#they are the same person! they are NEVER in the wrong. they are always the smartest person in the room

[ruffboijuliaburnsides]

No. They are people. Calling them "monsters" and saying they're not the same as "normal people" is how you GET things like this, because no one thinks of themselves as a monster. They're just a normal person, and normal people don't do monstrous things, so they must not be monsters no matter what they're doing.

Not to mention: Dehumanization (which is what you're doing) is always. Wrong. Full stop. No nuance. It never helps people be better, it never helps stop atrocities, it never does anything but ultimately cause harm, whether it's directly (by dehumanizing to hurt) or indirectly (by dehumanizing to remove blame from "normal" people, thus perpetuating monstrous actions).

Those people up there? They were just normal people. They had families, and friends, and hobbies. They had favorite songs and secret dreams and were no different from anyone else. They believed that the Jews were monsters, that they weren't like "normal" people, that they were the harmful ones. So doing awful things to them didn't make them monsters, it just made them normal people protecting other normal people from the monsters. Right?

Dehumanization is always. Wrong.

Someone was asking in a thread what kind of people could work for ICE right now.

I think it's a good time to remember that the image above are the people who put children into gas chambers.

When I was little, I asked what kind of person could work at a concentration camp.

The answer to both questions I think is "normal people who have accepted the dehumanization of another group of people."

[getitoutofmymindwrites]

Something constant. | joel miller x f!reader, 9.1k

Summary: You are Tommy’s best friend, Joel’s constant complication- the one woman he can’t touch without breaking. But when years of tension finally snap, Joel has no choice but to face what he’s been running from: the fact that you’ve always been his, whether he deserves you or not.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, ANGST (like- I'm putting them through it like my life depends on it)(it does.), SMUT, reader is 5 yrs younger than Tommy, so that leaves a 10 yrs age gap with our man, emotional and physical abuse, toxic dynamics: mentions of abusive family but nothing descriptive or graphic, mentions of abusive boyfriends and unhealthy relationships in general but nothing descriptive or graphic, substance use: mentions of gambling and intense sexual content: grinding, nipple play, fingering, cum eating, unprotected PIV, dom!Joel. Please be aware and read responsibly.

A/N: Well, well, well- what do we have here? It’s been almost a year since I last posted anything of mine. This is not some breakthrough, or something you haven’t read before. For some reason, I decided to forgo dividers and use titles instead. Where did that come from? Lord knows. The writing and rhythm feel a bit different, especially in the beginning- don’t ask me to explain, I’m not a trained professional. I also think I used dashes more than I ever have before, maybe I'm addicted, who knows. (They made sense, ok?) Anyway, I don’t know why I’m rambling; I don’t even know if you still remember me, but hey-(oh look, another dash!) I'm still here and I’ve missed you guys!

P.S.: Oh- oh and please don’t forget, as always, I hate summaries!

Dividers by @cafekitsune

They say you only get what you think you deserve in this life.

They must be gravely wrong then, because you don’t think you deserve Joel Miller. Not for one second. And yet, somehow.. here you are.

But let’s take things from the beginning.

The past.

You and Tommy met when you were young. Well, he was young. You were young..er. Which, by default, made Joel the old..er brother.

You and Tommy became fast, inseparable friends. You were both drawn to mischief and that made you almost instantly thick as thieves. He’s always been like a brother to you. You spent summers at the Millers’, crashed there during rough times.

You didn’t have a stable home life. You learned from a young age to adapt.

Actually, you learned a handful of helpful things: how to read faces, microexpressions, words unsaid and gestures unmade. When to activate your sympathetic or parasympathetic systems. When to freeze. When to hide. When to run. Especially where to run.

The destination was always the same, the Millers’ house. Tommy and by extension Joel, became your lifeline.

The one person you could never read to save your life though, was Joel Miller.

Joel, always wiser, quieter, intense. You called him “sir” jokingly. He called you “kid.” Typical.

He wasn’t warm, but he was reliable. Always picking Tommy up from trouble. Always fixing things. Always there.

You admired him before you even understood why. He never faltered. Never drifted.

As you grew up, that admiration turned into something deeper. But beyond that, all you could ever figure out was that he didn’t like you all that much. You guessed you were used to that. You’d had your whole life training for it.

The hidden love.

You never said anything. Joel treated you like a kid.

Even as you matured, he stayed distant, protective, but formal.

You kept it to yourself, how you felt about him and tried to date others. No one ever measured up. Of course they didn’t. They didn’t even give you the bare minimum.

But even when they did -rarely- your heart was singing only for Joel.

What a stupid fixation, you thought.

To crave the safe. To long for the normal. To love the constant.

But he provided. So you did.

Truth be told, you’ve never shared much with Joel. He was always orbiting your friendship with Tommy, anyway. He was the big brother. He was always around, mostly to keep an eye on Tommy, if you had to guess. So, inevitably, he ended up getting to know parts of your life, of you.

Like right now, when you wish more than anything that he never knew you at all.

You see, you’re in a bad relationship. You don’t tell Joel as much. You never would.

But Tommy knows.

And if Tommy knows, Joel does too.

Because Joel is observant. He always watches. He always has.

Like you said, to keep Tommy straight. Wasn’t his fault if you were always around. So it wasn’t that hard to figure you out. To notice things.

Like you, clinging to people who give crumbs of affection, because you grew up without real support.

Like you, staying with your boyfriend after he apologizes, crying, believing it meant change.

The sleepover.

Tommy lets you crash at Joel’s place. You don't even need to ask; it’s practically a given. He thinks it’s casual, just like always.

You feel safe there, even with Joel being standoffish. He never kicked you out, though. His door was always open when you needed it and that meant something. It had to, right?

But when you settle into the familiar room and mattress, you have a confession to make. You admit to Tommy that you forgave your boyfriend because “he cried and I thought maybe he deserved another chance.”

“Jesus..” Tommy sighs, his brows pinched in frustration. Not at you but at the lucky bastard who’s havin’ it easy.

He doesn’t know what else to say to make you see; you are enough. Enough to stand on your own. You don’t need anyone else to feel whole. Complete. Relevant. Seen.

But who is he to talk? He’s always carryin’ his own demons, makin’ his own same mistakes; always havin’ Joel anchor him to reality, like you’re havin’ him.

Tommy sits on the bed next to you, searching your eyes. “What are you not tellin’ me?”, his voice soft and caring like a knuckle brushing against a cheek.

Goddamn Miller brothers and their ability to read you like an open book.

You avoid his gaze, looking anywhere but him.

He calls your name now, sternly. Serious. Patience was never really his strong suit, but then again, you already knew that. “Done playin’ games, darlin’.”

Tommy pinches your chin, forces your eyes on his. “Spit it out.” He speaks like he’s scolding you, but his thumb brushes gently over your knuckles.

You start stammering, the words to admit your level of failure elude you, like smoke curling in the air. You pick at a loose thread on the blanket. Your knee bounces once, then twice. You suck in a breath like it’ll help you speak. It doesn’t.

“I- I-” you exhale loudly. You rehearse the sentence in your head but it comes out wrong every time. Too much. Too small. Too pathetic. You hate that it’s even real. “I think he spent all of my savings on gambling.”

Silence.

It hangs there, thick and heavy, filling the room like smoke. You don’t dare look at him. You regret saying it already. It feels too real now, like speaking it out loud makes it official.

Tommy doesn’t respond right away.

You half-expect him to curse, maybe yell. You’ve seen that version of him. Loud, angry, Miller.

But when he finally moves, it’s quiet. Gentle.

He rubs a hand down his face, exhales slowly, the kind of breath that says I don’t know how to fix this, but I want to.

Then, softer than you were ready for- “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

Your eyes stay glued to the worn edge of the blanket you’re gripping. “I dunno.” Your voice is small. Pathetic. “Guess I didn’t wanna see it.”

He leans forward, elbows on knees, staring at the floor for a moment before glancing your way. “You gonna tell Joel?”

That makes your head snap up. “What? No- no. I don’t want him to know. He’ll just-”

You stop. You don’t even know what exactly you’re afraid of. Joel being disappointed? Joel being right? Joel looking at you like you’re one of those strays he has to keep out of the yard?

Tommy narrows his eyes just a bit. “He ain’t like that, you know.”

You shake your head. “You don’t know how he looks at me.”

Tommy gives a little snort. Amused. Tired. “Pretty sure you don’t know how he looks at you.”

Your breath catches. And now you have to look away.

He sees it. Of course he does. Goddamn Miller brothers.

Tommy doesn’t press. He just shifts closer on the mattress, hand resting lightly on your shoulder. No pressure. Just there.

“You’re not stayin’ with him anymore,” he says. “We’ll figure the rest out later.”

That “we” shouldn’t hit you in the chest the way it does.

But it does.

You nod once, quietly. You don’t say thank you. Not because you’re not grateful, but because you’ve learned that some kindnesses are too big for words.

Joel’s Judgment.

Sunlight’s starting to crawl into the kitchen. Joel’s already up, nursing his coffee, sleeves pushed up, working a stubborn hinge loose on the cabinet door.

Always fixing what breaks, never what’s breaking him.

He’s got that tired, focused look, the one he wears when there’s too much on his mind and nowhere to put it.

Tommy walks in after a while, hair still a mess, rubbing sleep from his eyes. You’re not around, maybe still in the spare room, maybe hiding from the weight of everything.

Joel doesn’t ask, not directly. He never does. But he eyes the hallway, then glances at Tommy.

“Everything alright with her?”, he asks almost indifferent while still working on the cabinet door.

Tommy runs a hand over his face. Hesitates. Then shrugs.

“She always ends up with assholes, doesn’t she?” Joel mutters under his breath.

Not angry. Not cold. Just.. detached. Like he’s trying to put you in a box he can label and keep at a safe distance.

Tommy’s halfway to the coffee pot when he freezes.

His voice comes out sharper than intended.

“Jesus, Joel.”

Joel looks up, brows raised. “What?”

Tommy slams the pot down harder than necessary. “She thought she could trust him. He cried, said he’d change, you know how that goes.”

Joel watches him now, more alert. “What’re you talkin’ about?”

Tommy exhales through his nose, pacing once. Shit. Then- too late to take it back- “..The bastard drained her savings. All of it. Gambling.”

Silence.

Joel blinks once. Sets the screwdriver down slow, deliberate. Like he actively accepts he’s capable of murder right at this moment.

“You serious?”

Tommy just nods, jaw tight.

Joel doesn’t say anything at first. His face hardens, not with judgment, but with something else. Something Tommy has seen too many times before. That cold, calculating kind of quiet. Like when a storm’s just out of sight but already coming.

He glances back toward the hallway.

And for the first time in a long time, Joel Miller looks like he might actually break something.

The confrontation.

“Is she really that stupid?”

Joel’s voice cuts through the air, low, gritted, sharp like broken glass.

You weren’t even trying to eavesdrop. Just happened to walk toward the kitchen, bare feet soft on old floorboards, the kind that creak at the worst moments.

But now you’re at the doorframe.

And you’ve heard it.

They both freeze when they see you.

Tommy’s mouth parts like he might say something -anything- but Joel gets there first. He takes a step forward, guilt blooming all over his face.

"Wait-", time fractures; each fraction of a second splitting into aching pieces, stretching into eternity, as he struggles to find the right words. "That’s not-"

You flinch back. Not from fear, from instinct. Like touching him would burn.

Your eyes are glassy, breath stuck somewhere between your chest and throat.

You tried so fucking hard. For years.

To believe he didn’t despise you. That it was just the way he was, guarded, quiet, rough around the edges. Maybe, just maybe, under all that brooding, he gave a damn. Not enough to love you, but enough to keep you torturing yourself. Hoping.

You clung to scraps. Glances. The open door. The silence that wasn’t quite rejection.

But now- now you have your answer.

He reaches out and you step further back, hand half-raised like a warning.

“Don’t.”

Your voice cracks.

“You’re cruel, Joel.” His name tastes foreign, like something you were never meant to say out loud. Not in this kind of sentence. Not aimed at you.

He flinches.

“You have no idea what it’s like to be alone and still try to believe people can be good. That they’ll change. That you matter enough for someone to try.”

You laugh bitterly. Short, sharp.

“I used to think that was my strength, it gave me hope, nurtured my heart.”

You shrug, mouth twisting.

“Now I just feel stupid.”

Joel opens his mouth and this time his voice is soft. A crack in the armor.

“Sweetheart-”

It halts you.

Like something forgotten and fragile just cracked open in your chest.

He’s never called you that. Never reached for softness when it came to you. You were always kid, background noise, someone tolerated.

But this- this name, heavy with something almost gentle- it lingers.

Uninvited warmth in the middle of a wound. A wrong word at the worst possible moment.

And just like that, you falter.

Your footing slips, like the floor forgot how to hold you. You hate that it gets to you. You hate that part of you still wants it to mean something.

You snap.

“No.”

You shake your head, fast, like you're trying to physically push the word away.

“No, Joel. You made what you think of me very clear.”

You take another step back, voice trembling but strong.

“You sorry you said it or just sorry I was there to hear it?”

He looks like he’s on the verge of breaking. But you don’t let him. A quiet kind of peace settles over you- cold, final. It’s all done now. Sealed. Clear. Maybe hope was never meant for you. Maybe it ruined more than it ever gave.

“I’m sorry. Sorry for having a heart. For seeing the good in people. For thinking maybe, just maybe, I could believe in something better.”

A beat. “For thinking you’d ever see me as something more than a burden.”

Then the final twist- “But hey- I guess if anyone knows what it’s like to be an asshole, it’s you.”

Silence.

You turn around.

And this time, when you walk away, you don’t look back.

The void.

The door doesn’t slam. He almost wishes it did, something loud, something final, something that could match the sting in his chest.

But no.

It’s the quiet that kills him.

He stays there, frozen. One foot half-forward like he still thinks maybe he can catch you.

Maybe call you back.

Maybe undo it.

Too late.

Tommy doesn’t speak. He’s seen this side of Joel before, the kind that hits hard and then stands in the wreckage, not knowing how to fix what’s left.

Joel drags a hand down his face, slow. Tired.

He feels like he just handed a loaded gun to someone he swore he’d protect and it went off in his own damn hands.

He sinks down onto the edge of the kitchen chair, his elbows digging his knees. Staring at nothing. Staring at the space you occupied moments ago.

“Didn’t mean it like that,” he mutters defeated. “Not like that.”

But there’s no one there to hear it.

The room stays still.

Tommy leans against the doorframe. Crosses his arms. Watches his brother fall apart without making a sound about it.

He wants to say I warned you.

Wants to say You crossed a line you can’t uncross.

But what good would it do now?

Joel doesn’t need a lecture.

He needs a time machine.

Tommy sighs, low, deep; rubs the back of his neck.

“You love her,” he says simply. Not a question. “You just don’t think you deserve her.”

Joel doesn’t look up. Doesn’t argue.

Tommy nods to himself, jaw tight.

“Then I hope to God you figure out what you do deserve, before she’s too far gone to look back.”

He pushes off the frame and walks out, boots heavy on the floorboards, leaving Joel alone with the quiet and what he’s done.

The conversation.

Tommy stepped out onto the back porch with two beers. Joel was already out there, sitting in silence, the lamp behind him casting long shadows across the wooden floorboards. He didn’t say anything when Tommy handed him one.

They sat for a while.

“She didn’t mean to hear it, y’know,” Tommy said eventually. “Was just.. bad timing.”

Joel didn’t react. Took a sip. His expression remained flat.

“Maybe it’s better she did,” he muttered, eyes fixed on his thumb as it peeled the label off the bottle- then drifting back up again, straight into nothingness.

Tommy bent forward slightly, fingers laced together. “Jesus, Joel. What the hell’s goin’ on with you?”

Joel’s eyes stayed lost in the dark. “She’s the kind of woman who believes in second chances. Believes people can be better. Damn, she forgives the unforgivable like it’s just another Tuesday.”

“Yeah,” Tommy said softly, almost in awe. “I know.”

“But me?” Joel’s fingers tightened slightly around the neck of the bottle. “I’ve run out of people to prove wrong. And if she ever looked at me the way I look at her.. God help me, I’d take it. I’d take it and I’d never let go. Which is exactly why I can’t.”

Tommy went quiet for a moment.

“You really think you’re that far gone?”

Joel gave a hard smile. “You see the man I am now. But she didn’t see who I had to be. Who I chose to be. I’ve done things, Tommy. Not the kind that sends you to jail- the kind you do when you look out for your own. I walked away from people who needed me. I picked you over them. And I’d do it again, but that don’t mean it didn’t mark me.”

“You did what you had to do,” Tommy said sharply. “For me. For us.”

“That don’t make it right.”

“Doesn’t make it wrong either.”

Joel’s voice softened, almost a whisper. “She thinks people can change. I know they don’t, not really. And I ain’t gonna be the one to prove her wrong.”

Tommy studied his brother for a long beat. “You ever think maybe she sees who you are now ‘cause that’s who you are?”

“She’s not like us, Tommy,” Joel said flatly. “She’s strong, but not cold. Got this light to her that-”, he stopped, sighed. “I ain’t got no business even standin’ near.”

“Bullshit.” Tommy said. “You love her.”

“And that’s the goddamn problem,” Joel snapped. “I need her. And if I let myself need somethin’ that good and I lose it..”, his face shifted, darkening into something grim and unyielding, “-Lord have mercy on anyone standin’ in my way.. I don’t think I’d come back from that.”

Tommy leaned back in his chair, head tilted up toward the sky.

“She’s not gonna break you, Joel. She’s already holdin’ your pieces together. You just too scared to admit it.”

Joel took another sip as silence settled over them once again. There was something fragile in his voice now.

“I have a brother, you know,” he said with a dry quip. “He trusts me with everythin’. Even her. I can’t give him a reason not to.”

Tommy laughed bitterly. “I think he’d be more pissed if you kept hurtin’ her just to protect him.”

Joel stared off into the night, beer forgotten in his hand. Another beat of quiet. His resolve was cracking slightly. Not entirely. Not enough. Not yet.

Then, barely above a whisper-

“A man like me don’t get to want things like her.”

The explotion.

It’s been weeks.

No word from Joel.

Tommy checks in from time to time, but he doesn’t say his brother’s name. Not once.

And you don’t ask.

You tell yourself you don’t care. That the silence doesn’t ache.

Then one afternoon, Tommy texts you:

"Swing by Joel’s place. Left some stuff for you in the garage. I’ll be back in 10."

You don’t think twice. You go. You assume Joel’s at work. He always is.

But when you step inside, the air is too quiet. Tommy’s truck is gone. And then you hear a key turning in the front door.

Joel walks in.

You both stop in your tracks. He blinks, like he’s not sure if you’re real. Your heartbeat drums in your ears. You mumble something about Tommy. He nods; says nothing at first. Just sets his keys down on the table.

He glances at you. There’s a hesitation, like something’s been living in his throat for too long and he’s finally decided to let it out.

"Tommy said you.. broke things off."

You nod stiffly, eyes dropping to your feet, like they could carry you away from him. Like they ever would.

He shifts his weight, almost uncomfortable. His voice is low, a little rough, when he dares-

"That guy ever lay a hand on you?"

Your jaw tightens.

Not this again. Not from him. Not when he’s the one who shattered you last.

"Not everyone’s lucky enough to have Joel Miller in their corner." you bite out before you can stop yourself.

His brows twitch and you don’t wait for him to respond. The words keep spilling now, bitter, broken, sharp.

"I don’t let people touch me or talk to me like that. Not anymore."

Your eyes flash, not with anger, with hurt.

"But you? I made an exception for you. God knows why."

He flinches. Not dramatically. Just a subtle shift in his jaw, his breath caught wrong.

Like it’s only now hitting him that being let in -truly in- came with weight. That he held something fragile in his hands and dropped it anyway.

And you?

You hate that your voice breaks on the next part.

"You were the only one I thought I didn’t have to protect myself from."

He takes a step forward. Slow. Careful. Like he’s approaching something wounded and wild.

You don’t move- not back, not forward. Just watching him, tight-lipped and trembling like you’re holding yourself together with spit and thread.

"Don’t," you say, low and hollow.

He stops. Hands hovering like he might reach for you and thinks better of it. Again.

"Kid-"

You flinch at the nickname. Just slightly, but enough. He notices. Of course he does.

That damn observant look of his. It used to make you feel seen. Now it just makes you feel exposed. Like he sees the ache he put there and doesn’t know how to address it.

He doesn’t know what to fix first.

The way he spoke to you?

The way he looked at you after?

The way he didn’t come after you when you left?

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Tries again.

"That day, I didn’t mean-"

You cut him off, voice like stone, "You never mean to. That’s the whole problem."

The silence after is raw.

He doesn’t step closer. He doesn’t step back. He just stays there, suspended in regret.

Like, he finally understands the difference between being in someone’s corner and being someone they can truly rely on.

The tension is suffocating. It coils in your lungs like smoke, thick and hot and inescapable.

Joel says nothing. Quiet again. Resigned. His eyes fix somewhere over your shoulder, or maybe nowhere at all. You can’t tell.

He won’t even look at you. You were always a ghost to him, weightless. Unseen.

A haunting he never asked for.

A slight inconvenience, someone he tolerated for Tommy's sake. Never close enough to matter. Never far enough to ignore.

And that tells you everything.

You’re not getting an explanation. Not now. Not ever.

Whatever that moment was, the truth he nearly let slip, the rawness behind his voice, it’s already retreating back into the dark.

You feel it, the distance returning, sharp and cold, like the final click of a door locking from the inside.

Of course. Of course he’d leave you standing there with nothing. Of course he’d choose silence again.

Because that’s what he does. That’s what he’s always done.

And suddenly your chest feels too tight, your throat dry, like your body’s trying to brace for impact but the crash never comes.

So you nod. Once. Slow.

You turn to leave and he doesn’t stop you.

But as you move past him, something inside you screams enough. And before you can stop yourself-

“Why do you hate me so much?” you ask, your voice cracking before you mean it to. You weren’t even going to say anything, but the way he always looks at you, jaw clenched, arms crossed, that permanent scowl — it’s been eating at you for years.

Joel’s response is a gruff, confused, “What?”

“Every time I’m around, you act like I’ve done something wrong. Like you can’t stand the sight of me. I just- what did I ever do to you, Joel?”

His face shifts. Something flickers in his eyes- not anger. Something else. But it’s gone before you can name it.

“You didn’t do nothin’.” he says quietly.

“Then why? Why are you always so angry with me?”

He won’t look at you. Something between a huff and a laugh escapes his mouth, like he’s mocking you. Silence stretches. But you keep going, your voice sharper now, almost shaking.

“Is it because I’m not your business? Because I was always just Tommy’s dumb little friend hanging around? Or is it just fun for you; pushing me away over and over until I finally take the hint?”

“Don’t put words in my mouth.” he snaps, his voice cold and defensive, eyes glittering with barely-contained rage.

“Then say it!” you bite out, bitter and breathless. “Whatever it is you’ve been holding back for years; say it. Tell me what the hell I ever did to make you look at me like I’m something you need to keep your distance from.”

You’re flushed now. Heart pounding. He still won’t look at you. So you take a step forward.

“Is it because I’m too young? Because I’m soft? Because I forgive people who don’t deserve it?”

Now, finally, Joel looks at you. Maybe he thinks this is meant for him. Maybe he knows he’s one of those who don’t deserve it- forgiveness. Your forgiveness. And something inside him snaps.

“It’s because I can’t afford to look at you the way I want to.” he says low, furious.

You blink. Whatever you were expecting, it wasn’t that.

“It’s because every time you walk into a goddamn room, I feel like I can breathe for the first time in days. And that shouldn’t be your burden.”

“Joel..” you whisper, barely audible.

He goes on, more raw now.

“You think I’m angry with you? I’m angry with myself. For wantin’ something I got no right to want. For feelin’ like maybe -maybe- there’s a version of me that could be good enough for you. But there ain’t.”

He laughs once, bitter, shaking his head.

“I push you away because if I didn’t, I’d never stop reachin’ for you. And you deserve better than a man who can’t let himself want good things without breakin’ ‘em.”

Silence. His jaw tightens. His fists clench at his sides.

“I would’ve given you everything, Joel.” you say, voice trembling. “You didn’t even have to ask.”

He looks at you like you’ve lost your mind. Like you just said something cruel. His face twists- not in anger, but disbelief. Something almost panicked beneath the surface.

“You don’t mean that,” he says, quiet, almost pleading.

“What?” you ask, startled.

“You think you do, but you don’t. You’ve always looked at me like I’m some fixed thing. Like I’m solid. Steady. That ain’t love, sweetheart. That’s just safety.”

You blink, like he’s slapped you. And he keeps going, like he has to kill the feeling before it grows roots.

“You don’t want me. You want the idea of me. What I was to Tommy. What I never was to you.”

“If I ever let you close enough to see what’s really here,” Joel gestures vaguely- to his chest, his heart, whatever broken thing still beats inside him, “you’d realize you don’t love me. You just mistook the feelin’. And I can’t be the reason you lose that part of yourself.”

But you’re steady now. Hurt, but unwavering.

“Don’t you dare tell me what I feel.”

Joel stiffens. But you don’t stop.

“You think I saw you as safe? You? With that goddamn storm behind your eyes? With the way you look at the world like it already failed you?”

You step closer. You don’t shout; you just slice.

“I’ve spent years trying to figure out why the worst parts of you still felt like home. Why every time you pushed me away, I wanted to stay. Why I kept waiting for one -just one- moment of softness from you like it might be enough to last me a lifetime.”

You laugh, bitterly, like he did earlier.

“You think I made you into something better than you are? No, Joel. I saw all of it. Every wall. Every silence. Every time you looked right through me like it would be easier if I just disappeared.”

You swallow hard. Your voice cracks, just once.

“And I loved you anyway.”

Silence. He stares at you- stunned. Maybe horrified. Maybe something else. You’d say he almost looks scared of you; if you didn’t know any better.

You continue, quieter. “You don’t get to tell me I mistook the feeling. You just didn’t want to believe anyone could see the truth and stay.”

And then you push again, sharp, your voice shaking with rage and pain as you step forward.

“So, I ask you again, Joel, because you’ve failed to answer me, how dare you tell me what I feel?”

He exhales, tired, low. “I’m tryin’ to protect you-”

“No,” you cut him off. “You’re protecting yourself. Because it’s easier to believe I’m just confused than to admit someone could really love you for who you are. Even with all the shit you carry.”

He flinches. You see it. And it only hurts more.

“I do love you.” you tell him. “I love the man who sits in silence and makes sure everyone else eats first. The man who takes the blame even when it isn’t his. The man who looks at me like he’s drowning but won’t reach out.”

You’re toe to toe now. Your voice drops.

“You think that’s not real? You think I don’t know the difference between comfort and love after everything I’ve survived?”

Your next words come softer, almost breaking.

“You’re not some ghost I projected things onto, Joel. I see you. And I still want you.”

You’re standing so close you can feel the heat of him, the weight of his breath on your face and for a second, you think maybe- maybe this is the moment he’ll finally stop holding back. You reach out, slow, your fingertips brushing the side of his jaw, tentative, trembling with everything you can’t say.

“Joel..” you whisper.

But the second your hand touches him, he flinches- just slightly. Like a breath he wasn’t ready for. Like instinct. But it’s enough. You freeze, your hand falling, your face crumbling. The air goes out of you all at once.

“Right. I- got it,” you say, pulling back, your voice thin and wrecked.

You turn quickly. You don’t want him to see your face, the way it crumples, the way your shoulders shake.

He doesn’t move at first- he’s frozen, like the breath has been punched out of him. But then-

“Wait. Wait- no. No, don’t- don’t do that,” Joel blurts out, panicked.

You keep walking. He follows.

“Don’t you dare think that was about you,” he says, more urgent now.

You stop at the door but don’t turn around. His voice is shaking. You’ve never heard him like this.

“You think I flinched ‘cause I didn’t want you to touch me?”

Your fists clench at your sides. Your heart pounds on your chest; you’re sure he can hear it.

“I don’t know what to think anymore,” you admit quietly, trying to hide your broken voice.

Joel crosses the distance between you before you can move again. His hand catches your wrist- gentle but firm, turning you to look at him. His voice is low, rough, but soft in a way you’ve never heard before.

“I flinched because it felt like everything I’ve been tryin’ not to feel for years just broke wide open.”

You finally look at him. His eyes are dark, wet, desperate.

“Because the second you touched me, I wanted to fall into it. Into you. And I’ve spent so long convincing myself I don’t get to have that.”

His hand slides to your cheek- slowly, like he’s asking for permission with every inch.

This time, he touches you. His thumb brushes your jaw, reverent. Like he’s memorizing the shape of you in case he loses the right to ever do this again.

“You scare the hell outta me,” Joel breathes, “because you look at me like I’m someone worth lettin’ in. And I ain’t. I know I ain’t. But-”, he leans in, his forehead resting against yours, his voice shaking, “-just this once. Let me pretend I am.”

You don’t move. You don’t speak. You just breathe -ragged, shallow- afraid that if you say anything, the spell will break and he’ll pull away again.

But part of you still doesn’t trust it.

Not fully. Not yet.

“Joel..” your voice comes soft, almost broken. “Please don’t do this if you’re gonna disappear tomorrow.”

He doesn’t answer, and you can see the war raging inside him; you can almost taste it. The doubt. And that silence? It kills you.

So you turn. Ready to leave, to protect what’s left of you.

But he moves, fast.

He doesn’t grab you, just steps into your path, like it’s instinct. For a moment, he considers pressing his palm to the door to stop you. But after everything you’ve been through, he knows better. Even now, even here, he remembers.

“Don’t go,” Joel says, low and aching. One hand half-raised like he’s scared of touching you, scared of what it’ll mean if you let him.

“Why?” you ask, sharp, trembling. “So you can push me away all over again tomorrow?”

He flinches, but he doesn’t look away. He looks at you like he’s falling apart, eyes dark and wide, as if just saying this next part might break him completely.

And then-

“Because if you walk out that door thinkin’ I don’t love you, I won’t survive it.”

The realization.

Your breath catches.

His words settle like thunder under your skin. You look at him -really look- and for the first time, there’s no mask. No guarded distance. Just raw, shattered truth.

He takes a slow step closer, like he’s giving you time to run.

"You still wanna walk away?" Joel’s voice is hoarse.

You don’t answer. You can’t.

Joel’s thumb brushes your cheek, his hand warm and steady now, no longer holding back. His forehead rests against yours, and when he speaks, it’s like a promise that’s already been broken.

"Tell me to stop. If you do, I swear I will."

But you don’t. You can’t. Not when he’s looking at you like this. Like you’re something he needs to survive.

"Don’t," you breathe.

That’s all it takes. The dam breaks. He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for years and then his mouth is on yours, hungry, devastated, like he’s sorry and aching and starved all at once.

His lips are rough but his hands are gentle, like he’s trying to memorize the feel of you. The kiss starts slow, reverent and builds, deepens. His hands cradle your face, your waist, pulling you closer like he can’t get enough. Your fingers knot in his shirt, dragging him down, pressing into him.

You gasp into his mouth, and he groans like it’s a sound he didn’t mean to let out. He presses you back against the wall, not rough, not aggressive, but desperate.

"Been wantin’ this for so long.." he murmurs into your mouth.

Your hips shift and he feels it- the press of you against him. His hands fall to your waist, dragging you tighter against him, grinding into you like he needs the friction, needs proof this is real.

You arch into him, needy, breathless. He presses into you, the thick line of his thigh between yours, the heat of his body unbearable. Every little grind is slow, controlled, but filled with hunger.

"You don’t even know what you’re doin’ to me…" Joel’s voice is hoarse, dark and full of disbelief.

You whimper at the sound of it. He rests his forehead against your neck, breathing hard, hips rolling into yours.

"Then show me," you whisper, soft and ruined.

He kisses you again, deeper this time; his tongue slipping past your lips, tangling with yours in a slow, deliberate rhythm. You think you’d float away, lost in a dream, if the coarse scruff of his beard wasn’t there, grounding you, prickling the skin around your lips.

His hand slides under your shirt, just skin and warmth and a shiver down your spine. But then he pulls back, just a little, breathing hard.

"If we keep goin’, I don’t think I’ll be able to stop."

"Then don’t."

Your lips part from his, breaths mingling in the heavy air. Joel’s hands don’t rush; they trace the lines of your body through your clothes, deliberate and sure, like he’s committing every inch of you to memory.

His fingers slip under the hem of your shirt, ghosting over your ribs, fingertips grazing your skin lightly before returning to the fabric. One hand cups your waist, pulling you flush against his hard thigh- the heat there like a magnet.

You shift your hips slowly, grinding against him, feeling the solid muscle beneath the fabric, the tension building with every tiny movement.

"So needy already.. what happens when I really touch you?" His voice is low and rough.

You whimper, pressing closer, needing more contact.

"Feels good, baby? Keep grindin’ just like that."

His hands slide to the front of your shirt, palms cradling your soft breasts, thumbs sweeping lightly over your nipples through the thin fabric. He feels them stiffen instantly beneath his palms, the reaction so visceral it sends a jolt through him, something raw, almost primal, uncoiling in his chest. His fingers pinch and roll them with just enough pressure to make your back arch, to draw a broken gasp from your lips.

He watches you writhe, mesmerized by the way you react to every twist of his fingers, the way you shiver and press into his hands like you need more- need him.

Your hands find his wrists, holding him close, desperate for more.

His thumbs drag slowly again over the sensitive peaks, his mouth watering at the thought of that taut skin against his tongue and he swears under his breath, voice thick.

"Joel- please.." you breathe.

He chuckles darkly, his lips brushing against your jaw. His brain is deep in a haze of desire and need; he's not in control anymore. Maybe he never was- maybe he was always waiting for you to undo him.

His thigh tightens beneath you, holding you steady as you grind harder, matching his rhythm without words. His fingers tease, flick, and pinch lightly, coaxing every sigh and tremble from you.

"You feel that? That’s mine. You're gonna come for me, right here, just like this. Show me you’re mine."

You arch into him, breath hitching, heart pounding as the friction and his teasing combine into a storm inside you. His hands roam with growing confidence, undeterred by your soft moans and shudders. You can feel the heat pooling low in your belly, spreading fast and he’s right there- steady and sure beneath you, grounding you even as your senses spiral.

The world narrows to the feel of him, the sound of your ragged breaths and the tight coil of pleasure winding up inside you.

Your breaths come faster, your chest rising and falling as Joel’s fingers trace tight circles over your nipples, every pass sending sparks of heat through you, even though he still hasn’t touched you directly. Your hips grind harder, trembling as the tension coils tighter and tighter.

You cry out softly against his pouty lips, your body shuddering against his thigh. The warmth pools low and spreads, waves crashing through you and he swallows every little whimper and moan like a man parched. Your fingers clutch his shirt, digging in as the pleasure ripples and crashes, leaving you breathless and undone.

"God.." Joel whispers, voice almost breaking.

He watches you fall apart- skin flushed, eyes half-lidded, lips parted and something inside him twists.

The love scene.

His hands freeze for a moment, not wanting to disturb you but desperate to hold onto you. He leans closer, forehead resting against yours, breath warm and steady. Joel watches -intense, silent- his gaze fixed on how your body unravels under his touch, how every shiver and sigh seems to pull at something deep inside him.

His hand stills, hovering just above your skin, afraid to break the fragile spell but desperate to hold onto this moment. His jaw tightens, eyes dark with a storm of emotions he won’t speak aloud- need, protectiveness, and something rawer he’s terrified to admit.

He wants to say something, anything, to stop the rush of feelings, to keep things safe and simple. But the words catch in his throat.

Instead, he simply presses his forehead against yours, breath warm and uneven, trying to steady himself. His body tenses beneath you, a silent war raging inside him; he’s drawn to you like never before, but his mind is screaming that this could burn everything to ashes.

Your breath stays uneven, chest pressed to his, foreheads touching like you’re both holding on to something that would vanish the moment you let go.

"Joel, look at me."

He hesitates. You can feel it- the tremble in his hands, the slight shift in his stance, like his whole body’s braced for you to disappear.

"I’m lookin’."

"I’m still here."

And you are -flushed, shaking, pupils blown wide- but still tethered to him, anchored in this fragile space between fear and want. You watch the fight flicker in his eyes. The way his jaw clenches. The way his hands, warm and steady a moment ago, are now flexing like he’s trying not to grab hold too tight.

"You shouldn’t be."

"Don’t."

He closes his eyes, just for a second. Like that word, like your voice, cuts deeper than it should.

"I don’t know how to do this without hurtin’ you."

"I’m already hurt, Joel. But not by what we just did. By you thinking I can’t decide for myself what I want."

That hits him. You see it. The flinch. The ache. The guilt sinking its claws in.

But you don’t stop. You can’t.

"You don’t have to be perfect. You don’t have to be safe. I just need you to be real."

He looks at you like he’s drowning again. Like you’re offering him something he’s too afraid to take. But his hand rises anyway -slow, hesitant- and brushes your cheek again, thumb catching a tear you didn’t know had slipped down.

"I don’t wanna lose this. Lose you. But I don’t know if I can be the kind of man you hold onto."

"Then let me decide that."

You take his hand. Place it against your chest. Let him feel the way your heart hammers beneath your ribs.

"I already am. Can't you feel it?"

One breath. Then another. Joel exhales slowly, like something inside him just gave up the fight. And what’s left is raw and exposed and his.

He kisses you again, slower this time. Less desperation, more reverence. Like a man memorizing his last breath. And this time, he doesn't pull away.

The kiss deepens again, but there’s no trembling now. No flinching. Just heat. Just his hands moving with purpose, sliding beneath your clothes, skin on skin, rough palms and calloused fingers learning you like he’s starved for the taste.

You gasp as he lifts your shirt, tugging it over your head and tossing it aside. His eyes drag down your body like a slow burn, reverent, almost disbelieving.

"Jesus Christ.."

He cups your breasts, thumbs brushing around your nipples, already raw and swollen from his earlier attention, watching the way your back arches into him like instinct. His mouth follows next, hot and open against your tender skin, teeth grazing your stiffened peaks with aching slowness.

Your cunt is pulsing painfully in anticipation, your panties soaked and surely ruining the thick denim of his jeans. All you seem to be able to do is beg for him one more time.

"Joel- please.. I can't-"

He growls -actually growls- the sound scraping low from his chest, like he’s been waiting years to hear that. His hands roam lower, finding the button of your shorts, undoing them slowly, deliberately, giving you just enough time to stop him, but you won’t. You can’t.

Your hands are just as greedy, tugging at his shirt, desperate to feel him, to know him the way he’s never let anyone close enough to know. When you finally get it off him, it’s almost too much. All of him -broad and solid and burning under your palms.

"Tell me if you want me to stop."

"I want you to fuck me, Joel."

A pause. A beat. Like the words steal the air from his lungs.

Then he moves.

Your back hits the wall again -gently, but firm- and his body follows, pressing against yours, one hand slipping into your panties, fingers sliding through slick heat with an almost broken sound.

"You’re so fuckin’ wet.." he breathes against that sensitive spot right beneath your ear and you can feel his hard cock grinding for relief against your hip.

You cry out as two thick fingers slide into you, curling just right, slow and deep. Your soft walls flutter around his digits, welcoming the intrusion. His other hand grabs your thigh, hitching it up around his waist. He’s grinding into you now, rutting slow, the thick line of his cock still trapped behind denim- but you can feel it. Every inch of it, hard and pulsing through his jeans.

The slick, obscene squelch of his fingers pumping in and out of your soaked cunt only makes you ache more, arousal spilling down his wrist. You’re so fucking close to snapping, to breaking apart if he doesn’t fuck you right now.

“God, Joel- need you inside me-”

"I know, baby. I know. I got you."

He pulls his hand back, wet with you and brings it to his mouth, sucking his fingers clean with a groan that makes your knees buckle. Then he tugs your shorts down, sliding them off you and undoes his jeans, shoving them low enough to free himself and—

Fuck.

He’s thick. Long. Heavy in his hand as he strokes himself once, twice, eyes fixed on you like you’re the only thing keeping him standing.

Heat spreads across your skin and you’re acutely aware of how vulnerable you are and how completely ready your body is for him. You lean forward, gently brushing his hand away and replacing it with your own. He hisses at the contact. The head of his shaft pulses against your palm, and your fingers curl around him, unable to stop yourself from feeling how rock-hard he is.

"I’ll go slow. Just.. hold onto me.", his voice is low and thick with need. Your heart lurches at the raw sincerity in his tone and you press your body closer, arms instinctively wrapping tightly around his neck.

He lifts you effortlessly, one leg hooking around his hip and pulling you flush against him. With one impatient tug, his fingers sweep your panties to the side, and cool air skims over your heated skin.

The slick tip of him nudges at your entrance, and a sharp gasp escapes you as you feel him teasing you through your wetness.

He sinks into you with one slow, steady thrust and you arch back, teeth gritting to keep the first cry from escaping. A fierce burn flares deep inside as the first inch slides in, and you instinctively dig your nails into his shoulders.

He groans, bending to press his lips against your ear, and exhales your name as he pauses. Inch by inch, he pushes deeper, every fraction of an inch driving wild pleasure through you. Warmth and fullness bloom between your bodies and a long, trembling sigh escapes as your muscles flutter around him, completely filled, leaving you both panting and still.

"That’s it. That’s it, sweetheart, takin’ me so good.."

He stays there, buried deep inside you, forehead resting on your shoulder, both of you trembling, both of you lost.

Then he starts to move.

Slow. Deep. Unrelenting.

The song of your bodies meeting- skin against skin, the slick, filthy rhythm of it- fills the room. Your moans spill into his mouth as he kisses you again, tongue tangled with yours, every thrust more desperate, more real than anything either of you has ever known.

"Wanted this.. fuck, wanted you for so long-" he mumbles and you don't know if he's talking to you or to himself.

"Don’t stop. Please- don’t stop-"

He doesn’t. He can’t.

He’s fucking you like he means it, like this is the first and last time he’ll ever get to love someone like this- with everything in him, without apology, without restraint. His hips snap into you with purpose, rhythm deep and relentless, like he’s trying to bury himself in you, like he’s trying to leave part of himself behind.

You can feel the tremble in his arms where they hold you steady, the sweat slicking between your bodies, the way his breath stutters every time you clench around him.

Your name spills from his lips like prayer- wrecked, reverent, desperate. He dips his head into the crook of your neck, mouth open against your skin, teeth dragging over your pulse point like he needs to anchor himself before he loses it completely.

"You feel so fuckin’ good," he groans, voice raw. "Shit- don’t know how I ever lived without this."

Your nails dig into his back, trying to pull him closer, trying to keep him right there- inside you, on you, with you. You meet every thrust with your own, chasing that edge together, breathing each other in like oxygen.

Your drooling cunt chokes his dick with every pulse, soaking him all the way down to the base, slick spilling down his balls and ruining his jeans. The sounds of skin slapping skin make you both feral with lust. Your breasts bounce with every hard thrust, your nipples dragging against the coarse hairs on his toned chest, slick and flushed from the effort.

His hand snakes from the small of your back to the base of your neck, wrapping firm- grounding, claiming. You feel your walls flutter instantly under his grip.

“Not yet,” he breathes- simple, sharp, possessive- against your pleasure-parted lips. Like he knows your body better than you do. Like he knows you'll obey.

“Not till I say. You hear me?” His breath is hot against your lips. “You come when I take it from you.”

Everything in you screams to hold on, to never let go of this feeling- this heat, this fucking need. It’s too much and still not enough. Your vision swims with unshed tears, pleasure cresting into pain, into surrender.

His other hand grabs your thigh, spreads you wider and he drives in deeper, his cock hitting so deep it knocks the breath from your lungs.

“I need to hear it.” he snarls, forehead pressing to yours, eyes wild. “Say it. Say you’re mine.”

Your jaw falls open on a gasp, but no sound comes. You can’t. You can barely breathe. He fucks into you harder, his grip tightening.

“Say it, baby. Say it or I stop. Say who this pussy belongs to.”

Your eyes fill with tears- overstimulated, overwhelmed but your voice still breaks through.

“You- Joel, fuck- you- I’m yours- please- don’t stop-”

He groans, deep and guttural, like that was all he needed to unravel.

“That’s right. You’ve always been. Even when I couldn’t have you. Even when I told myself I shouldn’t touch you.”

He drags his mouth over your jaw, your neck, breathing you in like a man starved.

“I’m gonna ruin you for anyone else. I want you so fucked out and full’a me, no one else ever stands a fuckin’ chance.”

It’s too much- the pressure, the stretch, the heat, him. You try to hold back, to obey, but your walls flutter dangerously around him and he feels it.

“Now.” he growls, voice tearing through the air like a command from God. “Come for me.”

And when you finally fall apart around him- walls pulsing, thighs trembling, stars bursting behind your eyes- you gasp his name like it’s the only word you know, clinging to him like you’ll never let go.

“Mine. Fuckin’ mine.” he growls before he follows you with a broken moan, hips stuttering, his whole body seizing as he spills into you, holding you so tight it’s almost bruising. His face is buried in your neck, breath ragged, heartbeat thundering against your chest like it’s trying to match yours.

Like maybe, for a moment, they’re the same.

The aftermath.

He doesn’t move for a long time. Still buried inside you, still trembling- not from release, but from everything after.

His arms are locked around you, your chests pressed together, heartbeats still thundering in unison. You feel the sweat cooling on his back, his breath uneven against your neck. But it’s not the aftermath of sex that makes him shake.

It’s you.

The fact that he finally has you and the sick, gut-deep fear that he might still lose you.

His hand slides up your spine slowly, until it cups the back of your head. He kisses your hair. Your temple. The curve of your jaw.

“You okay?”

His voice is hoarse- too soft for a man like him and yet it holds the weight of a warning. Like he’s asking if you regret it. If he should start bracing for impact.

You nod, whispering his name into his chest.

His jaw tightens, and you feel it- the wildness under the surface, the animal in him that���s never known gentleness without loss. He kisses you- slow at first, then harder, like he needs to claim the truth on your lips.

“You’re mine now,” he mutters, almost to himself. His hand slides down to your thigh, gripping it, pressing you closer, even though you’re already one body.

“You got no idea what that means, do you?” he murmurs against your mouth. “No fuckin’ clue what I’d do for you.”

You look at him -really look- and suddenly you do.

Because this isn’t about sex. It’s about Joel and how, for once in his life, he wants something enough to stay. To fight. To keep.

He brushes his nose against yours. A soft, strange thing from such a hard man.

“You’re not just mine,” he says, barely audible. “I’m yours too, if you still want me.”

He knows he’s done for. He can’t go back- not after this.

The choice is yours now.

It always was. It always will be.

You lift your head, eyes glassy, lips trembling.

“I always did.”

“Then I got you. I swear to God, I got you.”

And for the first time, you believe it.

[kuidore]

random ZoeYstery HCs 3 ✧ KPOP demon hunters ✧ Zoey x Mystery

✧ They’re the worst couple ever when it comes to PDA

✧ Once they’re together and he has her by his side almost all the time, Mystery is just. constantly touching her. mostly without even realizing it.

✧ His hand finds hers to link their hands or wrap his fingers around her wrist, he wraps his arm around her shoulders or her waist, he slouches and walks behind her with his chin resting on top of her head

✧ He doesn’t particularily care if it makes walking weird, as long as he’s holding her. She doesn’t seem to mind either.

✧ It feels natural, so he just does it. That was how he was accustomed to living beforehand. He’s still not used to having desires, let alone pushing them down

✧ Mystery would literally carry her everywhere if she would let him.

✧ If she ever mentions her feet hurt, or her legs are tired, or even asks how much longer they had to walk, he’s already crouched down on the ground and silently gesturing for her to get on his back before she even finishes her sentence

✧ He walks extra slow when he’s giving her a piggy back. Sometimes he even purposefully takes a wrong turn so they have to take a longer route

✧ On his back was like being in a car for Zoey. She barely paid attention to the surroundings, resting her chin on his shoulder and talking at him about whatever came to mind

✧ When she does realize it, she doesn’t particularily care. It just makes her squeeze him tighter and hide her face in his shoulder to try and keep her blush in check

✧ If Mystery isn’t carrying Zoey then he’s carrying her purse, her drink, her bag, whatever she has with her.

✧ He really wants to be helpful to her, the way she was always being with him

✧ She feels really guilty in the beginning for making him be her mule, carrying around her and her stuff. But every time she asked if he minded, he shook his head no without any hesitation

✧ She’s finally convinced that it’s fine when she looks over at Mystery’s face one day while on his back and caught him smiling with his teeth. It was the first time she was even seeing them.

✧ From then on she was more than happy to accept his offer or even purposefully complain about walking just so he’d do it even more

✧ If Zoey comes into a room when he’s doing something and has his back to her, she immediately thinks of ways to be a menace

✧ Among Zoey’s arsenal was; coming up and sticking a wet finger in his ear, tiptoe really close and try to scare him (which she keeps trying even though it never works), and breaking into a sprint to throw herself on his back

✧ Sure she could go up and hug him or give him a kiss, but she saved that for when he noticed her.

✧ Mystery could actually always hear her footsteps when she came into the room.

✧ Originally he always turned around, but as soon as he realized that she was attempting to sneak up on him, he started keeping his back to her and pretending he didn’t notice her presence

✧ Every single time she grins at him and smugly says that she ‘got him’

✧ Oh she’s got him alright. Got him wrapped around her finger, whipped, ready to kill or die for her. he was pretty sure she wouldn’t let him do that last one a second time, but he’s still willing and that’s what matters

✧ Yeah, she did in fact still date him even after telling him he was her type and then slitting his throat and sending him back to hell (briefly). Don’t worry about it. He thought it was hot.

✧ He physically cannot stop himself from glaring at anyone who looks at Zoey for too long or gets in her personal space. For the latter, if they weren’t in an excessively public place, he’d still bark

✧ Mystery’s jealousy is much more about being the direct object of Zoey’s attention at a given moment, rather than some sort of fear of her leaving him for someone else or being ‘taken’

✧ He wants her to always be looking at him, paying attention to him, noticing him. The way he always was doing the same with her.

✧ It takes a lot of time for him to understand the way she expresses herself and her emotions, but Zoey is patient and happy to explain it to someone so eager to actually listen

✧ One day it’s like it clicks, when she points in a store window bouncing with excitement at a dessert he knew full well she hated and he loved

✧ He passes the entire night just looking back through their memories together, picking out what had initially seemed like minor moments and finding traces of Zoey’s adoration around every corner

✧ She wakes up to him staring at her intently. She jumps a bit and almost falls out of bed, he manages to hold her tight enough to stop her

✧ He didn’t even wish her good morning, didn’t even give her the time to wake up properly. The first words out of his mouth once he was sure she was conscious enough to be aware of him were “I love you”

✧ She can’t stop herself from burying her face in a pillow and kicking her feet, muffled giggles making her shoulders shake

[francislangdon]

10, 29, or 31

10. things you said that made me feel like shit / 31. things you said right before goodbye

Mel doesn’t mean to— she doesn’t want to— she’s not this type of person, usually— But right now��

She’s just so horribly envious.

She has learned, in twenty eight years, that most of her desires are out of her reach. Usurious things that need to be tamped down, deep, before they impede her ability to function. If she had to bear the weight of everything she wants and can not, can not, have— It would be crushing. She would fold underneath it all.

Frank Langdon fits right into that box. He’s the latest in a line of things that are decidedly not Mel’s. She can work with him, and stare, and pine, but there’s— distance.

They’re friends, she would say. Good friends, even. Close enough that they’re out for lunch on a day off. You’ll like this place, he’d said, when he brought it up at work. He likes forcing her to do things she wouldn’t normally, like karaoke with their coworkers, or impromptu mini golfing on a weekend, or taking her to hole in the wall restaurants because They have the best street tacos, Mel.

Frank moves like a whirlwind, picking her up and leaving her unsteady and untethered, floating in the air until he decides to bring her back down. It’s unfair, sometimes. He slots so nicely into her empty spaces, all warmth and understanding, the type of connection she’s always yearned for and never quite been able to grasp. She still can’t grasp him.

Frank slips right out of her hands at all the wrong times.

He’s here with her, eating too many of her tortilla chips, probably because she always lets him, leaning into her personal space like he wants— wants it too, like they’re on the same page— and then he’s, all of a sudden, very far away from Mel.

His phone rings and Frank’s attention snaps like a rubber band, harsh against her wrist, a welt in its wake. He answers immediately, and Mel doesn’t have to wonder who it is. She can tell from the soft tone in his voice.

“Hi, baby, what’s up?”

Mel bites hard on the inside of her cheek, expression neutral. Or maybe he’ll mistake her grimace for concern.

“Oh fuck, are you okay? Are the kids— Okay, okay, calm down, Abs, tell me where you are…Alright, I’ll be there, okay, love you too. I’ll be right there, baby.”

Mel sucks in a breath when he hangs up the phone. “Is…is everything okay?”

He flicks his eyes towards her, a little vacant, like he’d forgotten she was there. He shakes his head, “Abby was gonna take the kids to the mall, but they got a flat tire on the freeway. I’ve gotta go change it for her.”

“Oh,” Mel says, carefully. “Of course. I’m glad she’s alright.”

“Yeah, she’s close by at least. Last year she was taking a trip to see her sister in New York. On the way back her engine stalled right outside of Shippensburg and I had to drive, like, three hours in the middle of the night to pick her up,” he says this half laughing, fond in retrospect.

Mel’s going to be sick with jealousy. The last time she had car major problems, she was moving across the country with Becca. Her father had just died, and Mel had to take care of the dregs of his estate. It was going to take a full two days to drive all the way from Lansing back to Seattle, where she was going to school. They broke down somewhere halfway through. Becca had a melt down, crying and screaming at Mel while she desperately tried to figure out what was wrong with the car, smoke coiling out of the hood. Mel had nearly broke down herself, hot tears slipping down her cheeks, with no one to call.

The thought of Frank, willing and capable, a phone call away—

Not for the first time, Mel thinks of Abby Langdon and resentment brews in her stomach, all the way up her chest until she’s sure it must be all over her face.

Frank pulls away from their table, patting down his pockets for his wallet and keys, absently tossing a twenty down for their meal. Mel wants, avariciously, to tell him not to leave. It’s ridiculous.

“Hey,” he says, catching her eye, like he sees all the way through her, “You good?”

That’s the worst part, the one that really leaves her self piteous, riddled with greed. Frank is a perfect friend, really, but— for all that she wants him— is not hers.

“Yes,” Mel murmurs, “Just… worried for Abby. Let me know how it goes.”

He smiles at her, “I’ll tell her you were worried. Sorry we had to cut this short, by the way. Rain check?”

“For sure.”

“You’re the best, Mel. I’ll see you.”

She waits until he turns out of the building to press her head pathetically against the sticky table.

Wanting is a horrible thing. Mel would cut it out of herself, surgically, if it meant she didn’t have to feel like shit every time Frank says goodbye.

[kuntprodukt]

CELEBRITY SKIN

Leon Kennedy x female reader | MDNI!! 18+ | dead dove do not eat, incest, dad-daughter incest, rape/noncon sex, female reader, Leon is washed up rockstar, implied heavily and A LOT drug abuse/alcoholism, intoxication, vaginal sex, fingering, unsafe sex, creampie, anal play(brief attempt), piss(reader pisses herself), overstimulation, puke (mentioned, not sexual), deadbeat dad, he is icky, degradation.

summary: Hate is too strong, love is locked in the little box under your bed with keys you threw out - doesn’t mean it is absent. He is cool, not enough to deserve real love. Something tells you he doesn’t understand it too. “What do you love, Leon?” Alcohol, substances, music, strings etching into his calluses and a good pussy - his answer is not about love, but preferences. That’s what he likes. You don’t like your dad. That's the right way to say it.  

notes: no way im going to proofread all those 6k words and pray to see every mistake.... same rule: if you see mistakes then you are wrong and ignore them, + english isnt my first language. i feel like this is a little bit incosistent mess, but!!! whatever! also quoted "softer, softest" by hole. reblogs, asks or comments and any kind of interractions are really appreciated!

tags: @melanchol1cs

You remember the cold floor against your knees, still aching after falling off your bicycle a day before, even the light brown bandage is not able to stick to your skin - a bad habit, scratching it behind your mom’s gaze. Your eyes are full of interest studying vinyl covers and CDs - in both of them your dad is staring at you. Mostly your mom hoarded those, different posters with his bandmates from old magazines, but Leon always stood out. You remember your dad pinching your cheeks, crouching down and the bitter smell with acidic hints coming from him. He reeked with something your nose hated, wrinkling up, trying to push him back just to meet his irritated expression. His fingers were rough after years of playing guitar, calloused and lacking softness in them. You should have been grateful, your mom scolded you, dad didn’t have much free time. 

You remember your mom’s laps, sitting there as her fingers gently open the cd case, a light crack from the plastic and the smell of it. The reflection of you both on the disc, before she placed it in the slit of the recorder, disappearing in the squared black item you were so afraid to play with; too many buttons, too scary to mess with. She told you she is lucky to even be with him, to share a place with him even if it is empty with a cold bed waiting for him most of the time. Your mom was the biggest groupie, at least among the ones you knew - your classmates were crazy about Leon too, but it was a fleeting crush before disappointment hit them. 

Rockstar. Dad rockstar, not the most famous fact weirdly enough. Paparazzi have never bothered you and your mom, nor has he tried to appear with you in public. On billboards, on the magazines wherever you go there was him. Blue eyes following yours in the shops, with big striking red words: “LEON KENNEDY BARES HIS SOUL!!! What women can catch his heart?” or "New rock king, Leon Kennedy strikes again: who is that woman in red?". At some point, you saw your dad more on the glistening unpacked magazines in kiosks, on the screen of old TV illuminating with blue light your fascinated face late at night, one of main reasons you slept bad, trying to get more about your own dad or the posters in your room, but rarely ever in person. 

It comes with some sort of privilege, not expensive jewelry or good vacations in some cool hotel next to the ocean, but without any questions being able to walk backstage to see your dad was enough for you. Usually he knew about that in advance - a day or week before. Spreading a smile at your sight and your mom. You remember glancing through the gap of the door, that night you got away from your mom, losing her in the crowd just to see him - a surprise, but it ended up as one for you instead. Your dad kissing some young groupie on his lap, he pressed back on the black leather couch, this wasn’t a mistake on his part, the excuse you heard later was bullshit, as the sight of his hands gripping her ass and her nude back were imprinted in your mind - told a louder story than any gossip.

Next memory is your mom, sobbing in the empty bedroom late at night. A common occurrence, as a child you never noticed that - maybe she hid it well or you didn't wake up so often at night. Standing behind the door to hear bitterness in her tears, unwillingly passing the same sentiment. The fog in your memory faded to realize your dad's presence is lacking. Even his affection was forced, there was nothing in his playful pinch or the boop on your nose, even a light chuckle after a pet name held nothing but an act. 

The last betrayal came from your mom. Empty, dull looking apartment, you have never noticed how lifeless this place is, even on bright days your memories of this place are tinted with grey, the color of cloudy weather like it was always supposed to rain but it never did. Little paper note on the table without a ring - you expected one, forgetting he has never married her nor there was a ring. Maybe that’s for the better, marriage kills women. Pretty delicate handwritten text adorns on the paper.

“I hope you die from an overdose, you don't love anyone other than drugs, alcohol and your stupid, failed carrier!!”

She left your dad, finally. She left you too, not so finally. A child is an extension of one parent or both of them, a bitter reminder of your mom’s mistake? Even if her caress was gentle and full of love, even in videos she recorded with little you - clear trembling voice after another disappointment from Leon, red eyes after sobbing, but always with you, taking care. And you believed you were not a child anymore, 18 years old was a big number. 

Since today, the place was supposed to be lonely, cradling you in its cold embrace as Leon is never present as much as she or you wanted. So, the loud jiggle of keys. Clink! The turning and the sound of the door opening pulled you out of your mind, unsteady footsteps not even similar to your mom. Leon. You feel like you were standing here for eternity, meeting his gaze is unusual - like catching Santa Claus placing gifts as a kid, which you have never had. His appearance is still ruffled, hair falling in front of his eyes just to be brushed away in rough movement, squinting at you briefly before recognizing and confusion washes over him. Cologne mixed with alcohol, a hint of sweet, floral one from fucking one of few remaining groupies. 

You feel like you have just caught your husband cheating, dick deep inside some pretty bimbo bitch’s hole - instead Leon is your dad. 

Leon didn’t comment on that, squinting again as he read, while your own gaze stared at him with a hope to see something. Anger? Regret? Maybe realization he lost something valuable? That he loved you after all? Leon shrugs, nodding to the note. 

“She left?” He asks, not even trying to be decent. To pick it up, to read it, to realize how big he fucked up. Is he high? Drunk? Or all substances have already eaten his brain? The note is all written straightforwardly, clearly his cells are eaten by every drug coursing in his bloodstream - at this moment, even for a short one a wish passes through like a falling star, a hope for overdose to hit him right now. 

“Seems so” is the only answer that comes out, stunned to process how surreal this feels - straight out of Lynch movies, weird feeling in your chest, the surroundings look more surreal, dislocated and you don’t want to leave the room. 

“She forgot to add women too”

“What?”

“You don't love anyone other than drugs, alcohol and your stupid, failed carrier” He glances down, not hiding a smirk on his lips, about to say some funny joke. “I love women too.”

…

The gossip killed his fame and reputation, your dad told you this while being drunk on the couch, slurred words not even trying to look you in the eyes. In your honest opinion Leon was the one to kill it. Alcohol, drugs and age don’t go well forever, some are fortunate and more tolerable but a never ending cycle of scandals do irreparable damage. You know your dad, he is impossible when his mind is fogged on some of the stuff. Coke, molly, whiskey or vodka. Maybe everything mixed, maybe worse - you are no expert, everything has always led to him being some kind of mess. Pissing himself or throwing up all night loudly, depriving you of sleep. Even worse - ending up in the hospital after an unnatural amount of drugs in his blood. 

In a second, a thought about your dad flashes. What’s about him? Hate is too strong, love is locked in the little box under your bed with keys you threw out - doesn’t mean it is absent. He is cool, not enough to deserve real love. Something tells you he doesn’t understand it too. “What do you love, Leon?” Alcohol, closing eyes on the couch after pregabalin hits, heightening other substances, music, strings etching into his calluses and a good pussy - his answer is not about love, but preferences. That’s what he likes. You don’t like your dad. That's the right way to say it. 

“What do you know about fun?” Again, same story, for god’s sake. You ignore his attempt to talk - waste of time. Another try to brag how experienced he is, how many substances were in his nose or in his system in general like you are some sort of dumb impressive girl or a groupie. It is impressive when you are 18, in a way; “holy shit, how have you not died yet?” You heard those stories plenty of times, you saw it and had to deal with his mess for free - they get repetitive. To quote him, at your age he got his dick wet every weekend, if the week was not going well. It was the past, the rockstar one but now all you can see is a washed up musician with an ego of a star. 

No reaction, it irks him in the wrong way. Who the fuck are you? Loser daughter of his, no way you got a man hard even once - the most you’d have is some dumb guy knuckles deep in his car and Leon still has a hard time believing that. Leon nudges you, his finger pokes your waist before leaning closer. A sad hint in his features. Another second and he is going to pout to look believably upset. “It’s my birthday”

“No, it is not” You raise your eyebrow. Actually, you don’t know when his birthday is. Leon has never told you and his drunk or high appearance was not something out of ordinary - a normal Friday night, rather Saturday morning. Drinking more or less doesn’t matter much, all days are no different from celebrations - you still can’t stand it. This is probably another attempt to get under your skin, like he always does when he is sober. Or need a drink. Leon tugs your cheek with two fingers, briefly succumbing to this urge until you don't push his hand away, rejecting his touch. You are not a child. 

“Uh-huh, it is” He mocks your tone, the corner of his lips tenses briefly - evaluating you. 

“Since when?” 

“Since today, don’t be a bitch” Leon pauses meaningfully, raising an eyebrow. “No one likes bitchy girls”

You don’t need him to like you. Your dad died back in the backstage room with a groupie on his lap. Eyeing him again, you can’t ever be sure with this man. He adores messing with you for fun, sobriety doesn’t give a man a lot of hobbies. But right now Leon looks believable. Your dad is not the best actor, you think, maybe he can have some other hidden talents. 

“Do I need to buy something?” You ask and even briefly you notice a flash of excitement in his gaze. Like he won a lotto. Even kids don't get so excited for their birthday party. A “tsk” follows.

“Oh no-no, no way” Leon shakes his head, placing his arm in front of you and creating a ‘small’ obstacle. “Let me deal with this. Show you how to party, what to drink.” 

Your distrustful gaze tells him a lot. Is he real? Should you even trust him? He’d probably get drunk and leave you alone - and this gives you hope and bruises his ego even slightly, not something new with living with him. “I am a pro” 

Not so reassuring.

…

Series of different whiskey bottles on the table, looking like some chaotic statistic - one is lower, then it is higher and it repeats. You don’t really understand if those are expensive ones or cheaper, the only one you are aware of is Jack Daniels. That’s a lot, really, expecting one bottle, two at most, but there are more than enough for a group - you are not going to drink all this. 

“Come now, share a little drink with your dad” Leon pats the spot next to him, spreading his legs, a nightmare to have him in public transport. There are already two glasses of whiskey, one of them waiting for you alone. The couch dips slightly with your weight, his knee slightly brushes against yours, forcing you to clench your legs together even tighter, giving him more space to keep his spread.

The reflection in the whiskey, your hand moves and little waves of alcohol spreads making your face uneven. You are not sure if this is even right to do, at the same time you are at home, safer than around jerks at some party, even if your dad sucks. It burns in your throat, the brown liquid slips down with a hard gulp just to leave some weird aftertaste on your tongue. Leon was eyeing you, ready to shove it down in case you decided to spit it out. No waste in his house! Your glass gets refilled quickly, ready to fill it again and again - at the same time, you feel his hand bringing your own closer to your lips, inviting you to keep drinking. All while his glass looks deepless, infinite, in a way it is still not finished, even though your gaze doesn’t really focus on his drink so it is hard to judge if your sentiment is correct - still, maybe he just throws whiskey in his mouth like it usually happens every day. 

“...You don’t–” Your eyes set on the full glass of whiskey on the table, is it yours? Can you be sure it is his? Leon looks at you with a smirk, satisfied with how everything goes - not even trying to hide it right now, you are so pliant in his guidance. “Drink?”

“Don’t be silly, I've been drinking too.” No, he hasn't, two glasses were the most he has ever drunk this evening.

“Ah!” You hum, the brain processes everything with a big delay. Words roll on your tongue, but nothing comes out - and if it does, you imagined this. Leon eyes your face briefly, maybe the first time he ever stared at you longer than a minute which is still a lot for him. The curves of your lips that hosts beads of whiskey, urging him to catch them as he usually did with groupies in the past. Nostalgic.

“You don’t look like me at all” Leon mutters out with a frown. The doubt of you being his daughter always tormented him - just not too much to care about the paternity test. Even if you are 100% his, he wouldn’t try to be a good dad - the time has passed and he doesn’t care about it enough. Never did.

“What?” 

“Come here, let me see that pretty face” He grins, his own words sound amusing to him, watching your expression ease with every second passed, just like old times. “Perhaps my vision fails me.”

You fell for it. Leon’s hand grips hard your jaw, his thumb caresses your cheek and it feels weird - after many years of his absent presence you feel like a little girl again, waiting for him to pinch your cheeks in between his fingers, to cling to his leg while he’d shred one of his favorite riffs or even solo, always fascinated to stare at his fingers jumping to one string to another just to coax a melody. His lips crush on yours instead, swallowing hard the saliva pooled in your mouth your mind clears even briefly. What the fuck? 

You have kissed a few guys at parties before, invited out of pity just to stay in the corner, ignored, awkward until a guy decided to get you - easy target, desperate and they are not far away from the truth, in the end always leading to a bad car sex with them not being able to recognize your clit. But Leon kisses you differently than those boys, his grip is secure on you, there is no way to get out of this - like a collar settles on your neck, tightly but in the form of his hand. You don’t close your eyes, too shocked at the feeling of his dry lips. Your dad’s lips. He looks unbothered, focused on it. First, with utmost care you had never felt from your dad, it gets pushed aside as Leon gets used to your useless state, easy to kiss you as he wants. Weird, that’s your dad. Your dad kisses you. Alcohol dumbens you, briefly trying to rummage through reasons to excuse him, but this confuses you even further and all you can hear is heart rate beating in your ears, tasting even more alcohol on your lips before he sucks your bottom lip - a way to force his tongue in. 

“Open it” a light slap on your cheek seeing your eyes blurs with the unfocus. Of course it worked, at least Leon gets what he wants. Your lips part in a gasp, blinking as his tongue delves in your mouth. Saliva pools more, now the taste overwhelms your buds to the brim, his tongue feels slick rolling against yours, like passing an invisible candy. You feel your ears burn with shame, you suck at this more likely, but Leon seems unfazed at this as the kiss deepens with more grunts coming out of him against your lips. You don’t understand why your tongue tries to keep up with his now, your hand tries to reach for his wrist. To slap it, to dig your fingers in it - anything to show you want to get out of this. 

Your body feels heavy - any movement you are capable of now is useless, as alcohol messes up with the perception of whatever is happening. It gets worse, heavier like stones were tied to your legs before you got thrown in the water. His hand creeps lower, gripping one of your ass cheeks, fingers dip into the fat, slowly kneading until you feel a pressure over the tight ring of your hole. Your body flinches, lightly but not enough to push him away, enough to break the kiss. Leon is not worried, no way you will be able to do anything. “Has anyone ever touched you here?”

You don’t remember. Actually your mind is full of fog, trying to find anything to stitch together for an answer, but for Leon you just stare like a dumb bitch, not giving him an answer other than a weak grunt. Probably not, college guys are not brave enough to try anal - all cool on text, big dick, promises to destroy your holes, just to lead you in their mom’s car and rub your labia before the most mediocre, dry sex, at best. 

“Mm? No?” You shake your head, this doesn’t stop him as his finger presses harder, thumbing at it slowly, observing your eyes widen, hips shift to distance yourself from him - useless. Your body is not yours, all you can hear is his voice waiting for an answer and heartbeat in your ears.  “Not even a little bit?”

His finger keeps skirting over the muscle, nudging it to slip his finger inside. It is hard to form sentences, even harder to think because your head is full of feathers. And it is already overwhelming, the idea of more makes your stomach tense. And if he decides to fuck your ass? Your heart jumps in your chest, maybe imagining this, filled with different contrasting feelings. One is fear, you can’t push him away, your eyes have a hard time focusing on his face, alcohol is dawning on your chest like a sleep paralysis and second one is your clit throbbing for need to be ignored -  just to be used like some object. By your dad. This is wrong, this is alcohol talking. Your hips buck slightly into his hand, unaware his cock jolts in his jeans. 

“N-no” Your voice doesn’t even sound like yours, some stranger’s. His eyes sparkle in pleasure, watching how your expression twists in fear and confusion as his fingertip circles against your hole now, still maintaining the pressure. Trying to relax, so you’d give in finally. “...it hurts” 

“Come on, just a tip?” Leon frowns as you shake your head again, frantically this time. A light pout on his lips as he decides to let this be. He thumbs over your hole for the last time, before withdrawing to hold your thigh. “Then next time.”

His hand caresses your skin, like a lullaby to soothe you from what he tried to do, to be nicer to your drunk state - gullible, more than he was back in time, lesson was learned a long time ago after his heart got shattered. Your skin feels soft underneath his palm, a cotton blanket that is addicting to touch every time, with every caress his hand creeps higher, at the same time your body relaxes at every second. Your chest falls down as your breathing returns to normal pace, exhaling. Tension slowly leaves, fogging everything. You need your dad’s sweetness, even if you don’t realize it. And your dad gets what he needs. Calloused fingers part your cunt, applying pressure on the clit that made you flinch and open your eyes. When did he remove your shorts? He is all over you, with the same hungry look you’ve seen from other men. They all have the same look, pupils dilated jumping from your face to your tits, then to your legs - men are not the smartest creatures, all identical too. Blood rushes into your ears, you feel every thumping sound of it. You try to push him, but alcohol messes up your strength perception. It feels like your entire energy was put to push him off, just to see him being here. Not moving even for an inch. 

“You are wet, fuck” Leon grunts, sliding his fingers in your hole. Feeling them disappear in your folds and you can’t help but flinch, the burning stretch at the lack of adjustment makes your jaw tense. It clenches at rough intrusion and you feel air knock out of your lungs for a moment. You shake your head and Leon grins, your denial is fun, giving more space to play with you. “This cunt is wetter than any groupies.” 

You want to close your eyes, not to stare at him - a bad dream, nightmare, you can’t believe your cunt gushes around his fingers so needily. Wet sounds of him pumping your hole, Maybe you are imagining this, alcohol is not the best lube - only making you drier, usually. Or those are guys you had. Leon’s fingers curl up against your wall, pressing as he finds that sweet star-hitting spongy spot - every pussy loves that and the pressure coaxes your eyes widen with a shaky whimper. “Da-ad–”

“Those bitches were desperate-desperate to be bottomed by your daddy, you know?” His fingers rut relentlessly into you, your stomach pools in more warmth that isn't supposed to be, quick pace coaxing out more sounds you never knew were possible. Your teeth sink into your lip, trying to worm out of this. Blood rushes down, feeling burning warmth spreading from your clit up. Leon chuckles, shoving you harder against the couch with his weight. “Tsk, ungrateful like your slut mom.”

It is overwhelming, gushing more around his rough pumping fingers. The pace is steady, easy with the amount of slick your cunt gives. Not feeling anymore that burning stretch, leaking like some needy bitch. Every nerve in your body starts to burn up, pushing away the thought of your dad fucking drugging you and fingering your pussy. Actually, you aren't sure there were even drugs in the glasses - you just want to put more blame on him. Leon is not inexperienced in sex, even if his main interest was his own pleasure he knows the signs of approaching orgasm. No way you are going to cum first and not him, that isn’t in his interest, right now you are not better than a groupie in his arms. He pulls back his hand, leaving you empty, cutting out the sweet wave of orgasm. It is disappointing, shame hits you at the realization you wanted to cum on your dad’s fingers. Oh, fuck. Can’t get worse. 

“You are not allowed to finish yet.” He mutters with a raspy voice, eyeing his soaked fingers. Slowly spreading out just to watch the glistening strings connecting them. God, he missed that.

You feel your body getting lighter than before, there is still the feeling of suffocating and dying if you don't keep your breathing in check. Eyes are always about to close, it is hard to keep yourself awake, moving your head gives you the sensation of a quick camera flick - in reality, you didn’t even shake it. At the same time you should expect nausea, the urge to throw up and a twisting stomach. Time feels inconsistent, at some point you sure it has passed 3 hours already, but catching a glimpse of the clock tells you can’t trust your feelings. But this worry fades away as his cock presses against your wet, sensitive folds. Ignored by him, flesh-to-flesh so hot your hips buck up to rub yourself weakly. When did he unzip his pants? You miss most of the noises, actions - his movements register in your brain too late. One moment you think he is kissing you, now you are confused when his dick got so close to you. For Leon this is nostalgic, standing over your pliant state on the couch is not so different from fun he had with groupies, if not even identical. Dumb look on your face trying to recollect yourself just to fail miserably, a weak whimper escapes from your parted lips, like you are on some good crack right now all lost in it and legs spread just for him to get his dick wet - not his first rodeo, every bitch he had, they all looked like you. 

His hips jerk, his cock slides across your puffy, wet folds smearing his flesh with your arousal. He wants to be slow, indulging in every single inch of you before even notching his tip. His cock twitches, bumping against your clit and your back arches into him more.  Your cunt is already warm, burning hot after being so close to cum - thanks to his fingers. A warmth spreads in his chest, pride. It is not hard to get laid even nowadays, still it is much rarer than in the past. But after this? Leon is sure his dick is going to get wet more often, daughter should help him. And you will in his opinion, in case of contrary nothing drugs can’t fix. 

Leon is not patient, he has never been one - one of reasons condoms were a rare occurrence in his wallet, never sure if they aren’t spoiled and if they are that is not his worry. He can overthink after sex, before consuming whiskey. Realizing nothing is so bad as he thinks - hey, his pull out game is not so terrible, Leon believes. Guiding his leaking tip to notch in your hole, it glistens after smearing your arousal across the flesh. And at contact your body clenches - begging him to slam his hip, to bury himself in you finally. Leon wants that too. A push is enough to see his cock disappear in your folds - sliding inside so perfectly, feeling how your walls stretch around his cock accommodating to the intrusion, the warmth of your cunt is welcoming, like the best thing after drugs. Sucking him in so sweetly after every inch sinks into you. Your walls clenched around him, quick to adjust to the curve of his dick that presses so nicely on your g-spot. 

“A bi-i-ig stretch!” That supposed to be a warning before he slides in, to prepare you - instead the timing was wrong. Would be useless, you are no different than any groupies from the past - tell them anything and their brain wouldn’t even process that with the amount of alcohol. It heightens pleasure, but not the thinking process, even worse if you are a dumb bitch - for Leon you are. You blink fast, his cock filling your cunt to the brim, hard and with no other way to feel the emptiness. Almost overwhelming, to tears if you didn’t start already. Leon would have commented if that was the case. 

“Fuck…” You. It doesn’t come out, it remains on the tip of your tongue.Talking is hard. 

“Oh, come on,” Leon bucks his hips, punctuating his words just to see your eyes widen. “I’m already doing that.”

A low grunt, his head dips down to nibble the flesh of your neck - sensitive, scratching you with the light stubble on his face. It is hard to focus on something one, his dick throbs within you, like you were born to have him inside your pussy - never vice versa, he is your dad. His hips slam, your body arches into him, his cock grinds every time hitting deep inside your pussy, to the brim - to the point you feel it so deep you overthink it is in your throat for a moment. Anatomically impossible, maybe it is puke. Fuck, you wish it is not. Thoughts fade as your clit even briefly gets the sweet friction every time his pubic bone presses - coaxing more moans out of you.

His orgasm approaches quickly, one would think it is too quick - he’d blame age first, then maybe tell man’s pleasure is on pedestal. Why would he bother with someone’s pleasure if alcohol gives him whiskey dick. His balls tighten with every slap, the sounds of flesh-hitting, your moans all that invite him to be rougher, to bully your cunt and not caring about stingy redness forming. Every slam inside you, grinding up against the sweet spot just to drag it.  Your body shudders eventually, all teasing, edging didn’t disappear fortunately or not - cumming on your dad’s dick is not the best achievement, it sickens you, fills you with the urge to scrub his touch away. Your walls spasm harder around him as a new wave of hard, pleasant shockwaves dumb every bad thought in the head. 

“Cum.” Your teeth sink in your lower lip after murmuring weakly. Your hands try to dig into his arms, to hold yourself just to end up in a weak grip, sliding down to keep resting uselessly. “Gonna cum— dad!”

It’s a song to his ears - sweet, kicking him back in the past, all groupies identical to each other. They are young, they have legs, they have breasts and hips to hold, more importantly a hole - you have this too, unlike them your eyes are not full of scaring adoration. You don’t look into his eyes as much as they did. And he likes that. Leon noses your jaw, biting the skin of your neck harder than you ever felt, filling his taste buds with mild iron taste and forcing a squeal, light thrashing that fades away after another slam. Your pussy spasms, more fluid gushes easing strokes. It slides nicely, more freedom to bully your clenching hole. You want this to stop, your vision blurs and tries to keep focused - hard, like a kick in your head as Leon shoves his dick deeper. Overwhelmed, guilty, ashamed but arching and wiggling underneath at the non-stop pounding. 

You try to push him away - useless. Another attempt, another hard shove that hits air out of you. He needs his fill, you are not leaving. Your lips open weakly, begging to stop in a breathless whimper. A pressure in your bladder, an uncomfortable press intensifying with every thrust, every hit to the gummy spot making it worse. Too full, too overwhelmed. Your breathing gets even heavier trying to push him off again - useless, everything you try is. Still the irrational panic is present, something is going to happen, you don’t know what. Your pussy clenches harder around him, tightly than ever, trying to stop the upcoming mess, before his pace stops at one last thrust. Deep inside, messy grinding for the last time. The weight of his body presses on you, grunting against your neck leaving no escape. Thick ropes of cum spurt inside you, for a moment everything feels too real - his sperm is warm, sticky and there is too much. And it hits you again. Your legs tremble, trying to push yourself away weakly, but his weight blocks you. Crushes you like a punch in your abdominal. Not the one he expects at least, feeling stuttering spurts drenching his front and the couch underneath you both. 

“Did you just…” Leon leans back, looking down at your pussy filled with his cock. Brow knitted together trying to understand what the fuck just happened. Young girls are nasty, his dick experienced almost everything; puke after a dumb one thought she’d be able to give him a good deepthroat - in some cases he was the one forcing it deeper. Or coke off his dick, a blonde girl eating ice cream before sucking him off - too many, list goes on and he won’t remember everything sincerely. Words don't come out, a little bit shocking as he tries to reminisce in the past just to find something similar: Did you just squirt? Or is that piss?

And you look confused, even more than him. First, unaware of what happened accompanied with lightness in your bladder. Goosebumps wash over your skin, your body sticks together with uncomfortable wetness. You wish it was just a slick with his cum oozing out of your hole, you fucking wish your body didn’t betray you further than this. Leon presses harder against you, his wrist is on your neck, slowly suffocating with pressure. A squeal escapes, not understanding what you did wrong this time. “S–stop!”

“Your daddy made you squirt, what a nasty whore” Leon grins, watching realization slowly settle. “Or you just pissed yourself, grown up pee girl. Pee girl gets a belt. ”

Leon keeps you like this, watching your face go redder and redder with every second before easing the pressure. His soft cock slips out easily from your already leaking hole.  It delves on you, even more when the warmth of his body withdraws completely.

“Fucking mess” Leon grunts. Barely intelligible, you can hear that.  It is a mess, you made this mess - not him. His footsteps slowly dissipate in the loud bam! The calming, muffled sound of water dripping comes from the bathroom. He is showering. You are alone and alcohol doesn’t help. A wave of nausea, it fades just to return in the same violent intensity. 

Dirtiness and shame wash over you. Your body is not yours, like a big wound in your chest that will leave a black, bleeding scar. This is wrong, this shouldn’t have brought you pleasure, you should have been more defiant, kicked him off you, to bite his lip - anything. Dull pain flashes through your body. Sometimes it is okay to kill yourself - no, it is not, you are being dramatic. You still feel his touch, his dick like phantom pain. It does hurt too, he did take something from you. Awkwardly, curling up with your knees close to your chest, arms wrap around them to bring you some sort of peace, like a dog remaining on the couch.

You don’t like your dad.

…

Insomnia torments you, the sound coming out of the streets gives nothing but fear. You still feel out of your shell, even if he hasn't shown up since forever. You think he is dead, buried in some trash can - the end your dad deserves. Every news gives you hope to see his face, not in some scandals or to show nostalgia to the ex-rock king - too see the sweet word, death. 

So close to fall asleep, so close to avoid the bitter black hole growing in your chest every night. Loud noise, forcing you to flinch. You wish it was a bulgar, maybe it is. You’d give him your dad’s guitar, if it was not already sold. You don’t think so, a treasure of his fame, success - something to brag about, remains to gratify his fragile ego. He is home. Another trashing, something falls and a loud “Fuck”, then silence. You can’t live like this anymore. Getting out of a warm bed, the blanket won’t shield you from the blues of this place. Peeking out of the corner, you can’t really see what has fallen but you can clearly see your dad. On the couch. 

Leon looks like a mess, ruffled hair all over his eyes, laying on the couch. He smells awful, unfamiliar now. Maybe you just missed it - not possible. The smell reminds you of death, not so cool as he was in your child's eyes. Now, much cooler is dead. You pour the water in the glass, no way he is going away with this bullshit, you want to see him drown, to be hurt like you were all these days. Quick motion and chilly tap water splashes on him. Easy sober up method! Watching him shudder and flinch, blue eyes filled with confusion, darting around as his hands run through his hair, slickening it back. It eases the emptiness he left. You feel better. 

“What the fuck?” Leon mutters, wet fabric clings to his body, almost see through. Following wetness, it guides you to his jeans. A big damp patch. 

“You made a mess, again” Lie comes out easily. Not really, there is a drop of truth - that’s his fault. He hums, lips corners tense again as if he wants to say something. He is drunk, not helping with the thought process - slower, dumber. Like you were.

“Did I…” Leon inquiries for a moment, then a pause. Piss myself?

“Yea, of course” You nod, your hand hides the glass behind you. “Looks like the Apple doesn't fall far from the tree” 

[writtenbyeli]

CHARLES LECLERC

tender loving care / june 23, 2025

main masterlist 🖇️ home

warnings: sickness, angst, vomiting, medicine

pairing: charles leclerc x wife!reader

nothing could’ve prepared you for the sickness that was to come from just one simple decision.

“yes, may i please have the salmon?” you smiled, gesturing towards the menu.

“mon cœur you know you don’t do well with seafood. no matter what, it upsets your stomach.” charles whispered lightly, not wanting to seem controlling in front of the waiter.

“i’ll be fine babe.” you whispered back, nodding at the waiter.

and now, roughly twelve hours later, it was 5am and it was not fine.

to start, the fish made your stomach hurt. just as charles said it would, just as it always did. but you were too persistent sometimes and it tended to backfire in your face.

it also happened to be undercooked. you’d think that since it was a beautiful, reservation only restaurant, that undercooked fish wouldn’t be a problem, but maybe you were naive for thinking that.

charles was asleep next to you as you tossed, trying to fall back asleep. charles had a meeting you were supposed to attend during lunch, so it was important for you to get as much sleep as possible.

your body ached, the violent pain from your stomach causing every muscle in your body to tense as the waves passed.

you slowly pushed yourself off the bed in an attempt to not wake charles.

you wanted to push through this by yourself, he had a lot on his plate too. you knew he cared, but the meeting was more important, and you had no intention of worrying him.

though you should’ve just accepted the help you knew he would provide because it was that same, overly independent attitude that got you in this position in the first place.

as you flicked the bathroom light on, you got a glimpse of just how rough you looked.

your skin was about three shades lighter, and you swayed with nausea.

swiftly grabbing some of your trusty medication from the cabinet, you heard shuffling back in the bedroom.

charles, of course he was waking up, he was the lightest sleeper known to man.

you shut the light off, hoping the dark would lull him back into slumber.

about a minute later, the rustling stopped. you peeked your head around the corner and saw him fully slumped against the pillow.

great, you’d have to suffer though this in the dark now.

you forced down the nausea medicine despite how badly you were shaking.

you lowered yourself to the ground in front of the toilet, propping your arms up on the sides to hold you. if you were going to be sick you just wanted it over with.

dry heave after dry heave, your body rattling from the force, the light quickly flickered on again.

what? oh— charles.

“mon ange what are you doing in the dark?” charles tiredly asked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“i think i’m gonna be sick.” you croaked out, turning your face away from his gaze.

you felt a bit guilty for waking him up with all the noise, it was the last thing you wanted to do.

“why are you in the pitch black, why didn’t you wake me up?” he questioned, concern laced in his tone.

what stung the most is you could sense the hurt in his voice. his heart panged a little bit. why didn’t you wake him up? did you not trust him enough to see you like this?

“we have the meeting in less than 7 hours, i didn’t want to wake you up and have you be sleepy during work. it’s nothing personal baby, i wanted to be strong for you.” you explained, attempting to hold back the bile rising in your throat.

“oh, chérie. you are too independent sometimes. it doesn’t matter if i have a meeting in 5 minutes, never hesitate to come get me if something is wrong.”

“i’m sorry, i know you care. it’s not that, i thought i was doing the right thing.” you whispered, charles noticing the color now completely draining from your face.

“i know baby.” he smiled at you endearingly, quickly turning you back toward the toilet and pulling your hair out of your face.

your stomach practically emptied itself, your face resting on his shoulder once you were finished.

“i hate throwing up.” you sighed, nudging yourself closer into his grasp.

“i know you do, it’s okay.” he comforted, flushing the toilet quickly before lifting you up onto the seat.

“i’m gonna start a bath.” he whispered, grabbing various epsom salts from underneath the bathroom sink.

“i can do this myself honey.” you nodded towards the tub, just willing him to go back and get some rest.

“no baby, stop talking and let me help you.” he demanded, placing his hands on your shoulders. “i want to help you, i can’t go to sleep without knowing you’re okay.”

“mhm.” you finally gave in, the exhaustion creeping over you like a dark storm cloud.

charles filled the tub half way, helping you undress and step into the water.

he gently rubbed circles on your back as your body relaxed into the soothing comfort of the bath.

“next time, wake me up, i mean it.” he caressed your arm, carefully massaging your neck.

“i promise.”

@writtenbyeli 2025

written by eli <3

[sharieb]

Ambushed by Love

Pairing: LADs x Non-Mc! reader Genre: Fluff Setup: How would the LADs boys react to non-MC just randomly assaulting them with kisses and words of love, and affirmations, only for her to then walk away as if what she did never happened

He’s at his personal workbench in the corner of the living room, building a scale model of a vintage aircraft, sleeves rolled up, tweezers in one hand and a delicate piece of landing gear in the other. His uniform jacket is folded neatly on the back of a nearby chair, and a half-drunk cup of coffee sits forgotten by the glue.

You sneak up behind him, drape your arms around his shoulders, and start peppering kisses on his cheek, jaw and neck. “I love you so much. You’re so capable. So strong. So handsome. You’re doing amazing. I’m proud of you, always.”

He freezes mid-step, model forgotten in his hand. His eyes widen like he just got hit by a solar flare. “Wait-what just-...What are you doing?” he murmurs, ears turning bright pink.

You kiss his cheek, give him a squeeze, and saunter off like nothing happened, as though you didn’t just short-circuit a legit Fleet Colonel.

The soft click of your footsteps feels louder than any siren.

Behind you, you can hear him call out to you: “You… you can’t just do that!”

His ears are red, and the glue bottle, forgotten on the desk.

He just ended up… staring at your retreating form, stunned.

Did that actually happen?

He stands, hesitates, then calls after you. “Seriously, come back here. I-uh-I wasn’t ready. You can’t just leave me like that.”

Ten seconds later, he’s following you out of the room, heart pounding, trying to regain composure but failing miserably. “Do it again. I wasn’t ready,” he mutters, clearly hoping you will.

Later, when he returns to his model, he finds his hands shaking just slightly, and a tiny smile tugging at his lips.

He’s in his home office, a dim reading lamp casting gold light across polished wood and a spread of open files. His sleeves are rolled up, tie loosened, as he reviews a last-minute medical report on his tablet. Data charts flicker across the screen beside handwritten notes on patient vitals.

You creep in quietly, not to disturb him until you are behind his seat. 

“Zayne. Zaaayniiieye. 

You place your hands gently on his shoulder and massage them a little before you gently cup his cheeks from behind and tilting his head back just enough to begin kissing his face.

“Look at you being the most brilliant man I know,” you whisper, lingering for a moment. “Your mind truly amazes me every day, my love.”

He stiffens like he just walked into a blizzard, his fingers pausing mid-scroll. The tablet lowers slightly as his brain tries to recalibrate, blinking up at you in pure disbelief.

Slowly, he turns to look at you, his stunned expression flickering with something warm and breathless, as if those few words just tipped his entire emotional equilibrium. “W-What—wait, what are you—” He sputters.

You just smile and boop his nose.

“Just admiring my favourite snow angel. Okay, bye!”

And just like that, you give him a gentle kiss and stroll off as if nothing happened, your soft footsteps fading down the hall.

He’s left blinking, flushed, staring at the empty space you occupied, tablet now forgotten on the desk.

“...Was that real? That was… unexpected,” he mumbles to himself.

Cue him re-reading the same ECG report three times, then accidentally typing half a sentence into the wrong file.

Later, he’s standing near the doorway you exited through, hand lightly resting on the frame. He doesn’t say anything, just quietly waits.

And when you walk by again, his voice is soft: “You’re dangerous, you know that?”

But yet, there’s a tiny smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

He’s lounging on the couch, boots kicked off, flipping through reports while music hums in the background. A low jazz melody crackles from the vinyl record player.

You drop into his lap like the little gremlin you are, plant a kiss right between his brows, and then start pressing kisses all over his face, then whisper: “You’re the hottest man in five sectors. You make danger look so good. I’d fight someone just for looking at you too long.”

He blinks. Once. Twice. His hands hover mid-air where the book used to be. “...What the hell was that, sweetie?” he murmurs, voice low and smug, but his ears are burning. “Nothing really. Just getting high off you.”

You replied with a shrug and kissed his cheek sweetly one more time, before you got off his lap and strutted off with a little sway in your hips. “You better come back and finish what you started, dove.”

He watches you just blow a kiss in his direction before you go, his lips twitching, then huffs a laugh. “What the hell am I going to do with her?” he mutters - but his grin’s unstoppable.

Moments later, he retrieves his book to continue his reading, but just stares at the page, rereading the same line over and over with a smirk and zero focus.

He finally gives up, tosses the book aside again, and mutters to himself, “She wants danger? I’ll give her danger. Just wait.”

But there’s a softness in the way he smiles after you, as if he’s already planning exactly how to return the favour. He swears under his breath.

“What is she doing to me?”

Rafayel was deep in his painting mode - shirt loose, sleeves rolled, smears of colour on his fingers and cheeks.

He’s at his easel, brush in hand, tongue poking from the corner of his mouth in concentration, with a canvas full of colour before him.

You waltz in, and without any warning, wrap your arms around him from behind, kiss his shoulder and whisper, “You’re my favourite masterpiece, absolutely divine. A literal art god. Your brushstrokes are hypnotic. Your back muscles? Museum-worthy.”

He gasps dramatically, nearly flinging the brush. “You-! I-! My heart isn’t ready for this kind of ambush, Mon ange-! You’re trying to kill me, aren’t you?” "Maybe a little,”

You giggle, placing a couple more kisses on his cheek and behind his ear. “Love you. ‘Kay, bye!”

You twirl away like a dancer leaving the stage, and vanish in a whirl of giggles and paint scent.

He turns in a slow circle, looking around like he’s in a fever dream.

“Did... did I hallucinate that?”

He ended up dramatically flopping onto the nearby couch, fanning himself with a palette. “How dare you steal my breath and then leave me to suffer?!”

Then: “I need to paint her. Immediately.”

By nightfall, he’s created three wildly romantic sketches of you, labelled in the corner: “Attack No. 1, 2, and 3.”

The next time you walk past his workspace, he calls out sweetly, “You’ve got five seconds to kiss me again or I’ll have to chase you with a paintbrush.”

His cheeks are dusted pink, and the lines of your silhouette are already spreading across a fourth fresh canvas.

He’s curled up in a hoodie on the couch, having just woken up from one of his usual naps, the faint imprint of the cushion on his cheek and sleep still clinging to his lashes. Soft music hums in the background.

You waltz in and spot the cute sight of your boyfriend’s sleepy face. You made your way over to where he was, and lean down beside him, gently brushing his hair back, and start gently kissing his temple, jaw, and neck. “You’re Stardust in human form. My favourite sky. You light up everything, you know that?” you whisper. “I’d actually let you name a black hole after me.”

His eyes flutter open the rest of the way, dazed and still a bit dreamy from sleep. “Mm… what?” he breathes, blinking up at you like you’re part of the dream. “...Did you just say I can name a black hole after you?” “Yup. You’re that important.”

You give him one more gentle pat on his head and stroll away like it’s nothing at all.

He stares after you, lips parting slowly as his hand rises instinctively to touch where you kissed him.

The sleepiness is completely forgotten. He’s still curled into the blanket, hands clutching it like it might anchor him to reality. “You’re more dangerous than gravity,” he murmurs to the ceiling, grin sleepily and full of wonder.

Later that night, you get a quiet ping from your holocomm. A file titled: [Unnamed celestial object > designation: YOUR NAME]

Translation: He did it. He really named one after you.

[andy-15-07]

hi not sure if you’ve done this before but id LOVE a fic with pedro pascal helping reader through a depressive episode! completely understandable if you wouldn’t feel comfortable tho. maybe pedro gets home to find reader still in bed/sleeping on the couch and he already knows that she hasn’t taken care of herself all day but he asks her anyway (stuff like have you eaten, have you been out, when was the last time you showered). and then just description of him helping her do these things whilst reader is kind of fighting the help a little bit? like she doesn’t want to be a burden but deep down knows she needs the help. loads of praise and hurt/comfort and fluff!!!!! you are such a great writer im in love with all your fics ☺️☺️

Even If You Can’t Move, I’ll Be Here

PAIRING:Pedro Pascal x reader

WORD COUNT: 939| requests are open (send requests, I will gladly answer them all)

Pedro Pascal Masterlist | Pedro Pascal Masterlist II

The key turned softly in the lock.

Pedro pushed the door open with one shoulder, balancing a paper bag of groceries in one hand and your favorite takeout in the other. He wasn’t expecting a grand greeting , he hadn’t gotten one in days , but the quiet stillness in the apartment hit him like a sigh.

You weren’t on the bed.

You were curled up on the couch again. Same oversized hoodie. Same blanket from the night before. Curtains still drawn, the faint smell of stale coffee lingering in the air. Pedro’s heart clenched.

He set the bags down gently, not wanting to startle you, though he wasn’t sure you’d even notice.

You did.

Barely.

A flutter of your eyes, then a quick glance away. No smile. Just the sinking guilt in your chest and the shame you couldn’t explain. Your throat felt tight before he even said anything.

Pedro crouched beside you, hand brushing your arm. “Hi, cariño.”

You swallowed hard. “Hi.”

He tilted his head. “Did you eat today?”

A pause.

“Not really.”

“Get outside at all?”

You shook your head.

He hesitated before asking gently, “When was the last time you showered?”

You almost wanted to laugh , not because it was funny, but because it made you feel even more disgusting. The tears started building before you could stop them.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

Pedro sat down beside you, arms opening before you could even blink. You fell into them like you always did , like gravity , and he held you close without a word.

“You don’t have to apologize,” he murmured into your hair. “You’re not doing anything wrong. You’re just… tired. And that’s okay.”

“I feel gross.”

“You’re not.”

“I haven’t done anything today.”

“You’re still mine. And I still love you.”

Your face crumpled against his shoulder.

It wasn’t that you didn’t want to take care of yourself. It was that every little task , getting up, brushing your teeth, opening a window , felt like climbing a mountain barefoot in the snow.

Pedro didn’t rush you. Just let you cry quietly for a while, his hand running slowly up and down your back. When your sobs faded into shaky silence, he pulled back to look at you.

“Okay,” he said softly. “We’re gonna do a few little things together, alright?”

You started to protest, but he kissed your forehead.

“Not all of them. Just a few. I’ll help.”

“I don’t want to be a burden,” you whispered.

Pedro’s eyes softened.

“You could never be. You’re the person I love most in this world. And I want to take care of you, even when it’s hard. Especially then.”

You looked down at your hands. “I don’t think I can do everything.”

“Then we’ll do the smallest version of everything.”

You blinked. “What does that mean?”

“It means… we start with one thing. Like brushing our teeth. Together. I’ll even let you pick my toothpaste like a little gremlin.”

That got a soft, tired laugh from you.

“Then we can try something else. Maybe a shower. And then food. Doesn’t have to be fancy. Just something. You can wear one of my shirts after, if that helps.”

You nodded slowly, still unsure, still hollow , but his voice felt like a lighthouse in the dark.

Pedro stood and reached for your hands. “C’mon. Let’s start with the bathroom.”

You followed, moving slowly, socked feet shuffling along the hardwood. It felt weird to be upright. But it also felt a little like relief.

In the bathroom, Pedro handed you your toothbrush with a small smile and squeezed toothpaste onto it.

“There. Hard part’s over.”

You managed to copy him, brushing in slow, lazy circles. He stood beside you, doing the same, humming something off-key under his breath. It made you snort a little, and he beamed at the sound.

“See?” he said, rinsing. “You’re killin’ it already.”

You rolled your eyes. “Barely.”

“But you are,” he said firmly. “And I’m proud of you.”

The words settled in your chest like warmth. Like maybe they were enough to anchor you here, in this body, in this space where someone loved you even at your lowest.

Next was the shower.

Pedro didn’t rush you. He handed you clean towels and a fresh T-shirt (one of his) and sat on the edge of the bed while you stood under the warm water, letting it wash over the weight clinging to your bones.

You cried a little again , not because you were sad, exactly. Just… tired. Just overwhelmed.

And when you stepped out, eyes red, Pedro wrapped you in a towel like it was armor and kissed your cheek.

“You did it,” he said, grinning. “I’m so proud.”

You curled up next to him in bed afterward while he brought the food , your favorite noodles, not too hot, with broth on the side. You only ate a few bites, but he didn’t push. Just smiled and kissed your temple.

“This isn’t forever,” he said softly, pulling you into his arms as you laid back down. “I know your brain’s lying to you right now. But I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere.”

You buried your face in his chest.

“I don’t feel like myself.”

“That’s okay. I’ll hold the pieces until you do.”

Tears pricked your eyes again , but this time, they weren’t so sharp. More like a release.

Pedro pulled the blanket up around you both and whispered again, “I love you. Every version of you. Even this one.”

And for the first time in days, you believed it might be true.

[hewinked]

you ever have fandom drama go down with literally all the big blogs for one fandom that you love so much, and then all the blogs you follow just start throwing tomato's at each other?

yeah thats pretty much me with the danny phantom x dc crossover tag argument thing rn

also im of the opinion that, this is kinda always how crossovers worked? you tag it with both fandoms it includes? and the tag thing is not that bad? or atleast ive had not that much trouble finding only solely danny phantom content

and i mean, danny phantom is an old fandom objectively, the only new content being some comic books which alot of people didnt read because they didnt wanna or couldnt spend money on it

it makes sense that even alot of old fans would get into dp x dc, and that because dc is such a big and active fandom in comparison, that a lot of dc fans would get into the crossovers, and become new danny phantom fans via the crossovers

but ik alot of people are arguing that they shouldnt be, because they think that dc fans have never even seen danny phantom because of small details they get wrong or mix up, which is like a whole nother "if youre in this fandom you have to know everything about the media or youre not a real fan" shaped problem that I dont care for at all

the truth is most of them probably are just going off of what they remember from their childhoods because ALOT of people watched danny phantom as a kid, and just havent had time to rewatch it fully, so yeah, theyre gonna not remember some things and have to fill in the blanks themselves or go off of what other fans say

and as far as im aware anyways, this isnt really just a dc and dp thing? Im in the miraculous ladybug fandom and fic wise alot of it is now danny phantom or dc crossovers, but ive heard no complaints and given no complaints (despite not liking them myself) because thats mainly on ao3 and you can just block it

the point im going to make is actually, that alot of the fandom on tumblr is reliant on ao3 in the first place, and like on ao3 this definitely isnt a problem, because you can block a tag easily and most people on ao3 know better then to not tag something that they have in a fic

thing is? people are used to that. it is considered heavily heavily impolite on ao3 to not tag a fandom or thing you have in the fic.

and most tumblr users are or started as ao3 users. its pretty much the same etiquette on here.

but somehow when you go on tumblr with specifically danny phantom fans? somehow people are offended by it?

thing is, same as on ao3, on tumblr you can block a tag and filter.

but lets say you are blocking that and still seeing dc crossover stuff like so many people are complaing

then isnt the problem logically that alot of these people just arent tagging the dc stuff properly then? because i imagine thats what you should be trying to block so.... why be mad that theyre tagging danny phantom when thats one of the correct tags to be using? so that anyone who wants to see crossovers plus regular content can?

like im just saying thats the logic i follow

and thats not me tryna say go and blame em for that either, im just saying youre kinda angry about something that its okay to be mad about, but you have put yourself in the wrong because your mad about the wrong thing anyways.

also even if youre mad about it, maybe stop bullying and critizing literally anyone who's writing dc and dp? like encouraging people to write what they like is the name of the game, you guys know that right?

you know you can just nicely comment without being passive aggressive or rude, and tell them that they should tag their posts a little better? and not take your anger out on them because they personally obviously dont sway the whole fandom by themselves? do you know that?

you also dont have to make big ol rant posts about how much you hate dp x dc writers for writing a crossover, that will hurt those writers feelings, and that you know will make all your followers mad at all those innocent writers also, right? you know that you don't have to and shouldn't be making posts like that right?

[echosbento]

You want thin people to reblog instead of like? Fine. But you won't like what I have to say.

I weigh a hundred pounds soaking wet, gaining weight has always been my main goal and I'll never get to know if it's something I really truly wanted because I've spent my entire life being told I need to gain weight, build muscle, look more like a human and less like a skeleton. I was born with such low muscle tone I couldn't move, and have had severe joint pain my entire life, but outside of my pediatrician and a doctor I was only able to see twice before he moved across the state, I've gotten the same response from every single doctor I've spoken to. I'm too thin to have something wrong, I must be making it up. Exaggerating. Lying to get drugs. Hysterical. Almost every cis person I know feels the need to remind me, because they know I'm trans, that I'll never really look like a man, I'm too small and cute for that, I'll always be a boy at best and a girl in pants at worst. I'll never be handsome, I'm cute, pretty, I should stop being so ungrateful about it. I can't fit mens clothes without looking like a kid wearing their dads things. I'm too big to fit into kids clothes. I don't get to exist as myself, not unless I make or alter the clothes myself. And then I'm back to being called a girl because men don't sew, according to them. I look too much like a 'girl playing pretend' to get prescribed testosterone, even before Trump took office, handed that election by the very same people telling me I was too small and thin to ever be a real man. I'll probably never be able to get top surgery, because doctors want you to have been on T for years first, and I can't even get prescribed because doctors take one look at me and decide I'm lying, that a real trans guy would at least be bigger than this.

The difference between me and you has a hell of a lot less to do with weight, and a hell of a lot more with who we target our valid anger at. I don't hate fat people, I hate fatphobia and the system it's created. I hate the world we live in where everyone is expected to be one specific 'correct' 'average' shape and size that no one will ever perfectly fall into because we're human and everyone's different.

But you hate thin people, people like me, because of something we have just as little control over as you. You don't hate the system, you hate it's other victims.

I will continue being mean to thin people because the entire world is made for you but people like me can't get a diagnosis without threatening to sue the doctor <3

[rambling-at-midnight]

Bloody Reconciliation

Pairing: Jason Todd x GN Reader (Works for/with Selina)

Summary: You and Jason are proof that bitter exes can still care about each other. When he patches you up after a mission gone wrong, you both realize that maybe things between you aren't as broken as they seem.

Word count: 2k

TW: Descriptions of blood and injury!

You don’t lock your window. At least, you never used to.

Jason grumbles under his breath as he tries to jimmy it open. You really wedged it shut tight, and that was coming from him, a Bat, one of whose qualifications included being a master of breaking and entering.

You haven’t responded to his texts in a week. That’s not unusual. Since things ended, your communication has been… Well, ‘sporadic’ is probably the nicest word for it. And truthfully, Jason texts you way too often for someone that ended things in the first place.

But you haven’t responded to Selina in two days. And that is unusual. The last thing you sent her was a brusque ‘Success’ after breaking in and out of Gotham museum to steal a priceless totem that does, rightfully, belong to a collector that was intimidated by Penguin into handing it over for a pitiful sum. It wasn’t even penguin-themed. Jason still can’t figure out why Oswald wanted it just to display at Gotham museum.

The collector got the totem back last night, but you weren’t the one that handed it over.

So now Jason’s here, breaking into your apartment at three in the morning at Selina’s behest. It wouldn’t be him—it shouldn’t be him—but Jason’s the only person that’s ever been allowed in your apartment. He knows every trap and lock. Not that any of them would stop Selina, but she wanted Jason to go.

Everyone vastly overestimates the extent of his relationship with you. You may be exes that still talk, but it’s with great reluctance.

He finally unlatches the window and shimmies it open carefully, waiting for something to shoot out of the darkness: a bat, a dart, your bare fist. But you don’t attack, and he ducks through, avoiding the trip wire on the lower sill. Jason straightens up in the living room.

Still no sign of you.

But the tracker you don’t know about says you’re here.

Unless you do know about it. You always find them, eventually.

Jason calls your name softly. “You here?”

No response.

“Selina asked me to check on you.”

Jason switches on the living room light. It’s slightly messy in the you-just-left way, when you’re not planning on having anyone over that you don’t know well. That’s most people.

At one point, you stopped obsessively cleaning every time Jason came over.

There are day-old dirty dishes in the sink and leftover takeout boxes in the fridge. Receipts on the delivery bags in the trash make them two days old. Around the same time you stopped responding to Selina.

Which isn’t suspicious, but it isn’t not suspicious. In Gotham, kidnapping is never out of the realm of possibility. But that would still beg the question of how the collector got his totem back.

You aren’t in your bedroom, though your bedsheets are tousled like you just tossed them off and vaulted out of bed. That doesn’t mean anything. No matter how clean the rest of your apartment is, your bedroom is always messy.

Your tracker says you’re here, but all the lights in your apartment are off and Jason can’t find a sign of life more recent than two days ago. His stomach twists. Is this something to worry about, or are you off on another impromptu trip?

You’re always leaving. One foot out the door, no matter what. As a bonafide runner himself, Jason can confidently say that you could and would leave him in the dust. That was a point of contention, to say the least, in your relationship. Both of you needing the other to commit first. Neither willing to lay all your cards on the table, too scared that the other would fold.

Jason sighs and rubs his eyes. That’s when he sees it: the almost unnoticeable drop on the ground.

Key word: almost unnoticeable. He should have noticed it immediately. What good is all the training in the world if he doesn’t use it?

It’s just a drop, but the liquid is dark. An optimistic part of Jason hopes it’s red wine. The pragmatic side of him already knows what it is, and is smugly proven right when he flips on the bedroom light. Hidden by the shadows but practically blazing in the light is a red handprint on the bathroom door.

Blood.

“Oh, fuck. Oh, no.” Jason’s already almost puking his heart up before he even stumbles into the cramped room. His boots skid to a stop on the tile floor.

There was a countess in the seventeenth century that was rumored to bathe in the blood of young girls in order to preserve her own beauty. Jason’s first nonsensical thought is of that story because you are sprawled in the bathtub. You are covered in blood. And you aren’t moving.

A low, wounded sound punches out of Jason’s throat.

There’s too much blood. Splattered on the sink, the floor, and the wall; puddled in the tub; soaking your clothes, hair, and limbs. He can’t tell where it’s all from, but Jason knows that it’s too much blood for someone to lose and keep on living. Your lips are white, your face pale.

Your body is contorted awkwardly within the confines of the tub: legs bent, torso twisted, neck slumped at a sharp angle. Like a rag doll discarded hastily. Someone dropped you and he wasn’t there to catch you.

“Oh, God,” he chokes out. Jason’s legs lose the ability to keep standing. His kneecaps crack painfully on the tile when he collapses, but all Jason can do is stare at the small puddle on the floor directly in front of him. It’s right beneath the hand hanging lifelessly over the side of the tub.

He couldn’t stand the idea of you injured. Even when you were perfectly healthy, sitting on the couch next to him, Jason could barely breathe through the panic of imagining you hurt. Sick. Dying.

But he’d never imagined you dying alone. Every time he woke up in a cold sweat, gasping and desperate to roll over and touch you, reassure himself that you were alive and safe next to him, it was after a nightmare in which he saw you die. Held you. Said good-bye.

Jason hadn’t done any of that.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, kneeling in front of your broken body like he used to in the church pew.

He should have done something. Anything. He should have checked on you sooner. He shouldn’t have stopped keeping tabs on you. He should have actually convinced you to give up your exploits with Selina.

Jason should have kept you safe.

“I’m so—”

“Stop being sorry,” a voice like the creak of an ancient door opening says, “and help me get out of this fucking bathtub.”

Your eyes are cracked open the slightest bit, looking at Jason through your lashes. He can’t see the color of your irises, but the glint of your keen gaze shoots through Jason like an arrow.

Instinct takes over. Years of training to keep a level head during all kinds of emergencies kicks in. Jason locks away the kicking, screaming part of himself that’s sure you’ll slip away any moment.

He doesn’t remember lifting you out of the tub or carrying you out of the bathroom.

(He will remember the pained cries you’re too exhausted to hold back.)

He doesn’t remember laying you on your bed and wrangling your clothes off so he can get a good look at the damage.

(He will remember the paper feeling of your skin, the feather-fragility of your bones.)

Jason comes back to himself with a needle in his hand and your palm on his cheek.

“I don’t care about a scar,” is all you say, eyes narrowed against the pain. “Do what you have to do.”

The gash is long and jagged, deep in some places and shallow in others. Its edges are faintly pink and hot when Jason brushes his fingers over the skin. Your skin is already marked, of course—a hazard of living in Gotham, regardless of your side gig with Selina—but those are small, pale lines littered on your skin. This will be a scar.

Moving you is risky. Jason flushes the wound as best he can with water he pours over your stomach. Something glints in the exposed flesh. Jason pulls out a shard of glass with the sanitized tweezers you keep in your med kit. Luckily, it seems to be the only one. He tosses it in the trash can by your bed.

“What even happened?” Jason murmurs. His hands don’t shake when he administers the first stitch, although he does flinch at the sight of your clenched fists. Those—and your narrowed eyes—are the only signs of your pain. You aren’t overly fond of weakness; you don’t wince, or hiss, or jerk away when he inserts the needle beneath your skin again. It was always like this, and that was the problem. Jason hurt you, even when he didn’t mean to, and you never told him.

Jason pulls the thread and your breath hitches in the middle of your sentence: “Penguin wasn’t overly fond of—of the idea of parting with his beloved icon.” It’s more of a hiccup than a gasp.

Considering the glass shard sitting at the bottom of the trash can, he can put together a pretty good picture of what happened.

“You could have died.”

You snort weakly. “No. Not yet. There are too many things I still have to yell at you about.”

What does it say about the two of you, that the thought of you yelling at Jason is fuel to keep you alive and nearly brings Jason to grateful tears?

“Okay,” he whispers.

You crane your neck to look at him disbelievingly. “You’re not gonna argue with me?”

“As long as you don’t argue when I lecture you.”

You roll your eyes and lower your head back down. “Y’always lecture.” You yawn at the ceiling.

“You’re always doing lecture-worthy things.”

The glare you shoot him is playful, barely heated, even… Well. There’s amusement, sure, but Jason has to be imagining the affection.

Jason works carefully and efficiently. He finishes in under ten minutes, coats the stitches in antibiotic ointment, and covers the worst parts with gauze pads. You don’t have enough to cover the whole wound. He makes a mental note to get you more, as well as the antibiotic cream; you’re running low.

You’re drifting off at that point. Jason smooths hair away from your forehead in a ruse to check for a fever. You don’t feel hot.

“Why didn’t you call me?” he whispers. “Or Selina.”

“Mm.” Your eyes don’t open. “Left my phone in my room. It died.”

Jason tries to keep the accusation out of his voice, but he isn’t very successful. “You could have died.”

Something brushes against his hand and he nearly snatches it away on instinct, but it’s your fingers slowly wriggling between his. You squeeze weakly. “I knew you would come.”

“I wish I’d come sooner.”

“Mm. Doesn’t matter.”

“It does,” Jason says. Your inflamed skin matters. The blood you left all over your bathroom matters. The possibility—the very real possibility—that you wouldn’t have left the bathtub on your own matters.

Your eyelashes flutter. “Missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too, honey.”

“I’m still mad at you.”

“That’s okay.” Jason’s still pretty upset with you, too.

Slowly, your grip on his hand loosens. Jason whispers your name, but by that point you’re asleep.

That’s when his hands start to shake. Jason sits down heavily on the bed. Tremors wrack his whole body. Without you to keep calm for, the gravity of the situation is hitting him full-force.

His movement jostles you, and a faint frown creases your sleep-lax features. Even in sleep, muscle memory keeps your hand clutching his own. Jason can’t extract himself from your tight grip.

He settles down next to you. The posture is familiar from countless insomniac nights spent reading next to your sleeping form. This time, though, his eyes drift shut, and Jason finds that it’s not so hard anymore to fall asleep next to you.

DC Taglist

@evalynanne @mismatchsposts @cliosunshine @fictionalwhor3 @bellathecatastrophe @lonely-star2044 @flanhog @pastelsweaters-and-bubble-t

[adoredvi]

TILL DEATH DO US APART

1x1x1x1 x GN!Reader

Vi notes: uhmm punctuations may be horrendous and there are some error in the process, because English is NOT my first language and I just made this for fun, so enjoy:>>

They say that love is the greatest thing that can happen to a being. And you agree— it is.

Growing up, you are taught that love is important, along with kindness, and being respectful to people around you. At first, you were defiant about it, you dislike how your parents constantly wanted to instill that mentality in you, and as you grow older, you kinda see the appeal in their words and what they wanted you to learn.

1x1x1x1, or 1x for short, always wondered what he went wrong whenever she tried to get him to notice them, it's frustrating, every attempt, every single time they tried, she always fails, hell she even tried to go and do what it takes for him to notice him, but alas— it always fails, it never worked anyway.

He feels so much hatred inside of him, it slowly builds up as time goes by— everytime he sees him paying attention to other's aside from her. He thought it was all going to be like that for the rest of their life, until you came in, you lit up their life, their darkening heart, you drove them mad with every little smile you flash their way, every little encouraging words that he thought he'll never hear again. She loved it, she loves you, even if they don't want to admit it out loud.

You noticed— of course you did, you always do, you seemed to have made a habit of being observant of their movements, behavior, even how he speaks— you just find him endearing, but was it really just that? You really don't know.

You don't know until you found out they suddenly disappeared. You asked and asked everywhere, even going as far as to asking his creator who only looked at you and turned away not wanting to break your sweet fragile heart.

He isn't the same person you know anymore.

She didn't get it, she didn't get why their creator sent him down to this hell hole, to his own personal hell, and there it is, the hatred— the emotion he buried deep. The emotion that they never wanted to come out ever again, they thought that it's not there anymore, you helped them didn't you?....

Or were you lying like he is too..?

He walked, stared and grew bored alone in that world, not a single living thing around her, even things started shifting— like her skin, it started darkening, their own body shifting differently from what they used to know, it was horrifying, but did he care anymore? No, he barely even felt anything aside from hatred. That feeling of need for revenge, for satisfaction of seeing those who wronged him fall to their knees and beg for forgiveness while she stare at them condescendingly.

But from amidst of these thoughts, you always come crawling back to their mind, her heart pounding painfully, they don't know if they even have that anymore but it somehow did whenever they remember you smile and the way you lit up the room around you.

They groan whenever that happens, they just want to keep you in arms reach, or in other words, in their arms, and keep you away from prying eyes where others can disgustingly lay their eyes on your illuminating self.

It was yet another day of being alone in this dark world, 1x is seen wondering around the place, they seemed to have memorized it already, it was the only thing he can do in such place really, so he has no choice anyway.

1x sighed in boredom, the whole area felt empty without your presence, even though they've been there for what seemed like eternity, she still haven't forgotten who you are.

And when it seemed like it was getting too boring, she was teleported in a deserted hallway, that was until— of course a flash of red ran past him, only stopping a few feet away from behind her, and coming back once more.

"Oh oh!! A new person!!!" It? He said with so much enthusiasm, jumping up and down before physically dragging her from the place he came running out of.

"Lookie guys!! A new person arrived!!" The little guy yelled as soon as he entered the room, the door practically forcing open with his entery, his voice carrying that of excitement, cutting off the chatter in the room.

1x grunted in disapproval and distaste, brushing the kid's hand off of her, before standing there with his arms crossed, looking all too observant to his surroundings.

That went on for hours, and of course, 1x got the information they wanted, why were they here, and where are they.

1x sighed, the noise echoing through the confined space if their room, their first match is tomorrow, already, he already knows his abilities so is it even a surprise her first match is just right after she came to this world? No. The Spectre doesn't either.

You were confused, you spawned in on a room— a cabin, right on the cold wooded floor, luckily, a few people saw you and Introduced themselves and explained where you are, thankfully.

You understand the concept, but you don't know why you're here to begin with, judging by what the survivors around you, some looked like they hadn't seen a better day— which kinda is true considering their situation.

They also told you about your supposed abilities, which were pretty surprising considering you are just pretty much a normal robloxian, there is nothing important about you whatsoever, but did you complain? No, you're already here anyway.

Meeting again isn't in both of your bucket list, but here you are, face to face with one another— the other bleeding, and the other staring them down with so much emotion mixed into one.

You never expected to see him again, but neither did she expect to see you again, but here you are, faced to face with one another.

The time is running out, all your other teammates were down and dead, leaving you last, but did 1x made an attempt to move? No, they didn't, instead? They surprised themselves and you. He hugged you, brought you into his arms in a tight hold, muttering things about how stupid you are for getting hurt.

It was their way of saying they care and they missed you, but you didn't speak about it and just leaned into her hold, you missed this, you missed her.

"Death can't separate us," you would mutter in the past while you hold them in your arms similar to what she was doing now. It always made them smile and sigh in relief whenever you mutter those lines.

And now, they seem to be the one to be saying that, although albeit, silently, their hold on you tightening in the slightest while the time runs out.

It seemed like even when obstacles keeps you both apart, you will find each other over and over again, even after death.

IM SORRY IF 1X SEEMS OOC IN THIS I'M BAD AT CHARACTERS PERSONALITY...and it's not the canon either, I think....I also got lazy at the end😣😣

[unluckiestmember]

K-Pop Demon Hunters: HUNTR/X X Fem! Reader

Characters: Mira, Zoey and Rumi

Warning: None. SFW.

A/N: I can't believe pride month is over, but I'll be damned if it ends and I don't have anything for these girls! Should I do one for the Saja Boys??

Zoey

“What do you say to us going to the bathhouse after this?… Awesome- You hear that, guys?! I’m taking my girlfriend to the bathhouse!” Zoey knew she liked girls for a long time. When she lived in America, she enjoyed that she was in a sense comfortable to love who she wanted to love without much ridicule if at all. So for her, falling in love with you came easy and somewhat fast. She knew some fans wouldn’t understand, but that didn’t stop her from putting you on a pedestal and making sure the whole world knew who she was dating.

This maknae will always find a chance to hold you if not cuddle you in between shows, all while telling you endlessly how much she loves you between kisses on your cheeks. Because of how proud she is to have you as a girlfriend, she’ll even invite you to join HUNTR/X during interviews and fan signing. This lovebird makes sure no one forgets you two are together because of how happy you make her. And she hopes she makes you feel the same way.

Mira

“Where’s my girl?… There she is~. You enjoyed the show? Good, now come on, babe, we gotta celebrate.” One of the reasons why Mira didn’t get along well with her family was because she wasn’t conventional when it came to her love. She liked guys, don’t get her wrong, but she loved girls way more. And she used to be pretty self conscious about it, but after she met you? Beautiful gorgeous you? Well, let’s just say that she parades you around sometimes. When she’s done with a show, she’s all over you, quick to put an arm around you and walk around as if you are both goddesses everywhere you go.

Expect to get a bunch of kisses on your forehead and brushes along your hand from her thumb. And especially be ready for her to put you in her lap like it’s a personal throne while she caresses your side. If anyone tries to ridicule you for loving her, she’s going to make an example out of them. She dares anybody to hurt you or make you feel like you don’t belong. They’re just another display of how much she loves you and cherishes you.

Rumi

“For the melody, maybe we can-… Why are you looking at me like that? I know it may be hard, but can you try to stop being cute and focus?” Rumi had made it clear that she likes boys as much as her friends. But what she’s always kept behind closed doors along with her past is that she likes girls too. She had to learn that the hard way from performing at so many shows, meeting other artists and just being entranced by their beauty. It’s one of the reasons why she fell in love with you. You just. Waltzed right into her life and she thought you were the most beautiful person she’d ever seen.

She pursued you and at first tried to keep your relationship a secret due to fear of ridicule. But with your help and your unwavering love for the lead singer, after a show, Rumi pulled you aside and revealed to the world that you two were together. She has never been happier now that you two can be together in public. She loves how she can compliment you around Mira and Zoey. How she can talk about you fondly during interviews. And especially how she can sleep by your side without having to sneak you out in the morning. She couldn’t do it if it wasn’t for you. And because of that, she loves you so much and will love you forever.

Likes and retweets are always appreciated! I love you all, stay hydrated and have a good day! <3

[happyk44]

[ID: Text reading: And Cain talked with Abel his brother: and it came to pass, when they were in the field, that Cain rose up against Abel his brother, and slew him.

And the Lord said unto Cain, Where is Abel they brother? And he said, I know not: Am I my brother’s keeper?

2. Text reading: What is evil anyway, a sad soul infected with devils who take his will, or a man thinking of all his mother’s children he loves himself the best?

3. Illustration. Two figures watch a flaming car from a safe distance. One of the figures is completely yellow, like a bright light. The other figure is dark and shadowed beside them.

4. Text reading: The first thing God made is love then comes blood and the thirst for blood

5. Text reading: Two brothers are fighting by the side of the road. Two motorbikes have fallen over on the shoulder, leaking oil into the dirt, while the interlocking brothers grapple and swing. You see them through the backseat window as you and your parents drive past. You are twelve years old. You do not have a brother. You have never experienced anything ferocious or intentional with another person.

6. Text reading: Brother, my brother Oh, now the darkness comes alive It comes for me and I come for you

7. Text reading: This is my brother and I need a shovel to love him.

8. Text reading: [Roman:] You fucking bastard.

Kendall: I love you, man.

Roman: I fucking hate you.

9. Text reading: They are the same and they are not the same. They are the same and they hate each other for it.

10. Painting. Abel lies on the ground, trying to shield himself with one hand while Cain stands over him, one foot on his brother to keep him down, arms raised and ready to swing his club. The colours of the piece are mostly dark and muted, but Abel is coloured much more lightly, as though a beam were shining down against his chest and face. Cain is heavily shadowed, save for part of his face displaying focused intent, the length of his arm as he prepares to kill his brother, and the leg he’s used to keep Abel pinned.

11. Painting. Abel lies splayed out on the ground. Gripping a stick in one hand, Cain leans against a nearby rock and stares at his brother.

12. Text reading: and I killed my brother I had to and only wish I hadn’t washed my hands in the river the water remembers so long

13. Text reading: I really love you, but I can’t fucking stomach you.

14. Text reading: “If you have a sister and she dies, do you stop saying you have one? Or are you always a sister, even when the other half of the equation is gone?”

15. Text reading: there is something wrong with you

There is something wrong with you that is also wrong with me

16. Tumblr post from @/vampowers dated July 22nd 2023: sibling relationships are so strange… like I love you. You will never understand me in a way that matters. We are the same person in drastically different ways. We are sewn together. We don’t talk. We are attached at the hip. You wish I was never born. Can I call you. Let’s eat together. I forgive you. Etc

17. Text reading: You ask would I have done it for a husband or a child my answer is no I would not. A husband or a child can be replaced but who can grow me a new brother.

18. Text reading: Your sister haunts you. Your sister was wounded, long before she was killed. Your sister has always been wounded.

19. Text reading: Roman: Why do you love trying to hurt me do you think?

Shiv: It’s something to pass the time I guess?

20. Painting. The version of the painting has been cropped. In the full version, three women, anthromorphised depicts of Courage, Despair and Anxiety, hide behind a large rock observing a battle. What is visible in this cropped version is Anxiety gripping her shawl while Courage holds her wrist. Courage leans away from the other two. Despair sits further behind them in the shadows.

21. Text reading: You who I called brother How could you have come to hate me so? Is this what you wanted?

22. Text reading: And Cain says, “When you split me and my brother in the womb, you did not divide us evenly. He got kindness, and I got longing. He got complacence, and I got ambition. I want to kill him sometimes. I think sometimes he wants to die.”

23. Text reading: Who kills their own brother? Well, someone who loves him very much.

24. Tiktok comment from corinne reading, “I was so selfish. I was just a kid. I was so mad. I’m so sorry”

25. Text reading: And what can I tell you my brother, my killer What can I possibly say? I guess that I miss you, I guess I forgive you I’m glad you stood in my way

26. Text reading: hello, brother, hello? hello in there, brother, can you hear me? it’s a long tunnel to the grave

27. Still from the TV show, Succession. The three Roy siblings - Roman, Kendall, and Siobhan - stand in a room. While they're standing beside on another, there's decent space between the three of them.

28. Text reading: Oh, I could call you names now. List a hundred reasons for why you were awful. But what would that do? Where would it leave me? [highlight] I still loved you. I still have to live with that. [end highlight]

29. Text reading: In the Field, the ground warms as blood seeps into the dirt.

/end ID]

MY BROTHER / MY KILLER

"The King James Bible, Genesis 4 / "Black Leopard, Red Wolf" by Marlon James / "Car Crash" by Jenna Andersen / "Stratis Thalassinos Among the Agapanthi" by George Seferis (tr. by Edmund Keeley) / "You are Jeff" by Richard Siken (1) / "Brother" by The Rural Alberta Advantage / "A Brother named Gethsemane" by Natalie Diaz / "Succession" Script (1) / "You are Jeff" by Richard Siken (2) / "Cain Killing Abel" by Pietro Novelli / "The Death of Abel" by Gustave Doré (1866), recolored / "Lupa" by Matthew Nienow / Succession, S04 EP 10, "With Open Eyes" / "My Sister's Keeper" by Jodi Picoult / “Mirror Traps” by Hera Lindsay Bird / post by tumblr user vampowers / "Antigone", tr. by Anne Carson / "6 ways to draw a circle" by tumblr user filmnoirsbian / "Succession" Script (2) / "Courage, Anxiety and Despair Watching The Battle" by James Sant (detail) / "The Plagues", Prince of Egypt, dir. by Brenda Chapman / untitled poem by tumblr user nathanielorion (1) / "After Abel" by Dante Émile / comment from tiktok / "Famous Blue Raincoat" by Leonard Cohen / "For my unnamed brother" by Toi Derricotte / Succession screenshot / untitled, Sue Zhao / untitled poem by tumblr user nathanielorion (2)

[slut4sugu]

Gentle Giant, One of stone. — gyomei x femhashira!reader

꣑ৎ synopsis: what falling inlove with gyōmei himejima is like <3 ꣑ৎ including: tooth rotting fluff, kinda introverted reader, mitsuri being a sweetheart, confessions, mutual pining.

꣑ৎ BEFORE DATING

gyōmei himejima he had always stood out to you, not just because he was quite literally 7 feet tall. but because of the softly powerful energy Gyōmei had when entered a room. Though he wasn't one to boast or gloat like Tengen or Sanemi, he was reserved yet always helpful.

When you first became a Hashira, he was the first to commend you on your strength and heart to get to your position. Though you were a bit introverted with all the new faces at first, Mitsuri and gyōmei soon helped you get more comfortable with the others. Though when Mitsuri was off with Obnani or Shinobu, he would keep you company.

However there wasn't much conversation at first. You’d sit in the gardens together after missions, sometimes just listening to the wind rustle through the trees, and somehow, it never felt awkward. His presence didn’t demand conversation—it simply made you feel safe.

♡ somehow always had whatever you needed nearby; whether it be a sip of water, rice buns, or a hairtie, he seemingly had it all on standby

♡ would soflty remind you that your health is the main priority as a Hashira.

♡ whenever you'd spar/train with him he'd always ask if your alright immediately after.

꣑ৎ CRUSHING <3

now of course you couldn't exactly tell gyōmei that you discovered last night you had a big fat crush on him when you fell asleep on his shoulder, so you told the one other person you knew could help. "OH MY GOD REALLY?!" Mitsuri gasped so loudly that you swore a flock of birds fled the trees nearby. She nearly broke your wrists with how tight she grabbed them, green-pink curls bouncing as she leaned into your personal space like you just confessed to being in love with a god.

Which, to be fair… wasn’t entirely wrong. Gyōmei is handsome. Like stare at him while he's training hope he doesn't catch you handsome. To everyone else your a lovesick fool trying to convince herself she's not crushing hard on the stone hashira.

Looking at the ground you fiddled with your nails before admitting it. “Yeah…?” you mumbled, “EEEEEE!” she squealed, bouncing in place like an energetic bunny. “I knew there was something between you two! You always get this little look on your face when he says your name! It's so cute!”

You groaned, covering your face. “Mitsuri, please—”

“No no no, this is so good!” she beamed, already plotting. “Gyōmei so gentle and kind and, and he’s so observant—yknow I bet he already knows!” Ever since that afternoon you were a bit more on edge around the stone Hashira, even sitting next to him had your heart racing.

♡ noticing your sudden jumpiness and tense frame, he asked slightly worriedly if your nightmares had been doing a number on you again. you said no but, he's been keeping checking on you more since

♡ told you that if you needed comfort from your nightmares, to come to his quarters (he likes having you fall asleep on him)

♡ started to realize his own feelings when you hugged him randomly one day and murmured, "thank you for always being here."

♡ began to crave your touch more after that day but didn't know how to get it without being suspicious, but realized that it would make more sense to simply confess so, he did just that.

It was late afternoon when it happened—one of those unusually quiet days in the Butterfly Mansion gardens. You had just finished helping Aoi carry supplies inside, and decided to rest under the shade of a camellia tree before making your way back.

And of course, like the universe had a habit of doing, he found you there. You didn’t hear Gyomei's footsteps—he never made much sound—but you felt him. The same way you always did. His quiet presence was a steady waterfall: calm, grounding.

“I thought I heard your voice,” he said gently. You looked up, your heart already fluttering like it always did. “Oh uhm, sorry I just needed a second. I didn't mean to intrude."

“You’re never intruding,” he replied almost immediately. “This place is more peaceful when you’re here.” Before you could respond, he slowly made his way to sit beside you, folding his large frame with practiced grace. There was a beat of quiet. A few birds chirping. A soft wind brushing your cheek.

“I’ve been meaning to speak with you,” he said after a moment, hands folded on his lap, eyes still turned toward the quiet horizon. You glanced at him. “Is something the matter?”

“No,” he chuckled, so softly it was more of a warm breath. “Not at all. In fact… it’s the opposite.” Your stomach twisted and knotted as you prepared for the worst. His words came slowly, deliberately. “You’ve always been so kind to me. Even when you hadn't known me quite well yet. You stayed.”

You swallowed thickly, fingers clenching your knees. “That’s because you’ve always made me feel safe, and respected. Even when I told you about my dreams. You never tried to fix me or anything, just listened." You confessed softly.

He turned his face just slightly toward you. “I always will, I know you are more than capable of overcoming your night terrors on your own, you're stronger than most in that regard."

He said with a small smile, before pausing, a soft pink tint dusting his his cheeks as he said, "Though, I'd be dishonest in saying I don't wish for you to find solace at my side."

Your eyes widened at his words, words falling deaf on your tongue as you stiffened—just slightly, before asking, "Really?" He hummed in response, nodding briefly before continuing.

"What I have felt with you, what I feel when I'm in your presence..” he started, voice low, like he didn’t want to scare the truth away. “It's never fleeting not even for a moment, it’s evident, and strong. It's all I can feel when you're in my reach." You breath hitched as your heart rattled in your chest.

"If you'd allow it, I'd offer you the kind of care that you deserve. The comfort that I find in your smile when we speak." You blinked rapidly, tears pricking your eyes. His lips twitched faintly, almost smiling. “But, If I have misread the situation, please forgive me. It's just..if there is a place—for me in your heart, even a small one, I would be honored to hold it.”

Your answer came in a second, even with your voice quiet. Your words stood true, “You haven't misread me,” you whispered, barely audible. “I have feelings for you too, 'had for a while now.” Your gaze flickering from his face to your lap, still clutching your knees until his big hands came and took them in his calloused ones.

Gentle, warm, and so encompassing. His thumbs brushed slow circles over your knuckles, grounding you. “Then,” the Hashira said softly, reverently, “I promise to care for your heart. As you do for mine."

꣑ৎ DATING

♡ after waking from nightmares or rough missions, he'll wrap you in one of his prayer robes and murmur soft reassurances, letting you sleep on his chest while rain taps on the temple roof.

♡ grows flowers for you in his personal garden—saying he likes the idea of having something beautiful to give you, even if he can’t see them himself.

♡ loves when you hum. Even if you’re a little off-key, if you’re folding clothes or brushing your hair and absentmindedly humming, you’ll catch him not even trying to hide how soft his smile is.

♡ always falls asleep after you do, he typically does out of habit but seeing your sleeping face kissed by moonlight has certainly become another reason to wait <3

[darthannie]

By Way of Louisiana

Remmick x f!OC (mixed oc!!!!!)

word count: 4,019 tags & warnings: (JUST IN CASE) (JUST IN FUCKING CASE) DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, Dark fic!!!, mention of a dead loved one, grief, discussion of pregnancy/infertility, mention of infidelity, dubcon due to extenuating circumstances, inappropriate use of a cemetery, blood, lots of blood, choking, spit, p in v sex, death, but also living eternally a/n (plz read if you can xoxo): I really (x3) wanted to practice writing in first person instead of second person so this is a product of that want. I don't know if this is going to have a second part. I kind of like it as a stand alone, but I do have a half written part 2 that's banter and smut written in Remmick's pov. This was VERY fun to write. I would LOVE to explore his character more. Also, my blog is a space is where I go to explore the parts of me I can't explore in real life. And, that includes a hot southern/irish vampire with very sharp teeth, glowing eyes, and razor like nails. Sorry! Sue me!! Send me to the rack!!! Don't care, argue with the wall. Morally corrupt vampire I need you apologies to the ancestors.

The rich, black fabric that hung on my body felt exceptionally heavy. I entered my quiet home and laid back against the wooden door. My shakey breath rang through the room as the tears welled up and up and up, before finally spilling over, blurring the reminance of my late husband that was strewn around. His favorite hat hung by the door along with the coat he wore when it got too cool at night. I dragged my feet to my bedroom. His handkerchief laid on his bedside table along with a book he never got to finish reading. 

This new life I had to undertake was not one I was ready for; one did not prepare for widowship as they prepared for motherhood. Me and Charlie wanted to start trying for a baby. We had no luck, but perhaps that was for the best. Maybe it was why he started becoming distant. I did not want to bring life into this world alone. I wanted to do it with Charlie. We had met years ago when he had just started practicing law at Louisiana’s top law film, making more money than my family had ever seen. Charlie gave me everything. The home I sat in, the food in the kitchen, the clothes on my body. It was all because of him. My closet was full of pieces he bought, insisting I looked the best in clothing he bought me. “Come on, what’s one more dress for my pretty girl?” He’d seal the sentiment with a kiss. Oh, how I’d miss his kisses. His lips felt like they were made for me. 

Sitting on his side of the bed felt wrong. I grabbed the hankerchief off the bedside and fiddled with it in my hands, snaking it between my fingers. I chuckled as I dried my tears with it, remembering a silly moment where he’d spilled a glass of milk on himself one morning because the glass was too slippery. I laughed again, remembering how we danced on our wedding night. Our limbs moved in dissonance with each other as we danced. There were moments, beautiful moments, where our movements finally matched. A humourless chuckle followed as I remembered his lips on my body later that night when we were finally alone.

My only wish was that he not treat me like glass, but he did. He always did. Whenever we had sex, the sole purpose was to have a child. Tender, yes, but boring all the same. I wanted him to bring me to the same conlusion I always brought myself to, but he thought it better to focus on brining an heir into the world. Part of me resented him for it. The rest of me wanted to peel my skin off in shame for ever questioning his treatment of me, especially when he had given me everything. 

I looked down at my black dress, grappling with the impulse to take it off and pretend like this was not happening. I didn’t like this lonely feeling. This emptiness was familiar, but it wasn’t welcome. I sat frozen, evaluating myself in the mirror that stood in the corner of the room. My face no longer felt hot, my eyes slightly red from their agitation. I sucked in a deep breath and watched as the air filled my body. I felt it fill up my belly, reach around my ribs, and rope it’s way up my back. My exhale helped me send enough signals from my brain to my muscles to start moving again. I walked out the room and paced down the stairs, wrapping my shall around me in the process.

There was no need for anything heavier in this weather. The warmth left over by the setting sun wrapped me up and guided me down the path, helping me haul my legs towards the cemetary where my husband lay. I stood at the closed gates. “Go home,” it said. “You saw him today, no need to torture yourself further,” it continued. But, I could not listen to the closed gates plea. I pushed passed the it, not bothering to close it behind me, and hedged forth. 

I quickly became aware of an oppressive weight that I was not meant bare. The heaft of death followed me everywhere. It would not leave me and time has proven that I could not escape it. I wondered when it would be my turn, when death would finally end up at my doorstep and take me away from this excuse of a life. I held my breath and released it when I could no longer restrict my lamentation. I moved quickly, gaining speed as I careened left and right. My cries and tears unfurled over unexpected raised stones and exposed roots. My shoulders began to lead me. My arms extented out towards his headstone before it was even in reach. I fell into it and wrapped my arms around it, letting gravity take my knees to the ground. 

The stone was cold to the touch, no longer warmed by the afternoon sun. My cries contined as the moon hung itself high. I laid my forehead against the headstone and kissed it. “Please come back to me. Please, for the love of God, come back to me.” No answer. I shut my eyes kissed the stone again. “You said you’d stay. You said you wouldn’t leave me,” I sucked in a deep breath and exhaled with a groan, “and you can’t. You just can’t! I can’t be alone again!” My cries got quieter and quieter until I silenced. The graveyard surrounding me was completely empty. The sky was so wide it seemed like it could swallow me whole. The stars above me didn’t twinkle or dance in the sky. They stood still, observing my grief. I let go of the stone and laid against it, resting my eyes. My shall hung off one shoulder and I didn’t bother to tug it back on. Eyes shut, I sniffed and did all I could think to do. 

I wiped my nose and began singing the words I had sang since I was a kid. 

“Will the circle be unbroken by and by, lord, by and by? Is a better home awaiting in the sky, lord, in the sky?

My eyes flew open wide when a sweet voice and a banjo that were not mine joined in. 

“There are loved ones in the glory Whose dear forms you often miss, When you close your earthly story Will you join them in their bliss?”

My eyes slid up his body and I realized I should be level with him if I wanted to seem any kind of intimidating. I marionetted myself upright before he finished singing. I was unarmed, a silly mistake. I could throw a punch but that was about it. When he finished the verse, he laid the banjo on the ground and held his hands in front of him. “I’m not here to hurt you. I just heard some hootin’ and hollerin’ and saw the cemetery gate was open. Decided to investigate.” I stepped behind the stone, expecting it to offer me protection. The man read the headstone and saw the dates etched into it. “I’m sorry for your loss. I’ve lost a lot of people too,” he relaxed his arms next to him. You avoided his question to proceed with your own interrogation, “What are you doing here? It’s late,” I stammered, “and the cemetery is closed.”

“I could ask you the same question.” He chuckled. I was unsettled by his levity, feeling so very dark as I stood behind my dead husband’s tomb. His face was sad when he spoke again, “Sometimes I feel a bit like a ghost myself.” I cocked my head to the side, “Why?” He ignored me. I changed the subject. “When did you learn to play.

He whistled, “Ooo, a while back. I met a man who played and taught myself.” 

“The man didn’t teach you?”

“He didn’t need to.”

“Hm.”

I got a better look of him in the moonlight. His dark eyes caught the light and made them shimmer in an unnatural way. Odd. His hair was short, but laid shaggy on his forehead. The ends at the nape of his neck started to curl upwards. I leaned forward on Charlie’s headstone and hid my face in shame. I thought the man was fine. Not only that, I thought he was damn fine. I felt like a whore, looking at another man before my husband was even cold in his grave. I lifted my head and he offered me a shy smile before he said more, hooking his thumbs on his suspenders and pulling them. “If its any consolation, based on my experience, I know that grief is firm and steady. But, it does get better… I just don’t know when.” I hummed in agreement this time and for the first time all day, I cracked a smile. “I’ll drink to that.” I kicked a rock at my feet, dusted myself, and returned the shaul to it’s rightful shoulder.

“Well, I guess I’ll be leavin’. Thanks for the talk, stranger.” 

“Remmick,” he said closing the gap between the two of us by a few feet, “pleased to make your aquaintance.” He held out his hand and I did the same. He grabbed my hand and kissed my knuckles, right over my wedding band. I pulled my hand away and sucked in air through my teeth like I had just burned myself on hot cast iron. “Um-”

“Oh, I’m sorry, darlin’”

“It’s fine. It’s just…”

“Look, I still wear mine. It’s okay.” He held up his hand and pointed at the gold band that laid on his finger. “I know she’s gone and I should move on, but it’s a nice reminder that, at one point, I wasn’t all that alone.” It wasn’t until his thumb wiped the tears on my face that I realized I was crying. “It feels nice knowing you’re wanted. Feels good to know you have someone to go home to.” All I could do was nod. 

“I met a man named Charles recently, but his friends called him Charlie.” He smiled at me, closing the gap further as I met his eyes. “Me and Charlie… we got to know each other. He told me he had a wife back home. That’s you, ain’t it? Yeah, he told me how much he loved her, how beautiful her voice was. Though, I have to say, that didn’t stop him from sampling all that joint had to offer.” I blinked water away and refocused my gaze on Remmick. “He what?”, it came out of me as a whisper. He kept going, “Even after being with a couple different women he still gushed about you. “She doesn’t sing like a songbird.” He said, “She sounds more like a wolf howling in the night.” And, lo and behold, guess who I find howlin’ in the night? Charlie’s wife.”

I could not digest what he was feeding me. There was a lack of acknowledgement on my part. I wanted to ignore everything Remmick said to me, but all I could think of were the reasons Charlie would sleep with other women. Can’t get pregnant, I thought. I can’t get pregnant. He didn’t want me because I couldn’t get pregnant. My skin burned hot at Remmick’s confirmation, “Such a shame you couldn’t have his child.” 

It broke me out of my trace. I leaned back. “Fuck you!” Remmick only chuckled and I found it in me to place both of my hands on his chest to push him away with all the force I could muster. “You come out here, start talkin’ nonsense about my husband. Damn liar, that’s what you are.” My mind was eddying with the information he fed me.I felt sick as I thought of being relegated to housewife with a husband who snuck around because I couldn’t give him a child. I didn’t want it to be true but what good would it be for a man I had just met to lie? Remmick closed the gap and pressed his body the other side of the tombstone again. He got so close to me our noses almost touched. His hand reached up to my face and wiped the tears off my cheeks again. He skated the back of his right hand against my face, stroking me like one would a frail bird. I swatted his hand away before he could speak, scoffing and making my legs move in the direction of the cemetery gates. “Unbelievable son of a bitch,” I muttered. 

Remmick yanked me back forcefully. It took me all of two seconds to notice that his eyes now more resembled red jewels. Then, I saw the drool dripping out the corner of his mouth. “I got to know Charlie very well. Briefly, but I knew him well all the same. His memories became mine. I know you like to sing in the mornings and read in the garden. I know he bought you that shawl you’re wearing at your favorite shop in town. I know that your family was dirt poor and was picked off one by one. Family of consumptives, picked off one by one, but that wasn’t all was it? Your ma and pa were keepin’ a real big secret, keeping you safe, right? No one had to know. But, that dramatic wave in your hair used to be a dead give away.” I gasped and felt something poke my arm.

Remmick’s nails had formed into claws half the size of my pinky. “We don’t have to bear our crosses alone. We could do it together.” He dragged an open hand down my arm until he reached my wrist. He pressed his thumb down on my arm to create a small cut. He lifted my arm, turned his head, and licked the blood that flowed from my wrist. Remmick moaned, “We don’t have to be alone,” as my blood touched the tip of his tongue.

His other clawed hand reached for my waist as he put my arm around his shoulder. I laced my fingers though his hair, half tugging him away. The fear coursing through my nervous system coiled itself with my desire. This was no man. He was something else, and that excited me as much as it disgusted me. I tested my luck by pulling his hair harder, making the distance between us grow. He bared sharp fangs at me and sucked air through his saliva covered teeth. 

I gawked at him, my lips parting open slightly. He regained his composure and strengthened the grip on my waist. His claws broke skin and left nasty cuts where they impailed. I winced, the pain sobering. This was not right. My husband laid directly under us, likely rolling in the casket I buried him in. I tried to imagine him fighting his way though six feet of earth to get to me. Instead, I saw Charlie staying late at the office with his secretary because he could not stand being with me. I saw Charlie getting drunk and kissing a younger woman. I saw him tossin’ some coin at a man and getting keys to a room for him and a woman liked more than me. I could not get a handle on my thoughts. I wanted to deny him. I wanted to run and escape. I heard my voice before I was able to move, “I don’t think you knew him at all. You don’t know what he wanted. You don’t know how he viewed me, and-”

His voice lacerated mine, “I know what you look like when you’re laying down.” I swallowed hard, closing my eyes. “I know that Charlie came home quietly on some occasions so he could watch how you touched yourself. You never caught him lookin’. Or, maybe you did and liked being watched.” I swallowed hard, my heart attempted to break through my ribcage. “I do know for a fact that he loved seeing that little pussy take him in deep…” He dragged the last word as he slowly pulled the shawl off my shoulder. “I know that you have dark desires you’d rather take to the grave because you told him. He never paid it any mind, assuming you’d grow out of it when you got pregnant. But, you never got pregnant. And, you never lost those needs, huh?”

He pressed me flush against him and my grip on his hair loosened. “I know how you like to be touched, licked, and used. I know more about you than you think.” The hand on my waist moved to my head, guiding me to look up at the sky as he licked from my collarbone allllllll the way up to my ear. “But, I still think I could know you more. We could get to know each other. Isn’t that what you want? To know and be known?” I gulped, “Not like that. Not by you.” 

Remmick sighed, “Let’s fix that then.” 

The second his teeth broke my skin, sweet grunts and hums of appreciation reached my ears. “I sure like the taste of you.” I choked as my blood spilled over my chest in gentle streams. He unlatched from my neck in order to indulge in my body. We made eye contact as his hands traveled down my sides, riping my dress in the process. The thin fabric gave easily to the pull of his sharp nails. He slid his hand under my dress and used his nails to lift the edge of my underwear. He wanted to feel the warmth of my skin against his and the a wild look in his eye told me he was holding back. He cautiously ran his tongue over the swell of my chest, tasting the blood mixed with the salt of my skin. I felt his fangs slowly sink through the skin that protected my heart. He let the blood trickle into his mouth. He drank piously, honoring my body as it slumped against him. I struggled to speak, “Remmick, please… St… stop. Fuck. Ple…Please…” 

He guided me onto the ground, onto my husband’s grave, and kneeled in between my legs. It was difficult to feel much fear when Remmick’s movements mimicked care. My eyes shut too long for his liking, prompting him to tap lightly on my cheek. He cooed “Oh, no, no, no, baby, we’re not gonna stop. You don’t want me to stop. And, right now, I need you awake. I need you to remember this.” He pulled me in for a kiss with a bloodied hand. I wanted to fight him. “Find a way out”, I thought. “This is wrong,” I told myself. It was not enough to convince me. I shut my eyes tight and didn’t feel Remmick against my lips. I felt Charlie, or at least the feeling of when I was with Charlie. It felt like Remmick’s lips were made just for me. He nipped at my bottom lip when he pulled away. The taste of copper was strong on my tongue. I licked the new wound on my lip and reached for Remmick’s suspenders. Sloppy, but determined, I moved the straps off his shoulders and fiddled with his belt buckle. I pulled his pants down and shimmied my dress up, laying back. I needed him to indulge in all my urges. I needed him to take me the way I’ve always wanted to be taken, and I think he could tell. 

Remmick’s body alined with mine as I led him into me. I felt everything. I gripped onto his shirt and he pulled out slowly and entered me again. “I have been waiting for someone like you for a while.” I reveled in the way he stretched me. It was difficult to keep my moans in. He was bigger than Charlie was, and I’d only ever been with Charlie. My sounds were as involuntary as my arms were when they wrapped around Remmick’s shoulders. “Open your mouth.” I did as I was told and dropped my jaw. Remmick let his saliva drip into my mouth, savoring the taste of it mixed with my blood. My head leaned back as his hand ran across my neck and down inbetween my clothed breasts.

He grunted as he handled my body and our movements ended with me on top of him. “Don’t worry, darlin’. I don’t expect you to ride me. Just let me do all the work.” My arms settled on the sides of his body as I laid against him. He cradled me against his chest as I grabbed the sides of his shirt. The absense of his heartbeat registered when I felt mine slow. The arms wrapped around me tightened. He bucked his hips up repeatedly. Over and over again, he hit the right spot inside of me. I was a mumbling mess. “Remmick, I- Plea- Fuck!” The sentence was never a fully formed thought, just an acknowledgment of him and what he was doing to me. He put his forehead against mine as he barrled up into me. He pressed his lips against mine as he consecrated my body. His cock hit every right spot, making me gasp and whine each time he sunk inside me. 

“Look at me,” he begged. His eyes were still red, but softer. No soul in them, but a tenderness still lived there. “We will be beautiful together. I swear it,” his hips moved quicker as his forehead pressed to mine, “We’ll be unstoppable, darlin’, you and I. Okay? You and I. Forever.” My whines continued and I could not quell them. “Forever?” It came out like a plea. I wanted him to promise that forever. I was tired of the temporary nature of every person in my life. For once, I wanted the promise of forever. Remmick grined at me and I smiled back. He was giving me the chance to never be alone. I would always have someone in my corner. I’d finally escape the life I lead, and for that, I would do anything. 

I had heard stories and suspersitions about creatures like him. I should be terrified. I should want to fight back, get away from his grasp and make it til sunrise. I ignored the more sane thoughts by kissing him again. My moans and his grunts formed a symphony that bouncing off nearby headstones, filling out the night sky. My hips tried to meet him half way, but his pace was so solid, and I was so weak, there was no point in me even trying. I began feeling the pressure build up in me. “We’ll never be alone again,” his voice was heavy and sincere. My stuttered moans came to a stop as my orgasm ravanged my body. I grabbed Remmick’s sides as he helped me continue to ride out my orgasm.

His moans and grunts became frantic until he slowed and kissed my lips. He shuttered as his cock twitched and he emptied inside of me. After a moment, his hips moved again, slowly, as he enjoyed the gentleness of my whimpers and the sensitivity of our bodies together. Once our movements and convulsions stopped, he pulled out. We laid still for a while, I was too weak to do much else. He caressed my body and smoothed his hand over my head. He sat up with me still in his arms.

“It won’t hurt too bad. I don’t bite too hard,” he vowed. I nodded. His divine intervention may save me yet. “Now. Please. I’m tired and I-” I gasped as I felt his teeth bite down harder than before. So much for not biting hard. He was relentless. I heard the slurping and drinking as I felt the blood drain from my body. The hands that gripped onto him went limp and my arms fell to my side. I felt cold and empty.

And then, I felt nothing at all.