#how i was feeling / what my thinking was too. i can barely express inconsequential or simple thoughts let alone big emotions

[mieczyhale]

[rifualk]

On Mental Health and Cosmic Embarrassment

I don't usually make a post in the aftermath of one of my spirals, so I bet most people see some of the vent posts I make, and assume I am just off my meds or something. I am on them but I might not be on the right ones. This is a thing that happens to me sometimes. I have psychotic episodes, where it feels like the things I am saying are completely inconsequential and I genuinely believe no one cares what I'm saying or, worst of all, that it cannot scare anyone that cares about me. I get too tired to fight my intrusive thoughts and I just ride them out. Most of my thoughts are not ones I enjoy having. I have trouble parsing what is real sometimes. For most of my life, out of a kind of primal shame and terror of being perceived or judged, I beat myself into believing that I just roleplayed as a crazy person online because I wanted attention for it, but it finally clicked for me at some point in my 20s that I was, and am, genuinely very mentally ill, maybe in ways that make me not-entirely-functional in the culture I inhabit. Also, I want attention for it.

Life is very embarrassing. I think embarrassment, shame, et al. is probably the most cosmic feeling of them all, because being embarrassed, for me anyway, leads invariably to my OCD extrapolating the embarrassment, no matter how slight, into its natural extreme, becoming a full-blown existential meltdown and often manifesting in some self-punishment. Or a lot of self-punishment. Instead of saying "everyone wants attention, it's not a big deal", my brain will overwhelm me with shame and make me vow to be quieter about the whole thing next time. Good emotions are meant to be expressed, I tell myself, and Bad ones are not. I think it's very unhealthy for people to not express their negative emotions openly. Or maybe I'm psychotic. I mean, I am psychotic. But maybe right now, too.

Ultimately this feeling peaks with the realization - again - that I'm a eukaryote. I live on a spinning ball of stardust in the aftermath of what had to have been a colossal disaster and waste of time. But it happened, and so now there's a bunch of stuff floating around, and some of that stuff started moving for reasons I don't personally understand and the implications of which scare me. And the moving stuff that moved faster got to stay moving longer. And so a chain reaction escalated, and eventually there were very large moving things whose survival adaptations had evolved in such a way that they could conceptualize and communicate complex information about the world around them, but they were also able to conceptualize themselves. This gave them a lot of grief. They wanted very badly for there to be an answer to why they were able to do that. Surely it served some purpose. But we never found one, and here we are.

I don't have a god to turn to. I have tried - earnestly, sincerely, and desperately - to reach out; I never hear back. I don't want to be an atheist, it's heartbreaking. Honestly. I want someone to be up there, or out there. Knowing there isn't, is just... cruel. It's horrifying and it wrenches my heart. Look at us, look how much we're suffering, where the fuck did you go, what the fuck is your problem? Help us!

In spite of everything, I am still not sure what I believe.

Don't you ever just cry about the world? Like, broadly? Don't you ever just have to take off your glasses and wipe the brine from them because you caught a glimpse of what people, as a species, could be capable of? And I get angry at myself, too. What am I doing about it? What even can I do? I can barely hold down a job. I am barely an adult. I am often mired in this feeling. It permeates everything. I'm living in a tragedy - not just my own, but millions and millions of others'. This is a nightmare. It's a nightmare and I'm an embarrassment, and my brain doesn't work right, and I'm living in a terrible reality that is shared by everyone, and yet somehow equally isolating and alienating to all of us. Does it have to be that way? Aren't we all lonely?

When I am spiraling I really do think that the end is near, either for me, or for everyone, or for both. To be fair, my confidence about humanity's future is not promising even when I am at my most sane. But in this kind of emotional place, the stakes are too high for me to care that what I say might come off as upsetting. It is completely overwhelming. I see my life up to this point, and I see how long I've been alive and realize I'm very Not Normal and I look and sound different than everyone around me and I'm an embarrassment. It's embarrassing to exist. It's embarrassing to be transgender, too. It's really, really embarrassing to be mentally ill and fully aware of it all the time. It's shameful. I am ashamed of how my family likely sees me. How my peers see me. I'm just a walking disaster. I feel like this bars me from leading a happy life or finding some success in art - It doesn't seem like you're allowed to be quite this much of a problem and "get away with it", does it? There's a bit of social sanitizing at work there - you are only allowed to be a certain level of messed up and if you pass that you're sort of a pariah. I don't think I've ever done anything pariah-worthy, but I can only see things from the inside of my own head, and there's a lot of unwanted noise in here.

I painted this when I lived in Oregon. I don't know how. I could not do art like this again if asked.

I'm not in a good place, generally-speaking. It could be worse - and it was for a long time- but it's still just not great. The main reason is that I am very homesick. I grew attached to the Pacific Northwest in a way I've never really grown attached to any other place. It had a quality that exists nowhere else. It resonated with me immediately and I knew right away from the moment I first set foot there that it was my home. I grew to be a part of it, and it's the only place I felt I somewhat-belonged... I have been away from Oregon for 2 whole years as of next month. I feel like I'm a fish out of water, or a sapling in the wrong soil. I can't and won't say that the place I live currently is a bad place, but it isn't my place, and the disconnect has been maybe the nastiest shock to my system in all my life. Finding the place I loved, and living for over 12 years there, only to be wrenched away from it so suddenly, left a shock on me that I think has yet to surface in my work. I'm excited to see what form it takes when it does. Location is very important to my mental wellbeing, more than I think it is for most people. Maybe I am a plant. It's also very important for my art. I've struggled to find inspiration since I moved here. That said, I've had the very precious opportunity to just work on myself - on my transition, as well as my personal issues. I think I'm getting better, gradually, in some way. I have a job now, at least. So it's not entirely bad. I even grew sunflowers last summer.

Around this time I got banned from twitter, but I don't feel any shame about the reason why because I believe in my message. But it forced me to be a lot less active online for a long time. It also made me lose a lot of support. That's been something I've grappled with a lot these last 2 years - that people really don't like people like me, for reasons that are mostly not our fault. I will likely always be something of an outsider for being who I am now, but I was one before anyway. It's still worth it. I like the person I'm becoming. I feel like only recently did I allow myself to feel this self-love. I was too embarrassed of myself. It took a lot of patience and a lot of de-tangling my self-worth from a lot of trauma. So it's likely I would have needed to go through all of this regardless of where I was.

I still slip up. It's an uphill climb and it's slippery. I like to be transparent about these things. It's a relief - feeling like I need to hide things is my default state and it's lovely to just let go of stuff so I don't need to keep it in my head all the time. I have a lot of hangups still. I get discouraged about my art still - I fear I'll never build myself back up to where I was before, and that there will never be a time when I can really pay the bills with it. Or worse-still, that it just isn't special enough to last. That it isn't remarkable enough to survive after I'm gone. But I think a lot of people who make stuff feel that way, and it's not our fault. There's some relief in that. I'm happy to have even a few people that care about me and my work, and something I've been trying really hard to remember in recent years is to take time to appreciate them. I'm not actually alone. I have a lot of people that love me. I'm not an outsider. I'm very lucky to know the people I do, and I hold a deep regret for all the connections I've let go of because I was just too sick. Deep down I really do wish I could love everyone. I have no ill will towards anyone, not really.

I still don't know what I'm doing. I am just doing my best, I think. I'm really, really tired. I don't want to get any older. I'm scared of the passage of time. My memory is so bad, it feels like time is taken from me without me realizing. I am 33 years old. I do not have 33 years worth of memories. There are huge leaps. Gaps where suddenly I was just older and in more pain. Being adrift in time like this is horrific - one day I will blink, and the present moment may be completely forgotten. It can't go this fast. It just can't. Something has to be wrong. I don't want to die, I don't want to miss out on so much life or be unable to remember it. I don't want to find myself on my deathbed someday way sooner than I think and be unable to string together any kind of coherent thread from my memories. What is it all for? It has to mean something right? Why am I doing anything?

I think I finally understand that love is why. I don't know much more than that. Love is real, and it's the answer. If you find love, don't take it for granted, ever. No love is perfect. Take it with all its flaws. You don't have time to bargain with it. Love like you'll never love again, love like it's your last day alive, love like it will keep you alive forever, because it will. Every year closer to death you get, you will feel the regret of all the times you did not follow your heart. Life is short. I'm finding this out entirely too late. It goes by so fast, and what you have at the end are people and memories of being loved. To be loved is to live forever. It's the thing that connects us to everything else. It's the source and the answer to everything. It makes more sense the older I get. It used to sound cheesy, but I believe it with more sincerity every day.

I'll be okay, okay

I once promised someone that I would stop self-harming. They are no longer in my life, but I kept the promise anyway. There are no new scars on my arms, or bruises on my head or face. I'm keeping this promise for myself, now.

[salsflore]

no clue where i was trying to go with this but seeing him did something to me and i Had to do something about it. my hands were tied!!

wc: 871 I AM LOSING IT

disappointment stings her when she looks at him for the first time in a while, as he lies in bed bruised, even stitched up some places, with bandages all over his wounds. there’s a frustration building up in her fists as she balls them, and there’s bitterness in her throat when she tries to think of what to say.

mika carefully settles down into the empty chair beside his bed, and the sound of its creaking was enough to stir him awake. she hadn’t even been that loud.

when he comes to, realizing she’s there, a wave of guilt washes over him briefly. to be seen in such a sorry state — how embarrassing.

what was the point of trying to hide if she’d seek him out anyways? how did she even know he’d be here? he had a few quetions of his own, but he was almost scared to be the first to speak, in fear she’d blow up.

to be honest, there was so much she wanted to express too — but when he looked at her like that, it all flew out the window, offset by all her concern.

her gaze softens, and so does her voice.

‘why didn’t you listen to me? i told you not to go.’ repeats in her mind as she asks if he’s okay, reaching to carefully take his hand and give it a kiss, sighing in relief when she’s reaffirmed by the fact he’s real, and not a hallucination conjured up by her own desperation.

“well, i’m still in one piece, aren’t i?” childe laughs, relieved to know he was spared an earful, even if only temporarily. “don’t tell me you were actually worried? about little ol’ me?”

his reply, initially meant to reassure her, made it seem so inconsequential, and now her effort to suppress her anger is falling apart. “of.. of course i was worried. how could i not be?” there’s a lump forming in her throat, and she can barely stop herself from starting a whole rant.

“listen – i’m sorry,” he notices her upset [ of course, she’d never been that great at hiding her emotions ] and scooches over to make some room for her. “let me make it up to you?” childe offers, and she begrudgingly accepts, crawling in to fill up the small amount of space he had to offer.

“i’m alive, and you’re with me. isn’t that all that should matter, hm?” with his limited capacity for movement, all he can do is wrap an arm around her, pulling her the tiniest bit closer. “you don’t need to stress so much anymore.”

“that’s.. easy for you to say.”

“i hate that you always have to leave, and it kills me that i never know where you are. if you’re in danger, who you’re with — are you getting enough sleep? are you eating well? i’m just completely clueless, and i hate not being able to do a thing about it.” her voice gets quieter, “sometimes you’re even gone for so long that, for a while, i end up doubting you’ll come back.”

somehow, he’s feeling a little touched. this might’ve been the most honest she’d ever been with her feelings. childe pauses to think on what to say, and when he decides on it, sighs before he speaks.

“come on, trust me a little more. trust that i can look out for myself, trust that i’ll return — because i always will, you know. even if it means i have to crawl my way back to you.”

he kisses her once, and its magically enough to dissipate the anger that was beginning to bubble up. was she always this tractable?

“yeah? even when you’re six feet under?” there’s sarcasm in her tone, but he answers seriously.

“no, because that..” childe taps her nose, “will never happen!” and smiles when she grumbles, but doesn’t swat his hand away like usual. was it because she’s afraid it’d hurt? “why? because i’m far stronger than you think, my love.” the harbinger coos, beginning to run his hands through her hair.

it does wonders to soothe her, and mika almost despises how easy she was to pacify. with him, at least.

“..seriously? look at yourself. you reek of ointment.” she comments, and he rolls her eyes at her. right, he’s still yet to tell her much of what actually happened, or the details of how he ended up in this state — but he decides to keep it that way for now.

the explanation could come later, he thinks.

“w - well..” childe chuckles, “i’d say this one is different, given my opponent this time around was simply formidable! nothing like the likes of which you’ve ever seen.”

“don’t care. if i find you in this state again, i might just end up finishing you off on its behalf, seriously.”

“are you threatening me? don’t be like that. it won’t happen again, i swear!”

“..promise?”

“promise.”

[dancingamongstdust]

Old Habits (Warren Worthington x Reader)

So I was digging around in my old files and I found this from a few years ago. I’m sure I published it somewhere once but I have no idea where. Either way, the writing isn’t too bad so I thought some readers here may enjoy it. 

Before, when you originally met Warren, you had never had an issue with reaching out and grabbing his wings if he tried to march away from you. It had become a habit.

There would be an argument over something inconsequential and both of you would scream and shout like children. Warren would realise that his temper was getting out of control and try to stalk away from the fight before it got out of control. You would snatch a fistful of his feathers or the edge of a wing; anything that was within range was ample gain. It never hurt him but he stopped moving due to the sensation. Then he would turn around and kiss you until your lips were bruised and you couldn’t breathe properly.

This time…

You had been eternally grateful to Charles Xavier for bringing Warren back despite all his previous actions and your heart belonged to whoever had saved his life. When you had seen him walking through that portal, you had sold yourself on the notion that you would never be seeing him again. A bitter reality without the white angel wings that you had spent hours wrapped in.

The fight had been inconsequential really. Something about his sulking and yelling at anybody who tried to get close to him.

But now you withdrew your hand as quickly as you reached out.

Warren still spun around to look, the metal feathers screeching against the walls as he did so. Instead of kissing you, his eyes fell on your bloody hand and he reached for it with tentative hands. “I…” his words died in his throat.

You met his eyes with a clouded expression and sighed. “Sorry,” you said. “I forgot…” Your eyes fell on the huge metal wings and you sighed. “I didn’t think that through. I’m sorry.”

“No,” Warren said. “No, you shouldn’t have had to think about it in first place.” Unlike the feathered version, these wings made a horrendous noise when they bristled and even he winced at the sound. “Just go and get somebody to look at that.” And he stormed back into his temporary room, slamming the door far too loudly behind him.

You sighed, shoulders slumping. Charles had approached you to see if you could possibly fix the situation and maybe convince Warren to relax a little more in the mansion. His end goal obviously being to offer the angelic mutant a permanent place to stay.

Stomach churning, you hurried down the stairs to the nearest mutant that could heal your hand or at least somebody who knew basic medical skills.

Two stitches and a little bit of healing later, you were sitting in your own room and staring down at your bandages. While you had been standing up there, it hadn’t hurt at all but now it was burning like fire. You rubbed it gently and sighed. Warren had always been self-sabotaging. At this point, shutting you out could almost be classified as a hobby of his.

So eventually – at an hour that any reasonable person would be asleep at – you climbed out of bed and marched over to the room to quiet your wailing mind. If you didn’t know Warren’s self-destructive tendencies you would have presumed it was too late.

But you had lived with the man before.

You didn’t bother knocking. You knew that Warren would have pretended he didn’t hear you. So you counted on him forgetting – or purposefully – not locking the door.

“I’m tired of this,” you said when Warren finally noticed you and removed the headphones that were blaring rock music so loudly that you could hear them from across the room. You walked over and sat on an untouched desk, watching the winged mutant carefully. “Every day, you make me sit and watch you turn all that anger and hatred inwardly and I can’t do anything about it. I feel useless when it comes to you. Like there’s nothing I can do to help.”

“Help?” he scoffed. “Help what?”

“You.”

He rolled his eyes and sat up on the bed, those metal feathers screaming a symphony as they were dragged across the wall. “I don’t need your help,” he said. He glanced at your bandaged hand. “Look what happens when you try. I’m fine. They said that my feathered wings will grow back soon and then I’ll be able to get as far away from this fucking place as possible.”

“I want to stay.”

“Then stay.”

You gave a forced laugh. “And here I thought you knew me well enough to know that there isn’t a chance that you would leave without me following.”

Warren crossed his arms and his wings puffed up as he attempted to become more intimidating. It would work on most people. Not you. “Nobody likes codependent twits,” he grumbled. “But then again, it’s not my problem if you want to chase me around the country like some lost poodle. If you get killed, I don’t want anybody blaming it for me.”

“It’s not… alright, no, I’m not rising to that,” you said firmly. “No matter how often you insult me, I’m not going to leave and you know that by now. Warren, won’t you at least consider staying here? There are others who –“

“Joined forces with an ancient evil and attempted to bring about the end of the world because they were offered shiny wings then almost died and had to be saved by their enemy out of pity. Just so many of those assholes running around that I can barely even walk without seeing one.” His hair was falling into his face now but he didn’t seem interested in doing anything about it. “But they don’t count if they switched sides during the actual battle.”

“You were unconscious the majority of the battle.”

“Thank you for reminding me. I wasn’t aware.”

You sighed and reached out to move his hair away from his eyes. It said something that he didn’t move away despite the glare he was sending in your direction. “Wouldn’t you prefer to be able to rest for a little while until you got back onto your feet?” you asked. “I’ve been talking to some of the people here and they’re all friendly if you give them a chance.”

“I don’t see any weapons attached to your back that are constantly hurting people you actually care about,” he noted.

“My hand was my own fault,” you repeated. You stood up and moved closer, reaching the uninjured hand past his head and resting it gently on the metal of his feathers. “See? I’m being careful now and it’s not getting me hurt. If I had taken a few more seconds to think it through, I wouldn’t have grabbed your wing out of habit. But you said they’ll go back to being normal soon.”

“Apparently,” he said. “Some of them have fallen off but they’re meant to do that. What would you do if they stayed metal? You’d have to start finding your own beds instead of curling up next to me constantly. Something tells me you won’t find these wings ‘comforting’.”

A phrase you had always used when speaking about his wings and it hurt to hear him spit it with such bitterness in his tone. It had always been something genuine to you. “They probably won’t keep me as warm as the normal feathers,” you admitted. “But I don’t doubt that I could grow used to them and love them as much as I adored the originals.”

He scoffed. “Always a fucking optimist. Even when I have tattoos that probably will never fade etched into my face.”

“I’m not always an optimist,” you said. “When you disappeared into that cage fighting thing for months without telling me and then came back with your wing fried to a crisp, I was so worried that I thought I would vomit. I lost countless hours due to nightmares about waking up and finding you dead or missing again.”

“And then you did.”

“I was too late,” you said. “No matter what you said, I knew that your wings were making you distressed and I wanted to help but I didn’t know how. If I had figured out how to fix things sooner then there wouldn’t have been a reason for you to go with that asshole.”

Warren just glared at you and then flicked his bedside lamp off and lay down on his side. It used to hurt his wings when he slept like that but you were unsure that the metal felt anything. Either way, you lay your hand on his shoulder temporarily and then took the hint to leave the room. There was nothing else for you to say or do.

Almost a week passed where you only opened the door to throw random food and drink items at Warren where he was pretending to be asleep. Sometimes he would mumble something and other times he would continue to ignore you. You took the bandage off a few days later. It was something Warren undoubtedly noticed but he didn’t say anything until the day you opened the door to find everything strewn across the floor in such a state of disarray that you flinched.

“What’s the problem?” you asked.

Warren glanced at you out of the corner of his eye and muttered something about not having any shirts that weren’t torn to shreds by his new wings. Which later led to you going shopping and returning with a bunch of new shirts with cuts in the back for the new wings. It took you a while and he grumbled under his breath when you dumped them on the floor but you didn’t say anything.

The charade continued day in and day out but you weren’t deterred. You waited patiently for Warren with a well-learned routine. This had happened many times before. A waiting game that you had perfected over many years of worrying about the angelic mutant who held so much of your attention and your heart.

You walked through the door with a milkshake in hand when he was busy plucking the metal feathers off his wings. Silently, you placed it down and settled cross-legged behind him on the bed to help him peel off the shedding metal over the unreachable areas.

It came off easily and you happily spotted some of the soft, white feathers peeking out from beneath the metal. You ran your fingers happily over it and smiled. They would be returning soon.

“You’re going to need to preen these daily while they’re growing out,” you said. You didn’t expect an answer but you said it with the knowledge that you would be the one to do it. “Otherwise they’re going to be crooked and then you won’t be able to fly properly.”

Warren’s feathers fluttered slightly as he turned around to face you. They didn’t sound quite as horrible when they brushed against the wall now and there were fewer grooves than before. Deep scratch marks already tore up the bedframe and one of the bedside lamps had disappeared a week ago. “Just leave.”

“Alright. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

“Why do you bother?”

Your fingers brushed the doorknob and you shrugged. “It’s just force of habit now.”

[jamespotterthefirst]

Knowing Me, Knowing You

Book: Open Heart, Book 2

Pairing: Dr. Ethan Ramsey x F!MC (Dr. Lilac Allende)

Words: 1K

Premise: AU where she is dating someone else upon his return from the Amazon.

Author’s Note: Once upon a time, I posted “War of the Roses” where I mentioned a CEO ex of my MC. I said his FC was the glorious Henry Cavill. I spiraled from there. @ashiiknees​ had the brilliant idea of this AU angst fic. Thank you so much, darling! Also, thank you to @aestheticartsx​ for pre-reading!

A smile so charming and sharp illuminates his features as he studies her, pinning her like a butterfly with a single look. It is so reminiscent of something familiar, something that once felt like home. Lilac feels her throat tighten.

“You could give me a run for my money at the negotiation table,” Malcolm laughs, his breath brushing her lips moments before his mouth does.

After only a millisecond of hesitation, Lilac kisses him back, the dread in her stomach easing at his touch. The guilt this inspires is almost suffocating. Yet, she kisses him fully, allowing herself to get lost in his scent. When they pull apart, she summons an easy smile.

“Thank you,” she murmurs.

Those steel, grey eyes assess her with such intensity that she almost jerks back in response. Before she can help it, she is tormented by the memory of a different pair—blue, intense, and so piercing that every time they fell on her, she felt bare before him.

Your professional development is too important to jeopardize it with whatever… whatever it is we had.

Had.

The single word still feels like the twist of a knife.

“No thanks necessary,” Malcolm assures her, cupping her chin gently. “I’m really glad we were able to talk. To try and make this work.”

Lilac nods once in acknowledgement, unsure how else to respond. Luckily, she is spared from elaborating further by the everpresent ringing of his phone. Malcolm glances at the screen and sighs heavily.

“Duty calls,” he tells her. “Meet you at my place tonight?”

“See you there.”

With one last kiss, he brings the phone to his ear and moves past Lilac on his way to the exit. Now alone in the tiny hospital break room, she lets out a shuddering breath.

With a tiny wave of determination, she turns to watch him go.

And freezes when her eyes fall on a different figure standing at the door.

Ethan is rooted on the spot, unable to move, as though his stomach sinking like a stone is weighing him down.

“... the numbers of the Tokyo account.”

The tall, suit-clad man doesn’t even glance at Ethan as he rushes past him, too rapt in his phone call to take notice of anything. As soon as he vanishes around the bend of the hallway, Ethan's eyes fall on the lonesome figure in the desolate room.

Lilac stands with her back to him, all but shriveling inward as she hugs her arms around herself. With a steadying breath, she finds composure, becoming the Lilac everyone knows, standing tall and determined.

Then, she turns and her eyes find his.

It's like a torrent, hitting him at full force, threatening to knock him off balance.

The inconsequential noise of the hospital falls away to leave room for a long, almost stifling silence between them. Neither of them makes an effort to look away or move, suspended in that moment, desperately hoping to prolong it as long as they could look at each other.

Ethan’s eyes take her in, feasting on her after two months of starving, so far away from her. For a moment, he thinks he can see the same longing reflected in her eyes. Then, an invisible mask clasps into place and she raises her chin higher with dignity.

“Doctor Ramsey,” she says at last, her voice as cool and collected as her expression.

It stings more than it should.

“This lounge is for employees only,” he says in response. The words are out before he can stop them.

“Understood, Doctor,” she says at once though Ethan can hear the edge of sarcasm in her tone. “I’ll make sure to meet with him elsewhere in the future.”

Something coils in his stomach at the words, bitter and as agonizing as an open wound. Before he can allow himself to react, however, he remembers this is what he wanted when he left for Brazil. He wanted her to move on, even if he knew from the moment he boarded that plane that such an alternative might never be a reality for him.

“Be sure that you do,” he says, keeping his voice even.

To his surprise, Lilac laughs at this, a dark, humorless sound that is uncharacteristic to her.

“Don't pretend you're this concerned about a minor breach in the employee handbook.”

“I don't know what you could be refer—”

“You have no right to pull the jealousy card.”

He says nothing. Even after a year of knowing her, the accuracy with which she could call him out still surprised him. Despite the steel wall he tried to build, she always found her way in, right to the center of his true nature.

“You're right. I don't.”

This seems to infuriate her even more. The color rises to her cheeks, her nostrils flaring as she takes in an uneven breath. Her bottom lip quivers for a brief moment and with a pang, he realizes her anger is her desperate attempt to cover the hurt.

“You left.”

Silence.

The only sound is Ethan's heart pounding furiously at his ears, valiantly trying to keep itself from crumbling to pieces.

“You left without a word goodbye. I had no idea where you had gone until Naveen told me. For two months I wondered if you were okay or if—” her voice trembles slightly. Angry at this betrayal of emotion, she tries again, “—if I had done something wrong.”

“Lilac, you—”

“And then, after crying for nights on end over you, I realized that I was raised to demand better treatment from others. I wasn't going to waste my time waiting for someone who only slept with me twice before he got bored of me.”

Ethan clenches his jaw against the lie, each word as vicious as a lashing.

“I deserve better.”

His throat constricts painfully.

“I deserve Malcolm.”

The worst part is that Ethan can't even disagree with her.

The longest silence yet follows. Neither says anything, though they each look as though they have years worth of words to say to one another. For Ethan, it is summarized in three words. Three words he was too cowardly to admit from the moment he realized he meant them. Three words he was foolish enough to believe he could forget in the Amazon.

Three words that, no matter how constantly and how fiercely he said them, would never be enough. Not anymore.

Lilac looks at him, eyes scanning his face desperately, almost as if she can sense the unsaid.

“This is how things are now, Ethan. Just how you wanted.”

“I never wanted —” he blurts. He stops, thinking instead of the one truth that guided him all those weeks apart from her:  “I just want you to be happy.”

“I am.”

Author’s Note: Not me thinking of ways to get them back together. Also, that tiny bit in Lilac’s speech was inspired by AOC saying "I am here because I have to show my parents that I am their daughter — and that they did not raise me to accept abuse from men."

If I write more in this universe, it will be my mission to name them all after ABBA songs. Maybe I should just do that for all of my future works. 

Thanks so much for reading!

*Tagging in a reblog*

[ddarker-dreams]

A concept from a dream I had: Hisoka wants Chrollo's darling for himself and tries to steal her from him. Darling gets injured in the ensuing fight and has to get patched up afterwards by Machi. Then, a bit of fluff, darling seeks out Chrollo and hugs him for comfort because the whole thing has her a bit shaken. (Love your writing btw, it's super well written and captivating!)

Tunnel Vision. Yan Chrollo x Reader

Warnings: Implied amnesia.  Word count: 2.2k. Note: thank you very much!! i made some minor changes, where darling is a member of the phantom troupe, and not yet aware of chrollo’s obsession. i hope you enjoy! i’ve had a lot of ideas for this specific darling with nen abilities and this idea seemed to fit her very well...

Sharp, pointed nails digging into your skin. The sickeningly sweet fragrance of bubblegum blended with metallic blood. Black dots obscuring your vision, the world growing further away with each miserable second. Through labored breathing, a tense dialogue is exchanged between both parties, the ringing from your ears making it impossible to know for sure what they’re saying. Falling in and out of consciousness, you pick up on a few phrases. 

“Just admit it, you’re no worse than I am. Look what you did to the poor girl. ♥” 

“Maybe so, but that’s inconsequential. Your judgment means nothing.” 

...

“Ah… what… a shame, that I didn’t... get to play with her as much as you did--” 

“Hmm… to think your voice has never bothered me this much until now. This should silence you permanently.”

“--So you shouldn’t move around much until it fully heals,” Machi instructs, her voice clear and direct. At your lack of immediate response, she frowns, snapping her fingers to pull you from your trance-like state. “Oi, [First]. Are you even listening?” 

You blink, her voice cutting through your clouded mind like a knife. “My bad, I wasn’t paying attention.” 

Machi sighs and places a hand on her hip. Sapphire eyes glance over your person, not even bothering to hide her intentions, stopping every time she reaches your healed wounds. Even though your inebriated state, you can tell she’s deep in thought. You doubt she’d tell you what’s on her mind if you asked. So you sit there in silence, politely waiting for her to repeat what you missed. 

“I could tell. Just take it easy, you’re going to need a few days of rest.” Machi walks to her bag, rustling through its contents. She picks up a bottle of pills and places it on your nightstand. The same medicine that she had given you before treatment, to dull the pain. You fight back the urge to smile at the small gesture. Had you been any other customer of Machi’s, she would’ve left by now without a word, indifferent to your condition. Despite your best efforts, she catches onto your softened expression and clicks her tongue.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she deadpans, shooting you a glare. You give an apologetic smile. “Take one a day until it’s gone.”

“Thank you, Machi. I appreciate it.” 

“As you should,” Machi throws her bag over her shoulder and goes to the door. Before she can turn the nob, she turns back at you. “I forgot to mention, but you have a visitor. The boss has been waiting here since he brought you in.” 

An unknown emotion stirs in the depths of your soul. Any playful retaliation you had for Machi’s previous comment dies on your tongue, your eyebrows furrowing. Why do you feel troubled by this revelation? You fight back the anxiety that bubbles up in your stomach. There’s no time to linger on this newfound unease, as Chrollo enters the room after exchanging pleasantries with Machi. Despite your efforts to suppress your discomfort, your body does as it pleases, heart palpitating and throat feeling tight.

He shuts the door behind him quietly and leans against the wall.

Chrollo Lucilfer. You consider your relationship to be a strictly professional one -- maybe a touch of reverence on your behalf -- never feeling as friendly with him as with the other members. He stands before you now in casual attire. Jet black hair frames his face, loose and fine, proudly showcasing the unusual tattoo on his forehead. It’s strange to see him without his trademark leather coat. Instead, he wears jeans and a navy blue undershirt. Immediately, you pick up on the bloodstains on his shirt, assuming he had shed his coat before coming in.

He smiles at your staring, not commenting as you glance away. “How are you feeling?” 

“The medicine hasn’t worn off, so not too bad,” you struggle to exhale, your breathing ragged. Why does it feel so warm in here all of a sudden? “Machi told me you, uh, carried me here. Thank you. I’m sorry about your shirt… I’ll buy you a replacement.” 

Chrollo puts a hand up to stop you. “There’s no need.” 

Being one on one with your mysterious boss is as awkward as you imagined it would be. You still don’t know why he’s here. In between jobs, Chrollo would disappear into thin air, untraceable until calling the Troupe back together. So him being the one to find you on the verge of death hasn’t made sense. Machi gave noncommittal answers whenever you brought this up or told you to ask him yourself. Which you intended to at the time, but now that you’re in his intimidating presence, the words die on your tongue before they can begin. 

He pushes himself off the wall and sits on the edge of your bed. The proximity feels strangely intimate, your face flushing at how familiar the act seems to him. Chrollo’s close enough now where you can pick up on his rich cologne. Dry wood with hints of leather. The scent increases your heart rate, anxiety at a new peak. You bite your lip and ball your hands into a fist to try and cope with the all-encompassing unease. To appear weak in front of him would be an insult to your tattered pride. 

“Machi informed me about your memory,” Chrollo leans forward as if to inspect you. Grey eyes bore deep into your soul, searching for something. “She said you thought it was July when you regained consciousness.” 

You swallow thickly at his questioning. How humiliating is this? Whatever it was that had happened to injure you already felt degrading enough. your pride as a competent Nen user in shambles. The most plausible explanation is that Chrollo discovered you after you had lost a fight, but the remaining details are fuzzy at best. Theorizing is all you can do. The unexplained amnesia is frustrating, but it’s only a few months, so you figure it could’ve been worse. 

“That’s correct.”

Chrollo closes his eyes, as if in deep reflection. “So that’s how it is. I’m sorry to disturb you while you’re trying to recover, but can I ask a few questions?” 

“Ah, of course. I’m sorry if I’m forgetting something important…” 

This catches his attention, his posture tensing ever so slightly. You notice how his jaw tightens and assume your guess was correct. Your desire for answers on these missing four months strengthens and you feel hopeful that Chrollo holds some of the answers. It’s frustrating how both Machi and Chrollo seem to know more than you do but are refusing to give solid answers. Maybe they’re being considerate of your health? You’re not so fragile that you need to be coddled by your fellow Troupe members. 

Chrollo looks down at you through thick eyelashes. “Do you think that you are?” 

“I… I think so, yes.” 

He sits silently for a moment, running a hand through his hair and giving a bittersweet smile. “We’re in a relationship.” 

Wait, what? This would explain why Chrollo was with you at a time when the Troupe wasn’t gathered and his casual demeanor. Your expression must not be as schooled as you intended, as he gives a humorless chuckle to your wide eyes and parted lips.  You… were in a relationship with The Phantom Troupe’s boss? Your boss? When did that happen? How did that happen? Did the others know? Ah, the teasing that would come with that. It’s not that you don’t find him attractive, your eyes work just fine, but the revelation still takes you back. Cheeks burning, you break eye contact and play with your hair. Feeling overwhelmingly self-conscious, you pull your blanket up further to cover your bare shoulders. 

“There’s no need to be so embarrassed, [First],” Chrollo chastises with a playful tilt of his head. “I’ve seen all of it many times before.” 

He’s not making this easier on you. You’re desperate to move on from the subject and decide to bring up another troublesome topic. Though you have an idea of what the answer will be, you’d still prefer that he’d confirm it for peace of mind. 

“I was wondering, boss--” you cut yourself off with an apologetic smile when he furrows his eyebrows, “--I mean, Chrollo, about my Hatsu. I can tell I don’t have it now. Are you ‘borrowing’ it?” 

There’s no other plausible explanation. In what other scenarios would you lose a fight that horrendously? You can’t picture anything else, your abilities have been enough to earn you Chrollo’s recognition and subsequent invitation to the Troupe years ago. It’s not uncommon that your boss will ask to borrow other Troupe member’s abilities. Sometime during the months that you’ve forgotten, this must’ve happened, or so you assume. 

Chrollo nods his head. “I am, yes. Why do you ask? Would you like it back?” 

“It does feel like a part of me is missing,” you admit sheepishly, scratching your cheek. “So, if it isn’t too much trouble…” 

“I had to delay the job I borrowed it for due to what happened to you. Is it alright if I hold onto it for just a bit longer?” He’s moving even closer to you now than before. The bed shifts underneath his weight, Chrollo delicately taking your face into his hands. Your mind has trouble scrounging together a comprehensible response. How can you focus when the pads of his thumbs rub soothing circles against your cheek, his deep eyes hypnotizing. You swallow thickly when his pointer finger drags slowly against your bottom lip. Chrollo told you that you’re together, you remind yourself, assuming he has just missed touching you. It’s impossible to not notice the hungry gleam in his eyes.

“Oh, well, in that case, it’s fine.” You only manage to relax when he pulls away from you, content with your response. This has been a draining series of events. Chrollo’s one-sided familiarity isn’t easy to keep up with, you still view him as your boss and he views you as a lover. Sensing your apprehension, he takes your hand in his and places it over your pounding heart. 

“Do you feel this?” He hums, to which you nod, speechless at the bold action. ��Even if you don’t remember your love for me, your body hasn’t forgotten a thing from our time together.” 

Is that what this feeling is? Love? You want to trust him, to take his word for it, but something still doesn’t feel right. Chrollo’s presence has kept you on edge ever since he entered your room. Even now, your skin is covered in goosebumps, hair standing on the back of your neck. What else are you forgetting? This is the question that reverberates in your mind, threatening to consume you entirely. Softly, as not to offend him, you take his hand off you. Chrollo’s expression is unreadable as you do so.

“I’m sorry, Chrollo, I’m just not sure I’m ready for... this yet.” You admit in truth, guilt washing over you at how his flirtatious demeanor changes to a calculating one. This is the version of Chrollo that you’re most familiar with. Your mysterious boss, who coldly issues orders and relishes in thrill of thievery, someone not as personal as he’s been acting like. Chrollo moves back and you’re grateful for the room to gather your bearings.

“Of course,” his aloof tone sends shivers down your spine, a distant gleam in his eyes. “I hope you don’t mind, but I have every intention of watching over you until you recover. It wouldn’t sit well with me otherwise.” 

Chrollo motions to your closet door, which is slightly ajar. Inside you recognize some of his clothes that are hanging next to yours. “And I do live here, but I’ll sleep on the couch for tonight. How does that sound?” 

So the two of you were so close that you had invited him to move in? How fast was this relationship going, anyway? It doesn’t feel like you to get that intimate with someone else in such a short time. The way Chrollo phrased it makes it sound like you used to sleep in the same bed too, how embarrassing… God, his comments are going to be the end of you. You need time to think. To let all this information that’s been thrust onto you sink in. 

“If it’s not too much for an inconvenience. I feel awful… about forgetting as much as I have. Machi said she didn’t see any notable head injuries, so I can only assume it was a Nen ability.” 

“That could be it,” Chrollo responds more flippantly than you expected, standing from your bed. You thought he’d be eager to explore the avenues of returning your memory. Maybe it’s too painful to think about? “You haven’t eaten since this morning, so I’ll get us some dinner. Keep resting up.” 

“Thank you. I’m sorry for all this trouble.” 

Chrollo waves away your apology without concern. He does, however, acknowledge you before leaving your shared bedroom. There’s a smile on his face that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. You hope you’re imagining it. 

“By the way, [First]... I want you to know this. I’ll have you fall in love with me again. That’s a promise.” 

Then he’s gone without another word.

[002yb]

It’s the way Megumi’s pulse races beneath his hand that makes Sukuna realize it.  It’s the sight of Megumi on his back beneath him, chest heaving and eyes dark; lips parted as Megumi tries to catch his breath.  It’s the way Megumi’s body goes pliant from exhaustion and how his hand wraps loose around Sukuna’s wrist.  The boy swallows and gasps and Sukuna can do nothing but watch and marvel the feeling beneath his fingers.

For all the lifetimes he’s lived, Sukuna has never known anything good about the world.  He’s a stranger to its beauties, more familiar with its devastation and the grief that follows.

But then there’s this:  Megumi.  A blessing.

The epiphany changes nothing, but for a fleeting moment Sukuna is enraptured and left breathless.  It’s an increasingly commonplace happening, if he’s honest.  Megumi is distracting; he’s an easy thought to get lost to.  Sukuna should be doing something, saying something, but–he can’t pull himself away from how Megumi and he have fallen together.

“Your heart is racing.” Megumi tells him between breaths, fingers pressed gentle to the inside of Sukuna’s wrist.  The comment almost makes Sukuna laugh.

“It’s not mine,” Sukuna says, but he wishes it were.  Knows that if he were still a man, it might be beating too fast to catch his breath; that it might skip entirely and make his chest ache.  He taps his finger against the pulse beating frantic at Megumi’s neck, “Not like yours.”

A shudder pulls up Megumi’s spine.  

And again, Sukuna finds himself stricken; thoughts muddled as he admires small, inconsequential things that mean nothing.  Sukuna presses his fingers more firmly into the skin of Megumi’s neck to ground himself and snickers, teasing:  “Are you disappointed?”

The contrast in the embarrassed flush across Megumi’s cheeks and the fight he sees when Megumi narrows his eyes at him makes every part of Sukuna’s soul sing.  Despite himself, a crooked smile starts to pull at Sukuna’s lips.  The pink on Megumi’s cheeks stains the tips of his ears and bleeds down his neck to his chest.  Megumi looks both peevish and flustered and Sukuna breathes through the fondness that seizes him.

Shadows lick at his knees and hands.  Sukuna can feel the subtle spike in Megumi’s cursed energy as the boy pulls himself away into the darkness of his own shadow.  It’s an old trick, but one that Sukuna encourages so that Megumi’s control of it becomes a weapon in itself.  It’s an escape tactic for now, but Sukuna can see that one day it will be more.  He’s eager for when Megumi will be more aggressive and assertive and confident.

At the foreign feeling of his hand dipping beneath the ground, Sukuna raises a brow.  Shadows–or rather the limbs of small, barely-formed shikigami wrap around his fingers and pull at his legs.  They’re weak.  Everything happens so slowly that Sukuna can easily pull himself away, but Sukuna remains still and curious and patient.  He lets Megumi and his shadows pull them together into a smothering dark, and in the blindness of the pitch blackness around him feels pride at everything Megumi is becoming.  

The shadows cling to his skin like tar, slide away like ink.  And in between that–Megumi, fingertips ghosting over him, never straying too far.  For all he tries, Sukuna can’t see the boy.  Still, his gaze chases after Megumi’s touches and the remnants of his energy.  It’s only after he’s been teased a moment too long that Sukuna reaches through the dark and takes Megumi’s hand, entwining their fingers and pulling Megumi to him.

And like that, they tumble back into the light none too gracefully.

It’s disorienting for a moment.  Sukuna doesn’t know where they are or which direction is what–all he feels is gravity as they fall together.  Regardless, Sukuna rights himself at the last second, turning Megumi and him around so it’s Megumi who hits the ground first.  It wasn’t a far drop, but Sukuna still hears how the breath gets knocked out of the boy and the way Megumi’s head cracks against the ground.  It’s undoubtedly painful, but it will be a good learning experience.  If the boy were smarter, he’d have fallen into their shadows again and left Sukuna to eat dirt.

It takes a few moments, but Megumi’s vision comes back into focus.  At first he looks up at Sukuna with a grimace, then he huffs and turns his head, looking out at the loose way Sukuna holds Megumi’s hand.

“I’m not disappointed.” Megumi says, but his voice cracks and makes his words a haunting mix of soft and harsh and broken.

“Relieved, then.” Sukuna says lightly, and Megumi’s fingers twitch in his hold.  

“Not relieved, either.” Megumi tells him.

“Liar.” Sukuna retorts, his voice low and hoarse.  Megumi’s expression shifts to something resentful for a moment, but it startles into surprise as Sukuna rolls them both over.  The shift leaves Megumi straddling Sukuna’s stomach, one hand pressed to Sukuna’s sternum for balance while the other remains caught in Sukuna’s hold.

When their eyes meet, it’s fleeting.  Megumi lowers his gaze, always the first to fluster and shy away.  That’s fine though, Sukuna thinks, because he’s become spoiled by so many other things since this arrangement (‘Keep him safe,’ and ‘I want to protect them,’) came to be.

When Megumi’s weight settles on top of him, Sukuna raises his hand and rests it on Megumi’s hip.  To his pleasure he’s not pulled away from.  Rather, Megumi’s hand smooths up Sukuna’s sternum until it wraps around his neck, fingers pressing soft into Sukuna’s throat.  Sukuna tilts his head up, taunting Megumi to try harder, but the boy’s touch remains barely there.

“Doubt you’ve ever had a heart.” Megumi says around a shallow breath.

Sukuna chuckles.  It’s low and he can feel how Megumi startles against him.  When he feels Megumi try to pull away, Sukuna moves his hand from Megumi’s hip to his wrist, guiding Megumi’s hand to a heart that pulses just a beat too quickly.

“I’m a curse.” Sukuna says. “All I’ve ever had is my soul.”

[murderdaddymayhem]

A Simple Divinity - Pinhead x Reader [NSFW]

You summon the cenobites for a different kind of pleasure, and you get what you ask for from their curious leader.

Very graphic body horror, death and oral sex. Please visit the ao3 link for full tags and warnings. 

They say you retain consciousness for up to 15 seconds after decapitation.

The blow to your neck causes your nervous system to reach a climax of sensation. Many argue that the impact of the first strike will knock you unconscious, only for the narrowed, desperate passageways of severed veins to force their last few pumps of blood out from the fatal site of separation, like fresh seed from a well-pleasured cunt.

This remarkable finale of gore can be avoided however, with a clean cut. That's what everyone condemned to death by beheading wishes for during their last rites; a severance of the nerves that would echo what unimaginable suffering the blade has brought upon your body. Pain can tantalize, but to those uninitiated there is ecstasy to be found in swift endings. A quick and painless death if done right; confusion of the last ticking seconds of the mind allows you to mourn yourself before the dark swallows all that you were. Is there anyone out there in the dark?

Yes. Yes, there is.

The moment his eyes locked on yours, you knew you were damned. Nothing had escaped him--were they a him?-- before, and no one would. You hadn't expected any less when configuring a puzzle like this one; the creaking that teased your ears and the bell that tolled its death knell confirmed what you had known going into this ritual: you wouldn't be returning.

Out of clouds of putrid fog, three figures emerge behind him and surround you. Each is more grotesque than the last, but you still find yourself drawn back into the soulless gaze of the tall being above you, he who seemed superior to the others. Through the pattern of pins, those black eyes sweep down your body. You're naked kneeling before him, but his eyes seem to undress you even further, relieving you of your skin to reveal the intricacies of the flesh beneath. His eyes sweep back up over what skin you've bared, noticing your nakedness.

"Ours is not a summoning of tangible vanity," he speaks calmly. His voice seems to penetrate your bones, threatening to shatter your fragile core. "Excretions are more than sufficient."

You glance over at the altar where you'd left everything for them, as per the ritual. "Do you object?" you're brave enough to ask him. Though he has no hair there, the skin seems to stretch tighter over his brow bones as he expresses his intrigue.

"I do not. We have seen such sights. It is all we see as we tear each fibre of your being apart." Though his words are repulsive, his pale lips do not part to reveal anything of a sneer; he seems utterly unchanged by both the display of offered lust and the question of his own interest in such a trivial thing. He tilts his head slightly. "You do not fear your fate."

You shake your head. He doesn't ask why; simply looks down at the box in your hands. "What was your reason for summoning us?"

"Pain," you answer. The cenobite is quiet for a moment. Not a peep from those behind you.

"Most answer with the opposite," he tells you. "However. The configuration you hold is not a game of fevered antonym to be outsmarted so wittily. The same fate awaits all those who call to us."

"You think I'm bluffing?" you clarify with a small smile. "I like pain."

"Little one," the cenobite sighs, cradling your chin in his cold, pale hand. "You do not know pain." Something in his voice makes you shiver; likely the conviction in it that reveals he's telling the truth.

"I enjoy it. It feels good. It feels different... I want to see what Hell can give me." His lips part slowly.

"You speak of the horrors of Hell as if you know them," he says. His scrutiny humbles you.

"No. I don't presume to."

"That is a pity. I thought perhaps, we had met before."

You bite your lip, and the pin-faced demon casts his gaze downward again. "You quiver for me. Why?" His question is plain, though you don't know how to answer. “I thirst for this knowledge. Tell me.” He takes a deep breath in, and exhales a curious hum. "It is a rare scent we never smell," he tells you. "Not one our victims secrete when being flayed alive or tortured beyond recognition. You surprise me, though not unpleasantly." A few beats go by. You hear the cenobites behind you moving in closer, and figure it's finally time... however, Pinhead puts up a hand. "Where we come from, pleasure and pain are one. As you seem to understand this, I see no reason to rush the process."

Your voice comes out weak, almost nervous for the first time tonight. "The process of what?" Finally betraying his careful stoicism, the tortured face splits into a grin.

"The defiling of your soul."  The noise you let out next can only be comparable to a moan, and the sound is like music to the cenobite's ears. He gestures with two fingers to his subordinates, and you feel a cool wire touch your throat.

"In order to defile your soul," he continues. "We must start with the flesh." The wire digs in, and he grips your chin again, raising you up to your feet with his strength. The wire follows you up. "Such eager eyes," he whispers. "What do you wish for, child?" You blink up at him.

"To pleasure you."

"Impossible."

"Let me try?"

He seems amused, as if regarding a pet who has bitten its own tail. "One last desire granted. Because I enjoy you, curious child, you may try what you wish. Our puzzle is one of venturing minds and endless possibilities... it would only be right to grant you this in the pursuit of the vulgar knowledge which you seek." Those same two fingers slip inside you the next thing you know, and you think you've seen heaven. This repugnant being is touching you as you always touch yourself, each stroke a deliberate vault toward the ecstasy of the pleasure that awaits the act. He fucks you perfectly with his fingers as you grab onto the harsh leather of his garments. In horror, you realize you've grabbed flesh torn from his chest, but he only seems encouraged by this. Your thighs quiver. His teeth bare.

"Come closer," he hisses. You tilt your chin up to do as he says. "Such power in devotion." He begins to shove his fingers in rough and you sob into him. It starts to hurt, but you only cry harder for him. "Give in to the pleasure, slut."

The finish is indescribable. You feel as though you've crossed the very threshold of life and death, and you only realize you're clutching onto him

Your knees give out, and you drop to them once more. The wire only tightens.

"Your thirst for what awaits is deliciously obscene," Pinhead drawls.

The demon bears himself to you, and though you're not quite sure what you're looking at, you feel your mouth water at the sight as your clit pulses. It has retained the shape of a human phallus, an impressive one at that. But the scarification of it almost makes you choke. Trails of skin are ripped away, pins driven through the shaft, under and up and down to the hairless base. You reach your finger out to feel one pin tentatively, and he exhales.

"Touch. I like it." You do as he says, moving one of the pins through the head of his cock; the moan he lets out rumbles the room. Spurred on by this, you take some of him into your mouth, deterred only slightly by the strange sensation of each modification. You hum around him, but suddenly the wire tightens again around your neck, reminding you it's there.

"I will make you a deal, talented one," Pinhead says, slipping his fingers into your hair. "If you can pleasure me to my finish before your head separates from your shoulders, you may keep your life... and your soul."

An angry chattering of teeth comes from behind you, but Pinhead's cold glare is quickly upon the source of the noise for challenging his judgement. The protest dies.

You swallow. They're going to cut off your head with a wire. You nod quickly to the agreement, and Pinhead starts to slowly fuck in and out of your mouth.

"Good little one," he says. The praise of this hellish priest only makes you want him more, strangely aroused by the fear and by the being himself. As you suck him down however, your skin begins to burn where they are playing your neck like a fiddle. You feel the wire slice just barely in, and let out a muffled scream around Pinhead's cock.

"Hurry, child," he hisses. "It won't be long now." You feel him throb, and take him down, feeling the needles scrape the back of your throat as you do your best to swallow around him. The action pushes the needles further in through the head, and Pinhead's fingers tighten more, starting to slide you gently back and forth.

"I had forgotten what earthly pleasure could offer," he sighs. "Inconsequential, yet so simply divine." He groans, looking down at you then back up. "See how they want me," Pinhead growls to the ceiling. The wire cuts deeper, and a tear rolls down your cheek.

"Hurts," you groan around him. The pins scrape the roof of your mouth, drawing blood. He only slides again to the back of your throat as you keep bobbing in a fevered attempt to save your life. Carried by some strange obsession, you find you don't want to stop. The pain is too good, the fear of the gruesome fate they tease and the pleasure of making this thing moan for you culminate in an unholy desire to feel his hot seed dripping from your lips. Motivated by this sinful image in your mind's eye, you hurry in your depravity, holding onto his boots as you suck harder around the engorged cock.

"Yes..." he grunts. "Serve me. Serve me, and scream for all of Hell to hear."

The wire slices again, and you start to feel the blood pour in warm rivulets. You continue sucking. It cuts again. Another cut, and another, sawing back and forth in a slow taunt, daring you to hang on. Your life dangles by this very wire, and you feel no indication Pinhead is about to finish. Desperately, you lick under the marred head and even bite down. He lets out a grunt of appreciation, and pushes his hips harder until he's practically fucking your face. Each thrust saws the sharp wire again, until you feel a snap and your head begin to tilt back. Your eyes widen. How can you still feel your body? How are you still sucking?

"I near the end, little one," he murmurs. You deepthroat the demon, and give it your all among the sound of squelching lips and rustles of excited cenobites behind you both... but when Pinhead pulls his cock out of your mouth abruptly, you hear a thump below that can only mean one thing.

15, 14, 13, 12, 11...

He takes his time lifting your head up to his face, holding eye contact with your rapidly blinking eyes. The top of your spinal cord dangles unceremoniously behind your skull, gore hanging from the cracked vertebrae and rejoining your body with every loosening drip. You can still feel your phantom arousal.

10, 9, 8, 7, 6...

"My state of being is the equivalent of one of your orgasms," he smiles, in revelation of his cheat. "My pleasure neither starts nor finishes." The walls start to turn black around you and your headless corpse below. The cenobites turn into black birds and Pinhead holds your gaze as your consciousness disintegrates with the tangible world around you to join him finally.

5, 4, 3, 2, 1.

[yeojaa]

finders keep hers, iii.

read parts one and two!  the long awaited conclusion!  i’m sorry it turned into a friggin’ novel.  i hope it does the first two parts justice, though.  these kids are...  idiots.  i love them and you (and also the best beta reader @hobi-gif​)!  💖

pairing.  jjk x named f!reader.  rating.  explicit, ofc.  tags.  this is...  really soft at certain parts.  and then really raunchy at others.  oops?  but fr - mainly fluff with some smut at the end.  you might need a filling.  wc.  5.4k.

You’re buzzed into the building without a moment’s hesitation, the kind concierge with the gummy smile and greying temples beaming at you as you enter.  “Nice to see you, Miss Lee.”

“You too, Mr. Choi.”  A grin of your own is offered, gym bag hiked higher over your shoulder as you pause to chat.  You’re in no rush.  “Is he home?”

“I don’t believe so.”  The sudden look of disapproval that colours the older gentleman’s features is almost comical, reminiscent of a disparaging parent.  It’s the same expression you’re greeted with nearly every time you visit.  “He left in a town car yesterday afternoon and I don’t think he’s been back since.  That boy’s going to get himself in trouble one day.”  As if Jungkook didn’t already - as if it didn’t follow him around, glued to the bottoms of his Italian leather shoes.

“Tell me about it.”

“You know…”  There’s that twinkle in Mr. Choi’s eyes again - the one that tells you he’s about to repeat the same words he always does when he catches you alone.  “A nice girl like you could get him to settle down.”

Your response is what it always is - a scoff and a laugh rolled into one.  It careens off your tongue, ringing in the spacious lobby.  “I don’t think anyone will ever get him to settle down.”

How true that is, you’re not sure.  For your sake, you try not to think about it too much. 

The old man is undeterred though, shrugging his narrow shoulders beneath the neat uniform he wears.  It’s a little loose in the chest but immaculate otherwise, tie knotted in a classic Windsor and collar ironed perfectly.  He levels you with that shrewd stare of his but says nothing further, simply engaging you in an unspoken staring contest. 

Sometimes, you wonder how much he sees.  How much he knows .

You break before he does, tearing your gaze away and blinking rapidly.  He laughs, full bellied and deep from the chest.  “Get on upstairs, Miss Lee.”  You aren’t offended by the dismissal.  “It’s always nice chatting with you.”

You remind yourself to bring him chocolates the next time you’re by.  The ones with hazelnuts, because those are his favourite. A fact you only know because you’ve helped your best friend pick up a box for him every Christmas, writing the card and having him sign it right before it gets left behind the desk.

Actually, you helped Jungkook with a lot of things.  Always had.  It was simply the nature of your friendship - passed down by your parents and forged stronger by childhood playdates, your fair share of teenage squabbling, and college hangovers so bad they’d created an unbreakable bond.  

Whenever he would need you, you’d be there - whether that meant picking him up at 4 AM from the airport because he wanted “some shitty fast food and to see you” or helping him pick gifts for Mother’s Day.  There was no task too small, no moment too inconsequential. 

Unconditional love, they called it. 

It’s why you have no problem swanning into his apartment with the extra key you’ve had since he moved in, kicking off your trainers and tucking them neatly alongside the rows of black leather and expensive sneakers.  

You do so much for him that you take where you can, indulging in all of the luxuries you’ve never been afforded.  Unparalleled view, stupidly expensive toiletries, a damn jacuzzi tub . 

You pull your sweater over your head - truthfully, one of Jungkook’s from college that you’d never felt inclined to give back - and toss it over the back of a barstool on your way into the guest suite.  Your bag follows shortly after, deposited at the foot of the bed that exists as a rotating welcome mat to your and Jungkook’s circle of friends.  

The rest of your clothes - sports bra, shorts, thong, socks - are stripped, folded, and tucked into the laundry bag you keep handy.  You know you could leave them here and Jungkook’s housekeeper would take care of it, but you’ve never been too comfortable with that.  Different upbringings.

The spray is like sweet relief the moment you step beneath the rainforest shower.  It’s the perfect temperature and pressure, melting the sweat and tension from your bones.  

But it isn't why you’re here, so you make quick work in the glass enclosure, scrubbing your body bare and lathering and conditioning your hair into a squeaky clean mess.  Any other time, you’d just spend a good half hour standing beneath the head but you’re feeling particularly indulgent today.  

Call it a spa day, courtesy of one Jeon Jungkook. 

You don’t bother to dry off, water splashing across the floor as you step from the shower and sink into the spacious tub that overlooks the heart of Seoul.  Diptyque bath oil encapsulates the room in a bubble of sweet almond, similarly branded candle burning on the ledge.  The jets release a steady stream against your tired back and legs, massaging your limbs into jelly. 

You can’t help the sigh of utter relaxation that rolls off your tongue, sinking into water in the same instance your shoulders do.    

This is what dreams are made of.  Anyone who says differently is an idiot and a liar. 

“When are you going to tell her?”

You’re not expecting the voice and it breaks the silence like a thousand pound weight, shattering the calm and nearly startling you enough for you to knock your head on the edge of the tub.  

There’s no reason for you to be surprised.  Not really.  This isn’t your home, after all.  You aren’t entitled to any sort of privacy.  

It doesn’t matter, though.  The discomfort in your chest is unfolding regardless, lodging rocks in your throat.  

Because it’s a female voice.  Lilting, soft, draped in familiarity.  Not someone brand new.  

Your heart stutters at the realisation.  The rush of blood against your eardrums is so loud you momentarily wonder whether they can hear it all the way in the living room.  They must be able to - it’s practically deafening.  You can’t even hear the rest of their conversation.

Their conversation .

Which seems to have ended, leaving only silence.

You suddenly remember your shoes, your sweater.  Traces of you littered throughout the apartment that isn’t yours.  God, you’re an idiot.  He was going to kill you - or she was.  You’re not sure which is worse.

You’re reaching for the fluffy white towel on the rack when you’re scared near half to death yet again.  This time, by your best friend who cuts an imposing figure in the doorway, broad form resting casually against the frame.  He looks surprisingly unbothered, curls pushed back from his forehead by a pair of sunglasses and arms folded over his chest.

“Jesus!”  The shriek comes four octaves higher than it normally would, pitching into the open so loudly you wince.  “You scared me!”

You can’t help the way you peek past his shoulder for a sign of the girl he’d brought home.

“Enjoying yourself?”  There’s something amused dancing in the darks of his eyes, his mouth curving around the same emotion as he steps into the bathroom.  You’d be bothered if he were anyone else, unnecessarily long legs carrying him to you in three strides.  

“I didn’t know you were home.”  You can’t quite meet his stare, still far too distracted by the mystery woman.  Had he left her on the couch?  Maybe his bedroom as he snuck you out?  What excuse could he come up with?

“Didn’t know you were home either.”  

He’s made himself comfortable right on the ledge of the tub, marked fingers dragging lazily through the still-scalding water.  He doesn’t seem terribly in a rush.  That puts you on edge.

Was he going to hide you in here? 

“I wanted to relax after my run.”  You don’t owe him an explanation - not really - but you offer it anyway.  You figure you need to, when you might’ve ruined his Sunday morning romp session.  You can’t bring yourself to address it, though.  The words just won’t come, sitting on the tip of your tongue like thorns.  It hurts to swallow. 

Jungkook doesn’t further the conversation - a first for him.  He’s normally a chatterbox.

The silence stretches on.  Suffocating.

You force yourself to speak, staring down at your hands that are slowly pruning beneath the water.  “Should I… go?”  The way it comes is feeble, soft, uncertain.  You hate it.

By the look of surprise on his face, he does, too.  He cackles suddenly, like a goddamn witch.  “Why?”

Heat floods across your cheeks.  You wish you could blame it on the bath or the steam that still collects on the mirrors.  It pulls high over your ears, colouring them tomato red and embarrassed.  Surely, he knows why.  

When he repeats himself, it’s harder, without any of the laughter from before.  

Rather than answer, you wave a hand through the air, fingers wiggling.  The universal sign for you know .  It should be enough - you hope it’s enough.  Your ego won’t let you verbalise it.  

“Suddenly mute, baby?”

It isn’t quite mocking - teasing, maybe - but it stokes the fire that burns in the pit of your stomach and licks uncomfortably at the organ in your chest.  You don’t even look at him as you nearly spit the words, petulant and far more bothered than you should be.  “You’ve got a girl here.”  

A laugh that isn’t quite a laugh comes, swathed in velvet and coloured blue.  The effort you make to not shoot him a glare is herculean.  

He’s still snickering when he speaks.  “You mean my sister?”

“Your sister?”  It’s more surprise at yourself that has you whipping to look at him, bewilderment tossing all other emotion out the window.  Because his sister was practically your sister.  How had you not recognised her voice?  You feel silly all at once, the embarrassment from earlier fading into reticence. 

“Yeah.  I spent the night babysitting the twins.”

You sometimes forget how much Jungkook loves children - especially his sisters’.  It’s hard to reconcile the family man he effortlessly transforms into when he spends most of his waking hours playing the perfect part of unaffected bachelor. 

“How are they?”  You ask because you care - you adore Minseo and Minhyuk - but also so you can move the conversation along.  The last thing you want to do is dwell on your mistake.

“They’re good.  Getting big.”  He’s got that smile on his face - the one that’s softer than any other, with deep lines at the corners of his eyes.  Reserved especially for the people he cares about most.  Your favourite sight.  “You can come with me next time.  Minnie asked about you, anyway.”

Warmth blossoms in your chest.

Being liked by peers?  Great.  Being respected by your superiors?  Rewarding.  But being loved by children?  It was in a league all its own - better than ice cream on a hot day.

“Sure.”  You can’t keep the grin away.

That is, until he speaks again, circling the conversation back.  “So, were you jealous?”  His ability to piss you off is uncanny.  It’s like it’s written into his genetic code, each molecule of his body tasked with ruining your day. 

“No.”  It’s meant to be a scoff.  It’s not very believable.

“You sure, princess?”  The fingers on your chin are wholly unnecessary - he’s got you caught in his stare, locked in place with nowhere to go.

“Yes, Bunny .”  You know how much he hates the nickname, only tolerating it because it’s you.  You can’t deny the pleasure that comes at the sight of his jaw tensing, muscle jumping in agitation.  Just as he’s your weakness, you’re his, too.  “Now let me finish—”

He cuts you off, sharp and unrelenting:  “Get out.”

“Excuse me?”  

“You heard me.  Get out of the tub or I’m pulling you out myself.”  Risen to his full height, he’s an imposing figure.  Even worse, there’s something you can’t read in his expression - something that has your nerves firing wildly.  Your heart rattles around in your chest, uncertain.  

He leaves you without another word.

You scramble out of the bath as quickly as your confused limbs allow you, knotting the towel beneath your arms.  You’re not quite sure what to do next, caught between pulling your clean clothes out of your workout bag and demanding an answer from your sphinx of a best friend.

What the hell was his problem? 

Your impatience wins out as you’re tugging a brush through your hair, fumbling uncharacteristically through knots until you’re too frustrated to continue.  You’re ready to tear into him when you storm out of the guestroom;  you’ve got a barrage of insults on your tongue, proverbial gun cocked and ready to unload.  

They melt away when you spy him on the couch, neatly wrapped bouquet laid across the coffee table.

“Come here.”  It’s not a request so much as a demand - commanding and soft all at once.  A small part of you wants to fire off a rebuttal;  that part dies when he repeats himself, louder this time. 

The seat you take beside him is begrudging, a good foot of space held between your bodies.  You fiddle with the hem of your towel, turning a loose thread over and over your index finger. 

“What?”  It’s snippy, discontent - kerosene on the fire that burns beneath Jungkook’s skin.

“Watch it,”  he retorts, though there’s no acid to his words.  Frankly, he sounds more frustrated than angry, more exasperated than pissed off.

That makes one of you.

Only he can bring out this side of you - brusque and biting.  “ You watch it, Bunny.”

Fingers find the bridge of his nose, a gesture you don’t see very often.  Guilt blooms behind your ribcage as he rubs at the tension between his eyes.  For someone who has it all, he looks like he’s a moment away from losing it. 

“You’re a brat, you know that?”  

“Takes one to know one,”  you retort, not unkindly.  

“You’re making this really hard,”  he snaps in the same instant he all but throws the overwhelming bunch of flowers at you.  

You nearly drop them you’re so surprised.

“What are these for?”

“You.”

“Me?”  

“Did I stutter?”

If you weren’t so busy studying the arrangement of florals, you’d have some witty comeback.  As it stands, you’re preoccupied by the pretty bunch of peonies and tulips.  You wonder what he’s done wrong - why he’s found it necessary to soften the blow with your favourite flowers. 

Your thoughts drift back to his sister’s words:  when are you going to tell her?

All at once, you want nothing more than to leave.  You don’t want whatever heartbreak is about to come.  You’re not ready for it.  

“Listen—”

He cuts you off, again.  “I love you.”

You’re not sure how your face looks.  You imagine you could look up flabbergasted in the dictionary and you’d find a photo of your expression right now.  “What?”

Jungkook won’t quite look at you, intently focused on an indiscernible point against the far wall.  When he speaks the words again, they’re full of uncertainty - but not in the way you expect.  The confession is as believable as any you’ve ever heard - he really does sound like he loves you - but somehow, it’s draped in dread and held aloft by hummingbird wings.  “I love you.”  

He’s nervous, you realise in amazement. 

“Come again?”  

He meets your stare then, brow knitting with unease.  He doesn’t say it again, though.

“Are you messing around with me?”  You don’t mean it how it comes - a little accusatory.

“I’m not an asshole.”  Except both of you know he certainly can be.  You don’t call him on it, though, opting instead to peer curiously at him, hands fisted around the bouquet in your lap.  “I talked to my sister.  She…”  He shrugs once, an almost helpless roll of his shoulders.  “She told me I was an idiot.”

You’re not surprised by that.  Lina had always been the one to give it to him straight.

“She said I would lose you if I didn’t get my shit together.”  There’s a bit of childish petulance that works its way into each syllable - he hates being told what to do.  “Said I needed to tell you or I’d regret it.  Which is stupid, because we’ve been best friends forever and she’s younger than me so what does she know—”  He must realise he’s rambling, something he never does.  “But—”

“But?”  Quiet, hopeful, coaxing. 

There’s a warmth in your chest - illuminating and golden and so bright it hurts to think about.  It grows with each moment that passes, spurred on by the look in his eyes and how they find yours.  

Hesitation pulls the silence a beat too long.  The light wanes.  You wonder if the moment has passed.  

And then he continues, a little more earnestly.  “Was she right?  Am I going to lose you?”

You’re not entirely sure what he’s asking.  You don’t think he even knows what he’s asking.  You try to answer anyway, as honest as you can without pinning your heart directly on your sleeve.  “You’ll never lose me.”

“You know what I mean.”  

Did you?  “You’ll never lose me.”  You’re the one repeating yourself this time, just that bit harder.  

“Then say it.”  Again, not a request.  A prayer, perhaps.  Ardent and needy - a world away from the Jeon Jungkook you know.

You don’t hesitate.  “I love you.”

He doesn’t either - upon you so quickly you don’t have time to blink or think.  

How he kisses you now feels different.  More .  It’s like being consumed entirely - changed from the inside out in ways you never thought possible.  Where he touches, sparks fly, filling you like stars in the night sky.  Lava rolls over every inch, dragging heat and want and need from the soles of your feet to the tip of your nose.  You’re gasping rather than breathing, clawing against the front of his shirt and twining your fingers into the strands that curl over his nape. 

“You never told me you could kiss like that.”  It’s lacking coherence, made by a partial inhale and wild, wondrous eyes.

His response is a laugh and another kiss, forceful and adoring and utterly devastating.  “Shut up,”  he mouths against your lips, tongue licking over your teeth and gums like he’s trying to memorise every inch of you.  Hands follow in the same amorous motions, tugging and pulling and aching for you closer;  the tips of his fingers sear white hot heat over your hips, the small of your waist, the delicate bones of your ribcage.

“I’m serious...”  You really are - far more than you should be.  You’d been missing out on this ?  It’s incomprehensible.

The sound he makes is more of a growl, playful and resounding in the cavern of his chest.  It rattles your own, sending your heart on a downward spiral into the pit of your stomach.  His nose traces the column of your throat, soft lips guiding him further until he’s mouthing hotly over the bare skin of your shoulder.  Tongue teases, delves ever so gently into the dip of your collarbone, and swipes back up, laving over the maroon that peeks around the edge of his teeth.  You can’t help but keen, holding him so closely you wonder if you’re suffocating him.

“So am I.”  Each syllable is punctuated by another nip, another nibble.  It seems like his goal is to bloom roses across your skin - a wreath to welcome him home, made by his own touch.

You don’t mind.  

“Say it again,”  he demands, hopeful and unashamed from his place against your neck.  

The admission comes easily, as if it’s always lived on the tip of your tongue.  “I love you.”  

“Again.”  You’re not ready for the way he stares at you - like he’s never done before.  Like he’s seeing you for the first time and he’s awestruck.  “Say it again.”

“I love you.”  Hands find the familiar contours of his face, thumbs brushing over the hollows of his eyes, over the beauty mark that sits front and centre beneath his lip.  Each graze follows a repetition of the confession, as if you might burn the three simple words beneath his skin - write it into his DNA like he’s written into yours.  “I love you.  I love you.  I love you, Bunny .”

He holds you close - so tightly it feels almost as if he’ll crush you - and captures your mouth again.  It’s more gentle but just as lovesick.  A thousand unspoken words spill from his tongue to yours, swallowed whole with greed you don’t bother to hide.

“I need you.”  It’s whiny, framed by a pout that could end wars and paired with doe eyes so wide and innocent you almost want to roll your own.  

“You have me.”

“Do I?”  There’s a very deliberate roll of his hips, denim of his jeans rough against the exposed softness of your inner thighs, hands manoeuvring over the partially covered swell of your hips.  The press of his fingers is purposeful, digging tension into every inch.  As if he might transfer some of the unadulterated need that thrums through his veins, turning his heart to jelly and brain to mush.

“Since when do you ask?”  You have a point.

“You’re right,”  his grin is almost lazy, drawing over his mouth in a measured crawl.  “Good girls just do what they’re told, right?”  His grips tightens almost imperceptibly, holding you to him almost effortlessly.  You’ve been in this position a hundred times before but it’s never been this easy - like breathing.

The gasp you offer is all mock affront, hand laid palm-down across your chest.  You don’t miss the way his gaze follows it before ticking lower, unabashed in its admiration.  “Are you saying I’m not?”

“Don’t know, baby.”  The war on your neck has resumed, teeth traded seamlessly for the softer promise of his tongue, the dry brush of his lips.  It’s almost sinful, garnering sighs of affection and need from somewhere low in your throat.  “Want to be a good girl for me?”

You’re not quite used to this version of him - playful and needy and not nearly as demanding as usual.  A part of you wants to draw out the side of him you know is there, hidden just beneath the surface;  the other wants to bask in this, all feather soft and cotton candy sweet.

“Always,”  you return, with a coquettish smile and fluttering lashes. 

“Always,”  he murmurs, tasting it for the first time.  He sounds almost giddy when he repeats it once, then twice, then a third time for good measure.  You think it’ll come again, laughter rolling off your tongue as you stare into the eyes of the boy you love.  Instead, he speaks in a voice full of gravel and grit, all traces of your sunshine boy suddenly swallowed whole by the darks of his pupils.  “Fuck - I can’t wait to have you.”

“Then what’re you waiting for?”  You don’t need to push him.  You like to do it anyway.  It feels right .

“You’re the worst.”  What Jungkook means is you’re the best and I love you and I’m going to fuck you six ways into next week .  What he means is this is the scariest thing he’s ever done but it’s all right because he has you.  What he means is thank you - and how he shows it is through worship.  

On the way to the bedroom, he crowds every inch of you, holding you so closely you wonder if he’s trying to carve himself into your bones.  He’s firm and unrelenting, balancing you against his chest as he smothers every available inch of your shoulders in sweet, sloppy kisses.  He revels in the way you cling to him like you’ve never needed anything else. 

In his bed, he lays you out and strips you bare.  He offers devotion with every pass of his fingers, every trail of his tongue.  He wants you so badly it’s hard to focus on giving you everything you deserve, but he tries anyway.  He sucks love into your neck and over your breasts, pinching your nipples between his fingers until you’re panting and he’s aching for the same treatment.  

On his knees, he prays at the altar of your body, taking his time to map the constellations on your skin, the memories written into each scar and dot.  His tongue follows the raised flesh that sits across your hip - an unfortunate mishap from a schoolyard dare.  You whine and he nearly cries, soothing over the sensitive spot with hands and lips and tenderness.  He lays kisses on each freckle, each irregular mark.  From your navel to your knee and everywhere in between, he caresses and comforts, turning those blemishes into stars.  

He also teases - subtly, quietly, with wandering hands and focused breaths.  You don’t realise it until it’s too late, your insides molten, your pulse a thunderclap in your ears.  

“Jungkook.”  It sounds more like begging than anything.  Exactly what he wants.

“What’s up, princess?”  Spoken so casually, as if he isn’t between your legs, long fingers tracing through the slick that coats your thighs.  He gazes up from behind too long strands, all wide-eyed and terribly sweet - until he pops a digit into his mouth, hollowing his cheeks around the taste of you.  “Something wrong?”

“Stop teasing.”  You hear yourself whine but it doesn’t quite sound like you, higher pitched and needier than you’ve ever been.  

“I thought you were going to be good for me,”  he returns with a tut and a push of that same finger deep into your cunt.  He flexes it experimentally, beaming up at you when you clench around the intrusion that’s too much and not even close to being enough all at once.  “You’re so wet, baby.  I just slide right in.”  

As if to drive his point home, he drives another finger in, scissoring them languidly to stretch you open.  It’s such a pretty sight, messy and inviting.  He can’t resist a taste, dragging the flat of his tongue over and around the fingers that continue to fuck into you at a faster pace.   

“ Jungkook! ”  You’re shrieking, bucking against the onslaught of sensations.  A shapely arm immediately cages you against the bed, palm splayed across your hips.  

“Stay still.”  It’s a growl, teeth bared against the sensitive pearl between your legs.  Words are punctuated with the softest pressure - a silent threat that goes no further.  You wonder what he’ll do if he has to repeat himself.  “Good girls listen, remember?”

You’re fumbling across his shoulders, nails digging crescents everywhere you can reach.  You need him so badly it hurts .  “Please.”  

“Please what?”  That patented, stupid smirk cradles his mouth, tongue peeking out as he stares at you expectantly.  “If you’re going to be so demanding, at least use your words.”  He watches the way your eyes roll back into your head when he slots another finger in with the others and curls them against that particular spot that has you seeing stars.  The bastard has the audacity to coo at you.  “What’s wrong, baby?  Can’t speak?”

You’re near wailing, gasping and whining around words that sound like his name.  Angry red lines sprout across his shoulders, his arms - demands carved into flesh. 

He makes a sound, wistful and resigned.  You think - try to think, beyond the pleasure that’s building steadily in the pit of your stomach - that he’s finally going to give you what you need.  You’re almost crying for it, moisture crowding your lashes and threatening to spill over.

Then he withdraws, all at once.

You could scream.  In fact, you do, red in the face and chest heaving.  “I hate you!”  

“No.”  He’s upon you in an instant, insistent and terribly smug.  There’s a playground in his smile, childish laughter spilling into the spaces between you.  “You actually love me.”  He noses at your neck, the heat of his palm searing against your side as he sighs almost dreamily.  “Say it again.”

You answer him with something more than love - frustration and annoyance and so much devotion you can’t keep it out no matter how hard you try.  “No.”

It’s a challenge more than anything.  He knows it;  you know it.

He accepts it readily, just as you expect him to.  

“Say it.”  Enamel presses steady, heavy, into the sensitive spot right beneath your ear.  He mouths over the skin that blows out red and inviting beneath his ministrations, the firm press of his fingers gripping you without hesitation.  You can feel the entire weight of him against you, length nestled comfortably against your core.  He repeats himself as he rocks against you, dragging the swollen, leaking head of his cock through your folds with an agonising slowness that has you clenching around nothing.  “Come on, baby.”

You’re keening, adjusting your hips and grinding against him.  You still won’t say it, hoping to find a rhythm in the quiet that’s punctuated by your laboured breaths and his occasional laughter.

“Just say it and I’ll give you what you want.  I’ll give you everything.  Promise, sweetheart.”  

Framed against the late morning sun, hair spilling across his forehead in curls of india ink, he’s so handsome your heart leaps into your throat.  “I love you.”  It’s a wet confession, carried by a wave of emotion you don’t expect.

“I love you,”  he echoes, sinking into you so gradually you feel like you’re caught in slow motion, all of your focus balanced on the tip of a needle.  

It’s never been like this before.  Each inch is a delicious stretch, filling you and claiming you.  The drag is incredible, your walls fluttering around the intrusion and aching for more.  You bite back a sob, digging into the wide expanse of his back with your nails as your mouth seeks purchase anywhere it can - over his jaw, up his neck, across his shoulders.  He soothes you as he presses deeper, reassurances whispered against your temple.  

“I’ve got you, baby.  Let me make you feel good.”  When he bottoms out, you demand more - somehow, somehow - locking your ankles against the small of his waist. He doesn’t miss the way you clench, so tight around him it almost hurts , when he says those three words once again.  “I love you.”

His lips find yours and he brushes them over and over - a salve for the burn he ignites beneath your skin.  It doesn’t matter that he’s both the calm and the chaos.  Jungkook’s always been everything to you.

The rhythm he sets is unhurried and perfect.  Each snap of his hips has his cock dragging against your walls, filling and stretching you so well;  everywhere his skin brushes yours, you’re alive.  There are a million nerve endings going haywire beneath your skin, flashing bright as holiday lights.  

That’s what it’s like - Christmas morning .  Picture perfect and filled with wonder.

He’s completely smitten when he draws back just enough to see the entirety of you - your fucked-out expression, the rose-wreath he’s wrought around your neck, the sweat that beads between your tits and tempts him to duck his head.  “I love you.”  It’s almost hypnotising - watching you take him, pussy dripping and needy around his cock. 

“I love you,”  you parrot back - or try to.  It’s not very coherent, driven to a point of nonsense when his hips begin to stutter and he makes up for the loss of rhythm by slipping his fingers over your clit in circle eights.  

You’re at your breaking point.  He knows - can read you like the back of his hand - and holds you there, back bowing to kiss you breathless, pressure unrelenting against the bundle of nerves.  

“That’s it, princess.  Right there.”   

The coil snaps at the third pass and there are hot tears streaming down your cheeks, his name spilling off your tongue in tandem with the erratic thudding of your heart.  White spots your vision, entire body electrified as you crash headlong into an abyss of bliss.  You hear him join you with a hoarse whine, a mix of your cum slipping out of you as he rides out his own high with shallow thrusts, mouth open and panting against your shoulder.  

The comedown is hazy, dusted in exhaustion and a thin sheen of sweat.  When he slips from you, he doesn’t go far, tugging you comfortably against his side like you’re not both a little gross.  It’s not the first time you’ve fucked but it feels different.  

“I love you, baby.”  

“I love you, Bunny.”

You realise - it feels exactly like that.  Making love.

[hb-writes]

There’s Room Enough

Carlisle continued with his reading even as a fifth sigh pushed through his daughter’s lips in only twice as many minutes. He guessed Mia wasn’t quite aware she was doing it. It was the type of thing that often revealed more about her internal states than she willingly disclosed, just like the preoccupied glances out the window and the distinctly cadenced fidgeting Carlisle suspected had little to do with her English homework.

The Shakespeare Mia insisted on sifting through barely registered in her mind, but she still elected for it over actually speaking to her father. She hadn’t fought his guiding hand when they dispersed from the front entryway, giving Bella and Edward their due privacy, but Mia wasn’t interested in a conversation. She had said barely a word to him for the hour since she settled, solitarily occupying the bench seat in front of the wall of windows. It was the furthest spot in the office from her father’s desk, and while they usually occupied the space together while reading, Mia had made it clear she preferred to sit alone.

Carlisle was a patient man, an accommodating father who preferred not to push his children to speak before they were ready, but he was beginning to wonder if his daughter might finally outlast his inclination towards restraint of this particular type. It was only because Mia hadn’t actually done anything wrong that he had waited this long already, her attitude and words though unexpected, no more reprehensible than the turns of phrase that often left Rosalie’s mouth.

Mia glanced up from her book and was surprised to find her father studying his own book rather than her. She was certain she had felt his eyes on her from across the room, could almost hear his questions and concerns falling into the very space between them. She supposed that could have easily all been in her head though, her own line of thinking taking on the guise of her father.

“Are you upset with me?” Mia had been pondering the question since the night before. She knew he wasn’t quite what one would call angry with her. She had never known her father to be an angry sort, but he had to have some feeling on the matter, some opinion he was withholding. 

Carlisle turned to his daughter and shook his head, placing the marker in his book before setting it aside. “Concerned is perhaps a more appropriate word.”  

Mia closed her book as well, crossing her legs as she turned to face him. “Not angry though? So, I’m not in trouble?”

Carlisle gave her a small smile. “Do you think you should be?”

Mia glanced out the window a moment before turning back to him. “Not really, but you brought me here so I thought maybe…”

“You’re not in any trouble. And you could have gone with your mother or one of the others if you liked,” Carlisle offered, “but you said you had work to do.”

Mia tapped her fingers on her legs. “And I couldn’t just go back to my own room because…?”

Carlisle smiled. In all truth, that had little to do with the little outbursts she had spent the last day or so mulling over. He simply thought Mia had spent more than enough of the weekend ruminating over things from behind the closed door of her bedroom. Knowing she was upset, he had allowed her a certain measure of self-pity, taken in the form of overthinking beneath her downy covers, only pulled from the act when Alice forced the girl up and into the shower an hour before Edward and Bella’s arrival.

“Would you find it too stereotypical for a father to believe his adolescent daughter has been spending far too much time alone in her room?”

“You can be alarmingly stereotypical,” Mia conceded, unable to hide the bit of smile his words compelled.

She had a moment, or two, of thinking that the whole situation was a bit stereotypical, despite the oddity of it all, because it essentially boiled down to a bit of uncertain jealousy on her part, a seemingly inconsequential twinge of the shameful feeling growing swiftly over the span of just a few days. And as confusing it was for everyone else to watch, the swell of emotions confused Mia a great deal more.

She knew that the thoughts clouding her mind edged towards illogical, knew that the arguments of her subconscious were essentially baseless. She should have pushed the thoughts aside rather than dwelling with her guards up, willfully blocking Edward and Jasper’s abilities, and keeping her parents and other siblings more traditionally in the dark as well.

And although Mia had expressed that she shouldn’t be in trouble, not for the late-night shouting match with her brother or the cool performance she offered him and Bella in the entryway just before, she could admit to herself that she did feel guilty, and the complicated nature of situation made it difficult to sort out on her own.

“I’m not sorry for saying it,” Mia said as if her father had been privy to the monologue in her head. “He needed to hear it.”

Carlisle allowed a small nod of his head. He thought, perhaps, his daughter may have been correct about that. Edward had needed to be made aware of the sentiment behind his sister's words, had needed to hear how she was feeling and understand the depth of those feelings, but Mia’s methods were not the ones he would have chosen, and it was not how he had expected his daughter to deliver the message either.

“Amel—” Carlisle began only to be cut off, the girl spurred to action by the uttering of her full name.

“No, dad, he—" 

Mia stopped short at meeting her father’s gentle eyes. Though he was about to voice her full name—something he did not do exclusively as a method of restoring order or in seeking compliance, but just as often as a sentimental sort of thing—there was no sign of fight in him, just his genuine patient curiosity. 

Mia knew her father didn’t deserve her fire and she sighed, willing herself back towards some semblance of calm as she mumbled an apology.

Carlisle pushed out of his chair and came to his daughter’s side, settling on the bench with her. "You’re hurting. And your brother’s actions, whether intentional or not, have played a role in that. You let him know in the only way you believed he would hear it.”

Mia leaned into her father, grateful for the assessment she felt wholly unworthy of. Although she had been desperate for Edward to understand, to simply take a moment and actually listen, she hadn’t chosen the particular words for that reason. Mia chose them because she knew she could tap into his guilt through them, hurt him as he was hurting her. She meant to inflict damage.

Carlisle sensed a shift in his daughter at his words and pulled her into his chest as the first whimper escaped her lips. He wasn’t entirely surprised to find that Mia’s opinion on her brother’s attachment had changed. Her sudden jealous anger had puzzled him only until he considered the differences the girl likely assigned to her brother’s seemingly unrequited and then suddenly, very much reciprocated feelings. There was significant uncertainty in it. While all the others had previous experience welcoming someone new to their family, the experience of expanding their circle, most recently for her, Mia had no such understanding.

“Love isn’t finite, Mia.”

It was never difficult for Carlisle to welcome someone new, the love and care coming freely and not at all diminishing what he felt for the others. It could probably be assumed that was the case, but Carlisle knew his daughter’s mind, knew the doubt would creep in without concrete proof, or at least a hardy argument provided to fight against her doubts. Carlisle knew that someday the new love between Bella and Edward would settle and become more manageable for them all. He knew that even should the settling take some time, Edward, though distracted, would care for Mia and their family no less in the interim. But Mia had yet to recognize that, had yet to know it.

She pulled herself from his chest and pushed the heel of her palms into her eyes, willing the tears to stop. “I know, but—”

“Your brother is distracted,” he conceded. “You know, when you came to us we were all a bit distracted too, each of us a bit more focused on being with you than anyone else.”

“I was a baby. It’s different.”

“A little different, yes, but the rationale holds. Everyone created a bit more room to accommodate you, and none of us cared for any of the others any less because of it.”

Mia sat back, settling her chin on her knees as her father continued.

“If what you’re thinking is true, I would have very little care that could be set aside for Edward by now, after welcoming your mother and siblings, and especially after welcoming you.” Carlisle pushed the hair from Mia’s eyes. “Do you understand my meaning?”

Mia glanced up at him. “That there is enough room for both of us?” she mumbled.

Carlisle nodded. “Yes, room enough for you and Bella and anyone else our family should choose to care for.”

Mia nodded a few times, the gesture meant more for herself than for Carlisle. It was a charming and comforting thought, that one’s capacity for love was infinite and could be expanded at will. And Mia knew her father’s words were true. She knew her father loved his children, all of them the same amount. She knew his love had never been diminished by any subsequent additions, herself included.

Without a word, Mia went to collect her father’s book from his desk and handed it off, quickly getting comfortable beside him once again and Carlisle placed his arm around his daughter as she got settled.

Mia didn't speak, but the words were in the air between them, suggested by the girl retrieving his book and settling against him. She was already reading her own book, but Mia’s actions spoke to her father, the translation so clear as she made room for his lesson in her mind and his body beside her on the bench.

I love you, Dad. There’s room enough.

--

Twilight (Mia Cullen) Masterlist

[waywardwrestlewritingwaif]

Raise the Stakes, Part 13

I just had to sneak in one more part before the big showdown tonight. Aside from this, the card for Resurgence looks awesome!

Pairing: David Finlay x OFC x Jay White

Word count: 2,897

Content advisory: sexual content (not as graphic as previous parts, but still more than just mentions), language

Previous sections (and the prequel) available on the Master List

This is completely normal, you tell yourself. He has a big match tomorrow. He needs a clear head and sleep and, as he’s fond of telling you, he doesn’t get either of those things when the two of you are together. It makes sense that he’d want to spend tonight at his own place, by himself.

So why do you feel like something horrible is happening?

You close your eyes but the second you do, you get a vision ofJay lifting David limp body off the mat. You can still hear that awful crack of David’s unprotected skull hitting the chair and immediately you feel sick to your stomach, just as you had when you’d watched the moment unfold. You were as powerless then as you are now to change it. All you could do was follow the assistants who’d come to help him to the medic’s room.

By the time they got him back there, there was already a red welt visible on his forehead. He was barely conscious, growling at anyone who tried to help him until you approached. He hadn’t said anything, just leaned into your body and let his head fall on your shoulder. He wasn’t aware enough to notice that you were crying, even when a few of your tears dripped onto his skin.

You’d held him tight until the doctor arrived, her expression doing nothing to ease your mind. Nevertheless, after a thorough check, she pronounced that he wasn’t concussed and wasn’t injured beyond the obvious bumps and bruises. Not physically at least.

Of course, you’d insisted that he come back to your place where you could keep an eye on him and take care of the wounds he had sustained. Well, you hadn’t really had to insist. He was happy to go along, laughing at the way you tried to do everything for him. It became a rather hilarious tug of war, you trying everything to keep him still and him doing everything to annoy you, getting himself a bottle of water from the fridge, trying to make something for dinner until you’d literally smacked his ass repeatedly with a spatula, which had you both laughing so hard you almost fell down.

Getting him into bed was a battle, too, and once you got him undressed and relaxed, he’d immediately started to get frisky. He kept insisting that he was fine and had ended up spending time both last night and the first part of the day today showing you just how fine he was.

“I can’t wait until this weekend is over,” he hissed into your skin during one intimate moment.

You’d agreed because, despite the fact that there are other shows and other matches coming up, there does seem to be a sense of finality around their showdown this weekend. Sure after this, Jay’s going to calm down or get distracted and he won’t be so determined to screw with your lives.

“Never again,” Jay had fairly shrieked, sitting on David’s chest, clinging on to his belt. “You will never beat me again.”

Sure, his words made perfect sense within the context of their fight for the belt and Jay’s determination to avenge his loss months ago. But you knew that wasn’t it. The animalistic way they’d stared each other down before the fight, the rush to get started. Jay always loved to tease confronting an enemy but backed out at the last seconds toying with them until he was convinced he’d rattled their nerves. Not last night. He and David had gone right after each other, brawling like they were in a bar.

Thinking of that reminds you of a night you haven’t thought about in years, back in their early days, your early days, in the dojo. It’s not a night you should remember at all, given the condition you were in but you remember it, or at least the end of it, perfectly.

The three of you had been out drinking. Drinking a lot. You’d stumbled back to your barracks leaning on one another to form some sort of solid mass that could stay upright. You’d still ended up tumbling a few times, which was hardly surprising. You must have all had some kind of homing instinct because none of you could tell where the hell you were.

You knew that by the time you made it back, the door would be locked but your super power at that time was that you were small enough and flexible enough to get through the window in the kitchen that was stuck open. You’d needed a boost from the guys, which had taken a couple of efforts, but you were eventually able to scramble through and unlock the front door, albeit after crashing into so many things and making so much noise that there was no way anyone slept through it.

Your room was in another area of the building but you’d just headed to their room. You’d passed out on the floor on several occasions, always on the floor even though you’d already started sleeping with Jay by that point. The two of you were half-assed pretending that nothing was happening, even though you’d very quietly fool around before falling asleep.

You’d been keeping things a secret to avoid gossip but also, at least on your part, because you hadn’t wanted to hurt David. It was clear already that he was sweet on you and you’d figured that as long as it wasn’t right there out in the open, you could pretend that there was no reason for him to feel hurt. Later on, you’d confide in him about how miserable Jay was making you, but at that point, things were still fun, still inconsequential.

In retrospect, you realize this period must have been agony for him. Jay was a braggart and had advertised his conquest to his roommate pretty much right away, but from there, you’d all pretended that nothing was happening. It’s only been in the last few weeks that you found out just how much and how early he’d liked you. Going through that must have sucked.

But on that particular night, there was no problem because you were all feeling no pain, either physical or emotional. You’d ended up crawling up the stairs on all fours, basically pulling both of them along with you. Jay had informed you loudly that he needed to take a piss and you and David had somehow made it back to their room.

It was dark, which meant the two of you were stumbling all over the place, but eventually David had flopped down onto his bed and turned on the lamp that stood on the shelf just above it. Unfortunately, as he did so, he’d knocked the lamp backward and left it hanging precariously, wedged between the headboard and the wall.

“David, get the light!” You’d been laughing so hard you could barely get the words out. There were tears streaming down your cheeks.

“It’s ok,” he mumbled, laughing as much as his semi-conscious body would let him.

“It’s not ok, David, you have to get the lamp because it’s going to…” You could not for the life of you remember the word “fall” in that moment.

After a few more seconds, you’d gone over to retrieve the lamp yourself, not that you were particularly graceful at it, balancing yourself as best you could on the edge of David’s bed and placing one hand on the wall to try to keep steady, all while trying not to collapse onto David’s chuckling form.

Out of nowhere, he’d snaked an arm around your leg and pulled you down onto his face, which made you both laugh even harder. You’d been giggling as he clumsily pushed your panties out of the way and started licking you with sloppy enthusiasm.

“Oh my god, David, what the hell,” you laughed. “That tickles!”

Maybe you would have told him to stop, or he just would have passed out in the middle of what he was doing because he was just that loaded, but before either of those things could happen, you’d been interrupted.

“What the fuck?” Jay was standing unsteadily in the doorway.

You’d tried to shush him as you fell back a little, sitting on David’s chest. He was laughing too but Jay decidedly was not.

“What are you, eating her pussy?”

You’d just cracked up laughing. David hadn’t opened his eyes, just grinned in a drunk, goofy way and responded, “I don’t know. Sort of?”

“Turn the light off,” Jay snapped.

“I’m trying to!” Another wave of laughter rolled over you as you’d pondered the ridiculousness of not being able to turn off a light.

“Turn the fucking light off!” Jay yelled.

He gave it a hard kick and shattered the bulb, solving the problem. He’d helped you stand up and although you couldn’t see him well, you’d felt like David was already unconscious as Jay led you over to his bed.

He’d pushed you down and started pulling your clothes away, which was unusual. Part of trying to keep things secret was learning how to fool around without getting naked and being as quiet as possible. But that night, Jay had been insistent about getting you naked. He’d been rough and he’d been loud. And he’d bit and pinched and scratched at you until you were loud as well. If you hadn’t managed to wake everyone in the building up with your arrival, that must have done the trick.

The only person it didn’t disturb was David, whose light snoring you could hear while you were going at it.

Jay had never been one to stare into your eyes and focus intently on you during sex, not back then at least. He’d look at you, then away, like he was thinking of what he could do next, or what he could get you to do. But as you remember the night now, you realize that his eyes flickered repeatedly towards the other bed, vibrant with anger. You knew that Jay had come to see you as one of his belongings during the time that you’d been working for him, but it’s only now that you realize how early that had started. Even then, when he’d been very clear that the two of you were not exclusive, he’d been livid at the idea that someone else would touch what was his.

The son of a bitch would have known that David was hung up on you, too. He’d done his best to make sure that he’d hear him fucking you right there in the room, like David didn’t even exist. David who at that point was still his best friend.

You don’t know if David woke up while all this was happening. You hope he didn’t. Although he’d apologized for what he called “his behavior” the next day, you’ve never been sure how much he remembers. Certainly by this point, it might have faded from his memory entirely. You hope that’s the case. You hope he doesn’t remember it anything like the way you do.

In his position, you don’t know if you’d ever be able to trust you, to believe that your emotions weren’t contaminated or at least inconsistent. You can’t believe that doubts don’t start to creep in the second you’re out of his sight, which is why, although it’s understandable that he’d want to spend the night by himself tonight, you feel worried. The second he starts thinking about how many problems you’re causing and how much he’s had to deal with for years because of you, he’s likely to move to Siberia just to ensure he never sees you again.

And as if you weren’t capable of driving yourself crazy with anxiety on your own, Jay’s trying his best to make it worse. Since you are the talent liaison for New Japan in America and Jay is a New Japan performer currently working in America, you’re no longer allowed to stop him from accessing you and tonight, he’s apparently decided to take full advantage of that.

Your phone lights up to indicate another text message. You check every time because it could be David, or someone actually trying to contact you for work, as opposed to what Jay’s doing, which is trying to drive you right out of your mind. But it seems like no one has anything to say to you except Jay.

Are you alone or do you have to take care of your boy tonight?

I hope you’re not wearing him out. I want him to remember how easy it is for me to beat him even at his best. And I know how you can be.

Try not to think about me when you two are going at it.

If he’s not there, come over. I’ll keep my hands to myself if you do.

You know I can get women whenever I want but I never stop thinking about the filthy things I’d like to do to you.

Play the good girl all you want, I know you’re going to be thinking about that last text for hours. I’ll bet you’ll even touch yourself.

Send pictures when you do. No reason for us not to enjoy ourselves.

Wonder how he’d react if I told him you were coming over. Guess I could find out. Not like he’d know I was lying. Or maybe I’m not lying?

That last one does it. You can’t just ignore that because you don’t know if he’s going to make good on the threat. So you type back the only two words you can think of: STOP IT.

Ha. I knew you weren’t sleeping. And I’ll bet your sweet prince is back at his place because he wants to be focused for tomorrow. Poor boy denying himself his last meal.

You flinch and respond again in all capital letters: I MEAN IT. KNOCK IT OFF.

You’re tense. You should definitely come over. I’ll give you a back rub.

You should have just let him keep texting and gone to sleep, not that you can sleep because you’re so tense about things with David and the fact that Jay’s threatening to ruin them. Now you’re caught in one of his mazes that you can never seem to find your way out of.

Fine, you’re not coming over. Phone sex?

NO.

Come on, it’s probably the one thing we haven’t done before. Call me.

NO. GOD WILL YOU JUST STOP? I’M TRYING TO SLEEP.

I know how to help you calm down. Call.

Ok, seriously, let me help you relax. We don’t have to talk about you putting my dick in your mouth.

You roll your eyes and answer: Nothing with you relaxes me.

Seriously, I have a technique.

NO.

You’re no fun. Think I’ll bug Super Dave for a bit.

You don’t even text him back. You call because at least if he’s on the phone, he can’t be texting David to tell him god knows what.

“Well this is a nice surprise,” he purrs.

“You can’t do this. I need to sleep. Hell, you need to sleep. Just let it go, Jay.”

“I don’t really need to be well rested to beat Finlay. He got lucky the one time. Even you don’t believe he’s good enough to beat me twice.”

“Maybe I don’t care if he wins or not. Maybe I’ll be happy because I get to be with him one way or the other.”

“I’ll bet he cares.”

“I’m hanging up.”

“No, come on, I promised I’d help you sleep and now you’re even more worked up.”

You try to think of a smart comeback but you can’t. He waits a minute before continuing.

“Are you lying down?”

“Not that it’s any of your business but yes.”

“It’s purely professional interest, I promise.” You can hear a dark laugh buried in his voice. “Lay flat on your back and close your eyes.”

You’re not sure why but you do as he says. You do need to sleep and maybe the bastard actually can help with that.

“I want you to breathe all the way in, really slowly, through your nose.”

You give it a shot and he immediately interrupts.

“Don’t do it like you’re angry at me. Soft and slow, until your lungs feel full.”

You comply, fighting to keep from getting angry at him.

“Ok, now exhale very slowly through your mouth. All the way.” When he’s satisfied you’ve done that properly, he continues, “Keep doing that, as slow as you can manage. In through the nose, out through the mouth.”

You can’t deny that you can feel your body start to relax after only a few repetitions.

“Now take your hand and place it over your face, right along the hairline. Just barely let your fingers touch your skin. Then run your hand down your face, all the way to your neck. Keep your touch as light as you can.”

The sensation makes you shiver but as much as you feel like your nerves are being activated, you also feel like you’re pulling the tension out of your body. He tells you to repeat this gesture a few times, always keeping your breathing slow and even.

“Good night princess,” he whispers. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

The line goes dead before you can say anything.

[ssa25]

Green and Red - Naruhina 2020 (Jealousy)

Rating: T (mild swear words and implicit content)

It was not easy to rile her up.

His wife. Uzumaki Hinata was the gentlest soul he knew. And she absolutely adored him. She bore no ill feelings towards anyone. Always gracious, always charming and always composed.

And he loved her back with an intensity that shocked him sometimes. He learnt a lot from her. He learnt a lot about her too. Like how she never expects him to shout out his feelings from her. She expressed her love in the subtlest ways. Like brushing her fingers through his hair after a long day of work, sneakily putting in some vegetables into his home cooked ramen, whispering her love in his ears in the handful of mornings they got to share and happily accepting him into her arms at whatever godforsaken time of the night he felt the need for her.

He also learnt that she expressed her feelings with actions more than words. She would make him woolen clothes during winters and get him to drink health tonics instead of nagging him about getting sick. She would pray or meditate when she was worried or agitated about something. She would apply just a dash of his favourite perfume on the base of her neck, on the nights that she wanted to express her desire to feel his bare skin on hers. That wordless little trick always made him go crazy with need. As much as he loved her submissive side, he equally yearned for her bolder, assertive side when she let her desires known to him. He had had a few glimpses of this bold facet of her personality in their 15 months of marriage and it was just the perfect mix.

They were in Suna for the annual Kage meetup. As the next in line Hokage, he was invited with his wife to accompany the current Hokage Kakashi and his advisor Shikamaru. He had been fairly used to the confidential meetings and extravagant parties now. And he had convinced Hinata to take a leave from her hospital duties to accompany him this time.

He looked over at Hinata who stood a few metres apart chatting with Temari and Samui. The Tsuchikage was droning on about something inconsequential, and he was distracted by how pretty his wife looked in her short black dress. She was usually quite conservative in her choice of everyday clothing, but she never shied away from wearing modern figure hugging clothes for special occasions. In fact, the novelty of seeing her like that made him quite horny.

Involuntarily, his eyes kept flicking in her direction. And for a magical moment, she happened to look back at him too and gave him a slightly impish grin. Like she knew what he was thinking about. Of course, she knew. She totally knew how perverted he could be sometimes. And even that fact was a turn on for him.

Feeling oddly thirsty, he lifted his glass to gulp down the content but noticed that it was almost empty. Excusing himself, he made his way to the open bar to get himself a glass of water instead of the flowing alcohol that the servers offered. After all, he didn’t want to become too intoxicated and make a fool out of himself at this high profile party.

A small shriek made him turn to the side.

“Uzumaki Naruto!!!”, a brown haired woman walked closer to him while gasping in recognition. “It is you right??!”

“Uh… Yeah!... That’s me..”, he nodded with an awkward smile. Since the end of the war, more than four years back, he still had not gotten used to the fame and fan following.

“It’s so nice to meet you!!”, she looked positively thrilled to see him and offered her hand to greet him.

Gingerly, he shook hands with her before turning to his glass of water, hoping she would be on her way. 

After his wedding, young women in Konoha had quickly toned down the fawning and flirtations. Because they knew, and he made it abundantly clear, that Hinata was the only one for him. But instances like such still occurred every once in a while when he was travelling or they had foreign delegates over.

“I’m a huge fan of yours…”, the woman came closer than he was comfortable with, but she kept her hands to herself. “My name is Akane Yui… I’m the niece of Tokoro Futoshi!”

Naruto quickly realised that she had just named the Daimyo of the Land of Wave. He knew he had to handle this woman tactfully unless he wanted to unintentionally rile up the egoistic Daimyo.

“Ah, nice to meet you.”

“The pleasure is all mine… I had been hoping to meet you for a long time. After all, it's not everyday that I can get to see the most powerful Shinobi of our time!!...Are you, by any chance, here by yourself?”, she asked in a lower breathless tone while leaning down to show her barely there cleavage. 

He looked away from her and shook his head. “No, my wife is here with me.”, he pointed with his chin and was a little flustered to see that Hinata was looking back at him with an odd, blank expression. 

He liked to think he knew this look. He had seen it on her face a few times when they had just started dating, and he would be accosted with a flirtatious female. But with her being the definition of demureness, she never openly confronted him. And he always made sure to kiss her doubts and troubles away.

Now, her striking frosted gray eyes glanced at the woman beside him for a second before looking away, as she resumed nodding to Samui. Naruto wanted to rush to her and take his wife in his arms, but Yui was being quite persistent.

“That’s too bad. I would have loved to take you around the city sometime.”, she said coyly.

“Uh..”, he gulped his water and motioned for the bartender to refill his glass. He spoke almost disinterestedly, “I thought you said you were from the Land of Wave, not the Land of Wind….”

She giggled behind her hand and fluttered her eyelashes at him. “You’re right… I’m not familiar with Suna… But it would have been fun to explore it together, nonetheless… Don’t you think?”, she said as she brushed her hand lightly over his left bicep.

“Riiiiight.”, he frowned and stepped away from her. This woman was making him uncomfortable and there was only one way to get away from her. He looked around the packed hall and raised his arm up pretending to answer someone’s call. “Oh… I’ve been summoned… Talk to you later…Bye.”

He walked away quickly without waiting for the woman to respond back. He moved through the crowd and positioned himself right beside his wife.

Hinata looked up at him and raised an eyebrow before looking away.

“Honey…. You’re alright?”

“Sure.”, she replied without sparing even a second glance.

Naruto smirked at her and lightly elbowed her side. “You sure don’t look like it.”, he whispered discreetly to her.

“What do you mean?”, she frowned while looking at her glass of champagne.

“I mean you look a little green… with envy… “, he teased her. It was always a boost to his ego to know that his cool and collected wife could lose her composure when it came to him. Like the way, sometimes he did when he found men staring inappropriately at his wife.

“You’re sure you’re not jealous, baby?”, he prodded her some more. 

Instead of looking guilty or embarrassed like he had expected, she faced him with an even stare that gave nothing away. Rising up on her tippy toes she leaned towards his  right ear.

“Why would I be jealous, Naruto~kun? Other women can only fawn at you outwardly. But I’m the only one that gets to go down on knees and worship you in a way no one else can. Isn’t it?”, she whispered the dirty words coolly as if she was talking about the damn weather.

Well, shit. The back of his neck grew warm instantly and his pants started feeling a little tight.

“You’re looking a little red Naruto~kun!... Are you all right?”, she placed her cool palm on his hot cheeks with a teasing glint in her eyes.

Naruto stopped the closest server and slammed down both of their glasses on the tray before pulling Hinata to the nearest exit.

He learnt something new about her that night. That Uzumaki Hinata had her own quiet yet wicked way of dealing with jealousy. And he was more than okay with it!

x

A/n: This is so late, that I’m not even sure an apology will suffice. Nonetheless, I’m sorry for the delay. Stay safe guys!!

[eredins-a-king-aint-he]

13. Does it hurt badly? (for Gaunralt with Gaunter not understanding how pain works for mortals but getting suddenly very concerned that his favorite witcher might be close to breaking) (bonus points if Gaunter goes berserk on whatever wounded him) (i hope you haven’t already done something similar, sorry if that’s the case!)

Yessss I like this a lot!! I’m becoming increasingly partial to the idea of Gaunter developing feelings for the first time ever because of Geralt... and having issues with properly expressing and dealing with those emotions. Like he’s still an ass but he can be surprisingly sweet and kind sorta out of nowhere... *chefs kiss* Amazing. Perfect. I love it💕

Prompt: Does it hurt badly?

~~~~~

      Geralt knows that he had been stupid. A mixture of blood and other fluid oozes slowly between his fingers as he presses them to the bloody burn in his side. No, it’s not life-threatening, but it might become as much if he doesn’t do something about it. Gritting his teeth, he tries to stand, to retrieve his things, his potions, but a white hot lance of pain has him thumping back to the ground. The jarring landing sends another searing flash of pain over his ribs.

      He doesn’t really remember how he got back to his fire, or if he even killed the kikimores that he had accidentally discovered in the cave he was searching. While he was dodging, one of their warriors had somehow managed to hit him in the side with a stream of its acidic venom, which had promptly eaten through his armor and into his skin. The sudden and extreme pain of it had shocked him so much that his instincts had taken over, and he’d found himself back at his makeshift campsite with barely any recollection as to how he’d gotten there. 

      His muscles cramp and he tries to shift, but the pain in his side is reaching an excruciating level, and if he doesn’t do something about it soon he might pass out.

      “Neat pinch you’ve gotten yourself into, my dear,” a voice says, and Geralt looks up. Gaunter O’Dimm is standing just a few feet away where just moments ago there had been nothing but empty air. Gritting his teeth, Geralt tries again to stand, and fails.

      “No need to rub it in,” he snaps, his voice tight with pain. “I already know that I fucked up.”

     “Oh, but I’m very good at rubbing things in,” Gaunter replies, his mouth curling into a cat’s smile. Opening his mouth to deliver a snappy retort, Geralt makes the mistake of shifting again, and a small, pained sound issues from his throat instead as fire roars in his side. He closes his eyes for a moment, then opens them again to find Gaunter standing in front of him, looking down at him with an odd expression on his face. The man crouches down and appears to peer more closely at the injury.

      “Does it hurt badly?” he asks, and the question is soft, concerned. That tone in his voice always makes Geralt feel a surge of tenderness toward him. Lifting his arm with a wince, he strokes his hand down the man’s cheek in a shaky caress.

      “Very,” he manages to say. He drops his arm again with a moan. “I don’t suppose... you’d be willing to bring me my bag?” 

      Geralt knows that at any given moment Gaunter can reply to a request like this with a variety of answers ranging from silly to plain mean, but this time he simply nods, stands, and goes over to the witcher’s pack. A moment later the pack thumps gently to the ground beside Geralt, who moans gratefully. It hurts like hell, but he digs in his pack and retrieves one of the small bottles of swallow that he keeps there for just this purpose. He knocks it back, feeling Gaunter watch his every movement. About five seconds later, he realizes that he has fucked up again, and he digs frantically for another jar, downing the contents of that as well. The combination of the two potions is absolutely vile, but necessary if he is to avoid poisoning himself with the aftereffects of the kikimore venom. 

      “I like that look for you,” Gaunter says suddenly, bending down to look over Geralt’s face. “It’s beautiful.”

      Geralt, knowing exactly what he looks like after taking witcher potions, grimaces.

      “You’ve got a twisted sense of what that word means,” he replies in clipped tones. The burning in his side has lessened enough so that it no longer hurts to breathe, but the pain is still intense.

      “Oh, witcher of mine,” Gaunter says with a sigh, bending down to run his fingers first through Geralt’s hair, then down and over his cheekbones, “just accept the compliment for once, will you?”

     Geralt leans into the touch, closing his eyes, and grunts softly in response. He tilts his face up and allows Gaunter to kiss him gently on the mouth.

      “Now,” the man says, pulling away and standing up straight again, “it’s time to teach those beasts a few manners, I think.” 

      He vanishes, but not before Geralt catches the expression on his face, the deadened look in his eyes, the sinister twist of his smile— Shuddering, the witcher leans back against the tree behind him and wonders vaguely if kikimores can feel fear. If they couldn’t before, he thinks, they probably can now.

~~~

      He wakes to a gentle touch of lips on his forehead. 

      “You’ll have to wash that some time soon,” Gaunter says softly, gesturing to Geralt’s side as the witcher cracks an eyelid.

      “You could clean and heal it for me,” Geralt mumbles, his head foggy from pain and toxins. This makes Gaunter chuckle.

      “Alas, I fear I cannot make things too easy for you,” he says. “That would make life boring. What I can do is tell you that there is uncontaminated running water less than five minutes from here, and that you’ll start to fester if you sleep like that. Come, dear one, up we go.”

      In a surprisingly tender gesture, Gaunter helps Geralt to his feet and swings the arm of his uninjured side over his shoulders. These little touches, these small, inconsequential, yet so simply human gestures, they still send thrills of pleasure and warmth through Geralt every time. He leans over and places a quick peck on Gaunter’s stubbly cheek.

      “What would I do without you?” he whispers. 

      “Die, probably,” is the easy, amused reply. Geralt snorts.

      “Probably,” he agrees, and allows Gaunter to help him forward, toward the faint scent of fresh, clean water.

[yetanothertaylor]

Fuck it, honesty hour

Since I really don’t have anyone in my life to talk to, let’s go to my gooooood friend Tumblr to deal with my inconsequential homosexual bullshit. So.

On top of working from/living at work (however you view current affairs because both feel accurate) and an ongoing pandemic impacting our lives and our normal way of coping through life, I’ve just been either meh as hell, stressed or sad.

Work is stressful. I’ve been hearing “it’ll get better” like I’m a bullied thirteen year old closet case who can’t walk to the choir building without fear for his life again. That’s a fun feeling to experience again. Who needs Agatha Harkness to relive past trauma?

Because of the pandemic, my stress relieving hobbies are nonexistent now. I can kind of still do theatre, but the stress of trying to produce shows during a pandemic and unknown restrictions neutralizes any stress that is relieved.

But most of all (and trust me, I fucking hate that this is what’s controlling my sadness) is how mother fucking lonely I feel. After my last relationship ended with getting socked in the face by my ex and the majority of the LGBTQ+ community in the area taking his side because he’s from here, I’ve felt really fucking shitty for over a damn year. I feel like I haven’t been able to express that feeling without getting attacked on social media for saying “I feel like shit and fuck my ex and his friends for making me feel this way.” It’s as if any ties I had to our community, and I use that term loosely, are severed and burned. They’re done. So yeah, we’re in a pandemic and we should all be suffering through bouts of loneliness and lack of sex right? Wrong. I seem to be the only person in (what’s left of) my friend group not fucking multiple people a week or talking to someone with mutual interest. That is just more fuel to the fire of insecurity. Am I that unappealing and unattractive that nobody wants to talk to me? And I say that at the risk of sounding shallow as hell. Because it feels like the only people who want to interact with me I have zero interest in. There’s no physical attraction, no sense of intellectual connection, and ZERO personality that makes me want to have a conversation with them.

So why am I bitching on Tumblr instead of talking to a friend? Hmmm... let’s see. None of my female friends I feel close enough to to disclose this type of information without concern that I’m talking about a mutual friend. Any of my gay friends (with one glaring exception, stay tuned) that still like me, just wanna fuck me. They’re my friends for one reason or another. I either value the friendship too much, don’t have a romantic connection, or don’t want to pursue a further relationship with them. That’s stressful because I feel like there’s no way to express that stance without sounding like a dick even when they’re being as subtle as an elephant in a minefield about wanting me to fuck them or date them. So I can’t say woah is me to any of them because for SOME REASON they think “I’d fuck you” will make me feel better about feeling unloved and unwanted. Maybe I’m just a fucking asshole, but that just comes across as selfish on their part using my insecurity for their gain. I don’t know.

Oh yeah, the glaring exception. So my roommate is my best fucking friend in the world. We’ve been friends for 7 years, and that’s the longest friendship I’ve honestly ever maintained. So all has been good the past few years we’ve lived together. Our friendship started as FWB in college. For a minute, there was dating potential but neither of us were at a place to seriously consider it. Flash forward a few years, and we’re now housemates. I’ve always secretly harbored feelings for him and used that as a gauge for if it truly liked a guy. I figured it was a safe metric since we’d never be more than friends again. But then he starts flirting with me around the house and we start having random hookups. That titillates stupid Taylor’s feelings. I start hearing the things I’ve dreamed of hearing from him for years. But it’s so infrequent. I know he’s fucking multiple random people when I can barely get a “hello” for someone on Grindr/Tinder/Scruff/Hinge (I’m trying y’all). I’m sitting here in bed after too much Crown feeling down. I feel like my low self esteem has made me his sex toy whenever he can’t get anything better because I’m 15 feet away. It’s just a sucky feeling, and I know I need to address it with him. I just don’t know how to handle it because we’ve never talked about our hookups outside of the heat of the moment.

So yeah, just needed to get that off of my chest. I doubt anyone read that, and if you did I am so very sorry. Maybe sober Taylor will read this and feel some type of way. If you could DM him some positive words of encouragement, I think he’d appreciate it. Sorry.

[raleighcarrera]

May I possibly request either #32 or 46 from the NSFW prompt list for my obsession... I mean, Mason lol? Pretty please? 💕

32. “if you don’t like my teasing then why are you moaning?” 46. “you’re going to regret that, sweetheart.”

and several other people also asked for 33. “i’m gonna fuck you so hard that you forget you ever even met that asshole.”

50 NSFW starters 

like most of their conversations, it comes up in bed.

they’re laying around, relaxing for so long after a fuck that they’re probably coming up on the time for their next turn in the sheets, but for some reason, mason finds himself unwilling to initiate anything more than the light touches kira’s currently tolerating, her body canting greedily into each place his hand rests on her, like she’s wordlessly asking for more.

he likes her like this -- close by. smiling at him. quiet, for once.

plus, the way she hums when he digs his thumbs into her arm or the inside of her thigh or a tense shoulder sounds pretty nice in his ears.

so they’re talking about work, when she says it -- going over the details of a case that he can’t be bothered to think too closely about when the shape of her naked breasts is so clearly visible under the thin sheet, drawing his eyes in. 

but the mention of her shithead ex, who won’t stop stalking her in the interest of trying to play reporter, certainly captures his attention. mason snaps his gaze up to her face to search for any sign of distress on her expression. sooner or later he’s going to have to have a talk with that guy about bothering kira so much, but for now, mason only snorts, his amusement clear when he asks, “what did you ever see in him, anyway? he’s a loser.”

she shrugs. mason can practically feel his grin drop straight off his face when she simply says, “he was good in bed.”

it really shouldn’t bother him, especially not as much as it does. he knows he’s the best kira’s ever had -- not only because of his own self-confidence but because it’s obvious in the way she comes apart for him, like she’s stunned by how good it feels every time they get together. her wonder at what he can do to her never goes away, and he likes that about her, so -- fine, he was good in bed, but -- not as good as mason, clearly.

still, the rational part of his brain refuses to engage and save him from his spiraling. he knows it’s stupid and ridiculous, but he’s jealous all the same. “well,” he says finally, the words thick with distaste, “you’re easy to please.”

“awwwww.” the sheets shift as kira crawls closer, her smile a mile wide on her beautiful face. “are you jealous?”

“i don’t get jealous,” mason answers with a scoff, like the notion is too ridiculous to even dedicate his attention to. it is. he doesn’t.

never mind that he never did or felt a lot of things, before her. 

there’s something unidentifiable in her eyes when their gazes lock. her look reflects in the dimmed light of her bedroom like a sparkling star, and he’s helpless to turn his face away. “there’s nothing to be jealous of, you know.”

“then it’s a good thing i’m not jealous, have never been jealous, and never will be.” for some reason, that answer makes kira’s smile grow even larger. 

with a growl, he surges forward and catches her lips in a kiss. it’s meant to cut off whatever snarky, sexy thing she might be gearing up to say next, but it has the added affect of hiding her smile, for all the good that does for his sanity -- her stupid grin has been seared into his brain for months.

mason rolls on top of her and presses her down into the mattress effortlessly, the answering low moan that kira gives unlocking something primal within him. “you know what?” he mutters against her lips in between kisses, “i’m gonna fuck you so hard you forget you ever met that asshole.”

a full body shiver trips through her. he can feel every one of her goosebumps pressed against his skin. “mason.”

“hold still.” she does, near-immediately. with her presence dampening the sound of her neighbors and the street below and the humming of her air-conditioning and every other random noise that’d otherwise be an affront to his senses, he can hear her heartbeat and its uptick loud and clear. he can almost even hear the way her pupils dilate with desire. 

mason peels the sheet back slowly, trailing his fingers down her body as he does so. it slips away and the figure that’s revealed makes his cock twitch, just like it does every other time he gets to see it, bare like this or wrapped in too-tight jeans, without fail. kira looks so perfect, to him, that it makes every other time he’s fucked before her seem inconsequential in comparison, even though he’s had some pretty memorable experiences.

his hands wrap around her thighs and pull them apart, and he slides down her body without fuss, making himself comfortable between her legs.

her breath catches as soon as his head dips down, and once his hair falls into his face and obscures his expression, mason grins as hugely as he can. 

this is going to be fun.

he kisses up the sides of her thighs slowly, each press of his lips a lingering, sucking nip that leaves a mark against her skin that’s just the right shade of red. kira kicks her legs restlessly in the sheets while he works -- up from her knee to the crease at the top then back down again, hands tight on her calves while he winds her up as tightly as he can.

“mason,” she groans, after it’s gone on for probably way too long, “i swear to god, if you don’t quit teasing --”

“you’ll what?” he asks, leaning back to drag one fingertip up the wet trail he’s left on the inside of her leg, touch so light her body shakes again. “scream?”

“i’ll never fuck you again, you bastard.” 

he snorts again. her arched back and the breathless way the words are said around a sigh tell him everything he needs to know, but even if she wasn’t constantly groaning his name, the way she keeps pushing her hips forward insistently would do the trick nicely.

“if you don’t like my teasing then why are you moaning?” he asks, just because he can. just because it’s worth being an asshole for the way kira groans even louder, her sigh markedly more exasperated, this time. 

annoying her is almost as good as making her come. that’ll probably never change.

“it obviously feels good, idiot,” she bites back, despite the waver in her voice. he ducks his head on another grin. “but it’d feel better if you used that mouth for something produc -- mason!” 

his tongue delves into her without warning, parting her folds and immediately experiencing just how wet she is, tasting that explosion of sensation that’s uniquely kira and troublingly addictive. 

her hands wind into his hair and pull when he employs all his best tricks right off the bat, and that starts the rhythm that’s familiar to them -- he squeezes her thighs to leave behind the bruises he knows she likes, and she chants his name in a way that has him grinding his cock into the mattress, achingly hard just from hearing her sob out those two syllables over and over again while he takes her apart with his tongue.

“oh, fuck,” she gasps, when she starts to get close, grinding her hips down against him and doing her best to ride his face given the position they’re in, “oh god, oh fuck, oh fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, mason --”

he pulls back, licking the taste of her from his lips. spread out on the bed, when he pushes up onto his knees, kira looks absolutely wrecked, her chest heaving and her body flushed, the tops of her thighs wet where her arousal had simply been too much to contain.

mason rubs his jaw, smirking pridefully down at her. let’s see bobby marks do that.

without even having caught her breath yet, kira tilts her head on the pillow to look him in the eye. like always, she has him pinned with just a gaze. “i thought you were going to fuck me.”

his eyebrows lift. kira looks like she can barely handle a light rainstorm, right now, let alone what he wants to do to her. “is that what you want?”

she pushes up onto her elbows, moving her messy hair out of her face. her eyes are still a little dazed with pleasure. “if you can deliver.”

oh, he knows what she’s doing. still, mason narrows his eyes at her, crawling back on top of her body and ignoring the look of delight that jumps onto her face as he does. one hand grabs her chin, the other fumbling between their bodies to keep her legs pushed wide.

“sweetheart,” he murmurs, leaning in close so his stubbled cheek drags across her much smoother, much warmer skin, “i’m going to fuck you.” 

the hitch in her breath is audible when his fingers slide back between her legs, making her hips jerk where she’s still so sensitive. 

“i’m going to watch you come on my cock over and over again.” 

kira’s groan is choked off, stuck in her throat with surprise. she’s so unbelievably wet where he’s touching her.

mason grins at her. “roll over.”

before her, this wasn’t a position he favored. something about it seems so intimate -- her back to his chest, her body gathered in his arms with her head on his shoulder -- but with kira it just feels right, an extension of what they already do. a new way to get even closer.

he wants to get as close as possible.

plus, his cock always slides in so easily like this, and the stretch or the angle always makes kira moan just a little bit louder than usual, her thigh trembling in his hand where he’s holding it up for her.

mason kisses her shoulder and then bites her hard enough to leave a mark. “you feel so good, kira.”

it’s enough to drive him out of his own mind. nothing has ever felt as good as her, as this -- sex wasn’t sex before her. all the other people he’s been with are something else entirely. 

“please,” she whines, “mason, oh god.”

that means faster. they’ve been at this for long enough that he knows what each please is asking for just by the way the word is pitched. 

he gives up on trying to be careful with her and gives her what they both want -- something that will last. something that will make her ache. something she’ll feel when she moves the wrong way at work and something that will leave her thinking about him in the middle of her day, so that when he sees her later on she jumps on him and practically tackles him to the floor of his room at the warehouse with frantic kisses.

his goal is always to fuck her hard enough to get those kisses, because he sure as hell isn’t asking for them.

true to his promise, he makes kira come twice before finally bottoming out inside of her, slamming his cock home viciously and enjoying the way she shakes around him when he does. 

it’s more than just the way she tightens around him that makes him come. it’s having so much of their bare skin pressed together, it’s the sound she makes when he rolls a nipple between his fingers while nosing at the side of her neck over her scar, it’s the way the smell of her shampoo is the only thing he can focus on when his vision whites out from indescribable pleasure. 

there’s pretty much no way he can ever fuck anyone else ever again, now that he knows what this feels like.

she makes a sleepy noise of protest when he pulls out, digging her fingertips into his arms to keep him from moving too far away unnecessarily -- he’s not going anywhere.

in fact, he’s the one to drag her in closer, tightening his hold around her and spooning up behind kira without an ounce of shame about how nice it is, burying his face in the soft curtain of her hair. 

she twists to kiss his arm, pressing her lips to any bare patch of skin of his she can reach without wiggling too much. the heavy sigh that leaves her is a rush of cool air against his hand. “that was nice,” kira murmurs.

the pointed pause that follows the words lets him know she’s grinning without having to look at her.

“...but i definitely still remember meeting all of my ex-boyfriends.”

brat.

and she knows it, if the yelp of laughter she gives when he nips at her neck in retaliation is anything to go by. mason rolls them both over, fighting her playfully in the sheets until she goes slack and lets him pin her to the mattress. 

well, they’ve got all night. if she wants to provoke him, he can absolutely give in -- especially since it looks like this argument is headed somewhere he very much wants to be regardless of the low-level annoyance he still feels towards that dirtbag who made her so much as frown.

mason leans down until they’re nose-to-nose, doing his best not to smile back when faced with her big, bold grin. “oh, you’re going to regret saying that, sweetheart.”

kira’s impish smile stretches wider in challenge yet again. she’s ridiculous. 

and his eyes are drawn to the way she licks her lips like a magnet. he’s helpless to ignore the way his body reacts when she curves them upwards and smirks, “promise?”

[featheredpheonix]

I watched the 4th (and final, if reports hold true) season of Netflix’s Castlevania series, and I am now putting as many of my (many, many) thoughts on it in the read more below to prevent them from continually filling my head until I die from a brain herniation. Spoilers for the new season obviously below.

The really short version of this is that, in contrast to a lot of the sentiment I have been seeing online, I don’t think this season is very good. I think it might actually be worse than season 3. If that thought offends you, please bear with me for a bit, as I suspect it is Netflix itself rather than the showrunners who are to blame.

Season 3′s fundamental flaw, in my opinion, was that it tried to cover too much at once, which made the pacing really fast and resulted in the season’s more obvious problems (how inconsequential Trevor and Sypha’s arc felt, how generally messy and underwritten Alucard’s whole section was, etc.). However, Season 3 did bear some merit, as so far as some of the conflicts it seemed to be setting up held some decent potential. Alucard was poised to have some real inner turmoil as he sent back to square one of his isolation in the castle, and by way of a far more traumatic series of events than during his initial farewell with Trevor and Sypha. Isaac was faced with a pretty open suite of paths to take his life, and a new philosophy on life to help guide him. There was the question of how would the world react to Carmilla’s expansionist ambitions, and just how far she would go to see them through. There was even a lot of engaging stuff that could have come out of Hector’s entrapment into magical servitude by Lenore. I was ready to give Season 3 some slack because I saw it as setting up interesting conflicts for Season 4, which while technically counting as kicking the can down the road, might have at least counted for something.

The issue with Season 4 then, for me, begins with it utterly ignoring or cutting short many of the potential story lines just discussed, opting in favor of conflicts devoid of set up, with threadbare emotional stakes, and which didn’t really challenge the cast in any way beyond testing how well they can swing a sword or throw a fireball.

Alucard seems barely fazed at all by the killing of his father or his brief pair of homicidal lovers, so much so that his recounting of the latter, an event which must have been a traumatic experience for him, is delivered off-screen and then promptly joked about. Carmilla’s character her arc is resolved with her complete abandonment of any of the political wit or strategic thinking she displayed in seasons past, getting promptly curb-stomped by Isaac for reasons only tangentially related to her manic world domination plot, and then girlbossing so hard she explodes. Most inexplicable of all, Hector, Lenore, and the story in general appear to have forgot or moved on from the whole “sexually-induced magical slavery” thing altogether, and the two are getting along swimmingly until Lenore decides to kermit herself (If I had a nickel for every morally-questionable vampiress who committed suicide this season, I’d only have two nickels, but it’s weird that it happened twice). Only Isaac’s story at all resembles what was being foreshadowed in Season 3, and even then only by the narrative being very vague about what his future plans actually are.

What we receive instead of payoff on previously established story threads are a coalescence of the different character arcs in a manner so rushed as to make them logistically impossible were it not for the sudden and conspicuous abundance of magical teleportation mirrors, a rogue’s gallery of new villainous vampires who exist only to be introduced and killed off in quick and meaningless succession, and a BBEG-from-the-machine who could have been interesting and entertaining if he had been given any build up or time to breath as a character, in either a previous or current season. Even the happy endings I was hoping for this season feel somewhat spent, more a product of consequence than something the characters actually struggled for. As such, the resolutions of the character arcs I did like felt less like rewards for sticking with the series, and more like bribes meant to convince me to forget the bad writing which preceded them.

Now that I’m finished beating this season with a stick, I think it’s worth noting that none of this feels like something the showrunners should be blamed for. Rather, this feels to me like one of my favorite Netflix properties being brought low by Netflix’s internal policy of cancelling beloved shows in search of greater market yields. I suspect that the showrunner did not choose to end this series after four seasons, but were commanded to do so by corporate higher-ups sometime either late into season 3′s production, or more egregiously, prior or even during the creation of season 4. This would obviously mean the Castlvania crew were doing the best they could to deliver any sort of half-decent ending in the short time they had left, and any blame for the faults of the show should instead be laid at the feet of the larger corporate machine behind them, and at the feet of the capitalist mode of production more broadly.

As far as the show itself is concerned, I’m still a fan, and would probably still watch whatever spinoff might be in the works, if hints from the Castlevania team are to be believed. Even in isolation, the first half of Castlevania still more than makes up for the latter seasons, with Season 2 being perhaps one of my favorite seasons of TV ever, and the S2 finale being one of my favorite finales respectively. Still, I wanted to express my critiques of this season, albeit from a place of love. I feel like there was a lot more story the team wanted to tell, that they would have preferred to tell, that they were ultimately made unable to tell by the external constraints of their less-than-benevolent corporate overlords. If such a desire existed amongst the Castlevania team, I can certainly say that I share in it, and hope that whatever they make from here on out is given the opportunity to be all that it can be.