#that’s typical ex behavior

[lew1s-prix]

Seb following Lewis

Lewis posting Seb on his ig story

Them hugging

Seb explaining Lewis the Buzzin' Corner

Them supervising their kid's painting/drawing

Seb unfollowing Lewis

Lewis reposting their hug

[victoriadallonfan]

I want to believe Victoria has Kenzie give her the address of all her online haters, so she could knock on their door and give them a stern lecture

She's only partially surprised that half the accounts lead back to Lisa's apartment

[hickorybickorydock]

This is my favorite hickory image of all time. Barely ONE conversation with chaz and he looks soo done with him

[dailyreddevils]

70′ Red Card -- United

New team... same Casemiro being a slight shithead. He just got back from a ban and now he is going to be serving another one

In the tussle that resulted from the Antony and Schlupp incident, Casemiro decided that the pushing and shoving that everyone else was doing was not enough and instead he chose to put both his fucking hands around Hughes’ neck. 

[1ore]

exhausted-drone

So this version of the imperium doesn’t have the absolutely horrifying strangle hold on the populace that’s enforced with rabid priests, indoctrination, and a secret police force that pops up when worlds get a bit tooo lenient?

after writing a paper for like 3 hours this has activated my infodumping brain. Hope putting this in its own post is ok! This is one part answer and three parts needless extrapolation LOL

I would say the Empire does, in the sense that it has the /appearance/ of conformity as a result of draconic enforcement, and doesn’t, in the sense that even under the cruelest, most restrictive regimes there are still countercultures and people who are aware that something is Wrong, even if they can't articulate what, but are just trying to get by and not get got by the inquisition.

of course I'm most interested in these edge cases of resistance and survival, and people who are in the process of becoming these edge cases, so the sampling group is already skewed in that direction. But on the whole I think the Archive and inquisition have only driven opposition underground. Just because these people have to organize in clandestine ways doesn't mean they aren't out there-- though to the bystander and to the Archive, it sure feels like they have an iron grip on things.

Ultimately these are still humans enforcing these systems on other humans, and humans is messy. one of the things I really enjoy exploring is how the same characters can harbor a little bit of that spark, while also stomping it out in others-- this is a system where we often hurt each other to bargain for our own safety, security, power, etc. (albeit one in which the old adages like "There Is No Ethical Consumption Under Late Capitalism" and "You Are Not Immune To Propaganda" are taken to their hyperbolic extreme, so it's more morbidly funny and cathartic instead of despairingly painful for me.)

like, Markus does this by keeping his real intentions guarded close to his heart, being 100x more clever, pitiless, and monstrous than his enemies, and clawing his way to power through any means necessary so that he can do the One Good Thing he wants to do. I imagine that the people who knew him before his ascent reminisce about how he used to be "one of them," and the betrayal of him selling his soul and throwing away his responsibility to them in exchange for power really fucking stings.

But when he is at the top, he can leverage his charisma and inordinate power to create nigh-blasphemous (read: marginally progressive) changes that nobody really has the power to challenge him on. (and also collect all all the gay people in the Archive under one administrative roof, i guess, yeah.) Arguably this catches up with him before he can do the One Good Thing he wants to do, and the One Good Thing was impossible from the beginning anyway, but for a minute there he sure is doing. Something.

The Doc does this by resigning herself to the role of pitiless doctor she was casted as. In action, she's doing everything the Archive asks of her, but she owes them no love or loyalty and jumps on any opportunity to go her own way and further her own (admittedly buckwild) interests when it's safe to do so. Even when she's being subversive, she has the appearance of reveling in doublespeak and doubledealing, and you can't be sure if she actually means it or not. But this is to reinforce an image of being emotionally untouchable, manipulative, and two-faced, which protects her and those around her from having any emotional ties used against them. Ultimately, she's the only one with the power to do things like make certain """mistakes"""" during MarkOS' creation, and look the other way when Reyes later takes a magnet to his brain.

And then, of course, when the culture of compliance and mutual enforcement fails, there are the people who are explicitly tasked with rooting out opposition. Hard to untangle from people who are in positions of authority already (i.e. Markus and the Chief) but there's the Sibyls and the late inquisitor. MarkOS too, technically, as most secutors are hard-wired to serve a surveillance function.

I did Not get into it on their post, but the Sibyls in particular are walking two different paths re: being agents of inquisition. The current Sibyl enforces faithfulness with the fervor of someone who 100% believes in what she's doing, and that sincerity is where she draws her power and sway-- leading by example and scaring the shit out of anyone who doesn't live up to her expectations. This is why anything short of perfect adherence is so disturbing to her, from others and especially from herself. She's the shining golden child, and if she can't get it right, who can?

The ex-Sibyl, on the other hand, considered all the little lies and implicit threats of divine retribution to be tools in a toolbox, vital to keeping people alive in the face of unconscionable violence, and especially in situations where fragmenting and defecting could threaten their survival. whether or not this was actually true may have had some kind of effect on her going absolutely off the shitts later. But her understanding of The Propaganda as a utilitarian tool allowed her play both sides, forming authentic relationships with the rest of her company and more effectively identifying where doubt and fear is hiding through these relationships... Even if it tore her apart in the end.

Barring Reyes, most of these walnuts are coming from positions of relative privilege that make it challenging to let go of the lies sold to them. I think it's easier to see past the power blinders when you go down the hierarchy. Obviously there is a. Big interest in selling the public on the idea that they stand to gain from throwing their lot in with the Empire and the Powers That Be, in much the same way that certain political forces need you to rest assured in the idea that anyone can become a billionaire if they just pulled themselves up by their bootstraps. The alternative is also the threat of Death and Dying, or maybe being left to the "savage and uncaring embrace of the cosmos," which the Archive assures you is full of nasty things that want to drink your bone marrow and eat your eyeballs. Anyway. Point is, I think it's more common than meets the eye for the average citizen of the Empire to be aware that Something Is Wrong, but moved to inaction by despair, or fear, or survival, or just complacency.

And as long as that doesn't turn into visible, organized action (or as long as they are sneaky enough) it gives the appearance of cohesion, even if it's false. It's enough that even someone like Reyes could make the mistake of assuming the average Imperial is so brainwashed they're not aware of the power dynamics at play. (or at least. Some of them. misinformation about things like other spacefaring communities and nonhuman peoples abounds.)

Mostly this just means Reyes is surrounded by people who are uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh acting out of fear of something that both does and doesn't hold the power over them that they think it does.

The God-King Isn't Real. He Can't Hurt You

[werewolfcandy]

ah, the irresistible urge to gloat

[shotmrmiller]

re: rugby team ghoap

it'd been a one-off, seize-the-moment kind of thing. casual hookups aren't really for you, plus you distinctly remember your ex prating on about how the team would only be here for the weekend hence the absolute burning need to go, and you've got work monday.

goodbye, great knowing them. you'd traipsed out of the hotel room with your sneakers in hand, soap's used jersey in the other- a memento of sorts, a trophy. mild serial killer behavior but you reckon since you just became another pearl in their long string of conquests, the least you could do is take something with you that won't be gone with a warm epsom salt bath and a couple of days rest.

("would ye believe yer the prettiest we've ever brought back with us?" right. you know where you stand on that scale, and people like you don't typically pull men like them. another cringe-worthy comment like that and you'd mistake their interest with pity.)

you'd put both jerseys in the wash later that day, and the rattling of your washing machine marked the end of your exciting weekend.

or so you'd thought. from your side of things, you'd wiped your hands clean of their sweat, spit and come and went home, once again falling back into semi-familiarity, expecting to go to work feeling completely relaxed and loose, in more ways than one, while ignoring the photos taken of you and the "star players" at the stadium on social media.

(no one caught your face, what bloody luck.)

when you see them again, it's by pure chance. you'd been ordering a sandwich at a deli down the street, hand already reaching for your wallet when an arm curls around your shoulders, dark, coarse hair of a forearm brushing against your cheek.

cedarwood and citrus. it clings to your senses— a sharp, tangy reminder of that time you'd only look back on when the familiar pang of want pooled searing hot between your legs. small world, you suppose.

"didnae leave a note. stole my jersey. 'm surprised ye didnae leave us money on the table, bonnie." warmth flared beneath your cheeks but you didn't cow to his crude joke.

"i suppose i could've left a tip. what do you want?"

the playful lines around his eyes smoothed as his lips straightened into a firm line, his eyes frostbitten. you ignore the way his touch makes you feel trapped, tethered, a cage made of velvet.

"took my shirt and then didn't show up to a single game after tha'. jus' gettin' wha' i'm owed. unless he's yer favorite."

how can he be your favorite when you know nothing about the sport they play and have no interest in knowing?

"too bad. we come as a package. get yer food, we've a place nearby."

(simon had been nowhere near as good-natured as johnny had about you leaving without a word. made you spit out apologies with swollen lips, only accepted the ones that came with a fluttering of your raw pussy around the splitting thickness of him while soap condescendingly cooed in your ear about lessons having to be learned the hard way.)

[whore-ibly-hot]

THROUGH OUR LORD AND SAVIOR @yanderereblogs THE FACULTY HAVE BEEN FOYND AND RETURNED TO US! PRAISE BE TO REBLOGGERS, SUPPORT YOUR LOCAL ARCHIVISTS!

Yandere Boarding School Part 2, (Faculty)

18+ Minors DNI

Warnings: Multiple yanderes, non-con touching, dub-con, perverted thoughts, obsession, bullying, masturbation, aphrodisiacs, general perversion, dry-humping, voyeurism, controlling behaviors, typical yandere stuff, breeding, smoking, horny posting.

(AN: Part Two has been reuploaded after a takedown, godspeed @yanderereblogs for saving it! Mmmmmm, old men. Everyone pictured as a student is OF LEGAL AGE TUMBLR MODS HOP OFF MY DICK.

Background: Thinking about a Headmasters Son or Daughter!Reader at a private boarding school. For a Fem!Reader, perhaps you're just visiting daddy for the season while he's running the school, or maybe you've been bad, and need more supervision. For a Masc!Reader, it could be the same case, however, with Ridgemoore Academy being an all male school, this makes it easier to imagine a world where reader is allowed in the school. Now, let's focus on the faculty...

◇ Mr. Joel Murphy, who teaches the majority of the 'life skills' classes at the school. The school being all-boys is very traditional, and teaches things like game hunting and orienteering, which is why they hired a manly-man like Joel. If only they knew what a bitter grump he is. An ex-sheriff of the nearby town, he decided to leave the force after realizing there was no real crime in the small, privileged town, and decided to take up an easy job at the school. Unfortunately, he realized his love for camping and hunting is warped into what he considers 'frilly shit for rich little boys'. He's gruff, barking out orders and easily been exasperated at the sheer incompetence of the boys.

"Shoot one quail, and these boys act like they killed a bear..."

He thought about retiring from yet another job, as living on the ritzy campus just doesn't feel like home to him, and lord knows he's not fond of his job. However, things change when you arrive. Whether you're a delinquent or a little more sweet and obedient, he likes you. If you're a delinquent, he likes seeing a little hell-raiser kick up some shit at the fancy school. If you're sweet or shy, he gets protective. Nice youngins' like you shouldn't be thrown in amongst these spoiled weasels.

He's sure to help you if you need it, a gentle hand on your back as his burly chest presses against your shoulder blades, adjusting your position against the butt of a rifle. Standing by while you're on hands and knees trying to light a fire, making sure none of the boys are trying to get a look at your assessts. Not that he isn't going to, but he justifies it to himself as just making sure your school shorts/skirt is regulation. He's protecting your modesty. After class hours, come to him with any issues, or shit, even his room. He'll put on some coffee and ask you to help him create a curriculum that 'reaches the kids', as your father instructed him to. It's cozy, the fancy school adnorments thrown away for medals and plaques, national parks posters and a few old family photos. He'll keep you tucked in on his warm couch while he strays from curriculum talk to stories of his time in the scouts and on the force. Tells you about how much he loves just... laying out under the stars with somebody special, to sit around a campfire with friends, then slyly ask is you've ever had somebody to do that with. He knows you're younger than him, and he struggles with the idea that you won't want him cause of it, so for now, he'll bask in the feeling of seeing you curled up in his room, keeping the idea of picking you up and having you accept his cock to himself. If you can get pregnant, his fists his cock to the thought of that too. He's not some horned up boy, he wants you in the long term.

He looooooves the yearly orienteering final, in which the students in the class are made to go on an actual camping trip. It's possible a tent will 'accidentally' go missing, leaving you to bunk with him. Don't worry, nothing bads gonna happen while you've got this burly bear of a man practically spooning you, warm gut from his dad-bod pressed against you as he tries his best to make sure he doesn't scare you.

"Sorry those damn boys left your tent back at the school, kiddo. I... wouldn't be suprised of one of them did it on purpose, little bastards." He grumbles, hoping you'll take the hint to separate yourself from those immature preps and stick to being with a man who can treat you right. "Remember that lesson from a couple weeks ago, on body heat? I know it's awkward, but we've only got one sleeping bag. You feel like you can trust this old man to keep you warm?" Unfortunately for his ego and trying to keep down his urges, the trees aren't going to be the only wood in the morning.

◇ Mr. Paul Burton, head of the arts department. He's so over this, a once decent artist who dabbled in pop art and theatre only to stop getting gigs and be black-listed after offending several more famous artists, calling their work 'sell-out chic', he's now a burn-out who smokes and ignores his students all class. He's passionate about art, but frankly he doesn't want tow aste his time teaching when he knows these rats are taking his class for easy credit. He's only teaching here to utilize the facilities and studios so he's not living in a van in the Walmart parking lot. A mix of hippie culture, live and let live and cynical burnout, he's so. Fucking. Done. But... maybe you change that for him.

You're interesting, a headmasters child who doesn't fit in to your fathers perfect mold? Maybe a rebellious student who goes against the grain of this perfect school. Or a blooming ray of sunshine in this dark den of privilege and conformist curriculum for the future lawyers of the world. Either way, he's found a new muse. See him after class.

He'll be thrilled if you're into art, let him guide you. Tell him your favorite artists and he'll tell you when he threw up on there shoes by accident in his hey-day. Gossip about a student you don't like, he'll listen while he smokes and tell you about how that guys mom hit on him. He loves to gossip, but he loves to watch you create more. The way your hands shape a vase or brush across a canvas light a fire in him he hasn't felt in a while. He's more willing to forgo the age gap between you, while it's never something he considered before, he knows he's not gonna let go of the one thing that makes him feel like he lives again. Besides, he's always been unconventional.

He'll have you stay after class, maybe he'll have you pose nude for a painting, assuring you it's fins, it's platonic, it's just for the love of art. He chooses and extra large canvas, it lets him paint while he relieves himself as you explain you're getting cold. He'll put on some artsy, silent, black and white film from the 30s, and while you watch and slowly realize it's pornographic, He'll grin to himself while he watches you flush. He'll ask you all sorts of questions about your thoughts on the film, the actors, what they're doing. He really wants to figure out how experienced you are. "What do you think of the composition? It's really carnal, you know?" He puts out his cigarette. "I'm glad I can show this to you, you'll actually appreciate it. You're not giggling like an idiot when some guys penis is out on the screen." He groans, thinking of his other students.

He does actually like one student, though they make an odd pair. Joseph's easily spooked and shy personality clashes with the brash older man's, but he's glad to have someone he can think of as a protege. Someone who loves art as much as him, but get isolated for it. He was doing a portfolio look over when Joseph accidentally turned in the wrong folder. Joseph feels like he might die as Mr. Burton, a man he admires, flips through nude pictures of the object of his affection, and at a distance no less. A part of him wants to rip it away, but he needs this scholarship.

"Please, please, sir! I-I'll never do it again, it was just a phase, I didn't mean for you to see-"

"They're good." Mr. Burton flips through the folder. "Real good. You could really get somewhere with these, maybe not in the fine art scene, but... tell you what." He adjusts his glasses and leans forward on his desk. "We'll do a special session, you and me, yeah? I'll get your friend here, and I'll vouch for your integrity so you can take some less-" he purses his lips. "Stalker-ish pics- Jesus, kid, is that taken from a tree?"

☆ Anatoli Sidorov, probably the best paid staff given how they got him here. He's a Russian coach for a former Olympic Russian swim team, and he joined the prestigious American school to escape shame after he 'resigned' post a doping scandal which he swears he wasn't involved in. (Whether he was or not is your choice.) Still, he's led the boys swim team and track team to nationals several times, and he's a legend among the wealthy benefactors of the school. He's outwardly very serious, hard on his team but respectful of them. He doesn't put up with any unruly or unsportsmanlike behavior from his boys, at least not what he can see. He's very nice deep down, intellectual and funny, though he still struggles with American humor and English.

He adores you when he meets you, milking about with the other students before class. You seem genuinely social, and wanting to fit in. The idea someone could be so welcoming warms his heart. Deep down, he misses his home, and he misses the friends he once had. You're warm, and he likes that. Not to mention, you're a looker. He's embarrassed, especially if you're male, seeing as he never considered swinging the other way, and much less with someone younger. But he can't help but stare when your pretty tits bounce as you run, or the way those jogging shorts hardly conceal your bulge. He even pulled you to the side one to scold you for not wearing regulation gym clothes, before realizing they were and awkwardly sending you back into class. That was a moment of self-reflection for him.

He's not necessarily outwardly softer to you, you might even think he doesn't like you, given that he has you stay late to run or jump rope, or constantly pulls you into time out mid-game. It's all for your own good, trust him. He doesn't like the way some of the boys were looking at you, and he could tell Evan was a only a play away from trying to practically hump you while trying to 'get the ball'. He's made Harrison, who he loves as a player, run laps for talking to you for only a few minutes. He hates feeling like a jealous boy, but he can't help it. You make him feel young.

He establishes a private locker room area for you, since you're the headmasters kid and not an official student. Besides, you're clearly being harassed by the others! So, he's got a nice little closet for you, with a not suspicious air freshener that's not a hidden camera, and a private key only you have access to. (Technically that's true, he just has a bypass key for himself.) He'll snatch a pair of boxers or some panties, slipping them into his track coat for later. Eventually, he'll tell you he's worried you aren't able to catch up to the others, given that you arrived later and started the gym curriculum later than the others. He'll start having extra 'make-up' workouts with you, starting with stretching. One leg uo on the bar, you'll have to excuses his cold hand running along your thigh, or stroking over your chest as him just admiring how your strength and flexibility is evolving. He relishes the feeling of your body on his, groping you under the guise of training and resisting the urge to just slip aside your gym shorts and veg you to take him.

"Little star, part 'dem a little, there ve go." He keeps your legs parted as he works you into a position on your back, against the rubber mats the tumbling team had laid out. He lays just over you, pushing your legs back a little further with his arms, just far away enough to keep you from noticing his hard on, but enough to lightly press it against the plush swell of your ass. Good, let's just- fuck- hold. Let's hold."

☆ Kory Koffman, English teacher and part time librarian! The school outs so much effort into sports, both admin and students seem to forget about him. Hell, the library is used so little they fired the librarian, and he took it upon himself to try and care for the building himself. He's a sweet, shy man, who just wants to share his passion for literature with others. However, unlike Mr. Burton, he was never popular or famous, so he's content to keep to himself, but the loneliness does get to him.

When you wandered into his library one day, maybe looking for a book or seeking refuge from a hoarde ofadmirers, he was happy to welcome you into his little safe haven. He'll give you some warm tea from the little coffee machine he has set up, and sit you down. Let him help you find a book, or tell you about his creative writing class? He'd let you join, even late in the semester! It's not a very full class.

For the first time in his life, he finds himself craving the attention of another, of someone else's company, other than his books. He hasn't felt that need for connection since he was a boy, after his momma passed. He'll do anything to keep you there, and if reading isn't your thing, much to his chagrin, he'll add a DVD section to the library, but only good films and classic for you! No Adam Sandler, those movies are to overstimulating for poor Mr. Koffman.

As his feelings turn romantic, he's ashamed. You're a student, and he's a lonely old man, you deserve someone better, someone your age. However, the thought of you being with any of the many students who mock him in the halls or disrupt his class, the thought of hand you over to those-those imbeciles, hurts him. He wants you, and he's ashamed at the way his trousers go tight when you bend over to get a fallen book, or when you hand him his glasses after he misplaced them (again), the fact he just stares at your finger prints for awhile and refuses to clean the lens. He's not had sex in a long, long time, but he finds himself masturbating more than he ever did when he was younger. He'll watch library security footage openly, moaning and whimpering at his desk with no fear anybody will stop in, no one ever does but you. He wants you as his spouse, you already make his library, his home away from home seem brighter, imagine what you could do for his actual apartment.

"Oh, hello! It's good to see you, it's been a bit." He's a little bitter at that last statement, but adjusts his glasses and continues. "Just remember to stop by often, okay? I'd really, really hate to impose the late policy on you..."

☆ Atticus Critch, the schools latin instructor and head sponsor of student body, (not to mention the man in charge of detention), is a strict disciplinarian. He takes no nonsense from anyone, and despises the behavioral pardons given to boys like Evan or Harrison simply because they are athletes. Peter is obviously his favorite, and when he catches wind of the ways the boys around campus are speaking about you, he decides to take it upon himself to remove the distraction, by having Carter trail you and give you detention for minor inconveniences. Carter isn't particularly thrilled at always having to send you to detention instead of extorting you to get his rocks off, but he's hoping maybe he'll get to 'monitor' detention one of these days.

Initially, Mr. Critch has you doing small tasks, writing lines or organizing things, but soon he starts to see the appeal. If you're a good student for the most part, he's determined to keep you good, and away from all the vermin in this school. If you're bad, he's had plenty of experience in taming brats. He's open with his sexual desires, it his growing affection for you that makes him struggle.

If you've stayed out too late and broke curfew, you can spend detention on your knees, suckling his cock into the late hours. Maybe you've been running around with Tyler. He'll make you lay down on his desk and deny you your climax over and over again, asking 'if not making you cum' is what that boy does to you, never fully satisfying you. He'll make you beg to finish, and to promise you'll be good from now on.

"Come on, repeat it. Tell me you'll be good now, that you won't bother with BOYS-" He annuciates with a thrust, "When you have a man right here, whose willing to take time out of his day to discipline you!" One the amorous session is over though, he definitely softens, trying to prove he's more than a boy in many ways, including good aftercare. He'll dress your limp form back up in your uniform and walk you get you a cup of water from the fountain. "Only ten minutes till your detention is over, dear. Just sit there, take some time to reflect on how you got here." His tone is demeaning, but as he pets your scalp, his touch is so feather-light. Don't expect is to last into the next day though.

[amywritesthings]

press four for more options. | part one.

( Read on AO3 )

Pairing: levi ackerman x f!reader (attack on titan / shingeki no kyojin) Word Count: 4.6k Summary: After seeing your ex with his new girl at a work party, you take the not-so-smart advice from a friend to call a sex hotline to get over him. Your match? A baritone bossy dom named Levi.

Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI - alternate universe (modern), slow burn, eventual smut, sex work, phone sex, dirty talk, dom!levi, light dom/sub Credits: dividers by @saradika-graphics

part two. | masterlist

“Thank you for calling the Scout Services Hotline. You’re only a dial away from your wildest fantasies with the sexiest singles near your area.”

God, even the automated voice sounds porn-y.

A breathy feminine voice straight out of a 1975 VHS tape croons into the dead air of your small apartment bedroom, setting your nerves on edge.

God forbid the noise travels through the walls into your next-door neighbor's bedroom. Harriet and Miro do not need to hear what you’re up to this Friday evening.

Maybe, up to this Friday evening.

You haven’t decided yet, though one could argue that calling was half the battle.

Dressed head-to-toe in an emerald cocktail dress with a face full of tear-stricken makeup, you feel utterly ridiculous sitting at the foot of your bed — not even the edge of the mattress, but the goddamn floor.

Even your black heels, now scuffed from someone stepping on them on your way out to fetch a cab, remain dangling at your toes.

(As non-committal as your last relationship, ironically enough.)

The experts say don’t shit where you eat. Dating someone you work with typically goes up in flames as fast as a rogue wildfire — and you should have listened to all of the warning signs, but Porco Galliard had been so damn charming that you’d forgotten just about everything.

Including your dignity, apparently, since you seemed to conveniently forget the part where he has had an on-again, off-again relationship with Pieck Finger well before you got hired at this place.

Not exactly side chick behavior, since he technically didn’t cheat, but the sting of being second place before the race even started lingered deep.

(Didn’t you know? He always chooses Pieck. It’s just one of those things.)

Well, no missing that now.

Especially since the two of them were so cozy at the annual shareholder event — right in front of your fucking salad.

The event’s slated to end at eleven so you’ve been nursing a wild array of drinks since seven, with little breaks.

In retrospect, the napkin with scribbled chicken scratch that Annie Leonhart, your closest colleague, shoved into your hand in the midst of your brooding at the bar may have been a joke:

You need to loosen up. Call this stupid sex line and get that stick out of your ass.

She wasn’t kidding. 

Every muscle in your body is too taut, including your brain.

So you took a cab, stumbled into your apartment, and landed — here.

Your phone sits right in front of you next to one of your half-worn heels, on speaker at the lowest setting.

Maybe it’s best to let the pre-recording list the entire numerical menu.

Maybe it’ll deter you from pressing anything at all.

“If you already know your match’s extension, press one.”

Yeah, that wasn’t happening.

You tap the napkin carelessly against the stem of your glass of wine, contemplating exactly how Annie Leonhart managed to find the information for this service to begin with.

Did she already have a match?

Did she regularly call them to blow off some steam?

She's always so chill. It would make sense.

There’s a chance this is a nasty prank at your lowest moment, but you don’t think Annie cares enough about other people to plan such a masterful takedown. 

At the work event, she seemed pretty serious about the legitimacy of Scout Services Hotline, and honestly?

Even if you had been drinking all night at the event, you were going to need way more liquid courage to even consider trying your hand at calling a sex line to quell weekend loneliness.

So naturally, you opened a new bottle of wine.

At the first glass of wine, you still weren’t ready.

The second? The napkin sat adjacent to your laptop as you played compilations of sad break-up songs further aggravating your spiraling depression.

The third was the charm to get you to pick up the fucking phone to see what the fuss was all about.

“If you’re looking for someone specific — whether it’s the man, woman, or person of your dreams — press two.”

Tempting.

Your finger reaches out for the ‘2’ on your screen, but you wait it out.

“If you don’t have a preference for your delicious match, press three.”

“You could’ve done without the delicious part,” you mumble to yourself, picking up the glass of wine to take a generous sip. An involuntary grimace tugs at your cheeks.

“If you’re looking to speak with one of our representatives or need more assistance, press four for more options.”

For a solid five minutes you wait.

Contemplating.

Deciding.

You could press the red circle to hang up and go to bed.

It wouldn’t be the first time you rubbed one out and called it a night.

After all, what’s one more lonely weekend?

The spiel starts up again on a loop with the same seductive, breathy feminine voice.

“Thank you for calling the Scout Services Hotline. You’re only a dial away from your wildest fantasies with the sexiest—”

You smash a button, but you’re not sure which one you’ve clicked.

Before you can lean over to see on your screen, a different feminine voice comes over the speaker.

It’s a little higher pitched than the menu screen voice, but it’s still inviting. Warm.

“Thank you for choosing the Scout Services Hotline. You’re speaking to Petra. May I have the pleasure of knowing the name of the person I’m speaking to this evening?”

A name.

You should give a name that isn’t your real name.

But technically wouldn’t your name be on the credit card if you go through with this anyway?

“You can give a nickname, too, if that makes you feel better,” the woman named Petra adds as if she's a mind reader, breaking the running silence on your end of the line. “A lot of our clients like giving a fake name for security and anonymity.”

“Doesn’t that break once you put in your credit card information?” you blurt, not realizing the thought has spilled on your lips.

Petra laughs musically.

“Technically yes, but if you prefer to be called something, then we’ll be sure to add that to your profile. I take it it's your first time calling.”

Why are you doing this again?

“Painfully obvious, right?” you lament, staring down at the scribble on the napkin. 

Did Annie have a fake name with this service?

“Not painfully at all,” Petra promises. “It’s a learning curve. So what may I call you?”

Real or fake?

Committed or just testing the waters?

“Scarlet?” you suggest, wincing immediately at the on-the-nose literary reference.

Letters, passion, blah blah love — it’s about the only creative thing your wine-addled brain can muster.

“I like Scarlet,” she hums, and immediately your brain is set on fire.

Are you going to be seriously this easy?

“Are you female, male, non-binary, genderfluid, prefer not to say…?”

“Female.”

"Pronouns?"

"Um, she and her."

“And you’re over eighteen?”

“Definitely over eighteen.”

“Perfect. So, Scarlet — did you have a preference on who you wish to speak to today? If you have a fantasy you wish to fulfill, then I can select someone for you.”

You want to scream.

Neurons fire as you try to come up with a cool and collected answer, only to allow the elixir of truth on your tongue to spill the beans.

“Just someone who’s got their shit together, honestly.” You exhale an awkward laugh. “I don’t know. I’m just calling because — I mean, I know you don’t care, but I like… um, deep voices? Stronger voices. Honestly I have no idea what to—”

“I have just the person.”

You pause.

Blink.

But you didn’t even describe anyone, not really.

A voice, maybe, if they cater to kinks of that nature.

You can only imagine they do — it’s a sex hotline, for crying out loud.

“Wait, you do?”

“Mhm!” she perkily states. “Is a man alright for this evening?”

A man with a deep voice who allegedly has his pretend shit together.

Granted it isn’t the opposite of Porco, he’s fairly capable at his job and out living his life just fine, but maybe you were just looking for a copy.

(Or a clue.)

“A man is… fine,” you hesitate. “Wait, so when do I give you my credit card information? My friend hooked me up with this, um — I don’t know if you have her name or if I should even say it, I know there’s probably some confidentiality—”

“Hold that thought,” Petra interrupts cheerfully. “You get the first fifteen-minute session for free, actually — you called just in time before our first-timer coupon expires.”

You can’t hide your surprise.

“Really?”

“Really!”

Ha, your fucking luck.

“If you're enjoying the call, just tell your match and we can set up your card and keep it going. All we ask is that you take a survey after your session. Then you’ll be in our system with this phone number! We’ll never solicit you for calls, but it’ll make the process faster the next time should you call our hotline again.”

You drop your head back on your mattress, sighing heavily.

“...okay, yeah. That sounds great.”

“Yeah?”

“Sure.”

“Give me one moment, Scarlet,” Petra giggles.

You hear something shift on her side. 

Maybe she’s swiveling her chair. Are they located in an actual office building?

God, an office where people just do this for a living sounds larger than life.

“I’ll connect you with your match in a moment.”

Then the line cuts out to the opening notes to Marvin Gaye’s Let’s Get It On, and you’re pretty sure you’re this close to chugging the rest of this bottle in one gulp.

“Is this seriously what you do on weekends, Annie?” you mumble to yourself, enduring the brutality of the waiting music while Petra connects you to your alleged match.

A man with a deep voice who has his shit together.

Is that even a real kink?

Has the bar really gotten that low?

Should you have described someone’s appearance? It wasn’t like it mattered over the phone.

As soon as it gets to the high note of the song, the line cuts again — silence.

Immediately you scramble to sit up taller, your hands fumbling to grab the phone from the floor.

You bring it up to your face, cupping the device in both palms to muffle the noise if it becomes downright pornographic in seconds.

Moment of truth.

With bated breath you wait — the person on the other line sighs, heavy and deep, before answering with the most nonchalant tone.

“Thank you for calling the Scout Services Hotline. You’re speaking with Levi. May I ask whom I have the pleasure of speaking to?”

Holy fuck.

Immediately you forget your own voice listening to the hum of the receiver.

While you’ve only joked in passing that you have a voice kink, it’s screaming in neon lights here and now: this man’s voice may be monotone, but there is a growl to it. 

A rumbling.

At this very moment, you completely forget that this man is on speaker phone and you’ve just returned home from the worst work event in the world.

You don’t have an ex-boyfriend.

You don’t even know your home address.

You’re simply… existing, lips parted, taking in the sheer tingle rolling through your torso.

“You there?”

Right, you’re meant to talk back.

“Huh? Oh — yes! Yeah,” you recover poorly. “Hi. It’s, um, it’s Scarlet.”

“Mm, Scarlet… Scarlet, Scarlet, Scarlet…”

The way the name drags along his tongue nearly makes your mouth water. 

His voice — Levi — is smooth, like the velvet on your dress you’ve yet to take off.

“A pretty name for a pretty thing like you.” Something ruffles and Levi makes a small noise on the other end, likened to a cut-off hum. “Tell me what you look like, Scarlet.”

All you can do is stare at a chip in your wooden dresser directly across from you, listening to him speak.

“I’m…” 

What do you even say? 

How come you have to say anything at all? 

Can’t he just read a takeout menu to you and call it a night?

Before you can answer, there’s an amused huff. “Someone’s nervous.”

Your face turns — well, a certain shade of scarlet.

“Ha. Sorry, I’ve—”

“Never done this before?” he finishes for you.

How mortifying. 

“Is it that obvious?”

“It’s cute,” he relents, and you feel your face turn a degree hotter. “Don’t worry — I’ve been told I’m a great teacher, so you’re in good hands.”

“You’ll have your work cut out of you, trust me,” you breathe, feeling like you’ve been injected with an overdose of a truth serum. “Because I just got home from this stupid work event. My ex-boyfriend brought his new girlfriend — who also works with us — as his date — yay, me — except I feel like I was the side-piece-in-waiting for them. So he’s off getting laid and I’m calling a complete stranger on a random Friday because my work colleague recommended this phone sex hotline for a quick solution.”

Silence.

You blink twice as dread settles in your cut. You tap the phone off of speaker and push the device close to your ear, balancing it with your shoulder.

Did you scare him away? 

Was that too much of a depressive dump? 

You suddenly want to crawl under your bed frame and hide there forever.

But then — a gentle chuckle sounds from the other end of the line, and arousal shoots straight to your lower belly.

“Good thing all of the dirty talk is my job, then,” he muses. “You’re supposed to lay back and listen.”

“Listen?”

“Yeah, unless you weren’t looking to get bossed around.”

It isn’t the worst idea you’ve ever heard, that’s for sure.

“If I’m honest with you, Levi, I don’t know what I’m looking for,” you confess, running a hand down your face.

“Then let me figure it out for you. We have time.”

The man calling himself Levi pauses on the other end.

“Did you want to get fucked, Scarlet?”

Well, shit, he didn’t have to say it like that.

“Yes,” you blurt without thinking, then fumbling to recover. “I mean— Sorry, clearly I called thinking about sex, and your voice is extremely lovely and actually very hot—”

“Oh, you think so?” Levi interrupts, honey-smooth voice humming with amusement with that same hum that’s going to make you scream.

“Absolutely. Completely. Are you serious?” you sputter. “You’re like an ASMR wet dream.”

“A what?”

“A wet dream?”

“No, the other thing — ASMR?”

“Um, like when people make really niche quiet noises to a microphone with their mouths, and it gives you the tingly sensation in the back of your head.”

“Interesting,” Levi says. “So are you saying that’s what I do to you?”

For the umpteenth time, your brain blanks.

God, you could scream into your pillow.

If you weren’t so afraid you’d forget to mute your microphone first, then you already would be.

“Yes! — I mean, yes, but — wait, can we just pause this for a second?”

For a moment he doesn’t answer, but the tone of his voice shifts: still just as sultry, but with a hint of confusion and a dash of concern. 

“Of course. Is everything alright?”

No, this entire night is weird.

If you don’t say something, then this is going to just keep looping and wasting his time.

“Okay,” you start, mustering the courage to get through your speech, “I know I’m spoiling the first-caller coupon for a free call and I’m sorry, I’ll totally pay for the session since you’re great and sound insanely hot and I’m sure you’re amazing at your job, but I just…” 

You trail off, collecting your swimming thoughts.

“...I’m something like six or seven drinks in, I am craving potato chips, and I’d really like to just talk to someone for a few minutes.”

There.

It’s out in the open, your confession to the liminal altar.

You half-expect him to hang up rather than wasting his time with someone like you, but to your surprise, there is no click. No call ended. No new automated message.

“Six or seven is a lot,” he comments, and you can picture a brow furrow even if he doesn’t have a face. “Does this mean you handle your liquor, or is this a one-off rager?”

“I think I’m only still functioning because I ate my weight in dinner rolls at the party.”

“Do you have a glass or bottle of water near you?”

The switch up lessens the tension in your shoulder blades in an instant.

His voice is just as crooning, deep and inviting, but it’s nice to simply be asked.

“Nope.”

His voice sharply changes, authoritative and firm. “Then go get one.”

The demand does something to you. 

Without thinking twice you begin to rock up on your heels, standing at full height.

“Okay, Mr. Bossy.”

“Isn’t that what you wanted?” he asks with a sprinkle of sarcasm. “Someone who has their shit together, if I read the notes right.”

“They write that stuff down?” you ask genuinely, minding your step as you pad barefoot across your apartment to your fridge.

“It’s your session,” he reminds softly. “We do whatever it is you want to do.”

“Even if it’s just to talk?”

“You’d be amazed at how many people call just to talk. Though I can’t say it’s my specialty.”

“No?”

“No. I’m not much of a small talker.”

The refrigerator door swings wide. “What’s your specialty, then?”

“Kink play, mostly. Dom and Sub. Guided masturbation. Edging. Making decisions for people who want to forget about making them for a while.”

One second the bottle of water is in your hand.

Next it’s on the floor.

“That’s, uh… a wide array of specialties,” you say. “And your rate, it’s…?”

“Not cheap.”

“Got it. So I’m really flubbing this free call.”

It’s small, but you hear a chuckle on the other end. “You said you wanted to talk, Scarlet, so we’re talking.”

Bending to grab your water bottle, you untwist the cap.

“Does this bother you, wasting your time talking?”

“You’re not wasting my time, Scarlet,” he says with such a promise that you almost believe it’s genuine. “You have a pretty voice, and you’re funny.”

“Shut up.”

“You do, and you are.”

“Uh-huh. And do you talk to a lot of people during your shifts?”

“That’s confidential.”

“So a lot.”

“Confidential.”

“And the length of calls,” you test, “are they hypothetically confidential, too?”

“It’s per minute, so.”

“Per minute?” you gawk. “Jesus, I’d go bankrupt talking to you.”

“Well, premium members receive bills per half hour,” he explains. “More bang for your buck.”

“Quite literally," you mumble. "And what’s a premium subscription get you?”

“Didn’t you check out the website before calling?”

“I told you I stumbled out of my cab and called the number on my napkin, Levi,” you chide. “I didn’t exactly do my research in my sexually frustrated state.”

“Fair, can’t blame you there.”

There’s something of a grunt on the other end, like he’s stretching his arms over his head.

Maybe he’s sitting in an office chair, too, going through the motions of his profession the same way the Petra lady had been.

You keep wanting to imagine what he’s doing on the other line, but you realize you haven’t asked the titular question yet.

“Hey, Levi?”

“Yeah, baby?”

It’s breathy, a roll of thunder in his tongue.

Instead of an office chair, you imagine a man lying on his bed.

Maybe his tie is half-done, hanging loosely around his neck.

Button-down open, exposing the planes of his chest; dress trousers unbuttoned and loose around his hips, so he can easily slide a hand—

Whoa.

You stop walking back to your bedroom and blink twice. “Oh, so you like pet names.”

Your face, in miraculous humiliation, grows another degree hotter at how amused he sounds with himself. “I never said that.”

“Sure,” Levi replies with a smirk to the concession. “What is it, Scarlet?”

(Maybe you’ll permanently change your name to Scarlet after tonight if it sounds this good on a man’s lips.)

You finally unzip the side of your dress and wiggle out, before finding a cozy spot in the middle of your mattress.

“How much time do I have left on this freebie?”

“Approximately three minutes.”

Time flies when you’re too busy gawking over someone���s voice, apparently.

“Can I ask what you look like?” you finally decide, playing along.

“I’m surprised it took you this long to ask,” Levi responds, returning to that same seductive tone he’d used when he first picked up the line. “Black hair, guess it’s a little shaggier than usual. Undercut.”

You squint to your ceiling. “I’m thinking of Dimitri from Anastasia right now but with black hair.”

“I have no idea what that is.”

“You’ve seriously never seen Anastasia?”

“It’s a movie?”

“Oh my god, Levi, I’m so sorry for your childhood.”

“It’s an animated movie?” he scoffs. “Even worse.”

“You wound me,” you joke, pressing a hand over the cup of your beige bra. “What color are your eyes?”

“A gray-ish blue,” he tells you. “Sharp nose. High cheekbones. I’m a daily gym go-er, so I’m mostly lean muscle. I can probably pick you up, easily.”

So a fit man with an undercut hairstyle with gray-blue eyes and a relatively sharp face. 

Now you have a face to the image of a man lying on his bed, still in that button-down shirt and dress trousers.

His happy trail is probably dark, too, disappearing just under the waistband of his boxer briefs.

Or boxers?

Maybe nothing.

Your hand moves on its own accord to the waistband of your panties, toying with the fabric.

Contemplating.

Wondering if it’s wrong — when it really shouldn’t be wrong at all.

“You sound handsome,” you murmur. “I wouldn’t mind being picked up.”

“Wouldn’t be the only thing I’d do to you,” he flippantly states, and your brain blanks to pure putty. “You sound a little more winded than before. Doing alright over there, party animal?”

“It’s late,” you lie even when you damn well know you don’t have to lie. “Lots of drinking, first water of the night, lying down…”

“Better make it two waters before you fall asleep,” Levi states. “That’s an order, Scarlet.”

“Uh-huh.”

Your hand dips under your underwear, testing the waters.

But—

“Final sixty seconds,” he adds. “Any last words you want to get in before the line disconnects?”

“Only one minute left?” you protest, ripping your hand out of your underwear to pull the phone away from your ear.

14:02

So it really had been a fifteen-minute call.

God damnit.

Tapping the speaker icon once more, you stare at your phone and press your tongue against the inside of your cheek.

“What’s your extension?”

Because you have to know.

Even if you don’t call again, it’s a comfort to have it on hand.

Levi waits a moment before responding.

“Two-five-one-two.”

2512.

You swipe away from the call to quickly pull up your notes app, tapping the number down with a noted reminder: the guy with the hot voice!

“Are you going to call me again, Scarlet?”

You open your mouth, but you struggle with an answer.

(You only have a few seconds! Think, idiot, think!)

“I’m not sure if—”

Click.

“Hello? Levi?”

“Thank you for calling the Scout Services Hotline. Please stay on the line for a quick two-minute survey so we can better serve your fantasies in the future.”

Out of time.

You drop your phone to your stomach and groan.

Instead of calling back, you close your eyes — and, not before long, fall asleep to a dream of only one voice.

.

.

— —

.

.

    Saturday is a wash.

You wake late, missing an invitation to brunch.

For the better half of the day, you wonder about him.

Levi.

Your arbitrary match that doesn't feel so arbitrary anymore.

(It's placebo effect, you tell yourself. They're supposed to make you feel wanted.)

Punishing yourself for your excessive liquor and stupid plans, you trudge to your local gym and do your best to stay focused on your workout.

Every nameless person with dark hair that walks past you on the sidewalk from your apartment; anyone could be him.

The man waiting in line at the coffee shop.

The man who accidentally walked into you while you were switching the song on your playlist at the crosswalk.

The man weight training in the corner of the room, fringe cascading down his face as he drips sweat.

You keep the napkin in your gym bag, then transfer it to your purse as you run errands.

You could call.

It isn’t like you’re strapped for cash at the moment.

Granted it’s very wish fulfillment and it isn’t like he’s actually into you, but the attention is nice.

Besides — you haven’t thought of your ex once since you woke up.

Annie texts you twice within ten minutes of each message, which is unheard for her.

 [A. LEONHART]: So? Did you call?

[A. LEONHART]: Hello, earth to moron. At least like my message to tell me you’re alive. I’m not being interviewed by Dateline for you.

(Ah, there she is. Classic Annie.)

 [YOU]: Yeah, I called. Not sure if it’s my thing.

[A. LEONHART]: Sometimes they match you with a dud. 2nd time’s the charm ;)

[YOU]: Do you ever use someone’s extension?

[A. LEONHART]: Duh. I’m a regular of one guy.

Okay, so she talks to a guy. Something grips your stomach as you type your reply.

 [YOU]: Can I ask his name?

[A. LEONHART]: Why, so we don’t eiffel tower this?

[YOU]: jfc annie

[A. LEONHART]: lmao his name is Bert

    So not Levi.

For some odd reason, you breathe a sigh of relief as you close out of your messages.

Maybe you're one of a million, but at least you're not sharing with Annie.

Once you return home from your errands, it's close to dinnertime.

You cook something simple for yourself, occasionally glancing over at your purse like you can x-ray vision through the fabric to see the napkin.

Then again, it isn’t like you actually need the napkin.

The number is already in your phone.

Pulling out your device, you set it on the kitchen counter and draw a slow, calculative inhale.

One more call can’t hurt.

Levi may not even be working.

Hell, he could be talking to someone else. 

A regular.

Several regulars.

For over five minutes you stare down at your most recent calls list, willing yourself to just get brave for one second to press the button.

(It isn’t like Porco’s going to call you.)

The soured thought propels your hand without thinking, fingertip pressing the green phone icon faster than you can think. 

You brace for the ringtone, fists balled tight on the cool kitchen surface.

“Thank you for calling the Scout Services Hotline. You’re only a dial away from your wildest fantasies with the sexiest singles near your area. If you already know your match’s extension, press one.”

You continue staring.

Are you really doing this?

It isn’t like it means anything, which is exactly what you need with the upcoming work week.

A distraction.

A very expensive distraction, but hey — you’ll avoid takeout for a few weeks.

How bad can it get?

“If you’re looking for someone specific —”

You press one.

.

Author's Note:

Thank you for reading part one of my zany little 'Sleepless in Seattle' modern au! This has been a bluesky idea for a while now, and I needed a little reprieve from my other angsty Levi longfic silver underground, so I hope you enjoyed the ride.

There will be actual smut in part two, but as a Reader!Writer I had the thought of 'would I be suave enough to do the first phone call flawlessly or totally waste my free coupon'? and this chapter was born, lol. I promise this is not Porco slander.

Thank you for likes, and even more love to those who choose to reblog this to help spread the word of this new series or reply in the comments. ilu xo

[luvkuvi]

What's so good about him?!

Scaramouche X reader ☆ Smau

synopsis — Your ex boyfriend kuni is in a band called 5wirl and they're pretty well known considering him and his bandmates are still in college but you still hated his guts on how he ended things with you back then in highschool the day before graduation. So whats the best course of action in this situation? make a hate account of him of course. 

Genre — SMAU, Gn! reader, 5wirl au, modern college au, ex to lovers, enemies to lovers-ish(its more of the reader disliking scara) slowburn,fluff,crack,angst, cyber bullying, lots of kys + kms jokes and just typical stan twitter behavior. pictures used for the reader isnt meant to represent the reader!! its more of using the pose !!

💌 — first smau!! might be ooc in some and may be cringe due to most of the chapters early on is just basically daily stan twitter but hope you enjoy!! slow and inconsistent updates. Also timestamps dont matter unless stated otherwise

Status — started: 06/15/23 (taglist open)

Chapters:

babygirls + childe ☆ 5wirl

Teaser !

Act one ☆

01 – chill out

02 – dick riders

03 – unfold

04 – apologies

05 – better than him

06 – diversion

07 – diversion successful

08 – why now

09 – no

10 – please

11 – weird

12 – time

Act two ★

13 – curiosity

14 – no wonder

15 – catching up ☆

16 – stupid ☆

17 – coward

18 – selfish

19 – looking at you

20 – all too well

21 – change of mind

22 – interview

23 – quitting

24 – best friends

25 – suspicious

26 – surprise

27 – connecting the dots

28 – ignorance is bliss

Act three ☆

29 – trending

30 – overeacting

31 – well shit

32 – what

33 – hoes mad

34 – invisible string

35 – reunion

36 – oopsie

36.5 – flashback

37 – final show

.

.

Bonus ★

bonus – Story of us

Taglist!(closed): @sakiimeo @sagegreenthinks @evsolostheuniverse @ozzierenato @mechanicalbeat1 @bananasquash @admiringfish @misomiis @wolfe02 @msameikanevaeh @yukiipc @magica-ren @r0ttenhearts @vvyeislazzy @yuumaofc @klanxii @darthvada @the-ghost-0f-t0m0 @yoyo-yui @deluluangel @katsumikumo @thenightsflower @lazy-sanns @sukunasrealgf @4thnocturne @danhenglovebot @sketcheeee @fumichannorakuen @featuredtofu @mine-lu @karma-gisa @amyena @onmywaytoteyvat @fujimoribaby @eliqusgenma @buubbbbly @reekapeeka @elernity @323jelly @kunikissr @miko1ly @feverish-dove @zuunotsane @pomeiu @yxcade @kascar-chronicle @supercoolusernameomg @otomegame-oneshots @cookieofwishes @swivy123(bold usernames means i couldn't tag you :<) 1/2

[hunajatahti]

cookies, shenanigans, love | ls2

pairing: logan sargeant x fem!foodblogger!reader [no faceclaim]

summary: young foodblogger releases vlog and reveals her longtime boyfriend.

notes: this is my first fic in english and english is not my first language - i apologize for any mistakes. thanks for your comments <3 maybe part2??

liked by oscarpiastri, liamlawson30, logansargeant and 7,274 others

itsy/n vlog soon. now the last month's dump. 1. the best thing about the beginning of the week is coffee with the girls! 2. chesschesschess 3. i really love my sweet boys 4. we have style 💅🏻✨️ 5. reasons for our love with this car 6. no comment 7. walk with bestie 8. date with my boy 9. treasure hunt

view all 1,729 comments

jk53 that's all sweet, but why is my brother wearing honey's ex helmet in my ex kitchen?

itshoney we were bored, and then we weren't bored. itsy/n i said no comment.

user1 Why vlog? It's not your format.

itshoney: no comment. itsy/n: true or the action didn't go according to honey's plan user2: Don't know why we didn't expect it. jk53: and we are growing and evolving. not abandoning our main format, but expanding it

user2 this soft launch has been going on for too long to be honest.

user3 on the one hand i think it's ok to not want publicity but on the other hand it's been going on for years and we don't know who he is. we don't even know his name user4 but we know they have nice dates. user2 and that alone makes me want to spend the night on the highway

user5: i am new and i have a question. is it normal to have f1 and f2 pilots in likes?

user3 yes. user2 yes. they and lily (both) have long subscribed to all the cookie tv guys!!! the boys hardly ever comment. lily (gf aa23) is the most active commenter of them all.

liked by itsy/n, oscarpiastri, logansargeant and 7,164 others

itshoney girls night girls night!!! i missed 😢

view all 1,134 comments

user1 these cookies look incredible! will you share the recipe?

user2 the recipe is among the baking videos. there was an update not too long ago and they added a vegetarian version

user3: we miss the lives

user4 this week there were 21 Saturdays without lives... user5 that's a sad fact.

lilymhe i want to know what these cookies taste like 🍪

itshoney 👀 itsy/n what if it's possible.... jk53 to avoid possible further spoilers, the girls' cell phones have been confiscated.

user6: the fair is coming back???

user7 or workshops... user5 or sales.... user2 or shipping products to select subscribers.... user6 but we won't know the truth because jk confiscated the phones. jk53 it wasn't me. it was 🌷

liked by itshoney, oscarpiastri, logansargeant and 7,302 others

itsy/n on a date with my boy, my beautiful girl and her boyfriend. thanks to honey for organizing this date 🥰

view all 1,697 comments

itshoney it's NOT a poly. It's a DOUBLE date.

itshoney and importantly, thanks to the boys for the custom makeup bag

user1 VLOG WILL A DATE

jk53 no. but in the vlog, it'll probably be something that happened in parallel itsy/n AND WHAT WAS GOING ON IN PARALLEL? itshoney NO ONE DIED itsy/n THIS IS NOT AN ANSWER itshoney i made a new friend, he promised to appear in the video sometime. and then there was our typical lolo behavior. itsy/n the vlog could do without this chaos. user2 We want this chaos. It sounds great. jk53 we'll see what we can do about timing

user3 when the face is revealed. it's no longer possible. too many cute pictures.

user4 on the one hand I like how we see the chaos outside the video but on the other hand….. I can't get enough!

user5 shoppers look great

user6 business idea: sell them

lilymhe cuties

itsy/n cutie wrote a comment!!!

liked by itshoney, itsy/n, logansargeant and 8,459 others

itscoookiestv the devil works hard, but @/jk53 is even harder. A pinch of cooking and a spoonful of shenanigans = vlog recipe. enjoy.

view all 2,479 comments

itsy/n genius, you forgot to write when the vlog comes out.

itshoney it was supposed to go out some time after the post, but the isp was of a different opinion.

user1 WE WILL SEE Y/N`S BOYFRIEND!!!

user2 war is over

lilymhe I'm excited! 😍

user3 tomorrow F1 race, today vlog from the girls. life is beautiful

user4 I see these pictures, the vlog footage? And I shake.

user5 I NEED TO SEE HIM AS SOON AS I CAN.

oscarpiastri finally

liamlawson30 LET'S GOOOOOOO

jk53 vlog is officially available on youtube right now!

[the end]

[neechees]

I am putting out a warning for the blog @/blktransdyke for very likely being a scammer, and is/was the same person behind the now deactivated blog @/raisedeyebrowemojii (who is also very likely a scammer) for the following reasons:

Usage of a very common story one particular scammer constantly reuses across multiple blogs (which i've talked about here before)

Several typical scammer red flags: Their blog has only existed since April 2023, and they started asking for money immediately. The blog only posted for the month of April and then did not post for months only to come back in January 2024, and start asking for money again

Their blog is sparse of anything denoting a personality, personal interests, friendly interactions with mutuals or followers, aesthetic choices and/or blog customization, and the only thing they reblog is also mentioned in their bio, thus indicating a falsified persona for a scam blog. (Ex: they say they are a lesbian, and so have a few posts about lesbianism, and the rest of the posts are almost exclusively fundraising posts)

Inconsistent information

Suspicious behavior on twitter, which was also noted and called out on twitter

Claiming to be homeless, but apparently rejected the non-monetary aid from another user who offered to house them

Claims to be "Indigenous" but then misuses the terminology of their alleged tribe (thus likely indicating racefaking for a scam persona)

No proof of their claims

Posting the same personal information as two other suspicious accounts while call three claim to be different people (& this is connected to the raisedeyebrowemojii blog)

& you know me, I always come with screenshots and proof. Image descriptions will be available in Alt text. (& please bear with me, some screenshots lead to imgur due to tumblr limiting images to 10).

First off, the suspicious story that is often reused by one particular scammer:

There's a scammer on here that ALWAYS uses the same story of:

Claiming to be trans,

claiming to be homeless,

Says they are homeless because they were/are being kicked out by a bigoted/homophobic/transphobic parent

Shows a screenshot of a IM or text message correspondence between them, and their alleged parent, where the parent is being abusive, and the messages always very concisely, very conveniently mention what is happening

Usually says they are disabled in some way (though before they would usually claim to be autistic)

The blktransdyke blog has all five of these things.

Im putting the rest under the cut because this is gunna get long, buckle in.

Secondly, inconsistent information, rejecting non-monetary aid, & suspicious Twitter activity (& this is also connected to the creation date of their tumblr account, which you'll see in a moment):

The blog blktransdyke uses two methods of recieving money, gofundme, which is linked on their main page and is run by someone named "Avalon Smith" (& we can assume this is the name they prefer to go by, because they have the tag "avalon speaks" on their blog), and this gofundme account says its based in York, Ontario. And the second is paypal, which uses a different name, which is "Ashton Jones" & the paypal url of "/ashtonjonesy". Below, the first screenshot on the very left, is a screenshot of the first post they made asking for money on April 14th 2023 while linking to the gofundme account, and then the second screenshot to the right is the blktransdyke's more recent donation post asking for money to be sent to the ashtonjonesy paypal account, and then here is a link to a screenshot of the gfm run by "Avalon Smith".

The consistencies are odd: and while one might think that "Ashton Jones" is an older name or a dead name, but if you search up "ashtonjonesy" in a search engine, you get two results: one leads to a post made by a now deleted twitter/X account with the url "blktransdyke" while using that same paypal (so we can assume this is the same person from twitter/X) and the second is ANOTHER twitter account, still up, that is completely different, also using the twitter url that is the same as the paypal username (/ashtonjonesy) who also claims to be homeless & kicked out by a transphobic parent, but says they have different pronouns than blktransdyke & seems to be transmasc, not a binary trans lesbian that blktransdyke claims to be. Below is screenshots of that.

But what's more troubling: the second twitter account @/ashtonjonesy on twitter/X says that they were 24 years old as of July 2021, while blktransdyke claims that they are 21 as of January 2024. So this can't be the same person using different names and twitter accounts, and yet curiously both are using the exact same story (both claim they are trans, homeless, and disabled & using a wheelchair), and both use the exact same paypals, while are apparently two completely different people. And again, we know that there is a scammer who repeatedly reuses the exact same story details across various accounts

And then, more concerning, that if you search up "blktransdyke" on twitter, while the original posts by the account are gone due to the account being deleted, you get results of various Twitter/X users retweeting the account blktransdyke's post, which was them asking for money. The bottom screenshots are related to the next point: highlighted in yellow you can see someone offering blktransdyke a place to stay, and they live in the same province, and the second screenshot, highlighted in blue you can see that on April 12th 2023, a twitter user accused them of being a scam. We can assume the blktransdyke account wasn't taken down yet that day due to this user encouraging other users to report them.

Recent tumblr creation date:

The oldest and first post made by the blog blktransdyke on tumblr was posted on April 14th, 2023. And as you can see, that was two days after the blktransdyke twitter/X account was accused of scamming. So the blktransdyke twitter account was accused of scamming, then was either deleted or self deactivated, and then the blktransdyke tumblr account showed up immediately after that while using the exact same paypal and story. Which brings us to the other half, which is

Rejecting aid

On this screenshot we can see in a retweet of what the original blktransdyke twitted/X account originally said in the post, and that on August 22nd 2022, they claimed they were still homeless, so apparently they didn't take up the person in Toronto who was literally offering them a place to stay on September 2nd, 2022 (which you can see in the screenshot above, on the second last tweet result to the right).

Claims of Indigeneity & inaccurate terminology:

This one is more minor compared to the other evidence listed here, but in blktransdyke's bio, they claim to be "Inuit" & "Afro-Indigenous": the problem here is that "Inuit" is the plural form, its uncommon that Inuit refer to themselves as this in the singular pronoun because it is grammatically incorrect and an actual Inuk would know that, and instead will use "Inuk" to refer to themselves, but blktransdyke says they are "Inuit". So this terminology is inaccurate coming from a person claiming to be "Indigenous". & just in case they change it, here is a screenshot if their current profile description. Moving on,

Posting the same information as another blog

This is where things get more wild. I have reason to believe that the now deleted blog @/raisedeyebrowemojii ("Jay") is and was a scammer who befriended multiple people to gain trust, and that blktransdyke is the same person as them due to the information that both blogs posted. A couple things to note here is that 1. Raisedeyebrowemojii claimed that they were suffering due to a terminal kidney disease, 2. ALSO stated that she was escaping an abusive situation, was a lesbian, was homeless, and was victimized by a homophobic/transphobic parent, and 3. Had not posted anything since June 2023, before eventually being deactivated. Some of the users "Jay" befriended worried that she may have died due to this apparent kidney disease (which you can find in the tumblr search if you look up that tumblr username). Now, I can't find any paypal that "Jay" posted, but they DID post several other links allegedly that were being used for their donation posts

In this post, graciously saved on webarchive for your viewing pleasure, on May 16th 2023, @/raisedeyebrowemojii claimed that they needed a mattress, and also linked a patreon for allegedly their "best friends'" and "caregiver's" cat, named Trouble 📌. Put a pin in that, we'll come back to it. Below is a screenshot of that post where they linked the patreon. Notice that it's a brown, striped tabby cat. And here is the patreon link (which is still up) that the @/raisedeyebrowemojii blog linked for their "best friend's cat" that was apparently meant to be used to fundraise for their day to day life bills. It doesn't have a lot of patrons or followers. Below is a screenshot of the link I gave for webarchive talking about fundraising for the mattress, and the cat patreon.

Also note, that neither this post by raisedeyebrowemojii nor in the patreon does it link to any other site for content on "Trouble the cat". It vaguely mentions a private Facebook page, but doesn't give any links.

And the blog @/blktransdyke posted this video as well as THIS video, and in both videos, they claim that this brown, striped, tabby cat is their "best friend's cat" 📌. Below are screenshots showing its the same cat, including the same black and yellow blanket.

So both the blogs @/raisedeyebrowemojii AND @/blktransdyke posted a cat that looks very similar: it's brown, a tabby, and striped, and both said that this cat was their "best friend's", and raisedeyebrowemojii said that this cat's name was "Trouble" & referred to them as "Trouble the Cat" in the linked Patreon allegedly belonging to their "best friend". Except here's the bigger problem.

Trouble the Cat is already an existing open, publicly available facebook page with 27K likes and 42K+ followers, and it has its own YouTube page, tiktok account, and Instagram. And if you look at the far top right video on the second screenshot showing the youtube channel, it's the exact same video that appears on the blktransdyke tumblr page. It's the exact same brown, striped tabby cat, in the exact same grooming position, on the same black and yellow blanket, with the same thumbnail, and the exact same caption.

So both Raisedeyebrowemojii AND blktransdyke posted the exact same cat that allegedly belongs to their "best friend", and both of them claim to be homeless, trans, disabled, and being kicked out by a transphobic parent.

& if you go to the links, the official trouble the cat's first instagram post was made on December 23rd 2022, its oldest youtube video was posted on December 23rd 2022, and the facebook says it was made on March 30th, 2021, HOWEVER, the account says they've been active since 2008, but made a post on November 15th, 2023 that said they'd been hacked and made a NEW account, and furthermore, on November 7th 2023, they ALSO made a post saying that multiple other accounts were trying to impersonate them. So, side note, this account could have been hacked by the scammer.

The raisedeyebrowemojii linked that cat patreon on May 17th, 2023, and the oldest video that the blktransdyke posts of that cat is on January 6th, 2024. Both therefore, could have plausibly and likely did, steal these cat videos because all accounts of the troublethecat social media accounts existed BEFORE either raisedeyebrowemoji OR blktransdyke posted them. I find it highly unlikely that both of these blogs had the exact same "best friend".

And if this was true and that this really WAS raisedeyebrowemojii's "best friend" and their cat, then why didn't raisedeyebrowemojii blog link to the other official troublethecat social media accounts, especially since they were so popular, and they claimed they were using this patreon for fundraising for bills? And why didn't the official social media accounts ever say anything about raisedeyebrowemojii's patreon if they were "best friends" trying to fundraise? Surely, an account with 42K followers would have more than a few willing patrons that could have helped their alleged situation.

Therefore, neither raisedeyebrowemojii OR blktransdyke are actually affiliated with this highly popular social media account of "Trouble the Cat" and BOTH of them stole from this account to scam, and both accounts wrre/are run by the same person.

[gloomwitchwrites]

Break Up with Your Toxic Boyfriend (3 of 4)

John Price x Female Reader

Content & Warnings: brief discussion of verbal and emotional injury, implied cheating, canon-typical swearing, protective / possessive Price, oral sex (female receiving), unprotected piv (wrap it up irl)

Word Count: 1.9k

A/N: Part of the Imagines & What If Series

Price might be your ex, but the two of you still consider yourselves friends. When you call him up about your current boyfriend’s horrible behavior, Price comes running with the intention of making you his again

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // break up with your toxic boyfriend masterlist

Price sits opposite you at your kitchen table. The muscles in his jaw fucking ache from clenching it. He has to keep reminding himself to release the tension before he gives himself a headache. Between the two of you rests an open whiskey bottle. There are two glasses. One directly in front of you, and one directly in front of him.

You don’t want to have this conversation like this, but Price forced it. You’ve brought up the issue countless time, but it’s almost always been over the phone. You’re not afraid to contact him to seek advice or to vent. Price likes that you call him because it gives him an excuse to talk to you.

But he’s fucking sick of this. He is sick of you taking this man’s—no—this immature fucking boy’s bullshit. A real man doesn’t act this way. This time, there will not be a phone conversation, but a face-to-face one. You don’t have a choice.

The truth is you were once Price’s woman. The two of you almost made it to the altar.

Price nearly made it all the way you with, but that was all yanked away from him. He was younger then, and just earned the title “Captain.” But Price was glued to his job, making that a priority over you every time.

He had fucked it all up, and you were right in leaving him.

Over the years, the two of you worked it out, falling back on a friendship that Price deeply values but silently wishes could become so much more again. You should be with him. You could be happy. Price knows what he did during your relationship was wrong. If you gave him another chance, he’d show you all the ways he’s fixed himself.

Instead, you’re dating this fucking prick who isn’t even worth a lob of spit. Price met the guy once and that was enough. He made nice for your benefit, but right now, Price isn’t feeling particularly nice anymore. Not after your phone call.

This relationship isn’t working for you. Unhappiness oozes out of every pore every time Price sees you in person or speaks with you over the phone. He knows it lingers. He knows it clings. But you are far too hesitant to admit it.

Maybe, Price just needs to give you a little push.

He takes a deep breath, unclenching his jaw before he speaks. “This time he abandoned you at the bar.” Each word unfurls slowly as Price tries to suppress his rising anger. “Do you know where he went?”

You shake your head. “It doesn’t matter where.”

Of course it matters. This bastard gets so ragingly drunk that he ends up fucking leaving you whenever the two of you go out. Sometimes he’s taken the car or wandered off or left with others. Those times, you never tell Price whether he’s left with a friend or a stranger.

And Price is almost always the one coming to your rescue.

Just like now.

It has happened yet again.

Price is here and your boyfriend isn’t.

“It does matter,” replies Price, biting back the annoyed growl threatening to crawl up his throat. “Have you even heard from him?”

You frown, and that tells Price all he needs to know.

Your boyfriend has a pattern. The amount of time between leaving and contacting you all depends on what he’s up to. By the look on your face, Price starts to form a semblance of an idea.

“How long?” he asks. You remain silent. “How long?” he repeats.

Your fingernail idly scratches at the tabletop. “Almost two days.”

“Two days?” Price nearly knocks over his whiskey glass as he leans forward in his chair.

You shrug. Glance away.

Price softly scoffs and tosses back his drink, rubbing at one of his temples. The whiskey leaves a lingering burn. He knows what this means. Two days and no contact mean this fucker is likely in a stranger’s bed.

Everything within him wants to lecture you, to chastise and argue like he would with any of his subordinates. But you are not a soldier. You are the woman he nearly married. Price expected the rest of his life to be filled with you and the children you might have together.

He needs to do better. He needs to be gentle.

He needs to make you see that you should come back to him.

Price reaches for the whiskey bottle, pouring some of the amber liquid into his glass. “Remember the pub we’d always go to when I was off? The one by the coast?”

He’s changing the subject, but it’s only to move you away from your thoughts. Like Price, you already know what your boyfriend is up to. You already know but you won’t say it out loud because doing so is too painful.

The corners of your mouth turn upward, and Price sees victory on the horizon.

“The sea salt always stuck to everything.” You sigh with pleasure. “And they had the best armchairs.”

Price keeps his gaze fixated on your face, observing your softening features. “The walk back to the cottage was nice.” He shrugs. “A bit cold but…quiet.”

Romantic is what he wants to say.

“It was,” you laugh, becoming more animated. “You’d always shove me into your coat with you. But you only wanted to—”

You cut off abruptly, those soft features turning inward, embarrassment clear on your face.

Price knows exactly what you’re thinking.

He always wrapped you up in his coat so he could touch you. You’d warm up in his arms, and by the time the two of you arrived at the cottage he rented, you’d be needy for him. The moment Price would walk over the threshold, you’d be on him, nearly climbing him like a tree in an effort to fuck him.

Price says nothing but he doesn’t need to. You speak first.

“I miss those days,” you murmur.

“Do you miss me?” His question comes out automatically. Price didn’t even think before it flitted off his tongue.

Your gaze turns back to him, and while Price believes he sees brief desire there, you do not answer.

Swallowing, Price leans back in his chair. “You don’t need to answer that.”

This time it is you that leans forward. “I do.” Your gaze falls to the table before returning to his face. “I know you don’t feel the same way but—”

“I don’t?” interrupts Price, setting his whiskey glass down to address you completely. “You can read my mind now?”

You roll your eyes and start to recline but Price surges forward, reaching out to snag your wrist before your hand drops below the table. “Why do you think I still come around? Why I come when you call?”

There is no tug. You don’t try to snatch your arm back.

“You should be mine,” murmurs Price.

The confession is liquid, seeping into everything. He cannot take it back but he doesn’t want to. This is his chance to reclaim what he lost all those years ago.

There is a hesitation before you act. Slowly, you turn your wrist in his grasp, presenting your palm. Price glances down at it, and then shifts his grip, sliding his hand into yours. You’re a bit cold and his instinct is to wrap his fingers around yours, warming them.

The sigh you release is soft, and Price wants to breathe it in. To take it into himself.

“When I said it doesn’t matter where he went, I meant it,” you whisper. “I don’t care. He left me behind. It’s not the first time. Haven’t heard from him either. He’s left as far as I’m considered. That only makes it easier. Means I don’t have to be the one to do it.”

Is this it? Are you finally his again?

You lick your lips, and he follows the movement, wanting to taste what he’s been missing.

“Make me forget, John. Please.”

The way you say it breaks something inside him. You could ask anything of him in this moment and he’d gladly give it.

Releasing your hand, Price stands, walking around the table to get to you. You are already on your feet, reaching for him. Price tugs you into his arms and you go easily, wrapping your arms around his neck as he comes in for what he’s been craving.

You are sweet, bursting on his tongue. Your fingers thread through his hair, and Price pulls you even closer, his arms wrapping around your waist, hands falling low to squeeze the gentle curve of your ass.

Breaking apart is agony.

“So, you have missed me,” teases Price.

The gentle smile on your face is all the answer he needs. You want to forget, and so he’ll make you forget.

You are in his arms in moments. Price already knows where the bedroom is, and the second the two of you enter, Price is laying you on the bed, tugging at your clothes. He needs them gone. He needs you bare.

And you are happy to oblige, helping him remove each layer.

Price brands your skin with his mouth and tongue. He brings your nipples to hardened peaks, he kisses the valley between your breasts, creates a trail down to the space between your thighs. When he drops between them, he decides to stay. He decides to worship.

He will not leave. Not until you’re fucking begging for him to fuck you.

Price runs his tongue up your pussy, swirling the tip of it around your clit before sucking it into his mouth. Your nearly come off the bed, hands threading through his hair. Twisting. Your grip is rough, but Price could give a fuck.

He wants you screaming his name. He wants you riding his face.

That is exactly what you do, but Price takes his time with it, savoring every inch of your body, tasting and remembering the space between your thighs. He could stay here forever. Each orgasm that surges and recedes is a victory.

Price is prideful. Smug.

Your hips roll against his mouth, and he has to grip them to keep you from accidentally breaking his nose. Even if you managed to do so Price would wear it like a badge of honor.

“John,” you moan, voice breaking. “Please.”

Price stops teasing your clit, retreats a bit, pushing up until he can plant a soft kiss on your belly.

“Please, what?” he asks, all mock innocence. You whimper, fingers digging into his skin. “Words, love. Use your words.”

You shake your head. “I need you.”

“How?”

“Inside me, John.”

A flare of possessiveness rages through him, consuming every nerve and muscle and bone. Price pushes up from the bed and moves up your body. The moment his face is level with yours, you kiss him. Your hand is reaching between your bodies, gripping him, stroking him. Legs parting further, you hook them over his, pressing inward, indicating what you want.

Price shifts, lining up to your entrance. You press more but he is stronger. He resists, grabbing the back of your neck. “Tell me. Truly. Are you mine?” He tugs on your hair, exposing your neck. “Say it.”

“I’m yours,” you whimper.

Price starts to sink in. He’ll make you his again with more than just his words. Price will fill you up, have you dripping with him, just like he used to do.

taglist:

@glassgulls @km-ffluv @glitterypirateduck @tiredmetalenthusiast @spicyspicyliving @childofyuggoth @coffeecaketornado @aykxz98 @kayden666 @36namey @miss-mistinguett @keiva1000 @cherryofdeath @pertinentpostmortem @enfppuff @kittytiddywinks @berarenado @saoirse06 @no-oneelsebutnsu @marispunk @thewulf @hayleybarnesx @lxblm @ferns-fics @ooldcardigan @beebeechaos @enarien @sw33tsnow @kessi-21 @makayla-666 @lifes-project @burn1ngw00d @heeheehoohoohahahihi @lulurubberduckie @nelladowney @miaraei @contractedcriteria @lovely-ateez @blackhawkfanatic @suhmie

[impuls1veworm]

JEALOUSY, JEALOUSY.

˚₊ ⋆ ☠︎︎ ⋆ ₊˚ Prompt: typical jealous ex-husband behavior.

"Go ahead, ask for her number," came a teasing voicing from behind her; one (y/n) knew all too well. The arrogant yet handsome visage of her ex-husband came into view. Despite it being 6 months since (y/n) has last seen him, he still looked the same as the day they finalized the divorce. Hair neatly styled, suit fitted perfectly, and a calm demeanor. (Y/N) hated to admit it, but he looked good.

The poor waiter was caught off guard by the request, choosing instead to fall silent. (Y/N) looked away from her ex-husband to address the waiter, "ignore him, ple—"

"No, ask for her number. She'll give it to you," his stern, yet amused tone interjected. (Y/N) couldn't help the irritated breath of air she let out through her nose. The waiter, unsure, yet not wanting to cause a further scene, hesitantly asked for (y/n)'s number. (Y/N) grabbed a pen from her purse and hurriedly scribbled her number on the napkin beside her plate.

Her ex watched over her shoulder as she wrote the number, turning to giving the waiter a pleased smile, "don't worry, that's really her number." (Y/N) handed the waiter the napkin and sent him on his way. Her ex watched the man walk away before turning back to (Y/N). Placing a hand on her shoulder, he leaned down, his lips gently brushing her ear, "front door. 10 minutes."

(Y/N) made herself comfortable in the living room she once considered her own. Her ex-husband stood in front of her, peering down at her with an unreadable look on his face. (Y/N) was about to question why her ex-husband insisted she came back to their old home when her phone began to light up. (Y/N) looked at her phone to see an unknown number calling.

The waiter.

"Answer it," came the demanding tone of her ex. Still, (Y/N) lingered above the green button, unsure of if it was the right move. Impatiently, he grabbed the phone from her hand and answered it for her. As the waiter's hello's filtered through the speaker, her ex flung the phone onto the couch beside (Y/N). Leaning down to capture her lips in a heated kiss, the other man's voice was quickly drowned out by sighs of pleasure.

Ran, Mikey, Sanzu, Taiju, Takeomi, Izana, Kazutora, Baji, and Chifuyu — TokyoRev

Gojo, Geto, Toji, and Sukuna — Jujutsu Kaisen

[thehighladywrites]

THIS ISN’T GOODBYE, THIS IS SIMPLY SEE YOU LATER…

⋆˙⟡ pairing: ex husband/baby daddy rhysand x fem reader

⋆˙⟡ summary: people who love each other will always find their way back. you and rhys divorced a few years ago, but you will always love each other

⋆˙⟡ warnings: 18+, mdni light angst, hurt to comfort, fluff, smut, violent behavior (not rhysand), misogyny, they’re in love your honor😔

⋆˙⟡ amara’s note: i’m a little iffy about this bc i feel like it could be better but i hope you love it. The smut isn’t really that smutty, it’s more fluffy. Please, let me know what you think; leave a comment😌💗 also english isn’t my first language so if something doesn’t make sense, ignore💀 ALSO LISTEN TO CEILINGS BY LIZZY WHEN YOU GET TO THE RUNNING SCENE PLS IT’S GONNA MAKE SO MUCH SENSE (i hope)

Getting back into the dating scene after your divorce felt strange. Unbeknownst to you, you found yourself unconsciously comparing every man to Rhys, nitpicking on their behavior. Seated at a beautiful restaurant with a guy quite different from your usual choices, things seemed promising until he gave you some backhanded compliments.

“You say you're a doctor? You?” His words grated on your nerves, and you couldn't fathom why he was so shocked.

“Yes, I am. Is that surprising to you?” you retorted.

He chuckled nervously and shook his head. “No, no. I just pegged you for a nurse or something. You know, something more feminine.”

Your hopes deflated. Turns out, this guy wasn't different at all—he was just like every pompous and misogynistic man out there.

Keeping your cool, you fire back with a smirk,

“Is this coming from the person who just told me they bake for a living? I pegged your for a construction worker, you know, something more masculine.” With a smile you excuse yourself from the table, leaving him puzzled and perhaps questioning his outdated assumptions. Your departure left him to contemplate his lacking dinner date skills.

In the search for someone matching the love you'd known, you found yourself in a loop of comparing every date to Rhys. You shook your head, realizing you needed to stop this habit and maybe, just maybe, find happiness beyond those high standards.

With a dramatic exhale, you frowned, blaming Rhys for your lousy love life. After all, he had treated you like a goddess, setting extremely untouchable standards.

—

As if the mother herself had heard your wish, you finally met a somewhat decent man who wasn’t giving you any backhanded compliment or was making you feel uncomfortable. Although he was somewhat nice he was a little bland and not something you would typically go for. He was very nice with your daughters but could have a temper.

But beggars can’t be choosers right?

With utmost tenderness, you approached the conversation with your twin daughters, explaining the new man in your life. In soft words, you explained that mommy and daddy weren't together anymore, framing it as a journey of finding happiness even though you deep down weren’t feeling the happiness you portrayed. You emphasized the still-there love between you and their father, assuring them that sometimes people are just better off as friends.

Even though the news initially saddened them, your gentle touch in explaining the complexities of grown-up emotions, coupled with the warmth of your smile, melted their worries away. As they saw the happiness radiating from you, your daughters embraced the idea, understanding that your heart always carried love for them and their father.

Little did you know that your mischievous baby girls spilled the news to Rhysand, sharing every detail about the man you were seeing, your dates, and even telling him that you still loved Daddy. However, being the little dramatists they were, they exaggerated, making it seem like you were head over heels for him.

Despite almost three years of separation and the seemingly agreement to divorce, the twins' confession ignited a flame of jealousy in Rhysand. The mere thought of you going on dates and being entertained by other men stirred an irrational desire within him to claim you as his own. Witnessing other males treating you and touching you made him feel absolutely murderous.

He hates that you’re not together anymore, hates that you don’t wear your wedding ring even tho he wears his, he hates that he’s not by your side. But most of all he hates himself for ever letting your marriage break apart.

Rhys had attempted countless times to mend what was once whole, to win you back and rebuild what had crumbled. However, you always hesitantly turned him down, insisting that you couldn't put each other through that hurt again.

The fact that the girls spoke so highly of the man you were dating only fueled Rhysand's jealousy and he couldn’t help but roll his eyes dramatically. “Oh, he’s so nice, took us out for ice cream and we went to the theater,” they gushed. He couldn't shake the feeling that it should've been him – watching plays with you and your daughters, taking them out for ice cream together. The longing for the life he once had with you remained a persistent ache in his heart.

Of course he doesn’t let it go the next time you come around to drop off the girls

The joyful echoes of your daughters filled Rhysand's new and massive mansion, quickly greeting their father and saying goodbye before dashing inside, leaving you and Rhysand alone. Observing them run to the living room, playing with their new toys, you couldn't help but smile. With their father's violet eyes and dark hair, they were practically clones of Rhysand.

Caught in the moment, you looked up at Rhysand, finding his captivating eyes already fixed on you.

Fuck.

The intensity of his gaze almost made you forget the dinner plans with your boyfriend.

“I heard you were seeing someone,” he remarked, and you froze, feeling an unexpected twinge of embarrassment. It wasn't supposed to be a secret; you just weren't ready to share it yet. Trying to save face, you swallowed back any stutter and inquired,

“Who told you that?”

“My daughters told me all about him.”

That’s what you get for trusting 6 year olds. Your attempt at secrecy shattered, and you found yourself apologizing,

“Ah, sorry for not telling you about it; it's all very new, but the kids seem to like him. And I promise he wouldn’t be around them if i didn’t trust him.”

Rhysand's jaw ticked in frustration. Well, wasn't that just fucking great? Your daughters not only liked but loved the guy, and here you were, agreeing with them.

“So, you two hit it off. How marvelous.”

You sighed and looked away,

“Please, just don’t.”

Silence hung in the air as you both stood there, the weight of unspoken emotions filling the room. Breaking the silence, you sighed, signaling your readiness to leave your old house.

“Okay then, I'll be leaving now. I'll come pick them up later tonight. Thanks for watching them tonight, I know it was last minute. But, um, actually, can I pick them up tomorrow instead?” you asked, and Rhysand felt a flicker of suspicion, silently praying he was wrong.

“ I thought we agreed on tonight. Do you have other plans?” he inquired, hoping for a straightforward answer.

Your face flushed red as you considered explaining the evening's plans, but it felt wrong to share such details with Rhys. Opting for a lie, you hoped he wouldn't catch on.

“Oh, yeah, I've got some things I need to do at the hospital tonight. You know, just some reports on a few patients. Nothing major, but I might be a bit... worn out tonight, and that's why I need to pick them up tomorrow.”

The half-truth hung in the air, and Rhysand's suspicions lingered, creating a subtle tension in the farewell.

“So this has nothing to do with you going on a date with your little friend? Sorry, boyfriend.”

Before you could respond, Rhysand stepped closer, closing the gap until there was almost no room between you. You backed away slowly until your back hit the front door. His towering presence made you look up at him, a shiver running down your spine. Tilting his head, he approached your ear, and the soft words he spoke, combined with the warm breath on your skin, sent a wave of heat through your body.

“It should be us, love. Please come back to me,” he murmured, and your eyes fluttered shut, overwhelmed by the proximity. As his hands came around your waist, turning you around so your back rested against his sturdy chest, it became impossible to leave the embrace of his warmth. Deep down, a part of you didn't want to escape the intoxicating sense of his presence.

He pulls you even closer, wrapping his arms around your middle as his calm heartbeat pounds against your back, his words confessing a truth that breaks your heart twice.

Once, because the vision he paints sounds so ideal – the two of you getting back together, going on dates, playing with your daughters, being a whole family again. It's the life you had once dreamed of, the life you wanted with the man you spent centuries with, the father of your kids, your greatest love.

The second break comes with the painful reminder of why you found yourself in this mess in the first place. Rhysand had been too consumed by his work, constantly holed up in his office, neglecting the precious time with you and your daughters. Despite understanding the importance of his duties, you couldn't help feeling the sting of neglect. It reached a breaking point when your girls tearfully asked for their daddy every night, only to find he wasn't there.

Realizing the toll this dynamic took on your family's well-being, you made the difficult decision to part ways. Telling Rhys that you weren't good for each other at the moment, you emphasized the need for him to work on himself and find a balance between work and family.

As you gather the strength to move out of his grip, facing him becomes the hardest task.

Turning around to meet his gaze, his face reveals the devastation within. His once vibrant features now wear a sad and empty color. You utter words that add another layer to the heartbreak,

“Rhys, please, you know we can't. Someday but not now.”

His eyes gloss over as he whispers,

“Fate was not in our favor, my dear. But I swear on everything I have, I will do my best to earn you back.”

Tears well up as he kisses your forehead, whispering promises of finding a way back to you.

The weight of the unspoken goodbye lingers, and you walk away, hoping that time and healing would pave a path for the future you both yearned for.

Because you did want to be with him, you really fucking did, and you cried the whole way home. Rhys had given you the town house while he lived in the River estate. The tears flowed even more freely as you sat in your empty and silent house.

Each sob intensified as you went to your cold and empty bed, the very one that used to cradle him in – your husband, your heart. The ache of the empty space beside you was a painful reminder of the love that once filled those sheets, now replaced by solitude and the haunting echo of what had been lost.

—

Your puffy eyes opened slowly, abruptly yanked from a deep slumber by the pounding on your door. Glancing at the clock on your desk, the numbers 1:46 glared back at you – who the hell could it be at this hour? Irritated, you stumbled to the door, ready to chew out whoever dared disturb your sleep.

The door slammed open, revealing Sam standing there, visibly upset. Your still-sleepy brain failed to connect the dots fast enough, and it took a moment to register that you were supposed to be on a date with him tonight. The realization dawned, and you found yourself caught in the awkward aftermath of a missed arrangement, facing Sam with both confusion and exhaustion etched on your face.

“Where the hell have you been? I have been waiting for hours,” he exclaimed, his worried and angry eyes searching yours.

Feeling a twinge of guilt, you pulled him in by his hands, urging him to come inside. Apologizing over and over, you hugged him tightly, saying that you fell asleep over and over until he forgave you.

A part of you knew you did it to calm his potentially violent reaction.

“At least your alive. Next time, let me know so I don't look like a fucking idiot,” he said, his comment irking you despite understanding where he was coming from.

Stepping closer, you wrapped your arms around Sam's neck, pulling him into a distracting kiss that escalated quickly.

Before he could say anything more about the situation and grow even more angry you kissed him again, trying to shift his focus elsewhere, which was easy. He lifted you and walked you toward the bed, the same one you had shared with Rhys.

Suddenly, a wave of panic hit you at the thought of another male's scent mixing with Rhysand's. With huffed breath and panicked words, you interrupted the moment, “No, not the bed. Let's just use the couch instead.”

Your urgency left no room for argument as you pulled him toward the living room, desperate to avoid a mix of past and present that could overwhelm you with regret.

—

The birds chirping outside stirred you from your sleep as you stretched in your soft bed. Morning got here quicker than you thought. However, the warmth you felt next to you wasn't just the morning sun – it was Sam. Your eyes opened, facing the clock, you saw it was very early in the morning, 3:57. The memories of the previous hours hit you like a brick. A bigger realization followed – Sam's scent now filled the air, replacing the familiar citrusy aroma that had been your husband’s for centuries.

This revelation overwhelmed you, making you want to throw up as tears welled up as panic set in. Crying over this felt foolish, considering your separation from Rhys, but it made everything feel permanent and official, like there was no turning back. The chance to reconcile seemed lost.

As you stood up, the room spun with regret, and you slithered to the bathroom. The sight that greeted you made your stomach churn – bruises covered your neck, arms, and legs. Your hair was a mess, and your lips were swollen. More tears fell as regret, deep sorrow, and the weight of your choices consumed you.

It wasn't supposed to be like this.

It wasn't supposed to be like this at all.

In your panicked state, you stepped into the shower, hoping to wash away not only the physical remnants of the night but also the emotional burden that clung to your every step.

The steaming shower brought no comfort, and as you shut it off and walked up to the mirror, wiping away steam, you saw a hollowness in your own eyes. The water didn't wash away the feel of Sam's hands on you. But you knew you could drink a tonic for the bruises, so you could atleast pretend it never happened.

Frustrated and heartbroken, you couldn't stop the tears from flowing. The one person you needed the most, Rhys, felt impossibly distant, intensifying the ache inside you.

Desperation took over, and wiping away tears, you threw on a robe, downed the healing tonic and quickly ran over to his house. Each step carried regret and a deep yearning to fix what had gone wrong.

Your Rhys, the father of your children, yours.

He was what you needed in the moment, he’d make it all better.

In the midst of irrationality and impulsivity, you could not find it in you to care about the consequences. All you needed was him.

You burst into his estate, slamming open the doors before frantically searching for him.

“Rhys?”

Your attempt at a yell came out as an ugly cry, tear-stained and choked.

Yet, it was enough to grab his attention.

Rhysand descended the stairs, clad only in pants, his trademark messy bedhead on display as worry etched across his face.

It was so unlike you, and it had him speculating the worst.

Before he could ask you any questions, you ran up to him and broke down in his arms. Rhysand immediately comforted you, picking you up, and hauling you upstairs to his bedroom.

No words were needed as he undressed your sobbing form and put you in his shirt before pulling you closer to him, making you sit in his lap.

Your face buried in his neck, tears dampening his skin. Rhysand, familiar with your ways, sensed you’d open up when ready. He sat, holding you, flooding your mind with love and reassurance without a single word.

Rhysand conjured a glass of water, holding it to your lips, ensuring you didn't exert yourself. As you downed the refreshing water, he gently tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear, his hand lingering by your neck. His thumb traced soothing circles on your cheek, a silent gesture of comfort.

“Thank you, Rhysie. M’sorry for showing up like this but I just needed you.”

His gaze intensified, his grip firm yet reassuring as he held your chin, locking eyes with you. With a seriousness that touched deeply, he spoke, his words carrying a sense of unwavering commitment.

“You don’t apologize for it. I’m here for you, no matter what. Do you understand?”

You nod, throat closing up at the wave of emotions,

“I understand.”

He leans forward, kissing your forhead while cradling your head,

“Good girl. You want to tell me what’s going on?”

With teary eyes you look up to him and reveal what’s on your mind.

“I want us back together again. We belong together and I’m tired of pretending we don’t. I miss you so much. You’ve been working on yourself and I’ve been doing the same. I know we’re ready.”

Rhysand remained silent, his eyes studying you carefully. He sensed an emotional storm within you and was hesitant about decisions made in this state.

“I do not disagree. Reuniting our family, especially getting you back, my sweet girl, is my ultimate desire. But, I want you to sleep on it. I want us to discuss this when we're well-rested and more alert. What do you say?”

You knew you were being rash and quick, so you were thankful for Rhysand's guidance. You nodded in agreement.

He kissed your cheek and gently placed you under the sheets, joining you in bed. Rhysand pulled you closer, and soon you were resting on his chest, listening to the steady thudding of his heart.

“I’ve always loved you, Rhys, so much. I hope you know that.”

His heartbeat quickened as he pulled you even closer.

“I know, sweetheart. I love you too.”

—

The chirping birds and soft sunlight streaming through the window woke you up gently. Your body felt completely relaxed and at ease, knowing you were safe and sound. Stretching lazily, you sighed in contentment before rolling over in bed.

You felt the warmth of something next to you, so you snuggled closer, enjoying the comfort. After a few moments, you felt it stir.

The moving object was Rhysand. Your eyes widened, and for a moment, you almost scrambled away in panic before the events of this early morning flooded back to you.

Despite the fact that you had left your boyfriend alone in your house and now found yourself in your ex's bed, cuddled up to him, you didn't feel any panic. Instead, you felt indifferent. You felt surprisingly good, even better than before. You felt right. Like everything was in it’s place.

“Don't panic,” Rhysand murmured softly, reaching out to gently stroke your back. “We need to have that talk, darling.”

Nodding silently, you agreed to follow him downstairs, your mind racing.

You couldn't help but melt around him. There was no need to even use your brain around him. Rhys made everything feel delightful as he began fussing over you. He did everything from dressing you in the cutest outfits to gently brushing your hair. With his big, warm, comforting hands, he led you downstairs, making every step feel like a new chapter starting.

Once in the kitchen, Rhysand set to work, expertly whipping up breakfast as you watched him, a knot of anticipation forming in your stomach. You knew this conversation was important, but you couldn't help but feel a sense of comfort as you observed his familiar movements in the kitchen.

You couldn't help but admire Rhysand as he moved around the kitchen, his muscles flexing with every movement. He had a newfound confidence about him, a certain dad-like aura that only added to his appeal. His masculine energy was buzzing, and combined with his good looks, it was hard not to be drawn to him. Rhys had grown impossibly more majestic and stunningly handsome in the years you were seperated.

Rhysand caught you staring, and a playful smirk tugged at his lips. “Like what you see?” he teased, his voice low and suggestive. The heat rose to your cheeks as you quickly looked away, unable to hide your blush.

“Maybe I do,” you whisper teasingly, a hint of mischief in your voice.

“Careful,” he warns with a playful glint in his eyes, matching your flirtatious tone.

As he handed you a plate filled with nostalgic food, you couldn't help but feel touched by his thoughtfulness. He had even removed the bits you didn’t like, showing that he remembered even the smallest details about you. It warmed your heart to know that he still cared so deeply.

After you finished eating, he cleared his throat with a serious yet excited tone and said, “Let's talk.”

With a nod, you accept and he extends his hand, guiding you to a cozy sitting room.

“Where are the twins?” you ask, curious when you don’t hear or see your daughters.

“They’re with Cassian and Nesta. They came and picked them up earlier this morning,” he responds.

You nod again, then sit down on the cushy couch next to him.

“Rhys, I’ve thought about it for a while, and I think yesterday just cemented it for me. I think I’m ready for us again, and I’ve missed us together. What do you think? I mean, do you want me too?”

He flashed you his most sincere and hidden smile he only showed you and grabbed your chin with his pointer and thumb

“Sweetheart, I’ve missed you more than words can express. Of course, I want us to be together again. You are my everything and I will never again risk you.”

He took a deep breath and looked down, his voice filled with remorse.

“I've hated myself for letting you go so easily. I wasn't there for you or the girls, and it will always be my biggest regret. I vow to never again disappoint you and to do everything in my power to earn back your trust in my presence. Please forgive me.”

As the faint burn of the promising bargain tattoo emerges on both his and your wrists, a soft smile graces your lips. With gentle assurance, you reach out and place your hand on his, your touch offering comfort and calmness.

“Rhys, I forgive,” you say sweetly and hopeful. “I've missed you, and I want us to be together again. Let's leave the past behind us and focus on building a future together, okay?”

Feeling his arms around you, you melt into the hug, wrapping your arms around his neck. His touch is comforting, and you revel in the warmth of his warmth. As he gently squeezes your waist, you giggle, feeling a sense of joy wash over you.

He attacked your cheek with kisses, making him land on top of you on the couch as your back rested on the seats.

“But I think we should take it slow. Maybe start off by going on dates.”

He pulls back and looks at you, his gaze intense yet tender. “Yes. Let's take it slow. We have all the time in the world, no need to rush.”

You both sit there, locked in a silent exchange, the air thick with anticipation as you inch closer to each other.

“We definitely shouldn't kiss, right?” you ask, feeling the heat of his breath mingling with yours.

His arms tighten around you as he speaks softly, his words grazing your lips. “We shouldn't.”

The moment your lips touch, tears prick at the corners of your eyes. It's been so long since you felt the familiar warmth of his kisses, the feeling of home in his embrace. Rhysand, your darling, the love of your life—you've missed him more than words can express.

As the kisses grow more messy and desperate, a soft whimper escapes your lips, causing his eyes to darken with desire.

A sudden panic washed over you at the thought of your now ex-boyfriend waking up to find you gone.

“Rhys, I have to go back and end things with Sam,” you blurted out, your voice raspy and flustered between kisses.

Rhys's expression darkened as he heard about your ex-boyfriend.

“I'll handle it,” he declared, determination lacing his voice.

“What does that mean?” you pressed, curious and a little concerned.

He responded with a secretive smile, kissing you again, his touch making you melt into him.

“Don’t worry your little head about it. I got it covered,” he assured, his tone confident and reassuring.

So you let it go. If he said he had it handled, then you trusted him to take care of it.

His assurance left you feeling cared for, sparking a desire for more. More of him, and more of that comforting reassurance he provided.

Before you could voice your need for him, he beat you to it. With a tender kiss on your forehead, he spoke softly.

“I’m going to take you upstairs and make up for lost time. But before we start, I’m going to feed you a little bit more. Don’t argue, you’re going to need the energy.”

Your mind went blank, slipping into a submissive state, ready to follow his lead without question.

With a nod, you rose from your seat, arms outstretched in silent compliance.

“That’s my girl,” he murmured as he lifted you effortlessly, cradling you in his arms. With each step towards the kitchen, his gentle strokes on your hair and whispered promises of what lay ahead sent shivers down your spine, heightening the anticipation of what was to come.

After quickly eating the food he conjured up, you stood up in a rush and grabbed his hand, urging him to take you upstairs right away.

He chuckled and scooped you up, showering kisses on your lips and neck as he carried you upstairs, your legs instinctively wrapping around his middle.

Your nails dig into his scalp, head thrown back as you whimper with pleasure. Your toes curl as his teeth graze against a sensitive spot, his smirk growing against your skin.

“Tell me, darling. How do you want it today?”

You're only aware that you're inside the bedroom when he sets you down in front of the bed.

You know exactly how you want it. You want him to take charge, dominating your every move, just like he used to. Rhys knew how quickly you submitted to him, and he had a hunch of how tonight would go. It was easy slipping into those roles with him in charge. So you look up at him with a shy smile, fondling with the strings of his dark linen pants, and tell him.

“Can we please do level four?”

Pride spread across him at your good manners. He loved that you still knew what to do even after years of not being together.

He would have sent all his loving emotions through the bond if it existed. The absence of a bond between him and you always seemed abnormal. Both of you questioned the Mother’s decision all the time, hiding the fact that you both were scared of the possibility of your mates popping up and claiming the other.

Shaking away his thoughts, he smiled at your words again and complied.

Step by step, he undressed you, his eyes never leaving yours. Rhysand’s eyes dropped to your pebbled nipples, goosebumps erupting on your skin at the intense attention he gave you.

“You still remember the safe word?” he rasped out, his pupils expanding as you nodded, your lips nervously caught between your teeth.

He pounced on you, eagerly kissing you in a brusing manner as he tightened his arms around you. Rhys slowly made you back, resulting in you falling backwards into the bed before he climbed on top of you.

His hands found your waist amd subtly squeezed before sliding up to your boobs and playing with your hardened nipples.

You whimpered in pleasure, making him smile as he lowered his mouth to attatch to your right breast. His wet, warm tounge swirled around the bud, biting and licking soothingly. He repeated the move on the other side, reveling in the way you were squirming under him.

“Is it too much, sweetheart?”

“Not enough.”

So his hand slid down your body until his thumb brushed over your throbbing clit. Your eyes rolled back when he put pressure on it, rubbing tight circles against you. It was almost mortifying how quick you melted and lost your mind.

A few more circles and you’d be cumming. Almost, almost.

The pleasure was short-lived when he removed his thumb, causing you to pout slightly as your brows furrowed in confusion.

“No teasing. You can play later, I’ve missed you too much.”

You wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him into a heated makeout session.

You also wrapped your legs around his waist and whispered against his lips,

“I need you so bad, please. I need your entire being.”

He slipped one finger in, sliding in all too easily. So he added another finger and felt your walls pulse around him. Rhys pulled them out before shoving them back in, repeating the move, stroking your walls. He curled his fingers inside as he carefully watched your face morph from a begging expression to a fucked out smile.

“I will give you whatever your heart desires,” he murmured against your lips before kissing you again. As he did, he conjured his massive and majestic wings, spreading them proudly behind him, a breathtaking display of power.

Your wobbly smile melted into tears of joy as you whispered, “There you are,” feeling overwhelmed by the rush of emotions at seeing him again.

Rhys didn’t waste a single second, pulling you forward and slowly positioning himself in front of you. He held onto his cock, letting the tip trace your pussy, circling it and letting your wetness drip onto his cock. Stroking the wetness along his cock, he used it as a lubricant before he slid himself inside you.

Rhys pulled out and then in again until his entire cock was stuffed in you. He then leaned forward, putting his forehead in the crook of your neck, gently biting and sucking hickies onto your skin. He began thrusting, harder and harder. The entire room echoing with skin slapping, groans and pornstar-like moans.

Rhysand’s gripped your hips in a brusing manner, rocking them back and forth forth as he moved his own hips.

He lifted his head and gently brought his hand to your face, cupping your chin as he murmured,

“You're mine. Mine to love, to fuck, to have.”

You nod eagerly, your need evident.

“Only yours, baby. Forever and always, yours.”

He growled softly and turned your body around so you were on all fours. Gripping your hair, he pulled it back, causing your back to arch against his chest.

Rhysand put his dick back in and pumped deliciously against that spongy spot that had you acting like a mindless fool.

“You got fucked this good while we were seperated, hm?”

His hand snaked up and held your neck, applying a gentle pressure, a hint of restraint, as he taunted you.

Of course, he already knew the answer. But it was always nice to hear it from you.

“M-right, there, no one compares to you. No one could ever, ah fuck, do me this good. P-please, let me cum.”

“Fuck, yeah that’s right. But I think it’s a little too early for you to cum. I told you I wanted to make up for lost time. We’re nowhere near done.”

You let out a whine at the denial, a little vexed that he didn’t give you permission yet. But you knew he had plans so you decided to wait in hopes of getting something better.

“Good things come for good girls, you know that right?”

“I understand. Just keep going.”

You knew you forgot to add a please and were more than happy when he gave your puffy clit a slap.

“Manners.”

“Keep going, please.”

He chuckled at how quick you gave in and kissed your cheek, letting go of your hair and pushing you forward to your elbows and knees. Rhys grabbed your hips and gave you deep, slow and intentional strokes. Almost like he wanted you to cum early.

Rhys kept going for a long time, bringing you to the edge, only to snatch away pleasure in the last second. You were tired but knew all of this was building up into the most intense and powerful orgasm ever.

“Do you know how much I love you? Do you have any idea how deep my love for you goes?”

Cue the waterworks.

Really, his words started making you bawl right there. With concern etched on his face, he gently moved you into missionary, turning the back-breaking backshots into a tender moment. As he pushed in for the last time, he hovered above you, his forearms on either side of your head, kissing your puffy lips.

“I love you too, Rhysie, so, so much. There's really no one I love more than you.”

Your words were raspy and choked, his words were sweet and understanding.

“I know, sweet girl. I know you do.”

Suddenly, a snap felt in your chest. You both locked eyes, breathing heavily as you felt a thread weaving your very souls together. Tears prickled in your eyes at his words.

As the realization of the mating bond sinked in, a warm glow envelops both of you, filling the room with a sense of love and belonging. Rhysand's eyes softened even more, if that's possible, as he gazed into your tear-filled eyes.

“You're my mate,” he whispered, his voice filled with awe and reverence. “My soulmate, my other half.”

You reached up to cup his cheek, feeling the connection between you grow stronger with each passing moment. “And you're mine,” you replied, your voice filled with emotion. “Forever and always.”

Rhysand moved quicker and quicker, finally allowikg you to cum.

You were on the verge of passing out, the only reason there was any sort of fight in you left was because of the charged bond.

Before he pulled out, you locked your legs around him and begged him to stay inside. He did and slumped on top of you, his head resting on your raising and falling chest. You ran your hands through his damp, dark hair and reveled in warmth when he wrapped his wings around the two of you.

You both rest for a while before starting up again. Normally, a session like this would have you knocked out cold but you guessed it was the fresh bond.

The entire day was spent tangled in sheets and fucking in showers, other rooms, hallways, kitchens, roofs. Rhysand also sent a mental message to everyone in the inner circle, breaking the news and asking them not to disturb you for at least a week. He also asked Cassian to keep looking after the girls and warned that anyone who got too close would likely die.

—

You and Rhys, lay together in a pile of fluffy blankets and pillows on the floor, the bed damaged and broken from the week’s activities.

“Rhys, do you know what I think? I think it’s kind if poetic that we broke up and then became mates. I mean, it sounds very romantic.”

He chuckled and pulled you closer to his chest.

“You know what? I agree. The Mother does work in mysterious ways. I guess we weren’t ready before.”

You smile at him and nod,

“I’m glad we find our way home.”

With a tender look and a sweet kiss, he whispered,

“As am I, darling.”

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[boxofbonesfic]

Title: Keyhole

Pairing: Dark!Marc Spector x Reader 

Summary: After a break-in at your apartment, your neighbor offers you comfort in a time when you most need it. 

Warnings: Fluff, Meet-cute-ish, Romance, Smut, Overstimulation, Breeding, Canon Typical Violence, Murder, Stalking, Obsession, Possessive Behavior, Obsessive Behavior, Kidnapping, Murder, Manipulation, Gaslighting, Drugging, Implied torture, Darkfic, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat

A/N: that request for dark Marc just really got all the gears turning lol. i don’t have the triple PoV in this fic (sorry everyone) but i do reference steven and jake! do trust that they are there and they are thoroughly enjoying themselves, haha. mind the warnings! bottom divider courtesy of @firefly-graphics

The door is open. 

It shouldn’t be—you’d locked it securely when you left, you know you did. Human memories are fallible, sure, but not now. Not this time. There was no comforting thunk as the deadbolt slid out of its home when you had turned your key. 

There was no sound at all. 

With a trembling hand, you reach out to touch your front door, laying your palm flat against the faded white paint. The metal is cool under your hand, but you only feel it for a moment as the door swings open easily. You clap a terrified hand over your mouth at the sight of your apartment. Even from the doorway you can see its been ransacked; the cupboards you can see are all open, dishes thrown onto the floor in broken shards of porcelain. There are clothes in the hallway, your things strewn about haphazardly. You begin to take a step over the threshold to assess the damage and pause immediately. 

What if Jamie’s in there?

He was out now, as per the email you’d received two months ago. You’d moved states away by now of course, but the fear was unshakeable, and now neither was your suspicion. You don’t want to go in, not now and certainly not alone. You take a step back instead, keeping your eyes on the open door—or, at least, you try to.

“Careful, neighbor.” You turn with a start, though your shoulders sag with relief when instead of Jamie, you see your neighbor. Marc smiles at you, though his expression darkens as his eyes dart over your shoulder. “What happened here?” He steps around you to peer worriedly into your apartment. “Everything okay?”

You’re not a dramatic person—and not usually a crier on the worst of days. Even Jamie had had to raise a fist to get you to shed a tear, and those were more out of anger at your own helplessness and the pain rather than fear. But you feel them gathering in the corners of your eyes now, your chin trembling as you try to hold the pieces all together. 

“I—I don’t—” You swallow thickly. “I think my ex…” You trail off, and he places a hand on your shoulder. 

“You shouldn’t go in there alone.” He casts another dubious look at your apartment. “Is he still in there?” You shake your head, shrugging with a choked sob. 

“I don’t know!” You wrap your arms around yourself as you feel a shiver work its way through you. “I don’t know.” 

“Okay, why don’t you come with me. We’re going to call the cops, okay? And they’ll check everything out, make sure it’s safe for you to go home.” You’ve met Marc on more than a few occasions. There’s only so much you can learn about a person on a twenty minute bus ride, but you don’t think he’s the sort to hurt you. 

At least, you hope not. You suppose you don’t have the greatest track record, given the circumstances. But you don’t want to stand out here in the hallway, and you can’t go in there. 

“Okay.” 

—

Marc’s apartment sits opposite yours, but you realize as he shuts the door behind you that you’ve never even caught a glimpse of it before. He tosses his coat on the little bench by the door, and you kick off your shoes next to his, nudging them beneath it with your toe when you’re done. The apartment itself seems to be the inverse of yours in layout. There’s a strange mish-mash of furniture; old, antique chairs and side tables, with a sleek, modern couch and bookshelves. And God, are there bookshelves. They line nearly every room, and they’re crammed to the max with all manner of books, and what looks to be a mix of actual scrolls and loose papers. 

You’re ashamed and embarrassed, but too upset to stop the tears, panic tightening your throat until you’re gasping and choking with every sob. You don’t mean to cry in front of him—you really don’t, but once they start they don’t stop. How had he found you? You’d been so careful, had done everything the attorney had suggested and more and it still wasn’t enough. Jamie had sniffed you out, and it hadn’t even taken him very long. You’re so focused on that that it escapes your notice that every wheezing breath you draw into your lungs is smaller than the one before it until your vision narrows. Your heart pounds a frantic rhythm against your ribs as you realize—

Panic attack, I’m having a panic attack—

“Hey, hey, Sweetheart I know this is awful, but you have to calm down.” Marc squeezes your shoulders as you stare unseeingly at him, willing the noise in your head to stop.  “Can you focus on me? On what I’m saying right now?” You can barely hear him over your own frenzied thoughts—where Jamie was, what his next move would be, why he couldn’t just leave you the fuck alone. Marc threads his fingers through yours, holding both your hands against his chest. 

“I need you to take a deep breath for me, okay? You have to breathe, Sweetheart. Can you do that for me? Take a nice deep breath in, okay?” You inhale a shaky breath, whimpering as you release it. Mark’s warm brown eyes are so easy to focus on, and he nods encouragingly. “

When the police arrive, he lets them in, standing protectively over you as they question you. 

“So your old boyfriend’s jealous of your new boyfriend, here.” The dismissiveness drips from the officer’s tone. He isn’t even writing anything down, his thumbs hooked through the loops of his belt as he shakes his head at you, like this is your fault somehow. You shoot an apologetic look at Marc. 

“Oh, we’re not—” You shake your head. Of course he’d want to chalk everything up to a little domestic disturbance, and it’s hard not to be angry at his dismissal. “My ex’s name is Jamie Parrish, and he got out of prison almost two months ago.” He has the good grace to look ashamed of himself, at least. “I have reason to believe he’ll be back, if he’s not still…” 

“He’s not, ma’am.” The second officer shakes his head. “There wasn’t anyone. But we did find this.” He produces a small, square jewelry box from his pocket, and you feel your stomach lurch. It’s white, a gold stripe running along the edges. “Have you seen this before? It was sitting on a plate in the kitchen.” He opens it, and you nearly puke. 

It’s that goddamn fucking ring.

You’d hated that thing when Jamie had showed it to you—and his pouting at the store had become full fledged screaming in the car when you’d said you’d rather have something else. Beggars couldn’t be choosers, he’d said, ignoring your panic as the car accelerated, swerving wildly. Didn’t you want to fucking get married? Why didn’t you want to be with him? Why were you making this so goddamn hard—

“Yes.” You lick your dry lips. “I’ve seen that ring before.” 

In the end, they take your statement and leave, and you feel much the same as before they’d gotten there. You had thought, naively, maybe, that the police’s presence, their sweep of your apartment would make you feel safer, not worse. 

Fool me twice, I guess. They’d never been particularly helpful, even when you’d answered the door bearing the marks of Jamie’s displeasure. 

“Fucking assholes.” Marc slams the door behind them. He shakes his head. “At least there’s a paper trail now.” You nod, and force a thin smile. 

“Right. Thanks, Marc.” He sits down beside you on the couch. “You okay?” 

”I want to lie and say I am, but I am really, really, not.” 

“Can’t say I blame you.” When he rests his hand on your thigh, it feels friendly, not forward. “Look, I know we don’t… You don’t have to go back there tonight. If you don’t want to, I mean.” The offer is tempting. You don’t want to go back to your apartment, not tonight. Hell, maybe not ever. You feel like turning tail and running now that Jamie’s found you, but you know you can’t do that tonight, either. And Marc is nice. 

“Would it be weird if I took you up on it?” You ask with a little laugh. “I just… I don’t want to be alone in there, you know?” He smiles warmly, and you feel your cheeks heat.

“It’s not weird if I offered it.” He stands up. “Let me change the sheets on the bed.” 

“W-what?” You stare at him. “I’m not taking your bed.” 

“The couch is fine for me, trust me.” His smile goes a little sad, somehow. “I don’t get much sleep anyway.” 

—

You help him change the sheets on his bed, noting the large fish tank on the opposite wall. There’s a fish inside, and as you step closer, you realize he’s only got one fin.

“What’s this guy’s name?” You ask, jerking a thumb at the tank. Marc snorts. 

“Gus.” He smooths out the comforter. “The one-finned-wonder.” He smooths the comforter down with both hands before standing back up. Marc  had been sweet enough to accompany you back to your apartment long enough to get some clothes, but the entire time you’d been there you’d felt watched, and you wonder if Jamie had found time to bug the place, or something. 

“I’ll be right out there if you need anything.” 

Sleep is slow and reluctant to come, and you toss and turn in your neighbor’s bed, staring at his ceiling. It’s not that it isn’t comfortable—it is. It’s more that you just feel uneasy, something you attribute to Jamie’s sudden return to your life to wreak havoc. 

Around midnight you give up and decide to get a glass of water. You take extra care not to make a sound as you creep out of the bedroom, though your efforts prove fruitless when you spy Marc sitting up at the table in the living room, back bent over a book. You pad into the kitchen and search the cupboards for a glass.   The water comes out of the tap surprisingly cold, and you take a grateful sip before peeking back out of the kitchen. 

You realize he’s muttering to himself in a low voice, so low you can’t hear him. He shakes his head like he’s responding to someone else you can’t see. 

“Marc?” He goes silent, sitting straight up. He doesn’t respond for a full ten seconds, before he shudders, and turns. 

“Hey.” 

“Are you okay?” You ask, your brows knitted together with concern. He glances at the table, and then back to you.

“Yeah, I—” He scrubs his hand down his face. “I was just reading.” Marc closes the old looking book in front of him, before running his hands through his hair. “Can’t sleep either?” He asks, and you laugh bitterly. 

“I guess not.” You take another sip of your water. “I can’t shake the thought that Jamie’s still there, or something, I know it’s ridiculous but I can’t.” 

“It’s not ridiculous. He sounds like a real piece of shit.” Marc actually looks angry, his fingers twitching against the table like he wants to curl them into fists. You sit in one of the wooden chairs next to him at the dining table. “You said he was in prison?”

You nod. “Yeah. It was supposed to be ten years.” 

“And how many did he do?”

“Three.” 

“Fucking Christ.” 

Marc pushes himself away from the table, shaking his head. He heads into the kitchen, and you find yourself drawn to the book on the table. There are hieroglyphs on the cover, though, not English as you’d expected. Post-its stick out of it, scrawling handwriting on them. Marc didn’t much seem like the scholarly type, much less the type to take notes and do homework for fun, but who were you to begrudge people their interests?

He returns with a bottle of Jack Daniels and two glasses, each with a couple of cubes of ice.

“Here.” He pours you one and then himself, lifting it in a silent toast, and you take yours gratefully. “You earned it.” The whiskey burns pleasurably as you sip it down. 

“You’ve been… thank you,” you say, stumbling over the words embarrassingly. “Tonight has been a nightmare.” 

“No problem. I mean, I figured you wouldn’t try to rob me or stab me in my sleep,” He says, laughing. “Thought we might have enough good will built up from all those bus rides.” He winks and your cheeks warm. You laugh too, and it actually feels good—needed. When you drain your glass, he picks up the bottle, offering you another pour. You nod. 

“Please.” You’re feeling comfortably warm and fuzzy by the time you’re finished with the second glass, shaking your head when Marc offers again. “I better not. I still haven’t decided if I’m going in to work tomorrow.” 

He clucks his tongue. “Seriously? You can’t actually be thinking of going in after this.” He gestures vaguely in the direction of your apartment, and then shakes his head. “Sorry. I’m not—I’m really not trying to tell you what to do. It’s just… I don’t think it’s a good idea. With what you told me about this guy, we need to make sure you’re safe.” 

“We?” You ask teasingly. “Is that like the royal we?” He doesn’t answer. “I’ve been dealing with Jaimie for years on my own. It just feels… normal.” You admit. He’s your own personal boogeyman, showing up when you least expect it just to wreak havoc on your life. He gets off on it, you know he does. The control of it all. 

“That’s exactly why an outside perspective,” Marc points a finger at himself, “is necessary.” You tap thoughtful fingers on the rim of your glass. You grimace. He does have a point. 

“Maybe calling out until the cops have him back in custody is a good idea.” 

“Just sleep on it.” Marc says, holding his hands up placatingly. “That’s all I ask.” He’s just as easy to talk to as he had been on the bus, all charming smiles and pleasant banter. “I just… I would hate for something to happen to you.” The words sound like an admission, and they bring heat to your cheeks. Your fingers slip against the rim of the glass and it tilts dangerously, the ice nearly spilling out until you right it with a clatter. The thought occurs to you that your  very handsome neighbor might be interested in you in a more than neighborly way. 

“You would?” 

“I—well, isn’t it obvious?” He asks with a little laugh. He sets down his half full glass on the table. 

“Not to me, apparently.” You pinch the bridge of your nose. “But I am notoriously bad at reading the room.” Marc laughs and you do too. “I can’t believe you’re telling me this after finding out I have an insane ex.” Marc snorts, glancing at the window beside you before meeting your eyes again. 

“We’re not worried about him.” 

“Again with the we stuff,” you say, shaking your head. “Your apartment isn’t the one that got ransacked.” You shiver. “I’m just… I’m glad I wasn’t there. I’m glad you weren’t there.” It’s all too easy to remember just how hard Jamie can hit. Absently, your fingers trace the scar just beneath the sleeve of your shirt. 

“Sweetheart, I’m more than capable of defending myself. And you.” The confidence in his words makes you shiver pleasantly. “Trust me.” There’s a heat in his eyes and in his voice that leaves you both interested and a little apprehensive. It’s a bad time to date—though it seems lately it’s always a bad time to date. Jamie had been practically breathing down your neck even from prison before you’d moved, calling, sending letters ranging from promises to do better when he returned and threatening that you would regret ever having involved the law in the first place. 

Not exactly the stuff budding relationships are made to withstand. 

You lick your dry lips. “And you’re anticipating having to do that?” 

“If you needed me to.” He says it plainly and without hesitation, and a little chill travels up your spine at his matter-of-fact delivery, and the dark intensity of his gaze. 

“Awfully neighborly of you.” The whiskey burning in your belly has emboldened you—you want to hear him say it. Hear him admit it, instead of dancing around it. You need Marc to make it real—mostly because you’re afraid to. He grins at you, and your stomach twists itself into a gordian knot. 

“Maybe I’m interested in being more than neighborly.” His hand is warm when he places it over yours on the table. You revel in it for a second too long before withdrawing your hand, curling it against your chest. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I—” He pinches the bridge of his nose before scrubbing a hand down his face. “Whiskey.” 

You nod with a soft laugh. “Yeah,” you say, swallowing thickly. “Whiskey.” The silence is even louder than his admission, and you find yourself making excuses to escape it. “I should, um. I should head to, to bed.” 

“Mm.” Marc nods, his eyes back on the window. “Goodnight.” 

“Night.” 

When you close the bedroom door you linger in front of it, rocking from foot to foot. It’s been so long since you’ve dated, you’re unsure of the etiquette—you don’t remember the proper order of operations, not anymore. The debate in your head leaves you paralyzed, fingers twisting in the hem of your t-shirt. Should you go back out? Talk more? Do you even have anything to say? 

Should you tell him that you like him too? 

That you look forward to your Tuesday, Wednesday, and Saturday shifts the most because those are the ones that start with him? Honesty’s a stranger to you now, mostly because being honest about your feelings had usually been a one-way-ticket to Jamie’s shit list—but Marc isn’t Jamie. 

He’s not. 

You place a hand on the door handle, and when you push down it swings back open easily, revealing Marc on the other side. His hand is outstretched, like he’d been about to do the exact same thing. 

“Come here.” Marc groans as he pulls you hard against him. You’re dizzy from him—and from the whiskey you can still feel warming your veins. His mouth feels so good on yours that you whine a little in protest when he stiffens and pulls away. 

“I—fuck, I’m sorry.” He runs a hand through his curly hair, looking up at the ceiling before mouthing another curse. “I’m sorry. I—you’re vulnerable and I fucking—shit.” Marc shakes his head again. “I have wanted to do that since goddamn April.” He admits with a soft laugh. He presses another to your forehead, and you laugh too. 

“April, huh?” You grin at him. Marc’s body is solid against yours, hard muscle boxing you in against the door, but you don’t mind it. “You—o-oh,” His hands skim your sides hungrily, bunching up your t-shirt as they slide beneath it. You gasp as he cups your breasts beneath the fabric, and Marc curses again. 

“Marc—”

“I don’t think you’re going to work tomorrow.” His thumbs flick across your nipples, and you moan, head falling back against the door with a thud. “Okay?” You nod as one of his hands drops to your hip, pulling at the elastic of your pajama shorts. He snaps it against your skin and you hiss. “Good.” His mouth finds yours again and you melt against him, knock-kneed and sighing. Marc kisses you breathless, walking you backward until the backs of your knees hit the edge of the mattress. 

“It’s okay, right? Fuck, tell me it’s okay,” he pulls your t-shirt over your head, groaning at the sight of you. Marc crashes over you like a wave. There’s so little space between his words and his actions you don’t really have time to consider yourself if it really is okay before you’re nodding your assent. 

“I-it’s okay.” His hands are everywhere, tugging at your nipples, cupping your chin affectionately while he sucks on your tongue, tugging down your pajama shorts— “Marc, Marc slow down—”

“M’sorry, Baby,” he presses a line of heated kisses down over the curve of your hip. “Just—just wanted this for so long.” His desperation is palpable, his touches hungry, reverent. You feel him settle himself between your legs, his hips fitting neatly between your thighs. “Fuck, you are so fucking beautiful.” He presses his lips to the space between your breasts, and then you see his eyes go dark before he caresses the burn mark on your arm with soft fingers. 

“Jamie?”

“Jamie.” 

He mutters something then, something you don’t quite catch. You don’t even hear it, not really, the words barely registering as background noise before he kisses you again—“fucking deserved it” before they’re gone, disappeared into the heated air between you. 

To his credit, Marc does slow down, taking his time lavishing his attention on each of your breasts until your nipples are puffy and oversensitive, each pass of his tongue making you squirm and whine. As he does so, he slides a hand down to cup your cunt, and you gasp, hips rolling shamelessly into his hand. He moans, grinding the thick weight of his cock against your thigh. 

“Didn’t you tell me to slow down?” He asks, his tone mocking. You had, but you don’t have the bandwidth to explain that that wasn’t what you’d meant, but you aren’t really sure you want him to stop now, no, not when his fingers feel so good—

“F-fuck, fuck, Marc-!” He rolls your clit between his fingers, his eyes trained on the slick mess he’s making between your thighs. 

“Again,” he says lowly, repeating the motion as you squeal, thighs locking around his hand. “Say my name like that again.” And when he drops to his knees and latches his mouth onto your cunt like he’s starving for you, you do. His name, mixed in with strings of curses as he curls his fingers inside of you and circles your clit so perfectly with his tongue. 

“M-Marc!” 

He sighs against you, mumbling curses and praises into the slick folds of your pussy. With the hand not buried between your writhing thighs, he holds you down, keeping your hips pressed against the bed. You whine as he grinds the heel of his palm against your clit, and you throw your head back against the mattress as your hips buck pitifully. He mumbles something against you that you can barely hear, “He didn’t fucking deserve you,” but you don’t get the chance to ask him about it as his tongue finds you again. 

“Sweetheart I need to know—” Marc scissors his fingers inside you—“do you want to cum on my face or on my cock?” Your pussy clenches around his fingers, and he hums, shaking his head. “Use your words.” He punctuates the demand with a long, slow lick through your sopping folds, and you hate that you can’t make yourself look away. The choice is taken from you when he rolls your clit hard against the roof of his mouth and electricity arcs through you down to your toes. 

You’re cursing and crying as it happens too, rocking against his face as he mumbles unintelligible words into the skin of your inner thigh. Your twitching fingers are tangled in the sheets and his curly hair, you realize, though Marc’s voiced no complaint, though when you release him, he leans up to grin at you, pressing a damp kiss to the side of your knee. His face is half soaked from you, and he absently draws the back of his hand across his mouth before he gets to his feet. 

Your head is still spinning as he tugs you down the mattress to meet his hips, and you gasp at the feel of him. Thick and throbbing, Marc rocks against you with a moan. 

“Feels good, right Baby?” He asks lowly, reaching down to press the head of his leaking cock against your clit. You’re still sensitive, and you whine, attempting to retreat from the feeling but Marc holds you still with a chuckle. He spreads your thighs with one smooth motion, his hands pressing outward steadily until you’re wide open before him. “Too good, maybe.” Your response is a slurry of syllables and his name, cut short as he pushes inside without preamble and the words all cease. You’re practically choking on them—on him, the thick weight of him burning deliciously as he parts you. 

You would whine and plead and moan Marc’s name, only you can’t get the air in. There’s not enough room with his cock inside you, and the weight of him pressing you down into the mattress. He mumbles a curse as he draws back before sliding all the way home again with a satisfied sigh. There is no cool-down with Marc, no, only one exhilarating peak to the next. Tears gather in your wide eyes as you feel the pull again, only deeper, and more—

“Baby are you crying?” He asks breathlessly, and you feel him throb hard inside you. “Ah, fuck.” Marc’s hands are everywhere then, squeezing your chin as he forces you to look him in the eye, two fingers resting on the flat of your tongue, the other gripping the curve of your hip as he slams into your over, and over. You cum again, you can’t help it, drool leaking down your chin and tears tracking down into your hair as he stares hungrily down at you. You clutch at his wrist, mumbling his name against his fingers. 

“Fucking—you are going to make me—” You haven’t even finished cumming yet when Marc does too, holding you so tight you know there will be bruises. Marc pulls his fingers from your mouth, wiping them on the sheets. He doesn’t pull out though, humming with pleasure as an aftershock makes you clench down around him. 

Good thing I have the IUD. He hadn’t asked, but you’d learned your lesson well enough already to get the stuff no one could sabotage—not that you thought Marc would do that. It was spur of the moment—not time, or thought to grab a condom, you were sure. He smiles down at you, as if in reassurance. 

“You okay?” He cups your chin. Your body is still humming with the echoes of the pleasure from before, your thigh muscles twitching every few seconds, and you feel warm, like you’re floating in blissful soup. 

“Yeah, yeah,” you nod with a smile of your own. “I’m, um. Really good.” 

He slips out of you then, and crawls up onto the bed beside you with a huff before tugging you against his chest. “Come here.” You giggle when he presses a kiss into your hair. Your thighs slide together, wet and sticky, and you groan. 

“At least let me clean up first,” you say, leaning up to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Okay?” Marc folds his arms. 

“Only because you asked so nice.” When you get out of bed, the palm of his hand cracks across your ass and you squeal, batting his eager hands away. 

“I’ll be right back, jeez.” His eyes are already closing as he dozes off, nodding absently. You shrug into his t-shirt, grabbing your own shorts before heading off to the bathroom.

His bathroom is in much the same place as yours, if a little larger. You help yourself to his body-wash, rinsing the evidence of your romp from your still tender skin. As you dry off, you realize you’d been right in your earlier summation that Marc would leave visible reminders on your body, the hollows where his fingers had been already turning dark and angry. 

He’s strong.

You exit the bathroom and turn back toward the bedroom—when a dull thump makes you pause. 

“Marc?”

There’s no answer from your paramour, and when you peek back into the bedroom, he’s full asleep, eyes closed and lips ever-so-slightly parted as his soft breaths puff through them. You hold yourself as you stare into the darkness of your lover’s apartment, fear twisting in your belly. Could Jamie have gotten in somewhere? Another door? An open window? 

In your own apartment, the hallway ends just past the bathroom, with just enough room for an end table to fit neatly beneath a rather expensive looking painting you’d bought for three bucks at Goodwill. In Marc’s, there’s a whole other bedroom. You hesitate, your fingers trembling above the handle before you open it. You’re expecting another bedroom like the one you’ve been sharing with Marc, and to some extent it is—but the far wall is simply… missing. There’s a hole roughly eight, maybe nine feet wide smashed through the brick, though there’s drop-cloths and tools littered around it like it’s a work in progress. 

“Hello?” You pick up a hammer, hefting the weight of it in your hands. “Jamie, if you’re here… you better fucking not be.” You’re not ready for a fight—you’re not even wearing panties under these damn shorts—but when have you ever been? You step through the plastic sheeting into the room on the other side. The building next door isn’t finished—and you don’t know that it ever will be. The perfect fucking location. What if your ex had set up shop here? Watching you? Waiting?

Your foot catches against something and it almost sends you sprawling, your palms scraping against the exposed brick walls. You’ve never been particularly adept at seeing at night, and you squint down at the dark shape slumped against the wall in the narrow space. It takes your eyes some time to adjust, and your heart leaps straight into your throat as you make sense of it. 

It’s a leg. 

You feel the scream building in your throat, and you clap a hand over your mouth to keep it down. The owner of the leg doesn’t move, though, doesn’t rise from their position slumped over on the floor like a puppet with slack strings. You swallow. 

“Hello?” There’s no response. Timidly, you tap their foot with your own, and when they don’t move, don’t breathe, the terror in your chest becomes concern. You kneel down slowly, squinting in the dark. “Are you okay—”

This time you do scream as finally your eyes adjust, and Jamie’s blank, dull eyes stare back into yours like glassy marbles. 

Why is he here? What the fuck, what the fuck— You stumble backwards against the wall, covering your mouth with your hands. It was Marc’s apartment—you’d gotten here through Marc’s apartment. You feel the urge to vomit, but there’s nothing in your stomach but bile. You retch it up anyway, before drawing the back of your hand against your trembling mouth. 

“I really thought I locked this.” Your head snaps up. There, silhouetted against the gently swaying plastic sheeting, is Marc. You can only see the shape of him, but your skin prickles at his presence anyway. You don’t answer. “I’m sorry, Baby. I really didn’t want you to find out like this. I was going to tell you you were safe, I promise. I was just enjoying being with you so much.” You watch his hands curl into fists, before he drops them back down to his sides. “I couldn’t let him hurt you again.” 

This time, you do answer. “You killed him,” It’s hard to keep the accusing note out of your voice. 

“I saw him trashing your apartment. I knew he was going to wait for you to get back from shopping with your mom—” You practically choke on your tongue. How did he know that? How did he know you were with your mother? “And I couldn’t take the chance he’d get to you.” He shakes his head. “He’s not a good man, Sweetheart. He had to go.” 

“I see why you weren’t worried. Hard to worry about a dead man.” No sooner than you force the words out, Marc lunges at you, grabbing at you through the sheeting. He misses, though, and you stumble around behind him, practically tripping back into his apartment. You feel dizzy and uncoordinated, like your body can only give you the bare minimum of responses. 

“You need to rest, Sweetheart. It’s been a long day for you.”

“F-fuck you.” The words are like loose marbles in your mouth, rolling around aimlessly. You pull the door shut as you throw yourself through it, realizing belatedly that you’d never seen Marc take a single sip of his Jack Daniels—and you beat the hammer against the  door handle until it bends unnaturally, and you drop it from your clumsy fingers. 

You can hear Marc shouting, but the words are too far away to make sense, or at least, that’s how they sound in your cotton filled ears. You don’t even realize you’re down on your knees until you feel the hallway rug on your hands, the short, hard fibers digging into your raw palms. The door isn’t that far away now, but it still feels like miles as you drag yourself towards it, blood roaring in your ears.

It is cruel irony when you reach it, cool air flowing from the sliver of space between the door and the threshold while you pant on the floor. You can’t reach the handle, are too weak drag yourself to your feet so that you can—so you beat feebly against the thick metal, your tongue flopping uselessly in your mouth. 

As you lay your heavy, throbbing head against the cool floor, your fingers skip across deep scratches in the wood. The bench has been moved. Many times. On the floor across from you are more scratches, like the bench had been moved to sit parallel to the door. Tears leak from your bleary eyes, pooling on the floor beneath your cheek. It was the perfect height for someone to sit at. 

The perfect height for Marc to watch you, through the keyhole. 

the end.

Thank you for reading! Please check out my masterlist for other, similar works, and follow my library blog, @box-of-bones-library for updates. ❤️