#my will to create and share is just plummeting

[goldenshrikecomic]

Ehh anyone know if it's possible to remove a fandom wiki page someone's made of my comic? It's full of misinformation and they're also uploading some art I'm pretty sure I've shared only on patreon so that's fun too!

[fallisl1fe]

Guys I have committed an act of fandom treason

I havent shown yall my baby yet! :D

Her name is Cloud Strike and she is a neutral who was previously a decepticon M.T.O.!

just look at her mischievous grin >:3

Backstory and second version of art below!

Cloud Strike never fit in with the other decepticons. Even though she was constructed for war, her eyes always looked towards the skies instead and she excelled at navigation. She's erratic, seemingly unpredictable, and an adrenaline junkie.

She was built and stationed at a remote decepticon base during the middle of the war. There, Cloud spent most of her time causing problems for the other decepticons purely out of boredom, which did not help her already plummeting reputation.

As the war stretched on but progress lulled, Cloud began to doubt the decepticon leaders' wisdom. In a quiet act of rebellion, Cloud stops actively trying to kill autobots on purpose, believing that causing their deaths is a pointless endeavour. When the others found out, they confronted her. An arguement arised that quickly escalated into a fight (hence the scars on her face). She killed one of the decepticons and defected by scraping the decepticon symbol off her wings. She runs away and becomes a wandering neutral.

That is when she meets another wanderer, a defected autobot by the name of Swift Streak (belongs to innome0). In their shared distaste for their respective factions, they commandeer a decepticon transportation shuttle together and leave the war behind, meeting another neutral named Zephyr (belongs to glitchgh0sty) along the way.

After they forcefully become seperated nearing the war's end, Cloud finds herself in detainment in Iacon, still being recognized as a decepticon despite her attempt at staying neutral. She breaks out and creates a false identity, hopping from place to place in the barely functioning cities of cybertron.

One day, she hears about the launching of the Lost Light, and still being on the run from the government, Cloud attends Rodimus' speech and joins the next day. There, she follows the odd adventures of the LL crew and meets Swift Streak again.

Her luck is horrible, her laugh is maniacal, despite not liking the war she will still punch people, is probably Misfire's long lost sister, and I'm genuinely surprised she's survived this long

I have not written her story past boarding the LL but trust that I will! Currently I am also working on a possible secondary design for her MTMTE/LL section. Story is subject to change!

Anyway, she's insane and I love her for it :D

[foreverisntenough]

‘Aperture’

Summary: A professional footballer with a playboy reputation finds his world reframed when he meets a talented photographer who captures the light and depth he’s never seen in himself. As their friendship develops, he finds himself illuminated by her presence—a stark contrast to the shallow spotlight he’s used to, but her guarded heart keeps her from fully trusting his intentions. Their friendship develops, like film in a darkroom, shifting into something far more intimate. But when their connection begins to blur the lines between friendship and something more, he realizes she’s the light he’s been chasing without knowing it and fights to prove he’s ready for something real. Yet, their love hangs in the balance—will the film of their story overexpose and fade, or will it develop into something vivid and timeless. Sometimes, love is about adjusting the focus, letting in the right light, and trusting the process.

Chapter Index:

Fashion Index: For all Y/N's looks! No more bad links!

Warnings: This series is 18+ MDNI [ smut, slight mention of drugs, drinking - not sure what else really… if i miss anything please lmk!]

Note: Thank you for reading! Please be sure to like, comment, or message me what you think of the series!

Please read:  Little note from me about him and one more about our community In summary: This is a swan song fic for someone I no longer will support once he leaves my club. The fic was never really about "him" as much as it was a fictional story and character I got to create and share with you all. I hope you still love reading it as much as I still love writing it. xx

Chapter 12- 'The Unspoken' | 'Aperture'

word count - 13.5k

The air outside was thick with the remnants of the night—cigarette smoke curling in the humid dark, the distant thrum of music from other parties spilling into the streets, laughter slurring into the early morning. But the lift doors had closed behind you with a soft chime, trapping you and Trent in a space too small for the weight of what lingered between you, the rest of the world cut off from reaching you. The tension was thick, almost suffocating, wrapping around you like a velvet rope and your only source of oxygen was him.

You and Trent had slipped out of the party drunkenly assuming none of your friends had seen the way your lips had almost touched, the way your bodies had gravitated toward each other like magnets all night. Like they hadn’t watched you curl around him like you belonged there and definitely hadn’t watched you just pull him into the lift after you. As if there was any subtly in the way his hands never stopped touching you—palming your ass, ghosting over your ribs, pressing into the small of your back. You hadn’t noticed that people’s gazes followed you, no, you were too wrapped up in his existence to notice your own. 

[Swim - Chase Atlantic]

The night spilled out behind you in a blur of heat and music, laughter melting into the background as Trent’s arms wrapped around you, anchoring you to him. His grip was tight, possessive, like he was afraid you’d slip away if he loosened his hold even a little. But you weren’t going anywhere—not tonight.  The elevator doors slid open, a quiet chime cutting through the air, and you shifted out of his arms eagerly, greedily, pulling him in by the hand after you with a soft giggle, the sound light and sweet and utterly intoxicating. Trent hummed following after you, his eyes alight, drinking you in like you were the only thing worth seeing. The elevator doors slid shut with a quiet finality, sealing you in—a tiny box with him and the feelings you’d tried so hard to ignore. It was suffocating and intoxicating all at once, the weight of it pressing against your ribs, tightening around your lungs. Terrifying, how much you felt for him. How much you wanted him. There was nowhere left to hide, no distractions to blur the edges, just you and him and this thing between you, pulsing, undeniable, plummeting. You couldn’t fight it and you didn’t want to. Maybe you never had.

“Finally have you,” he purred, voice thick with something dangerous, something devastatingly fond. The overhead lighting should have been harsh, unflattering, but on you, it was golden. Angelic. A soft glow kissed your skin, highlighting the curve of your cheekbones, the delicate slope of your nose, the shine of your lips—plump, glossed, perfect. Just for him to steal.

“Yeah,” you cooed, fingers curling around the fabric of his shirt, tugging him closer. “All just for me now.” You murmured possessively. Trent swore he could feel you everywhere, even in the small space between you, even in the air thick with your scent, your presence bleeding into him like ink in water, impossible to contain. The entrapment of the elevator only heightened everything, locking you in together, no escape. And he didn’t want one. God, how drunk was he? Where even was he? None of it mattered because you wanted him back now. And in this bleak, sterile elevator, everything was vivid in screaming color. You. You were vivid. The sight of you, head tilted just slightly, lips parted in invitation, the heat in your gaze. It was blinding. You were blinding. And whatever this feeling was—this rush of pure infatuation, this ache low in his stomach, this overwhelming, consuming thing—he knew it wasn’t just that. It wasn’t just for now. It wasn’t fleeting. It was love. A love neither of you would dare name, not yet, not when everything was burning too bright, too fast.

“Yeah, just for you,” he whispered earnestly, pulling you into him by your hips. And he meant that. No one else had even flickered into his viewfinder tonight, and they hadn’t for a long time before. Only you were left in the frame. And when your bodies met again, he was sure—this was heaven. You fit against him like you were made for him, like you were the only piece he’d been missing. It was almost funny how perfect it was, how effortless. “Sure you’re real?” he murmured, smirking down at you, voice thick with disbelief. You just hummed, brushing your nose against his, smiling against his lips. And then, finally, finally, you kissed him

-

Trent was drunk, you were drunk, and you were both painfully aware of each other in a way that made the whole room tilt. Your body hummed with the weight of it all, the liquor, the tension, the way Trent’s hands felt on you—steadying, possessing, burning. You didn’t know what would come after tonight, didn’t know if this would be the beginning of something or the undoing of everything, but you knew you wanted him. If only for tonight. You wanted him in a way that felt reckless and raw, in a way that made you feel like you could drown in him and never come up for air. You didn’t care about yourself, not in this. You’d take the fall, bear the consequences, wake up with the bruises of this night imprinted into your skin if it meant you could have him. If it meant you could keep this moment, even if only for now. But you didn’t want to hurt him. You didn’t want to pressure him into thinking he had to love you, that this had to mean something more than what it was for him, the way it’d be for you. That you’d remember the whole thing just to save for the moment when you wanted his company again and inevitably wouldn’t have it. He didn’t have to love you, and you’d still be here, still press yourself against him, still let him have you in whatever way he wanted.

Trent’s hands slid up, palms cradling your jaw like he was holding something delicate, something precious. His forehead pressed to yours, his breath warm, uneven. The restraint in his touch was unraveling thread by thread, the air between you charged, electric, dangerous. His nose brushed against yours, lips barely a whisper away. He kissed you again and it was slow at first, languid, like he was savoring the first taste all over again. Relearning the feel of your lips against his. But then you whimpered against him, pressing closer, and something in him snapped. His grip tightened, fingers threading into your hair, molding you to him as his tongue brushed against yours, deep and dizzying. You gasped into his mouth, nails digging into his shoulders, feeling him everywhere, feeling him take and take and take. It was heady, intoxicating, the way he kissed you—like he had been starving for you, like he had been waiting for this moment longer than he’d ever admit. And yet words rolled out. 

“Missed kissing you,” he murmured, voice rough between kisses, like the words had been clawing their way out of him. Your breath hitched, chest rising and falling against his. 

“Good as you remembered?” you whispered, teasing, trying to keep it light, but the words cracked at the edges, unsteady. Trent exhaled a laugh, but it wasn’t just as good—it was like the air he needed. And so he kissed you again and it was worse in the most delicious way. It was devastatingly perfect. And then – a thought sent something sharp through your chest, something terrifying and beautiful. When he just laughed, low and knowing, it was in the way he looked at you, the way his eyes softened even as his grip on you tightened, it had you wondering if he had told people he loved you. And the way he kissed you had you certain that you loved him. And that terrified you. Cassie’s words echoed in your head. Campbell’s made them worse. Delaney’s made you feel sick. So you pulled away, breathless, pressing your face into his neck, arms draping around him like you could anchor yourself there. Your lips found his skin, kissing along the column of his throat, his jaw, anywhere but his mouth, as if hiding in him would keep the truth at bay.

“No feelings, okay” you whispered stupidly, voice small, unsure. the words slipping out like a defense mechanism, like armor. Trent stiffened, his body going still beneath your touch, draining of all it’s liquor. He felt the tequila leave his body all at once because, yes, there was raw, electric physical chemistry between you, but it was the emotions—the feelings—that made it so intense. You knew that. You had to. He needed you to know that. He wanted you to know that. Didn’t he? You felt the shift, felt the air change. His fingers flexed at your waist, like he was trying to hold onto something slipping through his fingers. You knew it wasn’t true, knew it was the feelings that made this so all-consuming, but you had to say it, had to protect yourself—had to protect him. And he was too drunk to counter with any weight. Trent inhaled deeply, trying to steady himself, searching desperately for a semblance of his old self. The one who dreamed of moments a girl would say they wanted no strings but right now he was a shell of himself, locked in a steel cage with too many emotions he didn’t recognize. And yet under your touch his body still pulsed, hot, and needy. He swallowed, his jaw tightening for a split second before he exhaled through his nose. 

“Okay,” he muttered, voice rough, but then he shook his head, like he wanted to say more, like he needed to—but he just held you tighter instead. The elevator kept descending, slow and inevitable, like approaching the ground after free-fall—like crashing into something you weren’t ready for but couldn’t stop.

“Is this a bad idea?” you asked, heart hammering, the words barely audible over the blood rushing in your ears.  You didn’t want this to turn into something messy, something that would hurt—but it already had. Trent didn’t hesitate.

“No. Definitely not.” And then he kissed you again, pressing you against the wall, hands fisting in your hair, your hips, like he needed you closer, needed you now. His lips on yours before you could take it all back. Before you could unsay the words that made something dark and wounded flicker in his gaze. Before you could tell him you didn’t mean it. No feelings. The phrase slithered between you, coiling around your neck like silk and wire, suffocating, intoxicating. If you wanted no feelings, he’d give you no feelings. A rubber band to the back of his neck, he snapped forward, the kiss wasn’t soft, it wasn’t sweet, it was desperate. Desperate to prove he could do this. That he could strip himself down to flesh and hunger, that he could devour you and walk away unscathed. He was invincible. He needed to be, he always had been, and you wouldn’t be an exception. You couldn’t hurt him. He wanted to be untouched and yet all he craved was your hands on him. His fingers pressed bruises into your hips, dragging you into him as if he could fuse you to his bones, as if he could wear you like armor against the emotions you refused to name. It wasn’t enough.

Your back hit the mirrored walls of the elevator, and you gasped, but he swallowed the sound, took it into his mouth and let it linger before pushing deeper. He kissed you like he was mad at you, like he was trying to forget you even as he held you closer. Teeth, tongue, hands mapping the places he already knew, relearning them like he’d never touched you before. And it was cruel, the way he kissed you like he wanted you and didn’t at the same time.

-

The elevator doors slid open, and you barely noticed where you ended up, too caught up in the storm that was Trent Alexander-Arnold unraveling in real-time. He’d grabbed your hand and pulled you through the dimly lit corridors of his mind and in his house, your legs barely keeping up with the urgency of his strides and his spiral. His room. The door. The way it slammed shut behind you, sealing you into a different kind of box, a different kind of suffocation. The bed. The dresser. The wall. The floor. You barely remembered the path you took to get here, only that you did. That his hands were everywhere. That his mouth traced fire along your skin, up your throat, across your collarbones, down to the swell of your tits. He was trying to detach, to turn you into just another body beneath him, but you weren’t. You never would be. And he hated that.  He was angry. You could feel it in the way he took you, the way he gripped your thighs, the way he buried himself deep enough to make you gasp, to make you clutch at his shoulders like he was the only thing keeping you tethered to the earth. And maybe he was. But for him, you were weightless, a ghost in the form of a woman he couldn’t let go of.  

The shift came like a cold front, slow and creeping until you were in the thick of it, shivering from the inside out. You felt it the second the words left your lips—"no feelings." You weren’t sure who you were trying to convince, him or yourself, but either way, it had landed like a blade between you and you both were still bleeding out. And Trent—God, Trent—he took it like a challenge. So now, as he fucked into you, his grip tight and unrelenting, his mouth pressing open-mouthed kisses to your throat like he was trying to swallow you whole, you felt it—the sting of distance in the way he held you, the way he kissed you like he was trying to forget. Your heart ached, but your body was too busy falling apart for you to focus on the pain. Orgasm after orgasm, waves of pleasure crashing over you like you were being pulled under, and still, deep inside, there was a dull, throbbing burn. It was like watching him hook up with someone else right in front of you, knowing you had no right to stop him, knowing it was your own damn fault. And still, you clung to him. Desperate in your movements, you took him as deep as you could, trying to be whatever he wanted, pliable and eager, making up for what you’d said with every roll of your hips. You wanted to please him. You wanted him to praise you, to tell you he needed you, wanted you, that he wasn’t going anywhere. To look at you as you gasped his name, nails digging into his back muscles, trying to claw your way back in, trying to anchor yourself, trying to ground him.

The shower. Steam curled around your bodies, turning sweat to mist, drowning out the sounds of his breath hitching when you clenched around him. His forehead pressed to yours, and for a second, you saw something vulnerable in his eyes before he squeezed them shut, like if he didn’t see you, he wouldn’t feel you. But it didn’t work. Nothing worked.

The bed again. You rode him, hands splayed over his chest, watching the way his jaw clenched, the way his fingers dug into your waist like he was trying to brand himself onto your skin and you begged for it. But it was his skin that burned, his body that ached. And when his eyes finally locked onto yours, dark and filled with something too dangerous to name, you felt it. The weight of it. The truth neither of you wanted to admit. He wasn’t leaving. Not tonight. Maybe not ever. Because as much as you both were tangled in the mental gymnastics of pretending this was just physical, here in the bedroom, with the way he had you stretched and bent for him in every way, all night, reality shattered. Here, with him buried deep inside you, with your body bouncing on top of his, your name a rough groan from his lips—this was the truth neither of you could speak. He was supposed to be fucking you empty, erasing whatever feeling clung to his ribs. But every moan, every time you whimpered his name, only poured it back in. Dripping, milking, soaking him in everything he wasn’t supposed to feel. And when he held you through another shattering high, gripping your hips so tight you knew you’d be bruised, it was clear. You could say ‘no feelings’ all you wanted. But it was already too late. Still, he didn’t stop. Not until he had nothing left to give. Not until he was wrecked and ruined beneath you, until his body was spent but his heart still ached, raw and red and completely, undeniably yours. And it still wasn’t enough.  Because when you curled into his chest after, breath steadying, fingertips tracing absentminded patterns against his ribs, Trent realized—he would never be empty of you.

—

[Hope is a Heartache - Leon]

Morning came softly, golden light slipping through the curtains, tracing the edges of your bare skin, gilding the moment in something too delicate to hold. And beneath you—Trent. Asleep, warm, beautiful in a way that felt too tender. The kind of tenderness that ruined. His sharp features softened, his lashes casting shadows across his cheeks, lips still parted, as if your name lingered there, ghosting on his tongue. His arms, loose but unwavering around you, tethering you to something you knew you couldn't keep. You shouldn't. It wasn’t fair to. And yet, you didn't move.

Instead, you let yourself feel it—the feeling of him beneath you, the rise and fall of his breath, the warmth radiating from his skin, from the night before. And it ached. You felt like you’d ruined him and yet, you were hurting too. You weren’t sure why this wasn’t easy, why it didn’t feel simple. It should have been. But it was too real, and you were terrified you were something he didn’t need in his life, and this– you– was more than he could give and you didn’t want him to feel bad when he ultimately had to tell you that. You had felt it in the way he fucked you last night, in the way his hands clung to you, his lips worshiped you, his body gave into something neither of you had the words for. And yet you had exactly the one. You felt it—God, he must have too. That was the problem. He knew. He knew too much of you. 

You shifted ever so slightly, and Trent stirred, his body instinctively pulling you closer, burying you into him with a sleepy hum. He wasn’t even awake, and yet—he wanted for you. And you wanted him. That’s what hurt. Like a masochist, hugging his waist, you pressed your lips to his chest, lingering, nuzzling into his warmth, your nose against his bare chest, as if you could hide from the heartbreak you felt crawling up your throat. The weight of reality settled over you like a second skin—you were running out of time. If you were smart, you’d leave before either of you had to face it.

"Should I call an Uber?" you whispered, voice barely there, as if saying it any louder would make it real. As if you needed permission. As if you, awake, were asking him, asleep, to stop you. You weren’t sure if you were asking for him to say yes or begging for him to say no. But Trent just groggily groaned, shifting beneath you, his hips lifted, rolling ever so slightly into yours, unintentional, but still sending heat straight through you. His grip tightened, as if even in his half-conscious state, he refused to let you slip away.

"Nah, don’t be silly," he murmured, his voice rough with sleep, thick like honey, dragging you deeper into his drowsy warmth, his hands aiding and abetting, pulling you in closer to the sleepy haze radiating from him. Last night, spurred by alcohol and rejection, (sort of)  he had been determined. But now, doused in the golden wash of morning, tangled in sheets scented with you, the fight was gone. Like he couldn’t wake up from wanting you. All that remained was feeling.

"Baby," you whispered, eyes fluttering shut, hating the way the word slipped so effortlessly, so naturally, from your lips. You didn’t even need to try to say it and it fell out.  Trent hummed groggily unphased, and you knew if you looked at him, he’d be watching you with those eyes—deep, drowsy, filled with something you couldn’t name, should name. "Can I have one more kiss?" You asked naively, knowing this should be the end. Knowing it wouldn’t be. Trent exhaled slow, like he already knew the answer, like he already knew he’d never deny you.

"Yeah, c’mere," he murmured, his hand dragging over your thigh, pulling you into him like you belonged there, kneading at your skin like he needed to remind himself you were real. His lips met yours in the sleepiest, sexiest kiss—slow, sensual, stealing the breath from your lungs before you could even give it willingly. And then, like you had any choice, you fell into another. And another. And then one more.

"That’s more than one," you giggled softly, pulling away just a fraction, your lips ghosting over his, barely resisting the urge to give in again. Trent smirked, lazy and breathtaking, his fingers digging into your thigh, heat pooling between you.

"Nah, Shhh, just need a few more f’me," he whispered against your mouth, lips brushing yours, each kiss slower, deeper, dragging you under like the tide. You were lost in the way he felt, in the warmth of his skin, the way his voice dripped over you like honey, the way his body wrapped around you like he was made to. And in the haze of exhaustion, a hangover, and the delirium of something that felt a lot like love, you giggled into his mouth, the sound swallowed by his kiss. 

“Sorry," you giggled, pulling back from him, your eyes bright—so devastatingly alive—beaming into his. This whole thing was just ridiculous and maybe that’s what spurred your laughter. And just like that, Trent felt his heart shatter into a million, irreparable pieces. He needed you like this. Happy. Every morning. Every night. Forever, if you’d let him. "You’re a really good kisser." The words falling from your lips on the tail end of laughter, your body stretching as you pulled away, falling onto your back against his sheets like disbelief had knocked you off balance. Trent’s smirk curled into something toothy, boyish—God, he was gone for you. The sound of your laughter, the way your smile crinkled at the edges, the way you looked in his bed. He exhaled slow, rolling his head against the pillow, surrendering to the permanence of it. He couldn’t fuck this out. Couldn’t drink it away. This wasn’t fleeting—it was etched into him. Your laughter, your eyes, your body tangled with his. 

"Yeah?" he teased, questioning this unsolicited yet adorable spout of unprompted giggles. His voice was warm, deep, dripping in affection. Trent rolled onto his side, propping himself up on his elbow, just to watch you—completely transfixed. He couldn’t help it. You were still giggling, eyes squeezed shut, dainty hands resting over your face like you could stop the sound from spilling out. But you couldn’t. It tumbled from your lips, warm, shaking your whole body beside him. Trent swore he’d never forget this. The way your laughter bubbled out unfiltered. It wasn’t funny—really, nothing was funny, at all—but you couldn’t stop. You were gone in it, eyes shut, lips curled, breath catching between gasps of laughter that made his heart ache in the best, most unbearable way.

God, he wished he had that silly little camera of yours again. Because this was the one. The shot.  You—naked, unarmed, tangled in his sheets, golden in the morning light. The laughter,  so pure and unrestrained, that it made your whole face light up, the way you tilted your head back into the pillow behind you, the curve of your smile hidden beneath your hands, the sheer joy spilling from you. Your whole face glowed like something divine. And him—he was just there, utterly gone for you, drinking you in like you were something holy, soaking in a moment he already knew he’d never be able to let go of. He smiled to himself, at you, accepting it for what it was—his fate. It’d always be you, whether you meant to or not.

"I’m so sorry! I don’t even– " You gasped between laughter, shaking your head, falling further into the kind of breathless, tearful laughter that made no sense, the kind that bubbled up from nowhere and turned your whole body weightless. There was no reason to explain this, it was just one of those inappropriately timed moments, completely unmerited, you just couldn’t help but laugh. Trent felt it take him too, felt the joy creep into his ribs, bubbling over, his chest shaking with it.

"Yeah!?" he taunted again, grinning as he crawled over you, his hands slipping beneath the sheets, fingers pressing into your waist, squeezing. A soft tired squeal shot from your lips, laughter spilling over, breathless and bright, as you twisted beneath him, trying to escape the playful grip of his hands. But he didn’t let you go. His fingers tightened, teasing, gripping, claiming. Holding you in the way only someone who knew you—truly knew you—could.

"Baby—stop!" you yelped the pet name loose into the air between giggles, but you weren’t really trying to get away. Not from him. Never from him. And that’s when you both knew. Silently, in the space between breaths, in the weight of his hands on your waist, in the way your laughter melted into soft exhales, in the way his body hovered over yours like he was afraid to crush something too precious. It wasn’t about the sex because here, in these moments, this was where you felt loved. This was where you felt seen. You were completely soft with him—melted, mollified, stripped of every guard you had ever built. And Trent? He was the same. It was in the way his hands no longer teased, but held. The way his smirk faded into something quieter, deeper. The way his thumb traced over your skin like he was memorizing something important.

"Hmm? Think I’m a good kisser?" he mused, lowering his lips to your collarbone, then your shoulder, then the hollow of your throat. You shook your head no and the laughter softened, replaced by something warmer, something heavier. You hummed, eyes fluttering shut as he pressed slow, languid kisses across your skin, his lips dragging, lingering. And then the air shifted. Laughter melted into something else, something quiet, something slow. Trent sank lower, dragging the sheets down with him, his body slipping between your thighs, hands kneading at the soft flesh. The weight of his gaze alone stole your breath. He watched you like you were something sacred, something he shouldn’t touch but needed to ruin anyway. "What about if I kiss here? Still good?" he whispered, pressing his lips to your hip, voice nothing more than a rasp of want. Your breath hitched, laughter slipping from your lips entirely, leaving only need behind. You hummed a soft nod. "And here?" he purred, his hands gripping gently, opening you up for him, his lips brushing the inside of your thigh, his voice smooth. Like you were a doll just for him to position, gently pushing your knee up to your side. Another nod. Another hum. Trent smirked, responding with a low hum of his own—like some silent agreement between you. And then, he devoured you.

—

Trent’s car idled beneath the quiet hush of the afternoon, the world outside carrying on while time inside felt caught in suspension. You sat curled in the passenger seat, knee bent, tucked beneath you, drowning in the warmth of his jumper—his scent woven into the fabric, wrapping around you like something you weren’t ready to let go of. Your fingers disappeared beneath the too-long sleeves, gripping the soft cotton as if it could anchor you, hold you steady amidst the unspoken weight pressing against the air between you. You’d gotten coffee, but on the way, it was passive and now those coffee cups sat in their holders, remnants of a morning that had been easy—full of laughter, fleeting touches, moments that felt like something worth memorizing. But now, the journey back had been quiet, conversation thinning into comfortable silence that, somewhere along the way, had turned into something else. Something heavier. The door to your building loomed just beyond the windshield, sharp-edged in its finality, an exit you weren’t sure how to take.

Trent exhaled through his nose, gripping the gear shift, his fingers flexing before slipping the car into park. The engine stilled, and the silence in its wake felt deafening. Your jaw tensed as your eyes flickered to his hands—strong, familiar, the same hands that had steadied you, teased you, traced over your skin like he was learning something only he had the right to know. Now they rested there, motionless, as if waiting. As if hesitating. And just like that, the car felt impossibly small. The weight of goodbye settled between you, thick and unspoken, stretching the space that already felt too small. You shifted, twisting in your seat, fingers playing with the hem of his jumper still drowning your frame. 

"Okay… well, I guess I’ll see you," you murmured, voice lighter than the moment deserved. Trent's jaw ticked, his fingers flexing once against his thigh before he exhaled. 

“Yeah, well… thanks.” The words landed wrong, heavy and misplaced, and he seemed to realize it at the same time you did, a wince flickering across his features. You scoffed, half-giggling as you swatted at his leg. 

“Oh my god, don’t say ‘thanks’ like it wasn’t some sort of service!” He huffed a chuckle, catching your hand in his own before you could pull away, squeezing once before lacing his fingers through yours like it was second nature. The way he turned toward you, fully facing you now, made your stomach dip—anticipation settling in the spaces where words failed.

“You know what I meant,” he said, softer this time, almost apologetic, gaze searching, his pout forming—God, that pout. That signature look he kept in his arsenal, the one that was equal parts sincere and devastating. The one that made your lips press together to suppress the effect he had on you. But then his smirk edged in, lazy and knowing, right before he moved. Time folded in on itself, his hand sweeping into your hair, fingers curling at the nape of your neck as he leaned in. His lips found your forehead, lingering, pressing something unspoken into your skin—something careful, something loaded. A whisper of possession, of hesitation, of wanting but waiting. The air still clung to him as you stepped out, closing the door with quiet finality, but it felt like shutting something far deeper than just his car. You stood there, the city humming around you, wrapped in his jumper, in the remnants of his touch—the burn of his lips still ghosting over your skin, the bruise at your hip, the love bite grazing your collarbone like a secret only he knew hidden underneath the fabric. And then, just as you started toward the door, the low hum of the window rolling down had you pausing.

“Y/N…” His voice was softer now, coaxing your gaze back to his. The dim glow of the sun through the clouds caught the unreadable expression in his eyes, something careful, something that made your pulse skip. “You doing anything next weekend?” You tried for indifference, you really did, but your smile betrayed you before you even spoke. 

“Erm… don’t think so. Think Fos said Cloud 23, no?” You furrowed your brow, pretending to recall the details you already knew about the Saturday night plans. Trent smirked. 

“Yeah, so you’ll be there…” He confidently said. Your breath caught, but you nodded, eyes dipping for a second before flicking back to his. 

“Yeah. I’m going.” You replied. And maybe it was just your imagination, but his smirk softened, something flickering beneath the playful charm—a quiet kind of certainty.  “You want me to be there?” you asked, tilting your head, arms crossed over your chest as you shifted in your heels from last night. Trent scoffed with a roll of his head. Trying to downplay the heat he felt creep up his neck. He felt a bit of embarrassment he didn’t know what to do with. Still, the smirk twitched at the corner of his lips, uncontrolled, betrayed him. He couldn’t hide it.

“Yeah. Gotta make sure you’re not off with any other friends.’” He teased with a smirk. It was honest, maybe a bit of cheek, obviously nevertheless but laced with subtle possession, maybe even insecurity. You raised a brow, suppressing the grin threatening to break free. 

“Oh? And if I was?” You asked smoothly. His tongue poked at his cheek, dimples pressing in. 

“Then I’d have to remind you exactly who made you laugh like that this morning.” His voice was low, teasing, but the way his eyes roamed over you—the silk shorts, the sweatshirt drowning you, your lips still swollen from him—said he meant it. You hummed, pretending to think. 

“Not sure if it was really you…” You giggled bashfully, completely smitten by him. Because the inhibited laughter came from a myriad of emotions and yet all of them lead back to him. “I do have a lot of  friends, y’know.” You smirked trying to play with him. Trent leaned his arm over the wheel, eyes gleaming.  

“Oh, yeah? Ones you like spending time with more than me?” He taunted you. You opened your mouth, then shut it. He let out a boy-ish laugh, triumphant, childish, and utterly adorable. “Yeah, thought so. Don’t forget that, baby.” He cooed. 

“Shut up,” you grumbled, but your smile was soft, your cheeks warm. He exhaled a little laugh, shaking his head before giving you one last once-over. 

“Get inside, beautiful. Before I change my mind and take you back home with me.” He nodded his head towards your building's door.  Your stomach flipped at that, but you only rolled your eyes, stepping back toward your building. 

“See you, baby.” You whispered bashfully.

“Countin’ down already.” Trent’s fingers drummed against the wheel before he winked at you, The window rolled up, and you stood there, lips pressing together, heart hammering as you watched his car pull away.

—

[Dance With Me - Lucidbeatz]

The club pulsed around you, the low throb of the bass sinking into your skin, vibrating through the air like a second heartbeat. Glimmers of light cut through the darkness reflecting off disco balls — flickering gold that shimmered across Trent’s skin like firelight. The air was thick, a dizzying mix of perfume, sweat, and the sharp tang of expensive liquor spilled over marble counters. Bodies moved like waves, lost in the music and laughter or conversations fueled by cocktails. And in the middle of it all—him. Trent was drowning, and you were the tide.  Foster had had a dinner at a restaurant earlier somewhere else in Manchester with a few friends, Leon there with a few other boys, Campbell and Delaney too. Trent had a match that afternoon. But now he was here and you couldn’t get enough.

You moved against him with a lazy sort of confidence, like you knew exactly what you were doing, exactly how your body fit against his. The sequined knit of your dress [ref index] whispered along his skin, your warmth pressing into him, teasing, taunting. The sway of your hips matched the rhythm, slow, deliberate, igniting something in him that he couldn’t control. His fingers twitched at his sides, fighting the urge to grip your waist, to pull you even closer, to press himself into the curve of you like he could mold you there. He swore he ran less in ninety minutes on the pitch than he had just trying to keep up with you tonight.  You were different now. There was something in the way you moved—self-assured, untouchable in the way that made you more tempting. You acted like you didn’t need his attention, but Trent felt like you were commanding it. You thrived in this moment, and for once, it wasn’t because of him. And that should’ve been enough to make him back off, to leave you to it. But he couldn’t. He wasn’t used to this—wasn’t used to feeling like the one left chasing. His usual nights out had a different rhythm. The game was easy: a glance, a smile, a tilt of his head. Girls gravitated toward him, caught up in the pull of his name, in the thrill of what he could give them. It had always been effortless. Expected. But this? This was something else entirely. This wasn’t just physical, wasn’t just another girl pressing against him, looking for a fleeting moment in the dark. This was you. You, who had somehow, somewhere along the way, become the one thing he wanted beyond a guarantee. And you were fucking wrecking him. He let himself give in, just a little. One hand finally landed on your waist, his fingers brushing and bunching up the fabric of your dress. He felt the way your muscles tensed, just for a second, before melting into him. His grip tightened, his thumb grazing circles over your hip, firm but reverent.

—

“You’re being a tease,” Trent murmured, his voice a slow drawl against the shell of your ear, barely audible over the music, but you heard him. You felt the way his lips curled into a smirk even without seeing it. His lips, warm and plush, hovered just behind the delicate skin, not quite touching—just enough to make you shiver.  Your arm stretched behind you, nails tracing lazy patterns against the nape of his neck, feeling the way his muscles tensed beneath your fingertips. 

“I am not,” you countered, but the words melted before they could hold any weight, dissolving into the heat of his skin as you tilted your head back, whispering into the crook of his neck. He exhaled sharply, his fingers flexing against you. His self-control was slipping, and he wasn’t sure if he even wanted to hold onto it anymore.

“You are, baby,” he rasped, lips brushing just enough to set every nerve in your body alight. His grip finally settled, firm and possessive at your waist, holding you against him, pressing you back into him with a silent claim.

“Oh, we’ve hit the ‘baby’ stage of the night, have we?” You teased with a soft hum, letting your hands smooth over his, locking them there. Even through the playful defiance, you wanted him to stay. He’d called you ‘baby since the moment he arrived tonight, but a little joke didn’t hurt. He let out a quiet, satisfied purr, dipping his head lower, his nose tracing the slope of your jaw. His lips hovered dangerously close to your pulse, and for a moment, he didn’t say anything—just breathed you in, like he needed a second to get himself under control.

“C’mere.” His voice was low and easy, a single tug at your hips guiding you back with him as he settled into the plush suede of the chair behind him. The movement was fluid, like he’d planned it, like he already knew you wouldn’t resist. And you didn’t. You landed on his lap, legs draped over his thighs, every point of contact burning. From across the room, Leon and Foster shared a knowing glance, their smirks barely concealed over the rims of their glasses.

“What? Do I look good tonight, baby?” you asked, turning slightly to look at him. He rolled his eyes at the smug lilt of your voice. “So do you disagree or agree with all that attitude?” you teased, tilting your chin at him.

“I really, really agree,” he admitted, the words laced with something almost dangerous as his smirk deepened. His tongue flicked out to wet his lips, his grip tightening at your waist. 

“Think anyone will want to take me home?” You tested him, baiting, prodding. His lazy grin didn’t waver.

“Mmm… maybe,” he mused, but there wasn’t an ounce of worry in his tone. He knew the answer as well as you did. And yet, your teasing was cut short when the music shifted, the tempo switching to something lower, something that made your body move before your mind could catch up. You twisted on his lap, tugging at his hands, silently pleading for him to stand with you. But he didn’t move. Instead, he stayed put, grip tightening just slightly, keeping you there.

“T, come on! I know you love this song. Come on, pleaaase,” you pouted, shifting in his lap, pushing against him with a sway of your hips in his lap that you knew would undo him.

“Nah, nah, nah,” he smirked, pulling you closer instead, his hands sliding to your hips.

“Pleaseee,” you crooned, looping your arms around his shoulders, voice syrupy sweet. “You can put your hands anywheeeere you want.” His breath stuttered, his fingers pressing into you just slightly before he caught himself. 

“Baby… don’t do this to me.” He whispered slow and calm but his composure was slipping. 

“Fine, just come dance, T,” you giggled, rolling your lip dramatically. Still, he didn’t budge. He exhaled sharply, shaking his head with a smirk. “Fine,” you huffed, feigning exasperation as you turned your gaze outward. “I’ll just find another friend.” His grip tightened in an instant.

“Nah, nah, nah. Not that either,” he chuckled, pulling you back against him. You laughed, victorious, letting your hands glide over his broad shoulders greedily, desperate for his attention.

“How will I know if you’ve got any rhythm? If you can even move your hips, hmm?” You teased him.

“I’ll show you somewhere else. How about that?” He leaned forward, his lips barely brushing against your ear. Your breath hitched. He was good—too good. It was too easy for him and you didn’t even care. 

“What if I don’t want to go somewhere else?” you whispered, forehead pressing against his, your voice barely audible over the thrum of the club. His lips parted, a reply sitting heavy on his tongue, but then he stopped himself, a slow smirk curling his mouth instead. It was too hot, he was too close, you wanted him so badly and yet the game was too good to resist. 

“Trust me,” he said, voice rich with promise. “You won’t be disappointed.” You held his gaze, eyes searching his, waiting for something, anything, to give him away.

“And if I am?” you pushed, just to see if you could. Trent let out a quiet chuckle, leaning back slightly, hands dropping from your waist as he exhaled, feigning deep thought. 

“If you are…” He began to try to give options but  then he shook his head, confident, assured. “Nah. Trust me, you won’t be disappointed.” Slowly he leaned back in a towards you, holding you completely captive with just a gaze. “You know that too.” He whispered quietly. 

“Not gonna try and, like, kidnap me?” You quipped, your brow furrowing in intrigue, your head tilting just slightly as you studied him. He’d let go. Pulled away. Sat back in his seat, you perched on his leg but his hands not on you. Like he was surrendering, and that—somehow—felt more dangerous than anything else. Trent only smirked, easy and unbothered, draping himself back against the chair like he had all the time in the world. 

“I mean,” he mused, slow and teasing, “I don’t think I could get away with that.” The casualness of it made your pulse trip over itself. He wasn’t scrambling for you, wasn’t chasing. He had control, and it left you feeling suddenly desperate, like you wanted to tip the scales, like you needed to pull something from him.

“No, suppose not, but…” Your words faltered, catching on a breath.

“But maybe.” His voice was smooth, thick with amusement, his smirk darkening as he leaned forward again just enough to let the words linger. “We’ll see how tonight goes. Maybe I’ll handcuff ya to the bed.” His gaze flickered away then, casting over the club like he was only half invested, like this conversation—this entire game—was just another indulgence for him. A stray flicker of light catching the edges of his jaw, the sharp cut of his cheekbone, the flicker of mischief in his eyes. You swallowed, the heat in your body curling into something molten, something reckless.

“Maybe I want that too.” You stood, slow and deliberate, and the moment you did, you felt it—the shift. The instant loss of contact, the cool air rushing in where his touch had been. And Trent—who had just seconds ago been the picture of composed, effortless confidence—leaned forward in a jolt. Like you’d pulled the plug on him. Like he’d lost you for even a second, and it had knocked the breath from his lungs.

-

[Until We Bleed (Slowed) - Kleerup ft. Lykke Li]

The room pulsed, a living, breathing thing of heat and bodies, but it wasn’t the bass that thrummed beneath your skin—it was him. It was Trent. It was the weight of his gaze, the burn of his attention, the way he watched you like he had no other choice. Like you were the only thing that existed. You used to be above this. Used to float through nights like these untethered, untouched by the pull of another’s validation. But now? Now, you orbited him. Silent. Subtle. Desperate in a way you refused to name. You needed him to need you. To see you. To want you. And maybe, just maybe, to crave you in the same way you craved him. But the game was delicate. It had to be played just right. So you danced. Not with anyone, not really. Your movements weren’t for their hands or their hungry stares—they were for his. For Trent’s. Every sway of your hips, every roll of your body was a taunt, a whispered dare. The lights dripped down your skin, the sweat at the nape of your neck glistening, and you knew—without even looking—that he was watching. And when you did glance his way, just for a second, the breath left your lungs. He was locked in.

His jaw sat loose, his lips parted in something between disbelief and greed, his tongue darting out to wet them like he was tasting you from across the room. And that smile—lazy and sloppy, dimpling at the corners like he couldn’t quite believe the audacity of you—sent a shiver down your spine. He knew. He knew this was for him. And he fucking loved it. His fingers tapped against his thigh, twitching like they wanted to grip something—grip you. His knee bounced with restless energy, like he was holding himself back, waiting for the moment he’d had enough of this game, when he’d stalk across the room and claim his prize. Your heart slammed against your ribs, but you didn’t stop. You rolled your hips slower, your lashes fluttering just so, your mouth curling into the ghost of a smirk before you turned away again. He exhaled a curse and so did you. Both of you feeling like the other had an upper hand.

—

“Alright… enough. Let me take you home.” He’d seen enough. His voice was silk, rich and low, but there was an edge to it—possessive, undeniable. You barely had time to process it before his hands found you, warm and insistent at your waist, fingertips pressing into the fabric of your dress like he was branding you through it. His chest met your back, solid and certain, a quiet demand.

“Hmm?” You hummed, feigning innocence, your hips still swaying, still teasing. You felt the moment his patience frayed, the way his fingers flexed against you before gripping tighter, stilling you. His body pressed in, heat seeping into your spine, the evidence of his frustration thick and hard against you.

“Yeah. Enough of this.” His voice was clipped, his breath warm against the shell of your ear.

“Of?” You asked lazily, letting your weight sink into him, pushing your ass back just enough to test the fire in his restraint. His exhale was sharp, barely controlled. 

“You. This.” His lips brushed your jaw, a ghost of a touch. “C’mon, stop playing, baby.” Your heart was a war drum, but you didn’t fold.

“I’m not playing…” You whispered, tilting your head back against his shoulder, letting your lashes flutter as if this meant nothing. “Are you?” He stilled. A beat. 

“Nah. Never play about you.” His voice was raw, stripped down, bared to you in a way that sent your stomach plummeting. And you? You had the audacity to hum, to let doubt lace the sound, to make him prove it. His grip cinched tighter, a silent correction, and your chest ached with the pressure of it—of him, of this.  He didn’t like that hum. Fine, if you wanted to call him your friend, he understood. But, you needed to understand that he wasn’t playing about you now, not ever. He wanted this. He wanted you. His hold on your tightening along with your chest.

“Okay…” you whispered, softer this time, turning in his arms, trailing your fingers up his chest, feeling the erratic drum of his heartbeat beneath your palm. His jaw ticked, his eyes dark as they searched yours. 

“Yeah. Not playing.” He murmured, almost to himself, before pulling you in, greedy and sure. His hands skimmed your hips, curled around your waist, slid up your spine as if memorizing the dip of it. “Want to see how many times I can make you cum.” He whispered. The words spilled from him like a promise, like a threat, and your breath caught. Your lips curled, your fingers twisting in the fabric at his collar. 

“Okay. I’ll keep count.”  His smirk was slow, dangerous. 

“Let’s go, baby.” A pause. A flicker of mischief. “Someone wants to take you home.” And you let him. Because deep down, you wanted to be taken.

—

“So do you actually have handcuffs?” you teased, standing at the foot of the bed, tilting your head back just enough to catch the flicker of amusement in his eyes as he moved around the room.

“Nah.” His voice was a velvet murmur, steady, confident. “Not really one for all that. You know that.” His approach was slow, unhurried, like a lion closing in. And then his chest met your back, the warmth of him seeping into you, his hands settling firm against your waist. You laid your own over his, anchoring yourself to him.

“I think we just play it cool, calm, collected,” he cooed, lips brushing your ear, each syllable igniting something deep in your belly. “Chill out… let our bodies do all the work.” A smirk toyed at your lips. 

“What work?” you murmured, dragging your nails lightly over his knuckles, taunting. He hummed, the sound low and knowing, before dipping his head to your neck. 

“Think about it, baby,” he mused against your skin, teeth grazing, tongue soothing. “Every time my lips are on you, you’re getting goosebumps, your brain rattling with ideas, your mouth going dry…” He trailed his hands lower, fingers pressing into the softness of your stomach. “And I think your pussy might even be getting wet.” A sharp inhale stung your lungs. He felt it, smirked against your pulse, rewarded himself with a bite just beneath your jaw before chasing it with a kiss. His hands were slow, purposeful, mapping the curve of your waist, the swell of your breasts, kneading you with a reverence that made your head tip back onto his shoulder.

“That’s a lot of work,” you admitted, breathless, melting. His chuckle rumbled through you. 

“Mmm, yeah. I can tell, baby. I can read you.” His fingers flexed over your ribs, his lips dancing over your throat. “Like I know you want my lips here…” he whispered, pressing an open-mouthed kiss below your ear. “And my hands…” He exhaled, palming your chest, teasing your nipples through the fabric of your dress, rolling them between his fingers. You sighed, eyes fluttering, the heat between you thick enough to drown in.

“You’re wrong,” you exhaled, though the words were weak.

“Yeah?” His grip stilled, just for a second—his breath catching, the smallest hitch in his control.

“Almost where I want your hands.” Your voice was honeyed, teasing, and you guided him lower, your fingers dragging his to the hem of your dress, pressing his touch into the skin beneath. He groaned, the sound a deep, guttural thing, appreciation laced in every second of it.

“Fuck,” he murmured, his hands obedient now, peeling the fabric from your body with a slowness that felt reverent, aching. His breath hitched as your dress hit the floor, pooling at your feet in a soft whisper of fabric. He needed you. Not just in the way he was used to needing, not just to feed an impulse—but biblically, irreversibly. Like he’d worship you if you let him. Like maybe, just maybe, he already was.

–

The dim glow of the bedside lamp painted your bare skin in gold, and his hands—shaking slightly now—ghosted over your waist as if he couldn’t believe you were real. You’d turned to face him, moving him to be in front of you, in front of the bed. 

“Wow,” he muttered again, this time more to himself than to you, as if the sight of you had knocked the air from his lungs. His fingers traced slow, burning paths down your ribs, his touch featherlight but scorching. You were just as desperate, just as awed by him, but you couldn’t show it—not yet. You wanted to make him unravel first. So you pushed him, firm and demanding, and he let himself fall back against the bed. He looked up at you, lips parted, pupils blown wide with something dangerously close to worship. His hands found your thighs, gripping, squeezing, and then dragging you over him, your legs straddling his hips. “You’re not playing very fair, beautiful,” he murmured, his voice hoarse, his hands moving up, over, everywhere—mapping you like he was trying to memorize you.

“I’m not playing at all,” you whispered, leaning down, your lips a breath away from his. He surged up, meeting you in a kiss that shattered whatever restraint had been holding him back. It was messy, feverish—his hands clutching at your back, your hips, dragging you down against him. His tongue swept into your mouth, swallowing the quiet moans you didn’t even realize you were making. The friction between you was maddening, dizzying, his hips rolling up to meet yours, pressing against you in a way that made your stomach tighten, your breath stutter.

“Need you, baby” he rasped against your lips, his voice breaking on the words. “Fuck, needed you all night.” You whimpered, rocking against him, nails digging into his shoulders.

“Baby,” you whispered, and it wrecked him. He flipped you onto your back in one swift motion, his mouth trailing down your throat, over your collarbone, leaving a path of heat and reverence. His fingers skimmed between your thighs, teasing, testing, before pressing into you, slow and deep. His forehead dropped to your shoulder as he felt how wet you were, a groan tearing from his throat.

“Always so wet f’me, hmm?” He muttered, his breath hot against your skin.

“Yeah,” you gasped, tilting your hips up, your body already arching for him. “So wet for you baby. Need more of you. Please.” You whined. There was no teasing now, no game—just hunger, raw and unfiltered. He lined himself up, his gaze locked onto yours, something unspoken and trembling between you. And then he pushed in, slow, sinking into you inch by inch until there was no space left, no room between your bodies. A sharp inhale from him, a breathless moan from you.

“Ah,” he rasped, his fingers gripping your thighs, his forehead dropping to yours. “You feel—fuck—” You wrapped your legs around his waist, holding him in place, trembling with how full he made you feel. And then he moved. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t careful, either. It was deep, deliberate—his strokes measured, his pace slow but relentless. Each roll of his hips sent shockwaves through your body, your hands grasping at his back, his hair, his face—needing to hold onto something, anything. His lips brushed over yours, barely touching, and when he spoke, his voice was wrecked.

“I love–” He choked on the words, and then he buried his face in your neck, his thrusts growing uneven. “I —fuck—” You didn’t let him finish. You surged up, kissing him like you could pull the words from his tongue, like you could keep them from tumbling out before he was ready to say them. But you knew. You felt it in the way his hands trembled, in the way his mouth lingered on yours like a prayer, in the way he filled you over and over like he never wanted to leave. “Love the way you take my cock.” He tried to rectify almost slipping and a part of you wish he hadn’t. You wanted him to love you, you could feel he did. You hoped he could feel you did.

But the desperation crested, eclipsing any thought, white-hot and overwhelming, and you shattered beneath him, your body clenching tight around him as you cried out his name. He followed, groaning into your skin as he came, his arms locking around you like he was afraid you’d disappear. And then, silence. He rolled onto the mattress and pulled you into him.The air between you changed, from fire to something softer, sweeter. You traced lazy circles into his back as his breathing slowed, his heart hammering beneath your palm. But even like this, wrapped around him, chest to chest, skin to skin, it wasn’t close enough. You shifted, draping yourself completely over him, your bare body pressing into his, your ear resting over his heartbeat. Trent hummed sleepily, his fingers ghosting over your spine.

“You’re crushing me,” he murmured, but there was no bite to it, no teasing. He just sounded content. You smiled, pressing a soft kiss to his collarbone.

“Don’t care.” And you didn’t. Because for the first time in what felt like forever, you were exactly where you wanted to be.

–

[Crush - Cigarettes After Sex]

The warmth of him seeped into your skin, into your bones, anchoring you in a way that nothing else ever had. Your fingers traced lazy, looping shapes against his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your touch. His skin was hot, damp from the lingering sweat of what had just passed between you, but you didn’t care. You welcomed it, wanted to soak him in, let him stain you in ways that wouldn’t wash away. The rise and fall of his breath was a lullaby, the scent of him—faint cologne, salt, and something distinctly, comfortingly Trent—wrapping around you like a cocoon. You never wanted to leave. 

“Mmm, just want this all the time.” You pressed a slow kiss to his collarbone, your lips barely brushing his skin as you whispered.  Trent hummed, the deep vibration rumbling beneath your cheek, his fingers coasting over the bare expanse of your back, stroking up and down, up and down. He wasn’t even aware he was doing it, like touching you had become instinct, like his hands refused to stop memorizing you.

“You can have this, baby,” he murmured, his voice thick with sleep, hushed, tender. “Can be with me any night you want.” His words settled somewhere deep inside you, curling into the softest parts of you, making your chest feel too full, like it might burst if you let yourself believe him completely. But you wanted to. God, you wanted to.

“Mmm yeah,” you purred, burrowing impossibly closer, melting against him, the heat of your body molding to his. “Just want to hold you… cuddle with my baby.” His breath hitched. For a moment, he didn’t say anything, but you felt the shift in him—the way his body tensed for just a second, the way his hand stilled on your back before pressing you even closer, holding you like he could pull you into his chest, into his heartbeat, into him. Trent exhaled sharply, a slow, shaky breath against your hair, and you didn’t see it, but his eyes fluttered shut, his heart stuttering beneath your touch. Because the boy who was praised around the world, who had crowds chanting his name, who had stadiums screaming for him—felt more special in this moment, hearing that soft, possessive “my” slip from your lips, than he had in a long, long time.

–

The mornings were always the hardest. Nights were easy—wrapped in his sheets, in the warmth of his body, tangled together until you couldn't tell where you ended and he began. In the dark, it was simple to let yourself have him. To let him have you. It was all hushed whispers and fingertips tracing secret constellations over bare skin, lips pressing into places words never dared to go. The way he murmured your name like a prayer just before sleep claimed him. The way you found yourself curling tighter against him, as if even pressed chest-to-chest, you weren’t close enough. But the mornings… mornings meant peeling yourself out of his bed, slipping back into the silence of reality. He never made you leave. He never rushed you. He’d stretch lazily in the dim morning light, voice still hoarse with sleep as he hummed a soft ‘morning, baby’ into your hair. He’d pull you back against him, as if to delay the inevitable. As if keeping you wrapped in his arms for just a little longer might change something. But it never did. Because once you stepped out the door, it was back to pretending.

You weren’t friends anymore—obviously. Friends didn’t sleep in each other’s beds. Friends didn’t pull each other into their laps on the sofa, didn’t tangle their fingers through each other’s hair, didn’t press bruising kisses into one another’s skin just to hear the way their breath hitched. Friends didn’t make each other come undone with just a look. But you weren’t talking about what you were either. Because putting a name to it would make it real. And real meant messy. Real meant opening something that couldn’t be shut again. So instead, it was this. Hushed. Contained. Unspoken.

It was the way his car was already waiting outside the station when you stepped off the train, his hood up, his fingers tapping absently against the wheel as he watched you approach. It was the way his hand found its way to your thigh on the drive home, his thumb tracing soft, absentminded circles into your skin like it was instinct. It was the way you’d slip inside, past the threshold of his front door, and everything would melt away—the questions, the uncertainty, the weight of it all. The second his hands found your waist, the second his lips brushed your temple, the second you let yourself sink into him, it didn’t matter anymore. It was a cycle you both clung to. A delicate balancing act. And neither of you dared to acknowledge just how close you were to falling.

–

And the cycle continued; delicious and vicious. Trent had left early for training, kissing you slow, reluctant, before dragging himself out of bed. You had lingered in his sheets for a while after he left, but the silence had felt heavier than usual. Like it had pressed into your chest, thick and suffocating. So, you found yourself here.

The vintage camera store smelled the same as it always had—faintly of dust and darkroom chemicals, of old leather camera cases and time suspended in celluloid. It was the kind of place that made you feel small in the best way, like you were just a blip in a long history of people who had passed through, collecting fragments of their lives frame by frame. The owner greeted you warmly, the bell above the door jingling softly as you stepped inside. Your fingers traced over the barrels of old lenses, the worn leather straps of vintage polaroids. The weight in your chest eased. For a little while, at least.

The soft chime of the door again barely registered as you traced your fingers along the cool metal of an old Canon, your touch light, reverent. This place had always been beloved—untouched by the chaos of the outside world, frozen in time like the film you loved to develop here. Your grandpa took you there when you were a little girl. You formed a relationship with the shop owner and since then you never liked to buy your film anywhere else. Small business and that. He even let you use the dark room in the store for when you wanted to develop your own film manually. It was cathartic. Sometimes you didn’t even need film or anything in particular you just wanted to feel something.  It was the closest you ever got to feeling like a child again. Safe. Whole. 

And then, out of the corner of your eye, movement—someone crouching by the lower shelves, broad shoulders hunched, curls slightly damp from the rain outside. When you turned the sight of him made your breath catch, a small, knowing smile tugging at your lips before his name slipped out, soft, surprised.

“T?” His head snapped up. His jaw slacked completely caught out.

“Oh—shit, hey…” He stumbled, rocking too far back on his heels, nearly losing his balance. You bit your lip, giggling as he caught himself, a sheepish smile spreading across his face.

“What are you doing here?” you asked, stepping toward him, your voice tinged with something playful, something warm. Trent glanced around the dim shop, exhaling through his teeth as he searched for an excuse, or maybe the truth. He landed somewhere in between.

“Uhhh…. Erm..” He ran his hand over his hair trying to look for some semblance of composure here. He exhaled when he finally found it. “I heard there’s a photographer’s birthday coming up… someone told me this place was her favorite, so I was sussing it out.” His eyes lingered on you, something soft behind them, something hesitant.

“Is it?” You hummed, pretending to think, though the warmth in your chest betrayed you. “Wow. Lucky her.”

“Yeah… gotta get her something good, so I’m brainstorming.” He shrugged, casual, like the word he said next wouldn’t crack something inside you. “Good friend of mine.” A friend. The word should’ve felt safe. You were the one who put it there in the first place, built it like a wall between you, sturdy and unwavering. But now, hearing it from his mouth, it felt like a dull knife to the ribs, twisting slow, emptying the breath from your lungs.

“A friend,” you echoed under your breath, tasting the word, hating it. Trent hesitated, eyes flickering over your face as if trying to decipher the shift, to determine whether he’d just hurt you or himself more. But instead of pressing, instead of lingering in the discomfort, he smirked, leaning into something easier.

“You know anything about cameras?” His voice was teasing, a playful dig at the walls you were both attempting to put back up. You exhaled a laugh, shaking your head, momentarily letting the tension slip away.

“Mmm, little bit,” you teased back, brushing past him, the briefest squeeze of his bicep beneath your palm before your fingers trailed down, catching his wrist, tugging him gently forward.

“Come,” you murmured, voice low, coaxing. “Let me show you something.” And just like that, he followed—because he always would.

—

The shop was quiet, save for the occasional hum of the rain against the windows and the faint rustling of the old man you knew far too much about flipping through a newspaper behind the counter. The air smelled of aged leather, dust, and something metallic—time itself, almost, preserved in the old brass and film canisters that lined the walls. Trent stood beside you, eyes flicking curiously over the shelves lined with cameras of every kind—polaroids with yellowing plastic, sleek silver 35mm beauties, boxy old Kodaks with peeling paint. His fingers brushed over the cool glass of the display case, lingering over a Leica that had seen better days. You smiled, knowing it wasn’t about the camera—it was about you. About the way he wanted to step into your world, understand it, understand you.

“Here,” you murmured, reaching past him, lifting a camera gently from the case. It was a classic—a Canon AE-1, the camera you learned photography on. You passed it to him, watching as his large hands cradled it carefully, like it was something fragile, something precious. And it was to you so you appreciated that he held it that way.

“Show me again,” he asked simply, his voice softer now, more patient. You guided him through the weight of it, gently laying your hands over his. Guiding him through the feel of the lens beneath his fingertips, the way the focus ring turned with the smoothest resistance. 

“Remember?” You whispered, removing your hands from his. 

“Mmhmm.” He hummed. He lifted the camera to his eye, squinting through the viewfinder, adjusting the focus until the grainy image sharpened. And then he stilled. Because there you were, framed through the lens, caught in a moment of stillness, of quiet. He felt like it was the perfect embodiment of how he saw you. And that was just it, he only saw you in focus, the rest blurred and then blacked out at the edges. But as he watched, he caught it—a subtle shift in your expression, the way your lips pursed, the way your breath wavered for just a second. “Hey,” he murmured, lowering the camera. “You alright?” You blinked, shaking yourself free of whatever held you in place. Your lips curled up in a small, reassuring smile, and you exhaled.

“Yeah,” you nodded. “Yeah, I’m good.” But your fingers moved before your words could catch up, lifting just slightly, pointing toward a frame nestled on the wall behind the case. It was old, the wood chipped at the edges, filled with a collage of black-and-white and sepia-toned photographs. Faces of customers, of memories frozen in time. And there, tucked into the middle, was one you knew by heart. “Hadn’t seen one of the photos in a while, that’s all.” You whispered. Your grandfather. And you, just a little girl, sitting beside him, grinning, with your very first camera clutched between your tiny hands.

“That’s you?” Trent followed your gaze, then looked back at you. You nodded, but no words came. There was too much in your throat, caught somewhere between nostalgia and grief, between warmth and ache. And maybe he felt it, because the next thing you knew, his arms were around you, wrapping you up from behind, his chest pressing firm and steady against your back. He rested his chin on your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin, and he didn’t say anything—just held you, just let you have this moment. His lips found your shoulder in a kiss so soft it could have been mistaken for a whisper, and your eyes fluttered shut.

Why did you ever ask him to be your friend?

-

[Wait (Slow Reverb) - M83]

The door closed behind you with a hush, sealing you both into the dim sanctuary of the darkroom. The world outside ceased to exist in the way that only this space could allow—the thick, heady scent of developer and fixer curling around you, the weight of silence held in the hush of still air, the slow, rhythmic drip of water somewhere in the background. Trent stood just behind you, close enough that his warmth radiated against your back but not quite touching. He didn’t intrude, didn’t force himself into your space, just existed in it—watching, waiting, learning the way he always did.

“So… this is a darkroom?” His voice was lower now, reverent, as if something in him knew that this was sacred. 

“This is it,” you murmured, tracing your fingers along the edge of the developing trays, their cool surfaces grounding you. “Here, we can develop one of these, they have to get done anyways.” You said softly as you grabbed a roll of film from the queue of moments waiting to develop on the shelf. You reached for the canister, but Trent beat you to it, the backs of his fingers grazing yours. It was fleeting but electric, a whisper of touch that made your pulse quicken. Your hands lingered for a breath longer than necessary before you pulled away. “You have to do this part in complete darkness,” you explained, voice softer now, motioning toward the light-tight bag used to extract the film. “No light at all, or it’s ruined.” He nodded, his gaze never leaving yours. He was listening. Not just hearing, but truly listening. You liked that he was a good listener, his patience unwavering. When the film was finally submerged in the developer, the room filled with the quiet hum of waiting. The air between you thickened, charged, like the moment before a storm.

-

The hush of the darkroom settled around you both like a secret. Only the faint red glow of the safelight illuminated Trent’s face, casting soft, warm shadows over his features as he leaned against the counter, watching you work. His arms were crossed, but not in a closed-off way—just comfortable, patient. He always had been with you. 

You’d have to wait on the roll of film you just developed, the images still tucked away in the chemical bath, its final form unknown. But for now, you had another roll—one that had already gone through the process, dried and ready to be seen. And you wanted him to see it. Because for all the moments you kept locked away, this was the one thing you wanted to share. Your favorite thing in the whole world. In the quiet darkroom, where the world outside felt distant, muffled by layers of brick and memory, you moved instinctively. The room had always been a place of comfort, of solitude—somewhere you could disappear into when the noise of everything else became too much. But now, you weren’t alone in it. Now, you trusted Trent enough to let him in. Carefully, you pulled the roll from the drying rack, the filmstrip glistening faintly under the dim red glow of the safelight. You held it between your fingers like something sacred, and in a way, it was. It was pieces of time, frozen in silver halide, moments that would never exist again except in the way you captured them. Trent stood close, watching you with a quiet reverence, as if sensing this meant more than just showing him some photos. 

“Ready?” you asked softly, glancing at him over your shoulder. He nodded, and you could see the way his throat bobbed, like he knew—really knew—that whatever you were about to show him, it mattered. So you placed the strip in the enlarger, set the paper beneath it, and let the light shine through. And as the image began to take shape, as the moment you had captured so long ago bloomed into existence beneath your hands, you realized—this wasn’t just about showing him something you loved. It was about letting him see you.

-

His hands found your waist again, light but present, keeping you anchored in the space between the past and the now. You swirled the developing tray gently, watching as the ghostly image on the paper slowly bloomed into life. A moment, captured forever.

“I love this part,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper, as if speaking too loudly might disturb the quiet magic of it all. 

“Yeah?” Trent tilted his head, intrigued. You nodded, your fingers trailing absentmindedly along the edge of the tray. 

“It’s like… the world comes to life in here. But in reverse. Outside, everything is so loud and fast, constantly moving forward. But in here, moments unfold slowly. You get to see them for what they really are—watch them emerge, let them settle.” You exhaled, shaking your head with a small smile. “I don’t know. Probably thinking and saying too much. But it just makes me realize how beautiful these moments are. Even the ones that seemed insignificant at the time.” Trent didn’t answer right away. He just watched you, his gaze tracing over your face like he was seeing you develop in real-time too. Slowly coming into focus.

“That’s kind of mad, you know?” he finally murmured, stepping closer. “Most people take pictures to capture stuff, so they don’t forget it. But you…” He studied you for a second, something soft flickering behind his eyes. “You take them to understand it. To actually see it.” You swallowed. He got it. He always did. Trent reached out, fingers brushing against yours, a quiet tether between you. “You ever think maybe that’s why you like it in here?” His voice was low, thoughtful. “'Cause in the dark, you get to take your time. You get to let things be, without rushing to name ‘em.” Your breath caught. Because you weren’t sure if he was still talking about photographs anymore. Slowly, you let yourself lean into him, just a little. His warmth, steady and familiar. 

“Maybe,” you admitted, voice barely audible. A beat passed. 

“Might have to start calling you a poet instead of a photographer, baby.” Then, almost teasingly, he added. You let out a breath of laughter, nudging him with your shoulder. 

“Shut up, T.” But your smile lingered. And so did his touch.

-

The darkroom still smelled like chemicals and nostalgia, the scent of developer and fixer mixing with something softer—something that felt like you. Trent didn’t know how long he’d been standing behind you, arms loosely wrapped around your waist, fingers resting lightly against the fabric of your jumper. He wasn’t even sure when he had reached for you, only that it felt right. The photo in the tray was still fading into existence, a moment neither of you knew yet, but it didn’t matter. Trent wasn’t really watching the image develop. He was watching you. The way your brows knitted together in quiet concentration. The way your lips parted just slightly, like you were exhaling a thought too small to speak aloud. The way your hands moved, steady and gentle, not just with the photograph but with everything. You weren’t just developing film; you were caring for a memory, coaxing it to life like it was something fragile. Trent swallowed thickly, his chin just barely brushing the side of your head as he leaned in, his hold on you tightening ever so slightly. His whole life had been lived in the brightness. Floodlights beaming down on the pitch, stadiums roaring, paparazzi flashes bursting in his periphery. Attention. Eyes on him. Always. But you—your world—was hidden in the dark. And somehow, it was more alive than any of it. In here, it was quiet. It was still. And he never knew just how bad he’d been longing for stillness. For this. For you. You shifted slightly in his arms, as if feeling the weight of his thoughts, and he could’ve sworn you melted back into him, just a little.

“Something on your mind?” you murmured, still watching the photo bloom in the liquid, but he heard the smile in your voice. Trent let out a slow breath, his fingers tracing soft circles against your waist, grounding himself in the warmth of you. 

“Just thinkin’…” he said, voice lower than before.

“About?” You asked. His lips ghosted over the shell of your ear, his voice barely more than a whisper.

“Think I’d rather be here in the dark with you than out there.” You turned your head slightly, just enough for your cheek to graze his. He felt you sigh, felt the way you softened completely into him, and it was then he realized—he wasn’t the only one who needed this. The quiet. The stillness. Each other.

•

Thank you for reading! Welcome to my new fic 'Aperture' I really hope you enjoy this chapter and look forward to what's ahead!

PLEASE PLEASE Please like, comment, or message what you think!!!

Next part - Chapter 13 - Stillness & Sun

📷 🪩 💄 🤍 🎞️ 🎱🍸 💷

[marisandini-chu-blog]

EPISODE 4 TBHX LET'S GO!!!!!

A quick word before we begin; just to establish my mindset and expectation as I watch this. Particularly about the Trust Value.

I've mention this before in previous posts how there's nothing wrong with Heroism; the desire to be popular and notice, with the performance that comes with it.

Image is important. Image is a tool. Heroism push people to do good, even with shallow intention, and the people who receive help would not have cared if they were genuine or not.

There is good in heroism the same way there is good in being able to enjoy a good music from an artist we love. Excited for youtubers making content to teach and spread joy in a community they establish. For TV personalities be able to spread good message and bring awareness for people to come together and point their energy for a good cause.

It's not always vain in wanting to be popular.

Which is why it becomes a problem when a capitalist system tries to monetize a virtue. When people enable a toxic culture without calling them out. When trust becomes a cage.

So I'm looking forward to Lin Ling's finale and the conclusion of his arc; will he change or will the system change?

Will Lin Ling put trust on the people who still relies on him? Vise versa, will the people keep their trust even when his image has change?

Now... let's begin.

Of course God Eye aim his attack the moment Nice is at the Top 10. That petty bitch

"The Moon has to be a played actor" Oh no... I feel called out

God Eye, you want to show reality to the world and yet you're denying your own truth; which is that you are a petty bitch

WHAT THE FUCK?! HE CAN'T LEAVE?!

God, I wish I had save the post, but there was someome who mention how the Trust Value makes a hero's body a cage while their mind is still free — this fits with how Nice's body doesn't want to go outside but his mind wrestle to save Moon

Oh God, I don't know how to feel about this. Maybe I am bias, but I would feel terrible if my trust and faith is taking his free will away — and we've seen how the people would rather have the hero save people than their image in the previous episode. There's definitely people who want Nice to save Xiao Yueqing, but they're drown out by the majority

MISS J YOU'RE NOT JUST ERASING MOON'S MEMORIES, YOU'RE ERASING LIN LING'S VERY EXISTENCE WITH THAT CHOICE! NOOOOOOOOOO!

Urgh, this is why I hate God Eye's whole schick. He's basically a papparrazi trying to create the next buzz even at the expense of someone

Ooooooh, I like how God Eye is not just changing the Public's perception of him. But also the Blaster's perception of himself and the animation SHOWS!

YEAH, LIN LING! YOU'RE NOT NICE! GO BE A HERO!

Hoooooooly?! I didn't think Lin Ling is gonna reveal all the truth?

You know what's ironic? As easy as it is to break people's trust, It's not that hard to gain their trust

A youtuber named Aliciaxlife (check her out, she's great) also react to this. And one of the things she shared was at the start, she creates a persona for the public that becomes stiffling overtime. When she decides to break it and be more genuine (read: meaner😆), her views plummeted for a while before it rise back up

So even though it's over dramatic, hasten and simplified – this kind of stuff does happen. That if you're willing to be genuine and spoke out for the right thing, people will always root for justice

Lin Ling's fight is sooooo ugly, I LIVE FOR IT!!!

Okay, so Lin Ling shootingup into Top 10 level is a bit of a strech, ngl. There should be a lot of people scrutinizing

I FUCKING KNEW SHE WAS FAKE!!!

Okay, having people who fakes things get faster gratification can be annoying. At that point, I can understand God Eye's perspective

God Eye could actually make a good point if he decided to put all that energy to be less annoying a better version of himself instead of tearing other people down.

For someone who begrudge a hero who fakes himself, he seems too surprise at seeing the truth push Lin Ling stronger. Maybe perhaps people fake themselves because people like you who likes to pull people down with the truth? Ever think of that, God Eye?

THE COMMONER?! FUCKING COMMONER? WHO THE HELL IS COMING UP WITH THE LAME ASS NAMES? FIRM MAN IS BAD ENOUGH ALREADY!

Xiao Yueqing becoming a hermit is not what I expected from her

WTF?! SHE ACCIDENTALLY PUT HERSELF IN AN ABANDON ISLAND?! I SHOULDN'T LAUGH BUT GIRRRRRLLLL!!!!

It fits her character though. Of course she jumps and didn't think twice

The definition of be careful what you wish for

Lin Ling, I don't know how you work that teleporter gun, and I don't care to know. Just get her out of this island, I think she has enough...

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!

I heard about Director Li's reputation but...

WHAT THE FUCK?!

WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?!

AFTER AN ENTIRE EPISODE DEDICATE TO NOT LET HER BE AN ACCESSORY TO A HERO - YOU FRIDGE HER?!?!?!

The worst part is? I can't even hate it! WE'VE BEEN WARNED FROM THE FIRST EPISODE!!!

Episode 3 React

[bobasbn]

𝐧𝐨𝐝𝐮𝐬 𝐭𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐬

— 800 words | zayne drabble | angsty, unrequited, open ending. Note: my first post on tumblr! this is inspired by dawnbreaker Zayne bc I just love pain.

She’s beautiful. 

Just like the snow that surrounds her, the snowflake that rests gently in her gloved palm. Zayne can’t help but marvel at the delicacy of her features, pretending that he’s admiring the intricate works of nature even though he couldn’t care less for a piece of ice. He could snap his fingers and spawn an abundance of these things anyway. No, his eyes linger on her reddening nose and the shape of her lips as she exhales a cloud of mist while muttering something about her discovery.

He takes his scarf off, wrapping it around her and coiling it up to her nose until she protests. 

“Hey! You’re going to get cold!” She scolds, voice muffled from behind the fabric. Zayne shakes his head, adamant that he won’t get cold as long as he’s around her. It’s endearing how the first thought that came to her mind was concerns about him freezing after taking his scarf off. She shoves the garment down below her chin, continuing her scavenge for more snowflakes. Zayne’s hazel eyes follow her every movement, eventually narrowing as he sets his eyes back up to meet hers. 

Now, if only he could see her face. 

It dawns on Zayne that when he tries to focus on the entire picture of her face, his pupils don’t seem to adjust accordingly. He blinks furiously trying to construct her face from the individual features he remembers. Her eyes… They were a warm and chocolatey brown. Her hair… was also brown. No, was it black? 

Suddenly he can’t remember the details he used to. The details of his love, the girl who enraptured him, who cradles his heart in her palm like her own delicate snowflake. He knows of the many memories they share, how it kindled their desire to explore the world together. They were inseparable, always walking around with their hands linked together or pinkies intertwined. Zayne can’t quite remember who was always so insistent on skinship between the two of them. 

He takes a step forward, the snow dipping beneath his feet. A bit too much. When he gingerly attempts to lift his other foot, the ground caves in and Zayne plunges downwards as if he was a meteor plummeting through the Earth. 

“Zayne!” A panicked voice screams. 

He’s sunken into the snow, his body trapped in suffocating darkness. He’s completely immobilised. His mind is in a flurry of panic but his vision is shrouded in a haze that obscures his ability to gauge his surroundings. 

The darkness envelops him, yanking him backwards until his back makes contact with a barrier that feels… soft?

Zayne’s sharp gasp cuts through the quiet atmosphere as he springs up from his bed in a cold sweat. It was that dream again. That girl again. The mysterious girl who’s become a constant in his dreams, yet the memory of her face is fleeting. He clutches at his blankets, three of them stacked on top of each other yet not even close to replicating that same warmth he felt when he was around her. 

How stupid, he’s mourning a person he’s never met. 

Oh, if only it was that easy to discard her.

Throughout his day, the faint memory of that girl lingers in his mind. It haunts him, how much he pines for someone who’s a figment of his imagination.

He fixes his tie with his hands. Cold, desolate, loveless hands. He remembers the familiarity of holding her, intertwining his fingers with hers, and caressing her face. The logical part of Zayne’s brain chalks it up to him creating someone to mitigate the loneliness he feels in his real life. The other part of him can’t help but dwell on how real it feels. He can’t help but crave this love that he’s only ever experienced in his fantasy. 

Zayne can’t grasp exactly why he feels this way. He’s a doctor, the best in his field at that. He’s always prided himself on finding his solutions through research using science and never leaving a stone unturned. This, however, is the only problem ever that has stunned him. The way he runs around in his head about this made-up girl is driving him insane. Even when he’s at work scanning over a patient’s notes, it’s not enough of a distraction from her. She’s eating away at his thoughts. 

His heart aches. Yearns. He needs something to numb the thoughts, something that will hush the persistent whispers telling him that he’s living a life that doesn’t make sense. Nothing makes sense anymore. 

When he sits on the edge of his bed the following night, his palm doesn’t cradle snowflakes in her memory this time. 

Instead, he holds pills that he hopes will finally silence his mind. 

Maybe then he can sleep peacefully.  

phewww I may or may not continue posting on here but if you read this throughout I appreciate it and I hope you liked it! ❄

[moonlit-imagines]

Headcanons for being another displaced Padawan with Cal Kestis

Cal Kestis x jedi!reader

warnings: angst, STAR WARS JEDI SURVIVOR SPOILERS

a/n:

prompt:

you and cal went way back

like, jedi padawan back

so after the purge, about five years later, you guys reunited by chance. thanks to cere junda, no less

and, god, seeing someone so familiar after trying to get by on your own, someone who knew the feeling of the trajectory of your life being thrown off before you were ready, that wasn’t easy to come by

“you’re here” -cal

“i’m here” -you

“we survived” -cal

“just barely” -you

cere was delighted that the two of you could have lifted each other’s spirits so much, which was very much needed in desperate times, as you two were just given a very important mission by a former jedi master in your order

you and cal kicked some serious ass together, helping one another relearn old lessons your masters had taught during your youth

“i think running across walls was the hardest thing i was ever taught” -you

“it took me forever to get that right! i could only get two steps in before i plummeted to the floor!” -cal

you shared a lot of stories and emotions during travels, in private

and not all of them were positive, but this was the first chance you’d had in five years to face these emotions, to air out your feelings

“do you miss the clones? i was so fond of our battalion, they were always so kind to me” -you

“i think…i think that was the worst part. the people who defended us in battle, gave me pep talks before training, always there, that same face at every turn suddenly behind the blaster that was meant to put me down” -cal

“i miss them” -you

cal and you had your missions together…and separately. you’d be on one planet and he on the other, trying to race the empire and inquisitors to the holocron

“it could happen all over again” -you

“it could be the key to saving the galaxy” -cal

“or we’d be creating a generational tragedy” -you

“so would the empire” -cal

“you’ve got me there” -you

cal gifting you ponchos from his travels (lol)

“any chance you like pink?” -cal

“well…” -you

braving zeffo alone while you knew cal was somewhere far more dangerous, you had a bad feeling about it

but your teachings from the order were always the same, no attachment. mission first, feelings second…no, last

but on cal’s adventure, he found merrin, a nightsister from dathomir

you hadn’t seen any nightsisters since ventress, which did happen to make you feel a bit off

“cal…you sure?” -you

“trust me, y/n. things have changed. merrin is just like us” -cal

“cal told me much about you. another survivor. a pleasure” -merrin

you and merrin grew quite close actually

she was truly spectacular, and swapping stories with her was sort of educational

“wait…the jedi responsible for the nightsister genocide? you said lightsabers, plural? how many?” -you

“four” -merrin

“two green, two blue?” -you

“precisely. how did you know?” -merrin

“hang on, no way—” -cal

“my master killed him shortly before we were split up…when the clones turned” -you

“grevious? really? master kenobi finally got him?” -cal

“who is this ‘grevious?’” -merrin

“general grevious, he was a separatist general—a cyborg. he wasn’t a jedi, he stole lightsabers from his kills. he ordered the attack on your home” -cal

“i’m so sorry, merrin” -you

you three were still healing from many scars, but doing it together was much more achievable than trying alone

it was a wonder you even made it to fortress inquisitorius

you, cal, cere. all three of you fought like hell to save those kids.

now, cal and you, you two had much different perspectives than say, cere or trilla

displaced padawans. little guidance. cal was barely old enough to even be a padawan learner, but times were desperate and the order called upon the youngling to start quite early. you were in a similar boat. it made you two see eye to eye better than most

trilla, a padawan with much more training and insight, one who was failed by the order that she was most loyal to. failed by her own master.

cere, a devout jedi master who failed many people who were counting on her. who lost herself to a side of herself that every jedi is supposed to fight.

and just before any resolution could come of all of you together, the famed and feared darth vader showed himself

and the sinking feeling you felt before he arrived froze you

“what is it, y/n? y/n?” -cere

*ominous breathing sounds*

you shook off the feeling, fleeing instead

cal and you were split up when you swore vader made a point to hold you back

“run cal! get out of here!” -you

“y/n l/n, i was hoping i would see you” -vader “where is obi-wan?!”

“i thought you were dead” -you

“is that what he told you?” -vader

“you’re going to kill me to get back at him? i haven’t seen him since the purge, anakin! i left!” -you

“there is no anakin!” -vader “did you leave, or did he leave you?”

“are you just going to let cal get away?” -you

“he can’t get far” -vader

“my journey is not important to you” -you

“you are like me, y/n. obi-wan failed us. these inquisitors are weak, impressionable, disposable. but i know how you think. i know how he thinks. i give you the opportunity to join me. fight with me.” -vader

“i saw the holotapes, anakin. i saw what you did to the younglings and i will not let you do it again. we are not alike, obi-wan did not fail me. i took a page out of ahsoka’s book, i found my own path. and it is not beside you.” -you

“this is not over, y/n. i trust you’ll find your way out” -vader, force pushing you off a ledge

you did find you way back out and merrin was quick to save you before going back for cal

you were left completely unharmed, as well, which was quite the surprise to everyone else

“what happened back there, y/n?” -cal

“nothing i’d like to relive” -you

cal nodded and let it go, focusing on the holocron floating before you all

your mind kept replaying memories as they discussed what to do with it

memories of anakin’s massacre. vader’s speech. younglings you couldn’t save. luke and leia somewhere across the galaxy. the inquisitors.

“destroy it.” -you

in one quick swipe, cal took his lightsaber to the glowing blue cube. no questions asked

and from there on, it was no longer about the order. you remembered why you left in the first place. the purge, the politics, your master couldn’t contain himself. your troops turned their blasters on you. everything you were taught was bantha fodder. and you were just a padawan

it was now about disassembling. scaring the people in power while giving the little guy some hope.

“this is a much better gig than obi-wan playing by the rules” -you

“from what you told me, him and anakin never played by the rules” -cal

the name made you shudder, but you pushed past it

“well, anakin was known as the rulebreaker. obi-wan always tried to reel him in. but, i’ve noticed a rule or two that master kenobi had bent” -you

“anakin has a padawan too, right?” -cal

“he did. she was also a rule breaker. when she left the order, i almost followed her. last i heard, she went to mandalore with half of the 501st. i, uh—” -you

“right…” -cal

you were still haunted from the encounter on nurr. still hadn’t told cal and it was eating you up inside.

but the fighting made it feel better

dismantling, stealing, helping

and then merrin left. and cere. and greez settled down. and you and cal were just two makeshift jedi knights with your tragic pasts and your need to keep your place in the galaxy

and keep each other close

but not too close

those rules you followed, the one’s obi-wan followed, you threw them out a long time ago. the jedi order was corrupt. you examined each council master postmortem and decided that they were all flawed despite their rank. you hated them for it.

but decided the one teaching you would follow would be to lose hate, a step to the dark side.

you didn’t really even know at this point, what was the difference between right and wrong anymore

cal and you continued fighting. joined up with saw gerrera. never left each other’s sides

which…sparked feelings you’d never really been taught or told how to deal with

only aversion, really. but it wasn’t like you didn’t really talk about it

“i don’t really see the problem with it. look at everything else we do, that’s not exactly the jedi way” -you

“it’s dangerous” -cal

“love is dangerous?” -you

“attachment is” -cal

“i figured you already had attachments. we were all a crew before this” -you

“i let them all go” -cal

“and you’d let me go?” -you

you began constantly questioning these ways and trying to fight for a new future with cal, without pressing too hard

but it was hard to ignore those feelings and harder to constantly be denied by your old life

and it was harder when the new crew always teased you two

“come on, kestis. if you don’t, i will” -gabs

“yeah, just go for it. who’s it hurting?” -bravo

“i’m just not ready to go there” -cal

you were more bothered than you let on

but you always put the mission first

up until your trip back to coruscant

“this is just a reminder of how little it all matters now. there’s no one left.” -you

“that’s why it matters” -cal

the intensity of this mission made it so it was just the two of you again

and maybe that would spark something…but you doubted it

taglist: @alwaysananglophile // @locke-writes // @sweetheartlizzie07 // @queen-destenie // @captainshazamerica // @ravenmoore14 // @gabile18 // @sweetjedi // @retvenkos // @swanimagines // @randomfandomimagine // @dontyousassmeok // @dindjarinsspouse // @zoeyserpentluck // @summersimmerus // @scarthefangirl // @sheridans-dynamos // @lady-violet // @simsrecs // @xoxobabydolls // @ruvaakke // @simp-legend // @evilcr0ne // @thedarkqueenofavalon // @your-local-simp0 // @elenavampire21 // @pheonixfire777 //

[reidluvs]

You'll regret that

This is a part 2 to my fanfiction "Wanna say that again", so the reader and Spencer have already created an established relationship!

𓆩♡𓆪 pairing= spencer reid x bau!reader

𓆩♡𓆪wc= 2.6k of pure smut...

𓆩♡𓆪cw= dom!spencer, bau!reader, degredation, overstimulation, unprotected sex, piv, slight exhibition, bondage, multiple orgasms, oral sex (m and f recieving), veryyyy dom!spencer

It was a typical Tuesday morning in the BAU office, the air thick with the scent of freshly brewed coffee and the murmur of early-bird agents shuffling through case files. You grabbed your favorite mug from the cupboard, the chipped one with the fading "World's Best Profiler" slogan, and filled it to the brim. The steam curled up, warming your nose as you took a tentative sip, savoring the bitter taste. The office was abuzz with the chatter of colleagues, but you had learned to tune it out, focusing instead on the upcoming meeting.

As you walked into the conference room, the hum of conversation grew louder. You nodded at the familiar faces, your eyes lingering for a brief moment on Spencer Reid, the young genius of the team. His eyes met yours, and you felt a flutter in your stomach. The secret you two shared was like a silent dance between you, a secret rhythm that played only for the two of you. You knew the risks of your clandestine relationship, but the thrill was intoxicating, a secret spice to your otherwise routine life.

The meeting began with the usual round of updates, each agent recounting their findings from the weekend's case. Spencer spoke with his usual eloquence, his words painting a picture of the unsub's mind so vivid that you could almost feel the chill of the room. His eyes flicked to you occasionally, a silent reminder of the intimate moments you had stolen from the jaws of their work-filled days.

As the discussion grew more heated, a joke slipped out of your mouth, aimed at lightening the mood. "You know, Spencer's not the kind of guy I'd want to date," you quipped, a playful smile playing on your lips. The room erupted in laughter, everyone knowing the type—intelligent, yes, but socially awkward and obsessed with his work. But Spencer's reaction was not what you had expected. His eyes narrowed, and his smile faltered for a second, the room's amusement bouncing off him like a bullet ricocheting in an empty chamber. The tension was palpable, a sudden drop in the room's temperature that had nothing to do with the air conditioning.

The meeting trudged on, but the atmosphere had shifted. Spencer's gaze remained on you, his eyes a stormy sea of blue-green. You tried to ignore it, focusing on the case at hand, but every time you caught his eye, your heart skipped a beat. Was he really upset? Surely, he knew you didn't mean it, that it was just a joke to ease the tension. Or was there something deeper there, a hidden wound that you had unknowingly prodded?

As soon as the meeting concluded, you retreated to the safety of your desk, your phone buzzing in your pocket. You pulled it out, expecting to see a message from your mom asking about your weekend plans. Instead, it was a text from Spencer: "That wasn't funny." Your stomach plummeted. He was mad. Really mad. You typed out a quick apology, but before you could hit send, another text popped up: "You'll regret that." The screen went dark, but the words lingered in your mind, casting a shadow over the rest of your day.

You couldn't focus on the case files spread out before you, your thoughts racing. What did he mean? Was he going to tell the others? Your heart pounded in your chest as you imagined the consequences. The whispers, the glances, the potential ruin of both your reputations. You took a deep breath, trying to calm yourself down. No, Spencer wouldn't do that. He was smarter than that. But the doubt remained, a sour taste in your mouth, mixing with the coffee that had gone cold.

Just when you thought you couldn't bear the anticipation any longer, the new case briefing was called. A serial killer on the loose in a small town in Arizona, leaving a trail of bizarre ritualistic murders. The team packed up their gear, the usual banter replaced by a solemn silence that matched the gravity of the situation. You exchanged a brief, tense look with Spencer as you boarded the plane, his expression unreadable behind his thick-rimmed glasses.

The flight was a blur, the hours stretching out like the desert landscape below. You stared at the clouds, wondering how to fix this. How to explain that the joke was just that—a joke. But you knew Spencer, and you knew that words alone wouldn't be enough. He was a man of action, of logic, and of passion. You would need to show him that you didn't mean it, that your feelings for him were genuine.

Upon landing, you all piled into the rented SUVs and made your way to the hotel. The GPS announced your arrival with a cheerful chime, and you stepped out into the blistering heat. The hotel lobby was a welcome respite, cool and dimly lit. You checked in, the receptionist handing you a room key with a smile. "Agents," she said, nodding at the group, "you're all on the same floor. Your rooms are quite close to each other." Your stomach tightened—there was no escape from the tension that now filled the air like a dense fog.

You took the elevator up, the mirrored walls reflecting your uneasy expression. The doors slid open, and you stepped into the corridor, the carpet muffling the sound of your footsteps. The hotel was eerily quiet, the only noises the distant murmur of the TV from a neighboring room and the faint hum of the air conditioning. Each of you had been assigned a room, but they were all in close proximity, a fact that weighed heavily on your mind. You found your room, two doors down from Spencer's, and let yourself in, the cool air a stark contrast to the heat outside.

You had barely unpacked your suitcase when there was a knock. Your heart leaped into your throat, and you knew it was him. You took a deep breath, steeled yourself, and opened the door. Spencer stood in the hallway, his tie loosened, his suit jacket slung over one arm. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes searched yours for an explanation.

"Can I come in?" he asked, his voice tight. You nodded, stepping aside to let him enter. The door clicked shut behind him, and the tension in the room grew so thick you could almost touch it. "I told you that you would regret that" he said with almost a sensual tone.

Without another word, Spencer began to walk towards you, his eyes filled with a dark intensity you had never seen before. Before you could react, your back was against the wall, and his lips were on yours. The kiss was fierce, possessive, and it sent shockwaves through your body. His hands roamed over you, his fingers digging into your hips, and you realized that he was not playing around. He broke away, his breath hot against your cheek, and whispered, "I'll show you just how much you want me."

He stepped back, his gaze never leaving yours as he unbuttoned his shirt. His tie came off next, and you watched, frozen, as he approached you again, the fabric trailing like a snake in his wake. Before you could protest, he had you walking towards the bed, falling with a small thyud as he pinned you to the bed, his strong hands tying your wrists to the headboard with the silky material. You felt a mix of fear and arousal, the thrill of the unknown making your pulse race. He straddled you, his eyes gleaming with a sadistic spark.

"You think you can mock me?" he growled, his voice low and menacing. "You'll see just how much you want this." His words sent a shiver down your spine, but you couldn't find the strength to fight him. He kissed you again, hard and demanding, his teeth grazing your bottom lip until it bled. You gasped, and he took the opportunity to deepen the kiss, his tongue invading your mouth. His hands began to explore your body, his touch both rough and calculated, each stroke and caress designed to drive you wild.

Your body responded against your will, your breath hitching as he pulled your shirt over your head, his eyes devouring you. You felt the cold silk of the tie around your wrists as he secured you to the bed, his tie a crimson sash against the stark white of the sheets. "Scream for me," he murmured, his voice a dark caress against your ear. "Let them all hear how much you love it."

He began with a slow, deliberate kiss, his teeth grazing your skin as he worked his way down your neck. You whimpered, the sensation both terrifying and exhilarating. His hands moved to your breasts, squeezing and pinching until you arched off the bed, the pain blossoming into something else entirely. You tried to protest, but the words were lost in a moan as he claimed your mouth again, his tongue tangling with yours in a dance of dominance.

Spencer's grip on your wrists tightened, the tie biting into your skin as he flipped you over, your bound hands now above your head. His hands roamed down your body, skimming over your waist and hips before settling on your thighs. He pushed them apart, and you felt a rush of cold air against your wetness. "You're already so wet for me," he murmured, his voice thick with lust. "I guess you do want this, don't you?" His finger traced your slit, teasing you, and you bit your lip to keep from crying out.

With a smirk, he slammed into you, and the force of his thrust made you gasp. His pace was relentless, each stroke hitting you deeper than the last. You could feel the fabric of the tie cutting into your skin, a reminder of your own words. He whispered cruel things in your ear, calling you a slut, a whore, his voice a dark symphony that only seemed to drive you higher. You screamed his name, the sound muffled by the pillow he had shoved against your face. The team members in the adjacent rooms had to be able to hear you, but he didn't seem to care. If anything, it only spurred him on, his hips pounding into you with a ferocity that bordered on violent.

You lost count of the orgasms that ripped through you, your body trembling and begging for mercy. Each time you thought it was over, he would start again, bringing you to the brink only to pull back, leaving you panting and desperate. When he finally allowed you release, he was merciless, filling you with his cum and then pulling out, his dick still hard. He rolled you onto your back, and before you could catch your breath, he was pressing into your mouth, his eyes boring into yours as he fucked himself into you until completion. He painted your face with his cum, his eyes gleaming with a twisted satisfaction as you choked on your own sobs.

"Sir," you whimpered, your voice hoarse from screaming, "please…I can't…" But he wasn't listening. He was already sliding down your body, his tongue tracing a path down your stomach to your soaked pussy. You squirmed, too sensitive from the punishment he had just delivered, but his grip on your thighs was unyielding. "Doctor, please," you begged, using his title as a last-ditch effort to regain some semblance of control. But he only chuckled, his breath hot against your skin.

"You taste so sweet," he murmured, his tongue flicking over your clit. "I love the way you beg for it." He lapped at you with an enthusiasm that was both terrifying and thrilling, his teeth grazing your sensitive flesh. You writhed, trying to escape the relentless assault, but he held you firmly in place. You felt the beginnings of another orgasm building, despite your protests, and your body betrayed you, arching off the bed to meet his mouth.

As you came, he groaned in appreciation, swirling his tongue around your clit before sucking hard. You screamed into the pillow, your entire body convulsing as wave after wave of pleasure washed over you. He didn't stop, even when your sobs grew louder, even when your legs began to shake uncontrollably. He only paused to kiss you deeply, his tongue invading your mouth with the same dominance he had shown earlier. "I love the taste of you on my tongue," he whispered, and you felt a strange mix of disgust and arousal.

When he finally pulled away, you lay there, panting and trembling, the tie around your wrists loosening. He leaned over you, his eyes gleaming with a dark satisfaction that sent a shiver down your spine. "You're mine," he murmured, his voice a soft caress that belied the storm raging inside him. "And everyone will know it." He kissed you once more, his tongue delving into your mouth to taste himself on you, before rising and leaving the room, the door clicking shut behind him.

You were left alone, your body sore and your mind racing. What had just happened? You had never seen this side of Spencer before, never knew he had it in him to be so… intense. So dominating. As you lay there, the echoes of your own cries still ringing in your ears, you realized that your relationship had just taken a very dark turn. And for some reason, you were sure that you didn't want it to end.

The next morning, you emerged from your room, feeling as though you were stepping into the lion's den. Your coworkers exchanged knowing glances, their smirks and whispers following you down the hallway like a trail of breadcrumbs leading back to your room. "Sounds like someone had a good night," JJ said with a wink, and you felt your cheeks flush. The elevator ride down to breakfast was a silent agony, the weight of their assumptions pressing down on you like a lead blanket.

When you entered the dining area, the chatter of the team died down, and all eyes turned to you. You forced a laugh, hoping it sounded natural. "What happened?" you asked, playing coy. "I'm a heavy sleepeer, so I didn't hear anything." But as you sat down at the table, you couldn't help but feel the heat of Spencer's gaze on you from across the room. He had the same devilish smirk on his face that he'd worn the night before, and your stomach flipped at the memory of his hands on your body, his teeth on your skin.

As the day progressed, the tension between you and Spencer grew more palpable. You couldn't read his intentions, couldn't tell if he was going to reveal your secret or if he was just biding his time. The case was demanding, the murders more gruesome than any you'd seen before, but all you could think about was the way he had made you feel. Used. Wanted. Terrified. Exhilarated. The line between love and obsession was blurring, and you weren't sure which side you were on anymore.

That evening, as the team gathered in the makeshift war room of the local precinct, you found yourself avoiding Spencer's gaze. But every time you did glance his way, you saw the challenge in his eyes, the promise of more to come. And despite the fear that coiled in your belly, you felt yourself responding, your body betraying you once again. You knew you had to find a way to navigate this new dynamic, to keep your secrets buried deep, because if the BAU found out, it would be the end of everything. But as you sat there, surrounded by your colleagues, all you could think about was when you would be alone with Spencer again, and what he would do to you next.

THANK U SO MUCH AGAIN FOR READING!! Please lmk of what else you would like to see and likes and reblogs are always appreciated!

[ornii]

I didn’t realize how much people liked the Clark Kent Smallville X Wednesday Crossover. So I have to do a Part 2! Where you can read here!

The God Among Men, Part 2

(Y/n) and Wednesday continue to stare at each other. (Y/n)’s concentration breaks and he plummets from the sky to a loud bang on the ground, Wednesday quickly puts her string down and rushes to the balcony’s edge to see his fate. She peers over the railing and was surprised to see (Y/n) sitting up, rubbing his back.

“Ow..” he said, a fall that height should cause serious damage to the body but it looks like it did nothing to him. (Y/n) realizes just how bad this looks, his attention turns upward to Wednesday.

“Umm, Sorry!” He yells, before standing up to run away out of embarrassment. He hoped that this would be a singular mishap and leave it at that, unfortunately this is Wednesday Addams, and nothing is singular with her. (Y/n) unfortunately shared a chemistry class together so avoiding her was useless. The next morning was more than awkward, he kept his eyes locked on Miss Thornhill to avoid Wednesdays side eye. When class ends almost like a blur he’s already trying to get to the quad to lose Wednesday, getting round a corner he breathed a sigh of relief. Until Wednesday comes almost out of nowhere and pins him to the wall. Granted he towers over her at 5’11, her 5’1 absolutely intimidating stature wasn’t something the Kansas boy was used to.

“So, we have a peeping Tom in our midsts.” She keeps that cold, deathstare.

“No! I’m sorry I didn’t mean to, I was just listening to your music and I, got too close..” he sheepishly keeps his eyes from locking on hers.

“They’d expel you for what you’ve done, but.. I’ll consider looking the other way..” she said, his eyes slowly locked with hers. “For your undying service..”

“Undying Service? That, seems a bit extreme doesn’t it? Why not something more, mild?” He asks awkwardly.

“I don’t do mild. Either take my offer or be shipped away to a juvenile prison.”

“.. okay, fine.” He relents, Wednesday wasn’t your typical mean girl, she wasn’t mean she was, cold, Unnerving, probably dead too. But she knew how to use people to her advantage, no matter how pure hearted they are. “What do you want me to do?” (Y/n) asks, Wednesday steps back, letting him have his own personal space finally.

“Nothing. Yet. But I will call upon you, one day… it’s in your best interest to not forget our arrangement.” She gives one last threat before leaving like a shadow, (Y/n) let’s put a sigh, hoping that this will be quickly put to an end. Little did he know it was very, far from over.

“Why am I doing this?” (Y/n) walks though the cemetery with Wednesday, who’s ignoring his crying and whining.

“Because you swore an oath of Fealty.”

“No, no I didn’t.” He replies, “I’m being blackmailed.

“Same thing.” She retorts. They stop at a large tomb, “this, open it.” She said. (Y/n) looks at her.

“That’s it?”

“I can come up with more for you to do..” Wednesday ponders

“No no this is fine, I just expected, more.”

“More? It’s an ancient Crackstone tomb sealed for hundreds of years. I had to recruit someone who decipher the password to open it.” She says, (Y/n) simply turns his head to the door and concentrates, she watches red gleam from his eyes. She was stunned by the beam of intense heat that cut though the stone wall, he creates a shape hole and it begins to collapse. She steps back to avoid being crushed, (Y/n) so calmly lifted his hand, it hits his palm and didn’t move an inch, Wednesday watches in shock as he casually tosses the door to the side.

“So, we keep going?” He asks Her, Wednesday didn’t know what to say.

“Y-yes, let’s.” She said and walked into the Tomb, the cold decrepit place smelled of death. A lingering smirk crept along her face. (Y/n) felt the stench of death and he follows the girl around. Staring at the spot on the back of her head.

“So, what are you here for?” He asks her; who begins to look around the tomb.

“Do you remember Rowan?”

“The guy you said was murdered and who randomly appeared fine the next day?” He replies sarcastically. Wednesday morning chores his quip and searches the interior for any inscribing.

“Point is, It’s my belief that Rowan was killed, and the one you saw was a fake, someone meant to keep up appearances. It would be tragic to hear that a student was murdered here. Bad press and all that.” Wednesday explains, (Y/n) rubs his chin.

“Well when I used my X-ray vision, everything seemed fine with him.”

“X-ray Vision?” Wednesday Asks.

“Yeah, let’s me see though walls, rocks, inside the human body, no lead though.” He adds in.

“So it allows you to see though clothes as well.”

“Uh, Yeah?” He replies, and quickly makes the assessment of what Wednesday was thinking. “I didn’t use it on you. I promise.” He said, Wednesday stares daggers into his eyes and sees he’s genuine about it, and drops the conversation.

“Point is, I had a, vision.. Crackstone putting innocent lives to the stake. Nevermore lives, like you and I.” Wednesday looks over to multiple inscriptions over the tomb.

“So my theory lead to the serial killer and the knee covering up the murders. They aren’t working together, but they’re covering up third killings to avoid more scrutiny from the public.” She explains, reading a tombstone.

“So, they’re letting this killer get away because they don’t want the public to freak out?”

“So to speak, from what the Principal tried to infer to me, it’s all ridiculous And self serving for Jericho.”

“… You’re right.” He said, Wednesday wasn’t used to hearing someone actually agree with her.

“It’s wrong, covering up the truth to make life easier, just makes the people who know it hate it even more.” (Y/n) walks over to Wednesday, their height difference was profound as she had to almost look up to him.

“If you’re searching for the truth. I want to help, I’m not as smart as you I’ll admit but I’ll do my best.” He says, Wednesday, even if she didn’t act like it, appreciated the gesture. The two exit the tomb and Wednesday dusts herself off.

“As much as I enjoy the decrepit and cold ambiance, I hate getting my clothes with cobwebs.

“I could blow it off for you.”

“If your breath could freeze me to death like you said, I’d rather not.” She says, (Y/n) checks his watch.

“It’s nearing 3, we’ll be late for class.” (Y/n)

“And Weems would have my head for being late.” Wednesday said, grumbling. (Y/n) offers his hand, Wednesday looks at it and then back up to him.

“Absolutely not.”

“Why not?”

“I despise human contact, especially yours.”

“Wednesday, if we want to find this Killer we have to stay in Weems Good graces, so put your big girl Stockings on and take my hand!” He said with much more serious flare. Wednesday reluctantly sighs.

“Fine, just do what’s necessary—“ Before she could properly warn him, he swept her off her feet like the Prince Charming he is, and leaped, flying into the air. The sudden shift in air and temperature caught Wednesday off guard, she looked down, seeing the cemetery and the entire Nevermore grounds before her.

Height was always something she never truly appreciated until now, being able to see, everything, changed that. (Y/n) held her close as he searched for the Mathematics and Murder class. Finding the door he slowly descends down. Wednesday’s eyes went to his face as he kept them on the ground, he descended from the sky as if he was a god among men, landing calmly on the Quad he lets her go, still having his arm around her waist to keep her balance.

“Feeling okay?” He asks.

“Get your hand from around me before you lose it.” She demands, (Y/n) quickly moved, “Sorry.” He said, Wednesday said nothing and simply walked to class, she didn’t look back at him, either out of anger or embarrassment. (Y/n) shook his head and went to his. It seems this agreement could be much more than Wednesday herself could have asked for.

[sonicexelle-junkary]

Sorry to those who were exited for the next part of HungryHero.EXE, but I think I need a small break from the EXE/ horror stuff for a bit as I haven’t exactly had the motivation to make stuff for it these past few days, and I know that just forcing myself is only gonna make my art plummet in quality over it

I have had my eye on making a comic series that isn’t for horror, so at least for now I think that that comic will be my top priority in content for the time being. Any horror or EXE art I make will be put on the back burner and only shared when I have completed it.

Again I’m sorry to disappoint the folks who wanted more of my horror content, but I simply can’t force myself to do things I just don’t want to do anymore. But don’t get me wrong, I still love horror and I’ll create content when I want to. But as I said, this blog is not my top priority anymore. And I apologize if it takes months for me to make more content.

That’s all for now. Stay warm and cozy this spooky season, take care

[sanscestfanfictionblog]

'Good Morning' A FluffyNight Mini fanfiction

It was a tranquil morning when Nightmare awoke, feeling fatigued and shirtless in his kitchen, where he found himself gazing at a shattered coffee pot, the result of Killer's earlier aggression. With a resigned sigh, he reached for a mug, recalling a skilled barista he knew from the multiverse—his husband, Ccino. In an instant, he manifested himself at the 'PawTastic Cafe,' the charming cat café operated by Ccino. As he settled at the counter, he noticed that Ccino had not yet opened for the day.

The sudden appearance of Nightmare startled Ccino, causing him to exclaim, "OH FLUFFERFUCK!" and drop a pan filled with cinnamon rolls, clutching his chest in surprise. After regaining his composure, Ccino offered a nervous smile, expressing, "Goodness me...you scared me..." as he gazed at Nightmare with a mix of trepidation and affection. In response, Nightmare leaned back slightly, grumbling, "So loud..." He was aware of Ccino's tendency to look at him in that manner, yet he preferred to keep such moments private from his subordinates. Ccino quickly averted his gaze and prepared a nutmeg black coffee, placing it in front of Nightmare while planting a gentle kiss on his cheek. As Ccino retreated to the kitchen, Nightmare stared blankly for a moment before a soft smile crept across his face, accompanied by a blush as he took a sip of the coffee.

As he sipped his coffee, an unusual sensation enveloped him, prompting him to glance around before rising from his seat. It was not the cats meandering through the café that piqued his curiosity; rather, it was an inexplicable presence, something—or someone—else entirely. Suddenly, a grunt reached his ears, and he instantly recognized the source. He dashed to the corner table, swiftly moving it aside to reveal Dust, who had been concealing himself after witnessing what ccino had done. "BOSS IS GAY!" Dust shouted into his phone, eliciting a shocked scream followed by uncontrollable laughter from Killer on the other end "I FUCKING CALLED IT!!". Nightmare seized the phone, abruptly hanging up while directing a furious glare at Dust. "DUST, YOU ASSHOLE! WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?!" he bellowed. At that moment, ccino burst from the kitchen, brandishing a spoon as if it were a weapon, convinced that Nightmare was in peril. Dust exchanged glances with ccino, and Nightmare gradually calmed down. Just then, Horror teleported into the café and enveloped Nightmare in a hug, exclaiming, "MOM GOT US A DAD!" This unexpected revelation left Nightmare in a state of bewilderment. ''Could you all please cease this behavior?!" Nightmare exclaimed, creating a portal beneath Dust that caused him to plummet through it. Subsequently, he forcefully propelled the towering figure of horror into a portal as well, declaring, "I will address your foolishness at a later time!" The atmosphere was charged with tension as Nightmare's voice rang out, demanding an end to the chaos. With a swift motion, he opened a portal beneath Dust, sending him spiraling into the unknown, while simultaneously thrusting the imposing entity into another portal, asserting his intention to confront their antics at a more opportune moment.

After the departure of the others, Nightmare shifted his attention to Ccino, embracing him in a passionate kiss. With a gentle sigh, he remarked, "I will return once those foolish individuals have settled down for the night." Ccino responded affirmatively, saying, "Alright, my dear, I love you!" In response, Nightmare smiled and let out a soft sigh, replying, "I love you as well!" The warmth of their exchange lingered in the air, underscoring the bond they shared amidst the chaos surrounding them.

Made for @stitchedupcorpse

Part 2 will be made if someone wants it! also i'll add my Wattpad to my main profile! @the-real-outer-sans

[lovelydisc]

TW: The Holocaust, Homophobia, Genocide, Nazi Germany, etc

Hey, I just wanted to come on here because President Bigot (Donald Trump) has just come out with extremely controversial (in my opinion) army recruitment ads and has shared an image created by the Washington times that used a Nazi symbol.

I don’t want hate comments on my page defending him, and I don’t want hate comments on here defending him. I’m just trying to spread the word for my fellow queer and lgbt people in America because if we weren’t fucked before we’re definitely fucked now.

Trauma warning starting now.

Donald Trump has just produced an army recruitment ad that promotes omitting queer people from the military. I don’t know legally how firm this is, but most of the adverts I’ve read about definitely make it seem very legally viable. The Washington times has also come out with an incredibly triggering and ignorant graphic and article in response to these adverts. The graphic included a symbol used by German Nazis during the holocaust to denote gay men/people in concentration camps. The article included controversial language such as “In other words, young recruits don’t join the military to march in pride parades; they join to kill bad guys on behalf of their country” and “It also signals to potential recruits that service in our military no longer means 11-week diversity, equity and inclusion training programs or lessons on climate change”. The president then proceeded to share it on his public twitter.

This is a blatant sign that the US is fucking plummeting towards the fascism we saw in Europe before, during, and after WW2. When a world leader becomes this blatant about his discriminatory beliefs, it is no longer speculation, no longer up in the air. We will become the scapegoats.

This is a huge fucking warning sign. You should be panicking.

Washington times article

Edit 20/06/25:

I added sources and rephrased a couple of my sentences after I went back and re-read some of the sources to make sure I had all the facts straight after I’d calmed down and gotten some food in me. I was very upset initially and I apologise for any misinformation that might have caused.

Sources:

[emilykaldwen]

*pinches the bridge of my nose*

Okay kids, sit down. I think things in the fandom space needs a little clarification.

Fan Artists and Fan Fiction writers are frustrated and upset about how the reblog rate has plummeted over the years as the rest of the internet moved to a 'hit the heart to help the algorithm'. Tumblr doesn't work that way. Likes don't do anything for a post, it just locks it in your personal scrapbook.

You Do Not Have to Reblog things YOU do not want to

When people say 'reblog the post' they mean reblog instead of ONLY hitting the like button. Tumblr relies on reblogs to put things on your dash. If you're liking something, then it hits your interests, and you should be reblogging it.

HOWEVER YOU ARE NEVER OBLIGATED TO REBLOG ALL THE THINGS.

Most people, including myself, will reblog from friends because we're friends! I support your foray into a fandom space I have no understanding of, but odds are if you are into it, then some of my other mutuals may be into it so I'll reblog. But I'm not out here reblogging every post I see from people I don't know in fandom spaces I'm not familiar with. It's my blog. I curate what I'd like. Some people have a dozen sideblogs for every fandom niche interest. Some of us just have the one blog and you strap in for whatever fandom chaos we go on. If you tag me in something, I occasionally miss it because I get the notification on my phone but don't have the free moment to do it and forget. Or maybe I add it into my queue.

When you are creating something you need to be mindful of your audience.

I'm in my mid 30s. I do not play in the Disney space (I know Disney Descendents is popular? That came out waaaaay after my time I don't know what it is), I don't know what that girl with the ghost band thing is that was going around a few years ago. I have fellow adult friends who do not engage with fan creation that involves minors. Additionally, I've seen people create OCs for shows like Criminal Minds. Hey! more power to you, I've never watched the show, and I know there's fic out there (I had someone tell me about a what I think was a Harry Potter/Criminal Minds crossover??? wow), but it's not going to get the same kind of traction as say, a Teen Wolf fan work.

I'm not saying don't create for your niche interests! CREATE! BE FREE AND MERRY! but understand that those creations just won't get the same kind of traction because it's a niche interest.

We create for ourselves, we share to find other people who enjoy our hobbies.

Which brings me to my second point:

NO ONE IS KNOCKING ON YOUR BEDROOM DOOR TO MAKE FRIENDS

Making friends is hard! I totally get it. But a sure fire way to turn people off way fast is to start a conversation with me but make it abundantly clear you care about nothing that I say/offer and are just waiting for your turn to talk so you can tell me about YOUR things and expect ME to ask questions. Conversation is a two way street. It's a back and forth. It is not me sitting there like a parent patiently listening to my child tell me about the cool toy adventure they're doing. I'm not your parent. I'm not your captive audience. I'm another person, and if you want friends - MEANINGFUL friends - then you need to make an effort to engage with people.

And it's hard. It's hard because so many people out there are very navel-gazey, and people get so caught up in the excitement of their own creations that they forget to ask other people about theirs. And... you're gonna have to be okay with that. You're gonna have to be okay with it feeling like pulling teeth, and know that hey! you're never gonna be buddy buddies with everyone. You just keep being you, you just keep showing the kind of person you are, and eventually it'll happen.

It's taken me over a decade to form meaningful mature friendships online. I've had friends over the years, ofc, but it's only now, when I can approach something with clear expectations and not thinking everyone is off having fun without me in some little clique, that I've been able to connect with people more honestly. And taking a five year break from tumblr helped a lot with that. I bought a house, I got a new job, I did other meaningful things with my life that wasn't on the internet.

The internet isn't actually a popularity place. You do not have to be popular to exist. I have been on tumblr since the inception pretty much. I have 200 followers and I only interact with 10 of them, maybe 15. And I'll tell you that outta those 200, 90% of them are blogs that haven't updated in years. A follower count does not promise reblogs, does not promise friends. It's literally impossible to be best buddies with 2000 people, to have a meaningful connection with every. single. one.

anyway I'm tired. I'm too old for this shit. Go touch some grass, go get off tumblr and play a new video game, join a book club, read more books, do things that aren't perpetually refreshing your dash and thinking everyone is off having fun without you because I promise you it's not fucking true. You need to have a life offline. You need a hobby that doesn't involve the computer. Seriously. Go touch grass.

[nadvs]

i read that when you have a sex on your period it creates like soul ties with the person i’m so curious to know ur thoughts but also like for the better off au do u think that rafe doesn’t care if she’s on her period or maybe that why he’s so attached LOL

under the cut because i share a personal story and maybe some followers aren’t into reading that 🫡

i so believe this!! i had period sex with an ex and i stg after, it felt like we both full-on fell in love lmaooo 😭 i think it was because i felt like i was at my ugliest (my self-esteem always plummets when i’m on my period) and him not thinking i was gross and still wanting me like that just did sumn to me 😮‍💨

i can def see rafe being the type of man who’s like ‘if i’m horny i’m horny and idgaf if you’re on your period’ so they do it and he’s extra with the aftercare and checking on her because he’s sooo down bad 😭 it def bonds two people ngl i think there’s sumn abt still wanting to be intimate no matter the circumstances!!

[221bluescarf]

Hello there!

When you have the spoons, could you give me a beginners guide to bipolar and what the differences are between types 1 & 2? Dont worry, Im not holding you to some scientific or doctorate level of information. More like... what are things you wish you knew or understood about the diagnoses sooner?

Hi! Ok I hope it's ok if this will be long...

For context I've been diagnosed with bipolar disorder 7 times by different psychiatrists/hospitals, the most recent one changing it to schizoaffective bipolar. What I'll say is my own experience (an experience that is also shared by others I know)

I don't know what I would say as a beginners guide... I guess it's important to start by knowing bipolar isn't being sad sometimes and happy sometimes. Bipolar is a pattern of alternating between 2 mood states: depression and mania (or hypomania) each state encapsulating a host of symptoms.

As far as type 1 vs type 2... The difference between the two lies in the mania. Bipolar 2 has hypomania and Bipolar 1 has mania. Both have depression. the depression in both types can be severe and the severity of the depression does not indicate type 1 or 2.

Hypomania is a less impairing version of mania, but it still has a specific set of symptoms and criteria that make it different from just a "good mood". Both hypomania and mania are abnormal states.

Mania is going to be disruptive, impairs functioning, usually causes damage, and can often lead to hospitalization. It's not uncommon for mania to have psychosis with it.

They can both have increased energy and restlessness, racing thoughts, distractibility, pressured speech, grandiosity, feeling overly energetic despite a couple hours or no sleep, irritability, and aggression.

But the easiest way for me to explain is to re-create the scenario.

Hypomania: Getting 1 hour of sleep and still feeling energized, wanting to be active at all hours. Going on a $300 shopping trip I can't really afford. Feeling like everything is brighter, music is alive, and I'm the best artist. Getting kinda snippy. Cleaning the whole house and volunteering to clean other people's houses.

Mania: zero sleep for 48 or 72 hours at a time, not being able to stop moving, feeling on fire and as if I might explode if I ever stop. Spending thousands a.k.a. my entire savings on odd things like duplicates of the same items. Scratching myself bloody because my skin hurts, crying and laughing at the same time. I start tasks and abandon them as soon as I start, leaving a mess. Music becomes an obsession, the lyrics are speaking to me and telling me to do things. Everyone is mocking me. Anger outbursts, violent at times, including road rage incidents.

Both of these end abruptly and plummet into severe depression.

I don't know what I wish I knew... I guess I wish I knew how hard it would be to manage it. Having to keep everything in my life stable in order to keep myself stable. I thought if I just had the right pill I'd go back to "normal".

I also wish I'd known if you have mania you can't "pump the brakes". I kept trying to trigger hypomania in myself thinking I could accomplish so much. But in reality I would hit mania and accomplish nothing. I just spin my wheels, become a volcano, and everything falls apart. I still fall for it sometimes though.

I hope that's somewhat helpful.

[stitchedupcorpse]

1. It was a tranquil morning when Nightmare awoke, feeling fatigued and shirtless in his kitchen, where he found himself gazing at a shattered coffee pot, the result of Killer's earlier aggression. With a resigned sigh, he reached for a mug, recalling a skilled barista he knew from the multiverse—his husband, Ccino. In an instant, he manifested himself at the 'PawTastic Cafe,' the charming cat café operated by Ccino. As he settled at the counter, he noticed that Ccino had not yet opened for the day. The sudden appearance of Nightmare startled Ccino, causing him to exclaim, "OH FLUFFERFUCK!" and drop a pan filled with cinnamon rolls, clutching his chest in surprise.

2. After regaining his composure, Ccino offered a nervous smile, expressing, "Goodness me...you scared me..." as he gazed at Nightmare with a mix of trepidation and affection. In response, Nightmare leaned back slightly, grumbling, "So loud..." He was aware of Ccino's tendency to look at him in that manner, yet he preferred to keep such moments private from his subordinates. Ccino quickly averted his gaze and prepared a nutmeg black coffee, placing it in front of Nightmare while planting a gentle kiss on his cheek. As Ccino retreated to the kitchen, Nightmare stared blankly for a moment before a soft smile crept across his face, accompanied by a blush as he took a sip of the coffee.

As he sipped his coffee, an unusual sensation enveloped him, prompting him to glance around before rising from his seat. It was not the cats meandering through the café that piqued his curiosity; rather, it was an inexplicable presence, something—or someone—else entirely. Suddenly, a grunt reached his ears, and he instantly recognized the source. He dashed to the corner table, swiftly moving it aside to reveal Dust, who had been concealing himself after witnessing what ccino had done. "BOSS IS GAY!" Dust shouted into his phone, eliciting a shocked scream followed by uncontrollable laughter from Killer on the other end.

Nightmare seized the phone, abruptly hanging up while directing a furious glare at Dust. "DUST, YOU ASSHOLE! WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?!" he bellowed. At that moment, ccino burst from the kitchen, brandishing a spoon as if it were a weapon, convinced that Nightmare was in peril. Dust exchanged glances with ccino, and Nightmare gradually calmed down. Just then, Horror teleported into the café and enveloped Nightmare in a hug, exclaiming, "MOM GOT US A DAD!" This unexpected revelation left Nightmare in a state of bewilderment.

Could you all please cease this behavior?!" Nightmare exclaimed, creating a portal beneath Dust that caused him to plummet through it. Subsequently, he forcefully propelled the towering figure of horror into a portal as well, declaring, "I will address your foolishness at a later time!" The atmosphere was charged with tension as Nightmare's voice rang out, demanding an end to the chaos. With a swift motion, he opened a portal beneath Dust, sending him spiraling into the unknown, while simultaneously thrusting the imposing entity into another portal, asserting his intention to confront their antics at a more opportune moment.

After the departure of the others, Nightmare shifted his attention to Ccino, embracing him in a passionate kiss. With a gentle sigh, he remarked, "I will return once those foolish individuals have settled down for the night." Ccino responded affirmatively, saying, "Alright, my dear, I love you!" In response, Nightmare smiled and let out a soft sigh, replying, "I love you as well!" The warmth of their exchange lingered in the air, underscoring the bond they shared amidst the chaos surrounding them.

This was written for me by @the-real-outer-sans

[brooklynislandgirl]

@honorhearted {{xx}}

As if drawn by those words, the flat of one palm rests against his chest while the cup of her fingers ~thin as ribbons and just as smooth~ slide down his bicep. "Got a feeling that...you'd give a pretty good showing. Still waters an' all of that. Plus-" She gives his arm a soft squeeze "-You seem surprisingly built under all those sweater vests of yours. So let 'em be jealous, and wear that tie like a peacock. I'll be glad to patch up anyone who needs it after." When she tells this story to Jay later, she'll find the words to articulate the feelings in her chest as they plummet to the pit of her stomach. The exact way his thumb feels as it caresses the high arch of her cheek. How she imagines one of the whorls in his print tripping over one of the minuscule freckles it finds there. She'll tell Jay about how impossibly blue his eyes are. That she drowns in them until even her breath runs out. Maybe not how her eyelashes flutter until they half-shut away her gaze and she feels her heart climbing up her throat with a temerity unfamiliar to her. Or how her stomach slowly morphed into ouroboros, knotting itself together in that moment of anticipation. His lips find the tip of her nose. And slowly the build up crashes into the parts of her that are a cellar while she manages to affix a smile in place. A lifetime of being at the Admiral's whim has give Beth the ability to hide away her inner self and have no one the wiser for it. Even her voice sounds remarkably steady. "I'd love to. It's one of my favourite things. Dancing, I mean." This is the absolute truth and she doesn't have to fake the genuine warmth that takes over her tone. She takes a step back while her hands find their way to her sides. The next moment she gives him a narrow-eyed stare that comes with a twitch of her lips. "Oh already with the short jokes, huh? Better watch it, pal. I might bite your knees off."

The threat, lame though it is, holds no real heat. Neither does the space she creates as she tucks herself out of the way so he can lead her to these mysterious shelves and the vinyl they hold. How many of them do they share copies of? What does he like to listen to the most? Some day she'll have to replace her Pink Floyds, her Pearl Jams, her Chili Peppers, her Glenn Millers. Would he enjoy her brother's collection of Blues greats, his devotion to the old sixties and seventies rock stars? Had Samuel seeded the passion for music, or had Ben stumbled on them all on his own? There are so many questions that rise from a simple invitation, and she doesn't know how to go about asking any of them. "What do you think you're in the mood for? Something slow and close, or something that'll really get the blood pumping?" She rakes Ben with an appraising gaze. "Tell me deep down in your heart of hearts that you really wanted to be Sid Vicious or that you sang into your hairbrush along with the great Etta James."