wind chime hanging by the window sound off.

Seems like her own body acts before she even finishes the thought.

‘Gotta get a grip on that, too,’ she noted while biting her lips inward, opening the door slowly, and looking into the hallway.

It was empty and dark. Not a person on sight.

Rolling her eyes as she began to close the door once again, her gaze landed on the floor.

Leaning against the wall by her door, on the floor lay a purple backpack.

She leaned forward and picked it up, noticing how heavy it was with a small grunt. Before going back into her room, she looked back into the hall, waiting for someone to pop by or something.

It didn’t happen.

Once she was back in her room, she climbed on the bed and opened the backpack. It was brand new, the material without a single scratch or dirt on it. And the books inside it as well, the smell of fresh paper and ink emitting from it. In the front pocket, she found something that made her open her mouth in shock.

A phone. A brand new phone.

She quickly turned it on, easily excited over having something like that on her hands.

‘I never had a phone before! Thank you, whoever you are! I owe you big!’

It didn’t have a lot of apps or stuff. The picture roll was still there, judging by the thousands of pics in there. But it had only one contact registered on it.

Jay.

Said contact also had sent a message.

‘Take care of your stuff. You need books to pass your classes.’

‘And stay out of trouble’

That made her snort, scratching her cheek while looking down at the text and at the bag. A smile grew on her lips at the thoughtful gift.

And then it was wiped out when the sudden realization hit her.

“Fuck, I forgot about school!”

╰───────────✧──────────────╮

Author's Note: Hello everyone! Hope everyone is doing amazing and well. My trip was great, I really needed to disconnect for bit before facing finals weeks (which I haven't cried yet so it's a big success!!) Lots of important details in this chapter and I can't wait to see what y'all think about and come up with lol. I'll add on the translation to the morse code later bc I'm posting this at 1:40 in the morning and i got a final presentation in the afternoon, so wish me luck!! Sending lots of hugs and love, GG✨

Morse Code Translation:

( .. / -.. --- -. .----. - / .-.. .. -.- . / .. -) I don't like it.

(-.- . . .--. / .. - .-.-.- / .. - / .-.. --- --- -.- … / .-- .- -.-- / -… . - - . .-. / --- -. / -.-- --- ..- .-.-.-) Keep it. It looks way better on you.

Tag List:

@bat1212 @kneelforloki @1abi @galaxypurplerose @yhin-gg @cxcilla @momentomoribitch @stargirl404 @initial-ari @welpthisisboring @icefox8155 @bunniotomia @alittlelostmoonchild @devotedlyshamelessdetective @shycreatorreview @nirvanaxx1942 @soulsire @ryuushou @rinkydinkythinky @lithiumval @ithoughtthinks @reeyy0-2 @cssammyyarts @lordbugs @ilovecoffe0 @kore-of-the-underworld @fortunatelydifferentqueen

Bonus Memes:

#platonic yandere #yan batfam #yandere batboys #yandere batfamily #neglected reader #platonic batfam #ancient dreams in a modern land #mutant reader #x-men #yandere #yandere batfam x reader #yandere batfam #platonic yandere batfam #yandere batfamily x reader #batfamily x reader #batfam x neglected reader #batfam x reader #Spotify

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k-hotchoisan · 9 months ago

Text

coming home with me

under the dim lights, Choi San realises that he just can’t keep this casual when it comes to you.

genre/warnings: pwp, smut, furcoat!San, is San being toxic??? I guess we’ll never know!, jealous dom! San, unprotected sex, reader is commando, car sex, fingering riding, breeding kink, spanking

a/n: ahoy!! y’alls gotta thank @bro-atz & @skteezcursed for the fic concept 😘 have been overwhelmed with life so I’m presenting this as my compensation ~

w/c: 3.1K

Under the dim lights, your eyes slowly adjust, and much to your delight, you spot the man you’ve been eye candying at a booth. Of course, you knew he was gonna be there considering you’ve been stalking his socials, and casually asking your mutual friends about his favourite hang-out spots.

He’s cute, you think, stealing glances at him from afar, wondering how you should approach him. A coincidence? Maybe stage an accident?

“And what’s the end goal for you with him?” You hear your friend’s voice piercing into your thoughts.

Well, initially, it was mostly a light-hearted flirty thing. You just thought he was cute. All romance sparks started off with the thrill of liking someone. It just hadn’t reached to that point with him yet.

“Maybe play around? I don’t know”, you reply.

Or maybe it was just a farce to keep a certain guy off your mind.

“You know, you don’t have to force yourself”, your friend reminds you, her palm on your hand comfortingly. “You should be direct with him.”

You force a smile back to assure her.

“It’s fine. I’m not gonna do anything foolish.”

You don’t notice the confused expression she’s making at your answer because now you’re thinking if you should just let things unfold naturally. Amidst your pondering, your friend’s elbow nudges you.

“And he’s looking at you”, she says. Your eyes glance up—and she’s right—your little eye candy has seemed to catch your gaze. He smiles even though he’s on the other side of the room. You give him a small wave and he waves back. Then he gestures for you to go down to the dance floor. You’re wondering if you should too as you watch him leave his booth and down the stairs to the crowded floor.

Unfortunately, you let the thought sit for a little too long because when you decide to leave the booth to the floor, you’ve lost him.

Letting the flashing lights and lasers with the decent music from the DJ doesn’t sound like a bad idea.

Soon enough, your eyes filter through the people and you catch your prey. He seems to be talking to someone but he also seems to have noticed your stare before he fully turns to you.

But as you’re steadily maneuvering the crowd to reach him, your eyes meet another man’s—sharp and all too familiar—and it seems as though he’s caught you too.

Your eyes widen and you immediately turn away, fishing your phone from your chest, opening your phone book to speed dial.

You bring your phone up to your ear, turning away from the approaching male deliciously styled in a black fur coat walking towards you, panic obvious in your tone while your friend picks up. You look up at her from the dance floor, eyes wide.

“Babe, you did not tell me that he was here?!” You whisper-shout. You watch your friend’s face widen her eyes before she shrugs.

“Who the hell did you think I was referring to just now? I was talking about Choi San!”

Choi San has had his eyes on you since you settled in your booth. He never thought he would see you out of all the clubs that existed in this town. But despite the slight scowl present on his face when he realises you’re flirting with someone else at the same level booth he is on, there’s a seed of desire that’s lodged in his heart, that maybe he has a chance.

But first, he has to get rid of your little eye candy.

San’s eyes trail your movements carefully—from the way you bat your eyelashes at the other male from the other booth, then to the way you stare after him as he walks down to the floor.

How have you not noticed him yet?

He stays put on the sofa, silently counting down how much longer it’d take for your eyes to rake over the rest of the booths to reach him.

Unfortunately, it only leaves him frustrated, and even tenfold when you leave your seat while your eyes search for him on the dance floor.

Guess he has to do it his way then.

He pushes past the wave of people, still locked onto you under the dim lights

The satisfaction that floods into his brain when your eyes meet his, his ears slowly tuning out the music, and he watches the way you eyes widen when you finally take notice of him from a distance.

And then you turn away. San cocks his eyebrow in confusion and irritation, and his footsteps towards you quicken.

Then he stops in his tracks once more.

Dear god, something might break today if he gets interrupted one more fucking time.

Your attention is stolen by your little eye candy. He got to you before San could.

You’re well-aware that you’re being stared down by a certain male from your peripherals, and that certainly wasn’t stopping you from pretending that he’s part of the air molecules, although not the easiest task when he’s boring a hole into your head.

You look back at your eye candy, plastering a pretty smile.

The both of you sink into small talk, leaning in closer in an attempt to hear each other over the music. You’re listening to him, but your attention remains on someone else. Someone who’s not hiding that he’s stealing glances at you.

“Do you wanna go somewhere private?” You hear him ask into your ear. His arm is snaking around your waist, and your interest is waning.

You’re ready to reject him, and you jolt slightly when you feel a bigger pair of hands slide across your back replacing the unfamiliar warmth.

“She’s got afterparty plans”, San answers curtly. It’s an automatic response that you swallow hard when let your eyes rake over San. His hair is slicked back, letting a couple strands fall past his eyes. He’s smug with the corner of his lips curled up. Maybe it’s the confidence that you hate about him, but like a moth drawn to a flame, you can’t seem to stay away from him.

You see the way the male tuts, then force a smile. “No worries. We’ll see each other soon, yeah?”

You nod, already losing him in the crowd, mostly because Choi San has your full attention.

Even under the dim lights, Choi San looks stunning. You realise you’re royally fucked when your eyes trail to the star of the show—the fact that San isn’t wearing anything underneath his fur coat. That piece of apparel somehow makes him look bigger, and it’s driving you insane. Well, if the tension escalates, he might get a surprise if you’re feeling generous enough. But right now, he’s eyeing you down like a predator, and it’s making you fall into his spell.

His arm isn’t leaving your back. He’s leaning in closer, making sure you hear his words loud and clear in your ear.

“That’s your type?”

You do your best to hide the effects he’s having on you—ignoring heat pooling between your thighs.

Your fingers play with the soft fur as he leans in and waits for your answer. He smells so fucking good.

You shrug, and that only bubbles his irritation further. His grip on your waist tightens slightly.

“Answer me, darling”, he pushes, his palm sliding lower down.

“Maybe. We had a nice chat before you cut in. Seemed like a decent person.”

San furrows his eyebrows.

“What if he’s not a good person? Does that mean any guy that has a nice conversation with you a good person?”

His other arm is snaking around the back of your neck and he definitely feels your goosebumps. He’s forcing you to look at him.

“San”, you huff, mentally bracing yourself from falling for his charms again. “And on what grounds do you have to be saying all of this?”

“As your best friend?”

You scoff, with a roll of your eyes. Painful to tear away from his chiseled body just peeking out.

San can’t seem to pinpoint it—for some reason, the interaction you had with your eye candy pricked him so much. But why? You and he have always been fooling around, leaving feelings at bay so it wouldn’t “complicate things”. But obviously after tonight, something clicked, and San is very sure he doesn’t like you to be around other men that aren’t him.

“I’m leaving, Choi San. It’s hard to hear you with all these people around”, you make up the excuse, smacking his arm away with much reluctance, only for him to snatch you back once more. San makes sure you hear him loud and fucking clear when he leans into your ears.

“We should go somewhere private then.”

Your moan in the kiss sets him off. Your hands trail up his bare body, and his hands are on your thighs.

Fucking you in his car wasn’t San’s preference—he prefers a little more space— but he’s not complaining when he has you slowly unravel right before him, forced to press yourself against him even with the seat reclined and his thick erection is just shameless pressing against your body con dress.

His fingers slip under your dress, and he groans when he feels your bare pussy—wet, puffy and just ready.

And for some reason, it pisses him off when thought of your eye candy being the one to discover this instead of him.

“Just how much of my buttons are you gonna push tonight, princess?” He asks rhetorically, his sharp eyes locked onto yours, trying not to snap from how wet you are.

You steady yourself on his lap, your mind slowly growing blank whenever his thick fingers graze your clit and past your sopping hole.

“You were just begging to be fucked, huh?” San asks with his fingers circling so close to your pussy.

“San!-“

“Tell me then: who were you hoping to fuck you stupid tonight?”

Your begs come in the forms of soft whimpers, and a sob rips from you when he plunges two thick fingers in, filling you up so fucking full.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

His fingers fucking your cunt isn’t helping you think.

You know there’s no way around this. As much as you hated to admit, San always seemed to have the upper hand. Nonetheless, your unintentional plan had roused a side of him you’ve never seen before.

“I’m waiting.”

It takes almost all of your strength to focus on answering him, and it’s making you frustrated because he’s intentionally missing the spot that he knows can send you seeing the stars.

“You”, you answer meekly.

“Can’t hear you, sweetie.” His fingers press against your g-spot, and you lean closer to his body on reflex, your hands gripping his fur coat. You could just smack the smug look off Choi San if he didn’t have two fingers stuffed in you.

“You! Oh, fuck-” You cry out when he misses your g-spot on purpose once more.

“Right answer, sweetie. You deserve a reward for being a good girl, hm?”

You can’t even answer. His thumb is rubbing on your clit, it sends electricity all over in the best way possible on top of his fingers hitting your sweet spots over and over again. The wet sounds of your pussy squelching only bring up the thick tension.

“Look at you, tightening up like this. Are you gonna cum for me?” His voice drops an octave, lulling you closer to your impending orgasm. You hate the way he knows every nook and cranny of your body as if it’s his. You just really cannot escape him.

His words continue to edge you closer.

“Oh, that’s a good fucking girl. Keep squeezing my fingers like that. I’m the only one who makes you feel this fucking tight, right?”

You fucking hate Choi San.

Cream seeps past his fingers from your hole when your orgasm brings your vision to white. Your moans fill up the car when it wrecks your body in waves, your nerves flooding with pleasure over and over.

And San isn’t letting you leave the damn car, not until you’re screaming his name.

He’s not faring any better himself and he could just get off just by watching you cum all over him like that.

His fingers leave your soaking cunt, slightly pruning with strings of your cum in between his fingers. While you catch your breath, San forces you to watch him lick his sticky fingers clean while his free hand shifts your fingers to his bulging erection that’s just begging to be let out. He’s grown so fucking hard that you wonder if it hurts.

You unbutton and unzip his trousers, then push yourself to the side towards the car door to give him enough space so he’s able to fully remove his trousers. You can’t help but worry if the both of you would be caught, even though San assured you that he parked at a secluded spot. Your eyes dart to the windows, noticing how it’s beginning to grow foggy.

Oh. It’s about to get a lot more foggy.

San’s touch pulls you out of your thoughts. Although you’ve fucked many times, the sheer fucking size of his cock never fails to make you swallow hard.

Your hands wander up his tits as you settle back down onto his thighs. The realisation hits you then—the only clothing article Choi San has on right now is his fucking fur coat.

He catches onto your stare and smiles in response.

“Why? Is the thought of getting fucked by your favourite person wearing a fur coat getting you excited?”

You narrow your eyes at him, and you palm his bare, thick, and sticky cock, making San groan in reply.

“Favourite? What makes you think you’re my favourite?”

He chuckles and makes your heart flutter.

“Many things, sweetheart. Just as you’re mine.”

You’re really gonna end up losing to him, huh?

You lift your hips instead, lining up to his cockhead, and then letting San guide your hips down his fat cock, making you take him inch by inch. You bite your lip at the feeling of his cock filling you up so disgustingly good, and San has his eyes screwed shut, a strained groan leaving his lips when your warmth envelops him so fucking good.

“That’s it. You’re so fucking warm and tight for me”, San mutters in pleasure through half-lidded eyes.

Riding San sometimes feels too much for you, in the best fucking ways possible because he’s all the way in, and he knows that very well—how easily you get sensitive and squirmy just from sitting on his cock.

You slowly bounce off his cock, grabbing his shoulders for leverage. He likes that you have to lean into him while he fucks you from below so he can whisper the most dirty things into your ear just to make you clench around him.

His palms slide down your ass, following the momentum of you bouncing off his cock, then landing a tight slap against your skin to hear your gasp and feel you tighten on his cock.

The sting feels so fucking good that another slap has your pussy leaking cream all over his cock once more.

“S-San! If you keep doing that-“ you cry, another slap to your ass making you jolt, sinking even deeper into his cock.

“That’s your punishment for flirting with another man in front of me like that”, his voice buzzing in your ear.

Another smack.

Your thighs are trembling from the overstimulation.

One more smack.

Your mind is about to shut off. San’s cock is pressing against your g-spot with even more pressure than his fingers.

The windows have completely fogged up.

“San, please. Oh my fucking god. Gonna fucking cum”, you whine, arms tight around his neck, intoxicated with the smell of his musk mixed with his cologne.

San’s grunts fill your ears when your second orgasm drowns you again, your cunt pulsing uncontrollably around him, cream just pooling at the base of his cock. He groans and buries his nose into your neck, his mind fuzzy from how close his orgasm is.

“I’m gonna cum in you. Wanna plug your pussy hole full of my cum.

And you’re gonna take all of it like a good girl.”

“Yes, please”, you reply, much to his pleasant surprise. So his large hands hold your legs down, listening to you whine while his cock fills you up endlessly with warm and thick cum with moans escaping his lips every few seconds from how fucking good he feels.

He pushes you off his body gently, his eyes reflecting the hearts in your glazed-out eyes. His thumb brushes against the corner of your lips and he pushes his thumb past your lips.

“Such a good fucking girl, letting me fill you up with my load. Does it feel good?”

You nod, twitching slightly from the overstimulation since he still has you stuffed full of both dick and cum. San wants to keep this sight of you in his brain forever—sucking on his finger, sweating with him post-orgasm, staring down at him with watery eyes while his cum just leaks past your puffy pussy hole even though his cock is plugging your cunt.

San pulls you into a deep kiss, and you reciprocate it in between breathless pants and sighs.

“Fuck. I think I’m in love”, he mutters loud enough for you to hear.

You don’t know how to answer to that, but you feel your face flushing. He grabs the tissues stowed in the storage compartment and quickly cleans the both of you up after he lifts you off his softening cock.

You instinctively shift to the passenger seat, and San removes his fur coat to cover you. You watch him grab a black tank top from the back seat, then fit his trousers over his thighs.

He rolls down the windows despite the air-con running, just to rid the smell of sex.

You wrap his coat closer to you when the night breeze kisses your cheeks.

“So, are you gonna send me home?” There’s a strange tint of hope you have that he’d decline.

San stares at you with an expression that confuses you—one that makes you wonder if you had said something weird. Then he smiles after that.

“You’re coming home with me, sweetheart”, San tells you as he loops his tank top over his head before he switches gear to move out.

“It’s gonna be a long night for the both of us.”

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ddarker-dreams · 3 months ago

Text

A Deal's a Deal II.

Yan Chrollo x F Reader

Warnings: Yandere themes, unhealthy relationships, descriptions of anxiety and emotional/mental manipulation. Word count: 4.1k.

You met Chrollo at an old hole-in-the-wall bookstore that housed archaic texts.

There was little information on your condition, but what material did exist hid itself beneath allegory and ciphers. The best leads came from high strangeness circles. They expanded on Jung’s concept of the collective unconscious, drawing parallels between historical records across cultures and periods that all implied some system that transcended physical limitations. Whether it came from alchemists like Paracelsus, mystics like Crowley, or authors like William Blake, hints of this system can be found sprinkled throughout history.

Chrollo informed you that this system is commonly called ‘Nen.’

Before him, the nomenclature eluded you. You simply regarded it as a phenomenon best kept to yourself. The world’s a weird place, filled with inexplicable things that the human mind can’t always comprehend. This handheld device, which you nicknamed Instant Replay, is the foremost example.

You were always aware that you knew things you shouldn’t have. As a child, it perplexed you. Why do people sometimes sound weird? A few trips to the audiologist proved your hearing is perfectly fine. When this avenue didn’t provide answers, you ended up in counseling, where you reenacted the dilemma with dolls. For a while, you insisted that what you heard was real. It frustrated you to no end that the adults in your life either dismissed you or offered bromides.

As an adult yourself in the present, you can’t blame them for being at a loss.

You smartened up eventually. What you once blabbed about to anyone who would listen, you kept to yourself. This eased the tensions at home. Your parents seemed happy that the issue had ‘resolved’ itself and you maintained the illusion. Playing pretending could only do so much — the core problem remained. Your mind made the connection that when another was being dishonest, that’s when their voice would sound strange. After you realize that, there’s no going back. The epiphany changed how you interacted with others for better and for worse.

“You want to get rid of your ability?” he sounded surprised when he asked.

“How could I not?” you replied. “People lie… a lot. Friends, family, strangers. And, okay, that might not seem bad, but imagine always being aware of it. It— It eats away at you. Wears down your ability to trust. I have to act like I’m none the wiser, knowing full well someone just lied to my face. I don’t want to know! I’m tired of knowing!”

“You’re unable to control when it’s active?”

“Instant Replay lets me ‘review’ audio, both in real-time and after it’s been recorded. I have control over the latter, but that’s it.”

Your antagonistic relationship with Nen fascinated Chrollo. According to him, most people were intentional when it came to crafting their Hatsu. There are very few cases like yours where Hatsu is subconsciously given shape and form. You wish your subconscious had created something more useful, like a sword. That would’ve been cool.

“Could I learn a new ability to oust Instant Replay?” you wondered.

“Unfortunately, it doesn’t work that way,” Chrollo dismissed. “In theory, it is possible to learn different abilities, although your inexperience would make that difficult. There’s no way to erase an ability either. You can, however, lose access to it. For instance, there’s my predicament, or…”

He leaned in close and whispered:

“... Someone could steal it.”

Chrollo looks out of place in your apartment.

It’s a cozy, lived-in space, full of trinkets that he thoughtfully examines as if he were in the Louvre. Meanwhile, you prepare two cups of tea. Chamomile with honey for you and Earl Grey for him. After setting the timer for five minutes, you realize there’s not much else to do but wait. The silence is unusual and unnerving. Anticipation thrums through the air like an electric current. You feel it coursing through your blood; tingling along your skin.

The barstool you’ve chosen as your perch groans against the wooden floor as you pull it out.

Chrollo picks up a picture for closer inspection. You crane your neck, curious about which snapshot captured his attention. It’s from a night out with friends. Empty plates and drinks littered the table and each of you crowded in close to fit into frame. Since the restaurant was high-end, you were dolled up, adorned in an outfit that rarely saw the light of day.

“Swarovski?” He sounds amused.

“I’ve been known to splurge on the occasion,” you huff. “The necklace was on sale and the earrings were—”

You cut yourself off, although you’re unsure why. It shouldn’t be a taboo topic. Nonetheless, beneath the weight of his gaze, you couldn’t get the word out.

“—From an ex?” He offers.

You nod.

He returns the picture to its proper place, a cryptic smile on his lips. “So even you aren’t above materialistic impulses, hm?”

“There’s a difference between rampant consumerism and buying yourself something nice on occasion,” you retaliate, disliking the edge of mockery in his voice. “I don’t need to hear this from the dude wearing a silver Rolex watch.”

“It’s white gold.”

You roll your eyes. “A camel through the eye of a needle.”

“‘First cast out the beam out of thine own eye.’”

“Do you seriously have the entire King James version of the Bible memorized?”

“It was one of the most accessible texts in my youth,” he says, his smile softening into something pensive. “The missionaries were far more generous with those showing signs of ‘progress.’ I tried helping my companions memorize the more significant passages, but they weren’t what you’d call ideal pupils.”

Missionaries? You purse your lips and consider the implications. Had Chrollo grown up in destitution? Come to think of it, you know very little about him or his background. Unlike you, he never volunteered the information. He skillfully maneuvered around any inquiry into his past. The most you’ve gleaned is that he’s a traveling antiquarian who, in pursuit of valuables, made some enemies along the way.

The shrill shriek of the timer rips you from your thoughts.

Chrollo accepts his mug with a “thank you” and sits on the rightmost side of your coach. After plopping two ice cubes into your concoction, you join him, leaving ample room between you. The nerves from earlier return. He’s an easy man to converse with, but when his mind is preoccupied — as it most certainly is now — you’re at a loss. Do you try reinitiating banter? Opt for a completely different topic? Or should you let him initiative, squirming around until he breaks the thickening tension?

“Have I held you in suspense long enough?” Chrollo asks while holding his hand out. A book with a handprint on the cover appears, the pages flipping too fast for you to gauge their contents.

The quality of his aura temporarily stupefies you. This must be the difference between a novice like yourself and a genius. You can muster up enough aura to summon Instant Replay, but that takes considerable effort. To him, managing the flow of aura comes as easy as breathing. You scooch closer to study his technique. How long would it take you to match his expertise? Years? Decades?

“I’ll get bashful if you keep staring at me like that.”

“Liar,” you accuse without any real malice.

He chuckles.

“Give me your hand.”

Heat rushes to your face as you recall what happened when you last parted. “D-Do I have to?”

“Yes.”

Hesitantly, you do as he requests. He maneuvers your hand against the conjured book’s cover. You gnaw on your bottom lip, trepidation brewing inside your soul. You thought you’d feel relieved when this moment came. There’d be some butterflies, yes, but that would quickly give way to relief and exhilaration. The thorn that’s been in your side all these years is finally coming out. Your quid pro quo has reached its conclusion; this is your reward, your ticket to a normal life.

“I like you too.”

“I’ll be there whenever you need me.”

“It’s okay if you come.”

“I promise I won’t tell anyone.”

“We’ll always be together.”

Yes, people lie a lot. Sometimes, you’re unsure if they’re even aware of it themselves. They lie to you, the people they love, the people they hate, and themselves. Fate decided you’d be made witness to their folly, sewing your lips shut and eyes wide open. The wounds it left behind are intangible and incurable. How do you heal what you can’t explain knowing to others? How do you explain your hesitation, shift in demeanor, and inadequate coverup?

The sound of Instant Replay whirring reverberates throughout your skull.

Chrollo speaks your name softly. You startle, realizing that you’re blinking back tears.

“I—”

“It’s alright,” he reassures. The words sound crisp — genuine — soothing your budding concern that you’re inconveniencing him somehow. In an instant, the hardcover dissipates, leaving your hand flat against nothing. Chrollo takes the opportunity to come closer. When you don’t protest, he completely closes the distance, until you’re thigh to thigh.

He smells good. Intoxicatingly so.

“Show me the ability you despise so much, dear.”

Dear? You think to protest the emergence of this nickname, yet you can’t bring yourself to. Instead, you follow his order, mechanically lifting your arm and summoning your ability much like he had.

“Good. It’s almost over with,” he brushes the wetness away from your eyes with his knuckles. Your heart leaps at the contact. “Finally, I have to ask about your ability. There are so many possibilities… what to choose, what to choose… ah.”

With the same hand that wiped away your nascent tears, he cups your cheek.

“Do you trust a man like me with such a dangerous ability?”

“I have my reservations,” you respond. You don’t miss the amusement he derives from your candidness. “This sounds bad, but… at this point, I guess I just don’t care.”

For a moment, all is still. There’s no odor of sulfur, maniacal cackling, or declaration that the ritual is complete. You didn’t have to sign a contract in blood or swear an oath to an infernal being. Your overactive imagination ran numerous scenarios through your head. The lack of flair over this life-defining moment is almost underwhelming. You frown, fearing that there was an error somewhere along the way. If there was, he’s given no indication, yet you’ll remain restless until the results are confirmed.

“Chrollo?”

“Hm?”

“Did it work?”

“It did, love.”

“Could you, um,” you lick your lips, a motion that draws his attention. “Make something up so I can know for sure?”

This request amuses him.

“How will you know if I’m being honest to mess around with you or not?”

At this, you give him a light shove. Given his apparent playfulness, you expected him to move back, but he doesn’t budge an inch. It felt like trying to move a concrete building.

“Make it an obvious lie, then.”

“An obvious lie, hm?” He mulls over your suggestion. “Very well. How about this: I don’t want you beneath me.”

You gape at him, dumbstruck.

“I find it easy to control my urges around you.”

He keeps going.

“I’m unmoved by your beauty…”

He gently pushes your shoulders until you’re lying down.

“... Your wit…”

He hovers above you, tracing the outline of your lips with his pointer finger.

“... And boundless charm.”

Chrollo tilts your head up by your chin. “Well? Do you believe me now?”

Slowly, as if in a daze, you nod. Your heart lurches, the organ beating loud enough to hear in your ears. You feel uncomfortably warm, like your heater’s been cranked to the highest setting. Gradually, the violent joy you expected to accompany your liberation abounds, starting at your chest and overflowing outward. You’re smiling, breathless, your corporeal form barely able to contain the glee. You see your reflection in Chrollo’s eyes. There’s a manic quality to your countenance; you barely recognize yourself.

You’re free, you’re free, you’re free—

His lips find yours. Your cognition short circuits, leaving you in a reverie where you can barely understand what’s happening. He handles you so carefully that it’s easy to forget you’re physically trapped. He carries on, either failing to notice your apprehension or disregarding it.

On some level, you’ve always sensed this underlying attraction. You remained purposefully obtuse. There was too much at stake — jeopardizing your aims for a fling felt counterintuitive. On paper, he’d make for the ideal partner. He’s devilishly handsome, charismatic, and intelligent to a fault. Aside from some dubious morality, you couldn’t ask for a better suitor.

And still, hesitation prevailed.

Every now and then, there’d be glimpses of some great, existential threat, beneath the fissures of his porcelain mask. These glimpses gave you pause. You think he could’ve tried harder to hide these damning qualities, yet chose not to. Where’s the fun — the thrill — in always playing nice? You needed his help more than he needed yours. His connections spanned continents, whereas yours were shallow and easy to uproot.

How many of your convictions would you compromise?

How far would you let the poison spread to cure another affliction?

How can you look down on him if you’ve fallen to the same level?

When he pulls away, you avert your gaze, fearing what stares back.

“... So you are afraid of me, then.”

Chrollo lets you wriggle out from underneath him. When your eyes make brief contact, it feels like he’s inspecting you, as if you were a specimen in a petri dish. It isn’t the reaction you’d expect from a rejected man. Nonetheless, you’re on edge and longing for a menial task to occupy yourself with. Recalling the state of the kitchen, you decide that will suffice.

He remains seated as you wash and dry the implements used to make your tea.

This uncharacteristic silence unsettles you further. The only audible sound in your apartment is your faucet, the water running over silverware that’s plenty clean. You scrub at it harder, wondering what you should do next. Originally, you intended to thank him for his pivotal role in removing your burden. You never would have made it this far without his assistance. Even with this strange atmosphere, your gratitude remains unwavering.

You’ll be able to live life like anyone else now. It’s an accomplishment worthy of celebration, regardless of the twists and turns along the way. Maybe he misinterpreted your body language or acted on an impulse. These mistakes can happen when emotions run high.

Okay, you think, psyching yourself up. This doesn’t have to be weird. I can—

“Have you given much thought over last week’s unpleasantness?”

Your heart skips a beat and your shoulders droop.

“I assume you haven’t,” he says. “That’s fair. It must’ve been frightening… I wish I could have spared you such an experience.”

The appreciation he previously instilled in you desiccates, drop by drop.

“Will you please get to the point?”

Under different circumstances, you would’ve been more patient with his preamble, but this is a sore subject. A buried corpse like that shouldn’t be exhumed. His reasoning, though elusive to you now, doesn’t inspire warm sentiments.

“That incident won’t be the last of its kind.”

You turn around as he approaches, sipping his tea. He leans against the counter and eyes you over the cup’s rim.

“In truth, we should’ve left hours ago, but I was feeling sentimental.”

“‘We?’ Chrollo, what are you talking about?”

“Had it not been for your role in getting my Nen back, Hisoka would’ve killed you,” Chrollo says this so casually that you question if you’re hearing him right. “Now that you’ve done your part, he has a vested interest in doing so.”

You no longer have a way to verify if he’s telling the truth or not. It’s so stupid, so unfair, that you almost laugh. Instant Replay no longer heeds your call. You surrendered it to a new master, who, before taking it from your willing hands, all but told you he was the worst person you could’ve picked.

Chrollo continues, “He’s a peculiar case. All he cares about is fighting formidable opponents, and, with my Nen returned, I am one.”

You take a step back.

“That business is between you two. I fail to see how this involves me.”

“I have preparations to finish before I face him,” Chrollo explains. “He doesn’t feel like waiting any longer. Harming you is an excellent way to speed things along. Even I don’t know what I’d do if you were fatally injured.”

You shake your head. “I— you’re not serious. There’s just no way. I’m moving past all of this bullshit. Nen, Hatsu, whatever; that has nothing to do with me anymore. I’m done.”

“I’m sorry, dear.”

“No, you aren’t!” Your voice raises in pitch, pulled as taut as a bowstring. “You knew, didn’t you? That this would be a problem? Oh, oh, you had to, why else would you have acted all weird when you saw him? Stop looking at me like you care, like you’re sorry, 'cause this is the best-case scenario for you!”

You pace back and forth, your mind racing. This was a mistake. Walking up to him because you recognized the book in his hands was a mistake. Is he bluffing? And if he is, does it matter? You can’t put up a fight. You don’t think you could even make it to the door. If he was a regular man, you’d have options. You could yell for help, call the cops, and inflict some damage, minor as it may be. All those tactics turn to ash before an oppressive, incomprehensible force like this.

You snap your head in his direction. “Aren’t you going to say something?”

“I don’t see how that will help.”

You prepare to spew vitriol his way, when a dreadful thought shoots through you like a bullet.

“My family. What about them? Won’t they be in danger too?”

“They aren’t on his radar.”

“How do you know that?”

“Please don’t take this the wrong way,” Chrollo sets the cup down. “The suffering of your loved ones wouldn’t elicit a reaction from me, so he won’t bother. Targeting you is the wisest option.”

Words fail you. Is this it? The depravity he kept subdued finally let loose, so dense in its quality that it threatens to suffocate you? All you wanted was a semblance of normalcy. Normal relationships, interactions, and problems. Has the path you’ve treaded brought you further away from this humble aspiration? Or is there still a way, some faint silver lining that you must find and latch onto?

“What about after?”

“Hm?”

“After Hisoka is dealt with,” you clarify, tapping your foot repeatedly. “You’re not going to let him live, are you?”

“That’s rather dark.”

“Chrollo,” you implore.

“No, I won’t,” he confirms. “As for what comes next — I intend to persuade you.”

You regard him with suspicion. His tone and the implications sink into you like a venomous bite. He exudes quiet confidence, indicating that nothing you’ve said will influence him in any meaningful way. Dread sticks to your stomach, making your body feel heavy. You hug yourself, clenching your upper arms with shaky fingers. Any lingering excitement from earlier has vaporized, leaving behind a profound hollowness.

“I suppose this can go a few ways,” you murmur. “I could cause as many headaches for you as possible, or, I could be decent enough.”

“I’m listening.”

“I’d like to have Instant Replay back,” you say. He quirks an eyebrow. “Just for a bit. What? I’m assuming if you can steal something, you can give it back, right?”

“You’d be correct. Still, that begs the question; what are you intending to accomplish with this little scheme?”

“Nothing that’ll inconvenience you in any major way.”

Chrollo falls silent. You dig your nails into your flesh as the seconds drag on, awaiting his verdict. If he had your ability activated, he should’ve been able to discern your honesty. Then again, he’s aware of the workarounds. To ensure your words wouldn’t register as untrue, you had to remain vague and subjective. What you consider an inconvenience could differ drastically from him.

“I’m sure I won’t regret this.”

Your eyes widen. That dissonant timbre is unmistakable, he returned your ability! Filled with newfound resolve, you stride toward him, your eyes blazing. This is your chance. You need to make the most of this opening before it’s gone forever. He could choose not to answer any of your questions, but something tells you he won’t, like it’d injure his pride. You issued him a challenge and he’s intent on meeting it.

“Did you have anything to do with what happened last week?”

“I didn’t.”

“Did Hisoka?”

“No, he just happened to be observing you from afar.”

“Why?”

“For his personal amusement, I’d wager.”

“He’d really kill me just to… agitate you?”

“It’s in line with his character.”

You swallow thickly and press on.

“And if you’re wrong?”

“Then I’m wrong. Regardless, you’ll be alive and well.”

“Can you win against him in a fight?”

“Yes.”

“And if you somehow lose, what happens next?”

“My companions will hunt him down and kill him.”

Now that you’ve gotten your most pressing inquiries out of the way, you decide to wade through dangerous waters. Chrollo likely saw the benefit in assuaging your doubt, these next questions provide him nothing substantial. His willingness to humor you is undoubtedly finite. Keeping this in mind, you consider the possibilities. You may never have a chance like this again. Is there anything that can give you an advantage? You’ll take anything, no matter how small, even if all it offers is an illusion of control.

Chrollo glances at his watch in a not-so-subtle motion.

“Who sealed your Nen?”

“Now this is more what I expected,” he hums. His eyes take on a bright, unsettling shade. “An individual with a longstanding grudge. Your paths will not cross, I suggest adopting another plan of attack.”

He saw right through you. You knew it was a long shot, but collaborating with this mysterious figure would have proven advantageous. They must be powerful in their own right to have bested Chrollo. Should you try pressing for more information? Then again, Chrollo doesn’t seem keen on sharing more, much to your chagrin.

What does that leave you with…?

“How do you plan on ‘persuading’ me?”

“You’re better off not knowing until we get to that point.”

You frown. If that didn’t register as a lie, it must be what he genuinely believes. Curiosity plagues you, dredging up anxiety. You have but a few grains of sand left in the hourglass remaining. It’s suspended midair, poised to drop at the most ill-timed moment. The approach of the end is worse than its inevitable arrival. You now have the chance to hasten its onset, at the risk of being debilitated by the impact. What lows would he resort to? Are you actually better off remaining ignorant?

“Alright, let’s—”

“Does it hurt to know I’ll never love you?”

Up until this point, he’s fired back with a near instant response. This time, however, he hesitates, the invasive nature of the inquiry necessitating careful thought. You finally found an effective ‘attack.’ It’s too late to do you any lasting good, but you greedily devour it nonetheless. When dealing with a person of Chrollo’s caliber, it’s easy to forget he possesses the same human qualities you do. You might be unable to stop his heart from beating, but you can make the organ ache.

“I can live with it, dear.”

You pinch your eyebrows together, thrown off by his voice’s clarity. Is the knowledge that inconsequential to him? Have you misjudged his attachment? While considering this, you flex your fingers, concentrating your aura there. You can’t repeat his words back since Instant Replay wasn’t recording, but you still decide to conjure it. You’ll record what remains of this conversation to ensure you don’t miss anything else.

The flow of your aura halts at your wrist, refusing to take form. Frowning, you try again, only to realize he must have reclaimed your ability.

When did that happen? Was it before or after his response?

Chrollo says your name, regaining your attention. “I fulfilled my end of the bargain. Will you do the same?”

After playing the role of the interrogator, you’re back to being an inmate. You meant what you said — when you said it, that is. This is yet another loophole to subvert Instant Replay. What’s true to you in one instant can change in the next. It’s frightening how fast he’s learned these nuances that took you years to test and discover. He’s already making the most of your ability, turning what was a thorn in your side into a full-fledged dagger.

“What choice do I have?”

“There’s always a choice,” Chrollo asserts. “You just have a habit of making the wrong ones.”

A delirious laugh leaves your lips.

"... I suppose you're right."

#chrollo x reader #yandere chrollo x reader #yandere #yandere x reader #hxh x reader #yandere hxh x reader #chrollo brainrot #my stuff

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