#this is simply a reflection of mine

[quietlyblooms]

chiyo tag drop!!

[self-spaghettification]

For your consideration.

How you have fallen from heaven, morning star, son of the dawn! You have been cast down to the earth, you who once laid low the nations

[homunculus-argument]

One of my favourite parts about autistic people is how you can use other peoples' reflections of them like an echolocation bullshit detector. Like they personally do not need to do shit for this to work, they just passively emit their own autistic vibe that bounces off every surface around them, and you can assess another person's level of self-awareness by how they reflect it back.

"Autistic people do not understand social hierarchy" nope, they understand you're supposed to be an authority here, but they won't politely pretend to respect you if they think you're incompetent.

"Autistic people do not understand humour" nope, they just don't politely pretend to laugh to humour you, and you are simply not funny.

"Autistic people are rude" nope, they just don't think it's polite to lie to you, and don't care about trying to tell you what they think you want to hear instead of telling you what they think.

"Autistic people sometimes have emotional meltdowns for absolutely no reason" nope, you're just insufferable to be around and the person with the lowest tolerance of your shit is simply the canary in the coal mine who breaks first.

[reignpage]

❀ In which husband!Nanami's ass is not safe around you

Kento knows to eye his surroundings when he ascends the stairs – it’s almost second nature now to look behind him. He does it at work too. Once. Twice. He scans the environment as if somehow he’ll find himself in a compromising position. So used to his habits, his colleagues find themselves picking it up too, looking for him, for something they wouldn’t recognise even if it was right in their face. What happens when he’s not on guard?

You happen.

“Sweetheart…I need to sort the fresh laundry out. Please no funny business.” Smiling, you’re the picture perfect image of an angel but your husband knows better. With his hands full, he can’t do anything about the hand reaching out towards him nor can he fight against the harsh smack that you land upon his behind. Jolting and with the tips of his ears burning, he shakes his head and sighs. “I see your strength has improved. Well done.”

Even when he’s cooking he’s not safe around you. You’ll creep up behind him and dive your face between his cheeks, ignoring his gasp. Motorboating the mounds, you giggle, squeezing and groping like it’s a stress toy. “Hmm, your ass is bigger than mine, Kenny. I’m so jealous.”

Making no attempts to remove you, he continues doing as he does and wonders where in this marriage he went wrong, that you’d be more interested in talking to his bottom than to him. He could tell you no, could tell you not to disturb him when he’s making dinner, and that he’s not the fondest of your attention to it, but instead he says, “Your ass is plenty big, my love.”

No hug with you is innocent. At first, your arms are wrapped around his torso, enjoying the hard wall of muscles of his back as you bury your face between his pecs. Soon, however, he’ll notice those arms descending ever so slowly, as if he wouldn’t know, as if he can’t feel the scratch of your nails and the tingling they elicit on his skin. Your hands will eventually find themselves resting on top of his buttocks for warmth. It happens sometimes when you’re out. People point and laugh. Kento holds you tighter. 

It gets worse in bed. At night, when he’s climbing into bed shirtless and wearing only pyjama bottoms, you wait to strike. He knows the routine at this point. If he doesn’t pin you to his front and constrict you into the spooning position immediately, you’ll pounce and dig your teeth into the flesh. The red marks he sees in the mirror the next day are a reminder of your hidden prowess, of the kind of beast he married, of your ability to bring him to his knees and have your way,

And that in and of itself is most likely the reason why he focuses so much on building his glutes in the gym, why he fights through the aches of doing squats and lunges whilst carrying heavy weights, why he buys more and more of the pants you claim hug his lower half in a delectable way, and why he doesn’t bother dodging your attacks though he can see them from a mile away. 

After all, to Nanami Kento, a man isn’t someone who avoids their wife’s odd interest in a specific body part of his; it’s someone who ever so slightly juts it out to grab your attention and smiles in relief when he realises your interest hasn’t waned at all despite all the years you’ve been together. Having learnt the hard way, he’s become a firm believer that it is his husbandly duty to simply brace for impact and become an award-winning actor with his winces, grunts, and mutters of ‘ouch’ and ‘gentle hands, dear, please’ that you seem to take pleasure in hearing. 

He supposes, if he really had to reflect on the matter, a marriage is a balance: for every squeeze, grope, and bite you land on him, he does to you. Ten-fold, actually, not that you seem to realise or care…maybe that was your devious plan all along. It’s getting harder and harder to tell who has the upper hand in this relationship. 

Though, he suspects it’s you. 

It’s always been you. 

[celibibratty]

It's like Marina said, as bad as the mini fight of that day was, it was necessary, we finally talked about the things we suffered and showed how they also hurt us, and how mom hurts us too, she doesn't understand/doesn't try to understand us, and that's it!, maybe that's just how it is, mom is like that, she's not considerate, she doesn't understand what we suffered indeed

Before that it seems that I/we get it very frustrated with that, even though I didn't admit it, it seems like I wanted her to understand, I/we wanted her approval, but now with this day....we don't need her approval, it's just like that, mom is like that, she'll never understand what we went through, and she's not interested in the things we do indeed, and that's all right, she's just like that, she doesn't understand and she doesn't need to understand, I/we no longer want her to understand and be interested

[quietlyblooms-gone]

peeps in. this blog is a wip, but if you're seeing this, i'm kissing you <3 also this is one big tag drop bc i hate making tag drops!! and bc i dunno how many times tumblr will tolerate me posting since people keep getting shadowbanned apparently ;;;;

[dollychou]

❥ contents 。even though you're emotionally unstable because of your pregnancy, nanami is so patient and loving.

nanami is the picture perfect husband. he cares for you and tends to your every need without even a peep of a complaint. he spoils you so much that it's almost overwhelming — but you really have no gripe against it. he loves you wholeheartedly and you know it. he would pull down every star in the galaxy for you if you asked, and he'd do it endlessly.

and now that you're pregnant, he's been more attentive and caring than ever. you so much as let out a sigh and he's rushing to you, asking you how you're feeling, if there's anything you need, or if there's anything he can do for you. he always places a soft, delicate kiss to your knuckles, uttering a gentle 'i love you' each time.

these days, your hormones have been all over the place — one second you're giggling and giddy, and the next second you're bawling in his arms. the other day you were watching videos of cute little kittens on tiktok and then nanami walked into your shared bedroom and you started sniffling and gushing to him over the adorable creatures. in the next few seconds, your expression turned to one of annoyance as you harped on to your husband about how he wouldn't allow you to get one. he simply smiled, reminding you that you had never once asked him before for a pet kitten.

through your roller coaster of emotions, he has been so patient and lovely, caring for you and helping you ease any trouble you were experiencing.

"are you comfortable, sweetie?," he coos while he delicately rubs his hand over your bulging belly. he places a sweet kiss on it, humming softly to himself. he is always wondering and daydreaming about how pretty and cute your daughter will be when she's here — a reflection of the miracle you both created.

you groan in discomfort, shifting in the bed. nanami looks to you and furrows his eyebrows a bit in concern. before he gets the chance to say anything, you're crying to him, "ken, don't touch me right now! UGH! i feel so uncomfortable! when is this damn baby gonna come out of me?"

he lets out a small sigh as he makes you lean forward a bit as he positions a cushion behind you. "is this better, sweetheart?," he asks, fluffing up the cushion.

your eyes start welling up, a hand coming to cover your mouth. he notices the tears and his face turns to one of concern. "what's wrong? are you still uncomfortable? did i irritate you or anger you?," he asks.

you shake your head, sniffling lightly as you wipe away the tears that are streaming down. "no honey," you choke out. "it's just, i was so mean to you a second ago and you didn't even say anything. and-and, now you're taking care of me. you're just so sweet."

he gives you a gentle kiss, chuckling softly at your little outburst. he brushes a strand of hair behind your ear and his hand comes down to wipe the tears staining your face. he cups your face in his hands and says sweetly, "sweetheart, it's okay. i understand how difficult it can be. you don't need to apologise. i love you."

"i love you too," you croak out, a tiny pout on your lips.

he drapes an arm around you, pulling you into his embrace. there's a comfortable silence that falls between you two, his hands rubbing up and down you as a means to bring some comfort. you peer up at him, a doting look on your face. he looks back down at you, wearing the same sweet expression. "anything the matter, sweetheart?," he says, placing a soft kiss to your temple.

"no," you answer, trailing your finger over his torso. "i'm just wondering if our baby will have your eyes or mine."

he hums as he ponders on the question for a bit. "well, i really hope she has your eyes. you've got the prettiest ones i've seen and our daughter will be blessed if she inherits them too."

he hears you sniffling again and immediately asks you what's wrong, care and concern laced into his voice. you wave your hands dismissively as you squeak out, "you're just the sweetest man. it's too much." you bury your head in his chest, the tears soaking his top. a tender smile spread across his lips as he caresses your back while you sob.

it's been a tumultuous ride recently, with your emotions and hormones all over the place. he can't imagine how onerous it must be for you. but if there's anything he can do to help you through it all — no matter how small or big — he'll do it for you. all while wearing that delightful and pleasant smile on his face.

[hrrtshape]

emma's 14 day manifestation challenge (no one's questioning you again after this. not even you!!!)

a little foreword and word of encouragement ,

14 days!!!!!!! no loopholes, no well what if bullshit, no begging the universe to like you back, just you and your assumptions and a world that obeys.

this is for the people who've already seen the signs and still doubts themselves, this is for the people who wants receipts, this is for the part of you that knooooooows something big is trying to click into place.

we're manifesting to prove we're the source. you're here to stop performing power and start embodying it.

what's in store ,

14 days

1 intention to dominate per day

1 action (micro shift // test)

1 affirmation to run on loop

all backed by loa logic, no placebo fluff

no skipping, no spiralling, no but hows. you commit. you command and then you watch.

week one , we're proving ourselves

[ day one ] my world obeys me intention , the 3d reflects my thoughts, not the other way around. test , assume you'll hear a specific word today (butterfly, ocean, apple, whatever) affirmation , my assumptions are law. i think it, i see it.　 

[ day two ] i'm lucky to the point of suspicion intention , things go right for me by default test , assume you'll avoid inconvenience. no traffic, no long lines, no wifi crashes affirmation , things always work out for me. even if they shouldn't.　 

[ day three ] people like me for no reason intention , everyone is nice to me today test , assume compliments, extra kindness, good shit only affirmation , people treat me as if i'm someone they've already decided to love.　 

[ day four ] i get what i want without asking twice intention , test instant manifestation test , choose one small, specific desire and assume it's already on the way (free coffee, exact parking spot, dm from xyz) affirmation , i don't chase, i attract, and i attract fast.　 

[ day five ] my energy bends intention , assume your presence has impact test , walk into a room and assume everyone notices you affirmation , when i walk in, energy shifts in my favour.　 

[ day six ] i said it's mine. guess what intention , make a bold declaration test , post it anywhere (on your tumblr or tiktok or whatever. even a close friends with zero people in it). ex: "i'm getting x." hold the assumption NO MATTER what affirmation , the moment i claim it, it's locked in.　 

[ day seven ] reality is simply my mirror intention , detach from results, they're already written test , when something goes wrong, don't react, stay in your assumption. affirmation , my reaction writes the story, i choose the ending.　 

week two , deciding you're god

[ day eight ] the universe is obsessed with me intention , test synchronicity test , pick a sign to appear today, not a maybe, just declare it will affirmation , the universe follows my lead, always.　 

[ day nine ] money loves me intention , change money assumptions test , expect unexpected cash. refund, discount, gift. affirmation , money finds me. i don't look for it.　 

[ day ten ] time bends for me intention , control time test , decide something happens faster than it should today affirmation , time is weak and it folds when i speak.　 

[ day eleven ] i am unquestionable intention , test social confidence test , assume everyone agrees with you, even if you say something bold affirmation , when i speak, people agree.　 

[ day twelve ] i shift reality because i say so intention , choose one big desire and then declare it done. no maybes and no manifestings. this is done. test , track every tiny sign that it's already unfolding. affirmation , this is mine, everything is catching up.　 

[ day thirteen ] i don't need logic, why would i? i have authority intention , assume the impossible can happen test , pick something that feels too big and start treating it like a basic right affirmation , i make the rules, technics are optional.　 

[ day fourteen ] i am the cause intention , reflect on the whole challenge test , list every single thing that shifted. then choose what's next. affirmation , i did that. and i'll do it again.　 

[iydiamartinx]

TERRITORY, MARKED

Pairing: Damian Wayne x Reader ft. Dick Grayson

divider by: @cafekitsune word count: 2.1k synopsis: Damian makes an unexpected friend at the dog park—but when his older brother tags along one day and takes a little too much interest, Damian decides one thing for certain: this was not supposed to be a shared friendship. a/n: I got this cute request from @kitkatscabinet hope you liked it 🩵

He didn’t like the noise, the chaos, or the strangers who insisted on asking where his parents were—just because he was twelve and walking around with a dog half his height. The scrutiny was always the same: curious stares, patronizing smiles, or the occasional busybody who seemed convinced he was lost. He wasn’t. He had perfect directional memory and could incapacitate a grown man with two fingers.

But Titus needed exercise, and Alfred had made a rather pointed comment that morning about how “a well-socialized pet is a reflection of his owner’s discipline.”

So here he was, standing stiffly beneath a tree with his arms crossed, watching Titus bound after a tennis ball like a slobbering oaf. His nose wrinkled slightly as a group of women near the water fountain cast him a judgmental look—three of them with toy dogs tucked neatly into designer purses like accessories. Damian could feel the weight of their stares on him and Titus and he was just about ready to call it a day when he heard a voice behind him.

“That’s a gorgeous dog,” you said, gaze following Titus. “Yours?”

Damian turned, immediately wary.

He looked you over with practiced suspicion, eyes narrowing just slightly. You were older than him—maybe around Grayson’s age—but you didn’t speak to him with the gratingly high-pitched, patronizing tone adults so often used. There was no forced sweetness, no condescension, no judgment. Not even fear. Just curiosity.

An unclipped leash hung loosely from your fingers, and a husky stood at your side, tail wagging as it trotted toward Titus with a cheerful bark.

“Yes,” Damian replied curtly.

You didn’t flinch at his curt reply. Didn’t backpedal or fill the silence with awkward chatter the way most people did when confronted with Damian’s usual icy demeanour. Instead, you just nodded as your husky bounded up to Titus, sniffing noses and circling excitedly.

“They’ve got good instincts,” you said casually, eyes on the dogs. “Mine doesn’t usually approach ones that size unless they’re friendly.”

Damian followed your gaze. Titus, ever the soldier, stood tall and still, allowing the inspection without so much as a twitch. Then, with a quiet chuff, he gave a single, measured wag of his tail and lowered his head in greeting.

A rare sign of approval.

Damian’s stance eased—just slightly. “…He doesn’t usually tolerate strangers,” Damian said slowly.

You smiled a little at that. “Guess today’s just full of exceptions.”

He studied you again, this time with a shade less suspicion. You didn’t have the overenthusiastic energy most dog people radiated. You weren’t trying to pet Titus without permission, or asking how old he was like he was a child running errands without supervision. You simply stood there, hands in your pockets, content to watch the dogs with quiet interest.

“I’m Y/N, by the way,” you offered after a beat, though your tone made it clear there was no pressure to respond.

“…Damian,” he said.

“Nice to meet you, Damian.”

He gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod, then let his gaze return to the dogs. Titus and your husky had taken to one another quickly, and Damian felt another piece of his wall chip when he saw how happy Titus was with his new friend. 

Silence settled between the two of you again, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. You eventually moved to the nearby bench, letting your dog roam in a wide circle with Titus while you scrolled through your phone.

Damian didn’t sit beside you—not right away. But after a few minutes, he shifted his weight. Then stepped closer. Then finally sank onto the far edge of the bench, arms still crossed but no longer on guard.

That was how it started. The next time he saw you, you sent him a friendly wave. The time after that, you offered him a spot beside you. You never pushed for him to speak but eventually he began responding to your idle chatter, until he found himself opening up and talking about his day—about school, about people who annoyed him, about books he liked. Something about you was easy to talk to, you listened with interest, asking questions when needed, and even occasionally talking about your own daily life, which he found oddly… validating. You didn’t treat him like a child and you were smart enough that you could keep up with him. 

Soon, it became a routine. Titus and your dog would charge off together the moment their paws hit the grass, while you and Damian claimed your usual spot beneath the shade. Sometimes you talked. Sometimes you didn’t. Either way, it worked.

Damian had always found it difficult to spend time with kids his age. He didn’t understand them—and frankly, they didn’t understand him. They were loud, immature, easily distracted. The only exception had ever been Jon, and even then, their bond had been forged under very specific circumstances. Neither of them had to hide who they were. They were both born into the life of heroes but And even then, their friendship was… unconventional at best.

Damian rarely connected, even among the other young heroes His surly personality, sharp tongue, and rigid discipline kept most of them at arm’s length. Jon, ever the optimist, was the rare outlier—a ball of sunshine who somehow wormed his way past Damian’s walls with unwavering sincerity. 

You were something entirely different. A civilian. Someone completely outside the world he’d grown up in, that he began considering as a friend.

But, of course, with a family like his, someone was bound to find out eventually. Damian had done his best to keep this to himself—this quiet corner of his life that belonged only to him. He changed his routes, downplayed his outings, gave vague answers when asked where he’d been.

Still, everyone had started to notice the change.

Subtle things, at first. The way he stopped groaning every time he was told to take Titus out. The way he came back from his walks with less tension in his shoulders. He wasn’t snapping as much. Wasn’t muttering under his breath with the same venom he usually reserved for Gotham’s general population.

So when Dick insisted on tagging along one weekend—something about “needing fresh air” and “brotherly bonding”—Damian should’ve known his secret was on borrowed time. His friend, his quiet routine, his piece of normalcy… it was no longer going to be just his.

Still, he thought he’d pulled it off. He left early, ditching Dick. He even took the long way around, doubled back twice just to be sure he wasn’t followed. And it worked—he made it to the park alone. What he hadn’t expected was that Dick would show up anyway. 

“Hey, Dami!”

Damian tensed mid-sentence, shoulders going rigid as if preparing for an ambush. You glanced up in time to see the source of the disruption. With a coffee in one hand, and a leash in the other, the man beamed brightly. An adorable grey puppy trotted beside him, ears bouncing with every step, tongue lolling out in sheer delight. Her leash was slack—more of a formality than a necessity.

Taking a moment to study the man himself, he was tall, handsome, and fit, with bright eyes and a golden grin. There was an easy confidence to him, an effortless charm that told you he was a people person…right up until he saw you.

And then he just—froze.

You offered a polite, amused smile. “You must be his brother.” 

You’d heard Damian complain about his brothers enough to make a pretty solid guess. Drake and Thomas were still juniors—too young to be this guy—and from everything Damian had said about Todd, he sounded more like the leather-jacket, punch-first type. This guy? He was too put-together. Too clean-cut. Too… sunny. Which really only left one option.

Grayson. The apparent golden boy.

Beside you, Damian sighed loudly, rubbing his temples like this entire interaction was causing him physical pain. “Unfortunately.”

Dick blinked. “I—uh—hi. I’m Dick.” He caught the raised brow you gave him and immediately flushed, a faint pink blooming across his cheeks. “Richard. Grayson. Dick Grayson. That’s me.”

“…Right,” you said, lips curving into a slightly wider smile. 

Damian didn’t have to look at you to know. He could already feel the secondhand embarrassment crawling up his spine like an itch he couldn’t scratch. He was going to commit fratricide. Right here. In broad daylight.

Meanwhile, you let your gaze drop to the ball of grey fluff at his side, her tail wagging lazily as she sprawled out across the grass like she owned the park.

“And who’s this?” you asked, your tone cooeing.

Dick followed your gaze, smile brightening instantly. “Haley,” he said warmly. “She’s still a bit of a mischief maker, but we’re working on it.”

As if on cue, Haley let out a happy little yip and rolled onto her back, paws curled in the air, clearly angling for attention. You laughed, reaching down to scratch her belly, and she kicked her legs like she’d just won the lottery.

Titus and your dog trotted over from where they’d been playing nearby, drawn by the sight of the unfamiliar puppy. Their postures were relaxed, tails wagging in casual curiosity as they circled around to greet her. Dick crouched down and unclipped Haley’s leash without hesitation, giving her a soft pat on the side.

“Go on, sweetheart,” he murmured.

Haley didn’t need to be told twice. With a delighted bark, she bounded forward to meet the others. Within moments, the three dogs were weaving around each other in playful loops, tails high and tongues lolling, a flurry of paws and joyful energy filling the open stretch of grass.

Pushing past his momentary embarrassment, Dick dropped onto the bench beside you without being asked, angling his body a little too fully in your direction. His smile was quick to return, all easy charm and boyish confidence.

“So,” he said, leaning in slightly. “You’re the mysterious dog park friend. I’ve heard… absolutely nothing about, because apparently someone likes to keep secrets.”

You chuckled, casting an amused glance at Damian. “I didn’t realize I was being kept a secret.”

“You weren’t,” Damian snapped, a little too quickly and defensively. “But my brothers are like rabid dogs who I didn’t want scaring you off.”

Dick raised his eyebrows, clearly amused instead of offended. “Scaring her off? What, do we bark too loud or something?”

You snorted. “The more important question is, do you bite?”

“Only when threatened,” Dick said with a wink. Then he leaned in just a fraction, pitching his voice low enough that, presumably, only you would hear. “Or when asked.”

Your breath caught before you could stop it, the corner of your mouth twitching despite yourself. There was a spark in his eyes, teasing and a little too pleased with himself, and you hated how easily it made heat crawl up the back of your neck.

You were cut off by Damian’s groan as he saw the look you two shared, slumping back against the bench with the kind of dramatized misery usually reserved for Shakespearean death scenes. “You see? This is why I didn’t tell anyone.”

“Aw, come on, Dami,” Dick teased, nudging his little brother with his elbow. “Don’t be like that. It’s not my fault our new friend is cute.”

Your lips parted in surprise, a soft huff of laughter escaping before you could stop it. 

“She is not our friend,” Damian muttered.

You turned toward him, brow arching with interest. “Oh?” you said, drawing the word out, clearly amused. “So what am I?”

Damian opened his mouth, paused, frowned like the question had personally offended him. “You’re… mi—my,” he settled on, vaguely flustered. “My friend. Not his.”

Dick raised his brows, then gave a low chuckle, the sound soft and unbothered. “Hey, no one said she can’t be friends with both of us.”

Then he glanced your way, that familiar glint in his eyes.

“Though I wouldn’t mind being a little more than friends.”

Your heart skipped, just once, and the way his smile deepened told you he noticed your flushed cheeks.

From beside you, Damian huffed, arms crossed tight. “I just didn’t introduce her because I didn’t want you hitting on her,” he grumbled.

Your smile softened as you leaned back against the bench. “Don’t worry, Dami. You’ll always be my favourite.”

He nodded like that settled the matter entirely, posture relaxing ever so slightly as he turned his attention back to the three dogs still tumbling across the grass.

But the moment his gaze was elsewhere, Dick leaned in again, his voice low and smooth.

“What do you say to dinner?” he murmured, the words warm against the air between you. “Give me a chance to change your mind about your favourite.”

You turned your head toward him, brow raised, a smile tugging at your lips. Your eyes flicked to Damian—still fully distracted— before looking back at Dick, biting your lip.

“It’s a date.”

Next Chapter →

[alinathinkstoomuch]

LAP IT UP

18+ MDNI

pairing: aaron hotchner x reader summary: tweezing your boyfriend’s eyebrows is a totally valid excuse to make him come in his pants, right? warnings | an: dry-humping, power play, dom-ish reader / sub-ish hotch, hotch jizzes in his pants, hotch is a munch and a simp because it’s simply not possible for me to write anything else other than hotchypoo worshipping the ground u walk on!!!established relationship, mentions of sugar baby/daddy dynamic word count: 2.2k

✧ masterlist

“Can I do yours?” you asked, not bothering to shift the mirror as you cleaned up the stray hairs around your left brow.

There was a pause of silence, followed by the rustle of paperwork. Not nearly a sufficient response, so you gently kicked Aaron’s thigh in protest.

“Do my what?”

“Your eyebrows,” you answered, tilting your head as you inspected your reflection, trying to catch the last bit of sunlight streaming through the window. One brow was cooperating. The other looked like it had wandered off and joined a different face entirely.

“They’re not twins,” you muttered. “Barely sisters. Maybe even distant, resentful cousins.”

He made a quiet sound that might’ve been a laugh. “And what exactly are you implying about mine?”

“They could use a little TLC,” you argued lightly, leaning back to look at him over the mirror in your hand. “When was the last time you did them?”

He looked up from his files, one brow lifting—ironically. “I don’t make a habit of grooming my eyebrows.”

“Yeah…I can tell.”

That earned you the famous Hotchner scowl, though it had stopped working on you several scowls ago—right around the time you realised he was all bark and no bite. Or, at least, never with you.

Without another word, you dropped the mirror onto the coffee table and swung one leg over his, settling into his lap like it was your favourite seat…because it was. He stilled beneath you, body going just a little tense, like he wasn’t entirely sure where this was heading, but had no intention of stopping it.

“You’re not serious.”

“Deadly,” you replied, fingers already threading through the front of his hair. You tugged just enough to guide, making sure his head tipped back against the couch cushion. “Oof. Would you look at that, Hotchner, I think you’re starting to grow a monobrow.”

“And what’s wrong with that?”

“She needs to go. Quickly.” You leaned in, squinting like you were about to perform life-saving surgery and plucked a hair right from the middle of his brow before he had a chance to respond.

He flinched.

“Baby,” you teased, barely bothering to hide the laugh building in your throat. “You’re fine.”

“You’re enjoying this far too much.”

“Obviously. I’m in your lap, holding tweezers, and making you nervous. This is my peak.” Just as you plucked another hair, you felt his hands tighten slightly at your hips.

“Just be quick,” he muttered.

Yeah. There was just one small problem with that. Quick wasn’t in your plans tonight. Aaron might be the boss at work, but at home, it was you who got your way. Always had. And truthfully? You didn’t care all that much about his eyebrows. Or yours, for that matter.

You just really, really wanted to be in his lap.

You let the tweezers hover his face again as you pretended to search for another target.

“Hm…nope, that one’s got character. Can’t lose it.”

He huffed. “You’re not even trying anymore.”

“I am,” you insisted, all sickly-sweet innocence as you adjusted your grip on his shoulders, letting your fingers toy with the collar of his polo. “Just want to make sure they’re perfect.”

He cracked one eye open. “Mh-hm.”

“What? You want me to do a half-assed job? You want uneven arches, Aaron?”

“You’ve got two minutes left.”

Silly man. As if you were on his clock.

You said nothing, just hummed like the consummate professional you clearly were, smoothing out his right brow with the pad of your finger. And then—because comfort was key, obviously—you shifted. Absolutely not intentionally aligning yourself with the zipper of his jeans.

You caught the half-shaky exhale he tried to hide and decided it still didn’t feel quite right.

Goldilocks might’ve had a point.

So you adjusted again, this time with a little more pressure. For once, you were grateful for the humidity that made you choose a dress—and the skimpiest, thinnest pair of underwear you owned.

All, of course, in the name of practicality.

His hands twitched at your waist, fingers flexing like he was stuck between wanting to grip you tighter or stay neutral. (Spoiler: he was failing at staying neutral.)

“This all part of the grooming experience?”

“Me taking my time? Absolutely. You know I give a hundred percent to everything I do, baby.”

"I know, honey," he drawled. "You've called me baby twice in the last three minutes. That's usually when you want something."

You blinked. "Excuse me?"

He smiled—subtle, smug, and, annoyingly, entirely correct. Because, yes, okay, you did want something. Just... nothing that came with a price tag. This time.

"What is it?" he asked, utterly unbothered because he was synced up to you in that way that meant nothing you said, did, or asked of him could really surprise him anymore. "Vacation days? Shoes? I told you, you don't have to ask. The wallet's in the drawer."

You gave his hair another tug, guiding his head back to the couch cushions like you were placing something delicate. “You know there’s actually a government term for what you’re implying right now.”

“Yeah?”

His eyes drifted closed again, and he looked so… soft. Almost unarmoured. Breakable in the gentlest way. The tension that usually lived in his jaw, his brow, his posture—gone. Off choosing a different victim for the day.

Lit by the delicate setting sun, he looked—

Angelic.

Almost too pure for what you had planned.

Because while he was just trying to finish a stack of paperwork, you were trying to survive the throb between your legs. And your dress, as helpful as it was in theory, wasn’t offering enough friction to solve anything. So you decided to do what any self-respecting sinner would.

You were going to drag him down a little closer to your level.

Make him less divine, and a little more yours.

“Sugar baby,” you blurted, remembering you were mid-conversation and should probably at least pretend you were behaving. “That’s the term. Is that what you’re implying I am?”

He grinned.

And then he was the one to adjust—lifting his hips just as his hands pressed you down harder against him, guiding you into him.

You clamped your mouth shut, eyes fluttering as the pressure hit exactly where you needed it.

He opened his eyes then, and you did your best to keep a straight face. (Spoiler: you were the one failing this time.)

“You think I’d reduce you to that?”

You reached for the tweezers again, if only for something to do, dragging a lazy finger across his brow like you were still pretending to care about symmetry. “You did say the wallet’s in the drawer.”

“I did.” His grip tightened just enough at your waist to make your thighs instinctively clench around him, something you knew he felt. “But that’s because I’d give you anything you ever wanted without expecting anything in return.”

You pouted, feeling the buttons of his polo brush against your nipples, because, yes, humidity had also declared it a no-bra day, and yes, you were prepared to weaponize it. “So you don’t want my sugar?”

“I want all of you,” he corrected.  “Every part.”

Of course he was still angelic about it—still saying all the right things, still making it a priority to remind you of your worth, even while you were actively plotting how to make him finish in his jeans.

Rude.

But also righteous.

And still better than you deserved…which will only make this all the more satisfying.

You blinked down at him, lips parted, a slow breath pulling into your lungs as the weight of his words landed somewhere deep between your legs.

“You’re really not going to let me be shallow for five minutes, huh?” Your fingers slipped from his brow to his throat, thumb brushing his pulse just to feel how not calm he actually was.

“No,” he said simply, shaking his head. “You’re not shallow. Just a little needy.”

You hummed like that wasn’t already obvious, like the need hadn’t soaked straight through your panties and probably left a trail somewhere along your thigh by now. Still, for the sake of appearances you brought the tweezers to his brow again.

“Hold still,” you murmured, right as you bucked your hips into him.

You felt his hands slip beneath your dress, rough and warm against bare skin as they roamed—up your thigh, your lower back, your spine.

“I said hold still,” you repeated, the smile in your voice completely ruining the authority you hoped to fake.

He did the opposite.

His hands kept traveling up your back, and you dropped the tweezers altogether, your hands settling on his shoulders as you forced yourself to grind against him, feeling not just the zipper, but the outline of his hard cock, straining like a sin he hadn’t meant to commit.

“Fuck,” you breathed, the word breaking apart in your throat like glass.

Your lips latched onto the skin beneath his jaw, feeling his skittish pulse under your tongue as you sucked and smoothed over the sting. Aaron’s grip on your neck tightened—a weak, almost pathetic attempt to tame you, to reel you back in, just so he could reclaim a fraction of the control you had stolen.

“This was never about my eyebrows, was it?”

You didn’t answer. Didn’t care to. Instead, your teeth scraped lightly over the hickey you were hoping would linger, hips working against him like the truth being unveiled—not the sweet thing he thought you were, but a wicked woman who knew exactly how to get what she wanted.

“You’re not even listening,” he said again, a breathless laugh ghosting across your temple, cut off by the groan that followed when your hips met his just right. “Too busy getting yourself off.”

“Pretty and smart,” you mumbled lazily, the friction turning sharper, your clit throbbing now with every slow drag over the rough fabric of his pants.

His hands slipped under the neckline of your dress, tugging the top down with the sort of confidence that didn’t match his frantic breathing or the way his hips were stuttering into yours.

You pulled back from the crook of his neck, only because now it was his turn.

Aaron’s eyes dropped, and for a moment, he just stared like he couldn’t decide where to put his hands. Then he leaned in, mouth closing around your nipple, lips warm, tongue flicking once, then again, until you gasped and arched into him.

You were close. So close. Though truthfully, most of the build-up hadn’t been physical—it was all mental. The way he looked at you, like you were something delicate, something good. In the way he still hadn’t figured it out, even when you’d pranced past him with the tweezers and the mirror, settling beside him on the couch, legs draped up, spreading just enough to make sure he saw exactly what was on offer.

You could’ve asked. Told him exactly what you wanted and he would’ve done it in a heartbeat. You knew that. He loved to take care of you. He always had.

But where was the thrill in asking, when it was so much sweeter to watch him give in?

And you began to pick up on just that.

The way his breath caught against your nipple, the scrape of his teeth getting less careful.

The way his hands clutched tighter at every piece of skin he could reach. The way he started meeting your hips with his own. Slow at first, then harder, like this had been his idea to begin with.

You kept moving and so did he, the friction messy and desperate between you. His head dropped forward, breath stuttering out against your collarbone, his hands squeezing your waist.

Then his hips jerked up into yours, your name falling from his lips in a voice he almost never used. His body tensed one last time, and then you felt it—the heat flooding between you, a groan torn from his throat as he came.

Your greed had been satisfied.

And with one more roll of your hips—feeling his release spread beneath you, mixing with your own slickness—that was all it took to tip you over the edge. Your body locked down, fingers digging into his shoulders as your orgasm hit, splintering and all-consuming.

You didn’t move from him immediately, hands now toying with the collar of his polo as you caught your breath.

“Happy?” he mumbled against your skin, voice still rough around the edges.

You lifted your head, the curve of your smile slow and smug. “Very.”

You expected him to stay soft beneath you—to let you linger, revel in the mess you’d made of him.

But instead, his hands slid to your hips again, and before you could react, he was lifting you off his lap in one fluid motion, placing you down in his seat as he stood over you.

Your legs dangled off the edge, dress still bunched around your waist, thighs glistening with wetness. You pushed yourself up slightly, elbows braced behind you for balance, about to ask what he was doing, pausing just long enough to admire the wet patch on his jeans.

But your confusion melted into a shit-eating grin as you watched him lower himself to his knees in front of you. Though something told you that whatever he was about to do wouldn’t be for your sake, but for his.

And that control you were so desperate to keep?

It was practically nonexistent now—crumbling at a breathtaking pace, resting in the same hands that were sliding your soaked panties down your thighs.

tags - @fandomscombine @pastelpinkflowerlife @hazzyking @bernelflo @risenqueen1521 @jazzimac1967 @camihotchner @abschaffer2 @ill-be-okay-soon-enough @pacmillo-blog-blog @stilestotherescue @kiwriteswords @anvdala @supersanelyromantic @yourallaround-simp @percysley

[redcherrykook]

──── ๋࣭ ⭑ one time for the present ! ( a & s )

‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿

↳ part of 𝓦𝓗𝓘𝓢𝓚𝓔𝓨 ꩜ .ᐟ

❝ [ husband!Jungkoook universe] ¡! ❞

✎ summary: angry sex with your possessive husband. spanking, lil degradation (slut, cockslut, whore) , possessive!Jungkook, dacryphilia, marking, rough sex, THIS IS TOXIC YES OK. hand restraints with belt, aftercare

note from cherry: #needthat again ughhhh. i managed to write again, i hate not being able to live out my passion, burnout is real

‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿

Jealousy is an ugly emotion.

It seeps through the cracks of your secure attachment, stains it the rotten red color of anger- makes your blood run cold, your warm fingers itch for destruction. Become weapons that scratch upon the surface of your moisturized skin, open a space for your veins to release their contents.

But jealousy does not last forever.

Catching the reflection of your golden wedding ring- the bond you swore to take to your grave on the happiest day you have ever- will ever have, just its small glimmer, proceeded by the streaks of leaving gentle kisses of reassurance on it, that is sufficient to wash away the sin. Regain control of your mind- exhale, if you will.

Sometimes you wish jungkook would be jealous,

"You´re not moving until i say so" you yelp quietly at his growl, knowing the bruises on your knees are here to say once they push into the hardwood below, your chest presses straight into the side of the bed. Morals fade into the same hues of purple that surface your skin in agonizing slowness. Ruthlessly, your husband hikes up your black mini skirt, exposing the back of your thighs to his narrowed gaze,

"Fucking slut, you´re pussy´s drippin´ love pissing me off? Gets you nice and wet for cock?" he presses four of his finger flat against your cunt, roughly sliding them against the soaked cotton.

While it may seem like he is, the thing that surges his anger, makes him tick like a flicker held up to gasoline- that, it reached far too deep to be jealousy. Grabbed his heart in a caged hold no one has seen the key of, digging its daggers into every blood vessel, seeking control.

You belong to jungkook. The seams that neatly attach your every fiber to his soul, they´re tight. Unbreakable, nonetheless, he could feel them burst whenever someone else- someone without his approval, took it to themselves to linger a hand on you, friendly or not, it wasn´t theirs to touch. No one should know what your skin feels like under their fingertips, how the smooth feel compliments the gentle vanilla scent radiating from it.

"aah- please i´m sorry baby" you whine, biting an imprint of your teeth into your swollen lower lip as he spanks your sensitive skin, hooks his fingers into the lace to reveal your seashell to him, before spanking the glistening delicate vulnerability between your thighs again, twice more. The slap vibrates on your clit, thrums you with joys of poisonous excitement, the same vile wrongness that strains jungkook´s cock against his black jeans, makes his pulse quicken.

"You´re gonna be sorry baby, this body´s mine, pussy´s all mine" he gropes at you reddened cheeks with his calloused palms. Stretches and kneads the flesh as if to ground himself in your body, cement himself into every exposed patch of you- you hear him scoff, the droplet of slick tumbling between your thighs must´ve caught his attention. Jungkook´s grunts, the rough sound of leather being messed with fills up your ears- he´s taking his belt off.

"Gonna make sure you can do nothing but take how i´m gonna fuck every last drop into you, make you remember who the fuck you belong to, understand?" his words slip through gritted teeth, you become so small under his dominating presence, nod meekly at his request because the idea is simply so arousing that the attempt of talking back dies down in your throat- squeezed tightly by the utter obedience you need to give him.

Your husband tugs both your arms behind your back, holding your smaller wrists into his hand, the tension in your shoulders makes you whimper quietly "Words, need to know you´re still with me" he says, momentairly sobering up from his drunken focus, "understand" you say in that weak, submissive voice of yours - and it´s all he needs to slip back in.

Your femininely manicured hands fling into the tight enclosure of his black leather belt, wrapped tightly around the skin, far, far beyond the last punched hole. He knotted it twice, making sure it sits without a chance to budge. Twisted pleasure of your masochistic tendencies and the guilt of his actions mix with the way you seem to moan at the sensation of the smooth material restarining you. He pulls once, testing to see your shoulder blades flex, how the curve of your back gets dragged into him erotically while your hardened nipples rub against the bed.

A sight for him, him only, he thinks to himself. Truth- nasty, unrelenting truth be told, the absolute power he felt over your- his wifes- vulnerable, bruised body, knowing it was laid out in his palm to make you shiver, make you cum over and over again, sprinkle your dew of love to your promised lover- it was what he needed. Physically, mentally, Jungkook craved to possess you. Set reminders over and over again that it was soley him, the sound of his growly honey voice, the shape of his heavy cock, moulding your walls to take every thick inch- him, that could make you feel like this.

"Jungkook, s´too tight" you mumble, snapping him out of his thoughts. He reciprocates with a cocky laugh, rubbing his digits along your exposed cunt, zeroing to your wet panties clinging around your unstable knees, "Too bad, you´re little slut though, I´m sure you can take it can´t you?" he awaits your answer, pumping his stiff and leaking cock right behind your dripping entrance, the lewd noise makes you whimper, wishing you could see how good he looks with his length in his hand. "Can take it for you, only you"

Just as the last syllable leaves your mouth, he shoves his entire girth into you, wastes no time by pulling you back into him by the belt, forces you to meet the loud slaps of his pelvis connecting to you. Your husband isn´t oblivious to your manipulative undertone, giving in to what he desired to hear- you´re his. He had to show it to you again, plunge it into your system with the present of an overwhelming orgasm but- what use would it be if you knew you belonged to him? He knew, cat and mouse- you test his limits to run away, have him chase you, find punishment in the corners of mind that he´d rather lock away- keep hidden to contain the urges to a minimum. He knew you push him: just to get pushed back twice as hard.

His thrust start deep, harshly burying himself into your tightness- the warmth engulfs his senses recklessly. His narrowed eyes roll back in an instant- the pornographically beautiful sight of your arch, plump red flesh of your ass meeting his hips is alluring as much as it infuriates him- he wishes to drink in every glimpse of your body- watch his soaked cock disappear into your stretched hole- but his eyes are occupied with your spine- your bound wrists scraping the leather, your waist- he´s obsessed with the every fraction of your revealed body- with you. It belongs to him, he chants in his head- mine,mine,mine.

"Feels so good- you´re so big kook- so good to me" you stumble out, sinfully engaging in his controlling ego that longs for your praise- "Yeah? Am fucking my tight- shiit- tiny pussy so well"

It evoked something raw in him earlier that night- when your coworker Jaehyun rested a friendly arm on your lower back as you passed a group of people, your eyes instantly found your husbands. He send you a knowing glare- the line has been crossed, there was no need for a yellow card, a warning anymore. Deciding if it already came this far- you should push his buttons further. Dive deeper into the punishment you´d have to face under the tangle of your marridal sheets. The dice has been rolled. Turn to Jaehyun, smile- thank him. Almost innocently, but Jungkook knew better. Turn back to meet your husbands gaze again, find him clenching his jaw, just what you wanted. Just what had led you here- back hurting, covered in sweat that represents his utter force, driven by the very thing he tries to lock away- tries to stop from coloring his heart deep red.

"Oh fuck kook- s´too deep" you cry out desperately, a tingling burn spreads over your exhausted shoulders, dripping down the pebbled buds that furiously rub against the bed, travels down your ribs, reaches the throb of your untouched clit. Jungkook´s cock dips into you, bottoming his fat tip out before pushing all the way back in- meeting your spongey g-spot with vigour, pushes and pushes- your throat burns with the restless moans that pool out alongside your spit, decorating the corner of your mouth.

"You´re such a whore, look at you whining over your husbands cock- fuck baby, let another man touch you- he could never make you feel like this- ´could never fill your cunt like I can" The current of his anger releases into you as he leans his torso forward- connects the hard lines of his abdomen to your breakable bound arms, it crashes over you like a wave so all consuming you can´t help but want to drown in it- lose your breath to the sting of his teeth digging into your shoulder, "belong to me, tell me, you´re mine. fucking mine every inch" he commands, groans loudly as he sucks another array of purple hues into your body, his wedding ring adorned hand clasps around your strained throat, tilting your parted mouth up to be able to listen to the words sloppily roll off your tongue- "You- belong to you Jungkook- haa-ah, fuckin´ yours baby" The hint of desperation in your helpless devotion makes him bite down into your soft skin once more- he reverts back to his original position, pumps himself into your abused cunt, hands flinging to your hips, delivers another harsh slap to your cheek- ounces of his frustration flow to his head, overtake his ability to remain in control of how he fucks you, feeds every drop of his feelings for you to swallow "thaat´s right, my fuckin´ cockslut, mine- he could never fuck you like this- shiit look at those bruises baby"

Although your vision doesn´t reach the depths of your marked skin, it is impossible to dismiss the burn, the shake of your thighs giving out underneath you- the sting of his overflowing love rooted into your shoulder with his finalization of a bite imprint- you´re bounded- behind your back by your hands, by his suffocating personality that you willingly indulge in because there is no reassurance much like the awareness of being owned- held captive by a beautifully fucked up, deep red heart, one that compliments your longing to be kept treaure forever.

"Hold it f´m you hear me? you´re not coming yet" you drop your head against the bed, unable to hold up the tension any longer but it still runs down your spine- not for long, Jungkook´s hand grasps a fistful of your messy hair into his hand, yanks you back to curve into him deeper- "shiiit baby, yeah- you´re so fuckin´ good for your husband" he growls, spiraling at the softest sniffles that he barely manages to notice between loud whines of his name- but he does, somehow increases the pace of his hips pistoning into you from behind, slaps his tight balls against your swollen clit- more, deeper- he throbs and throbs, feels your walls sucking him in so fucking well because you´re clinging at the scraps of being good for him- "Jungkook fuck- please, please" you beg and the slight crack in your tearful sweetness makes him snap, he´s weak at the bottom of his knees- realizing that you have him wrapped around your finger, dignity tied to your tears, your voice, your body and fuck; every plea. "Come with me baby, so good, my fuckin´ wife, my good little slut"

There´s not much that fades into your now purified wishes, compareable to your vision spotting at the intensity of your own tantalizing orgasm, synced with your husband pulsating length that paints your walls white- hips stuttering with a prolonged groan- the remainders of your foolish plan wash away, carried by the previous roaring of his pleasure, returned to the peaceful tide- disguised as Jungkook´s hands untying the belt, his strong arms sneaking around your stiff torso.

"Ssh baby, m´here" he whispers, drawing soothing circles on the gentle softness of your stomach, his swollen lips kiss apologies into your neck, painting over the colored bruises he left in his hunger.

"I love you baby, i love you so much" the words set you down in his loving, graceful hold, he flips you around, kisses your tear stained cheeks- lifts you to bed and cradles your head to his chest- fingers massaging into the spot where he pulled you closer with rage and lust. His pure white heart aches at the scraped, red skin that lines your wrists- the leather had cut into it a bit. "Oh god sugar, i- i shouldn´t have done it so fastened, does it hurt a lot? do you wanna slap me?" he asks- seriously so with those doe eyes that swell in affection- you smile lazily, kiss his cheek as a silent acceptance of his equally silent apology. "Don´t be silly, it´s okay baby" you say, nuzzling into the wet skin of his tired neck, "I love you"

"I love you more sugar. Can i see your butt? wanna make sure it´s okay" you giggle, turn around obediently and he lets out a miniature sigh of relief.

"looks good" he says, softly grazing the aroused skin with his knuckles,

"thank you" you chuckle, rubbing your nose to the flattened tip of his own, he smiles, leans in to kiss you- sealing once again, you belong together.

[andivmg]

My experience with Luke (Punz)

CW: toxic relationship, racism, dubious consent

I know in the past i said that i would no longer speak about him publicly, and when talking about my experiences with abuse and emotional mistreatment i begged to keep it anonymous but after reflecting on this for a week and seeing so many incredibly smart and strong women tell their stories. they have given me the strength to say his name.

this is really scary to talk about because of the copious levels of harassment i have received from his fans in the past so if this spreads or gets out of hand i will simply log off.

If you read my last post, i nicknamed him 1.

So aside from everything i said there, there were a lot of things i didn’t include because they would’ve made it obvious that it was him and it could potentially backfire on me so, i’m very afraid to post this. but i’m going to do it scared anyway, because it’s not fair that he gets to just go and live his life worry-free as if he didn’t practically ruin mine.

Because I already made a very lengthy post about him, i won’t include everything i said last time to avoid being redundant but if i repeat myself, please bear with me.

In our year long relationship i had to endure emotional neglect, gaslighting, verbal abuse, one instance where there was dubious consent, and much more.

Starting off at the beginning of our relationship, that’s when i was getting copious amounts of hate and harassment from his fan base (warranted or not), he decided that our relationship must be kept private. he said it was to “protect” me from his fanbase when in reality it was to protect himself. it was so he wouldn’t get all the backlash i was getting. this is funny because one of the things i got called out for was saying the B slur (derogatory term used against mexicans/latinos). I won’t get into the nuances of if i could say it or not as a puertorican because that’s discourse that does not pertain to this specific situation. But you know who definitely can’t say it? A white boy from Massachusetts. When i was getting cancelled for this and getting thousands of tweets calling me names, he decided that was the perfect time to say “I mean you are a b***** aren’t you? my little b*****.” Now, he said this completely unprompted. I was in the process of writing my apology and he just said that. I tell you this because i immediately shut him down and told him that there was no universe in which it was okay for him to say that word and especially not one where he could just call me that. While i was reprimanding him, he was smiling and laughing. he apparently found it amusing to call me a slur. regardless, he gave me a half-assed apology and said he wouldn’t do it again. and he didn’t. but this wasn’t the only time he was weirdly racist to me. this was my first time being in an interracial relationship so i was led to believe that this was normal by all the white people around me at the time. But, sometimes my spanish accent would come out and he would make fun of me and the way i pronounced some words. He also refused to visit me in Puerto Rico when i lived there or come meet my family when i really wanted him to because he “didn’t like the heat” or “it’s dangerous there isn’t it?”. Once, while we were watching season 2 of Bridgerton, he implied that the Sharma sisters were “too dark” for him to be attracted to them. This hurt me because they are brown skinned girls. I am a brown skinned girl. Then this, combined with the fact that he told me once he wasn’t attracted to me made me feel like my skin color was unattractive. These are only a few examples i can think of at the moment, but i’m sure there were more. Our relationship ended in 2022 so some of my memory is a bit hazy. But, I do remember feeling inferior to him throughout the relationship because he was white and I was not. I chalk that up to all the micro aggressions i had to deal with because i had never felt that way around white people before.

Another thing i had to endure was him constantly making me feel like he was embarrassed to be with me. Because i was cancelled, he didn’t want to associate with me too much. He did defend me on multiple occasions, I’ll give him that. But, he only did it because his name was getting dragged in the mud along with mine. Excusing my actions made him look better for being around me. In reality he didn’t really care. Because he was such a big content creator and someone i looked up to professionally, I took his advice as law. He told me to tone down my personality, to keep a low profile, to change things about myself to be more palatable to his audience. The same audience that spoke about me like “The pussy can’t be that good punz please stop defending her”. So i changed a lot of things about myself and my content to better suit what his audience liked. He made me feel like if his audience liked me, he would be public about our relationship and stop hiding it. He told me the reason why he wanted to keep our relationship a secret was because he didn’t want to get hate for it. But this wasn’t true. On my 20th birthday he went to Las Vegas for a twitch rivals event. That night i asked to facetime him to say goodnight and he refused because he was at a hotel room with his friends and he didn’t want them to know that we were together. It was as if my mere presence or the utterance of my name was a source of embarrassment for him. And he didn’t let me forget it. It wasn’t just a public thing at that point. He didn’t want people to know we were together, period. This was devastating to me because I would talk to all my friends about him. I was so proud to be with him and I was just one more problem to him. He made me feel so small and insignificant just because his fans didn’t like me.

He would berate me a lot. Not just due to getting heat online, although he did do that a lot. But in general whenever we would get into an argument or a disagreement he would always call me names like annoying or weird or stupid. He would raise his voice at me if i did something he didn’t like and call me an idiot. And that really hurt, i felt like i couldn’t bring up anything or do anything without getting insulted. If I hadn’t seen him in a few days because he was too busy streaming and i asked to hang out he would call me needy, clingy, and annoying. Granted, he might not have been wrong, but that is not something you say to someone you claim to love. He also insulted me when i was in depressive episodes. I have BPD and at the time i was not being treated properly for it. So, I was all over the place emotionally and he was what i clung to for validation, reassurance, and love. I talked to him when we first started dating about my disorder and told him that if it seemed like something he couldn’t handle that he could opt out of the relationship. I guess he didn’t think it was that bad or something idk because whenever i had really bad depressive episodes, he would tell me I was too sad to hang out with. He said that my sadness was a burden to him. Which would be fair. But, once my mother had a conversation with him about me. She told him that i am someone who needs a lot of love and caring. She said that if he wasn’t willing to put in that kind of effort into a relationship to just leave me alone. He reassured her that he would be there for me no matter what. He told my mother that he would protect me and my heart. He did not. He took all the warnings I gave him and ignored them and then made me feel like I was the problem. And even worse, he would say that i was pretending to be sad to get his attention when he would neglect for days at a time.

There were also some smaller things like the fact that he made me feel really guilty whenever he would spend money on me. Also, he would be really mean about my eating habits. For context, i used to suffer from an eating disorder. I was anorexic and had a really unhealthy relationship with food during high school and my first year of uni. This relationship began when i was recovering from my ED. For me, eating was really hard. So i had certain comfort foods that, while sometimes unhealthy, at least it was something to eat when i didn’t feel like eating anything. He knew this. Yet, whenever i would crave some of these foods he would call me fat. Constantly told me I’d gain weight from eating all that junk food. Saying that to someone with an eating disorder is crazy. Other smaller things were that whenever I would post tiktoks where i was lip syncing or just looking good he would yell at me and say i was looking for attention. Same with Instagram or Twitter whenever i would post photos where I looked hot. He never planned out a single date for us. I would beg him to get me flowers and he did maybe once but i’ll get into that in a bit. He would make fun of me in front of his friends to make himself look better. He let his friends say really degrading things about me in his presence. For example, once when i was showering, i overheard him on a discord call with George and Sapnap and i heard George say “if you don’t go in the shower and have sex with Andi, i will”. Once, when i was really struggling with my legs (for those of you who don’t know, i have arthritis and it’s very painful. at the time i wasn’t diagnosed but i was in a lot of pain) I literally could not walk. I had to beg him to take me to the ER because i didn’t know what was wrong with me. He didn’t want to take me but eventually i convinced him, and while we were there all he did was complain about how long it was taking and that he would have rather been at home streaming. Whenever I would talk about my interests that i was excited about like shows or books he would be incredibly uninterested and say that those things were stupid and he didn’t want to hear about them. I know all of these seem very silly or superficial but cumulatively it was awful.

Now for arguably the most serious thing i’m going to talk about. I want to preface this by saying i am just telling my side of what happened. You can come to your own conclusions about this.

On April 25, 2022 it was our one year anniversary, and i had made a dinner reservation for us. I expected him to plan something throughout the day for us to do. He told me he was going to spend the whole day playing Valorant so I got upset and cancelled the reservation. After a very heated argument, we calmed down and i asked him to come over. He came over about an hour later with flowers and drinks (I was 20 at the time so I couldn’t buy the drinks myself). He brought Smirnoffs and Trulys. For context, I am a lightweight. I always have been. I literally get tipsy on half a cocktail. And that day, I hadn’t eaten anything because i was in distress over our argument. So we get to talking and drinking. I blacked out after my second Smirnoff. Apparently I drank 3 but I genuinely cannot remember anything after finishing the second one. The next morning i woke up naked in my bed. I woke him up and asked him “Luke, why am I naked?” and he said “Because you didn’t want to put your clothes back on.” When I clarified to him that that was not what I meant, he got defensive and said that he didn’t realize how drunk I was. He proceeded to tell me that I initiated sex with him and that i was very enthusiastic about it. He said he didn’t know i could black out on three smirnoffs. He made fun of me for being a lightweight and continued to make light of the situation. Then he mentioned that i fell off the bed at some point in the night and that it was funny how drunk I was. I then questioned him. Because if he thought that me tripping and falling off the bed because i was so drunk was funny, how did he not know that i was too drunk? He responded by saying that i fell off the bed only after we were done. That day I broke up with him. I’m still really confused about what happened that night. I don’t remember anything and all I have to go on is what he said to me. We were in a relationship at the time and he says he didn’t know how drunk I was so I’m not sure what to call what happened. A while after that day, his friend that hmu while we were broken up and I started talking again and i confided in him about that night. He told me to be careful saying things like that because they could get me into trouble. I spoke to some of our other friends about it and they told me it was no big deal and that it wasn’t his fault that he didn’t know how drunk I really was. Because I don’t remember, I have been led to believe that this is not a serious matter. You can think what you want, come to whatever conclusions you want. That is just my side of the story.

I want to add that I’m not proud of how I acted after the relationship ended. I felt really angry at all the shit he put me through and I guess a part of me wanted him to hurt even a quarter of how I did. So I started talking to his friend and got involved with him. This backfired on me because his friend ended up really hurting me too so ig i got my karma. But the thing that hurt the most is that because of what I did, some of our friends took his side in the break up. I was told that I did something terrible by getting involved with his friend that he was already insecure about and that he didn’t deserve that. These are the same friends who were witness to the dumpster fire of a relationship we had and all the things he did to me. They turned their backs on me because of this one thing I did. But stood by and watched as he treated me like garbage for over a year.

I will conclude this by saying that while this relationship has been “over and done with” for almost two years now, I carry a lot of trauma from it still. I still talk about him in therapy and have had to put in a lot of work to heal from what he did and i still cannot say that i am okay. I am very blessed to now have a patient and understanding partner who has helped me heal from that trauma and i just want to quickly thank him for that. Nobody deserves to go through what I did. While yes, it was a toxic relationship, and I had a part in that, it does not excuse all the awful things he said and did to me. This is my truth, thank you for taking the time to read it.

[fairyminnie444]

understanding your EGO so you don't let it hold you back anymore 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔

The logical part of your brain that insists that your circumstances make manifestation impossible is simply your ego trying to protect you from disappointment or the unknown. Here’s how to deal with it and redirect your thoughts:

1. Understand the Function of the Ego

• The ego is not your enemy; it tries to keep you “safe” within what you already know.

However, it does not understand the unlimited power of imagination or the truth that you create your reality.

• Thank it for its concern, but remind yourself: “I am more than my circumstances. My beliefs shape my world.”

2. Reinforce the Idea That Circumstances Don’t Matter

• Circumstances are merely reflections of your inner state. They have no power of their own unless you give them power.

• Repeat to yourself:

• “My circumstances do not determine what I can manifest.”

• “The impossible to logic is inevitable to my power.”

• “I am the creator of my reality. My desire is already is mine.”

3. Use Logic to Your Advantage

• Even science supports the idea that our thoughts and beliefs influence our reality (neuroplasticity, law of attraction, quantum physics).

• Tell yourself, “If I can imagine it, I can create it. The physical world responds to my imagination.”

4. Treat Logic as a Passing Thought

• When logical thoughts appear, observe them as if you were watching clouds in the sky.

• Think, “Oh, there’s my logical mind trying to take over again. That’s fine, but I choose to believe in my vision.”

5. Practice Faith in Imagination

• Affirm, “My imagination is more real than 3D. 3D always follows my 4D.”

• Remember: if you persist in imagination, 3D will inevitably adjust to reflect that.

6. Challenge Limiting Beliefs

• Ask yourself, “Where does the idea that this is impossible come from?”

• Most limiting beliefs are learned over a lifetime and can be unlearned.

• Replace beliefs like “This is unrealistic” with “My imagination creates my reality.”

7. Embrace the Discomfort of the New

• It’s normal for your brain to resist the unfamiliar. See this as a sign that you’re growing.

• Tell yourself, “It’s uncomfortable right now because I���m becoming a bigger and better person.”

Logic tries to keep you in familiar patterns, but your imagination is more powerful. Whenever logic tells you it’s impossible, remind yourself that circumstances don’t matter, and that 3D is just a temporary reflection of what you believe. Persistence in your desired state is all that matters!

[celibibratty]

i thought reddit were more down to earth, no!, this is not being down to earth, they are just rude...just rude!/jerks!, it-was-only-supposed-to-be a text saying that the pak mei form should have on Nintendo switch.........i have a fucking fuss/fighting magnet for some fuckin reason on this shit💢🔥 anything I say on this shit site appears a bunch of motherfuckers to disagree or complain about something, trying to be the known at alls, don't mess with me, that i don't mess with you, if you gonna bite/come to me with bad heart shitty comments, i will bite you too(and i will bite HARD), don't try me, i not in my best state of spirit🔥💢, you so coward and dumbass that you need a bunch dumbass homies like you to defend your shitty behaviour/comments so you feel right/in power, whata hell, i just do/write things on my own little way if don't like/don't have patient to read it, FUCK YOU!, so you not the person to read this, it makes me feel sad how such a cool game like sifu attract such motherfuckers(come on ana i already know/notice that since the moment that the game released (february 2022), don't get so surprised, gamers/fight game community is shitty), stop, stop, stop with this, i used to thought the same thing with lis2 on 2020/weird diazcest and extremist anti phase, i shouldn't take this things from heart, shitty people will always exist on things that you like(it's not the things fault, don't blame them, Ana)

[novaursa]

A Flame All Her Own

- Summary: Caraxes always knows how to snatch all your attention for himself. Which leaves Daemon jealous of his own dragon. 

- Pairing: sister!reader/Daemon Targaryen

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Next part: the bold and the beautiful

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

The morning air is thick with the salt of the Narrow Sea as you stand by the cliff edge, Caraxes sprawled before you, his great, sinuous body stretched luxuriously along the rocks. His scales glisten, the deep crimson reflecting in the morning sun as his slitted eyes, always watchful, follow your every movement. The dragon’s head rests lazily beside you, large enough that one of his breaths could likely knock you off your feet, yet gentle as he huffs softly, nuzzling your hand as you scratch just beneath his horned jaw.

“You’re spoiling him,” comes Daemon’s voice from behind, laced with a tone that’s both disapproving and… sulking? You smirk without turning around, knowing full well what that look on his face must be: arms crossed, brow slightly furrowed, mouth drawn into that familiar pout that’s often mistaken for mere arrogance but, today, has a hint of jealousy.

“Am I?” you respond, your voice light with feigned innocence as you continue to scratch Caraxes. The dragon rumbles in pleasure, tilting his head like a hound angling for more affection. You can feel Daemon’s eyes drilling into your back, but you don’t let up, laughing softly as Caraxes leans closer, nearly knocking you sideways in his enthusiasm.

“Yes, you are,” Daemon steps closer, his dark cloak billowing slightly as he stands beside you, looking down at his dragon with mild disdain. “He’ll be insufferable now, demanding pets and scratches like some slobbering mutt.”

“Oh, you’re one to talk,” you tease, glancing at Daemon. “You’re as spoiled as Caraxes is.”

Daemon’s eyes narrow at the comparison, though a glimmer of amusement tugs at the corners of his mouth. “Spoiled, am I?”

Caraxes’s head shifts, his large, amber eyes drifting from you to his rider as if sensing Daemon’s displeasure. He rumbles again, a deep sound that vibrates the rock beneath your feet, and Daemon gives his dragon a flat look.

“Not you too, you great overgrown lizard,” Daemon mutters. “I am your rider, remember? Mine, not hers.”

Caraxes blinks slowly, looking almost unimpressed. You swear, for a brief moment, that the dragon’s gaze shifts back to you with what could only be called affection. It’s as if he’s saying, “Oh, but she’s my favorite.” You can’t help but laugh at Daemon’s expression.

“I think he’s simply decided that I give better scratches,” you say, grinning.

Daemon arches a brow, eyes glinting with a mixture of challenge and feigned affront. “Is that so?” He steps closer, nudging you out of the way so he can place a hand on Caraxes’s scales, patting his dragon’s neck with exaggerated enthusiasm. “You like me, don’t you, boy?” he asks, scratching roughly—too roughly, if Caraxes’s sudden flick of his tail and indignant huff are anything to go by.

“See?” you laugh, folding your arms as you watch with a smirk. “Gentleness, Daemon. Perhaps Caraxes prefers a softer touch.”

Daemon looks at you with a pointed glare. “Are you suggesting I’m not gentle?”

“Oh, Daemon, of course not,” you reply, lips twitching as you fight a smile. “You’re a Targaryen knight in shining armor.”

“Knight, indeed,” Daemon snorts, but there’s a glimmer of mirth in his eyes as he takes your bait. He shifts closer, one arm snaking around your waist, pulling you to him with a quick, possessive motion that sends a thrill down your spine. “Tell me, then. Should I be jealous of my own dragon? Or are you so starved for attention that you’ll take affection where you can get it?”

His words are laced with mock offense, but his hand holds you firmly, his thumb brushing against your waist in a way that belies his teasing tone.

“Jealous?” You raise a brow, feigning surprise. “Of Caraxes?”

He leans closer, voice dropping to a murmur. “Perhaps I ought to start breathing fire to gain your favor, then.”

You tilt your head, amused by the thought. “Imagine how well that would go at court,” you muse. “The Rogue Prince, reduced to petty flames for his sister’s affection.”

Daemon chuckles, the sound warm and rumbling, yet his hand on your waist tightens. “I’d reduce more than just my pride to flames if it meant keeping your attention on me.”

Caraxes huffs suddenly, a low rumble that sounds suspiciously like laughter, if a dragon could laugh. He lowers his head to nose at your shoulder, nudging Daemon’s hand away in the process as if to say, “She’s mine, actually.” You burst out laughing, leaning into Caraxes’s scaled cheek, feeling the warmth radiate from his skin.

“Seems like he’s made his choice,” you say with a sly smile, watching Daemon’s face flicker between exasperation and humor.

“Oh, has he?” Daemon drawls, arching a brow as he watches you and Caraxes, clearly unimpressed. “Well, perhaps I should be jealous, then. I might have to fight him for your favor.”

You laugh, raising a hand to smooth over Daemon’s arm. “Poor Daemon,” you tease, your tone laced with affection. “Unseated by your own dragon.”

He rolls his eyes, though the warmth in his gaze softens his expression. “If Caraxes intends to keep you for himself, he should remember who his true rider is.”

Caraxes turns his head slightly, eyeing Daemon with a look that, impossibly, feels smug. You laugh again, patting the dragon’s neck in reassurance. “Don’t worry, Caraxes. There’s room enough for both of you.”

Daemon grunts, slipping an arm around your shoulders, drawing you closer as he casts a sidelong glance at Caraxes. “You’re lucky I tolerate you, you red menace,” he mutters, though the fondness in his voice is unmistakable.

The dragon lets out a huff, almost as if he’s rolling his eyes, and settles his head back down, clearly satisfied with his small victory. And as you lean into Daemon’s side, his arm wrapped securely around you, you catch the slight smile on his lips. For all his talk, the Rogue Prince is more than happy to share your affections—even if it means indulging in a rivalry with his own dragon.

[daryltwdixon]

this is my fic for @pedgito's Spring Fever writing challenge with these prompts: Slasher, Camp, & Sensory Deprivation (sorry, took camp pretty loosely here)

|| nsfw 18+, DDDNE, DARK!JOEL, slasher!joel, cnc!!! dubious consent!!! if it aint for you scroll tf on by!!! stalker vibes, fingering, sensory deprivation, fear play, mask kink, predator/prey, forced orgasm || a/n: alright fam I was gonna wait to post this but that anon this morning pmo. sooooo enjoy!!! the pic of joel is mine I took from the game. this fic is not for everyone!! heeeeed the warningsssss

You’ve never known darkness like this.

A darkness so thick, so absolute. There was no moon, no stars, no relief from the smothering, blinding darkness. It was just…black. The kind that makes your head swim, makes your ears strain for sounds that aren’t there. Or ones that are. You don’t know what’s worse.

You’ve been running for what feels like forever.

Your lungs burn, your legs are lead, each step feeling heavier than the last. The underbrush fights against you like mangled hands—branches clawing at the flesh of your arms, brambles catching on the exposed skin of your thighs. The uneven ground is a cruel thing, tripping you up again and again, sending you crashing into tree trunks, the bark scraping into your palms as you barely catch yourself before hitting the dirt.

But you don’t stop.

Because something or someone is behind you.

You don’t know how far. You don’t know how close. But the sound of it has been chasing you, steady and relentless—the snap of branches, the dull thud of heavy footsteps somewhere just out of reach.

You’ve completely lost track of time. Your one and only source of light was left behind what feels like a lifetime but was only a matter of days ago. There was simply no time to think of your flashlight back in your tent when you had to run. But you don’t know how long it’s been since then. Everything past survival has blurred together.

You don’t know where you are.

But you have to stop.

You have to stop.

You won’t make it much farther if you don’t. Your legs are giving out beneath you, every step turning into a stumble, every breath dragging too hard, too deep, too loud. Your hands shake as you catch yourself crashing down between the thick, twisted roots of a tree, ignoring the ache in your knees, the sharp edges of the bark biting into your spine as you press yourself against it.

It’s quiet now.

The first real silence you’ve had in hours. Maybe it’s over. Maybe you ran far enough.

You think of your only saving grace, stashed deep in your pocket, and you dig your fingers past fabric and grit, searching for the thin slip of cardboard. When you finally pinch the matchbook between your fingers, pulling it from the confines of your shorts, you blindly flick it open. Your hands are clumsy, stiff and shaking.

Five matches left.

You hesitate. It’s not safe here, but the dark is worse. You can’t even see your hands in front of you. Can’t see anything. It’s like your eyes are stretching, playing tricks on you as they try to pull something—anything—out of the blackness.

You pull out a match, feel for the strip, and strike it fast.

The spark flares bright, too bright, your pupils contracting hard. The flame wavers between your fingers, small and flickering, but enough to push the dark back. Enough to let you see—

Movement.

No. Not movement. Reflection.

A quick, sharp gleam across the clearing. Faint, almost nothing, but there. Something smooth catching the light and throwing it back at you in a thin, distorted line.

You squint, trying to make sense of it. Not water, but almost like glass—warped, uneven.

Then you see it. A round, fogged-over lens, slightly misshapen, reflecting the weak glow of the match. Another next to it. Not eyes, but something meant to mimic them.

And metal. A hard, curved surface, dark but slick enough to catch the light, the shape of it unmistakable now.

A gas mask.

Your stomach turns violently, bile rising in your throat.

The figure doesn’t move—if it even is a person, you can’t be sure. The lenses catch the weak light, blank and unblinking. It could be a trick of the dark, your eyes playing games with the shapes between the trees. You feel like you can hardly trust them anymore.

Your match goes out.

Your breath catches, sitting too high in your chest, refusing to move. Reaching for another match, your fingers stiff, you fumble for another. Four left. 

You strike it fast. The flame bursts to life, searing bright for just a second—just long enough for you to see—

Nothing.

No reflection. No mask. No shape standing where it had been before.

But the night is no longer still. And beyond anything else, you know for certain that you are no longer alone in the darkness.

There’s something else now, shifting in the brush, the dry snap of twigs underfoot. Not the wind or an animal. The sound is deliberate, heavy in a way that makes your skin crawl. You push yourself back into the tree, feeling the rough bark dig in, grounding yourself in pain, in something real. Your eyes dart, straining past the reach of the weak light, desperate to find what you know is there.

You hear him before you see him.

"Hey, kiddo."

Something presses against your face before you can scream. Cloth, warm from body heat. Your hands shoot up too late, fingers grasping uselessly at a grip too strong. The scent floods in fast, thick and sickly sweet, curling through your lungs as you gasp.

The match drops from your fingers, the light immediately snuffing out as it hits the dirt. Your limbs go weak, your thoughts stutter, tilt, and a numbness spreads through you like ink in water.

And then, like the night around you, your vision goes black.

You’re not entirely sure if you’re in the same place or not.

The last thing you remember is the scrape of his voice in your ear, low and thick as the cloth smothering your mouth. The sickly-sweet scent still clings to the back of your throat, coating your nostrils like tar. Your throat burns for water as your stomach churns, but the instinct to stay still, to stay quiet, keeps you from gagging.

Rough bark digs into your skin, so you make up your mind that you must still be up against a tree. The rope pulling your arms behind the trunk is tight, thick and coarse around your wrists. It bites into the skin like it was tied with purpose, meant to hold. You tug once—useless. The knots don’t budge.

You try to move your feet, to stand, to kick free, but it's no use. They’re like dead weight, sore and leaden from your exhaustive hike through the unknown. The dirt is dry beneath your bare legs, your denim shorts beginning to ride up your thighs as you squirm around. 

You haven’t opened your eyes yet. You don’t want to.

You force your breath to steady despite the cotton mouth dryness behind your lips. Inhale. Exhale. You tell yourself you’ll open them on the next count of three. Or the next.

You’re busy willing yourself not to cry when you hear the heaving footsteps around you, no other sound joining them. No crackling fire, no sound of any nocturnal creatures. You wonder just how far from any nearby camp you are anymore. 

You open your eyes the first time to the sound of a match being struck. The bright orange light flickers against the back of your eyelids before they flash open, the sight of the gas mask is so close now that you flinch as it crowds your vision. If it wasn’t for the flame flickering against the glass, you might be able to see the eyes behind it. The lenses are fogged up, catching the firelight in warped, fractured shapes. The filter hisses slightly as he breathes in slow, deep inhales.

Thick, calloused fingertips press against your jaw. You flinch, trying to pull away, but his grip is firm, pressing your head back against the rough bark behind you. The flame flickers between you, throwing long, shifting shadows.

The match burns out, the darkness swallowing you again.

Only two left now.

You can still hear him, like without your vision your other senses suddenly come alive. The dull, mechanical sound of air pushing through the filter. The rise and fall of his chest. The warmth of his body so close that the space between you feels like it’s shrinking.

“Hello, darlin’,” he whispers, all southern warmth stretched over something sharp, like velvet hiding a blade. His finger swipes against your bottom lip, and you realize it’s cold and wet with water. Your mouth opens without meaning to, your body responding before your mind can catch up. The moment the moisture touches your skin, something inside you claws forward, desperate.

Before you even realize it, your tongue dips out to taste it.

His low laughter makes you feel filthy.

His fingers leave your mouth, tracing along the lines of your face instead. The way he holds you is rough and unyielding.

"You know," he says, his voice curling low, slow like molasses, "I didn’t mean for it to be like this."

Your body goes rigid.

"I’m sure they were real nice folks."

The memories you’ve kept locked away, stuffed deep in the pit of your mind, tear their way to the surface. Images, voices, flashes of what you lost to the masked man with a crowbar.

“But you…” he continues despite how hard you squirm in his hold, “I just couldn't resist.”

His left hand presses against your bare calf, and slides upwards- until his fingertips graze the hem of your shorts. Goosebumps rise under his wide palm, you try to ignore the heat that's beginning to pool between your thighs– there’s a part of you that realizes that you shouldn't be enjoying this, but your body is already starting to want it.

His thumb moves in slow, deliberate circles over your thigh. Sightless in the dark, every other sense sharpens. His skin on yours, the heat of it, the grit of his callouses, like you can feel him more clearly than you’ve ever seen him.

And his scent. He smells like sweat, leather, something burnt. It clings to the air between you.

His hand rests wide and heavy against your leg, fingers splayed like he owns the ground you’re sitting on. 

And he’s humming under his breath.

It’s soft at first, barely audible over the rush of blood in your ears. But after a moment, it clicks. He’s matching the rhythm of your heartbeat. The steady, frantic pulse trapped in your throat, the way your chest rises and falls unevenly, he’s humming along to it like a song only he can hear.

Then, his hand lifts from your face, and absence of touch should be a relief. It’s not.

The sharp crack of a match striking fills your ears. Another flare of light floods your vision, pupils shrinking fast as they try to adjust. 

Your eyes squint against the burst of light. It sears into your vision, blinding for a moment before adjusting, and in those few seconds, you see him clearly. The flickering glow dances across the fogged-up glass of his mask, catches on the curve of the lenses, and for the first time, you see his eyes behind them.

Brows furrowed over hazel irises, pupils blown wide. That wicked glint has nothing to do with the matchlight. He’s looking at you with an intensity, like a predator watches something cornered.

He’s taking you in.

“What a pretty little thing. My girl.”

Ah.

The words land like a brand, something final and irreversible. Your breath snags, your body going stiff, muscles locking against the weight of ownership in his voice.

"C’mon now," his voice is soft again, deceptively gentle. The matchlight flickers between you, glowing bright as his hand moves from your leg to press into your jaw again, holding you steady, keeping your lips just slightly parted. His eyes track from your mouth back to your own wide stare, pupils swallowing whatever color was left.

"You were doing so well a moment ago."

He lets his hand fall back to your knee, nails scraping light, teasing lines up the inside of your thigh. Your breath stutters, body trembling against your will, and when his fingers dig in just slightly, a soft gasp slips past your lips.

“Oh, there we go,” he says quietly.

The match goes out.

Only one left.

You expect him to strike it immediately, but he doesn’t. The air feels thicker now, the kind of silence that’s only there when someone wants you to feel it. The realization makes your skin crawl—he’s waiting. He knew how many you had left. He’s drawing it out, pulling the tension tight, making sure you feel just how little control you ever had.

The sudden click of his mask clangs in the dark night as the vision of him burned into your retinas starts to fade. You hear the thud of it on the forest floor, and suddenly his breathing is quieter, though closer.

Your ears strain, waiting for the next move.

And then you realize just how close he is when something wet and muscled presses against the underside of your top lip. 

A sharp, obscene sound leaves his throat at the first taste of you. His tongue drags along the inseam of your lip, slow and savoring, his free hand tightening back around your jaw, keeping you still. You should turn away. You should pull back. But the sudden flush of heat rolling through your body keeps you rooted in place, keeps you from moving at all.

His lips press against yours—not applying pressure, just there, ghosting over your mouth, the barest contact. He breathes into you, slow and controlled, and when you exhale, he inhales sharply—like he’s drinking it in. Like he’s stealing the very breath from you.

It’s too intimate. It makes your stomach twist, makes your skin prickle with something ugly and deep and wanting.

His tongue swipes over your lower lip, and the moan that escapes you is involuntary, slipping free before you can stop it. His mouth curls into a smile against yours, slow and knowing, before he presses deeper, taking. Your tongue meets his, a slick, tentative slide, and the moment you respond, his fingers push further up your thigh. The movement makes your hips shift forward slightly, an instinct you don’t want to acknowledge.

You’re almost ashamed of how much your body responds to him.

He pulls back, just enough to catch your lower lip between his teeth, teasing, testing. His hand on your thigh moves, fingers trailing higher, just below the thin barrier of your shorts, pressing against the soft fabric stretched over your core.

“I knew you’d want this,” he murmurs, voice rasping against your skin as his lips trace up your jawline. His middle finger slides beneath the hem of your shorts, pressing into the damp heat of you, and your body jerks hard in response.

A breathless moan pushes out of your throat. You can’t stop it.

“That’s what made you so different from them, sweetheart.”

His words coil through your spine, wrapping tight and unrelenting. Your hips stutter, rocking forward into his palm before you even realize you’re doing it. His breathless laugh is pure satisfaction, curling against your throat as he pushes his middle finger under your panties and against you, teasing, taunting.

He groans quietly at the feeling of your pooling slick, his finger rubbing slow, lazy circles over your clit, coaxing another trembling sound from your lips before he presses into your clenched entrance. Another finger joins the first, stretching you open, and the sensation forces a choked cry out of you as your body arches against the restraints.

“Oh, you love this, don’t you, sweetheart?” he says, voice dripping with certainty, "Just like I knew you would."

You do. And you hate him for it.

His fingers move inside you, curling just right, pressing into the spot that has your stomach tensing, your thighs trembling. You can feel the slick heat between your legs, against your own skin of your thighs, the way your body responds faster than your mind can catch up.

His other hand lifts from your face. The snap of a match striking cuts through the dark.

The firelight licks across his bare face, and he’s devastatingly handsome in a way that makes your stomach drop, that makes you forget to be afraid of him. Gleaming eyes catch the flame, and his beard, salt-and-pepper and close-cut, frames full lips slick with your spit.

“That’s right, darlin’,” he murmurs. His fingers don’t stop moving. “Been watchin’ you for a long time. Even before I killed your little gang back there.”

But before you can react, his mouth is crashing against yours, tongue and teeth and heat, swallowing the choked noise you make as his fingers push deeper, thrusting slow and controlled, forcing you higher, closer. The pressure coils in the pit of your stomach, tightening, unbearable, the tension building so fast it almost hurts.

His voice is still against your mouth, words pressing into your lips like a brand.

"You know my name," he says. His thumb circles just right, pressing against your clit with devastating precision. His fingers curl inside of you, and your entire body locks up, legs trembling, muscles pulling tight.

"I wanna hear it when you come around my fingers." he growls, “Say it.”

Your body breaks open around him, a sharp gasp ripped from your throat. A sound between a prayer and a plea.

"Joel."

The match burns out.

And the night swallows you whole.