#i present to you yet another sea inspired fic

[wavesmp3]

[wjh] taking chances

wen junhui (svt) x reader - wc. 2.1k - genre: angst ish, ex somethings to current somethings (you'll see) - warnings: some cursing i think

you know water. you know how it churns and groans into a storm. how it’s calm on a cool, spring day. how it calls one to it, to watch and be lost in the ebb and flow of the waves. you know water. and it’s because you know water that you know when it’s time to return to it.

jun watches you take your first steps into what used to be home. you watch your feet as they take each of the steps before the entryway, one by one. slowly. you pause before opening the door, hand hovering just above the doorknob that’s so familiar to you both. 

“you don’t have to do this, you know.” you tell him abruptly. it’s just a couple bags. i can take it from here.”

jun watches you closely as you say it. the way your lips turn down and voice gets breathier at the end of each sentence, as if the words are losing their steam halfway between your throat and your mouth. your hair looks the same as it did when you moved away. your eyes are a couple years older, but still hold the sunlight the way they did when you guys were 14. for a quiet, blissful moment, jun lets himself believe that you haven’t changed. that you’re still the you that left your sleepy hometown for university. still the you that told jun maybe the two of you could try again whenever you got back. the same you that said nothing when he asked if you even plan on coming back. he looks for the scar you got when you were younger, playing volleyball on the beach after school. he can’t find it.

he clears his throat. things have changed. 

“i don’t mind.” is all he says before you open the door home. 

—

he sees you again at the bonfire that night, a tradition in your hometown to signify the start of summer that always falls on the first friday in may. a small thing for locals to enjoy before the town is overrun with tourists and the beautiful beaches are filled with strangers at every turn. 

you’re talking to jihoon, catching up and showing him something on your phone. you look like an entirely different person than the one he left this morning. earlier, your entire face was tight and scrunched up, the way it always did during exams. but now, you look calmed, relaxed, jaw finally unclenched and shoulders down. jihoon says something to make you laugh, and jun can hear the sound all the way from the other side of the fire, over soonyoung’s yells at chan and over his own heart. the bonfire flashes in his face, chan yells back at soonyoung, and you’re left with a smile. jun feels a warm rush run from his head to his arms. he swallows it down with a gulp of his drink. 

you catch his eyes across the beach, eyebrows raising a tiny bit and drink lifted to him. a small hello thrown across the chaos of the bonfire and all your friends. his feet are leading him towards you before he can even think to stop them. 

“hey.” you smile, clinking your bottle against his cup. 

“hi.” he returns, taking another sip.

“i think i’ve officially said hi to everyone now.” you declare, staring out at the group. jun wonders what must be running through your mind right now. are you thinking of the friends you made at university? are you wishing it was them here with you right now instead of him? 

but then you watch jeonghan and wonwoo race across the beach followed by them arguing whether jeonghan cheated or not, and say, “i missed this.”

you wave away the smoke that drifts over from the fire and tap your index finger against the neck of your beer. jun says, “me too.”

the two of you stand there for a while. you watching the fire grow. jun watching you. he’s instantly transported back to your last bonfire here. the one right after graduation, during which you found out that you got into a university a thousand miles away. jun wishes he had the foresight to be happy for you, to recognize that you got into your dream program at your dream school. he wishes he had celebrated with you, with everyone, relished in the bittersweet knowledge that this would be your last bonfire together like this. but jun hadn’t. instead, jun took you aside and told you that school would be hard, too hard maybe. that maybe you should reconsider. maybe you should be like the ones before and go to a university close enough to home to visit every other weekend. and underneath the million reasons he gave you to not go was the confession that he had been holding back since the start of that year, a wildcard that maybe you saw coming or maybe you didn’t. either way, when he finally told you how much he liked you, how he had for so long, you didn’t say it back. you didn’t even acknowledge any of the bullshit reasons he gave before. instead, you kissed him softly, an overwhelmingly high school press of lips together, and told him, you’re sorry. not now, but maybe later.

you catch him staring. is it later now?

"what?" you ask with a laugh.

jun shakes his head quickly. “no, nothing. just…” he lets out a breath, averting his eyes from your questioning gaze. “we really missed you while you were gone.” 

you roll your eyes. “you act like i’m the only one that left home. seungkwan and minghao also moved away.”

“true.” he admits, at which you let out a small ‘thank you’ under your breath. “but you were the first.”

and there’s something in the way jun says it that makes your lips part, readying to say something in response, but nothing comes out. you gulp down whatever you really wanted to say and replace it with a quiet. “well, i’m back now.”

jun squints at you, remembering how badly you wanted to leave at the end of high school, remembering how upset you were this morning at the reality of being back. jun doesn’t stop to think of it another way. he doesn’t stop to conjure up some other reason for the way you were acting this morning versus how you seem to be now. instead, he gives it the same one he gave himself 4 years ago to answer why you left–”but you hate this place.”

your entire body is visibly taken aback by the question, or maybe the bluntness of it. and when jun sees the way your face contorts into something akin to offense, he finds himself wanting to chase after the reckless words and shove them back inside his stomach. 4 years later and jun still doesn’t know which words are the right ones to say. 4 years later and he still resents you for leaving.

you never get to answer the question. instead, joshua appears quoting a line from twilight and dragging you away complaining that you hadn’t come to say hi to him yet. 

you watch jun as you walk off, sourly muttering, “i guess i forgot one.”

the only thing jun can think of then is how selfishly he stole the smile from your face. 

—

jun doesn't really talk to anyone else for the rest of the bonfire. he teeters around the edge only conversing if someone else initiates it first and watching you converse happily with everyone else. he turns his gaze away from you and to the sea. he watches the water crumble against the sand and crawl back into the ocean, over and over again. there’s comfort in the image and in the sound. it’s why his family moved here . it’s why every summer tourists flock here and stay for months complaining of the day they must inevitably go back. all jun’s life, he’s only known people to enter. enter his life, his space, his routine. and when you left for university, it was the first time in his life that someone had left. 

“hey,” seokmin says, sitting down next to jun in the sand, “look at this.”

seokmin hands jun an old photograph. it was hardly a very sentimental photo, rather an old class picture from when jun was either 10 or 12. one of those forced smiles and terribly timed pictures every class was forced to take once a year. at the time of this picture, jun was friends with soonyoung and no one else. but on the other side of the class stands you and wonwoo. best friends at this age. that makes him smile. 

he looks up to thank seokmin, who is already gone, dancing with mingyu to some song blasting through the speakers. 

jun goes back to the picture, enraptured in a life that used to be his. when he does looks up, he finds himself face to face with you. 

“can i sit?” you ask casually. like you guys haven’t been in this weird stalemate for the past four years. he nods, and you do.  

you point to jihoon in the old school photograph, snickering, “god, look at his hair.” 

jun takes a good look at it, laughing at the bowl haircut, complete with a gravity defying cowlick in the back. “i don’t know how his parents let him leave the house like that.”

you point out some other classmates, asking what they’ve been up to. jun fills you in on all of them. but eventually, you run out of classmates, and the picture starts to feel like another reminder of what could have been instead of what is. jun chooses to look back at the water.

“do you still surf?” you ask him quietly. 

“not really.” he answers, biting back the memory of trying to teach you at 15. 

“jun.” you say with a voice that forces him to finally look your way. he does, and he feels as stupidly enamored as he did at 17. “i know you don’t understand why i left, but i don't hate this place. i never…” you gulp, looking for the words in the air between you and him. you find it in the photograph still nestled in his hands. “how could i hate it here?” you say, gesturing to 10 year old you, “this is my home.”

“tell me again then,” jun begins, wondering inwardly if he should even be speaking anymore, “why you had to leave it so bad?”

you shake your head. “i had a chance i had to take.”

jun doesn’t say anything back. you place a hand on his knee. 

“i hate that leaving made it so weird between us.”

jun stares at your hand on his knee silently. 

“i want us to go back to the way we were.”

you scoot closer to him. he shivers.

“don’t you?”

suddenly, he can feel your breath hitting the base of his neck. his entire body is frozen in place, watching your eyes flutter shut, watching his lips hover beside yours. 

finally, he gets the massive kick in the gut he needs to ask, “why’d you come back?”

you meet his eyes, and there’s a million subliminal messages in them when you say, “there was one more chance i wanted to take.”

the confession is a spell, compelling jun to let you kiss him and allowing himself to kiss you back. and this kiss, in stark contrast to the one you both shared at your last bonfire, has nothing high school about it. it’s four years of wanting and longing crushed into a tangle of tongue and lips. it’s biting and breathless. you pull at his knee. he grabs the back of your neck. 

when you do finally pull away, you’re smiling again. jun is too. you keep your face right next to his, breathing him in, taking him in for all his wrong words and bitterness. 

somewhere in the back of his mind, jun knows that he’d always let you have him like this. and beneath that, buried under the rush of the kiss, he knows that you won’t want him like this for long. he knows he’s only a blip of a hometown romance in a life that’s foreign to him and has been since the moment you left. 

but that doesn’t stop him from drinking you in, pulling your face back to his and letting his tongue run over your teeth. it doesn’t stop him from giving himself up to you over and over again. 

jun is just another chance for you to take. and as long as it’s there, he prays you take it. 

[chaithetics]

GIRLLLL OMGGGG YOUR MONEKY MAN FIC HELLO?? HELLOOOO???? so good. i just came back from watching it and wtf. now that is how u direct and that is how u make a profound film. (i’m glazing him and this film so hard but idc i just want 1 chance dev PLS JUST GIMME 1 ONE IS ALL I NEED) also r u indian? cuz when i saw the “jaan” i read it it in his voice and my knees literally almost hit the ground like i was like 😧🌚😜😍🤭🤭😋😋🤤🥰 the whole time!!! if i may, can i request another monkey man fic/drabble/whatever u wanna make it but it’s about how they met? basically like a backstory on how they met and got together. thank youuu! 🫶🏽

Blood-Stained Meetings, Nauseous Introductions

Pairing: Kid (Monkey Man) x reader Word count: 2.6K Warnings: 18+ MDNI, mentions of anxiety, injuries/blood, longing, reader has no physical description, a kiss, no smut. Not proof or beta read. A/N: Hey lovely Nonnie, so glad you enjoyed the film! It's so good! Dev Patel is so talented. I hope you and everyone else reading this and in the fandom enjoys this fic! 🫶(Please do and validate me, I'm scared it's TERRIBLE and I'm not happy with this, genuinely terrified lol) Comments, reblogs etc. are always more than appreciated and encouraged! Enjoy 🥰 Gif by @junkfoodcinemas Somewhat inspired by an old chat with the talented @mittos about how reader would probably hate seeing him fight, and tagging @lialilalo because I feel bad about ending up taking a week to get this out since your ask!

Sure, there were probably worse ways to spend a Friday night, but you also knew that there were definitely much better ways to spend a Friday night as well. But you simply weren’t the kind of person who did better things on a Friday night, that wasn’t in your DNA. Obviously. This was your brother's idea of fun after all. 

It didn’t surprise you that this was how your adult brother wanted to spend the start to his weekend and drag you along, or that this was a frequent pastime of his. It didn’t mean that it horrified you any less though. 

You’d sighed and dreaded this for hours, days probably, subconsciously. 

Yet, you still were here. You’d changed out of your work clothes for this, you’d tried to make yourself as presentable as possible when you knew it was an effort you’d see reflected in your brother. You were dreading leaving your home and having to blend into the sea of bloodthirsty betters you were about to find yourself in. 

You walk with your brother and one of his friends into the building, it’s large and crowded. Everyone is packed in like sardines as they yell about what odds they’re betting on, who’s the biggest and strongest, who’s the most nimble-footed and quickest, and who is the immediate runt of the competitors. You can already feel yourself becoming stressed, at this environment. You don’t understand the appeal of this but you understand how it can become a reality with the world that you’re all in. 

The heat stings your face like a slap, as you stand there, close to your brother so you don’t get split up in this sea and he rambles in your ear about who he placed a bet on, how they usually do. All of the information that seems so important in a moment like this to everyone else. But you’ve seen enough blood, you don’t need to be fascinated by people getting bloodied up like this. It’s a privilege that you’ve been able to avoid this your whole life. 

If you were seeing this at home, or if it wasn’t so packed in here tonight, you’d feel a little less self-conscious. And if you felt a little less self-conscious, you’d be chewing on your nails, all the way down to the nail bed. Until you felt the all too familiar sting of going too far. You give your hand a little shake to try and get rid of that urge, now’s not the place or time to wear your nerves on your sleeve. So instead, you try to offer up a small smile to your brother as he leads you to a spot on some benches nearby. 

The bench is relatively close to the ring, but it’s good, you’re already overstimulated and trying to make it up further to higher seats isn’t an idea that agrees with you right now, and it surely promises you a quick exit if needed. You look around, the dim lighting further adds to everything, your eyes scan the faces of those in the crowd and you look out at the ring. It’s big, you think, but you’re not sure if it’s a standard size or not for this sport. 

An announcer enters the ring, he looks sleazy and has a large, sly smirk pasted onto his face, one that makes you uncomfortable. You look at your brother to try and share a knowing glance but he’s focused on what’s in front of you both. You let out a quiet sigh as you tilt your head back to focus on what’s in front of you. 

The announcer opens his mouth and he speaks in a South African accent, that surprises you and you can’t help but look at your brother again. He announces himself as Tiger. This night is already so random, and you have a feeling that it’s only going to get more wild. 

“He’s the owner.” Your brother says as he tilts his head to whisper loudly in your ear. You can hear him over the whooping, clapping, and chants that have started. You nod as you look back at the ring, trying to pay attention to what you’re going to soon witness. Despite how overwhelming it all is. 

Tiger then introduces a fighter who’s dressed to almost look like a reptile, he’s introduced as King Kobra and gets a warm, adoring welcome from the audience with thunderous applause and cheers. You don’t clap as you can’t help but look around instead, taking it all in. It’s a lot and there’s so many people here, here just for this. 

Tiger then starts to introduce King Kobra’s opponent, his voice changes and it’s tinged with an antagonising disgust, he’s clearly trying to rile the audience up into booing, and not rooting for whoever it is. You can’t help but feel your curiosity grow at that. It feels childlike how it’s said, but you see the audience respond just as Tiger wishes. The opponent is Monkey Man, he quickly comes out and makes his way into the ring. He moves quickly and he bounces on his feet for a moment as he gets further into the zone. He stands there, waiting for the noise to confirm it’s the start, the start of a fight where he can maybe get one or two punches in before he has to keel over for his pay. Pay that he’ll probably have to bargain for. 

He stands in the ring and he can’t help but spend a second focusing on the face he sees in the front row. Kid is sure he hasn’t seen that face here before, it’s a pretty face, but he can’t help but notice the anxiety pooled in those eyes or your body language. He tilts his head slightly, it doesn’t seem to be the kind of anxiety some of the gamblers here have before the match, the ones who are risking it all for an expensive thrill and painful rush, to live vicariously through him and the other men adorned in animal masks and names. 

Kid turns his head away from you and tries to focus back on his work. You don’t even notice that the man in the ring has been staring at you, taking you and your nerves in for a few, long but oh so short seconds.. How could you? With that mask? You can’t see his face, but you can see there’s a lanky figure standing there, hiding under the mask and donning the monkey man mantle. He’s tall and slender but you can see there’s some muscle on his arms, from what you can see of the sweat and blood-stained undershirt he wears, his chest is toned as well. 

You don’t know it yet, but you can feel something realign, change in this moment. You’re just not sure what it is, or if this feeling is even real, or if it’s just another symptom of somatic anxiety. Right now, you think it’s probably just that. 

After almost another minute of the crowd booing Monkey Man and chanting out for the King Kobra, the match begins. Each of the men takes a moment to size the other one up, watching the other’s moves before the first hit lands. It’s King Kobra, he strikes Monkey Man. 

King Kobra goes to throw another punch, he moves quickly and he’s very agile, yet Monkey Man somehow dodges this one. His landing with the dodge isn’t perfect, but it gets him out of the way. He throws a punch to King Kobra and the crowd erupts into boos at that. It’s even more louder and clearer than before who they’re all rooting for and aren’t. The crowd’s response seems to motivate King Kobra as he quickly moves and starts to deliver blow after blow. 

You barely feel the noise of the crowd’s screams of joy and cheers as this happens and King Kobra gets his footing back. Your eyes widen as you watch, you see blood starting to fall as Monkey Man loses his way in this match. 

You let out a gasp as he falls to the ground. King Kobra slithers around the ring, posing and feeding off of the crowd’s response before he goes in for the kill shot. He delivers it and you feel yourself slightly jump. It’s terrifying to you, you don’t see the appeal in this, you can only start to mentally list off all of the physical trauma this causes. You sigh as you watch King Kobra be declared the winner of this match, it sounds like a recurring event, you gaze over at your brother who looks ahead with a large smile of awe, obviously happy with whatever return he’s getting on the bets he’d made beforehand

Monkey Man slowly tries to limp his way out of the ring and backstage, you look at your brother and quickly whisper that you need to check on this man. You have to, it’s basically a moral and ethical obligation. Your brother sighs and nods, you quickly move off of the bench and it doesn’t take much for you to catch up to this masked man. “How are you feeling? I’m a nurse.” You say to him and he nods slowly, you can hear his ragged pants from under the mask, the mask is drenched in sweat along with the rest of his body.

As you slowly walk backstage with him to the locker room that’s pungent with the sweat of costumed men masquerading as animals and characters you’d find in The Ramayana. There’s blood stains visible throughout the floors and walls, and you can taste the copper of the crimson in the air, impossibly so. You don’t know how but you can. You ignore these other bodies floating in your periphery as you walk to a sink with the Monkey Man, he leads the way, naturally. 

As you approach the sink together he immediately puts his hands on the edge and spits out a thick string of blood, you’re used to seeing blood but in this context, you can’t help but feel your nose screw up a little. It’s awful.

He tilts his head to look up at you, your eyes meet him and you offer him a small smile and give him your name. He looks at you, taking in the way that your lips curl up and how they do so genuinely. He gives a small nod, one you’d have missed if you’d blinked just a few seconds earlier. He just tells you that his nickname is Kid. Maybe he’s been fighting since he was very young. You don’t ask. Not yet. 

You turn the faucet on at the sink, to try and wash his blood away so that you can start trying to clean the damage of tonight’s fight, off of him. 

“What are you doing here?” He asks, he knows you’re not the type of person to come to these events. You’re not a regular and it’s clear from your face, you’re not a fan of these displays of violence. 

“My brother. It’s his birthday this weekend.” You say quietly as you wipe the blood off. “Have you broken your nose?” He looks up at you with a small smile, it makes sense. Your brother was probably the man beside you, he thinks. Kid can’t quite remember his face. He then shrugs at your question. His nose doesn’t feel too bad right now, but he knows he’s probably broken it at some stage. 

“You’re not sure?” You ask him, he shakes his head. You immediately notice how quiet he is, but despite his silence, his eyes are so reactive and expressive that you feel like you know more than what his words could give you.

“Do you have issues breathing? It doesn’t look bad, there’s just a small scar there. They often heal pretty well on their own.” You say as if to reassure him, even though you know that it probably isn’t something that would bother him. There wouldn’t be much he could do now anyway about that. You don’t like that thought. 

Kid stays there perfectly still as your stomach is now over its nausea and your hand touches his skin so gently as you try to offer him some kindness, some respect, some dignity, some simple compassion and care. His eyes soften as he realises that and looks up at you. There’s a glow from within you, even in the artificial lighting of the locker room and it’s easy for him to block out the chaos in here and focus on your gentleness. 

He’s barely ever touched, except for when a blow hits in a match, it’s never this gently. He doesn’t even know how to show himself that level of care when he bandages himself up at the end of each night that he fights. 

There’s not much of a conversation as you bandage him up but somehow, you don’t really notice it and it’s completely okay with you. There’s a comfort in his quietness, his stillness. It’s one he finds in you as well, perfectly requited. You put a hand on his arm gently as you just finished putting a bandage on him. He takes your hand slowly, and he examines it. You’ve never had someone look at your hair, analysing every hair on your knuckles and by your wrist. It’s a unique way to be seen. He then takes your hand and gently turns it over, taking his time as he does. Kid looks at your palm, at all the lines on it and his eyes follow and travel amongst every single last one. A million lifetimes. A million dreams. He runs his finger along them, just to confirm as he thinks about the roots of your skin, how they run along to the softness and travel over calluses. “That’s your future.” He says softly as he looks at your hand, running his fingers along the lines. He then looks up at you, and his big, beautiful brown eyes meet your orbs. “It’s your past, everything.” You’re not sure what it is that he sees. You’d like to know but you also think you’d be content living without that and just his opinion on everything else in the world. But still, you want to see with his eyes.His fingers stop running over your palm and you feel your cheeks heat up at the intensity of this, his eyes have softened and there’s something else there. Something you don’t quite know. Is it longing? You’re not sure. You feel a deep, soul-aching longing, he does as well and always has. You just haven’t arrived at the stop yet for that to be communicated with words. Now all there is just looks, longing looks from a man with the most beautiful big, brown eyes in the world. You could melt in them, swim in them, drown in them. All of the above and you’d never complain.

You don’t know who makes the first move first, it just feels natural, like gravity. Some kind of natural force that slowly pulls your lips together that you both know is right. His hand gently cups your cheek as you feel his lips. They’re slightly chapped but you don’t mind. The kiss is soft and delicate and you like it. You need it and so does he. Everything feels so natural right now. Perhaps this is something he saw in the palm of your hand. You don’t know what it is yet, but you’re certain that this mask-wearing monkey man is part of that future he just talked about.

[dolcettamagica]

𐙚˙⋆.˚ 𝐃𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐲 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐘𝐨𝐮

evil rick x reader

request: evil rick x reader? but... with a softer version of evil rick? tags: soft dom rick, kinda angsty, daddy kink, praise, p in v, dirty talk, fingering, age gap, pet names (baby girl, little one, baby, good girl), fluff notes: inspired by an audio i found on tiktok. it’s linked at the end of the fic. you’re welcome, rickfuckers words: 2.7k minors dni!

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the empty room, Evil Rick sat alone in his couch, the only company being the dim glow of a solitary lamp. His frail fingers clutched a faded photograph, a relic of happier times, now serving as a painful reminder of what once was. The man in the picture wore a wide smile, surrounded by loved ones who had long since vanished from his life. Beth, Summer, Jerry and even his Morty.

Evil Rick was a man consumed by loneliness, a loneliness that seeped into his bones like a bitter chill, never relenting, never fading. He had outlived his friends, his wife, and even his own child, leaving him stranded in a desolate landscape of memories and regrets. 

But perhaps the cruelest twist of fate lay in the betrayal of his own flesh and blood. His grandson, once the apple of his eye, had become a shadowy figure, lurking in the periphery of his existence, only to emerge when in need of something. Morty had exploited him, manipulating his emotions for his own gain, leaving behind a trail of broken promises and shattered trust.

Rick's heart ached with the weight of betrayal as he stared at the photograph, tracing the faces of those who had once filled his life with warmth and laughter. Now, all that remained was the hollow echo of his own solitude, a vast emptiness that threatened to engulf him whole.

In the midst of Rick's profound solitude, there existed one flicker of light, one beacon of warmth in the form of his neighbor, you. You were a young woman, your vibrant presence a stark contrast to the dull monotony of Rick's days. Despite the gaping chasm of years between you, you had extended an unexpected hand of kindness to the elderly man next door.

Every Sunday like clockwork, you would knock softly on Rick's door, bearing a homemade cake adorned with delicate frosting and sprinkles of sweetness. The gesture was simple yet profound, a small reminder that amidst the vast expanse of loneliness, there existed pockets of unexpected kindness.

For Rick, those Sunday visits were a lifeline, a brief respite from the suffocating weight of solitude. He would eagerly anticipate the sound of your gentle knock, his heart lifting at the sight of your radiant smile as you presented him with your latest culinary creation.

But then, without warning, the Sunday visits ceased, leaving Rick adrift once more in a sea of loneliness. One week passed, then another, and still, there was no sign of you at his door. The absence weighed heavily upon Rick's heart, casting a shadow over the one bright spot in his otherwise dreary existence.

He found himself consumed by worry, his mind plagued by questions that remained unanswered. Had he done something to offend you? Have you grown tired of your weekly ritual? The uncertainty gnawed at him, filling him with a sense of unease that refused to dissipate.

As the days stretched into weeks, Rick's anxiety reached its peak, his thoughts consumed by visions of your smiling face and the tantalizing aroma of your cakes. The way he would much rather eat you up. He longed to reach out, to inquire about your sudden absence, but fear held him back, fear of intruding upon your life or worse, of discovering a truth he was not prepared to face.

And so, Rick waited, his heart heavy with the weight of unanswered questions, his only solace the memories of those precious Sundays spent in the company of his kind-hearted neighbor. Desperation clawed at his soul, driving him to seek solace in the bottom of a bottle.

With trembling hands and a heavy heart, Rick reached for the whiskey bottle tucked away in the recesses of his cupboard. He poured himself a generous measure, the amber liquid glinting in the dim light of his solitary abode. With each sip, the harsh burn of alcohol seared his throat, momentarily numbing the ache of longing that threatened to consume him whole.

In the hazy fog of intoxication, Rick allowed himself to drift into a realm of bittersweet memories, his thoughts lingering on the warmth of your smile, the few times his hand caressed your thighs and your cheeks blushing instantly. He raised his glass in a silent toast to you, a silent plea for your return echoing in the caverns of his mind.

And then, as if summoned by the depths of his despair, there came a soft knock on the door, so gentle it was almost imperceptible against the backdrop of Rick's inebriation. Startled, he blinked away the haze clouding his vision, his heart pounding in his chest as he staggered towards the source of the sound.

Rick swung open the door, his breath catching in his throat as he beheld the figure standing on his doorstep. It was you, your eyes filled with concern and compassion.

"y/n," Rick breathed, his voice thick with emotion. "I–I thought…why are you here?"

A flicker of sadness passed across your features as you gazed upon Rick, your heart aching at the sight of the man you had come to care for. Without a word, you stepped into his home, the sadness disappearing from your eyes as you showed him a big smile.

“I visited my family for two weeks. Missed me?”

“You wish”, Rick snickered. He did miss you and he missed teasing you.

With a confident stride, Rick stepped aside, allowing you to enter. His eyes lingered on your figure, tracing the curves of your body with an unabashed hunger that set you ablaze with desire.

"I made this for you," you said, your voice betraying a hint of nervousness as you presented him with the cake.

Rick's lips curled into a sly grin as he accepted the offering, his fingers brushing against yours in a tantalizing caress that sent a jolt of electricity coursing through your veins.

"Thank you, baby," he murmured, his voice dripping with seduction.

You felt yourself growing weak at the knees under Rick's intense gaze, your breath catching in your throat as you struggled to maintain your composure.

"Rick, are you alright?" you managed to ask, your voice barely above a whisper, “You seem drunker than usual.”

"I'm more than alright," he replied, his voice low and husky. "Especially now that you're here."

You felt a blush creep onto your cheeks as Rick's words washed over you, the air thick with tension as you danced on the edge of something electric.

Rick was always drunk when you came over. He was always teasing you yet you could feel that something was never quite alright with him. Carefully you put the cake down before walking over to his couch and taking a seat. Rick’s eyes never stopped staring at you. Slowly he followed suit, sitting down right next to you. His knee pressing into your thigh while his arm laid on the couch, right behind your back. Evil Rick’s thought were spiraling, getting dirtier and dirtier by each second when suddenly–

“You have a family?” You found the picture Evil Rick had been staring at before.

For a moment, a flicker of pain passed across Rick’s face, his expression clouded with memories long buried beneath layers of loneliness.

"I did once," he murmured, his voice tinged with a hint of sadness. "But they're all gone now."

Your heart ached at the sorrow in Rick's voice, your own emotions swirling as you reached out to gently squeeze his hand in a gesture of comfort.

As you lounged on the couch, the air between you and Rick crackled with a potent mix of tension and desire. Rick sat with his arm draped casually over the back of the couch behind you, his legs spread wide in a display of relaxed confidence. You, feeling the heat of his presence, couldn't help but lean into his proximity, your body humming with anticipation.

In a moment of vulnerability, Rick's head began to droop, his exhaustion evident despite his attempts to hide it. With a heavy sigh, he leaned his head against your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin as he spoke.

"Do you ever wonder if some people are just meant to be alone?" he murmured, his voice tinged with a hint of melancholy.

Your heart clenched at the raw honesty in Rick's words, the ache of loneliness reflected in his soulful gaze. But beneath the sadness lay a simmering undercurrent of desire, a magnetic pull that drew you together like moths to a flame.

As Rick's head rested against your shoulder, you felt a surge of heat course through your veins, your body responding instinctively to his proximity. Despite the weight of his sadness, you couldn't ignore the overwhelming attraction that pulsed between you two, a primal urge that begged to be satiated.

With a hesitant touch, you reached out to gently caress Rick's cheek, your fingers tracing the lines of his weathered face with a tenderness born of longing.

"Some people may feel alone, Rick," you whispered, your voice barely above a breath. "But that doesn't mean they're destined to stay that way."

Evil Rick's gaze met yours, his eyes dark with desire as he drank in the sight of your flushed cheeks and parted lips. In that moment, the barriers between you dissolved, leaving only the raw intensity of your shared desire burning bright.

Unable to resist any longer, Rick closed the distance between you, his lips capturing yours in a searing kiss that ignited a firestorm of passion between you. And as you surrendered to the intoxicating pull of your desires, you found solace in each other's arms, two lonely souls finding refuge in the heat of your mutual longing.

As Ricks's lips met yours in a hot, sloppy kiss, a primal hunger ignited between you, consuming all reason in its fiery embrace. Your mouths moved in a desperate dance of passion, tongues intertwining with a fervor that left you both breathless and wanting more.

Your senses were overwhelmed by the heady scent of Rick's cologne, the rough texture of his stubble against your skin sending shivers of pleasure coursing through your body. Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer as you surrendered to the intoxicating whirlwind of desire.

Rick, emboldened by your response, felt a surge of primal possessiveness wash over him. With a low growl, he pressed you against the back of the couch, his body pinning you in a gesture of dominance.

The air crackled with tension as Rick loomed over you, his gaze smoldering with unbridled passion. Your chests heaved in unison, the heat of your bodies mingling in the confined space between you.

Your breath caught in your throat as you gazed up at Rick, your eyes dark with desire. You felt an electric current coursing through your veins, igniting every nerve ending with a fiery intensity that left you trembling with anticipation.

“Do you want to–want to help daddy feel less lonely?”

Red tainted your cheeks as you heard Rick call himself daddy. If only he knew that this was exactly what you would imagine while playing with your soaking pussy almost every night.

“…Yes”

Swiftly Rick positioned himself between your legs, his hard on pressing against your crotch. As usual you were wearing a skirt, which both you and Rick were more than thankful for. It made everything easier–faster. His calloused hand pulled your skirt up. A growl fell from Rick’s lips as he pushed your thong to the site to take in your pussy.

“Fuck…b-been dreaming about this pussy, baby”, his hand reached down, his finger moving up and down between your folds, “Already so wet. I didn’t even do anything…yet.”

Grinning he pressed his thumb against your clit, circling, taking in the way you arch your back and move your hips to meet his finger on your most sensitive part.

His other hand ventured upwards. He ran it lightly over the curve of your breast before briefly circling your nipple. You unconsciously arched your back and a sigh was the only sound that escaped you. He felt you stiffen briefly. Reassuringly, he squeezed your waist lightly, simultaneously trying to show you that it was okay, but also to urge you to do more.

"It's okay, baby girl" he murmured in your ear and as his hand moved a little further down and now circled your belly button, Rick felt you relax again. His lips made their way down your neck. He pressed delicate kisses onto your heated skin and when you willingly tilted your head to the side to give him more room, he let his tongue glide along your artery.

Rick flooded you with stimulation. His thumb was still playing with your clit while he sucked on your neck and his other hand kneaded your tits. Without warning, Rick eased his middle finger inside you while his thumb continued to take care of your pearl.

“S–such a good girl, for daddy”, he cooed, his finger being clenched by your needy cunt, “So fucking wet for daddy. See? Took another finger in.”

Rick continued to fuck you with his two fingers while planting soft kisses all over your body “You’re doing good, baby”, he reassured and praised you over and over and over again. His raspy voice filled your head. Rick took his time prepping you because he knew that not everyone could simply take his cock. He wanted both of you to feel as good as possible.

Need flooded every fiber of your body as you reached down and tried to unzip his pants. You wanted him badly, now. As soon as Rick understood what you tried to do, he took it upon himself to free his cock from his ever growing pants. When you saw it your eyes almost popped out of their sockets. Rick Sanchez, your lonely old neighbor from next door, had a big cock, veiny and hard as a rock, pre cum leaking from its tip. Upon the sight your pussy clenched and pulsated around his fingers harder, something that Rick didn’t miss out.

“Hm, guess you like what you see”, Rick pulled his fingers out to wrap his hand with your sickly sweet juice around the head of his cock. “Daddy is going to–to reward you for taking his loneliness away.”

He pulled your legs over his shoulders, his thick cock now pressing exactly against your wet entrance. Oh, how he would love to just ram inside, his tip kissing your cervix as he pounds into you like a wild animal in heat, filling you up with his cum, breeding you like the good lil’ girl you are. Not now though, at least not tonight. Evil Rick felt something deeper, more than just sexual attraction and bent up rage, he felt an emotional connection.

Rick could feel your legs trembling against his chest as he eased into you with a slow space. Your cunt stretched around his cock, taking him – almost sucking him in. “Ahh…R-Rick–daddy.”

“‘s okay, baby”, he lowered himself, kissing your temple and pushing the rest of his length into your squelching pussy, “Ugh…fuck, y–you’re tight, baby, daddy’s g–good little girl.”

“yours…I’m yours, daddy.”

That was all Rick needed to hear. He began to thrust into you faster, harder feeling your walls tighten around him. He loved the sounds you two made together – his balls slapping against your ass, the wet sloppy sounds your pussy made everytime he pushed in and out, his own growls and moans filling the apartment.

He loved the way you squirmed and trembled under him, how you begged for him to fuck you even depper (though he was already hitting your cervix). He was filling you up completely, Rick was the biggest cock you’ve ever taken. Your hands reached out, grabbing his biceps, scratching him and leaving marks.

He loved how you made him forget his loneliness, the betrayal and rage rooted deep within him.

“fuck…ugh, oh…oh my god…ugh– daddy loves you…ah, that’s daddy’s good girl.”

[yourantag]

The Red Means I Love You (Edgar×Reader)

AN: This was supposed to be finished and posted on Valentine's Day. However, as you can see from the word count, that was a fool's errand. I wanted to delve more into yanderes since I find them fascinating in writing, and now, here we are. Staining White Day red, I present to you the most generic title for an Edgar fic you will ever see. (Btw, I apologize to Edgar fans- I might've massacred your boy but I swear I tried my best.) Word count: 4.9k words TW: Blood, violence, murder, yandere themes, and blackmailing. Summary: Accepting the invitation of a dubious letter sounds just about as bad as it actually was. Oletus manor is not a name spoken without notoriety, after all. Was that where it all began? Was this your first mistake? No, it was further down the line, wasn't it? Yes, perhaps it was when you became the muse of an artist with no inspiration.

Reality has disappointed you time and time again. The expectations of a life of peace was crushed easily under the hands of society. So, you fled. You fled inside your head, transporting yourself into worlds of fiction. Romance, mystery, fantasy, and the likes kept you alive. It was the only thing you could really call safe.

Among many genres, you favored one above the others. 

Horror.

There’s a certain comfort that comes from these fictional tales. You know they aren’t real, that the killer can’t find you, that these psychopaths don’t exist. Are there people similar to them? Sure, but they aren’t in your life. Thus, they merely stay as silly little people within a book.

But, it’s not quite enough. The thrill of words upon a page cannot compete with the real deal. While you weren’t stupid enough to seek out murderers or the like, you were still dumb enough for Baron DeRoss, apparently.

The envelope is white as a dove, a blood red stamp sealing it shut. It whispers promises and praise, false hope and rewards. It’s an enticing offer, truly. Would you let it guide you astray?

Well, you were never one to turn away from the call of the abyss.

-

“I really don’t get it. I know it’s game changing, but it’s not helpful for anyone else but me! Why do they want me to team up with them?” You huffed, resting your face on your palms. Edgar merely rolled his eyes, flicking his wrist. Focused on the canvas in front of him, he let the brush streak red through white.

“You said it yourself, your abilities are game changing. We don’t even know the full extent of your abilities– who knows? Maybe you could completely uproot the current meta. Besides,” He smirked, peering at you from the corner of his eye. “The hunters are terrified of you.”

You paused, letting your arms fall flat against the table.

“Scared? Of me? I’m just another survivor– what do they have to be afraid of?”

Edgar hummed, tapping the handle end of his paint brush against his lips. “I don’t know about you, but I don’t quite fancy being stabbed.”

Okay, yeah, that was fair.

Most survivors didn’t possess the ability to fight the hunter, not really, yet here you were. When Jack had first chased you, he had the reckoning of his life. You wince at the phantom feeling of stabbing steel into flesh and bone. That was, admittedly, not what you had expected to be your special skill.

You pouted, cheek against the cool wood of Edgar’s table as you glanced around. His room was an odd combination of an art exhibition hall and an actual bedroom. It was big and extravagant, but you wouldn’t expect any less from him. 

Well, kind of.

Edgar confused you. Intriguing, even among the sea of other unique characters within the manor. You suppose that’s why he’s your favorite comrade and closest friend, if you could call him that. He’s never kicked you out of his room or flat out yelled at you, so safe to say he didn’t hate you, at least. 

He’s neutral on all matters within the manor, composed regardless of what he faced. All he cared about was his art, nothing more and nothing less. Perhaps that was how he was unaffected by everything.

You suppose that’s natural for an artist. You can’t claim to understand it perfectly, but in a way, you truly understood.

“It’s like… you’re a moth drawn to a flame, right? Art is something you’re willing to give your life to, dedicate your whole body and soul to. Even if you have to sacrifice your time, energy, or health, for the perfect outcome, you’d do it.” You had said it off handedly, not thinking much of it then. In some respects, wasn’t his passion for art just like your obsession with thrill?

But then he had grabbed your hands, looking into your eyes with such fervor. His gaze burned, a certain desperation flickering within it. What was he seeking so fiercely? What was making Edgar, apathetic, snide Edgar, act like he had found an oasis in the desert?

“You get it?” He whispered, almost pleading. 

“Maybe,” You responded.

That had been enough for him. 

Since then, you and Edgar had become an odd pair. Not quite friends, but too close to be acquaintances. You gravitated towards him, as he did to you. More often than not, you’d ask him if he’d like to team up for matches. More often than not, he’d say yes.

You suppose that’s another reason why other survivors regard you with care.

Edgar isn’t the most difficult person to work with, but definitely not the easiest. He’s all too much and too little: haughty and snide, distant and cold. He’s a reliable teammate, not a likable one. 

Still, the playful sparkle in his eyes as he led the hunter straight to you made you beg to differ. You’d curse him out as you ran, glaring at him after the match was over, before begrudgingly thanking him for supporting you with a painting or two.

However odd it was, you wouldn’t trade your friendship for the world.

-

There’s a letter in your mailbox. 

That isn’t especially weird, considering that’s what a mailbox is for. Letters, mail, packages, whatever. Still, you can’t help but pause as you stare at it. A white envelope with a lovely red seal, the stamp itself in the shape of a camellia. The embossed flower is outlined in gold, shimmering softly in the low light of your room.

Gently, you pry open the seal, careful not to damage it or the envelope. Once you’ve successfully extracted the letter without destroying everything, you stare at it with uncertainty. 

It seemed like this was a love letter from the presentation alone, yet you couldn’t help but feel a bit unsettled. You couldn’t understand why, however. It was beautiful, but simple. It wasn’t overwhelming, nor alarming. So why, from the depths of your heart, was your subconscious screaming at you to run? As though you were about to open Pandora’s box?

You unfold the letter and read.

-

Edgar gives you the nastiest side eye you’ve ever seen. Perhaps you deserve it after the stunt you pulled. Then again, what else were you supposed to do? He was going to be sent back to the manor if you hadn’t let yourself go down.

In the end, thanks to your sacrifice, the potential tie had turned into a win. Sure, you were the one sent back to the manor instead, but a win was a win! Though, Edgar seemed to disagree.

“You’re an idiot.”

You would be offended if it weren’t for the fact that he was wrapping your wounds. The tender touches were barely there, like the flutter of a butterfly's wings. He was being careful, making sure you didn’t feel even an ounce of unnecessary pain. The concentration he was putting into taking care of you was something you had only seen when Edgar was painting. 

The subtle quirk of his lips, eyes barely narrowed, and relaxed shoulders expressed more to you than any words ever could. The guilt that pooled into his chest, made evident by the quiet sighs he’d let out, seemed to manifest itself as kindness and gentle care.

It made you really want to tease him.

“Ow!” You hiss, flinching slightly away from the man. Edgar freezes, staring at you with concern.

“Shit– sorry, I didn’t mean to.” The sincere remorse in his voice immediately makes you regret your decision.

“Wait, wait, wait, no, I– gah, sorry. I was just messing with you.”

The painter’s formerly soft expression faded into a scowl, a glare sent your way even as he finished wrapping you up. Edgar immediately stands up, leaving you scrambling to do the same as he leaves the infirmary.

“Ahhhh, wait, I’m sorry! Wait, Edgar, I’m sorry, I swear I won’t do that again! C’mon, don’t leave me like this! I–” You trip on something, stumbling as you lose balance. You fully expect to kiss the ground, what with one of your arms in a cast, when lithe arms catch you.

You glance up at Edgar with a sheepish smile, gazing upon the apathetic look upon his face. Apathetic, to anyone else but you. You can see the little curl of his lips, the faint swirl of amusement in his eyes.

He helps you reorient yourself, hands on your shoulders. Once you’re safely standing, Edgar turns and continues down the hallway. His steps are slower than usual. It’s probably the closest you’ll get to an invitation.

You grin, chasing after him once more.

“So does this mean you forgive me?”

“No.”

-

“How do you manage to stay sane, painting the same thing over and over again?” You ask, half dangling off a couch. Edgar’s room is still as grand as ever, but you can see the changes. It seems more lived in, more homey. There’s a table that isn’t covered in paint, brushes, or other art supplies. There’s shelves with books instead of art supplies. Then, those cabinets have, wait for it, something other than art supplies.

It seems like a small shift to others, though that’s probably because they don’t visit Edgar half as often as you do. The first time you saw the couch, you thought you were hallucinating. 

The Edgar Valden, using something other than a stool? Incredible, revolutionary, absolutely groundbreaking.

He did not appreciate your dramatics, or so he claimed, but you knew he was covering his mouth to hide his smile.

“I’m not painting the same thing, and I am, in fact, going insane.” Edgar responds, frown deepening as he mixes a few colors together. You hum, peeking at the canvas as much as you can from your position. From the sketch, you could tell it was a portrait. A rare occurrence, considering Edgar preferred landscapes.

“Why the sudden interest in portraits?” You ask, sitting more comfortably on the couch. Glancing at the shelves, you skim through the books. Edgar wouldn’t mind if you read one of them, right?

The man pauses, his expression almost bashful. It’s so bizarre you can’t help but raise a brow. Edgar has never been afraid to draw attention to himself. He’s no pushover, willing to fight for what he wants while still remaining relatively neutral. To see him like that, a dust of what can only be blush upon his cheeks, twists something in your heart.

Before you can untangle what exactly you were feeling, the painter coughs.

“Well, I tried talking with Victor about expressing oneself. He suggested letters, or other mediums I’m comfortable with. So…” Edgar stares at his canvas, his smile more so a grimace. “I’m trying out his suggestion, I suppose.”

You tilt your head, humming to yourself as you nod. Sliding off the couch, you grab one of the books on Edgar’s shelf. “Well, then I wish you the best of luck.”

His eyes linger on you, closing softly as his expression relaxes. When he opens them again, he starts creating new hues with more focus.

-

“I’ve been getting letters recently.” You mention, flipping another page in your book. Edgar paused, turning to look at you.

“And?”

You closed your eyes, contemplating. This really wasn’t something you had to tell him. But, well, nothing too interesting has been happening lately. The matches have finally grown duller, the thrill fading as you stayed longer. You were running out of things to ramble about, so why not?

“They’re love letters. Nicely decorated, with neat handwriting. If I had to guess, someone born into privilege.” You think Edgar flinches at that.

“It’s really sweet, honestly. A shame they’re anonymous.” You skim over the words on the page, brows knitting themselves tight. The main character was oblivious to the danger so close to them. How frustrating. 

“A shame, really.” Edgar echoes back, delicately brushing shadows along the red camellias. His painting seemed nearly finished, if you only stared at the beautiful flowers. The rest of the canvas was rather barren, a figure still not yet painted whole.

“C’mon, theorize with me! Who could it be? I put my bets on Jack.” You sighed dramatically, head thrown back with your hand on your forehead. 

You received no response, however.

“Hear me out! He called me darling, dear, and tried to kill me. Obviously, he fell for my sick kiting skills and great looks. I rest my case.” Still, nothing.

You were getting really worried with how unresponsive Edgar was being. Usually, when you started overexaggerating like that, he’d make a snarky remark. Something like “please, you get terror shocked at 5 ciphers” or “you make amphibians look appealing.” 

The silence was really getting to you.

“I mean, he’s got confidence in spades so it probably isn’t him. Still, I kinda hope it is, he’s rather attrac–” SNAP!

Your head snaps up from your book, turning to Edgar so quickly you nearly give yourself whiplash. There, in his hands, are the remains of a broken paint brush. Blood oozes from his tightly clenched hands, slowly trickling down his palm and under the cuff of his shirt. That was reason for concern as is, but the most startling thing of all was his eyes.

Blue, like the sky. Blue, like the sea. Blue, like the wings of a morpho butterfly.

Blue, like the swirling vortex of the night sky.

You rush over, grabbing the first aid kit you know he keeps for you, before standing next to him. You’ve never seen him like this, eyes so dark and blank. It’s honestly scaring you a little, but that means nothing when he’s hurt.

So, you kneel, pulling out tweezers, disinfectants, and bandages. Gently prying his hand open, you discard the larger pieces of the brush. With the tweezers, you pick out splinters of wood embedded in his skin. You whisper apologies as you do, knowing this definitely hurts, but he doesn’t so much as flinch.

By the time you finally disinfect his hand and wrap it, Edgar seems a lot more like himself than before. He gazes at you with quiet consideration, blinking slowly. Languid, calm, almost cat-like.

“Are you okay?” You ask, holding his hand. In all the time you’ve known him, you’ve never seen him react like that. The kinder side of you hopes it’ll never happen again, if only so he won’t needlessly hurt himself like that. The morbid side of you wants to see him like that again, what you can distinguish as cold, searing rage threatening to consume him whole.

Edgar leans his head forward and onto your shoulder. The scent of citrus, chamomile, and something chemical tickles your nose, brushing against you as the painter sighs. He seems… tired.

“Let me rest my head, just for a bit.”

You don’t have the heart to say no.

-

The next few letters you get are… odd. Passionate as always, but far more obsessive. The first few had been sweeter, more tender. This was escalating in a weird direction, and as much as you loved yourself a good horror story, romance and horror never mix well. They were starting to threaten you, saying they’d hurt the people around you, and that was where you drew the line.

So, you start ignoring them. It sounds foolish, especially for a connoisseur of all things freaky, but life is more mundane than fiction. If this person doesn’t have the guts to confess to you, does it make sense that they’d have the guts to actually go through with their threats? Logically, no. 

Besides, even if they did, the people of the manor are strong. They can hold their own. Even if they can't, that person will get outcasted for hurting a survivor, regardless of if they’re a hunter. “No violence outside of matches,” that was the first rule both factions set.

So, it was safe to assume you had nothing to worry about. You have more important things to deal with, anyway, especially with a new survivor arriving. His name was Orpheus, a novelist. You were thrilled, especially since he was the author of some of your favorite series.

You were busy with preparations, practically skipping with joy. The other survivors poked fun at you, both for your enthusiasm and the lack of a certain painter at your side.

Edgar was concentrating on his art, as per usual, and you didn’t want to bother him. He seemed a little lonely, though, so you tried to convince a few people to talk to him. They all just looked at you as if you grew another head. 

“Are we… looking at the same person?” Mike asks, smile strained. You frown, turning away from the banners you were fixing. 

“Yes! Edgar Valden, our resident painter, our sassy rich boy, our lovely old friend. I say he is lonely, and I think you should talk to him. I mean, you’re easy-going, fun, and silly. Who wouldn’t like you?” Even if half of it was an act. Still, Mike was one of the people Edgar tolerated better than most. Perhaps it’s because he’s another form of an artist?

“Why can’t you just, I don’t know, talk to him yourself? You guys get along just fine.” Mike looks away, fiddling with his hands. You narrow your eyes at the sight.

Mike Morton, local funny man, someone with dedication and deceit running through his veins, nervous? It’s not faked, the sweat rolling down his neck and the faster breathing all indicating he was genuinely nervous. Maybe even scared.

“Edgar, I really do love him, but he needs more friends. I think the only people who talk to him on a regular basis are Luca and I. Adding a few more people to that list would be nice, so…” You bring your hands in front of you, clasped tight as if you’re about to pray. “Could you please talk to him?”

Mike deflates, sighing as he nods. You smile brightly in response, promising to make it up to him.

-

“Hey bestie! You excited for the new survivor?” Demi croons, grinning as she tosses an arm around your shoulder. You laugh in response, leaning into her.

“That’s about the dumbest thing you could ask me. Of course I am! He’s written so many good books. God, I don’t know how I’m supposed to act around him. He’s made some stories that have basically shaped who I am now!” You sigh, smiling so widely your face hurts.

“Well, don’t forget your boyfriend in all the excitement! I can see he’s basically seething with envy.” 

You pause, turning to look at Demi.

“Who?”

Now, it’s Demi’s turn to look confused.

“Uh, you know, Edgar? Are– are you guys not together?” She asks, genuinely shocked. You feel your face heat up, your hands itching to cover your blush. 

“Wh– no! We are not! Why would anyone ever think that?”

Demi gives you a deadpan expression in response.

“You two are basically glued to each other’s side, go into every match together, hang out almost every day– Hell, you’re the only one Edgar has allowed in his room without it being necessary!” 

Well, that’s news to you.

You furrow your brows, blinking in shock. Sure, you two hung out a lot, but it wasn’t like you guys were friends exclusively with each other. You had Demi, Mike, Melly, and even Violetta while Edgar had Luca, Victor, Andrew, and Galatea. It wasn’t like you… hung out… every… day…

“Oh fuck, we really do look like a couple.” You mutter, having half a mind to smack Demi as she laughs. She’s completely unapologetic about it, struggling to breathe as slowly calms down and giggles.

“So, you two aren’t dating?” She asks, wiggling her eyebrows. You huff, fighting back a smile.

“Nope, not at all.”

“Then in that case, I’m allowed to flirt with you as much as I want!” Demi cheers. She spins you around, causing a laugh to bubble up from your throat. The two of your twirl around in a silly dance, the faint sound of Frederick playing the piano the only background music.

At the end, she dips you down, smile upon her lips. She leans close to your ear as your smile is wiped away.

“Be wary of him.”

-

With Edgar, it’s like you’re taking three steps forward, then five steps back. Just when you think you’ve got him all figured out, he throws a curveball at you.

That desperation he had in his eyes the day you became his friend, flickering like a brilliant flame, you understand it now. However much he claimed he didn’t need people to understand him, how he didn’t need to understand others, it didn’t mean much. He still craved it, to be understood. To not have to be questioned, to not be approached with dishonesty, with intentions that lied beyond just him being him.

You suppose that’s exactly why you got along. You wanted to understand him, and he wanted to be understood. A match made in Heaven, you suppose.

It’s why it miffed you a bit that you really can’t understand Edgar at the moment.

He hates drawing portraits, yet he draws a figure, the same exact one, in every one of his new pieces. They look familiar, a lot like you, but you’re pretty confident Edgar would rather die than paint you. You’d tease him to Hell and back, all while he complains and swears up and down he’s never being nice to you again.

The landscapes, adorned in reds of all shades, always have that figure in each one without fail. Is he in love with someone? That would explain why he’s so weird lately.

Edgar’s odd behavior was already messing with you, but on top of that, the letters were getting worse. Instead of being slid into your mailbox, they were flat out in your room now.

Normal people would think someone just slipped it under the door. Reasonable assumption. However, unless that person has not only a very thin arm, but a long one, you don’t know how they’d manage to get it all the way to your desk.

You stare at the white envelope, stamped shut with a red seal in the shape of a camellia. The outline of the flower is in gold, though the beauty of the letter and the seal means nothing. Not when it got into your room. Not when it clearly has a splotch of dark red glaring at you.

Your hands are shaky as you open the envelope, a familiar curl of thrill fighting with your new found protective instincts. The letter is white as a dove, the red tainting it made all the more stark.

With adrenaline coursing through your veins, you read.

‘I didn’t imagine love would be like this. Wonderfully warm, like the rays of the sun in winter, and unbearably painful, like a knife in my heart. Do you just like hurting me? No, I know that isn’t true. After all, you always look at me with concern when I’m injured. Still, it’s hard to believe you’re this dense.

These past few weeks have been driving me mad. Your attention has been solely on the arrival of the new survivor. You’ve been ignoring me so much I can barely stand it. Can’t you spare even a moment for me? Is that novelist really that important? Seeing you look at him with stars in your eyes… it makes me want to rip his head off his shoulders. He doesn’t deserve your attention, nor your admiration, not like I do. I’ve known you longer, loved you for longer. He doesn’t deserve anything from you, yet he gets everything I could ever want and more.

Did you know? When you’re excited, your smile turns bigger, more genuine, till dimples show. Your eyes crinkle just a little, your hands moving to curl in front of your chest. You stand taller, you shine brighter.

It’s such a beautiful sight, I hate that I have to share it. Sometimes, I wish I could just put you in a cage and never let you go. Then, you wouldn’t look at anyone else but me. You wouldn’t think about anyone else but me. But, that’s not how you should live. You deserve to be free and happy. So, I’ve decided to get rid of anyone that doesn’t deserve to be around you.

I think I’ll start with that novelist.’

Your blood runs cold.

Fuck.

FUCK.

Just who is this? Who are they and just why are they so obsessed with you? Get rid of those who don’t deserve you? Who gave them the right to decide that!?

You take a deep breath, desperately trying to calm your nerves. Your heart is racing, and for the first time, the thrill in your heart turns into true fear.

You’ve never minded being the one hunted. In fact, you practically adore it, the addicting rush of adrenaline pumping through you. It’s why you came to the manor. But your friends? They’re not the same, and you wouldn’t want them to be. You want them safe and happy, not hunted down by some freak who thinks they “aren’t worthy of you” for whatever sick reason.

“Fuck, fuck… Orpheus, I need to find– no, it’s probably too late for him, there’s blood on the letter. Okay, okay, stay calm, stay fucking calm. Who would be the next victim? Mike? Melly? No, it’s probably Ed–” You pause.

Almost comically, everything clicks in place.

Camellias.

Red.

Ignoring them.

Edgar.

You bolt out of your room.

-

Normally, you’d knock. You know Edgar hates it when people barge into his room. However, considering the circumstances, you think that’s the least of your concerns.

You can’t help but pray in your mind. To whom? You don’t know. You don’t think anyone can truly help in this situation. It couldn’t be anyone else but Edgar, but still, you prayed. You hoped against all hope that your conclusion was wrong. 

Edgar would scold you for barging in, sigh, before smiling and asking if you were really that desperate to see him. Everything would be fine. It would all be just a cruel joke.

But just as life is more mundane than fantasy, reality is far cruller than fiction.

The large windows to Edgar’s room let in the light of the falling sun, casting the room in many shades of gold and orange. In the middle of the room, in all his glory, is Edgar. His back is to you, paint brush in hand. You’re hit first by relief, then with the heavy scent of iron.

You shake, hands covering your mouth as you finally process what's around Edgar. Orpheus, drained of blood, head sat on a chair, body left haphazardly on the ground. Jack, ghastly white and face twisted, his horror eternally memorialized in death. Demi, eyes closed and serene, seemingly asleep if not for the purple veins that roam along her arms.

You fall to your knees, the shock hitting you so strong you can’t stand up any longer. He was your secret admirer. The one who kept sending letters. The one who went into your room just to place them on your desk. The one who threatened to kill your friends. The one who did kill your friends.

Edgar, finally, turns around. His cheek has splotches of blood on it, his hands no better. It’s startling just how much of it is on him, but worse yet, you know not all of it is on him. There’s a lot of blood in a human body, much more in two, so where was it?

When he smiles, it’s just as sweet as it was yesterday. And the day before. And the day before that. Was this really your friend, or a demon in disguise?

His smile, ever so sweet, only serves to unsettles you, looking more like a nightmare.

“Ah, you’re here! Come, I need to show you my newest masterpiece.” Edgar steps closer to you, dragging you by the hand to a canvas you hadn’t noticed before. He was standing in front of it, so it was only natural.

You numbly follow, heart in your throat. You’re grateful, distantly, that the “masterpiece” is not the corpses of your friends. You think you’re going to throw up, eyes trying to look at anything but them.

So, you gladly look at his so-called masterpiece.

You really wish you didn’t.

There, on the canvas, is a portrait. This time, it’s so painfully obvious it’s you that you can’t even deny it. Surrounded by red camellias, hands curled in front of their chest, with a smile so genuine, dimples showed. Eyes crinkled, back straight, and God, did it have to be so accurate?

The red of the camellias are familiar, as is the red of your blush, the colors of your clothes, your hair. 

It’s all been painted using your friend’s blood.

Edgar comes behind you, his arms circling your waist. A content sigh leaves him, his chin resting on your shoulder. His hold is gentle, but firm, possessive in a way you never thought him capable of. His lips brush against your neck, a kiss much like a collar pressed into your skin. You can feel them curl into a smile.

“What do you think, my muse? The red means I love you.”

[cilil]

Manwë Week Day 6

"You did nothing wrong, my beloved son. You did what I have always commanded you to do."

Day 6: Fallen | Storm Relationship(s): Manwë & Eru, Ulmo Synopsis: When the Númenórean armada approaches Valinor and Manwë prays to his father for help, Eru uses him as his instrument once more. Warnings: Bit of blood and body horror (maybe, warning to be safe) AO3

AN: Inspired by and based on Eru's Instrument by @the-red-butterfly. I loved this one so much and was so sad that I missed the event, so here's a very late gift!

A wonderful fic based on it has been written by @i-did-not-mean-to, so I decided to take some creative liberties and focus more on the aftermath. Enjoy!

When Manwë awoke from his trance, the only thing he saw was an apparition of his father above him. Impossibly bright and unknowable, it seemed to him that the One smiled like He had done in the days of his youth. 

"You have done well, my child." 

Dizzy and confused, Manwë attempted to rise, but swiftly collapsed on the cold, hard floor again. Where was he even? Still on the highest tower of his palace or had his father taken him somewhere else? And what had happened to exhaust him so? His fána ached and his limbs felt stiff and twisted as if he was a puppet, discarded with its strings cut. 

"Father..." he whispered, "Father, what happened...?" 

"I took matters into my own hands, as was your prayer to me. The Children have been reprimanded and are now gone from your realm."

"Reprimanded...? Gone...?" 

"Yes, my child. Númenor is no more." 

It took a few moments until Manwë felt the full gravity of Eru's words. He still struggled to rise and found himself unable to see beyond the light of the One's presence, but there could only be one meaning. 

The Children were dead. Their once-blessed kingdom was destroyed and taken from them forever.

And it was his fault. It had to be, for his father was infallible and to govern Arda in his stead was his sacred task. 

"You did nothing wrong, my beloved son. You did what I have always commanded you to do."

Eru's gentle admonishment, seeing into his heart as easily as breathing was to him, felt like mockery to Manwë. Yes, he had followed his father's command, but he had hoped that He would repair what had been broken, not destroy and discard His own creations. 

Melkor has gone to the Void for this, a small, unbidden voice of rebellion whispered in his mind. Afraid of his own thoughts, he quickly silenced it. 

Despair swept over him like the roaring sea where Númenor had once been, and Manwë's wings fell like dead leaves, dissolving into thin air and leaving only a few stray feathers as he began to sob. Blood filled his mouth, causing him to cough and curl up, one hand clutching his chest where Eru had taken hold of him — his robes, he suddenly realised, were torn and soaked with the same liquid. 

"Child." 

His father called out to him, but he couldn't answer, shaking uncontrollably as he tried in vain to suppress his emotions while frantically holding his battered fána together.

"Repair yourself." 

Manwë nodded, only to cough again; yet he knew he didn't have the strength to heal himself at present and wouldn't have it for a while. By Eru's grace the Valar could neither be destroyed nor slain within the circles of Eä so he would endure, but the sheer weight of his grief almost made him wish that he would not. 

The One vanished without another word, leaving his favourite son collapsed on the floor. Manwë attempted to reach out with his spirit to cry for help, yet before he could manage to make himself heard, he sensed the presence of Ulmo. 

His best friend, loyal as always, had come. He was going to be safe. 

Manwë allowed himself to be picked up and cradled in Ulmo's arms, but his relief was short-lived when he saw pure terror engraved into the other Vala's mien. 

"What have you done?" Ulmo asked. 

"It w-wasn't... I just... prayed..." 

He placed his hand on the one clutching his bloodied robes, attempting to seal the wound with his own flesh.

"It wasn't you, right? Tell me it wasn't."

"No... Father..."

Ulmo nodded gravely, and it seemed to Manwë that he understood; though his grief had been eased only ever so slightly, as whatever horror he had witnessed remained. 

"Ulmo... what did he...?"

In lieu of an answer, the Lord of Waters carried his friend to the very edge of the plateau on top of the tower, allowing him to finally see. 

The armada that had approached Valinor had vanished without a trace. Númenor was no longer visible in the distance. The sea remained in turmoil, as if it too was crying out in anguish for all the lives that had been lost. 

"It... is all... my fault..." Manwë managed before sobs broke his voice again. 

Ulmo turned away from the carnage then, unable to endure it any longer. Two additional arms and hands sprouted from his shoulders, one pressing against Manwë's chest, the other cupping his cheek. His lips parted, yet what he meant to say the Elder King would never know as Varda arrived in a flash of light, summoned by his distress.

"What happened here? Did Eru...?" 

"Yes, but it seems as though there was a price to it," Ulmo said, showing her the limp fána of Manwë. 

"Beloved–" 

"You must summon Irmo and Estë, my lady," he urged before Varda could give voice to her emotions. "I shall carry him to your chambers, but he requires further assistance." 

Manwë could only listen to their exchange, closing his eyes in defeat. He was going to be saved, he was going to be cared for — and the Children were not. Too gladly would he have sacrificed his chosen shape if it could have meant a better outcome, but the One would have never allowed him to make such a bargain in the first place. 

His head rested against Ulmo's mighty shoulder as they walked, his best friend holding and carrying him as gently as he could. 

It was only later when Manwë lay on top of his bed and idly watched Estë tend to the gaping wound in his chest that the reality of what had happened slowly dawned on him: He felt violated in body and spirit. Surely his father, loving and perfect as he was, could never do something like that to him? 

Yet He had stripped him of his free will and used him to destroy the very beings he had refused to hurt. Because Manwë was His instrument, as Eru had said, uncaring of the ruin of his fána and his ëala alike, even as he called him his beloved son. 

Thanks for reading! ♡

taglist: @asianbutnotjapanese @a-world-of-whimsy-5 @bluezenzennie @edensrose @eunoiaastralwings @i-did-not-mean-to @melkors-defense-attorney @singleteapot @stormchaser819 @wandererindreams @manweweek

[lieutenantfloyd]

Everything, Everything, and the Search for Reclamation - Beau “Cyclone” Simpson

Pairing: Beau “Cyclone” Simpson x Autistic!Reader (gender neutral)

Word Count: 1.4k

Warnings: Graphic and in depth descriptions of autistic meltdowns, mentions of self hatred/depression, poor mental health, bullying, language, and use drowning as an allegory.

Summary: On a rare occasion, reader accompanies Beau to an important event. Reader ends up having a meltdown shortly after they arrive. This causes reader to recall painful memories, as well as question Beau’s perennial and undying love for them.

Note: Leaving the taglist off of this as its very different from what I usually post. This is a hurt/comfort fic heavily based on my experiences (both past and present) as an autistic person. Self diagnosis is not only valid, but lifesaving. Lastly, this fic was also inspired by many songs, including Time Will Tell by Gregory Alan Isakov, Like Real People Do by Hozier, and We’ll Never Have Sex by Leith Ross.

Every nerve ending in your body was on highest alert as you blindly rounded the corner leading to the deserted hallway. Tears fall as you grip at your throat in one last effort to keep yourself from drowning in the deep, dark, and endless sea of sensory input. -

Around your tenth birthday, you were sent to see yet another professional. Off you went to be examined like the oddity the world was coming to see you as. Another professional, another declaration that something clearly isn't right, but that they just can't place exactly what it is.

It wasn't until your 16th birthday that you learned just about everyone was gifted a boat to captain upon their arrival into the world. The ships' captains then grew up and formed the world into what suited them best. You read an article once detailing how it took them virtually no time on the cosmic scale to begin replacing the peace that had existed long before anything else with ports, fishing nets, and water. Water that swallowed the world whole. It was once the water appeared that the existence of the existence of those without ships became known. The ones with rafts, barrels, buoys, or nothing at all.

You learned quickly that you were one of them. Though clearly not a ship captain, your craft floated well enough that you went unnoticed on a grander scale.

If you somehow managed to get a hand on the rail of these boats, they'd rush over with an endless slew of anecdotes letting you know they knew exactly what it was like to be you, or better yet, why you were actually just like them, because look! Your weathered, weary hand is up here with them so, of course, it wasn't really that bad, right?

Then they'd pluck your fingers off one by one and send you on your way, all while muttering "So dramatic, the drowning ones are.".

Yet it was the choked screams that bothered the captains most. Not the poor drowning souls, but the disturbance of their wicked form of peace and order. As if somehow it was your fault you were never told that boats even existed, let alone be granted one. Like it was your fault that they ignored your lifetime of pleas and wails crying for their help. Begging to let you float alongside their ship for a while. Yet in their eyes, you were nothing more than a seafaring disturbance, to which they only sailed away with their propellers kicking up more water. Leaving you alone to drown like always.

-

Too loud.

Too bright.

Too warm.

Too close.

It was all too much.

Why did it always have to be like this? Why couldn't you just be normal for once?

Scream, cry, claw out of your body. Run and run and run.

You wanted needed to be anywhere but here.

You shook as wave after wave of nausea and adrenaline coursed through your body. Already labored breath catching in your throat over and over again. Despite the almost primal urge to wail out, you couldn't. Neither words nor sounds were able to be produced, your body instead allocating its forces to sending you into yet another meltdown and subsequently, allowing your mind to spiral into that familiar pattern of complete and utter self-hatred.

You promised yourself you wouldn't do this. You fucking promised.

This was a big night for Beau, and by nothing but pure association, yourself. Yet less than 2 hours in and here you were once again. It'd long been understood between you two that for most events, you'd stay home. He'd always expressed that your comfort was his biggest priority, yet you couldn't shake that sick feeling every time an event rolled around. From the beginning, your relationship was a source of much confusion for the gossipy military spouses you were expected to hang around. Why had Beau, a picture-perfect navy man, pushed aside the countless eligible suitors in favor of someone who could barely hold a conversation, let alone be the pillar he needed in such a high-stress career? Years in they'd yet to get an answer just as Beau had yet to pay them any mind.

It could've been seconds or days, but through your checked-out mind, you felt him pull you into his embrace without a word. Onto the floor, you both went. Him positioning his body into a seated fetal position and melding himself around you. You didn't have to look up to know it was him. Not in the romance novel "I'd know him blind" way, and not just because your senses were so heightened that you could feel each individual fiber woven together to create your formal wear. But because Beau was the only person who dared to even acknowledge you in this state, and acknowledge he did.

Dark, heavy, quiet, safe.

You stayed like that, with him humming and rocking you slowly. The rumble in his chest paired with the weight of his body pressing deeply into yours allowing your nervous system to rest and eventually begin to reset.

Words were still hard, but reckoning with the guilt bubbling in your chest was harder.

“I-I'm sorry. I'm s-so sorry" you sobbed into him almost silently.

How badly you wanted things to be different.

How badly you wanted to just function like a normal person. How even after pulling yourself up from the depths you still would never be anything like the person you hoped desperately to be. You allowed yourself to stay up late, read books you were "too old" for, waste money on interests labeled as pointless by others but meant the world to you. Let yourself talk in circles about the same topic for hours, days, months until your lungs burned from oxygen depravity and your mind quieted ever so slightly. How you allowed yourself to just feel, in the way your soul knew was right despite what you were taught. The way you did before the judgmental eyes and sickening snark world took hold. How you picked the rot and maggots away from your spine with chipped and dirty nails. How you stretched your arms upwards towards the waning moon as the midnight air crept beneath your ribs, letting the coolness of the night tangle with the rage and the sick you'd been nurturing since birth. How piece by piece, you began to reclaim what you so dearly missed out on.

Yet it was moments like these that you understood so deeply why you stopped letting yourself feel anything by the time you hit second grade. The hurt of feeling nothing at all paled so harshly in comparison to the unbridled fear that crept into your very being when everything became too much for you to handle. You'd been blessed to find a place to just be, but even that wasn't enough to stop the hurt from seeping in.

You did your best to push these thoughts away. Best not to linger, you'd taught yourself. From here you attempted to bring yourself back into the real world. Yet as you regained awareness of your surroundings, you couldn't ignore that in your current position your world consisted of nothing but him.

You were well aware that he couldn't fix you. Nothing could, as there was technically nothing to fix. You were just "wired differently" you tried tirelessly to reassure yourself. He knew this too, and for whatever reason, he still stayed. Running right alongside you, outside and in the sunlight. Offering you his pockets to fill with rocks and wildflowers when yours got too heavy.

He'd never know even half of what it is like. Honestly, you reveled in this. He didn't deserve that burden. What simultaneously left you elated and heartbroken was the way he navigated everything you were with so much care. Leaving the fluorescent light off while you slept in the blanket-filled bed opposite the bathroom, eating the same one-note dinner for months on end, and now practically laying on the floor in full dress in a desperate effort to bring you some semblance of peace.

You'd asked on multiple occasions what you did to deserve his love and why he chose to stay with you for the long haul. It was by all accounts perilous work with zero reward. He'd wave off your questions with that air of command and finality he wielded so well. Over time you accepted this and pushed that area of doubt away. Away, but never gone.

It was a night marked by candlelight, dark but not stormy, when he finally gave you an answer.

"You're not, nor have you ever been, an inconvenience to me."